#i just ahhhh

[themosthatedbeingg]

//— ooc

Srsly tho the fact that a lot of ppl apparently reference my Lucifer for their rps / in the background of their rps and build worlds around it …. I’m just … I’m floored yall .. I never imagined my dumb take would resonate with everyone , like srsly I’m just a dragon loving nerd , I was fully expecting to get like maybe 5 ppl max who were ok with my random take sbcjcjdodb I’m so happy my Luci is the Rp writing bicycle Hahahah .

[theamberalice]

Please tell me im not the only one getting rainbow vibes from Loli please tell me im not alone

[redwinexsupernova]

OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHITTTTTT

their sexual tension has been at an all time HIGH this chapter.

but the fact that they are continuing to share a bed has me all

Chapter 11 - You Might Drown

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Much lore and emotions and banter incoming. Enjoy!

Chapter title from Miss Jackson by Panic! At the Disco ft. LOLO

Word Count: 17.1k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Everyone adjusts to shifting dynamics and a secret is revealed. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 10 - Chapter 12

Read on A03!

She drooled in Her sleep.

Just a little bit. Just enough to be caught the streetlights leaking through the curtains, and let Dean know that it was there. A little line that—if he stretched out his hand and allowed himself to pretend he was someone who could be worthy of Her—he could wipe from her cheek. 

He never did. He lay in the dark and listened to Sammy’s occasional snore and the wind howling outside their window, and just watched Her until he passed out.

He didn’t have dreams anymore. Every single dream of Her that had been gripping him by the throat had become faded when Dean had found his way back into Her orbit, but now they were gone. He hadn’t had one in weeks. Even his nightmares—where Sammy was only a body, and he pulled the trigger on Dad but it didn’t work, and She was on fire on the ceiling but he couldn’t just fucking reach Her—had been dulled around the edges. Now slightly faded, washed out, as if someone had scrubbed them away and all that was left was a faded, washed-out imprint.

Now all Dean did was flop down on the bed without a word, watch Her stretch out and curl into herself on the other side of the mattress, and try not to drown in how close She was. He could feel the heat from Her body. See every small bump on her beautiful face, every dip in the fabric of Her shirt, and—when that same shirt would ride up, pooling a little higher around Her abdomen—the faded scar over Her stomach.

That always made him a little sick, his stomach turning and heart missing a heavy beat. 

He could never bring himself to look away.

She looked amazing like this. Peaceful. Dean had never seen Her so relaxed, never seen Her fingers rest against something without tugging at it, never seen Her body without tension that she’d always scratch at herself to relieve. 

But here She was, facing Dean in Her sleep. Vulnerable and drooling and—against all reasonable odds—trusting Dean.

And he was being a fucking creep. Watching his best friend in the dark, imagining what would happen if he reached out and pulled Her into his chest. Held Her there until the sun rose, and then a little while after.

It was a new ritual he’d made for himself. Watching Her. It made it more real that She was there. In Dean’s bed. Not in the way that he ached for in his gut and a little to the right of his heart, but there.

She was still there.

Every night. In every town. 

They had woken up in that train car, and Dean’s eyes hadn’t still been swollen and heavy with exhaustion. She had stared at him from Her own side of the bed—rubbing that scar on Her palm, an unreadable expression on Her pretty face—and when She’d broken the silence, it hadn’t hurt.

“Thank yo-“

“Don’t.” He’d cut Her off with a shake of his head, watching Her carefully. Trying to see if he could get Her to break this apart first, because he knew deep, deep down he’d never be able to do it himself. “It work?”

She’d nodded, and hadn’t broken anything. She’d fixed something. She’d given in a small, soft smile and things had healed. Clicked and set up Dean’s spine, making him feel a little taller, and stronger, and more durable where he’d been pliable and muddied before. He’d done something for Her, and it had worked, and maybe the crashing and razing aftershocks of their conversation could’ve not had consequences. 

They had.

But even then, they hadn’t been all that bad. 

“I really-” She’d cleared her throat a few hours later, and Dean had looked up from his sandwich with raised brows. “I didn’t want to leave. I had to, and you can’t blame Bobby, and I promise, Dean, I-“

“I trust you, Princess.” He’d shrugged, and he did. Even if he didn’t, She’d said his name, and that always made his instincts a little blurred and bias in Her favor. “But if you ever pull a fucking Houdini like that again-“

“I won’t.”

He’d scanned over Her open features, trying to find a new excuse to hate Her and push her back, away—where he couldn’t hurt Her and She couldn’t see him—but he was running out of them. And all the remaining ones were weak. 

She was still being insanely stubborn about the arrowhead. Keeping it in Her jacket with Her knife or hiding it in corners of Her bag Dean could never seem to find. Not that he was trying to take it—She'd kill him if he did, arguably in a more painful way than any demon or hellhound—but because he needed to know. To understand why She was losing her brilliant, usually sharp and rational mind over something so stupid.

And he couldn't work it out. He could never work Her out. 

He couldn't hate Her for that either.

No matter how it drove him up the wall, Dean couldn't despise Her for being an enigma. It was beautiful. Like the stars on a long highway in a flyover state, or how when the sunlight would angle just right in a dusty motel room, the air would swirl and shine like a small, glowing tornado. It trapped Dean's attention. It trapped Dean. And he would never be able to hate Her for it because when his whole life was truly just the mud—now tangled and mixed with guts and grime and bile—it was almost like a drug to look at Her.

Beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous. Strange in a way he'd never want to change, even as he was dying and losing his mind and everything was so complicated—fucking complicated—but She still fit like a puzzle.

No matter how the last two years had changed Dean, She still molded against him and filled up that pit inside of him like it was what he was made to be.

Something for Her.

And he couldn't hate Her for that either. 

Because it would be better to be for Her. It would certainly be worth far more than he was now. If Dean lead any other life, if he wasn’t him but She was the same, then he could imagine always just being for Her.

It was another reason to hate Her he’d never been able to hold onto. He could breathe and exist in the fact that She was starlight, and Dean was only a void that absorbed Her light and never gave anything in return, but it never stuck. It slipped through his fingers, and he still wanted Her—almost fucking craved Her, resting in his car and smiling at him from across a table and suddenly everywhere but still never enough—and he’d never know how not to.

She was too beautiful. It was almost wrong, almost inhuman, if it wasn’t the only thing Dean felt like he’d ever really known. They weren’t fighting anymore, and it made Her even more striking because he was permitted to look once more, and it was corrosive in his body. How She was somehow still a siren, still calling him, and he could never just stop falling.

She could be mean and bossy and annoying and test his patience, but that was always eclipsed by how bright She was, how Dean was blinded by Her, being beautiful and near him and made of some kind of glorious, wrathful, unexplainable light that made him shine, deep in the cavity of his chest. The only thing Dean could find wrong with Her was that she’d left. She’d lied about being sick, and She’d hidden, and She left him, but he fucking understood it.

Dean ran the scenario over and over in his head and knew that, if it was him, he'd have done the same. And he loathed that. How the limited parts of Her that he did understand were the ones where he was reflected, where She vanished because she was an idiot who just acted without damn thinking, and Dean would've always done the same.

He was doing the same. And his only hope for the thing—the deal, the contract, the timer, his lie that gave him no ground to stand on against Her—was that he would bet almost everything he had that She would've done the same. If it was Her, and someone She cared about had been empty-eyed and cold on the ground—Dean tried to pretend it would just be Bobby, but then an image of Her cradling his body would flash through his head, and a painful fever would mold and tighten around his heart—Dean knew She would’ve made the same choice he did. 

And maybe that would save him. When She found out. 

Because that was the only real reason he had left. Dean was on a deadline. Literally. And She still didn’t know, but he couldn’t figure out a way to tell Her—hey, Princess, you know how we said Sammy only ‘almost’ died? Well, that was a fucking lie—and he’d never dreaded anything more than Her face, or wrath, or fear, or worst of all, care, when he told Her, so he didn’t. He’d have to—because it was clear She was embedding herself back into his life and he’d never been strong enough to carve Her out and toss her away—but he hadn’t. 

And he didn’t bite or lash or sneer, or just get Her away.

At the end of the day—in that train car when he’d believed Her when she said she wouldn’t vanish on him, and he’d tried and failed not to let that sink too deep into his body—Dean would never be able to just get away from Her. 

He wished there was at least something in him that could learn how to be cautious or angry about that.

But She was here, and everything was better, and there was nothing left but Her. In the whole universe, Dean could still only really fucking feel Her.

“Sam will be here in a day,” he’d told Her as they’d wandered off the train station in Chicago, re-reading Sam’s message as he spoke. “He thinks we should lay low.”

She’d hummed, scanning over the paper map She’d gotten—stolen, but Dean knew better than to point that out—from a concession stand. “He’s right.”

“Did I say he was wrong, Princess?”

“No, but you were going to suggest we try to meet him halfway.”

Dean had scowled. She’d been right, and he didn’t really love how that let Her push a little further into his existence. Her knowing him like that was dangerous.

“Well, what do you think we should do-“

“There’s a motel. Few blocks away.” She’d raised Her brows at him. “Back on lockdown, Deano.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but followed Her out of the train station all the same. He’d follow Her anywhere. A beatdown, cracked pavement and rusted door-hinges motel was—in the grand scheme of things—nothing at all.

And they’d been at the check-in desk as Dean asked for a room and She flipped through the free magazines with a bored expression, and the whole world had tipped on its head.

“We’ve only got a one-bed room available at the moment,” the receptionist had said, eyes fixed on the grainy computer screen. “But checkout is in an hour, so if you come back-“

“The available room is fine.” She’d hummed, and Dean felt something bright and technicolor burst through his body.

He had to turned to stare at Her, his mouth slightly open, and She’d just been raising her brows at him. 

Daring him to say otherwise.

So he’d said nothing, and they’d never fucking gone back.

At first, in Chicago, Dean had told himself it was because of safety. They’d been on the run from Hell’s Assassin’s, they hadn’t had the time to just wait for a two-bedroom to be open.

Then Sammy had picked them up. Dean seen the look of quiet shock on his brother’s face, when Sam had walked into the motel room and seen to single bed, but the kid had been smart and shut his mouth. 

For at least a few days, Sam hadn’t said anything. Dean hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t said anything.

But they’d gotten to the next motel, and Sam had raised two fingers at the desk, and She’d shaken her head.

“We can share one.” She’d shrugged, fidgeting with the cuff of Her jacket as she spoke to the receptionist. “Two-beds, though. Please.”

Sam had shot Dean a what the fuck look, and Dean was starting to get a little pissed that Sammy couldn’t figure out that he didn’t know. With Her, Dean never knew. 

He could only repeat that it was cheaper, even though none of the money they spent was actually theirs. And it wasn’t like She’d ever cared about cheap before.

“Is this cashmere?” Sam had asked a few weeks back, picking up Her sweater off the counter. “Where did you find cashmere?”

She hadn’t even looked up from Her book as she answered. “Don’t remember.”

“You don’t-“ Sam had said Her name slowly, shaking his head. “This is like- this looks vintage-“

“Sam.” She’d given him a flat look over hooded eyes, and Dean had been very glad he was sitting at a table and no one could see how he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

Sam had swallowed and dropped it, and Dean had been forced to come up with another reason. 

Staying all in one room was safer. Against any monsters, against any demons, against the green-eyed sons of bitches that were still on their tail.

“How they’d even find you?” Sam had asked him in a diner, and Dean had grunted, his eyes mostly fixed on where She’d disappeared into the bathroom.

“Dunno.”

“You can’t just not know, Dean-“

“Well, I don’t Sam, and I’m not just gonna have a freakin’ epiphany because you told me to-“

“I’m asking you to think, dude, not have an-“ Sam had paused. “When did you learn what epiphany meant?”

He’d shot Sammy a glare. “I can know five-dollar words, college boy-“

Sam had drawled Her name, and something Dean really needed to get under control had flashed through his blood like lightning.

“What about her-“

“She used that word, didn’t she.”

There had been a very annoying look of glee of Sam’s face, along with something strange Dean hadn’t really been able to place. 

