#i turn everything into spn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

godmadeaterribleerror · 7 days ago

Text

Chapter 16 - Try to Catch It

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Google maps, wikipideia, and the spn wiki hate to see me coming right before I write a new chapter.

Chapter Title from Happiness is a butterfly by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 17.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: New enemies are made, and strange things are uncovered. Usual warnings

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

Chapter 15 - Chapter 17

Read on A03!

You can’t smell anything but sulfur. Hear anything but screams. See anything but foul, thick darkness, and iron chains, and rivers of blood below your feet.

And Dean.

You can see Dean.

He never looks at you. You’re here, every fucking night, and he never turns around and looks at you. He’ll move right through you, and past you, and around you.

It’s what you deserve.

You failed him. There are bruises and scars over the Gold, and they’re your fault. You were the weak one, and Dean’s suffering for it. He’s battered and worn and beaten down, there are little shadows swirling around his soul that keep it fully from your vision, and you fucking did this to him.

He glides through everything like it’s mechanical. Every last piece of the boyish, smug charm in his steps and voice and words are gone. He doesn’t even speak at all.

He never does anything more hold those weapons in his hands, and add blood to the floor.

And Dean won’t look at you because he can’t see you.

Because you’re not here to him at all.

You stopped trying to make him see you a while ago. When it became obvious that no matter how loud you screamed his name he wouldn’t hear, no matter how much you sobbed at his feet he wouldn’t notice, and that when you shoved him—hard, as if the sheer force of it could rocket him back up to your side—you passed right through him, as if you were the dead one.

You miss him.

You tell him that every night, over the screams of the other damned. That you miss him, and he’s gone and will never know it, but you’re going to keep missing him, and loving him, and telling him every night until you join him.

It’s easier than looking at the people on the racks in front of him. All the color spilling down with the blood. It’s like oil. Dark and glinting and covering the world.

But this is better than when it was gold, mixing with the blood.

And you can see the souls of the people who are screaming now. Most of them are mundane. Dull, neutral, flat tones that you’d never look at twice.

But they’re not Golden.

And it’s not Dean’s fault he does this.

You’ve seen the comfortable, smooth, vile gray of the demon that’s over his shoulder. He can’t see or hear you—none of them can—but you still try to hurt him, every time he comes near. You did, when it was Dean on the rack, and you did it only minutes ago when he was pacing around the victim—a twisting smile forming in his rolling smoke—and you’ll keep doing it until you scream and scratch and it actually fucking does something.

It won’t. It never does.

So you’ve settled for petty mockery, to ease that pain.

“He’s ugly, Deano.” You hum, examining your nails as he slices into another, cleaner soul with a knife.

He won’t hear you.

But it does make you feel better.

“You wouldn’t like him, back home. You’d call him a douchebag.” You pause, watching him return to your side, but only to grab another tool. “You did call him a douchebag. A few weeks ago. And a lot of other, better names. You’ve always been better at insults, though.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You’d be proud of me.” You keep going. This whole thing is for you, anyway. “I called someone a cunt yesterday. But you also would’ve said ‘you do that without me too, Princess.’ And I do. But I- I still wanted to tell you.”

Dean picks up something like a poker, turning it over in his hand. Your voice is starting to get choked.

This always fucking happens.

“I miss you.” You whisper. “I miss you so fucking much. And I know you’re gone, but I still miss you. And I-“

You always choke on the words. He’ll never hear them. You still need to say it anyway.

“I love you, Dean.” You reach a slightly glowing hand up to his face, tracing over the lines of his cheeks, as he scowls at the victim over his shoulder. “I do. I love you, and I miss you, and I’m-“ You swallow down a weak, useless sob. “I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

There’s a brief moment where he pauses. Where you could fucking swear Dean leans into your touch, and the Gold flares a little brighter, and when green eyes scan over the fire and blood, it’s like he’s looking for something.

You don’t cling to this a lot. He’s done it before.

And he still never sees you.

Dean returns to his rack, and you sit by his side and keep your eyes trained on his pretty face, telling him more and more about your day while you can. While you have Dean—even this marred and darkened version of him, because you’re not a fucking saint and you love him more than you hate what he forced to be doing—you’ll talk to him as much as you can.

And you’ll be back later. Your mind hates you, so you’ll be back tomorrow night, and nothing will have changed.

For months, nothing has ever changed.

But you feel it before you hear it.

Sheer, raw, pure fucking power, rocketing around and over you, making the air electric and hot and strange.

Something is coming.

And nobody else is reacting, in those few seconds before it begins.

Then the screams start, and Dean looks up.

He can hear them.

And they’re warped and distorted, so they’re demon screams, and you don’t know what the fuck is happening but whatever is shredding demons a few floors up is drawing closer.

You’re not really here. There’s nothing you can do.

But you can sense it, cleaving through hell and getting far too fucking close, aimed like a cannon at Dean, and nobody can hear or see or touch you, but whatever this is, it’s coming for Dean, and you already fucking failed him-

You don’t think when you grab Dean’s arm.

And your nails sink into his skin.

Dean’s head whips around to where you’re standing, and he can see you. You know he can. His eyes are shining, and that river of silver light that’s been muddied over in his soul is starting to gleam the longer he stares, and-

He says your name. His voice is hoarse and rough, but Dean says your name, and if the power wasn’t so fucking close, you would’ve started crying.

“What’re you-“

Something nuclear slams into you, and you let go of him with a shriek. It’s loud. It’s so fucking loud, and it’s too much, and the Silver is trying to expand out of your body but it’s as if something—maybe the fact that you’re really, truly, not real here—is clamping and shoving it down.

Dean shouts your name as you collapse on the jagged stone, reaching for you with a panicked expression, but he never gets a chance to grab you.

The sky cleaves open, and it’s here.

Something rainbow and furious—made of a million eyes and shimmering fire—crashes down onto Dean’s little platform on six, beating wings.

It’s looking at you. A thousand fists go slack at its side, and all those burning eyes widen as it glances between you and Dean, who’s still trying to take slow steps back to where you’re lying on the ground.

“You should not be here.” It says. “Wake up.”

Everything feels like it’s burning.

It might be the residue of Hell, and the fire, and whatever the fuck that thing in your dream was. But it’s probably just the humidity. The itching, wet heat of Bolivia, making the thin motel sheets stained with sweat and giving you a horrible fucking migraine.

Although the migraine is normal, now. You have it whenever you wake up, and Dean is ripped away from you once more.

Those dreams started when he died, and you don’t really know if they’re real, or just a sick, twisted part of your brain trying to offer you some relief, but they might continue for the rest of your fucking life.

Because every night you pass out with your knife in your hand, and you dream of Dean in Hell. Every morning you wake up with a weak noise and stinging in your eyes.

You hope it’s not real.

You’ve given up on trying to rationalize how it may be, how it could be, how that might really be your Dean—his soul, beaten and shredded and surrounded by fire—because the idea makes you feel sick.

And you have other things to worry about.

There’s still a little bit of blood under your nails, and you’ve given up on scrubbing it away. You can’t get rid of it. You think it might be a buildup, after months and months of spilling it over your feet and staining it on your hands.

Months on the run. Months sleeping in your car and being anywhere but home, because you can’t. You fucking can’t. You broke your phone when Dean died, and you never went home. Home is where they brought Dean’s body. Home is where you’d see all your own hollowness reflected on Sam’s face, and have to pretend like something hasn’t withered away inside you both. Something that’s never going to grow again. Something you can feel, but Sam can’t, and you’re both going to have to keep fucking living with as the world only continues to turn without Dean.

Home is where Bobby would try to tell you that you were tough, and that you’d get through this, and that Dean wouldn’t want ya to kill yourself over him. He’d want ya to keep goin’, and mournin’ him cause we all miss him, but he ain’t gonna like it if we make this a big fuckin’ deal and join him.

Bobby would’ve been right, if you let him say that.

But you didn’t. And you don’t want to hear it. You know what Dean would’ve wanted. His last note is still folded up in your jacket, right next to where you keep your knife. And you don’t want the whole don’t try to mess with things and bring him back speech, because it doesn’t matter.

You tried to bring him back. In the first month, while you were still in the states, you summoned countless demons and told all of them to bring Dean Winchester back, but none of them would take your deal. And after you killed all of them, they started sending Lilith.

“I told you, little one.” She’d sighed, scanning over you in another empty warehouse. “You are untouchable, and Dean Winchester is not coming back.”

“He could.” You’d hissed, spinning the Blade in your hand. “If you stopped being such a fucking pussy, you could bring him back-“

“That is out of my power.”

“No, it’s not-“

“But if you were to try yourself,” Lilith had tilted her head at you, and the Silver had flared. “Who’s to say?”

You’re not stupid. You know she was baiting you. Trying to trick you into using the Silver more, into becoming more of whatever she thinks you are.

It doesn’t matter.

You’re past the point of caring about tricks and manipulations and grand evil plans.

You just want Dean back.

So you were all in.

The White and Darkness haven’t split, since he died. It’s remained melded into Silver, but volcanic and sparking and volatile. Still too far out of your control, still impossible to understand, but together.

And it still really fucking hurts.

But by now you can’t tell if the pain is the Silver, or just that hollow fucking grief. The loathing that keeps twisting over your skin and organs, reminding you that no matter how good you get at this—at controlling the Silver, at spells and rituals and enchantments, at working and working on being whatever you need to be to keep going—you’re no closer to bringing Dean back. You’ve read the Book a million times, but there’s nothing in there to help you raise the dead. You’ve travelled further and further south, looking for some sort of answer, but you’ve found nothing.

Your flask has mixed a million potions, but every corpse has remained rotting in the ground. You’ve summoned a million spirits and demons, but none of them have had pretty features and or a drawling, teasing voice that calls you Princess and tells you everything is going to be okay. You’ve destroyed a million motel rooms and highways and abandoned buildings when the hollow, dreadful grief got the better of you, but Dean has never emerged from the wreckage. There have been a million failed experiments, a million sleepless nights on the roof of your car, and a million times you’ve goaded a monster or spirit into hurting you because you can’t hurt yourself.

It’s part of learning to use the Silver. Years of conditioning makes self-inflicted pain shred it—makes it recoil and whine—and you need to use it if you’re going to keep going. There’s no point in fighting it anymore. There’s no one left to stay better for.

And you’re sick in a new way, where you don’t really eat, and you laugh whenever a knife drives into your gut. Where you’ve started to hear Dean’s voice on the wind, and the world is colorless, and nothing will just fucking kill you, but it should.

You’re only a storm, now. Only a girl that’s infected and razed everything she’s touched, because there’s not any color left to preserve.

The Spiderweb is still clinging to your body. Running along your veins and nerves, right into the Silver, and empty.

No light cast around it.

No Dean.

