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wafflewarriors · 5 years ago

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Runaway Winchester

Through all your years with the Winchesters, after running from demons and vampires and ghosts. After sticking up for one another and having each other's backs, it had never crossed your mind that you might run from them.

Here you were, bare necessities held by straps on your shoulders. A silver knife at your waistband and a loaded gun on your hip. A vial of holy water, a little bag of salt, an iron poker, all in your drawstring bag. Flannel, jeans, and steel toe boots were your current friends.

You stopped at a nearby bus stop. It was an hour wait until the next bus came, but you were confident you were far enough from the boys to relax a bit. Most shops were closed, so you just quietly minded yourself on the bench, admiring the crickets' songs and the soothing dark of the night.

To most hunters, the night was their enemy. But you couldn't see what was to blame it for. Despite the chaos that occured with monsters in the night, they also lurked the same amount in the day. There is an equal enough balance of time of day and monsters' activity that it was stupid to fear it. Fear the monsters, not the dark.

You were going to stay alert for this last trip and then crash at the next motel. You were covering your tracks alright, you thought. You had ditched most of your identification, minus your backup one that they weren't aware you even owned. You had set your phone to the bare minimum apps, only still with you to call emergency services if it ever came to that.

You were tired. Bone tired and ready to sleep, but not so exhausted that you couldn't wait an hour. You had to wait an hour. This was your only shot to cover up your trail. You'd been purposely leading the Winchesters east awhile, but you planned on do a 180° on them. You had a rough idea of what you wanted. To go far west, lay low in the country, help out at a farm to earn some kind of pay.

And avoid hunting at all costs.

Because that would lead the Winchesters right to you.

It wasn't that you hated them. It really wasn't. They were the bravest, best men you'd ever met. A little too selfless, a bit harsh, maybe... but good-hearted and well-meaning.

You just… you just didn't mix.

Specifically with Dean Winchester.

He said your music taste was terrible; he said that you were too girly, that he didn't want the chick flick moments; he always rejected your attempts at hugs, which usually were more for yourself than anything, and it made you feel worse when he withdrew and gave you stupid excuses; he offered you no reassurance when you failed at something because 'there's no room for mistakes' even though he made them everyday, more so than you ever did.

He was just so frustrating.

There were arguments. Over everything. So many long, tiresome circling arguments of the same topic like you were both in a time loop. There was always something to blame about you. You were too careful, or too pushy, too confident, too determined. Your personalities were polar to his and it led to heated discussions like whether they should gank the seemingly moral werewolf, or to run in a vamp nest on a whim.

Dean would always throw it in your face when you were too reckless. They would throw it in your face when you were wrong, and when you had screwed it up. Like you didn't know it already. Like you didn't tell yourself again and again a million times in your head, each day, every night. Reminding yourself of your failures so repeatedly that there was a rhythm to it. No, they didn't need to do it for you. That was already your job.

After those terrible arguments of raised voices and mean, glaring eyes, Sam would then try and console you. Honestly, it just made you feel worse. Even if he didn't try to, he always took Dean's side in the long run. He'd tell you what Dean really meant to say, without his swearing and impulsive wording.

And every single time, you were in the wrong. It seemed as if the world was spinning in the opposite direction as you were.

So you left.

In fact, you didn't really question it. You just wanted to clear your head for a while. You didn't know how long… just… a while.

You knew they would look for you. And as much as you were a friend, you were also a responsibility. A chore. Something to save and protect and hoard. But you knew that if you waited long enough, a larger, meaner priority would come along and rip away their attention. And hopefully, they would slowly forget about you.

At least, that was your plan.

Still curled up against the bench, you felt a drizzle of rain against your face. And as your flannel began to soak with cold water, you wished you were still in the warm safety of the bunker with a leather jacket around your shoulders. A little laugh bubbled up and you let your hair shake and drip down onto your jeans in hilarity.

It was a stupid wish.

///

After Dean called your name for the third time with no response, he was fed up. He was already livid; you had, once again, run into danger even though Dean had specifically told you to wait in the car. It wasn't that he didn't trust you, but the ghost had been disemboweling young women for the past two straight weeks, and he had been admittedly nervous for you. Was that too much to ask?