So he’d just scoffed, and forced himself not to keep glancing back at the bathroom door. 

“Shut up.”

Sam had just kept grinning. “I like having her around. It makes you smarter.”

“I said shut up, Sammy-“

“And happier.” Sam had added, his voice slightly softer. “I don’t know what happened before Chicago-“

“Sam-“

“But you��re happier, Dean. And you’re drinking less, and you- I don’t know it’s just good to see.”

Dean’s jaw had twitched. He knew all that shit. He didn’t need Sam to say it. Sam saying it made it real. Made it something he was going to lose, when it came to the end. Made Her something Dean was going to have to lose, made it so much fucking harder not to cross that line. 

“You guys are- Uh-“ Sam had poked at his diner salad with a fork, and Dean had felt like he was being studied. “You’ve been sleeping in the same bed.”

Dean had scowled. “Believe it or not, Sammy, I fucking know that-“

“Did you before?”

“Before-“

“She left. The whole- with Dad and Azazel-“ Sam had paused, frowning at his plate. “You know. All that.”

Dean had let out a long breath. “No. We didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Sam had given Dean another strange look. Dean was getting a little tired of them. “What changed-“

“I don’t know.” He’d grunted. “And I don’t want you bringing it up, Sam. It’s- it doesn’t matter.”

Sam had blinked at him. “Dean, this is the first girl I’ve ever seen you wake up next to-“

“We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” Sam had scoffed. “Sure, man.”

Dean had scowled. “What the hell does that mean, sure man-“

Sam had cut off Dean’s crude impression with a flat look. “If you were friends, you would’ve told her already. About the deal.”

“That has fucking nothing to do with this.” Dean had hissed, leaning across the table. “I’m hiding it because I have to-“

“I don’t think she would agree-“

“Of course she wouldn’t, Sammy, I’m not an idiot-“

“So tell her-“

“No.” Dean had snapped, raising his fork to point at Sam as he spoke. “I’m serious, Sammy-“

“So am I-“

“I’m more serious. You tell her about the deal, or bring up the whole sleeping thing in front of her, and I’ll dump your laptop in the next river we drive past. Got it?”

Sam had sighed, running a hand over his face. “I’m not bringing it up with her, Dean, I’m talking to you. And you have to admit you’re not just sharing a bed because it’s convenient-“

“It’s because it’s safe.” Dean grunted, and the metal of the fork had felt like it was going to bend in his hand. “We’re being hunted by demons while chasing demons, Sammy, it’s not smart to split up.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” Sam had shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his brows. “Why doesn’t she ever share a bed with me?”

Dean had recoiled like Sam had burned him. There was another reason to make this reasonable, and simple, and nothing really to think about, flushed down the toilet by Sam’s bored words. 

He hadn’t gotten time to come up with a witty, smooth response before the bathroom door had opened and She’d returned to their table. He’d only given Sammy his most threatening keep your fucking mouth shut glare, and grinned at Her as she’d rejoined their booth.

“God, that bathroom was fucking disgusting. I think I saw shit on the walls.” She’d nudged Dean’s shoulder as She slid in next to him. Right next to him. If he leaned just a little to the side, their shoulders would bump again and She’d be real, really there, really staying with Dean until he found a real way to lose her- “Close your mouth, De.”

Sammy had laughed, and Dean had snapped his jaw closed with heat rising up his neck. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She couldn’t know he’d been thinking about Her, about how soft her skin looked and how shiny her hair was and how she smelled like fruit, she always smelled like fruit, she was going to drive Dean out of his mind because what the fucking Christ was that fruit-

“I’ve got a case in Arkansas.” Sam had said, looking more to Her than to Dean. “Town called De Queen seems to be having a rush season of missing people, and lot of them have their hearts missing-“

“So wolves.” She’d said, turning Her glass in her hands. 

She hadn’t ordered a drink, but Dean knew Her—even after years apart, trying to forget just how much She was, everything he’d ever learned about her was still tattooed on a place more vital and obvious than his brain—so he’d order one for Her. Orange soda. 

As Sammy had kept talking about the case and She’d listened, her lips wrapped around the straw without thought, and things sparked in Dean’s body. Things that were bright and swollen and likely pride—he’d done well, he’d known Her, and she was watching Sammy but Dean had gotten Her something she liked—and other things that he’d never been good at pretending he didn’t feel. 

His pants had been tighter. He’d almost been able to see Her eyes fluttering at him slightly, and watching him with that same intensity but a blown-out expression, and Her lips around him, and She was so pretty and she’d just hummed and what would that sound feel like, vibrating through around his-

“It’ll be in and out.” Sam had been saying, and Dean had needed to almost physically shake those images out of his head. “It’ll be quick. Easy. Something to do until Ruby finds us a way to stay off those- uh- the Hell’s Assassin’s radar-“

“I’m already sold on it, Sam. You don’t have to keep convincing me.”

She smiled at Sammy’s sheepish expression, something in Dean had whined that the smile wasn’t at him, but then She’d given him an quiet, amused look that had been just for Dean, and he’d grinned back.

He was grinning a lot more lately. 

Nothing had ever been more complicated, more exhausting, more draining, but She’d smile and Dean would feel light and infinite and satisfied all while still starving for more.

He’d grinned at Her in the mirror the whole ride to Arkansas, and this—trading jokes and teasing comments and laughter over the music and Sam’s bored and half-annoyed expressions—was so much better than trying to pretend She wasn’t there. Dean didn't know how he’d managed that for a whole month, now that he was back to something closer to what they’d been before, he’d never go back.

It wasn’t the same. But it was closer.

If it was the same, She wouldn’t have walked into the motel room at his side, set down Her bag on the bed they’d be sharing that night, and sprawled across the couch like it was Her’s.

It might be. Everything, in some way, seemed to be made for Her.

Dean was certainly getting no better at pretending he himself wasn’t. Not when over the next few days he’d crashed further back into Her, following Her clever orders and walking one pace behind her all the damn time. He’d slashed and hacked at the wolves—Sammy doing the same just a few paces away and Her spinning her knife in her hands and moving in an oddly smooth dance with her every target—until it was over and She was back in his car.

And the streetlamps cast shadows that were designed to make Her more beautiful, and Dean’s eyes were magnets that were meant to draw to Her.

Weeks passed, just like that. Small, simple cases across the country, all of them sharing one motel room, and Her on the other side of Dean’s bed. They never touched. They never spoke about it. And Dean wasted every night away, pretending that in some other world, he’d be worthy of touching Her and he’d cross that final line.

He never would be. 

He couldn’t be. 

Not when he was still lying to Her. It was for the best, be he was still doing it. He was finding times to sneak around with Sammy and keep working on his way out of the deal, all while lying to Her.

And She’d only ever smile at him, when he and Sam left Her to go do some research on Lilith.

“We’ll be back in a few hours,” he’d said, grabbing his jacket from the bed as Sam stuffed his laptop in his bag, and She curled at the headboard of their bed, not looking up from Her book as she’d responded.

“Alright.”

“If demons show up-“

“I’ll be fine, Dean.” She’d turned a page, Her voice so fucking neutral. She hadn’t been pissed, or worried, or afraid, or anything. It might have driven him crazier than anything else could. “I’ll handle them-“

Something red had flashed over his eyes. “The hell you’ll handle them-“

“And then I’ll call you.” She’d looked at him under Her eyelashes, and they’d fluttered slightly, and Dean didn’t know when the fuck She’d picked up that habit—he didn’t really want to know—but it was going to kill him. “And hide until you come to save me.”

His eyes had narrowed at Her mocking tone, but he’d pushed on. “Good girl.”

It hadn’t helped anything. The way Her eyes had widened, and She’d flushed. And a hitched breath, and parted lips-

Sam had cleared his throat, looking between them with an odd expression, saying Her name like he was worried it would set off a bomb. “What are you, uh- You got plans while we’re gone?”

She’d nodded, ripping Her gaze away from Dean as if just looking at him was electrocuting her.

“I- um-“ She’d swallowed, glancing back to Dean. Almost seeming to check he was still there. “The case. And the arrowhead. I’m going to keep looking at it.”

Sam had sighed. “I don’t get why we can’t just turn it over to Ruby.” He’d said Her name cautiously, because they’d had this conversation a few times, and it had never ended in Sam’s favor. “I know you don’t want anyone else to touch it, but-“

“Yep. I don’t.” She’d raised Her chin, her voice smooth and bored, and poor Sammy had already lost. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Sam had looked to Dean for help, Dean had shrugged—he didn’t know why Sam bothered, She was immovable and powerful and Dean couldn’t do anything but be a little more Her’s every passing day—and given up.

“Fine.” Sam had grabbed his own jacket, shuffling to Dean’s side at the door. “And Dean’s right, keep the doors locked, and the blinds closed. Don’t answer if it’s not us, too. We can’t be possessed, so-“

Sam had cut himself off with a frown, giving Her a strange look, and She’d wrinkled Her nose and looked back to Her book.

“Okay, Dad.” 

“I- I’m younger than you-“

“And he’s right,” Dean had jumped in, forcing himself not to snort at Sam’s indigent expression. “One wrong noise or knock, Princess, and you need to call us. We need to be careful-“

I’m always careful, De.” She’d smiled at him again, he’d blinked at Her like an idiot, and if Sam hadn’t half dragged him out the door, he was pretty sure he would’ve been stuck there—trapped near Her like a fly in honey—for the rest of his life.

His very limited life.

“Did you see her toothbrush?” Sam said from across the table, glancing up at Dean over his laptop. “It’s glittery.”

Dean grunted, turning another page in his book. They’d been here damn near three hours, searching for some sort of loophole in the deal, hitting dead-ends and coming up empty handed. Just like always. “Yeah. What about it, Sammy? You want one?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No, Dean, I’m just- It’s new.”

Dean raised his brows. “Toothbrushes?”

“Living with a girl, jerk.”

“Oh.” Dean took a fry from his basket, frowning as he chewed. “I mean, we’ve got conditioner now. Seems to be the only difference-“

“I’m not saying it’s bad. It’s just different.” Sam’s nose scrunched slightly. “I found a pad in the bathroom last night.”

Dean sputtered. “That’s- I’m eating, dude, for fuck’s sake-“

Sam rolled his eyes. “Grow up, Dean, it’s not like I’ve never found your jizz-filled socks in the trash-“

“That’s not the same-“

“You’re right. It’s a lot fucking worse-“

“Shut up.” Dean snapped. “I’m sorry living with a girl is so revolutionary for you, Sammy, but-“

“It’s not.” Sam shrugged. “For me, at least. I was- uh-“ He swallowed, frowning back to the table. “Jess.”

Shit.

Dean opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t quite sure what, but he’d find it, just to make Sam stop looking like a kicked puppy—but Sam was faster.

“This is your first time living with a girl, man.” Sam gave him a pointed look, and Dean had a bad feeling about where this conversation was going. “Who’s- I don’t know- It’s her, Dean. It’s-“

Sam said Her name, something bright and powerful reared its head just to the right of Dean’s heart, and he scowled as he cut Sam off.

“I know who it is, Sam.” He muttered. “I- We’re not fucking talking about this. Read your book.”

“Have you guys ever kissed?”

Dean was going to break a jaw. Either his own, or Sam’s. “I said read-“

“Look- I didn’t-“ Sam ran a hand over his face, letting out a heavy breath and leaning back in his seat. “I know things are complicated-“

“They’re not.” Dean grunted. “We’re friends. That’s it.”

“Friends don’t share a bed-“

“We’re not fucking talking about this-“

“We need to, Dean!” Sam wouldn’t just look back to his laptop. Suddenly the nerd was more interested in having a conversation instead of researching, and Dean had never been more annoyed by it. “You have four months- Less than that, and she’s going to find out, and if- fuck, she could help, dude. I know it, maybe more than you know it-“

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What the hell does that mean-“

“Never mind, just,” Sam braced his hands on the edge of the table, tilting his head slightly at Dean. “She could help. With this. And until you two figure out what this whole thing between you is-“

“There’s no thing-“

“I’m not blind.” Sam’s voice was flat, and he looked almost disappointed in Dean for even daring to try and deny it. “There’s a thing. And you don’t want to di- You’re not going to want to go with it unresolved. If it comes to that.”