So you’re just the fucking storm. You’ve destroyed every green demon that’s come for you. You try not to kill the monsters with the Silver, but just because you’re back to the experiments. There’s always a little bit of gold stained on your fingertips with the blood, but it fades every day and you’re dreading the moment it’s gone for good.

You might break something more permanent, when it does.

And the Sky will finally stop fucking watching, and come for you.

You don’t know what it’s breaking point will be. Maybe the next ritual from the Book you practice. Maybe the next demon you cut up. Maybe the next time you push the Silver a little too far over the edge, when you become far too big and you can feel the concentration of the earth below your feet to stay together, and you tell it to open up so you can go get Dean, and it finally does.

But for now, the Sky just fucking watches.

You talk to it sometimes. When you can’t sleep and you have a migraine, when you can feel the stickiness of the heat and the pain of the rotting wood below your feet. You want it to know that you won’t stop. That until it fucking talks to you, comes for you and puts you down—or swallows you, or takes you away and locks you up—you’re not going to get better. You’ll keep being sick, and you’ll keep caving in on yourself, and if it’s not careful you’ll make sure you’re too fucking malevolent to take.

You’ll ruin yourself. The Silver is a hurricane in your body, and you can escalate every ritual in the book to be almost as big as you are, until you fucking shatter something, and the Sky has no choice but to come bargain with you itself.

John Winchester should’ve killed you when he met you.

You really are a fucking sickness.

And you’ll only grow sicker, until you’re cured, force-fed medicine, or simply fucking dissipate.

You still don’t know what you are. You’ve tried to find other witches, older witches, who might know, but nobody has. There was one crone, with wrinkle hands and blind eyes, who was centuries old and told you about the days where all of us were hunted, then paused and said, but not you, dear, they couldn’t hunt you.

“Why?” You’d asked, leaning forward over her small, wooden table, and she’d shrugged.

“Hard to hunt something that’s not real, isn’t it?”

“But-“

“You wanted to learn about divination or not?”

You’d swallowed, and nodded. That’s what you were here for. What you’d been trying to do every month.

Embracing the Silver—no matter how much it hurt and tore you apart, you really are trying to embrace the Silver—meant embracing witchcraft with it. Not just your own little experiments and rituals. The whole thing. Spells and hexes and too many Latin words and a million books.

The crone had showed you how to read tea leaves.

She tried to show you how to read tea leaves.

You’d looked into your cup, seen something like a bird, a book, and a cross, and the cup had burst into flame.

You’d been thrown out of the crone’s cabin, and when you’d looked up, the Sky had been watching.

It had done that. You know it had. It didn’t seem to mind you learning more basic things—cleaning spells to keep yourself from living in filth, potions that let you stay awake for days on end when you couldn’t stand to see Dean in hell, rituals to test out new ideas—but it hated when you tried to look into the future.

“You’re a fucking douchebag.” You’d snapped at it a few nights ago, standing on the top of a mountains after a hunt, wiping blood off your hands with a rag. “And I’m not going to stop. I’ll die before I stop.”

The Sky hadn’t responded. It didn’t need to.

You knew it was listening, and that it didn’t like the idea of you dying. The stars had gotten a little brighter in warning, and you’d flipped them off.

Warning was pointless.

You had fucking nothing to lose.

You’d been hunting an acalica. A little old weather wizard, whose spit you’re keeping in your flask for when you need it.

There’s a spell in the Book that calls for it. A tracking spell, to move you to a vortex of power. A point on the earth where magic is more powerful, where you could try and see what you can do, when barriers are weaker.

There are three on every continent, you’re pretty sure one is in Kansas, and Sam would’ve found that interesting. He would’ve said that there are no coincidences in this job, then asked you how you know about the vortex points.

You would’ve told him that the book mentions them. That it’s full of tiny, odd and interesting notes that he’d like, and he can borrow it, if he wants.

You haven’t told him that, though. You haven’t spoken to Sam since Dean died. You haven’t spoken to Bobby, either. Or Jo.

It’s better like that. They don’t have to look at you and see the monster. Look at you and see just how horribly Dean’s death broke you, that you’re trying so fucking hard to remain yourself but you’re drowning in the Silver, and there’s no light at all to guide you back to the surface.

It doesn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at your gut. You left Sam alone, right after he lost Dean. You stopped talking to Jo, after she put up with all your bullshit, all your desperation that ended up amounting to nothing.

Bobby might think you’re dead. He’s always deserved a better, easier kid to deal with than you. He took you in without knowing, and he took care of you, and you just vanished off the face of the earth without a word. He might have burned your clothing and possessions, thinking you had died, and giving you a hunter’s funeral.

There’s a chance he did it with Dean. That he burned you away, right alongside Dean’s-

You don’t want to think about that. Whenever you do, you end up in the bathroom, vomiting up whatever little food is in your body, because the thought of Dean, shredded apart and empty and staring into-

Fuck.

You push off the stiff mattress, stumbling into the slightly molding bathroom and falling to your knees at the toilet. Your own retching manages to drown out the sounds of birds and bugs outside, the static, grating hum of the fan over your head.

You can’t stay here. Once you get all the ingredients for the vortex tracking spell, you’ll cast it and move out of town.

You’ll get through this.

You fucking have to.

And maybe when you reach the vortex and turn yourself into nothing but Silver, infecting the earth and making it split apart so you can fall right into Hell, the Sky will finally fucking come down and talk to you.

Sam, Bobby, and Jo don’t need to know that, either. That you’ve gone insane, and you’re talking to the Sky so often. That you think the Sky is watching you and waiting to take you for itself.

You’d sound insane. Like losing Dean finally tipped you over from reckless plans and odd words into downright nonsense. Babbling like a lunatic about the Sky and the colors and how you can’t really tell what you are anymore—more than before, you really don’t know what you are when everything is Silver but it still hurts—and you’re right back to the crazy little girl Bobby picked up on the side of the road.

They have each other. They don’t need you. Nobody’s ever needed you but Dean.

And you failed him.

So it’s better for them not to know.

When the last bit of your dinner falls out of your stomach, you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the heat or the nausea. It doesn’t really matter.

Neither food nor air conditioning will fix you.

But just sitting here, staring at your bile and vomit in the toilet bowl, isn’t going to do you any favors. You have to go back up the mountain today, then run down it to get to your car, and no matter how sick you always are you still need the strength.

To climb, and—if you need to—fight.

There’s a pretty high fucking chance those suit and tie assholes are going to find you again, and you’re going to have to fight.

That’s a problem for future you. More accurately for future them, because no matter how many times they tell you to stop, you won’t, and you always escape them unscathed.

They can call you a monster, or a bitch, or a cunt, or a problem, or an abomination all they fucking want. It’s nothing you don’t already know. Nothing you’re not trying to be, because the human in you isn’t what’s going to make the Sky speak. The human won’t bring Dean back.

The demons didn’t stop hunting you because of the human. The Sky doesn’t watch you because of the human. The witches don’t take you in and teach your whatever you ask because of the human.

They do it because you show them the Blade, and they look at you with fearful awe, and give you food and shelter and all their books like you’re some sort of fucking Royalty. They watch you like you’re a bomb set to go off, glance at the Blade with wide eyes, and then send you out of their home like they can see that you’re a plague, and can’t wait to clean themselves of your disease.

You feel like an occupying army, whenever that happens. They act like they can’t say no, like it’s some sort of secret code you’re not allowed to be privy to, like you tell them how you can see their soul, and suddenly they’re obliged to aid you however you ask.

“Do you know what I am?”

Your words had been careful, the first and only time you dared to venture down that path, and the dark haired witch across the table had smiled at you.

She’d said she was old. Ancient. Thought dead across the ocean, and that you could call her Letitia as long as you never repeated her name.

She’d seemed like the right type of person to ask.

“There’s no modern word for it.” She’d hummed, shuffling the tarot deck between long fingers. “Most witches you encounter will not know why they are listening to you, only that they must. You from the oldest of our kind. You are… a little more than us.” She’d titled her head at you. “But you’ve guessed that already, haven’t you?”

You’d nodded, spinning the blade in your hands. “Do you know the word?”

Letitia had laughed. “I’m old, but not that old.”

“Then how do you-“

“You’re like a folk tale.” She’d hummed. “The Grand Coven is taught to warn about the return of your kind, my mentor used to warn of it, but it had been so long since a true one was born… I never suspected to meet any of you. Let alone one of your… magnitude.”

You’d frowned at her. “What-“

“That knife in your hands cannot be wielded by just anyone. It’s just as much a legend as you are.”

That had made you sit a little straighter. If there was a legend, there was a story. And no matter how slowly Letitia spoke, you’d been willing to turn to stone in that chair, just for one fucking answer.

“Legend?”

She’d hummed, giving you a soft, almost crude smile. “Don’t ask me to recite it, child. It’s just as lost to time as your ancestors.”

You didn’t just give up. You couldn’t. You hadn’t driven the Firebird to fucking Peru just to give up. “Then how do you even know it’s real?”

“What color is my soul?”

“Dark purple.” You’d answered in half a second. “A little gray, too.”

Letitia’s smile had grown. “That. That is how I know.”

“But-“

“And you should practice that more often,” she’d started to deal the cards, her voice almost bored. “You are not going to find any witch in the Coven’s favor to help you with it, and it’s only a little more than a party trick. It could be much, much more.”

You hadn’t gotten to tell Letitia that you didn’t really fucking care to be more. That you just fucking wanted Dean back, and that was the only reason you were entertaining witchcraft at all.

But you’d still taken her advice. The Book was filled with small notes on souls, on how they were forbidden to tamper with for most anyone, but the women of the high were like their keepers. Their tamers. Their crafters and wielders.

You’d been made to touch souls.

You still just wanted Dean.

And if this was another way to maybe, possibly, desperately get to him, you’d fucking take it.

So now you have a ritual.

Clean and pack up the motel room, and move it all to the car. You won’t be here tomorrow night, and it’s better to sleep in the Firebird when you can.

It’s still has a little bit of lingering Gold, too. Under the hood and over the stereo, twined into all the cassette tapes Dean left you that he’ll never get to-

One last stop in the bathroom, dry heaving until the thought of Dean with his brain out of his ears leaves your head.

Coffee. Food. You need fucking coffee and food, and it’s as good a place as any to practice.

Sometimes, when you do this, you pretend Dean’s there with you. That you’re not at a tiny coffee-and-book shop in Bolivia, speaking broken Spanish and alone in the whole, washed-out world. Instead, in your head, you’re in a mall, Dean’s grinning at you across from a table with his second burger in hand, and you’re telling him everything you see because he’d make it easier to say.

Things were always easier with Dean. Easier to have, easier to do, easier to accept or fight or shout, but easier. More. The most.

You miss him.

You grab extra napkins, when they pass you the food, just in case you start crying again.