He got out of his chair, throwing the useless, stupid research on the glowing table map thingy that he hadn't really named yet. He went marching over to your room, irritation carved into every feature of his face. He said while throwing open your door, "I swear if you don't come out of here, we are going to have some issu—"

You weren't there.

He spent several seconds blinking at the scene, and it took several more to connect the dots. Dean ended up standing there for twenty seconds, bow legged and leaning against the doorframe. His irritation quickly melted into a look of utter bafflement. Where..? Nobody was in the kitchen. Nobody was in the war room. Nobody was…

Your room was empty. Too empty. Kind of a spotless empty. You weren't a very neat person. There was always a little clutter, usually a flannel or two thrown about. You weren't a slob, you were on the road too much for that, but you were never this excessively clean.

From bafflement, came fear. His eyes widened, his mouth too, and soon he was shouting your name through the bunker.

Dean's heart stuttered when he heard footsteps. He breathed, "Oh, thank—"

But it wasn't you. It was Sam.

"What is it?" His brother asked.

The million dollar question.

Sam became concerned as the silence grew and he continued to observe the panic drawn in Dean's eyebrows. "Dean?"

"She's gone," Dean blurted. "She's… she's… her room's spotless, and her gun, and her knife, and her—" Dean tugged at his hair and swore. Loudly.

"Hey, calm down. We'll find her."

Dean shook his head. "We taught her all there is to know about hiding."

"Yeah. We taught her. We know all her tricks."

"Knowing her tricks and knowing how to get around them is a lot different, Sam! How are you going to track a disabled cell phone? Huh? And how, pray tell, are you going to track someone who usually makes all the ID scams? She probably has ID's we don't know exist! Sam, she could be anywhere."

Sam look lost in thought. "She always liked the country," he murmured.

"What?"

"Dean, come on, think. Her country music that you always complain about? She grew up on a farm before she started hunting. Come on, you know that. She loved it."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Of course it doesn't. God, Dean, no wonder she left! You don't pay any attention to her!"

He scoffed. "Course I do."

"Yeah? Then what's her favorite color?" Sam asked quietly. He looked down at his brother with a disappointed look.

Dean decided he hated that look. "Her favorite color? Come on, what are we, second graders?"

"You don't know," Sam whispered in an uncomfortably sad awe, like Dean forgot his birthday or something mushy like that.

Dean decided he did not like that at all. "Blue," he said, trying to sound confident. But as Sam's face fell further, and all that confidence deflated like a popped balloon. His brother had on those stupid puppy eyes of his and it was giving Dean a headache.

"It's green," Sam told him. "You know why?"

"Why."

Sam leaned up against the wall, amazed. "She likes your eyes. She thinks they're nice."

Dean's ears must have malfunctioned. "What?"

"I can't believe you are that clueless. For someone who constantly dishes out pickup lines and hooks up with girls, you sure can't read her, can you?" Sam shook his head and decided to lay it out as flat and as plain as he possibly could for Dean's sake. "She likes you, idiot."

Dean's face was unreadable. His stupid head wasn't computing any of this. All his mind could do was could do was ask stupid, stupid questions. Why did she leave? She liked me? Do I even listen to her? Do I yell too much? Do I dismiss her? But there was one he couldn't help but single out. One he couldn't help but pour his focus to: Why didn't I take it easy on her?

Dean's face finally broke into one of overwhelming regret. "What have I done, Sammy?"

///

Just three days after settling at an orchard with the Carter family, you were finally finding yourself again. Finding your usefulness. Sure, the days stretched long and hot, but each one was as rewarding as the last. You were healing from the hunts, slowly, but surely.

It felt really good. Like, really good. Healthier than you'd been in weeks. Rich, homemade meals, and no fast food made you feel incredible. You even managed a regular sleep schedule, and while it wasn't perfect, it was something. Nightmares still plagued you, but they felt far away. Unreachable in such a wonderful home and environment.