Dean kept his face painfully flat. Bored. Empty. “Are you done?”

Sam sighed. “Dean-“

“No. I said we’re not talking about this.” Dean looked back to his book, even as his head started to spin around that thought of Her, holding his body, crying and screaming if She’d ever dare to grieve for him. “Keep reading, Sammy, or get your teeth knocked out.”

“Fine.” Sam still didn’t look back to his laptop. “But I still think you should tell her.”

“No.” He grunted. “Read.”

“But-“

“Read.”

Sam finally fucking listened, and Dean felt like there was iron pressing on his chest. He knew everything Sam was saying already. He’d said it in every fucking diner they’d moved through, every moment that they were alone, always shifting in exact words but never ending a different way. 

But Dean wouldn’t tell Her. He’d repeat it over and over to himself until it was a rule, a law, a commandment. Dean wouldn’t tell Her. He wouldn’t cross the line. He’d try not to think about Her body across the mattress, or be haunted by the sounds on the wind that sounded like Her screaming his name, or close his eyes and see Her burning on the ceiling. 

He’d forced himself not to dwell on how, in the end, whatever had gotten Azazel to threaten Her had probably been his fault. Azazel had no reason to just threaten Her. She was awesome and perfect. And Dean had driven Her away just by fucking existing, but he was selfish so he’d pulled Her back into an unstable and crumbling place She’d never be able to stay.

Himself.

He wouldn’t never be able to keep Her.

He tried not to think about that either.

A lot of Dean’s time lately was spent just clinging to things in quick moment he couldn’t be allowed to think about after, because it would make him feel sick about how it would all be gone so soon.

He’d let the car engine idle for just a few seconds longer, to ingrain the sound on his ears, and hope it would follow him to the grave with Her voice.

He ate a little slower, because son of a bitch he was going to miss burgers, and he wanted the taste to linger on his tongue like fruit until he wouldn’t suffocate on the smoke when they burned his body.

He’d trace his hand over Baby’s wheel, and hold his gun with a little more care, and touch that fluffy blanket—the one She’d been taking with them from town to town—whenever She and Sam weren’t looking. He stared at the sunset a little longer, because who knew how many colors there would be in Hell, and he took colder showers because he’d heard where he was headed was burning.

And She liked warmer showers.

She liked shower that would fill the room with steam when She opened the door, and make Her look like an Angel or spirit or something when she walked out wearing a too big shirt and too small shorts.

It was hot, at night. And the motels didn’t exactly have great air conditioning, and She had every right to wear whatever the hell She wanted, when she wanted.

It didn’t stop Dean from standing a little too rigid when She passed him, or having to shift his hand when She sat down, or needing to make a rule about what he wasn’t allowed to sit in an memorize.

Her. So close to him. Closer than She’d ever been but never further away. Beautiful and intoxicating and untouchable.

And God, did Dean want to touch Her. He’d always wanted to touch Her, but now it felt like a cancer. It was most of what he thought about, when he wasn’t hunting or looking for a way out. Too much time had been spent behind the wheel of Baby, forcing himself to focus on any desire or sensation but the phantom of touching Her.

And She was really trying to kill him.

Because when he and Sammy got back to the motel—no new paths, no hope for Dean to have more time—She was on her knees, groping around under the bed with Her perfect ass high in the air.

Sam said Her name, frowning at Her on the floor, and Dean felt like he was going to fall over when She crawled backwards at looked up at them with wide, bright, pretty eyes.

“You’re late.”

Dean frowned. “Didn’t know we had a curfew, sweetheart-“

“You don’t.” She shrugged. “But you said you’d be back in a few hours. That was more than a few hours.”

“Aw.” He couldn’t fight the smirk curling over his lips. “You missed me, Princess, didn’t you.”

She flushed. Breath hitched. Mouth parted for only a second before She scowled, and Dean needed to stop pushing his luck because something was bound to cave, and it really couldn’t afford to right now.

“Yeah,” She gave him a flat look, twisting a ring on Her finger. “I was really lost without you, Dean. Don’t know how I made it by myself. For five whole hours. I should’ve called CPS.”

Her tone was dry, and dripping with sarcasm, and that was a lie. She was lying, Dean fucking knew She was lying, but he couldn’t figure out what She was lying about, or why-

“You find anything on the arrowhead?” Sam asked, moving to the table, and She looked away from Dean with a shake of Her head.

He wished She’d look back. He wished She’d never stop looking, because he’d really forgotten how completely alive he’d feel when she did. It was incomparable. 

He really wasn’t supposed to think about it.

“No,” She hummed, still playing with Her rings. Lie. “But I got the vamps.”

Dean frowned. “The vamps-“

“The case, De.” She looked back to him with an amused expression. “The reason we’re here.”

“Right. Case.” Dean scratched his head, give Her his best grin to try and cover how he had completely forgotten they were actually working a case. “Vamps.”

She stared at him for another second, giggled, and looked back to Sam with an amused expression.

They kept talking about the vamps. It took a minute for Dean’s brain to catch up, because he was caught on that fucking giggle. It was still a musical, lovely sound that a looped and filled his every dream, and it was better. Coming out of a Her he could see—instead of just an echo or ghost of Her in a dream—was like being shot up with pure fucking euphoria. And She’d given him that high like it was nothing, without even knowing what it did to him, how Dean was suddenly willing to do whatever She asked him just because She’d fucking giggled and smiled at him. How it took him a minute to refocus on the conversation, because his brain moved faster than his willpower, and he had to force himself not to get lost in thoughts and ideas of other, equally perfect and bright sounds She could possibly make.

Sounds like that giggle, but breathier. Higher. More needy, maybe a little dazed or strangled, maybe formed in a noise that could be his name-

“Dean.”

He blinked, trying to keep his expression as blank as possible, keep at least the illusion that he’d been paying attention. “Princess.”

She sat a little taller as She made a face at him. Dean didn’t even remember when She’d sat down. “Back me up.”

“I- uh-“ He glanced at Sammy, who mostly just looked annoyed. “You-“

“He wasn’t listening.” Sam waved him off as he said Her name. “And I’m not doubting you. I’m just- you need to be sure. We don’t have the time for mistakes-“

“I know that.” She snapped. “And I don’t make mistakes. It’s the warehouse.”

Dean frowned at Her. “The warehouse? For the vamp nest?”

“Wow,” She grinned at him. “Sam was right, you were not listening-“

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up. When the hell did you have time to find the nest-“

“While you and Sam were coming up with more dead ends on Lilith.” She gave Dean a pointed look, and he rolled his eyes.

“Alright.” He said Her name, bracing his arms on the back of Her chair and smirking as she stared up at him. “What’s making you so freakin’ sure?”

“The current owners have had it for generations. It’s abandoned, wired off, but people still report sightings of people moving in and out, usually around the same time every year. My guess is it’s an old vampire family that likes to visit home.” She tilted Her head at him. “Your rebuttal, Mr. Winchester?”

His grip on the chair tightened, and he leaned down a little further. He could smell the sugar and fruit. He was drowning in it. “No rebuttal.” He drawled, giving Her a mocking pout.” Why do you always think I’m gonna fight you, sweetheart? Pretty fucking rude, if you ask me-“

“I didn’t ask you.” She leaned up herself, holding his gaze, and Dean was sure the wood was going to splinter under his hands. “And maybe because you do always fight me-“

“No, I don’t-“

“Yes, you do-“

“I fight you when you do something fucking crazy, Princess. This,” Dean reached around Her tapping the papers on the table. “Is awesome. Good job.”

She flushed slightly. “Shut up.”

“I was being nice-“

“You were being patronizing-“

“No. Nice.” Dean winked at Her. “You did your part, sweetheart. This next bit is all me and Sammy.”

She wrinkled Her nose at him, and She was so close. If Dean was even just a little drunk he might have tried to kiss that little wrinkle, tried to tip Her chin back with a hand just greedily see more-

“You guys are gross.” Sam muttered, obviously ignoring their glowers as he continued. “And I actually did find a lead on Lilith. So this one isn’t me. It’s you two. Together.” Sam sighed, looking back to his laptop. “Yay.”

Dean scowled. “What the fuck around talking about, Sammy. We came up empty handed-“

“You came up empty handed. I found something I had to double check with Ruby, but now I’m sure.”

She turned in Her seat, and Sammy was going to get punched for taking that away from Dean. “What is it?”

Sam sighed. “Just a hunch, but I want to see if it leads out.”

She frowned. “Leads-“

“Looks like it’s just you and me then, Princess.” Dean smirked at Her, sparing only a quick, acknowledging look over Her head at Sam. “Stay safe, Sammy. Use protection.”

“Eat me.” Sam muttered, and Dean rolled his eyes, looking back to Her.

“I was talking about a gun,” he mock whispered. “But now I’m worried he’s leaving us to go get some ass-“

“Dean.” She slapped his arm casually, and it was like She’d fucking burned the feeling of Her skin onto his. It took all of Dean’s effort not to rub where She’d touched him, like he could make it sink in further. “Shut up. Sam, are you sure this can’t wait until after the nest-“

“Yeah- uh- Pretty sure.” Sam shot Dean a nervous look. “I mean, I know it’s just a vamp, but you guys will have it handled, I think-“

She shook Her head. “It’ll be safer with more people-“

“You trying to get out of spending time with me?” Dean jumped in, and if Sammy had a brain, he’d let Dean handle this. “I’m wounded-“

She narrowed Her eyes. “I told you to shut up. And you’re the one who’s always telling me to hunt with people-“

“Wrong. I tell you not to hunt alone. And you won’t be alone.” Dean threw Her his most charming, winning smile. “I’m all yours, Princess. Just you, and me, and a bunch of vamps.”

“It’s- I really don’t think-“

He said Her name, making his voice a little more stern. “Sammy’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”

“I’m barely going a state over.” Sam added. “You can call me if something happens, and I’ll be back.”

She looked between them, rubbing the scar on Her palm, and fuck She really needed to stop being so brilliant and hypnotic, just for five minutes. Just until Sammy was out the door, had a stolen car, and left before She could think even just a little deeper about their argument. 

Because She was right. Dean was being a hypocrite, and they would be less safe, and chasing Lilith could wait until they ganked the vamps.

But Sam wasn’t going to chase Lilith.

He’d used the code phrase. See if it leads out. 

Sam had a lead on Dean’s deal, and that couldn’t wait, but they also couldn’t just fucking say that.

So there was a rush of relief through Dean’s body when She sighed, and let it go. She never let anything go. Ever. The fact that She let Sam walk out of their motel room with such little fight was nothing short of a miracle. 

And Dean was alone with Her. Again.

But this time would be better. This time would be that same similarly to before. This time he wouldn’t have to pretend that he didn’t want anything more than to be pressed right up against Her, pretend that every time he looked at Her he didn’t stare, because he needed to make sure She was real. That She was there. He needed watch Her move so gracefully and carefully, needed to see how the whole world always seemed to change just to fit around Her.

And he still needed to pretend he wasn’t craving all of Her. Every part of Her. Whatever the hell She’d offer him, how She wanted him to have it, all the damn time.

But he didn’t need to pretend he hated Her. That a little part of him was always whining to see Her smile and hear Her voice. 

“This should be fast.” She muttered a few hours after Sammy had left, sorting back through Her papers with that furrow in Her brow. “In and out, Deano. Get the vamps, no messing around.”

He scoffed. “I have never once messed around in my life, Princess-“

“Uh huh.” She smiled up and him, and Dean was pretty sure that if he reached out and touched Her, she’d be warm and shock his body like a defibrillator. “Are you ready?”

“Born it. Popped out of the womb waving a gun around, blasting freedom music-“

She rolled Her eyes, but Dean didn’t miss the small smile on Her gorgeous face. “I am going to stab you.”