You’ve gotten better about doing that on the side of highways, parked under trees and on cloudy nights so the sky can’t see, but it still slips out, sometimes. When you see the sunlight rippling over flowers and leaves, and hear soft birdsong, or feel your knife in your jacket and remember that Dean gave you both.

Technically he stole your jacket, then gave it back.

That doesn’t make you miss him any less. It’s only really effective in making you love him more.

But he’s never going to feel sunlight on his skin again, or pick a flower again, or hear any sort of music and sing at the top of his lungs while the wind is in his hair, and he’s never going to be able to grumble about you using a knife instead of a gun, and you’re never going to be able to roll your eyes at him and tell him to shut up when really, you’d trade the whole fucking world to hear him say just one more word-

There’s the crying.

Your coffee tastes a little salty now.

You don’t care. You have some practice to do.

You train in on a small, light eyed woman in the corner of the shop. Reading a book and eat some bread, completely occupied in her own world.

She won’t notice you staring at her. Pulling out a notebook and scratching down notes without thought, not looking for anything in particular.

Just practicing. Seeing what you can see.

She’s a soft but saturated green. Starting in her hands before spreading over her body. She shimmers a little, when she moves, and every single part of her is drawn together. Firm. Immovable.

She goes in group four. Earthy souls.

Because, the longer you’ve been doing this, the more you’ve been looking, the more you’ve been able to see.

It started with noticing more colors, running and moving over the first, stark one. Colors that fly away in a second, little layered bits bleeding through and out of each other. Sometimes they’re grooved deep into the soul, sometimes just stained on the surface, but they’re always there. Intricate. Like little extra bit of string, woven into each tapestry, making patterns that you have to know how to look for, in places you have to know how to find.

And every soul looks different. That was the second thing. They’re like elements, once you’d studied them long enough. Raging up and around like fire, flowing like water, smooth like air, or—in the case of this woman, with her book—solid like earth.

Like Pokémon. Dean had muttered in the back of your ear, when you were coming up with the system. Or, wait, maybe like that horoscope bullshit.

If it had been real, you would’ve giggled and asked him what the hell he knew about Pokémon, and he would’ve grumbled that it was just a thought, but that he did think they were funny little sons of bitches. Then you would’ve asked him what his favorite Pokémon was, and he would’ve told you that he didn’t have one, and when the fake-argument finally ended—you would’ve won, because you always won those dumb fights—you would’ve explained that it wasn’t like Pokémon. That it was the Classical Greek elements, and that you didn’t know what that meant yet, but you had some working theories.

You would’ve shown your theories to Sam, to get his opinions.

Dean would’ve called you freakin’ nerds, but refused to leave the table when Sam told him that he didn’t have to sit and listen, if you’re so bored.

You would’ve smiled at him, and nudged his calf with your foot under the table, and he would’ve smiled back, and-

You’d just started crying again.

Just like you’re crying now.

And the woman’s noticed. She’s looking at you like you’re odd—and you are, but it’s still annoying—and she’s closing her book, and standing up-

Shit.

You don’t have a good cover, and you drop all your attention to your notebook and it’s words—floating slightly off the page as you try to get your shit together, and stop shaking with silent sobs where the Sky can see—as the woman cross the room to stand over you.

She introduces herself in Spanish.

Your dumb blinks must have tipped her off that you don’t understand her, because she sighs, and repeats the introduction in English.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft. Like she actually cares.

You almost start fucking crying again.

“Yeah, um, sorry, I-“ You can do better than this. You’re a good actress. You can slide into the innocent persona when you need to. You can.

You’re coming up empty, but you can.

“Your book,” you mumble, twisting the skin of your fingers. “Looked interesting. Sorry I was staring.”

The woman—Marta, she said—glances down to the worn paperback in her hands, and shakes her head. “It is alright. A little ridiculous.”

“Oh?” You don’t really care, but you still have to pretend you do. To sell it. “Would you recommend it?”

“Do you like ghost stories?”

You give her a grimacing smile. “Kind of, but I’ve heard a lot of them. I’m hard to impress.”

She hums, and drops into your spare seat. Apparently, this is now a conversation. “These are ghost stories. They are… beyond belief. But the characters are interesting. Sexy.”

You blink at her. “Huh. Sexy ghosts?”

“Sexy ghost hunters.”

“Hu- Fuck.” You’d dropped your fork. It had been spinning between your fingers, and you’d tossed it half across the room. You’ll get it later. “Sorry, did you say hunters?”

Marta nods, and places her book face up on the table. “Monster hunters. It is not well written, either.”

You pull the book a little closer, and the cover is… interesting. Two men—one with ridiculous hair, and the other shirtless for unknown reasons—standing before a big house on fire, with a shadowy figure in the doorway holding an axe.

The shirtless man is leaning against a sleek, black car.

His face is familiar.

Green eyes. Pretty features. Dark blond hair.

There’s no fucking way.

“Supernatural?” You glance back up to Marta, keeping your face perfectly neutral, and she nods.

“It is a series.” She taps cover of the book as she speaks. “This is the seventeenth book. Hell House.”

“What- Uh, what’s the series about?”

“Two brothers. They hunt the monsters.”

You swallow. “They’re the sexy ones?”

Marta nods, and you might throw up. Again.

“Is that one,” you tap the shirtless man on the cover. “Named Dean?”

“Oh, have you read them before?”

“I-“ Deep breaths. Everything is spinning, and the Silver is churning in your body, but you need to take deep breaths. “No. May I?”

Marta nods, says something about going to get another coffee—it’s a good thing she’s nice, or you would’ve had to steal her book and run—and leaves you to flip through this strange, impossible book.

It’s… worryingly accurate. Marta was right, it’s not well written, but you don’t really give a shit about that. You already know the story anyway.

Because you remember Dean calling you, all the way back when John was missing, and telling you about it. About the two idiots who’d interfered with the case, and how proud he and Sam were to gank a tulpa. You’d remember how he’d grumbled about you guessing that it was a tulpa before he even finished the story, and how he’d muttered a lot easier to work it out when you’re not fighting for your life, Princess.

You’d told him that it was also easier when you weren’t engaging in a prank war with your brother. Dean had snapped that he’d won that war, so it was worth it, and then Sam had shouted from somewhere in the background that they’d called a truce, so nobody won.

The prank war was in here too. Right down the that stupid fish Dean had made you listen to—holding it up to the speaker until you hung up, and he called you back laughing like a handsome idiot—and superglued bottle Sam had been incredibly happy to tell you about.

Those phone calls aren’t in here, even though they happened while they were still in the city. It’s the only thing that doesn’t line up with what you remember. Sam had even run the Hollywood producer thing by you.

But other than that, it’s perfect. That’s even how Sam and Dean talk, in the dialogue.

You can hear his fucking voice, in your head.

You would’ve started crying again, if you didn’t suddenly have a lot of new problems at once.

There’s a man, when you look up to the coffee counter, trying to check where Marta is in the line. A man dressed in a neat suit that must be stuck to his skin with all the heat, his hair perfectly combed and style, and his posture straight and self-assured.

Fuck.

They got here faster than you thought they would. You’re still not sure how they’re tracking you—you’ll have to go through the Firebird, one last time, just to make sure they didn’t fucking bug it again—but you’d recognized that dipshit anywhere.

Douchebag, Dean’s voice grumbles in your head. Fuckin’ douchebag.

He’s right. They’re douchebags. Idiotic, holier than thou, preachy fucking douchebags.

Marta’s not getting her book back.

Because you’re shoving it into your bag, keeping one hand on the blade in your jacket, and booking it for the door.

The first gunshot goes off before you even push it open. Aimed right over your shoulder, making the glass shatter and slicing open your hand.

That’s pretty fucking rude.

You were trying to play nice.

You’ve been practicing a lot for this. You’ve done it several times over the past few months, since your first encounter with this douchebag, who—when you turn to glare at him—is unfazed by the screams around the shop, and has started to advance towards you with a military-grade rifle in hand.

You give him a sweet smile, wave with your bloodied hand, and let the Silver crash out of your body.

Every window breaks at once, all the coffee bursts from the machines, your fork on the floor flies for his trigger hand, and you’re running. Booking it to the firebird with your bag over your shoulder, weaving through the parking lot and digging your keys out of your pockets as the suit roars your name behind you, but your car is faster is their’s, so you just have to fucking get in the-

“Slow down,” a voice drawls your name in your ear, right as a gun presses to the back of your head. “Here I thought you’d be happy to see us.”

You sigh, keeping your voice bored. Level. “I just don’t like surprises, Ketch. And I don’t like you, either.”

Ketch laughs in your ear. It’s a horrible, haughty sound.

Dean would’ve agreed. He would’ve snapped at you for being dumb and reckless and running around alone, when you knew these idiots were still hunting you, but he would’ve agreed all the same.

You really fucking miss him.

“I’ve told you to call me Arthur-“

“And I’ve told you to suck my dick.”

“There are those lovely manners, again. Such a charmer.” Ketch grabs your shoulder, turning you to face him and nodding to the Blade in your hand. “Drop it.”

You glance at the Blade. It was a dumb move to grab it, instead of the knife. You’re pretty sure Ketch doesn’t know anything about it—somehow, because these rich assholes seem to know everything—and you really don’t want him to touch it, but he’s got a fucking gun to your head.

So you let the Blade clatter down to the ground, and move your foot to cover the hilt.

Ketch follows the movement, and raises his brows.

“I don’t want to lose it.” You shrug, and douchebag two, rifle still in hand, comes up behind Ketch with a dry expression.

“I’d be more worried about yourself, darling.” Davis hums, setting his gun down on the roof of your car. His hand is bleeding worse than yours. Good. “I don’t know how you pulled that window hex off, but I’m sure our scholars will love to know.”

That’s the biggest advantage you have here. They really don’t know what you are. As far as Ketch and Davis are concerned, you’re just an American witch who’s lost her mind and is traveling to find herself. They don’t have a clue about your family, or Dean, or the Book, or the Silver. They need to capture you because you’re a powerful witch, and apparently some men and their letters are really concerned about that.

You’re not sure. You weren’t really paying attention when they gave you the speech—the first time they met you, in Mexico a few weeks after from Dean’s death, when they’d killed the witch who was showing you some basic healing potions and you escaped—and you’re not really paying attention now.

There are too many other things to worry about.

Ketch keeps looking at the Blade, and that’s going to be a problem. Davis is getting out the handcuffs, and you have no interest in going with them, but you can’t kill them either, so now you have to work around that. You miss Dean, but that’s just constant. You need to work out what the hell is going on with that book, and you can’t do that in a dungeon. Your hand is still bleeding—you’ll probably need stitches, or to heal it with the Silver—and it’s making you feel even worse than usual, and finally, Davis’ rifle is still on the hood of your car.

If it scratches the paint, on the car Dean fucking gave you, the whole no murder thing is going to go out the window very fast.