You forgot how much you missed the country.

The Carter family was extremely kind to you. You simply had asked them for a bit of shelter from the rain and they took you in under their wing without question.

They were so wonderful that the Winchesters probably would have been suspicious. And as much as you didn't want to be skeptical, the hunter side of you was screaming. This punch in the gut feeling that something wasn't right, something wasn't normal. And you couldn't shake it.

But this happened all the time with hunts, didn't it? And then you would screw everything up to a gut feeling. So maybe this time you could just forget it. You were sick of messing up. You deserved this. This little bit of happiness.

They were older, late sixties, but so pure and kind hearted. Mrs.Carter made pies, and it reminded you of Dean. While Mr.Carter would often read in his lonesome, and you couldn't help but think of Sam.

Was this what they were? Replacements?

This? This gut feeling was just a little home-sickness. You weren't used to the eerie silence; you were used to blasting 80's music, the rumble of the Impala, or the tap of keys on a laptop. Hell, you were used to Dean shouting at you.

Here, you were without the faint smell of whiskey and instead sweet hay. The country had become so unfamiliar that half of you had shut down. You had locked the door and chucked the key into the farthest reaches of your mind, because it hurt. You lost your home and farm to supernatural creatures, and had lost yourself in the world of hunting. You forgot the peaceful life that came with the country.

You traced the symbol carved into the bed frame. Where had you seen this before? It was clearly old, and you'd seen it several times throughout the farm. On the barn doors, the mailbox, even the front door. What was it? Why couldn't you remember?

See? Again, here you were, doubting the Carters. You couldn't believe yourself.

You opened your phone. Six missed calls from Dean were painfully lit up on your lock screen. Biting your lip, you turned off airplane mode. Hovering your finger over the 'call' button when you heard someone shouting your name.

It was dinnertime.

You had tossed your phone on the bed, scoffing at how ridiculous you were, doubting such wonderful people.

You made your way to the kitchen, where a beautiful meal was laid out for the family. You were just amazed at how fantastic the food was. It was like a dream Thanksgiving. Heavenly mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, stuffing, and a large, golden roast. You didn't know where to start.

"Wow," you whispered.

Mr. Carter patted you on the shoulder. "Please, eat as much as you'd like."

The food was good, as always. Really good. And after you were satisfied, you began to excuse yourself and walk to the sink to put your plate in.

"Where are you running off to?" Mrs. Carter asked. "There's still desert!"

You paused. "Oh, no, I'm okay—"

"I insist," she said, putting a plate of pumpkin pie at your seat. Just as you were about to protest, she set a spoonful of whipped cream on top of the giant slice.

A bit reluctant, you sat back down, carefully picking up your fork and taking a bite of the pie. You supposed you could eat it, if it would make her happy.

She beamed at you. "You were such a scrawny thing when you came here. Now look at you! Full meals! I nice bed to sleep on!"

You slowly nodded. "Thank you for all this, really, but I think I'll get out of your hair tomorrow morning." Something felt off. You didn't really know. But this gut feeling wasn't disappearing.

Mr. Carter sighed. "Unfortunately, we can't let you do that."

You were completely frozen. You had your fork in your mouth, staring up at them in something akin to terror. You were internally cursing yourself for not trusting your instincts.

THIS IS EXACTLY WHY THE WINCHESTERS WERE RIGHT, something inside you screamed.

You had thought something in the whipped cream tasted funny. Good thing you just kept on eating, idiot. This is why Dean is so harsh on you. This is why you shouldn't have run away.

"Just let it sink in. You'll feel so much better," someone cooed in your ear. "So much better."

You didn't like it. All you could hear was the rattled sound of your panicked, shallow breath, and you realized your eyes were closed.

"So much better."

///

Sam and Dean were on their own little search party for three days.

Dean was antsy. "Sam, I don't know, maybe she's not here. There are so many other towns with farms."

"This is where the bus got off. Dean, look: I mapped out the entire bus system and this is the shortest and easiest way to get anything near the country. She has to be here."

"I know, it's just, where is she then? We checked twenty-two families already. Twenty-two, Sam!"