“That’s not very nice-“

“I’d say it’s incredibly nice.” She hummed, pulling on Her shoes as Dean stood above Her, failing to not lose himself too much at the vision before him. Her on Her knees, right below him, smirking up at Dean with bright eyes, so fucking close-

“How is stabbing me nice-“

“I’m giving you a warning.” She pushed back to Her feet, her eyes never once leaving Dean’s. “I could just stab you, De. But I’m being sweet and giving you a chance to run.”

He laughed, shaking his head and opening the door. “Nah, sweetheart. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Something pulled and twitched in his chest at his own words. She wouldn’t have to work to get rid of him. Four months and he’d be gone forever, and She’d probably hate him for it. 

Maybe Dean should start taking Sam’s get out of the contract thing a little more seriously. Because he had been working for it. Despite what Bobby and Sam might claim, Dean wasn’t just rolling over. But he wasn’t scratching and biting and straining right up to edge to be free. To fix this. 

But—somewhere deep and empty in the cavity of his chest and for into that pit in his body—Dean hadn’t really cared. Sam would move on, probably better than he could if Dean stuck around. Bobby would drink, but he always drank, and he’d move on too.

She’d move on. Watching Her pull Her knees to her chest in the passenger’s seat of the Impala—rubbing Her calves and letting her hair fall a little over Her face as she hummed along to Dean’s music—Dean knew She’d live without him. It wasn’t even a question. The world fucking molded and blended for Her, so of course She’d move on. Find someone forged and crafted from the same diamonds She was. 

That strange, obvious and colorful and bright quality She’d always had, where She lit up everything. Where those same deep, dark corners of Dean existence were no longer daunting, because She made them easy and smooth. 

And there was the problem. Dean could see into himself, and it was hideous, but She wasn’t flinching away. And She’d move on, but he didn’t want Her to. Whenever She traded teasing words with him or settled further into the seat of his car, Dean just wanted to freeze the moment and exist in it like an old, oversaturated photo forever.

She giggled again—Dean didn’t even remember what he’d said, only that She’d giggled and his grin had split his face for the first time since that fucking deal—and Dean might have to keep himself around just to hear that sound over and over and over- 

“You’re not using a gun for this, right?” She glanced up at him from the trunk, and Dean frowned. He didn’t even remember leaving the car. All he’d been doing is following Her, always, anywhere She told him to go, he’d go-

He needed to get a damn grip. 

“I’m using the, uh-“ He reached around Her to grab the machete with a smirk, forcing himself not to dwell on how She stood a little taller—maybe even shivered—when their arms brushed. “Here we go. Ready to gank some-“ Dean glanced at Her—watching him with Her arms crossed and an expression like She was watching an adorable child with ice cream—and frowned. “What are you doing.”

“Waiting. You two,” She nodded to the machete. “Seemed to be having a moment. Didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You’re a riot.” He muttered Her name, rolling his eyes. “Grab one and let’s move.”

“Grab one-“ She cut Herself off with a strange look, shaking her head. “A machete?”

“Yeah, unless you’ve got one shoved up your ass-“

“I’m not using a machete, De.” 

He scowled. He could not let the use of De cloud his judgement. “Princess, you better not be trying to do what I think you’re doing.”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his words low and firm. “Being fucking stupid-“

“Rude-“

“And taking on a vamp nest with a freakin’ knife!”

She paused, then nodded. “That- Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.”

For a brief moment, Dean wondered if She’d really been made just to test the limits of his sanity.

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to say no, Winchester. I know what I’m doing-“

“I know you do.” Dean grunted. No matter how much he fucking hated it, he knew better than to pick an argument with Her about her infuriating, strange, and cardiac arrest inducing hunting tactics. “But you said in and out. And if you use that little baby knife, this will take us fucking years. Sammy will come back and find us skeletons. So no.”

She gaped at him. “First of all, that is not how time works. Second, you got me this knife-“

”I didn’t think you’d make it a fucking religion-“

“A relig- I- Your-“ She flushed slightly. Dean didn’t get to think about it before she was pushing on. “I am going to kill twice as many vamps as you, even if you use two machetes.”

“Sure, Princess.”

“I will-“

“I said sure-“

“No you didn’t, you said sure, it’s not the same-“

“Yes, it is-“

“No, it’s not. And I will kill more vamps, Winchester.”

“You wanna bet on it?”

“Yeah!”

He paused, frowning at Her as a lot of the raging fire in his body—the amazing, furious, demanding life and attention of it only seeming to ever come out fully around Her—was cooled in a second. “Really?”

She blinked at him, Her own stance relaxing slightly. “Why not?”

“Uh…”

Dean didn’t have a good reason not to. It would be more fun. If he won, he’d get to lord it over Her for four whole months—maybe more if that odd flare of maybe he should put more effort into trying to live continued, and whatever Sammy’s thing was panned out in their favor—and if he lost…

“What are we betting?” He asked carefully, and Her brow furrowed slightly.

“We’re both broke,” She said, and Dean realized She was really thinking about this. “And I don’t want to put Sam in the middle of anything-“

Dean scoffed. “He’d live-“

She cut him off, just by raising Her hand. “I think that, maybe- Yeah. That’ll work.”

“What-“

“I use my knife.” She pulled out the blade from inside Her jacket, and Dean had never been more envious of a weapon. “You use your dumb machetes, and whoever gets the most vamps wins. The loser,” She grinned at him, raising her chin. “Owes the winner a favor. Any favor.”

Dean raised his brows. “Any favor?”

His head was going to some places it shouldn’t be, very quickly. Her on Her knees again, or under him in Baby’s back seat, or naked above him, on his lap-

“Yeah.” Her voice was a little soft, and there was a pretty flush on Her face, and Dean felt shame—hot and prickling—over his skin at the thought that she’d maybe somehow seen exactly what he’s craving. “Anything.”

They were just staring at each other. Dean didn’t know when it had gotten so humid, or when the rest of the world had blurred into only color, or why he wasn’t moving to grab Her and pull her into him, letting them both crash down, down, down-

“Uh-“ He said Her name, swallowing slightly, and the ring of Her phone sliced through the taut air.

She pulled it out with a frown, scanned over the contact, and shoved it back in Her pocket.

Whatever composure She’d lost a second ago had returned. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d have thought he imagined that moment.

“Spam call.” She said, holding out Her hand as Her attention returned to Dean. “We got a deal?”

“Yeah.” His voice was still a little gravely. She didn’t seem to notice. “But I’m not shaking on it.”

“Dean-“

He raised his pinky silently, his challenge written all over his face, and this felt far more important than it should. Critical. Almost cosmically vital.

And that was insane.

But Dean couldn’t fake the flood of light through his body when Her pinky locked with his.

“You’re going fucking down, De.” She taunted, Her smile wide as they shook. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Maybe.” He drawled, memorizing the small gasp that left Her mouth as he pulled Her forward, until he was colliding and crashing into Her once more. Just as he always had. “Or maybe I’m gonna wipe the floor with you, Princess.”

She grinned. “Big talk.”

“I can back it up.”

“You sure about that, Winchester?”

He smirked, leaning down closer. He could be selfish and brave enough to be a little closer. “Yeah. I am.”

—————

You won.

It had been closer than you would ever tell Dean. Had he gotten a little luckier and you’d been just slightly more distracted—Dean moved with shocking grace through the fight, a gritted expression of determination on his face that had made the world silver and your gut a little fuzzy—he would’ve taken it. But you’d gotten the jump on a few more vamps than Dean with the whole maybe you’re a monster thing, and you’d known you’d only barely won before it was even over. 

When the vamps were all just bodies on the floor and you and Dean were drenched in blood, he’d looked over to you with a proud grin and puffed out chest, dropping his raised machete to side.

“Six, Princess.” He’d smirked, closing the space between you and leaning over your body until you were almost consumed by him. His smell and pretty face and the warmth of his body, pressed almost right up to yours-

I had been a miracle you’d been able to raise your chin and smirk right back.

“Wow. Amazing.” You’d kept your voice causal as you crossed your arms, and you were pretty sure you’d seen the exact moment he’d realized why you weren’t worried. Something had flashed into his eyes, and he’d almost seemed to brace his body, like the impact from your words could possibly cause him real harm. 

He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, giving him a mock pout.

“Don’t you want to hear my result-“

“Not if it’s more than six.” He’d grumbled, and another giggle had escaped your mouth.

You’d been standing in a body-filled warehouse, and you’d reeked of blood, and there had been some guts and odd fluids clinging to cuffs of your pants, but you’d giggled. You couldn’t stop fucking giggling.

“Tough luck, Deano.” Your grin had widened as you’d bounced on your toes. “Eight.”

He’d stared at you, then around the warehouse, and shaken his head. “How’d you even find eight-“

“Pure-“

“Don’t say talent.” He’d raised the machete at you, narrowing his eyes, and his tone had been really low. Low and deep and rough, and he hadn’t really been pissed but there had been a firm look on his handsome face and something shining in his eyes that you’d wanted to pry out of his body-

Dean should count himself lucky he was able to make you so fucking dumb just by being around you. It was what made you let go of any gloating, suggest you head back to the motel with only one, mockingly cheerful reminder of the favor he now owed you. He’d rolled his eyes with a small grin, and his shoulder had brushed yours as he’d walked past you to the car, and you’d gotten a little stupider, and fallen a little further.

It had been that, and the fact that you have… Things to do.

Things Dean doesn’t get to know about, because they lead to longer, more complicated decisions that will likely result in him finally seeing you for the disease you are, and leaving you for good.

And you’d like to hold onto him a little while longer. Just long enough to not infect him, just long enough to feel him, just long enough to keep resting in the almost inevitably of Dean. 

Because you’ve been sleeping. Since that night in the train car, all the pain has been slightly soothed and eased because you’ve been sleeping, and Dean doesn’t hate you anymore, and things aren’t good but they’ve gotten better. You’ve gotten better. You still burn your skin and pick your fingers bloody to fight the Darkness, and the White still overwhelms you with just how violent and demanding it can be in Dean’s presence, but you’re not clawing your way through just fucking existing anymore.

It’s easier to be, when you have Dean. When he grins at you and the world is silver, and he grabs your arm or trades a small, almost secret look with you, and you feel a little less like a plague or a parasite. 

And there’s still pain. There’s always pain. Dean and his gravity aren’t a cure, and the pain is far from gone—in the worst moments you have to lock yourself in the bathroom, because Sam and Dean can’t see you flay yourself apart just to keep them safe—but your exhaustion has waned slightly, and you don’t know how you’re going to go back when something breaks.

Something will have to break. You never trust it—trust yourself—to stay together.

But you’re letting yourself have this for now, even if that makes you even more of a monster. At least you’re still hurting. It feels like a toll you can pay for daring to invading Dean’s life, for taking everything he gives you and letting it blur the Darkness and White back together, letting it mend those fractured pieces in your body just a little further.

And there’s some fear. Corrosive and loud fear, over your spine and skull. Fear of how close those pieces are to fusing fully back together, and what that might end up meaning. 

Maybe nothing.

Likely not. It’s never that easy. 

But hopefully, whenever all the glass-like pieces in your body hum and move back into each other, nothing will have to change. 

It’s a fear you’ll have to swallow for now. Let is fester and grow as Dean guides you into the motel room—with a hand not quite on your lower back, but between your shoulder blades—and a new flurry of life sparks in your body and everything gets a little better. 

Right now, you have things to do.

You’d sent Dean out to get dinner as soon as you’d both cleaned up. Whatever he wanted, as long as it kept him out of the motel room. As long as it gave you time to call Jo back.

It takes her two rings to pick up, and when she does, you don’t waste any time.

“Did you find it?”

You can hear her sigh through the phone. “You gonna say hi to me-“

“Hi, Jo.” You drop on the foot of your bed, spinning your knife in your hands. “How are you?”

“Hi,” She hums your name, and you can hear the turn of pages in the background. “I’m doin’ well. You know, you’re worse than Sam and Dean-“

You let out a mock gasp. “That’s so mean-“

“Don’t make it less true.” There’s a pause through the speaker, her voice suddenly much softer. “You sittin’ down?”