“I’m really not interested in spending another three nights in hotel torture dungeon.” You drawl, eyeing the cuff’s in Davis’ hands carefully. “So, uh, if I pinky promise to fuck off and stop being a witch-“

“Once a witch, always a witch.” Ketch shrugs. “Afraid we’re going to have to ship you on over. See if we can work out exactly what’s running through that pretty little head of yours, making you so… fascinating.”

You need a way out of this. Now. Ketch is wrapping a cloth gag around your mouth to stop you from casting any spells, and that won’t do fucking shit, but Davis has clicked on the cuffs.

Their iron cuffs.

This is a really bad day.

This is, already, a really bad day, and you only got up a few hours ago. You can see Ketch and Davis’ souls—a muddy, awful orange and a surprisingly soft red, respectively—but you can’t really do much with it right now. The iron isn’t burning into you like it used to, but it still pushes the Silver down, makes it weaker, make you weaker. You’re still bleeding, and you didn’t eat that much—neither of those things are doing you any favors—and you’re so fucking tired.

Tired of running. Of asking questions and only receiving confusing or empty answers, of finding more and more puzzles to solve and being completely stranded to solve them alone.

And you really fucking miss Dean.

Something flickers in your chest. Ketch is talking about how it’s going to be a nice flight, and you’ve been an interesting hunt so they’ll offer you some food—if he tries to feed you cheese with his hands again, you’re going to bite his fingers off—but you can’t really follow most of what he’s saying.

There’s something flickering and shifting in your chest. And the Silver is bleeding out of you into the world like there’s no iron at all, and the Sky is watching.

It’s staring at you, even though there’s really nothing to see. Ketch and Davis have been on your ass for months, and the Sky hasn’t really seemed to care all that much, because it knows you’ll be fine. The only time they’ve gotten you when they jumped you in Brazil, and you got out of that with barely a scratch.

But the Sky is watching.

And something is changing.

“Arthur.” Davis cuts off Ketches speech, and you don’t have to turn to know he’s looking at you. “Something’s wrong with her.”

Ketch rolls his eyes. “She’s just going through the depressive stages of grief. An animal knows when it’s been caught-“

“But-“

“He’s right,” you mutter, and you can feel the delicate joy of the leaves on the trees. There’s not a single cloud in the sky. “You should… Shit-“

You feel like you’re being torn in half. The Spiderweb feels like it’s being torn in half. Ripped open in a thin, neat line and strangled, and it’s been dead since you lost Dean but now-

You’ve only felt this pain once. On the side of the highway.

And the Silver has never felt like this. Like it’s being electrocuted and burned and dropped from a million feet all at once, and there’s nothing to feel but everything. It’s bigger than when you grabbed the Blade for the first time. It’s bigger than any episode you’ve ever had, any time you’ve tried to use it and every time it’s been ripped from your body by emotion.

You’re everything. More than everything. You’re every single space between the stars and all the fires in every hearth in the universe, and you’re the fabric of something thin and the wrath of something old, and none of that matters because you’re mostly in a field. Moving up and up and up and breaking through the surface, right into-

The world lights up. In a split second the Spiderweb is shot with something white-hot and blinding, and it seals it shut and rushes through your whole body until you can fucking feel the universe-

You rocket, fall, crash back down into yourself.

And—so peacefully, as if nothing was ever wrong at all—the Spiderweb is humming with color and light.

There’s air in your lungs, and the birds are singing, and there are little dewdrops clinging to the grass growing between the cracks in the pavement.

Dean’s alive.

And the rush begins.

At some point you must have screamed, or exploded, or something, because Ketch and Davis have been launched backwards into separate cars, and the handcuffs have fallen off your wrists. You yank Davis’ rifle off the hood of your Firebird, storm across the parking lot to Ketch—you like him less anyway—and kneel down with the barrel aimed at his temple.

You have no fucking clue how to operate this thing.

Ketch doesn’t need to know that.

“How have you been tracking me?” You hiss, and Ketch blinks at you, slightly dazed. “Don’t lie. I’ll know.”

“Why, aren’t you full of surprises-“

“Answer the fucking question, or get your brains blown out.”

Ketch sighs, scanning over your scowl wearily. “You are… not a normal witch.”

“Nope. How.”

“We have our ways.” He shrugs. “Cameras, trackers, tips. Don’t worry your little head about it, darling, as long as you’re in our jurisdiction, we’ll-“

You slam the gun into his temple, and he slumps over with a groan.

He’s fine. His soul is burning from his wrists out, so he’s not dead.

You really do have bigger things to worry about.

Dean’s alive.

You leave town. Then, when you’re far away from Ketch and Davis and the sun has started to set, you park under the trees and pull out your metal block of a cell phone.

Your whole life, you’ve only had one phone number memorized.

And Bobby picks up after three calls.

“Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but-“

You almost vomit out your own name. “It’s me, Bobby, and I’m sorry I vanished, I just- with Dean, and I couldn’t but, Bobby, you have to listen-“

Bobby cuts you off, his voice a little hoarse. “I- Normally I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but crazier shit has happened today, and I- I ain’t-“

“It’s me, Bobby, I swear, I-“ You take a long breath, dropping down to the pavement, leaning against the Firebird as you speak. “Two months after you found me, I got my period, and it was really heavy because I hadn’t had a real one before. I’d never- You’d been feeding me properly, and it was… really heavy. You went to the corner store two blocks down, and bought so many pads and tampons we had to dedicate a whole closet to them. You gave me my first root beer, and you let me watch cartoons all week, and I still wasn’t really talking but you bought me all those crayons, and I drew all over the walls. You weren’t angry. You cleaned them up, and then covered them in paper so I’d draw on that instead.” You swallow. “I started talking again the week after that. I sang along to the Bob Dylan record you been playing, while you worked. It was- Shit- I don’t-“

“Man of Constant Sorrow.” Bobby mutters, and you nod to the air.

“Yeah. That.”

There’s a moment of silence, and before you can damn it and just start screaming Dean, Dean’s alive, Bobby lets out a long, heavy sigh.

“Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, kiddo, I ain’t been able to find you for months, and Ellen n’ Jo weren’t havin’ any luck either- It’s- We thought you were-“

“I know.” You mumble, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’m sorry. Bobby, I need to-“

“Where the hell are you-“

“Bol- Actually I crossed the border, so Brazil, but Bobby-“

“How the fuck did you get to Brazil-“

“Bobby!” Your scream tears through the parking lot. “I- Dean’s alive, he’s alive-“

“I know.”

You freeze, all the panic in your throat dying, leaving your voice small. “What?”

“He showed up a few hours ago, did all the tests and it’s-“ Bobby cuts himself off. “How’d you know he was back?”

“I got a feeling.“

Bobby grunts your name. Your fully name, with Singer instead of your usual last name. You didn’t even do anything. “What’d you do.”

“I didn’t- Nothing, I-“

“Kiddo-“

“I promise, Bobby, nothing. I just-“ You choke on the air, and the Spiderweb sings inside your chest. “I knew. I just knew.”

“You- Alright.” Bobby let out a long, slow sigh. “I believe ya. You, uh, you wanna-“

“Yes.”

Bobby grunts, and the seconds where there’s nothing but static on the phone are the longest of your life, and then-

Dean’s voice says your name through the speaker, deep and rough and Dean, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand.

He’s alive. You can fucking feel it in the Spiderweb, feel it deeper than your bones, but this is different. You’re not being haunted by him, by nightmares, by a constant, empty feeling of that’s where Dean’s supposed to be. He’s alive. Enough to hold a phone. To speak. To say your name, then repeat it with a nervous tone, and he’s alive-

“Dean?”

“It’s-“ You think you can hear him swallow through the phone. “Yeah. ’S me.”

“I-“ You take a long, slow breath, pulling your knees to your chest. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah. I am.”

“What happened?”

“I, uh, we’re not sure.” Dean sighs. “I mean, it wasn’t you? With your, I dunno, your magic shit-“

“I wasn’t me.” You whisper. “I- I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’m alive anyways.”

You still failed him. He still died at all. “I know, I just- I was trying, De, I promise-“

“Yeah, shoulda guessed you were.” Dean pauses on the other end of the line, and when he speaks again, his voice is careful. “You’re coming home, right?”

“I am.” You bow your head, letting it rest on your knees. “I- There are a few things I need to take care of, but I will. Soon.”

“Are you- You’re not gonna fly-“

You let out a soft laugh, and you can taste the salt on your lips as you speak. “No. I’m driving.”

“Good. Has the car-“

“It’s been perfect.” You swallow, your voice turning into barely a breath. “Dean?”

“Princess.”

His voice is soft. Teasing. Like nothing at all has ever been, could ever be, wrong, just as long as he was talking to you.

You love him, more than anything.

And you glance down at your hands.

There’s still blood under your fingernails.

And the world is Silver, but you’re not in control.

“When you find Sam, can you call me again? I have something I think both of you will want to see.”

“Sure.” You can hear Dean’s frown through the phone. “You gonna tell me now?”

“No,” you smile into the air. “It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises, you know that-“

“I do.” You giggle. Fucking giggle. “You’re going to flip your shit about this one.”

He scoffs. “That’s not really putting my mind at ease, sweetheart-“

“It’s not supposed to. Drop it, Winchester, or I’m only telling Sam, and he won’t share it with you.”

Dean chuckles. “Bossy, Princess, don’t you know I just got out of hell?”

You swallow.

You’re really sick of crying today. You’ve been sick of crying for four months.

At least now you’re crying, and the tears hit the pavement, and for a brief second they’re golden in the light of the sunset.

And you can feel it.

Dean says your name cautiously, and you can’t say you love him. Not now. Not over the phone, when there’s blood on your hands and you know he’ll never blame you, but you still failed him. Still became a monster, only to not be the thing that saves him. But still-

“I missed you.” You whisper, and you don’t care if he can hear your sobs. He needs to know. To feel it. “I really, really missed you Dean.”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is hoarse. “I- Yeah. I missed you too, Princess. A lot. Coulda sworn for a second-“ He cuts himself off with a sigh. “Never mind, just- come home. Please.”

“I will. Pinky promise.”

He lets out a rough laugh, and the Spiderweb sparks through your body. “See you soon, sweetheart. I’ll call you when I grab Sammy.”

The line clicks off a few seconds later, and you swallow, tipping your head back until you can see the Sky.

It’s watching you.

And Dean’s alive, and you can see every color, and-

All the stars flicker.

It’s a warning.

And you’re still the monster. Still being hunted.

But nothing is more important than getting home.

Getting back to Dean.

——————

One of the pros of being brought back from the dead was supposed to be that Dean got life back. That he could listen to music in his car, and eat burgers and beer with Bobby, and talk to Sammy as much as he goddamn wanted. Everything did keep moving, and he could remember every single fucking second of Hell—although he was trying real damn hard not to think about it where Sammy might see, might get worried—and there didn’t seem to be a way out of the fight, but Dean was supposed to have life back.