"I know, but I have this… I dunno, this gut feeling that we missed her, and I—"

"The Carters'." Dean cut Sam off, eyes flashing with horrified realization. "That—that symbol on their front door. I couldn't put my finger on it, but those are for pagan gods, Sam."

Sam shifted his feet. "How do you know for sure?"

"Don't you remember the scarecrow? The… the… That town that took couples and sacrificed them? There was that book on pagan gods. But I saw that symbol." He shook his head. "I knew I had seen that symbol somewhere, damn it. I should have said something."

"You're saying the Carters' could have kidnapped her?"

"It's a start."

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Jeez."

"Yeah, no kidding."

///

You came to with a blazing headache. You managed a squinty glare, keeping what little dignity as you watched your captors defiantly.

"There you go, little hunter." Someone's hand, their cold, clammy hand, rested on your shoulder. "We saw your little bag. You're a hunter, aren't you?"

You didn't respond, finding little reason to.

"Yeah, we thought so."

This guy was getting on your nerves fast, so you decided to bluff. "Sam and Dean, they're going to be pissed when they find me. I'd watch out if I were you."

Mr.Carter came into view. "I don't think you believe that, do you? You came here to hide. And it sounds to me like you did a pretty good job of it."

Your jaw clenched. "They're coming."

"Sure they are. You keep telling yourself that," Mrs.Carter murmured. "Hope they come soon. Our boy, here? Trust me, he's very hungry. A century of fasting does that to you, dear." Her smile was deceivingly warm. "Think he'll like that pumpkin pie, dearest?"

Mr.Carter grinned. "How couldn't he?"

You were so uncomfortable and lost and scared. How did you get here? Why couldn't you have just chosen the next farm over? Why does stupid hunter luck always lead you to monsters? From their conversation, it sounded like they were making a sacrifice. And something was going to eat you. Alive.

Through your evergrowing panic also came disappointment with this reality. Maybe this was God's will. Maybe he wanted you dead. Maybe this was good—you wouldn't be a problem for the Winchesters any longer, right? A lone tear tracked down your face—God, I don't wanna die.

The Carters would see to it that you did, though.

And this time, the Winchesters weren't going to find you. You had made sure of it. Your tracks were covered, so unless they got really innovative, they weren't going to track you down. To find you, you'd have to practically map out every route you could have taken.

As if they had the time to do that.

You worked your hands at the bindings, but your wrists and ankles were raw and sore. The knife stored in your pocket was too far from your hands to reach, so you were helpless. How the hell did Dean escape all the time?

You hurt a rattle of chains in the caged room in front of you. It was a dark cell, and the light was too murky to see what lied beyond the curtain. But there was a silhouette, and from what you could see, it wasn't human.

"It's a rabid werewolf, if you're curious." Mrs.Carter cooed at you, tracing your chin. "It won't hurt all that bad. Really dear."

Liar.

It was then that a chime rang through the house. The doorbell. The Carters sent you a wide eyed look, but before they could threaten you, you let out your loudest, shrillest scream.

///

Sam brought his hand to the doorbell, hesitating. "Dean, if she's not in there, we'll just be attacking an innocent family. Are you sure those markings are legit?" He couldn't see beyond the door of old wood and screen, only that the light was on and there were, in fact, people home. That wasn't much to go on.

"Sam, I'm sure. Let's do this, c'mon. Ring the doorbell. She could actually be in trouble right now."

Sam swore under his breath and pressed the button, listening to the soft chime echo throughout the house.

And after a pause, they heard a scream.

Both their eyes flashed. Dean kicked down the flimsy door, shoving past the kitchen to the source of the noise. As did Sam.

///

To your relief, you heard a thud from upstairs. The Winchesters had actually found you. They had kicked the door down and they were coming for you. They were coming. That was the only possibility because the Carters were petrified.

The cage jolted behind you. Before you could let out another yell for help, you were slammed to the ground. Mrs.Carter forced a cloth into your mouth and you gagged around it. She brought a belt around your neck and pulled, choking you and lugging you toward the cage. You struggled, kicking your feet at nothing and clawing at your throat, but whatever monster she was, she was much stronger than you.