“Yeah?” You swallow. “Did you-“

“I got it. Like, five hours ago. But you weren’t pickin’ up-“

“Dean and I were hunting.” You mumble, and Jo lets out a loud gasp. 

“Without adult supervision-“

“Shut up.”

“Does Sam know you were goin’ out without a chaperone-“

“Jo.” You snap, glancing at the door as your face starts to heat. “The arrowhead, or I tell Bobby to stop giving you cases.”

You can almost hear her eye roll. “You do that, I’m tellin’ him about how you sleepin’ with Dean-“

“Sleeping! Literally sleeping! Why did I-“ You let out a long breath, flopping onto your back. “We don’t even touch. We’re definitely not-“

“Fuckin’?”

“I’m going to drive to the roadhouse and burn all your clothing-“

“Don’t do that. Dean’ll follow you and it’ll be a whole thing-“

“Arrowhead.” You snap, and Jo sighs.

“Fine. You got it with you?”

“Yeah.” You roll over, reaching over the edge of the bed to grab it from your bag and bracing for the impact of touching it.

It’s immediate. You pick it up and all the golden mess of Dean that you’ve gotten so good at ignoring start to almost glow. He’s tangled in the sheets and marked on the mattress, carved into the wooden seat and chairs, scarred over your skin wherever he’d touched you in the past few days. 

There are a few stains of Sam, too. You can’t ever see them unless you’re holding the arrowhead, but they’re there. The color is less metallic than Dean’s, and it doesn’t almost capture and demand you in the same way, but it’s Sam. It’s a little wrong. A little off-hue, like you’re looking at something that had been mixed with what it never should’ve touched, and now it’s simply… different. A deep, vibrant purple that’s bloodied with red, dull but present on Sam’s bed and the stack of books he’d left of the coffee table.

“You got it?” Jo asks, and you nod before realizing she can’t see you.

“Yeah. Go.”

“Alright, it’s,” she lets out a long breath, static in the speaker, and you tense. That can’t be good. “I’m thinkin’ it’s more than a witch artifact.”

“Yeah, we got that already-“

“No,” she says your name carefully. “I’m- It’s a lot more. It’s somethin’ real old. Every single thing I’ve found is just a big red warnin’ sign sayin’ no. Don’t touch.”

You frown at the air. “Did you check the witch books I emailed you-“

“Yeah.” Jo sighs. “Those things are the firmest ‘bout it. Every mention of anyhthin’ like it I can find in them is just tellin’ you not to go close to it. It’s- Seems like it’d be an overload. Like they’re weak circuits, and the artifacts are a fuckin’ lightning bolt.”

“I- Artifacts?”

“Yeah. Seems like there’s a whole collection of ‘em.”

“Okay.” You swallow, turning the arrowhead between your fingers. “Do we have a name?”

“Yeah, but there a little bit of an issue with it. I sorta- I can’t read it.”

You blink at the air. “What?”

“It ain’t in any language I can find. I even had Ash run it through one of his dumb fuckin’ translators.”

“And?”

“It broke the computer.”

“Fuck. Okay.” You stare at the ceiling, hoping the roof will fly off and there will be some sort of answer written in the sky. “So what do we know?”

“Right, so, it’s part of that collection I was talkin’ about, and it looks like it was made by some group of old, kinda taboo witches. I couldn’t read what they were called either, same language as the arrowhead, but I got that they don’t seem to be around no more.” Jo takes a deep breath, and you can practically hear her brain turning. “Seems like it’s made to be an enhancer of their powers or somethin’. Some stories say it’s a weapon worse than an atomic bomb, but it seems more like the witches were the bombs. This just makes ‘em stronger. More focused.”

You can feel a heavy, crushing weight start to press on your chest, and the Darkness is beginning to stretch out of your body. You can feel the wear of your shoes by the door, and the weakness of the motel lamp’s lightbulb, and the pressure of the creaking floorboard to support all the furniture-

You screw your eyes shut, digging your nails into your palm. “Can we destroy it?”

“I’m not sure.” Jo says. “I mean. We got two options, if that’s what we’re doin’-“

“It is.”

There’s a pause over the speaker. “You can use it, can’t you.”

“Yeah.” You whisper, some odd sort of fear that the wind will hear you and tell Dean overtaking your senses. “It’s- It’s like being jumpstarted or something.”

“Maybe we should keep it-“

“No.” Your eyes shoot open. “We need to get rid of it.”

“I-“ She sighs. “I know you don’t like usin’ your- the thing-“

“Jo.” Your voice is soft, and you can hear your own desperation, but you don’t really care. You need this thing gone. You’ve spent too many hours when Sam and Dean aren’t looking, running your finger over the carvings on the arrowhead, getting a little dizzy as you read the words written in that odd, shifting language, over and over. “Please.”

Another pause, and you don’t have the energy to argue or push about this. You have too much to do, too much to worry about, and never enough time because Dean will be back soon-

“Can you read the words on it?” Jo asks, and you frown.

“Some of them-“

“Which ones? The Latin?”

“Yeah, but,” you glance back to the arrowhead. “There’s, um, the fourth language-“

“Shit.” Jo mutters. “That’s lookin’ like the same language the names are in. And I- I’m gonna tell you how to destroy it but I need ya’ to think about not doin’ it. Please.”

You frown. “What do you mean, the names-“

“What the arrowhead is called. And the name of the witches. I’ll send you some photos. Promise me you’ll consider it-“

“Consider-“

“Not destroyin’ this thing.”

You sigh, but nod. “Yeah. Promise.”

You do mean it. Even as you sit up and jot down Jo’s instructions to destroy the arrowhead, you really do plan to look at those photos and consider not destroying it. 

Looking at the needed ingredients to do so, you’re not sure you have a choice.

“Dude, where the fuck am I even supposed to get Prophet’s blood or the tooth on a Levia- What the fuck is a Leviathan-“

“I’m just readin’ what I found,” Jo says your name with a sigh. “And I told you, we got one other option, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

You glare at the long, impossible list. “Try me.”

“Usin’ the thing.”

“The-“ You choke on your own tongue as you realize what she means. “No.”

“It’s the only other way. Says it can be razed as it was made-“

“We don’t know that my- that that is how it was made-“

“We’ll know when you see the photos.” Jo’s voice was a little too soft. The paper is crumpling in your hand. “I told you that you weren’t gonna like it.’

“Jo-“

An engine revs outside, and you freeze. That’s the Impala’s engine.

Dean’s back.

“Send me the photos.” You hiss into the phone, shoving the arrowhead back into your bag and pulling out a book. “I- I’ll figure it out.”

Jo starts to say something, but you hang up before you can hear it. 

Dean shuffles back into the motel room right as you settle at the headboard of the bed, giving him your best, perfectly innocent and harmless smile.

He frowns at you. “What are you up to.

“I- I’m not up to anything-“

He sets down to bags, crossing his arms with a firm, disbelieving gaze. “Try again, Princess.”

You hold up your book with a shrug. “I mean, I’m reading-“

He grunts your name, and you’re going to punch him. You need to figure out how he just does that. How he just knows.

“I promise, De.” Your smile is sweet, somehow more docile than before. Right now your best bet is to roll over and hope he drops it. “Nothing but me and a book.”

He stares at you for a long second, but lets out a breath. “Fine. Keep your freakin’ secrets-“

“I’m not keeping secrets-“

“I said fine, sweetheart-“

“I’m not-“

He gives you an unreadable expression, and you can feel the White curling and cowering because you are keeping secrets, and you do that all the time, but this gnawing fucking guilt about it only ever happens with Dean-

“Are you hungry or not?”

You sigh, but nod. “What did we get?”

“There’s a diner few roads over,” he pulls out some paper containers, sliding the larger one to you and setting three more in front of his own seat as he drops down. “I heard they make awesome pie-“

You giggle, moving to sit across from him. “You think everywhere makes awesome pie-“

“Yeah, well, pie is awesome-“

“Or you’re just predictable-“

“Two things can be true.” He winks at you, and you scowl, glaring at your own burger as you open the container. It’s not good how quickly the Darkness stopped bellowing about your lie and the whole arrowhead situation when Dean only just winked at you. 

Your phone buzzes as you and Dean eat in easy silence, and you can feel the stutter in your heartbeat as you read the message on the screen.

Jo Harvelle

Here u go

Ash wants me to remind u not to try and translate them

But i dont think itll be a problem

She’s right. You open the attached image and almost crush the fry in your hand, because you can read that. It’s moving and flowing strangely on the screen—just like on any page, or the arrowhead itself—but you can still read it.

The arrowhead is a solemn oath weapon. Created by the women of the-

God fucking damnit. 

It’s exhausting, to see that fucking word, over and over and over, and never know what it means. To only get more questions than answers, to try and understand but come up with nothing, to want to at least show it to Sam, but know that’s not a fucking option. 

At least you have a good reason to destroy it now. If it’s made for you—for the Darkness—you can’t feed it. You can’t indulge it. You’ve worked too fucking hard for some ancient, weird weapon to overpower your resolve to be better, to make you into whatever Azazel had thought  you were-

“Why’re you makin’ that face.”

You blink up at Dean, a little bit of ketchup smudged on his cheek as he watches you. You want to wipe it off with your fingers. 

You can’t.

“Swallow your food, Dean.”

He rolls his eyes, but does, and you can’t let that sink too deep into your skin.

“You gonna answer my question-“

“Ketchup.” You point to your own cheek. “Here.”

Dean frowns, tries to lick it off with his tongue—which is incredibly cruel and distracting—and only manages to get it when you chuck at napkin at his stupid, amazing face.

“You’re a child-“

“You like it.” He mutters, and you almost fall out of your chair. “Stop distracting me.”

“Distracting you-“

“Yep.” He snaps, leaning forward as he watches you, his attention wrapping you in gold and the world is so good and if you shift in your seat your knee could bump his- “You were making a face, Princess. Why.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “I was not making a face-“

“Yeah, you were.” He waves you off, like this isn’t even something to try and argue about. “What’s wrong.”

“Nothing-“ You sigh, twisting a ring on your finger. “Everything is fine, Deano-“

“Lie.”

“I- Stop doing that-“

“I’m not doing anything-“

“You’re getting cocky.” You snap, not even sure what you’re saying. Most of your mind is trapped on Dean. “You can’t know when I’m lying, Winchester-“

He smirks. “Ah, So you are lying-“

“I- no-“

“Yeah-“

“Dean.”

Your voice is a little harsher than you’d wanted, but it does the trick. He closes his mouth and stares at you, and you take several deep breaths, just to ensure that the Darkness is truly all the way down.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He looks like he’s going to protest, so you push on.

“Please.”

His jaw twitches slightly, and you can see his grip tighten on his own burger, but he lets it go. By some miracle Dean nods and takes another bite of his burger.

There’s a long moment of silence before he speaks again through his mouthful. 

“How you gonna use the favor?”

You sigh. “Chew, De.”

He starts to make exaggerated chomping noises, and he’s really lucky he’s cute.

“You’re a child.”

“You sound like Sammy, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “How you gonna use it?”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and poking at your fries. “Not sure.”

“Can you give me a heads up on what you’re thinking?”

“Hm.” You scan over him, a small smile creeping over your face. “No.”

He scowls, a little bit of meat falling out of his almost pouting mouth. “C’mon, Princess-“

“Chew-“

“Is that your favor-“

“No.” You raise your chin at him. “But if you don’t, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

It’s a strange, empty lie. You both know that. Dean could just sleep on Sam’s bed. He could sleep on the couch. And you’re not going to kick him out, because for reason you don’t understand—you never do—your body had decided it needs Dean Winchester to sleep. And you won’t let him sleep on the floor if he tries to call your obvious bluff, because it’s already been a long day, and you have no interest in getting lost in your own body, swallowed by the Darkness and clutching your knife like a lifeline. 

But Dean listens to it like is real. Chewing and swallowing, muttering under his breath before he takes another bite.

“Bossy.”

You kick him under the table, and he barely flinches, but still whines like a dog. 