But he didn’t have Her. She wasn’t back home.

She’d sounded happy to hear Dean over the phone, but that had been damn near two months ago.

And Dean missed Her.

He fucking missed Her, and She hadn’t called them since.

Dean called that being MIA.

Nobody else seemed to agree.

“How long-“

“Dude.” Sam glanced over at Dean from the passenger’s seat, his tone flat. “If you ask me one more time how long it takes to drive from Brazil to America, I’m going to punch you in the face.”

Dean scowled. He hadn’t been asking that much. It had been almost a whole freakin’ day since he last asked.

“I just don’t know why she’s taking this long, alright?” Dean tapped his fingers against the wheel, glaring at the road ahead of them. Maybe if he glared hard enough, She’d just appear, and Dean could touch Her. Hold Her. Hug Her. Kiss-

“They’re two separated continents, Dean.” Sam sighed, cutting off Dean’s thoughts. “I mean, I took her four months to get down there, and she’ll have to stop for gas and food, and we don’t know what she’s been up to that whole time. Maybe she’s got loose ends to tie up before she heads back to the states.”

“You don’t-“ Dean’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Sam, what if-“

“Not those loose ends.”

“There’s always a fucking chance-“

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, but she wouldn’t.”

She would. She absolutely fucking would, because She liked giving Dean heart attacks and she thought she was untouchable or something. There was a very goddamn high chance She’d gotten herself tangled in something, and there was nobody to help Her, or get her out. Maybe She was having an episode, and Dean wasn’t there to bring Her down. Maybe She needed him, and he wasn’t fucking there.

“I mean,” Sam let out a long breath, running a hand over his face. “I’d be more worried about what you’re going to say to her, when she does get back, than any boyfriends she’s not gonna have.”

Dean paused.

They were talking about very, very different things.

“I’m worried she’s in trouble, Sammy.”

“Oh. Yeah. She would do that.”

Dean shot him a glare. “That’s not. fucking helpful-“

“She’ll be fine, man, she’s, you know.” Sam waved to the air as he said Her name, and he was right.

Dean hadn’t been there for four months, and She hadn’t gotten herself killed. She’d been without him for longer, and lived through that just fine as well. She had all Her magic stuff, and She was awesome, and she didn’t need Dean to survive. He wasn’t water or oxygen or food.

No one needed Dean. They’d missed him, but they didn’t need him.

Except the angels. For really stupid and cryptic reasons, the angels needed him.

And Dean really, really wanted Her to meet the angels. She’d have opinions, and choice words, and Dean would stand behind Her in the shadows while she fixed everything, because that was what She always did.

Maybe the feathered douchebags would know what She was, and it wouldn’t be that big a deal after all, and this time Dean would get to keep her in a way that stuck.

He didn’t deserve to. He didn’t deserve fucking anything—after what he’d done in Hell, who he’d become to survive, like some sort of fucking animal—but he really goddamn wanted to. He wanted to keep being Her shadow more than anything, and he wanted Her to come home, and he-

Dean really just fucking wanted Her. Alistair had broken a lot of goddamn things in him, but the asshole hadn’t broken that. That couldn’t be broken.

Dean wanted Her.

And She didn’t need Dean, but She’d said she wanted him.

He paused, frowning at the road.

“Sam.”

“What-“

“Why’d you think she wouldn’t- You know.” He didn’t want to say it. Just the thought was making his stomach turn. “Have loose ends.”

Sam just shrugged. “Because it’s her.”

That wasn’t an answer. Dean wanted a solid answer, that he could fucking point to.

“I should go get her.” He muttered. He didn’t know how that would work, or where She was, but he’d find her. Make sure She was safe, and didn’t hate him for leaving her behind, and safe.

Dean had said safe twice.

But he really fucking needed Her to be safe.

“She’s fine, Dean-“

“Maybe she’s not.” He snapped. “And it’s not like- I mean, how important is this book shit anyway.”

Sam sighed. “Very important. And she’s the one who sent them to us, she’d want us to follow through.”

She would want them to follow through. She’d want answers more than anything. And Dean wanted answers too—because whoever the hell Chuck Shurley thought he was, Dean wasn’t interested in having his whole freakin’ life published for entertainment—but he wanted Her more.

“I just-“

“Dean, they’re books about our lives. And you know, speaking of,” Sam said Her name slowly, and when Dean glanced over, he was frowning. “It’s- it’s weird.”

“Yeah, this whole thing is fucking bananas-“

“No, it’s-“ Sam paused, flipping through the pages. “This is the last copy, right? Of all the books?”

“I dunno, you’re the one who’s been reading them.” Dean gave him a pointed look. “You know everything that happens, dude-“

“I know, I was just curious, okay? And it’s good I did read all of them, Dean-“

“Why, are you starting a freakin’ book club-“

Sam snapped Her name, and Dean’s whole heart seemed to explode. “She’s not in these. At all.”

Dean paused. “What the hell are you talking about.”

“I mean- The books start when you came to get me from Stanford, right? Dad goes missing, we gank that Lady in White, and Jess dies.”

“Yeah, and they end when I go to Hell, you’re not answering my question-“

“I know, just listen, dude, okay?”

Dean felt his grip tighten on the wheel, but he nodded, and Sammy let out a long breath.

“These are all about our bigger hunts. The wendigo, our first demon, that shapeshifter asshole, but not the onryo. It just goes right from that bug curse to the poltergeist. And you never mention her, at all-“

“Sammy-“

“You talk about her all the time-“

“No, I-“

“It’s just us, Dean.” Sam shot him a pointed look. “You do. And even if you didn’t, I don’t talk about her either. The books never mention us calling her for advice, or talking about her at all, and then- You sleep with someone else, dude.”

Dean scowled. “I sleep with people, Sam, I’m a freakin’ adult-“

“Yeah, but you remember that racist trucker?”

“The one in Ohio?”

Sam nodded. “How do you remember that happening?”

Dean frowned, tapping his hands on the wheel as he tried to remember the details of that hunt. “I, you read about it in the paper, we took care of it, then we dipped. Why, what-“

“In these,” Sam tapped the cover of the book. “That chick, Cassie, she asks you to take care of it. And you call her your first love.”

“I- What?” Dean shook his head, his brain flicking to bright eyes and warm body, pressed right into his under a pillow fort, as that word sunk into his head. “Cassie was just a one-night stand, when I was hunting by myself-“

“I know that. But in these, she’s your first love.”

“I mean, she was cool, but I was…”

He’d been hunting with Her, when he’d met Cassie. They’d ganked a Ventala, She’d left when he mentioned Dad was heading in—the same way She always did, which Dean was going to have to ask her about, now that his death wasn’t looming over their heads—and he’d needed company. Any company. Cassie had been there, and she’d been smoking hot, but Dean didn’t remember the sex as much as he remembered Her, smiling at him and bumping their shoulders together and saying his name.

He’d thought about that, while he fucked Cassie. And he hadn’t been proud of it, but he’d swallowed a groan of Her name, several times, then left in the morning.

“I know.” Sam repeated, when it became clear Dean wasn’t going to keep talking. “But get this, it’s not just that. There’s no Kelpie hunt, and when we head to Bobby’s for help with the demons, it’s after we find Dad. And Bobby never mentions her. At all. Plus when we dealt with that Changeling, the girl you hooked up with in that town-“

“Uh, Lena?”

“Lisa. In this you go there specially to see her, and she has a son. Who’s a lot like you.” Sam frowned. “I don’t know about you, Dean, but I don’t remember that kid being anything like you.”

Dean didn’t either. He barely remembered that hunt at all. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, you remember that chick with the rabbit’s foot, who stole the colt? Bela?”

Dean grunted in acknowledgment, and Sam continued.

“She’s in here a lot. I don’t remember her ever showing up, after the whole thing with Hendrickson. It’s-“ Sam said Her name, watching Dean carefully. “She yelled at Bela, after we told her we lost the Colt. Called her and chewed her out-“

“Threatened to put her through a wood grinder, if the bitch didn’t leave us alone.” Dean couldn’t stop his grin. “I remember. So?”

“So that never happened.”

Dean frowned. “That’s- Huh.”

“And,” Sam mumbled Her name again. “She not at the hospital, either. After your accident. And she wasn’t really- you know- around, after Dad’s death, but neither of us talk about her. Jo doesn’t, either. And you,” Sam cleared his throat. “You seem to have a thing with Jo.”

Dean revolted slightly. “Gross, she’s like my sister-“

“Yeah, a lot of the… minimal readers seemed to agree.” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair and slumping in his seat. “I looked online, on those weird forums Bobby found, and Jo was so unpopular Shurley ‘wrote her out’ while we were dealing with your deal.”

“What do you mean, wrote her out-“

“I mean she’s not around.” Sam sighed. “Jo just vanishes. Same with Ellen.”

“And,” Dean said Her name carefully, because that was how it had to be said. “She’s just- Not there at all?”

“Nope. Not even once.” Sam flipped back through the book in his hand. “In these books you still end up dying in Indiana, exact same way, but there’s no mention of Hell’s Assassin’s, or you and Bobby leaving her behind, or the arrowhead and blade, or her book. There’s just- It’s like she’s been erased.”

Dean’s grip on the wheel tightened.

Sam had been right.

This book shit was important.

And it took a minute to get settled, when they reached Chuck’s house. A little extra time to convince him that they weren’t fans, they were people, with goddamn lives that Chuck had been stealing for profit. The asshole was small and weird and frantic, and they had bigger priorities than just Dean’s biting question, but had to ask it. Had to know why She’d ever been taken out of his life, even in a fucking book, because he needed Her. He goddamn needed Her, and he didn’t want to lose her, and it couldn’t because She wasn’t interesting enough for Shurley’s stupid fucking books, because She was awesome and funny and pretty and-

“He’s- uh- he’s glaring at me a lot.” Chuck shot Dean a nervous look, and Dean felt his fists curl. “Look, I’ve told you guys, I really am sorry but if we’re sure I’m not a god, there’s nothing I can do to help you-“

“Dean’s been having a rough few months.” Sam muttered, shifting in his chair. “Dude, can you stand down? I know you want to- you know- But we should figure out what the hell is going on, first.”

Dean shot Sam a quick glare. “It could help, Sammy. Maybe he doesn’t know anything about her, and he’s just- I dunno, a really freakin’ good guesser-“

“I like that.” Chuck jumped in, looking between Sam and Dean with the same nervous expression he’d been wearing all damn day. “I mean- I can be a good guesser. I used to win bar trivia, just by guessing all the answers-“

“That’s great, Chuck, just-“ Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean, that’s- I mean, you’re right, but maybe it’s nothing-“

“It’s not nothing, Sam, you’re the one who fucking pointed it out to me-“

“Yeah, but I mostly wanted you to not turn around and drive to Brazil-“

“Brazil?” Chuck squeaked, gaping at Dean. They didn’t have time for this. “I- I haven’t written about Brazil-“

Sam frowned. “You haven’t?”