By the time your face was red from a lack of air, there was a rapping of shoes against the wood of the stairs, and finally Sam was sprinting down the staircase. He wielded a stake in his right hand. Dean came down a second after. Sam lunged for Mr.Carter while Dean took on Mrs.Carter.

Both (pagans, you now assumed) fought hard, hissing and spitting at the hunters. But the Winchesters were trained fighters. Dean staked Mr.Carter right in the chest, growling as he twisted the stake into the monster's flesh. Mrs.Carter, however, wasn't staked in time, because she managed to snag the cage's lever. The cage yawned, and there was a pause. Then, the beast flew out at Sam, howling and slashing.

You gasped, grateful, but terrified. "Werewolf!" You hoarsely called. "It's a werewolf!"

Dean took a second to process that, but the second he did, the werewolf had two silver bullets to the chest.

The beast rocked, freezing in confusion and pain before it fell back.

"Timber," Dean said sarcastically. He made his way over to you, stepping over the corpses. "Are you… good? They didn't hurt you?"

You coughed, rubbing your sore neck but mostly alright. "I think I'm in one piece."

"Good." He threw down a hand.

You took his offer, wincing as he helped you to your feet, and you wavered a little.

He sent you that look.

You were quick to assure him. "Uh… she was dragging me. Lifted my shirt and scraped my back against the floor." You adjusted your rumpled shirt. "It's nothing."

Dean crossed his arms. "It's not nothing. None of this is nothing. Why the hell did you leave?"

"Because I screw everything up! I'm a liability, Dean. Every hunt you either bench me or I get captured or hurt or something, and that makes me a weakness in the next hunt. I'm pulling you down. I can't even leave right! I can't do anything without you having to swoop in and keep my ass out of trouble." You took a long needed breath, feeling weightless. "I don't want you to feel like I'm your responsibility. Like I'm just another chore."

Sam's face tightened. "You don't actually think—"

"I was trying to make this easier. I was trying to stay hidden, so that you two would give up and actually move onto things that are important. You guys constantly have things on your mind and you can't afford a distraction."

Dean and Sam's frowns both deepened.

"Look, I'm really grateful for this. I literally almost got fed to the wolves, here. But how in hell did you find me?"

Sam shifted. "We tracked all the routes you could have taken. I figured you'd always loved the country. We talked with a few families—"

"Twenty-two," Dean cut in.

"—er, yeah, twenty-two. Um, but Dean remembered the pagan symbols, so we figured this was the place. Turns out we were right, thank god."

You deflated. "I... saw those. Didn't think they meant anything." They always mean something. Do your goddamn research next time instead of blindly trusting a family that so generously takes you under their roof. You really thought people other than monsters would do that?

You brought your eyes up, observing them. And then a little part of you thought, they did that.

Yeah, they did. The Winchesters took you as their own. Maybe that's why you put your blind faith into these monsters, because they had reflected your life with the boys. Maybe the monsters did that on purpose, luring in their prey with things they loved and missed.

The Winchesters were confused and hurt, and probably didn't understand, but you were still family. With time, they would work around this.

"We'll work around this," Sam said, as if he had read your mind.

Sometimes, you wondered if this life was just a dream. That all these events were so coincidental, that there was always a monster around the corner and a Winchester at the next, ready to save you.

"You're not a burden. You're family and you're a hunter. That means something. If nobody made mistakes on hunts, there would be nothing to learn from. Nothing to grow off of. Listen, you can't have possibly made more mistakes than Dean or me, and you certainly aren't less forgivable. You do remember I started the Apocalypse, right?"

"We both did, Sammy," Dean said, nudging him. He looked at you thoughtfully, and then pulled you into a tight hug.

You were too shocked to say anything.

"Hey I’m really sorry if I made you feel less important. That’s not what I wanted. You just scare the hell outta’ me and I don’t know… I get scared for you. I know this hunter life is scary and unpredictable, but nobody can do it alone. Nobody. That's a lesson Sam and I have learned after years and years of mistakes in this life. The mistakes don't end, and neither do the monsters, but if we got each other, we can learn to solve these problems together, alright? You got me?" He kissed your forehead. "God, I love you kid."