“Fuckin’- Son of a bitch-“

You roll your eyes. “You’re fine, you big baby-“

“I’m wounded, sweetheart. You killed me-“

“You look fine to me. Incredibly alive, even.” You grin at him, pretending you can’t feel how the Silver—blending easily once more under Dean’s gaze—keens and bucks in your body at just that thought of Dean being wounded. “I’d say you’re thriving. You’ve got a burger and pie. I’m worried you’re going to cum.”

He coughs, and you don’t miss the red at the tip of his ears. “Shut up.”

“No-“

“Unless you’re gonna use that favor to keep talking.” He drawls, and the room is suddenly very warm. “I’d suggest you listen to me, Princess.”

You scoff. He doesn’t get to win, no matter how pretty and… Dean he is. “Don’t you want to know what I’m going to use the favor for?”

He raises his brows in a silent question as he chews, and you shrug.

“I’m going to save it.”

Dean chuckles as he swallows, his tone made of pure amusement. “Of course you are.”

You frown. “What does that mean-“

“It’s the smart thing.” He shrugs. “Shoulda guessed you’d get all fucking practical about it-“

“Sorry for planning ahead-“

“Planning?” He smirks at you. “What’re you planning, sweetheart?”

He has to be doing this on purpose. Making you stupid with how he’s the only thing you’ve ever really seen, the only person that’s ever made everything technicolor, made the world, made you ready to crash down and move into him at just his boyish grin and teasing words. You’re going to kill him.

“I hate you.” You mumble, twisting a ring on your finger, and he laughs.

“Sure-“

“Well what would you have used it for?” You snap, almost immediately regretting the question when his grin grows.

“That’s a secret, Princess.” He drawls. “You’ll have to lose to me in another contest to find out.”

“Well, that’s never happening-“

“It will.” He shrugs. “And I know exactly how I’d use that favor.”

You roll your eyes, even as his words settle too deep in your stomach. “Have you been planning for it-“

“Yeah.” Dean grins at you, and it might make you pass out. “I get a lot of downtime in the car, gotta pass it somehow.”

“What-“

“I know how I’d use a favor from you, from Sammy, from Bobby,” he counts off each name on his fingers, and they’re broad and callous and you miss touching them, having them touch you-

You need to pull it the fuck together. 

“Not my fault I think about these things and you don’t,” Dean says your name with another fucking wink and you glower at him.

“Well, I don’t need to think about it that much.” You cross your arms, holding his gaze. “Most things I need I could just convince you to do.”

Something flashes over his face again. It seems important. You wish it would linger, just a second longer, so you could figure out what it meant. Why it drew you further into Dean, if it was part of that magnetic and impossible pull to him, if maybe, just maybe, against any and all reason and odds and logic and evidence, maybe Dean could feel this too-

“You’re gonna regret not thinking about it when the genies come.” Dean shrugs, and you blink at him.

“The genies-“

“Like in Aladdin-“

“I- I know what they are-“ You shake your head. “De, genies aren’t real.”

“Djinn are.” He shrugs. “Why can’t we have something nice for once. Just one freakin’ monster who’s fun and doesn’t try to kill us.”

He looks so grumpy. And adorable. And he’s frowning at his burger like it’s personally responsible for every monster in the world, and God, it’s so hard to fight the smile on your face.

“You think about how you’d use genie wishes a lot, Deano?”

His glare flicks up to you, and you could swear it softens slightly. “You don’t?”

“No, not really-“

“Well, now we gotta work it out.” He smirks at you, raising his burger for the last bite. “Three wishes. Basic genie rules. Go.”

“What are basic genies rules-“

“Can’t kill anyone. Can’t bring someone back from the dead. Can’t make anyone fall in love.” Dean frowns at you. “You haven’t seen the movie?”

“You have?”

He shrugs. “Came out when Sammy was nine. Snuck out to see it in theaters with him will Dad was hunting. Wasn’t shit.”

You swallow. You can’t let how equally cute and infuriating that is—the tragic but sweet image of a thirteen-year-old Dean taking Sam to the movies, sitting with too much candy and popcorn and watching just a normal, easy movie John never would’ve let them see himself—make you fall further into him. 

“So you know exactly what you’d do with yours?”

He nods, chewing on that last bite, and you tilt your head at him. 

“Is it a secret.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he swallows. “First I’m not supposed to talk and chew, now I’m keeping secrets cause I’m following your rules, pick a fucking lane, sweetheart-“

You kick him again. “Tell me what they are, and I’ll figure out mine.”

“Nah, I don’t trust you-“

“Dean-“

“I’ll tell you one, you tell me one.” He braces his forearms on the table, holding your gaze. “Just like our old game. You in?”

You swallow. You hate that he remembers that. You don’t know why’d he’d forget, but you still hate it, because it tells you that this means something to him. Not as much as he can’t stop meaning to you, but something.

“Yeah.” You mumble. “You first.”

“Free food.”

“Free-“

“Food.” He smirks at you. “Forever. I’d get to walk into any diner, tell them what I want, and get it for free.”

You laugh, and it’s loud and clear and real. “You already do that, De. You don’t have any real money.”

He shrugs. “And now I wouldn’t be committing a crime, sweetheart. Everyone’s winning. You go.”

“Bobby gets a vacation.”

Dean frowns at you. “Just one?”

“No.” You fidget with the napkin in your hands, thinking through your wish as you speak. “More like… once a year. One week, every year, all the monsters and spirits take a break. Just fucking chill. And Bobby gets a break.”

“Why not just get rid of all monsters, all the time-“

“No killing people, De. And genies love loopholes. I feel like a wish that big would have some consequences.” You narrow your eyes. “Stop telling me how to use my wish, and say yours.”

He rolls his eyes, but does. “Good water pressure. Everywhere.”

You snort. “You’re adorable.”

“Shut up. You’re-“

“I want my own car.” That one is easy, and well worth it for the way Dean’s eyes light up. 

“I can make that one happen, Princess.”

You raise your brows. “By stealing it?”

“No, by fixing up one of Bobby’s scrapped ones. I’m good at it.”

“I-“ You swallow, and you’re once again in danger of falling over from how fucking sincere he looks. Sounds. Is. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” He says, something odd flashing in his eyes. “You pick one out, I’ll do it. It’ll take me three months if I actually try.”

“Will you?”

He winks. “I always do, Princess.”

“Okay.” Your voice is a whisper. You like this game. “Third wish?”

“I-“ He pauses, and when he continues his voice has dropped slightly. “Would be nice for Sammy to go back to college. Live a normal life.”

You frown, speaking before you can think. “What about you?”

He stares at you. “What about me?”

“You hated it last time he left, De-“

“Yeah, I remember-“

“No, I just mean-“ You sigh. “What would you do? Your whole life is Sam.”

Something flashes in his eyes again. You’re getting desperate to learn what it is. “It’ll be fine, Princess. Sammy- he deserves a break. Been a long year, and he’s a smart guy-“

You glower at him. “You’re a smart guy-“

“Yeah, and I’m-“ He cuts himself off abruptly, shaking his head. “It’s just a wish. Not real.”

He looks so sad. You don’t know why.

It’s going to make you insane. 

And you can’t stop the words out of your mouth.

“Fine. Then my wish is you get a normal life too.”

“I- What?”

Dean’s almost gaping at you. You don’t know how to shut the fuck up.

“You heard me, Winchester. Sam gets one, you do too.” You swallow, the words spilling out of you as a damn doesn’t break, but forms a small crack. It’s just enough. “You deserve it, and don’t say you don’t because you’re wrong, and I’ll kick your fucking ass, and you should- I don’t fucking know, if Bobby gets a break and Sam gets to be normal, you should probably get more-“

Dean says your name, but you’re on a roll, and the crack hasn’t quite patched.

“So my wish is that you get more, actually. Something good. My wish is that you, you massive asshole, get something good.”

The crack seals. 

Dean’s just staring at you.

And you can’t look away from him, or move, or take it back because you had meant it, and you don’t really want to. 

You’re just staring at each other, and suddenly there’s a violent fear bursting through your body that you’d said too much. That Dean can see it. How you’re always just a little bit his, even when you know you shouldn’t be. That you do know you shouldn’t be, but that never stops you, and you’d do more than you’ll ever allow yourself to think about, just for Dean, always for Dean, always Dean-

“It’s-“ You swallow, still unable to tear your gaze from his. “It’s late.”

He coughs, his voice a little hoarse. “Yeah. We should, uh-“

“Sleep.”

“Yeah, that. Sleep.”

You stare at each other for only a few more seconds, and both seem to remember how to move at the exact same time. 

You don’t speak as you get ready for bed. You can predict what he’ll do and how he’ll do it like a sixth sense—because you know him, nothing is ever easier than knowing Dean—and he seems to be able to do the same.

Probably not for the same reason.

Can’t think about that. Not now.

Not when—once you’ve both showered and brushed your teeth and shuffled into your respective sides of the beds with only occasional nods and glances—you have a job to do. 

A job you can’t fuck up.

You stare at Dean for a long while after he falls asleep. You tell yourself it’s just to check that he’s really asleep.

And you know it’s a lie.

But you don’t really care.

He’s amazing. He can’t be yours, because you already make everything for him harder than it needs to be, but you’d also seen how he stared at you when you’d said you want him to have a normal life. Like you shot him up with light, that same odd, critical thing flashing in his eyes as his broad chest had heaved slightly, and you’d seen the whole room wash in gold, almost twining right into the Silver, and those fractured pieces-

They’re like crystal, they’re so close to being back together. You’re close to being back together. To being whole a way you haven’t been in eight fucking years. 

It’s terrifying. It’s hitting you now, watching Dean sleep peacefully in the dark, just how fucking scary that is. Something might change. You might change. You might get worse, grow sicker, start to crumble as more pain overtakes your body-

But it’s doesn’t feel like that. It feels luminescent. 

You’d like to feel it more.

But you have work to do.

You slide out of bed, move to the bathroom with the arrowhead in one hand—your eyes squinting as the gold of Dean starts to blind you—and lock the door behind you.

This is going to fucking hurt. It’s everything you’d sworn not to do. You’d promise yourself you wouldn’t use the Darkness like this again—it’s wrong and make you too much and you can barely stand to just be you as it is—but you don’t really have that much of a choice. Jo’s list was too long. This needs to be done tonight.

The blur begins. You’re not fighting, but the blur still kicks in, and you don’t know how you manage, but you do it. With teeth that might crack and a grip that could strangle a god, you hone the Darkness through your body and the arrowhead crumble in your hands. 

There’s something else, a little lost in the blur, that numbs the pain of the Darkness ripping through your body. It’s a slightly damp towel that smell like spice and grass and is washed in Gold, pressed to your thigh as you sit on the floor and take long, strained breaths. 

You’re not only you anymore. You’re the sting of the bathtub, still burning from your scorching shower earlier that night. You’re the mirror, not cracked but a little frustrated, like it wasn’t to scream things it’s captured but can’t share. You’re the grime on the tiles and the howl of the wind outside the motel, begging to find a place to finally rest.

You’re that towel, and it doesn’t feel foreign. It’s almost familiar. Like a lullaby, or anchor in a hurricane, or compass pointing you back to where you need to be.

Dean’s side.

Laying flat on your back once more, staring at the ceiling until the ache of the White to just look is overwhelming, and you have to roll onto your side to watch him.

You’re pathetic, and weak, and wrong and sick and vile. You’re staring in the dark like a weirdo as he sleeps—peaceful and slack faced and easy—and you have no intention of looking away.

Because it’s Dean.

And he’s beautiful. 

He’s beautiful everywhere, but here—in the shifting light and shadows of passing cars light of the sky through the window, making his pretty face look like it was carved rather than simply born—he’s ethereal. Heavenly. Nothing on his face but Dean. Full, slightly parted lips and mussed hair and deep snores that could knock you out if you’re not careful.

But you’ve never been careful.

The only thing that keeps you awake is how, as the blur begins to fade and Darkness fails to settle back into that barbed and beaten cage you keep it in, everything becomes pain. Throbbing at your head and making the world waver, twisting like a spike behind your eye and keep them open.