“No? I mean, should I have?”

Sam said Her name carefully. “She’s in Brazil. Was in Brazil. We’re not sure where she is now, actually.”

Dean swallowed the bile in his throat. She was fine. She had to be fine.

“And, uh,” Sam paused, watching Chuck carefully. “Have you just- I read all your books, and-“

“You did?” Chuck’s eyes widened. “Did you like them?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh. Was it the writing? Or the plot?”

Sam sighed. “I just, uh, they weren’t really my thing. Sorry. But-“

“Is it because-“

Dean pushed off his place on the wall, stalking across the room to stand right over Chuck’s desk. They didn’t have the time for this, and he didn’t have the goddamn patience. Chuck could squeak all he fucking wanted—when Dean slammed his fists down on the desk—and Sam could sigh and mutter a half-hearted c’mon, dude, but Dean didn’t give a shit. He needed answers. Now.

He snapped Her name, pointing to one of the beaten-down book copies on Chuck’s desk. “Where the hell is she in these?”

Chuck just blinked at him, and Dean scowled.

“The smart witch chick, about yay tall,” Dean held his hand up to Her height, never taking his eyes off Chuck. “Best hunter in the country, Bobby’s daughter, never uses a gun-“

“The one Dean’s had a crush on for years.” Sam jumped in, and Dean shot straight up with a glower.

“I do not have a crush-“

“That’s true, I guess you’re more in love with her-“

“Shut the fuck up, Sam-“

Chuck raised his hand, the movement small and nervous. “I, um, I know who we’re talking about, now.”

Sam frowned. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Chuck said Her name carefully, eyeing Dean like he was some sort of rabid dog. “But she’s not in the books.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we got that, Einstein. Why.”

Chuck shrugged. “She didn’t fit in your story.”

There was a long, heavy moment of silence, as the words hung in the air of the room.

She didn’t fit.

In Dean’s story.

It was beyond insane. Nobody, not a single goddamn person, had ever fit with Dean as well as She did. He’d held Her, and She’d fit. He spoke to Her and it was like bouncing a tennis ball off a jail cell, only the jail cell was a five-star hotel, and the ball was Her siren-like voice calling Dean down, down, down. And all of the world was technicolor, and the cavity in Dean’s chest was filled with Silver, and he wasn’t fucking good at metaphors but She fit. She was part of his life, She’d always been part of his life, and he’d spent wasted years trying to force Her out of his head only to never feel better than when he was in Her orbit, and he fucking-

She was the universe, She was bigger than the universe, She was gorgeous and brilliant and brighter than the goddamn sun, and She fit with Dean-

“Is he, uh,” Chuck swallowed. “If he hits me, I am going to call the cops, just so you know-“

“Don’t call the cops.” Sam muttered. “Dean, relax, at least he knows who she is, right?”

That was worse. So much worse. Chuck knew who She was, and he didn’t think She fucking fit.

“What do you know about her.” Dean grunted, bracing his arms on Chuck’s desk. “Talk.”

“I, um, it doesn’t feel that important if she’s not in the books, right?”

He looked over Dean’s shoulder, desperation all over his stupid face, and Sam sighed. Again.

“No, Dean’s right. I mean, he’s being weird about it-“

“Sam-“

“But we do need to know.” Sam ignored Dean’s low warning, continuing as he moved to stand at the desk as well. “It’ll help us figure out what you do and don’t know, how focused you are on our lives, if- you know-“

Sam shot Dean a firm look, and Dean understood.

Her magic. Her whole thing, that none of them understood.

Chuck might know about that. Have some real fucking answers about it.

Answers She’d want.

Dean couldn’t beat the man up, if only so maybe She could get some answers.

“Know?” Chuck looked between them, leaning back in his chair. “Know what?”

“Just tell us what you know, Tolkien.” Dean grunted, and Chuck’s eyes widened.

“You think I’m like Tolkien?! I- That’s so kind-“

“Chuck.” Sam muttered Her name. “Focus on her.”

“Right, um, just whatever I can think of?”

Dean gave a sharp nod, and Chuck sighed.

“I mean, she’s interesting, right? A good character- I mean, person? I don’t know, this is still really confusing, is it better if I call her a character or person-“

“Person.” Dean grunted. “She’s a fucking person.”

Chuck swallowed. “Right, uh, person. She’s a good person, and- I’m sorry, this is really weird-“

“Look, man.” Sam’s voice was level. Obviously, painfully controlled. “We know. Believe me, we know. But you just- Talk about her like you’re describing the characters.”

Dean shot him a glare. “Sammy-“

“We know she’s a person, Dean. We need to know what he knows.” Sam nodded to Chuck. “Talk, man. Now.”

“I, um, yeah.” Chuck took a deep breath, said Her name, and Dean was going to punch him square in his stupid face. “I- I’ve only ever really thought about her when she was with you guys. So I know that Bobby found her on the side of the highway, and that her family is weird, and that she started hunting by herself when she was really young, but not much about her past-“

“Really?” Sam frowned, leaning forward. “So really only us? I mean, we already know about all that stuff-“

“Because I only thought about you two.” Chuck gave Dean a weary look. “I know about how you met her, but after you left there’s really not much else until you and John found her with that… uh-“

“Poltergeist.” Dean grunted, and Sam shot him an odd look. “Little while after you left for college, Dad and I ran into her on another hunt. I got knocked down, and they ganked the son of a bitch-“

“Actually,” Chuck cut in, and flinches slightly under Dean’s glare. “Sorry, just, John didn’t do much. On that hunt. I remember her setting the poltergeist on fire. It was just her.”

Dean frowned. “On fire? So you- I was down by then-“

“But you were still there.” Chuck mumbled. “I know about all the hunts she did with you, Dean. The ones that you were hiding from your dad. And she used her, um, her powers? Magic? I’m not sure, but she used them a lot, you just never noticed. I mean, you’d get beat up by a demon or monster, and then she’d… you know.” Chuck made a wide, explosion gesture with his hands before he continued. “One time, at a mall, you broke your hand, and she healed it.”

Dean swallowed. He felt fucking sick, and hot all over his skin, and god fucking damn it, of course She’d been using it the whole time. Of course She’d been healing him and saving his worthless ass, and he’d been a dick to her, and he was the lowest piece of shit on the goddamn planet.

“Well,” Sam gave Dean a careful look as he spoke. “If you know about her… stuff, why not add it in the story?”

“I just-“ Chuck sighed. “She has her own whole thing going on, and it was just- I was too much to track! I had to do some extra work to get around it, but it made the story better!”

Dean scoffed. “I ain’t read these books, Chuckles, but they don’t exactly seem to be classic freakin’ literature-“

“But they’re not supposed to be!” Chuck protested. “They were just supposed to be fun stories, that people liked! I mean, I could never stop thinking about them, about you guys, so I had to write them! I had to!”

“Then you shouldn’t have been able to stop thinking about her, either!” Dean’s voice was rising to a shout. Almost a bark. He didn’t really care, because if he’d been haunted by her for eight goddamn years, there was no goddamn way Chuck could just not be. It was what She did. She existed everywhere, and Dean never stopped fucking thinking about her, dead or alive, and everything always smell a little like-

Shit.

Dean grunted Her name. “What does she smell like?”

Sam gaped at him slightly. “Dean-“

“Shut up, Sammy, it’s an important question.”

“How-“

“Dean hasn’t been able to stop think about what she smells like.” Chuck said, and he was right, but Dean still wanted to shoot him. “And I, um, I don’t know.”

“No.” Dean shook his head, tapping on of the books. “Everything’s in here, and if you know her as well as you claim-“

“I don’t know her!” Chuck was almost fucking whining now. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I don’t know what she smells like! I was only ever to think about how you thought she smelled, and how you didn’t know what it was, that’s it!”

Sam cleared his throat, looking between Dean and Chuck with a frown. “I- Sorry, I’m lost, Dean, you know what she smells like, you’ve seen her perfume-“

“It’s not that.” Dean muttered, feeling his brows draw tight together. “She- That freakin’ fruit smell, Sammy. It’s that.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t- I’ve never really smelled her, man.”

“No, you have. ” Chuck sighed. “It’s- You just never think about it, Sam. Especially not since that whole plot arc with Azazel.”

Dean frowned. “Then why am I-“

“I don’t know. I really don’t, guys, I’m sorry. And this,” he gestured vaguely around them. “Is exactly why she’s not in the books! There’s- It’s just too much, and nobody even liked any of the love interests anyway-“

“That’s because none of them were her-“

“Dean.” Sam placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, giving him a cautious look that Dean recognized.

The fight wasn’t worth it. Even if it was for Her, the fight wasn’t worth it. Chuck wouldn’t talk if they freaked him out.

Reel it in. Keep his head level.

Do what She’d do, not what Dean would do. Think about it, find an angle, then work it until he was right.

Dean wasn’t Her. He wasn’t a genius, or magic, or anything important at all. And if She wasn’t in Brazil, or Bolivia, or Mexico, or whatever, She’d have figured this out. She’d look at Chuck and ask him if he ever ate anything odd in his childhood, and the idiot would say yeah, a weird plum, and She’d start talking about magic plums that gave people psychic powers.

But She wasn’t here. And Chuck didn’t look like a plum kind of dude.

So Dean would keep it together, but for Sammy. For Her.

“Look, Chucky,” Dean pushed off the desk, raising his brows. “Can I call you Chucky?”

“I’d prefer not-“

“Too bad.” Chuck could earn veto rights when all this started making goddamn sense, so Dean just said Her name and really tried not to sound too pathetic about it. “The thing about her is that she is not a negotiable part of our lives.”

Chuck swallowed. “Uh, I don’t-“

“He’s right.” Sam muttered. “Half those cases would’ve never been solved without her. She worked harder than anyone to save Dean, and Bobby will be the first to admit that she knows way more about demons-“

“Bobby’s real-“

“We’re all real, douchebag.” Dean hissed. “I’m real, Sammy’s real, Ruby’s, unfortunately, real-“

Sam shot him a flat look. “Dean-“

Dean ignored him. “Dad was real, Azazel was real, Bobby is real, so’s Jo, who-“ Dean pointed at Chuck with a scowl. “For the damn record, I have never thought about in a way that is not 100% above board-“

“I know, Dean.” Chuck rubbed his face between his hands, letting out a long, slow breath. “And I’m sorry about that, but I- I don’t know, I couldn’t spend the whole special children arc writing about how much you missed a woman that I hadn’t included-“

Dean raised his hand, narrowing his eyes. Half because he still had some damn questions, half because Sam probably already knew how much Dean had missed Her—if the smirk on the bitch’s face was any indication—but there was no reason to give him more.