You allowed yourself a little happiness in his arms. But after a moment, you couldn't help it. "Damn." You paused. "Did you just have a chick flick moment?"

"No."

"You totally did!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sam, back me up here."

Sam laughed. "It's okay, Dean. We all know you're a softie."

Dean scoffed, but soon he was laughing too. He clapped a hand on your back.

"Let's go get some pie. Pie solves everything."

He was right. It did.

And by God, did he blast country music the whole way home.

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alleiradayne · 4 years ago

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LONG JACKET A DESTIEL-ISH SERIES

Over the last few years, I’ve seen some of the craziest shit hunting with the Winchesters and their angel, Castiel. But this story right here? This isn’t about monsters. This isn’t about the battle between good and evil, heaven and hell. I understand all that.

It’s people I don’t get. People are crazy. And we do crazy things when we’re in love.

PART VI - PLAID

Summary: The showdown. Warnings/Tags: Again, awkward flirting, mentions of rape, violence, sexual innuendo, blood, small description of sexual assault. Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester/Female!Reader Word Count: 6,875 (whoops)

Darkness encroached on the parking lot’s dim lamplight, the vast, endless nothing oppressive, suffocating. As we stood behind the Impala, that great void loomed, and yet, a tenuous sense of resolution settled in the pit of my stomach. Stuffed to the gills, Sam’s duffel bag—endearingly coined the Bag of Ouch—thumped into the open trunk.

“Isn’t that… a little overkill?”

“It would be if we’d ever actually fought a succubus before,” Sam said with a resigned sigh.

“You know,” I started as I squinted up at him. “Sometimes, I wonder what is wrong with you.”

He pointed to his head. “Don’t worry. I know there are too many screws loose. I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t want you going into this with any illusions of grandeur. We have no clue what we’re doing when it comes to these bastards. Books, hunter’s notes, the internet. Sure. But that’s why the bag is stuffed beyond full.”

When I looked from him to the bag and back, he shut the trunk. “So, we just have to try something and hope?”

“Essentially, yes. My bet is on decapitation,” he said. “No matter how fast you heal, you really can’t recover from that.”

“Bronze stake through the heart, Y/N,” Dean interrupted. “You know, if you don’t get a clear shot at…” he motioned to his throat with an execution gesture. “Plus, bronze doubles down on ancient metals. They’re not close enough to vampires or werewolves for silver to work. It’s—”

Castiel exited the motel then, and Dean’s teeth clicked shut mid-thought. Angular shadows played tricks on my eyes until Castiel stepped into the light, and I gasped. Blue, white, and gray plaid enveloped his shoulders, paired perfectly with his black jeans, black t-shirt, and Dean’s ill-fitting boots.

Beside me, Dean turned around, and his brow furrowed. “Is that—”

“No, this I bought myself,” Castiel explained. “I like blue. I think.”

Even in the near darkness, Dean’s cheeks reddened noticeably. “You should. Looks good on you.”

I imagined that, if angels could blush, Castiel would have. “Thank you.”

“Get a room.”

The back of my hand met Sam’s stomach as I scolded him. “Sh! Leave them alone.”

Dean’s eyes rolled so hard he gave Sam a run for his money. “What is it with you two? The man looks good in blue, and he should know that. Nothing even remotely suggestive.” He continued grumbling to himself as he rounded for the driver’s side of the Impala.

“Maybe that was too far,” I suggested as I glared at Sam.

He merely laughed as he turned for the car. “I disagree entirely, but I’ll back off. At least, until after this hunt.”

I turned to follow him, but then realized Castiel stood by himself. “You coming?”

Hand to his chest, he smoothed the plaid as he tugged it straight. “Do you agree?”

“With?” I asked.

“Dean. About blue plaid.”