It’s going to kill you. You think that maybe, this time, when you can’t it out at all but it’s cancerous and savage through your whole body, you might just wither away and die. Dean will stay safe. You’ll be saving him, if anything, from yourself. 

And it won’t kill you. It will only feel like it, for a long, long time, but that’s just how it’s always been. And you’ve always gotten through it. 

But now it hurts. And Dean’s right there, and he’s maybe the closest thing to perfection you’ve ever seen—his crooked nose more rugged than broken, the scars that you can see on his arms evidence that he’s fighting and sturdy and if you touched him, he might actually feel it with a fraction of the intensity you do—so you think dying at his side would be easy.

But hearing his deep and guiding voice would be better. Falling further into him would be the best thing you’d ever do with your rotten little life. Because he’s always Dean, and you’re always you, and all you’ve ever really known—understood and learned and repeated and worshipped—is that moving into Dean is right.

You don’t remember reaching out to take his hand, but his fingers tangle between yours like it’s an instinct, and he squeezes his grip in his sleep, and it’s as if all the pain is pushed through his body.

It may be a restless delirium—made of exhaustion in your every nerve, and the moonlight and just another passing pair of headlights—but just before you pass out, you could swear the world is all only silver and gold, molten and glowing and flowing together in the spaces between everything you can see, and everything else you can’t.

When you wake up, it’s all gone.

And the first thing you realize is that Dean’s hand in still in yours, and his body as shifted so that he’s holding arm over his stomach, and his body is half blocking you from the sunlight of the window and the noise of Sam-

The second thing you realize is that Dean has maneuvered himself to block you from Sam, brutally attacking you both with a pillow. 

“Sam, knock it off, you’re gonna wake her-“

“I’m trying to, genius, she’s the only one who can help-

“That’s fuckin’ rude, Sammy, I’m right damn here-“

“Do you know where the arrowhead is, Dean?”

Dean shrugs, and the movement is careful. Controlled.

Like he’s really, actually trying not to wake you up.

“Maybe I do-“

“Dean-“

“But I’m not gonna tell you! I’m not trying to get freakin’ murdered by the Queen of Stabbing over here-“

Sam scoffs. “Please, dude, like you actually think she’d ever stab you-“

“She’d stab me!” He sounds offended. It almost makes you giggle, because you can perfectly picture his indignant expression. “I’m stabbable, Sammy. I’m more stabbable than you-“

“Do you want her to stab you? Is this a new kink of yours I’m going to have to deal with-“

“Shut the fuck up, bitch-“

“Does she know about how you’re into hentai, De?”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you-“

“No. You won’t. You’d have to let go of her hand.”

You can feel Dean tense against you. He still doesn’t let go. 

This is starting to feel like you should really pretend to wake up.

“Sam, I swear on my Baby, if you say one more word I’m going to make Azazel look like a damn saint-“

Sam mock gasps, Dean’s grip on you becomes almost bone-breaking, and you fake a loud yawn before this end with Sam’s head bashed against the wall.

You decided—as you blink your eye open and look between them with a perfectly fake sleep expression—that they never really need to know you were listening. That you’re going to be replaying and picking it apart in your head for maybe the rest of your life, but they will never need to know. 

“What’s-“ You give another fake yawn, just to really fucking sell it. “Oh, Sammy, you’re back.”

Dean’s grin could make you move mountains. “She called you Sammy-“

“I heard it.” Sam snaps, but he doesn’t really sound all that angry. More stressed. There’s a tick in his jaw and a vein in his neck.

You don’t know Sam the same way you know Dean—deep in your body, woven somewhere into the fabric of your existence and with a depression that’s made only to fit Dean on the White—but you do know him.

And something’s off.

“Where’s the arrowhead,” Sam says your name, standing tall with his arms crossed, and you feel something curl in your gut that’s made of you didn’t come up with a good lie yet. “Ruby messaged me last night, she wants to look at it again.”

“I- uh,” you swallow, and it can be part of the show. “I may have, kind of, uh-“

Sam grunts your name, and you curl a little into the mattress as your brain spins and spins and tosses and digs and comes up with-

“I sort of fucking lost it, okay!”

Sam blinks at you, and you really wish you did know him as well as you know Dean. His jaw is clenched, and he’s just staring, and he’s leaning a little back like he’s afraid you burning him or something, and you don’t know what any of it means. Not like you do with Dean. If you knew, you’d know if you sold it, how serious that is to him, just fucking anything at all about what Sam’s thinking-

“Dean.” He mutters, his gaze barely flicking away from yours. “Go get us some coffee, please.”

Dean frowns between the odd standoff that begun to form, and shakes his head. “You go get it-“

“No. Go, Dean.”

“I’m not your fucking butler-“

“Dean!” Sam shouted. “Get the fucking coffee.”

There’s a heavy tension of silence over the room. Sam shouted. Really fucking shouted. At Dean. 

Even Sam looks shocked with himself. But he doesn’t back down. He just narrows his eyes at Dean—rigid and gaping and very much still on the mattress—and you’re worried it’s going to turn into something with broken walls and chairs and skipping town again-

“Dean.” You mutter, squeezing his hand—still fucking in yours—before you can stop yourself. “Can you please get me some food, too?”

He frowns at you, saying your name slowly. “I’m not just gonna leave you-“

“It’s Sam.” You keep your voice soft, but flat. “And I really would like some coffee. Please.”

It’s a shock he doesn’t argue. That Dean just scans over your open, carefully neutral features, nods, and stands up. He looks between you and Sam with a tight frown as he pushes on his shoes and grab his jacket, you give him a soft, reassuring smile, and it somehow soothes whatever had been rooting him in place.

He half-slams the door behind him.

And then it’s just you and Sam.

“You didn’t lose it.”

You frown at him. “Sam-“

“What did you do.”

“What did I-“ You scowl. “I didn’t do anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“How would I have done something-“

Sam sighs, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know, I just know you did! You- I don’t know what was going on with that thing, but you messed with it or broke it or changed it or-“

“Sam.” You snap, moving to sit on your knees as you glare at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “It was an artifact older than most modern countries. Older than fucking Rome. I would not have done something, I couldn’t have done something-“

Sam says your name, and you’ve never seen him look that heavy. Defeated.

Worried.

“I know.”

“You-“ You stare at him. “What do you know-“

“I know what you are.” He mutters, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “Dad told me, before he died.”

The world freezes, only for a brief moment, but when it rushes forwards, you can’t really feel it.

You can’t feel anything but the pain of the Darkness, threatening to knock you out, down, over, cave you in and rip you to shreds and stitch you back together as something worse than you’d been before. Because this is your worst nightmare. This is your worst fucking nightmare, but it has to be real because you’re in so much fucking pain and Dean isn’t here-

Sam says your name slowly, and you shake your head. You must have misheard him.

“I don’t-“ You voice is weak. Unsteady. You don’t really think you sound like yourself. “You’re- You- I’m-“

Sam moves like he’s going to reach for you, you flinch back on instinct, and he hangs his head with another side.

“I haven’t told anyone.” He says, watching you like you’re a feral, cornered animal. “I mean, I’m guessing Bobby knows-“

You’re still shaking your head, and the movement has become almost manic. “I- I’m not- Sam-“

“I didn’t tell Dean.” Sam makes his voice a little firmer, and you don’t know how to handle how quickly that makes things slightly better. “And I’m not- I know- knew, my Dad.” He runs a hand through his hair, shifting on his feet. “I’d be willing to believe he made it sound worse than it is-“

“It’s not good, Sam.” Your whisper escapes you before you can stop it. “I- I’m trying to be better, but it’s not good. Whatever John told you- It’s- He’s probably not wrong.”

Sam frowns. “He told me you were a witch. That Azazel said you were damnation or something-“

“He did.” Your body seems to think that, if it makes itself small enough and your hand—moved to your throat before you can really reckon with it—tightens enough, you’ll be able to strangle the Darkness out of your body and turn into only air. “I am.”

“You’re-“

“A witch. Or- I don’t know. Witch is too-“ You swallow. The room is spinning, and now you can feel all of it, and it’s too big, and it’s too much. “I don’t know-“

“It’s- I’m not- shit.” Sam swears under his breath, and you think he’s trying to help but you can’t really see anything but blurred color and the whole universe. “I’m not gonna tell Dean,” he says your name, and it sounds a little like how you’d say a child’s name. “I’ll keep it a secret, but I- You can trust me, I need you to know you can trust me-“

“I destroyed it.” You mumble. Your voice sounds like it’s echoing through your bones. “It was- You were purple, and everything was gold, and I- I had to-“ You stare at Sam as he becomes sharp. Dark purple with that red, right there and critical, and heavy. You can feel how fucking heavy he is. “Sam- I had to- It was- Please- I’m trying, I’m trying- I’m trying so fucking hard but it hurts-“

Sam moves for you again.

You can’t stop recoiling away, and it’s not because it’s Sam.

It’s because it’s not you. Nothing is you, and the world is too much, it’s too fucking much and you can’t let go because you’ll hurt something that matters but it fucking hurts and you can’t breathe and Dean, where’s Dean-

“I, uh- I think I’m gonna go get-“

“I’m not-“ You don’t think he’s there anymore, and you’re not sure who you’re pleading with, but everything is crashing, and the sky feels as if it’s on your shoulders and where’s Dean-

What you mean to say is I’m not going to let it decide what I am.

What comes out is a strangled scream as the world blurs once more, but you’re the monster. You’re what’s being hunted. 

You don’t know when the Gold arrives. He’s shouting at something that matters, but not nearly as much, and he’s touching you but you don’t bother to flinch away.

You know him.

He fits here.

He pries your hand from your throat and pins it against the mattress.

His thumb is pressing against your nose and stroking down, and it’s like some sort of song that calls you, moves you back into you.

Dean’s right in front of you, his brow drawn in concentration and concern, and he smells like spice and grass and he’s there. Warm. 

His skin is a little golden in the morning, and his hair is still spiky, and he’s real and all focused on you.

“Dean,” you whisper—you don’t know why, but it feels critical to say—and he lets out a long breath, and nods. 

You drop your head to his shoulder with a shaking sob, and he holds you there. You’re vaguely aware that Sam is gone, and you’ll need to apologize to him later. Explain everything in a way that doesn’t end with Dean keeps your hand pinned to the mattress because he somehow knows what you’ll do if they’re free. 

But right now, all you can do is lose yourself in Dean. Here. Holding you. Touching you. Letting you rest somewhere safe, and breathing in what has to be an accidental time with you, and Dean.

“You gonna talk about it, Princess?” 

Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear him. And when you shake your head, he only sighs.

But he doesn’t go. You keep your head on his shoulder, and he lets you, and neither of you even try to move

And inside your body, it’s luminous and colorful as all those fractured pieces move and blend back together.

End Note: I just know that Sam isn’t even that bothered by the witch thing. He’s more annoyed he can’t bitch to Bobby about how she and Dean are sharing a bed.

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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[strawbunnydoesart]

✨💫Quick WIP of @kianamaiart 's lil magical girl character! I literally love her design sm (her monotone and "I'm done with life" expressions are my favorite shdgjshaksjsj) ⭐️

It's a bit messy and I need to work on the contrast more so it's easier to read,, but I think the overall composition and colors are nice :)) I might work on it a bit more but ehhhhh what if I said I don't wanna

[part-time-pixie]

that one b99 cold open

[the-mang0tree]

check out ilm's case study !!!!! check it out right now !!!!

[morningstarwrites]

their fate is up to you now 🫣🫵

[soulsforsales]

Jason Todd head canons

Because I love that man<3

Jason always sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door because if danger ever arrives, he wants it to find him first.

He reads to you. A lot. Sometimes it's sweet, mostly it's to annoy you when you don't give him attention. (He would read something like, "And thus she disappeared into the dark abyss to find her lover", aloud just to add, "but my lover won't shut down their laptop for me." Insert a pout.)