“The hell are you talking about, you know what I was thinking.” He muttered, and Chuck sighed.

“I mean when I write, I can… I’ve seen all your guys thoughts. Inner desires. Likes and dislikes and dreams and hopes-“

Sam frowned. “All of them? What about, I don’t know, things we don’t even know ourselves-“

“Maybe? I don’t know. This morning when I woke up, I was just thinking about, I don’t know, snow cones? And then I was thinking about you guys, and how you just worked that wishing well case, and how you both have been really hung up on it. Dean keeps thinking about how he’d wish for uh,” Chuck cleared his throat, mumbled Her name, and Dean felt his body go rigid.

He had been thinking about that. He’d been thinking about how if they hadn’t been more careful, and that wishing well thing was real, he’d wish for Her in a heartbeat. To come home, and have whatever kind of fancy life she wanted after Dean got to hold Her one more time. Because there was a chance Her dream life wouldn’t include him. It might have before, but he hadn’t become worse than a demon in hell, and She hadn’t vanished off the face off the earth for four months, and maybe She’d never forgiven him for leaving her, at the end, and Her dream life would be far, far away from Dean and how dark and vile he was, as long as was without Her light, but he could live with that-

“He’s thinking about it right now, I think.” Chuck mumbled, and Dean was going to break a jaw. Chuck’s or his own.

“Shut up.” He grunted. “If you’re not a psychic, how’d you know what we’re thinking?”

“I- I’m not sure, I was just guessing. You- He thinks about her a lot!” Chuck looked to Sam, his voice growing pleading. “I was just gambling based off of what I know about you guys, I swear-“

“Yeah, I believe you, calm down.” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t explained why our best friend isn’t in these, Chuck. You’d really have to write around that, I mean, that last month before the hellhounds Dean almost never left her side-“

“I remember.” Chuck sighed. “But I had already written her out, when you guys were looking for your dad, and I couldn’t just introduce her so late, readers would have had questions-“

Sam drew his lips in thin line, throwing Dean an exhausted look, and Dean took a long, slow breath.

“How about this, Chucky.” He grunted. “Why’d you write her out in the first place?”

“I told you, she just didn’t fit. Like, that thing I was just talking about, where I know so much about you guys? I’ve never been able to do that for her!”

Sam frowned. “Well, do you know, I dunno, all the stuff about Bobby?”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” Chuck nodded desperately. “I thought I was just giving them all backstories and stuff, and I could just never come up with one for her, so I dunno, I left it? Everything else was coming so easy. I knew everyone’s thoughts and feelings and history, but she was just this mystery that my brain wouldn’t let me solve, even though I had created it-“

“You didn’t create her-“

Chuck cut off Dean’s growl with a shake of his head. “I know, I do, but I thought I had, and there was just no way for me to properly write her! Like, Sam, you read all the books, right?”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah, why-“

“There are scenes where you guys aren’t there at all, right? All the prologues where the first victim happens, the one that brings you to the case, or scenes where side characters are talking to each other-“

“I know how books work, man-“

“Well I could see into those characters emotions! I knew how freaked out Jo was, in No Exit, and how worried Bobby was about Dean, in No Rest for the Wicked, all the victims of the monsters, how afraid they-“ Chuck paled. “Oh, god, all those people really died didn’t they-“

“Yeah, they did.” Dean leaned forward, holding Chuck’s gaze. “That’s the job, buddy. Keep talking about my- About her.”

“Uh, it’s-“ Chuck swallowed. “I never could look into her. Like with your dad, and her, and Azazel. I knew Azazel was amused, but still a little worried, and that John was really stressed and disgusted, but-“

“Disgusted?” Sam cut in, his brow drawn together. “By Azazel-“

Chuck shook his head, saying her name slowly. “By her. It’s- Azazel told him, and he- Oh. Shit.”

It was Dean’s jaw. Dean’s jaw was going to break. “What the fuck are you talking about, Azazel-“

“I actually knew that,” Sam said with a frown. “Dad told me Azazel told him everything, that he was trying to rile Dad up, and when he went to look for her after the deal, she was gone. But- She was there? During the deal?”

Chuck swallowed, nodding nervously. “I- I’m sorry, I forgot you guys didn’t know already, I should’ve have said anything just forget- Fuck!”

Dean had grabbed Chuck by the collar of his shirt before he could think about it. Yanking him forward across the desk until they were nose to nose, damning all of Sam’s keep it together shit because it’s been long goddamn year—forty of them, in fucking Hell, alone and without Her—and he need to know what the fuck Chuck was saying about Her and Dad, now-

“Dean. Release him.”

Chuck’s eyes darted over Dean’s shoulder, and god fucking damn it, they couldn’t catch a single break.

“Cas?” Sam pulled Dean slowly off of Chuck, seemingly unable to hide the surprise in his voice. “What- Why are you here?”

Cas sighed, and when Dean turned, he was stand awkwardly in the center of the room, shifting on his feet. “I have been permitted to give you a warning. You should not be here.”

Dean frowned. “Why the hell not, he’s writing about our lives-“

“I know.”

“You- You know?” Dean ran a hand over his face, glancing back to where Chuck was still shaking behind his desk. Little fucking bitch. “What, are the angels fans?”

Cas didn’t even blink. “Of a kind, yes. You and Sam need to leave, Dean. Now.”

“Cas, we-“ Sam took a long breath, giving Dean a weary look. “Can you just tell us what’s going on? Please?”

“No.” Cas started to scan over the walls of the shitty little office, his voice remaining impossibly neutral. “As I understand, you are… ahead of schedule. You will need to return in five months.”

“Five-“ Dean shook his head. “Cas, I need answers, and I need them freakin’ now, and until the little douchenugget over there gives them, I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas looked back to Dean, frowning slightly. “I told you. There will be answers. In five months-“

“I’m not waiting five fucking months-“

“I, um-“ Chuck cleared his throat, when Dean whipped around, he flinched slightly. “Sorry, I just, you’re- Castiel. Right?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Is okay if I answer the one question? I think, uh,” Chuck’s eyes flicked back to Dean. “I like my face. I’d like to keep it, too. And I don’t, uh, I don’t know what’s going on-“

“You will learn in five months-“

Dean’s hands fisted. “I told you, I’m not waiting five months-“

“Will you relax and leave if I tell you about your Dad and Azazel and-“

Dean cut off Chuck’s whine of Her name with a short nod. “Fine. Deal.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, um, I’d like a few more answers. Cas, you can’t just expect us to pretend this never happened until the angels give a thumbs up-“

“You will have to.” Cas muttered, not looking away from Dean. “It is already quite dicey for you to be here at all. To linger. Dean, you’ll need to swear that if Chuck answers your question, you’ll-“

“Yeah, I’ll leave. Whatever.”

“Swear-“

“Whatever. Swear.” Dean grunted, turning back to Chuck with a as scowl. “Talk.”

Chuck glanced back to Cas, and—after the angel gave a small nod—cleared his throat.

“In, um, in the version of My Time of Dying, the one that I had to edit,” Chuck mumbled Her name, eyeing Dean as if he was about to just fucking shoot him.

It was fair.

Dean was.

“Well, the one I had to remove her from, your Dad summons Azazel by himself, and strikes the deal, and that’s it. But the version I thought of first, with her, she summons Azazel.”

Dean’s felt like his teeth were clenched so tight they might snap, and when he glanced over to Sammy, he could see shock written all over the kid’s face.

“But- Dad said it was just him-“

“He lied.” Chuck mumbled. “She figured out what he was doing, and she said it would be easier if she made the call. I don’t know how accurate that is, and in my version John did it pretty fine-“

“Your version didn’t actually happen, dumbass.” The wood of the chair creaked under Dean’s grip. “What the fuck happened after they summoned Azazel.”

“It’s- Are you sure you wanna-“

“Yes. Talk.”

“Azazel told John that she was… important. That she was a witch, and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t understand, and then, John, um, he kind of-“

“Chuck-“

“He asked Azazel to kill her!” Chuck shrank in his chair, his words frantic and loud, but no louder than the blood and ringing, drowning in Dean’s ears. “Then when Azazel said he couldn’t, John asked Azazel to kill Bobby if she came near you two again. I’m sorry, okay, I-“

“Shut up.” Sam snapped. “Dean, are you-“

Whatever Sam was asking, Dean couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t really see anything, either. The only sounds in his head was his heartbeat, and the only thing that wasn’t blurring was Chuck, still in his fucking chair, shrinking back from Dean’s glare.

That didn’t make sense. She would’ve told him-

She had.

She’d said Azazel had threatened Her. Threatened Bobby. And Dean had just assumed, like a fucking idiot, that it had been its own thing. That after Dad struck that deal, Azazel tracked Her down and told her to skip down for his own, crazy douchebag demon reasons.

But Dad wouldn’t-

He wouldn’t. Dad wouldn’t, and Dean felt like something was wrapping around his throat and twisting in his stomach and growing sick in his chest, just to the right of his heart, but Dad fucking wouldn’t do that to Dean, not when Dean- Not when he- And Dad-

“Why.”

Chuck blinked at him, and Dean realized Sam was trying to pull him back.

He shoved Sam off, marching back to the desk and slamming his hands flat down. “Why the fuck would Dad do that, Chuck, if you think you fucking know everything about our lives and our friends, why the fuck-“

“I think you, Dean Winchester, underestimate the hatred that your father felt for that girl.” A new voice, one that was cold and crawled over Dean’s skin, drawled Her name. “Well, she was his worst nightmare. I believe that, during his time in hell, she was used to torture him. He would be put in a room and forced to watch her greatest hits.”

Dean turned slowly, and standing next to Cas was a short, balding man in a neat suit, watching them with a bone-chilling smile.

“Now, personally? I agree with him.” The man continued. “She is… Making things impossibly difficult. You two imbecile should never have been talking to her, and you certainly should’ve never grown attached, and - Castiel, what did I say about making them leave before her little stunt, sending them the books, ruined everything?”

Cas bowed his head, and he suddenly looked smaller. Like whoever Baldy was, he was important. “To kick them out. Immediately.”

“I did. And now Dean knows about John, which is just going to make him-“ Baldy sighed, shaking his head. “Never mind. Take the dog for a walk before he does something stupid. I’ll keep an eye on these two while you clean up your mess.”

Sam cleared his throat. “I- Who are-“

“Be quiet.” Baldy snapped, and Sam’s mouth remained open, but his voice…

It vanished.

This was a horrible fucking day.

Dean was drawing out his gun without a thought—it didn’t matter how sick he still felt about Her and Dad, nobody got to fucking touch Sammy while he was still leaving, and Dean’s stupid goddamn feelings could wait—and before he could fire at Badly, the world was spinning and blurring and fuck, he did not feel good-

Everything came back into focus, and Dean doubled over with a groan.

“My apologies.” Cas said from somewhere off to the side, barely over audible as Dean’s lunch emptied onto the ground. “Sam will be fine, I just need to ensure you… cool down.”

Dean shoot him a glare, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “So I’m the dog, huh?”

Cas just shrugged, his words sounding somehow more measured than usual. “Once you feel you have worked through it, I will bring us back.”

“You gonna tell me who the ballsack in the suit was?”

“I cannot. As I tried to tell you, this is,” Cas frowned into the air. “Not what should be happening.”

“Awesome.” Dean grumbled, and dropped down onto the curb. They’d ended up in a parking lot, with a lot of trees, and this place looked really freakin’ familiar, but- “Cas. Where are we.”

“Oak Grove, Louisiana.”

Dean glanced down the road. “That’s where we worked the Demon case, in-“

“2004.” Cas finished, watching Dean carefully. “Humans are meant to feel comfort in connection to locations, or objects. I believed this location would offer you that same effect.”

Dean raised his brows. “Nostalgia?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a horrible pick. Dean hadn’t been here in forever, but it was making him think of Her. Smiling and laughing and not biting at Dean like he was scum of the earth, even when he’d been acting like it, because She’d always been beautiful and too good, and he’d might have believed She didn’t belong in the mud with him—he still didn’t, but he’d given up on trying to tell her what to do a long time ago—but She’d still been so fucking bright that Dean had never wanted to pull away. Even when it was smart and rational he’d wanted to stay, even when they’d fought and She’d shouted, when She lied, or Dad had told him-

He felt sick again.

Dad.

Dad had hated Her. Maybe because of the confusion with Her family, but Dad had sought that out. He’d looked for it, to show it to Dean, and it had been wrong, but he’d still convinced Dean to leave Her, She’d been the brightest thing in the world and Dad had made Dean leave Her-

She’d left, too.

Because Dad made Her, at the hospital, and-

Dad had said She left, after the poltergeist. But She’d said She never wanted to go, in Her room, and she hadn’t been lying. Dean knew when She was lying, but She’d looked him in the eyes under the blanket fort and said I didn’t ever want to leave.

But Dad had made Her. Dean didn’t have a clue how many times, but Dad had made her go.

He’d taken the best thing is Dean’s life. The only thing he’d ever wanted, really fucking wanted and cared about and been willing to break himself for that wasn’t Sammy, the only woman he’d ever needed and-

Dean threw up again. Somewhere in the bile rocketing out of his body, he gave props to Cas for the location. Outside seemed to be a good call.

But he’d been weak. Fucking pathetic. He’d let Dad hurt Her like that, he’d been a blind, selfish asshole and let Her get hurt. Just by being near Dean, She’d been hurt. And there was no goddamn way, after Hell-

Hell.

Dean hadn’t- In Hell-

“Cas.”

Cas hummed over his head, and Dean cleared his throat. He couldn’t tell Sammy this. Or Bobby. Or anyone really, and Cas was odd, but he might have an answer. And, bonus, he didn’t seem to be all that good a liar, so worst case Cas dodged the question, and Dean went back to throwing up.

“In Hell.” He muttered, frowning at the cracked pavement as he spoke. There was a little flower, blooming through the concrete.

It was yellow. A little golden, in the light of the afternoon.

Dean swallowed more vomit.

“There were times, while I was down there, that I could…” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I dunno how any of this shit works, but I could- Could fucking sworn she was there.”

There was a pause, then Cas said Her name. Slowly. With impossible care, which Dean appreciated.

It was what She deserved.

“You believe you were able to see her.”

“No, just-“ He sounded insane. “Feel her. I could freakin’ feel her, like there was something in me that was tugging me around and asking me to go with it, talking to me in a voice that sounded a hell of a lot like Her’s, and I think I was just losing my goddamn mind, but-“ Dean rubbed his brow, a heavy pain starting to form behind his brow. “I don’t know. Might have been going crazy, might have been just another torture thing, giving me her but keeping her under a veil and- I don’t know. It was just- Needed to ask. If that was something.”

Cas was silent. Still. Almost statue like, and watching Dean with a deep frown.

Dean wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but at least Cas wasn’t calling him batshit crazy, telling him to find himself a nuthouse and lock up. Cas didn’t really seem like the type to do any of that anyway, but still.

Relieving.

“This woman.” Cas said Her name again, tilting his head slightly. “I do not know much about her, but-“

“She freakin’ awesome.” Dean said, glancing back to the flower. “Genius, but not a snobby bitch, and she’s funny. You’d like her, everyone-“

Everyone didn’t like Her.

Dad had, apparently, despised Her.

“From what I understand,” Cas muttered, and Dean could still feel his gaze. “She is not someone my superiors want you interacting with. That your own father-“

“Dad was wrong.” Dean grunted. “She’s not- I shoulda been kept away from her. Not the other way around.”

“Why?”

Dean frowned, shooting Cas a glare. “Because. I’m not doing a shrink session with you, man. I’m calmed down. Bring me back to Sam.”

“I will, but first-“ Cas’ brows furrowed slightly. “There is… something you should know-“

The world was blurring and turning again, and this time when they landed—right back in Chuck’s shitting living room—there wasn’t anything left in Dean’s body to vomit back up.

Baldy was leering over him, as Dean steadied himself on the desk. And when he tried to open his mouth he couldn’t fucking speak, so he just narrowed his eyes in the most hateful, furious glare of his life.

“Mr. Winchester.” Baldy hummed, unfazed by Dean’s scowl. “I trust that when I free you and your brother, who I have graciously not harmed or mauled, you will depart from Chuck Shurley’s house and only return when the time is right, yes?”

Dean just scowled. This shitbag didn’t get to come in here and tell him what to do, standing all fucking puffed out and giving orders, expecting Dean to fall into goddamn line just like that without even giving a goddamn name-

“You don’t need to know who I am yet.” Baldy sighed, scanning over Dean’s face. “How about this. I’ll give you a few minutes to collect yourself, you’ll leave this house like that,” Baldy snapped his fingers, giving Dean a wolf-like smile. “I won’t erase your memories of this whole encounter, and you’ll depart with all your organs intact. Deal?”

It was a shit deal.

Dean couldn’t afford to forget what Chuck had told him. He couldn’t see Her again and not know what Dad had done, because he had to use it as an explication for something snapped at the sight of Her—always beautiful, likely glowing in the light of whatever room he found Her in, all the wind in the world moving through Her hair perfectly and Her voice saying his name like a call to motion—and he fell to his knees, begging for Her to keep staying with him, all the way down, even if it ended up being lower than Hell or just right fucking there forever.

So he nodded, and Baldy’s grin grew.

“See you in a few months, Dean.”

Light flashed through the room, and when it cleared, Baldy was gone.

So was Cas.

And Sam was coughing, pounding on his chest and frowning around the room. “Dean, I-“

“C’mon.” Dean grunted, not bothering to look back as they marched to the door. “Sounds like we’ll be back here anyway, Sammy. Let’s skip town before the brigade of featherdicks comes back.”

“Dean- wait-“ Sam was running after him, his steps pounding on the floor. “What Chuck said, about her and Dad, I swear I didn’t-“

“I know. C’mon.”

They made it to the car. All the way into their seat before someone was pounding on their windows, and Dean glanced up to see Chuck, leaning down with messy hair and wide eyes.

Sam frowned. “What’s he-“

“Guys!” Chuck called through the glass, knocking once more. “I’m sorry about that, I just- I have a question for you and the angels didn’t say I couldn’t ask you guys stuff-“

Dean glanced over to Sam, who shrugged. That was true. And Baldy had said to leave the house.

“I know you can- shit-“ Chuck jumped back as Dean rolled down his window, before ducking down and giving them a nervous smile. “Uh, thank you.”

“What’s your question.”

Chuck watched Dean as he said Her name, and Dean’s whole body braced. “What’s she like?”

Dean scowled. “What.”

“I just, I know about all of you. Everything. Call it curiosity, maybe even killing the cat, but I’m just-“ Chuck shrugged. “I’d like to know.”

“Know what?” Sam jumped in, and Dean could’ve sworn Chuck shot him a glare. “Like, her favorite movie?”

“Yeah, sure. Or food, song, or- just anything, I guess-“

“Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted, and Chuck blinked at him.

“I-“

“That’s her favorite movie.” He’d have to clean Baby, later. As an apology for strangling her wheel. “And she’ll eat anything with sugar, but she doesn’t have a favorite song. Likes all of them.”

Chuck nodded slowly. “Alright, how about-“

Dean didn’t have the time, or patience for this.

He rolled the window up in Chuck’s stupid face.

“See you in five months!” He called through the glass, and before Chuck could even open his mouth, the man was just a musty spot in the rearview mirror.

For a while, it was just Dean, Sam, and the music, turned so loud it was pounding in Dean’s ribs.

It almost filled up the pit. The place that his body had always saved for Her. To be filled by Her light.

Dean needed to fucking find Her.

Sam cleared his throat, turning down the dial. “Weird day.”

“Yep.”

“I know we probably have some stuff to figure out, but, uh, Ruby texted me-“

“Did she now.”

“Yeah, look, I know how you feel about her, dude, but she says she might have some important information for us-“

“Awesome.” Dean glanced at one of the highway signs as he drove. “Tell Bobby.”

Sam frowned. “Bobby? Why-“

“He’ll help you with it.”

“Dean, just because it’s Ruby-“

“I don’t care that it’s Ruby.” Dean snapped, and for once, that really wasn’t the problem. “I have something else to do, Sam, so Bobby’s gonna help you out!”

“What- Dean.” Sam sighed. “I told you, she’s probably fine.”

“I’m not making bets on probably.”

“It’s- It might be a girl who can hear angels.” Sam said Her name, leaning forward to try and hold Dean’s attention. “C’mon, man, that’s huge-“

“Good thing you’re taking Bobby.”

“Dean-“

“Don’t. It’s, I’ve waited too fucking long, Sammy, and she needs to know about this-“

“So call her-“

“She hasn’t been picking up.”

“Maybe she’s in a dead zone, she’s driving through miles in different continent-“

“Sammy. Drop it.”

“But-“

“I need to see her, okay?!” Dean’s voice had risen to a shout, but he didn’t care.

Sam didn’t understand. No one fucking understood any of this, but She-

Dean had told Her he’d be fine, and he’d lied. He’d told Her that she’d be okay, and now he didn’t know where the hell she was. He didn’t care about the angels, or Ruby, or Chuck, or fucking anything but Her.

“I need to see her,” he repeated, Sam sighed, and the conversation died.

Good.

Nothing, not another set of hellhounds, a single angel, or God him fucking self, was going to stop Dean from bringing her home.

End Note: Welcome to season four, squad. Kicking it off on a high note (meeting Cas)

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

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378

@godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend

@lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney

@funkenniffler @laurakirsten0502

178 notes · View notes