He says the most romantic things at the most random moments. (You could be sitting across the room, reading, while he sits at the table cleaning his guns. He would stop, look up, and go, "I don't think my life truly began until I met you." Then go back to cleaning like nothing happened. )

He offers to buy you anything you even look at for too long. (You two could be on an evening walk, and while he shuffles for something in his pockets, he realizes you've been staring at someone's pet dog for a long while with a smile, and he just goes, "Do we want it?" Simple. Plain. You stare, "I am sure that's someone's pet, Jay." He smirks, "I could arrange something." You roll your eyes, laugh, "Shut up.")

When he says, "I'll do anything for you," he means it. And not just the big things. Not just "I would die for you," "I would live for you," "I would build a house from scratch for you." No, even the small ones. (Because the first time you ate a chocolate-dipped waffle, you looked like you'd just tasted heaven and won't stop gushing about how delicious it was. The next morning? Jason is learning how to cook the exact same thing from a YouTube video at 6 in the morning. And when you ask him "why," he shrugs nonchalantly and goes, "I just like to see you happy.")

Jason's utterly, loveably clueless of how devastatingly handsome he is. The most normal things he does are so attractive and turn you on, and he has absolutely no idea. (He hangs around the house shirtless with damp hair like it's no big deal while you're just dying inside. You could be climbing this man like a tree, and he still won't get it. You could be on top of him - so fucking gone - and he's like, "You really think I'm hot?" You're in disbelief. "Jason, I want to sit on your face." He blushes, blushes, "...Oh. Wow. Okay.")

Also, this reminds me. He blushes. Like, a lot more than anyone would expect from the seemingly cold, terrifying Red Hood. (He blushes when you compliment him. He blushes when you call him your boyfriend/husband/partner. He blushes when you talk proudly of him to your friends or his family. He blushes when you kiss him, give him coffee, remember his favorite books or things, or treat him with decent human kindness. He blushes the most when you call him pet names (Jay, Jaybird, baby, babe, pretty boy, honey), anything other than "Jason," and he's got pink ears and flushed cheeks. Just overall shy and loves you too much for his own good.)

This is it for now because I fear if I keep writing, I'll never stop.

Enjoy!! I love y'all<3

[barghest-land]

i always forget to post my sketches from paleostreams, time to post lots of creatures!! some drawings are new, some old :)

[sensitivegoblin]

"to leave no fantasy unturned" 🔥

You have so amazing fantasies, and the ones of you as a ler would be so hot. Honestly, just telling you "do as you want" would be hot and get the lee in trouble at the same time

Ngl ahhdsff if a lee told me to do what I want and they actually meant it for real?

I'd fucking melt ahgssfgggddff

And yes it would definitely get them into so much fun trouble😈❤️‍🔥

[timethehobo]

Just a young, talented Watcher meeting a friendly little wisp.

[teaboot]

Acab applies to security guards too.

Okay, so there's two basic kinds of security: public and private

Public security is for government employees like police

Private security is stuff like security guards, bodyguards, and bouncers

As a security guard, you need to pass different licensing exams for different privileges. Someone who might handcuff people needs a license to carry handcuffs- someone who might need to carry a weapon needs a license for that weapon.

I passed my BST exam something like five years ago and stopped there, so I am allowed to carry: A radio

And as private security, again, there are two basic kinds: in-house and contract

Contract security means a company or a person or a location like a park can pay my boss' boss money to send powerless scarecrows in uniforms to walk around and provide what is called "visible presence"

which is, essentially, a life-size cardboard cutout of a guy wearing the classic Spirit Halloween costume, "Black Slacks Law Professional" in size L

So if the entire chain of authority, from a toddler at the mall food court all the way up to whoever happens to have access to the majority of the planet's nukes at this time, you should know that someone like me currently ranks somewhere very slightly above Janitor, but still definitely below Cinnabon Assistant Manager

Which means that if I chose to go rogue and use my powers for evil TOMORROW, I would maybe manage to punch a Cinnabon employee and shoplift half a dozen chocolate bars from the gift shop before I am fired and in jail being sued off my ass with my licenses revoked for life, unable to leave the country or apply for a job at Walmart with my new shiny criminal record

Security guards and mall cops ain't police. We're dressed like police so you don't try and do something illegal in the area, but the vast majority of us can't actually do anything.

Calm down

[onecooooooolcat]

i just need to calm down

[joycrispy]

One thing I love about Crowley --never stated, but consistently shown-- is that he is, at heart, an engineer.

I have a few different things to say about that. Let's unpack them.

As the Unnamed Angel, we see his designs for the Pillars of Creation are millions of pages long, comprised of cramped text, footnotes, diagrams, schematics, etc. It's very...Renaissance polymath, in the way it implies a particular intersection of artist and inventor.

Also: in the naked romanticism with which he views his stars.

We already knew he made stars, but in s2 we learn that he did NOT sculpt each of them by hand. He designed a nebula ("a star factory," he says) that will form several thousand young stars and proto-planets, and all --aside from getting the 'factory' running-- without him lifting a finger. We also learn that these young stars and proto-planets stand in contrast to those made by other angels, which are going to come 'pre-aged.'

...I'm reminded of Hastur and Ligur's approach to temptations. Damning one human soul at a time, devoting singular attention to it over the course of years or decades, and how that stands in contrast to Crowley's reliance on, quote, 'knock-on effects.'

Ligur: It's not exactly...craftsmanship. Crowley: Head office don't seem to mind. They love me down there.

Hm.

I'm also reminded of the M25.

The M25 may not be as grand as a nebula (sentences you only say in GOmens fandom...), but LIKE his nebula it's an intricate, self-sustaining engine that does Crowley's work for him, many times over. Again.

That's some pretty neat characterization --and so is the indication towards Crowley's disinterest in victimizing anyone tempting individual people. It takes a considerable amount of planning and effort (and creeping about in wellies), but in accordance with his design the M25 generates a constant stream of low-grade evil on a gigantic scale.

Cumulatively gigantic, that is. Individually? Negligible.

But no other demon understands human nature well enough to parse that one million ticked-off motorists are not, in any meaningful way, actually equivalent to one dictator, or one mass-murderer, or even one little influential regressive. That's the trick of it. Crowley gets Hell's approval (which he NEEDS to survive, and to maintain the degree of freedom he's eked out for himself), and at the same time ensures that any actual ~Evil Influence~ is spread nice and thin.

It's some clever machinery. And he knows it, too:

The Unnamed Angel and Crowley are both proud of their ideas.

(musings on professional pride, Leonardo da Vinci, the crank handle, and 'the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale' under the cut)

In the 1970's Crowley gives a presentation on the M25, projector and all, to a room full of increasingly impatient demons. Maybe the presentation was work-ordered; the 'can I hear a WAHOO?' definitely wasn't.

Before the Beginning, the Unnamed Angel can barely contain his excitement about his nebula. Aziraphale manages a baffled-but-polite, "....That's nice... :)"

11 years ago, Hastur and Ligur want to 'tell the deeds of the day,' and Crowley smiles to himself because (according to the script-book) he knows he has 'the best one.'

(Naturally, his 'deed' has nothing to do with tempting anybody, and everything to do with setting up a human-powered Rube-Goldberg machine of petty annoyance. Oodles of 'Evil' generated; very little harm done.)

Hastur and Ligur don't get it, of course. That's also consistent.

Nobody ever knows what the hell he's talking about.

It didn't make it on-screen, but, in both the novel AND the script-book, Crowley was friends with Leonardo da Vinci. The quintessential Renaissance polymath. That's where he got his drawing of the Mona Lisa --they're getting very drunk together, and Crowley picks up the 'most beautiful' of the preliminary sketches. He wants to buy it. Leonardo agrees almost off-the-cuff, very casual, because they're friends, and because he has bigger fish to fry than haggling over a doodle:

He goes, "Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, will you?" Because he's an engineer, too.

(It is 1519 at the latest, in this scene. Why the FUCK would Crowley know about helicopters, and be able to explain them, comprehensively, to Leonardo da Vinci?

...Well. I choose to believe he got bored one day and worked it out. Look, if you know how to build a nebula, you can probably handle aerodynamics. And anyway, I think it's telling that this is his idea of shooting the shit. 'A drunken mind speaks a sober heart,' and all. He probably babbled about Aziraphale long enough to make poor Leo sick)

Apart from Aziraphale, Leonardo da Vinci is the only person Crowley has any keepsakes or mementos of.

Think about that, though. Aziraphale's bookshop is bursting with letters, paintings, busts, and personalized signatures memorializing all the humans he's known and befriended over 6000 years (indeed: Aziraphale has living human friends up and down Whickber Street. He's part of a community).

Crowley doesn't have any of that. It's just the stone albatross from the Church (for pining), the infamous gay sex statue (for spicy pining), the houseplants (for roleplaying his deepest trauma over and over, as one does), and this one piece of artwork, inscribed, "To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V."

To me, at least, that suggests a level of attachment that seems to be rare for Crowley.

...Maybe he liked having someone to talk shop with? Someone who was interested? Someone engaged enough to ask questions when they didn't immediately understand?

...Anyway.

There's also the matter of the crank handle.

This thing:

This is one of the subtler changes from the book. In the book, Crowley knows Satan is coming and, desperate, arms himself with a tire iron. It's the best he can do. He's not Aziraphale; he wasn't made to wield a flaming sword.

The show, IMO, improves on this considerably. Now he, like Aziraphale, gets to face annihilation with what he was made for in his hand. And it's not a weapon, not even an improvised one like the tire iron.

He made stars with it.

[both gifs by @fuckyeahgoodomens]

If you Google 'crank handle,' you'll get variations on this:

Crank handles have been around for centuries. Consisting of a mechanical arm that's connected to a perpendicular rotating shaft, they are designed to convert circular motion into rotary or reciprocating motion.

Which is to say they're one of the 'simple machines,' like a lever or a pulley; the bread and butter of engineering. You'll also get a list of uses for a crank handle, archaic and modern. Among them: cranking up the engine of an old-fashioned car... say, a 1933 Bentley. That's what Crowley has been using his for, lately. But he's had it since he was an angel and he's still, it seems, very capable of it's angelic applications.

Stopping time. For instance.

(This is conjecture on my part, but, I like to imagine that Crowley has the ability to stop time for the same reason I can --and should-- unplug my computer before I perform maintenance on it. Time and Space are a matched set, after all, and in his designs in particular, one feeds into the other.)

I know everyone has already said this, but: I REALLY LIKE that when he needs to channel the heights of his power, he does so not with a weapon but with a tool. Practically with a little handheld metaphor for ingenuity. One from long-lost days when he made beautiful things.

(And he loved it. Still loves it --he incorporated that metaphor into the Bentley, didn't he?)

Let Aziraphale rock up to the apocalypse with a weapon: he has his own compelling thematic reasons to do exactly that. Crowley's story is different, and fighting isn't the only way to express defiance. And if you've been condemned as a demon and assumed to be destructive by your very nature, what better way than this?

He made stars. They didn't manage to take that from him.

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are fighters, really --they have no intention of fighting in any war. They'll annoy everyone until there's no war to fight in, for a start. But between the two, if one must be, then that one is Aziraphale. Principality of the Earth, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword... all that stuff. Even if he'd prefer not to, it's very clear that Aziraphale can rise to the occasion, if he must.

Crowley was never that kind of angel. He wasn't a Principality. He doesn't have a sword.

...And yet.

It's Crowley who protects. He's the one who paces, who stands guard, who circles Aziraphale and glares out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near.

In light of everything else I've said here, I think that's interesting.

Obviously part of it is that Aziraphale enjoys it and, you know, good for him. He's living his best life, no doubt no doubt no doubt. But what about Crowley? What's driving that behavior, really?

Have you heard the phrase, 'loved to the point of invention'? Well, what if 'the point of invention' was where you started? What if where you end up involves glaring out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near? What is that, in relation to the bright-eyed thing you used to be?

What do we name the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale?

...Thinking about how an excitable angel with three million pages of star design he wants to tell you all about...becomes a guard dog. Is all.

[kyurochurro]

☁️💤 “what was that noise?!”

radar and henry I drew on my flight today!!

[loveyourhate]

Sweet Dreams