Stuttered words stumbled from my mouth. Had he not seen the way Dean stared? Blushed? A brisk shake of my head cleared my thoughts. “First off, I think you should wear whatever makes you happy and comfortable. If that’s plaid, great. If not, that’s fine, too. Second, you can only control yourself. That’s something you probably already knew, but for some reason, humans take way too long to learn that. And third, blue looks great on you.”

He smiled then and followed me to the car. “This is much more difficult than I had anticipated.”

A bark of laughter burst from my chest. Before responding, I reached the rear passenger door and popped the handle. “Do you want my advice?”

“I abide by your expert wisdom, Y/N,” Castiel replied.

I clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Talk to him.”

Behind schedule, I allowed Castiel no time to respond and sidled into the backseat of the Impala. Once Castiel seated himself, Dean backed out of the lot, and the Impala roared to life as he laid into the accelerator, heading towards the grocer.

“I hate this plan.”

Sam situated the bronze stake up the right sleeve of my newly acquired leather jacket. Dissatisfied and yet resigned to the situation, he moved on to the machete holster concealed beneath the jacket. “I really hate this plan.”

“Do you keep saying that to make me feel better or to convince me to bail?” I asked as I shot a nervous glance down the hill. There, sandwiched between the grocery store and a craft store, sat Madam Drina’s Visions, an eerie purple glow emitting from the partially curtained windows.

Sam grunted under his breath. “I think it makes me feel better,” he replied as he shifted the machete on my back. “Practice reaching for the handle. It’s a very weird holster. I hate wearing it.”

In one smooth motion, I reached behind my hip, grasped the handle, and pulled. The blade freed from the scabbard in a sharp ring of steel that sang between the stone buildings surrounding us. “Okay, I’ve never done that before. That was really fucking cool.”

“It sure as hell looked cool,” Sam laughed, “And it makes me feel better. Now, we’ll be right outside, so you give us the signal if you get the slightest hint shit’s going sideways. Please do not hesitate to call.”

I lowered the machete back behind my hip to re-sheath it. A solid clunk thudded through my chest as the hilt met the scabbard, the blade concealed once more. “Looks like I won’t be going in anytime soon.”

Down the hill, no more than a quarter-mile, the distant ring of Madam Drina’s door chimed through the silent night air. That sound caught Sam’s attention, and he turned to the source where we both watched a woman lean into the darkness of night from her shop’s door. She greeted a patron as he approached, and without delay, invited him inside.

Sam turned back to me and said, “We’ll give it an hour. If he doesn’t leave by midnight, we’ll send you in then.”

Before I could say anything else, Dean burst from the car and stomped to the trunk where he planted himself on the bumper. His folded arms and crossed ankles warned me enough, but my boldness won the battle against caution.

“Hey,” I started as I neared the trunk. “You okay?”

Sam slid into the Impala’s seat, and Dean waited for the door to shut before he responded. “No. I’m not.”

Okay, I hadn’t expected that at all. “Alright, that’s refreshing. Keep going. What’s got your goat?”

He scoffed half a laugh at that, opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and shook his head. Though he remained tightly wound, his arms eventually unfolded, and he reached for the hem of his shirt. There he found a familiar threadbare corner, and he continued to worry at it as he had so many times before.

“You ever…”

Silence. Only the chirping of real, honest-to-god crickets broke the still night air. A thousand-mile stare settled in Dean’s gaze, and though the darkness shrouded us both, a familiar conflict roiled beneath the surface of his outward façade.

“Do I ever… what?” I asked. “Catch myself thinking about someone for hours on end? Imagining the things I would say to them under different circumstances? Wondering how they would feel or what they would say in return?”

His eyes snapped to me, glaring from the corner while his head remained still. Another shiver ran up my spine, but the sensation vanished as soon as it had come. Dean looked back up the road, staring straight ahead. The start of a few sentences stuttered on his lips, his tongue. Each time he swallowed his words, he remained silent longer. Until he finally said, “Yes.”

“Which one?”

He plucked a stray string from the hem of his shirt and tossed it out before him. A gentle breeze caught the tuft of frayed cotton and carried it off to the sidewalk where it landed and stilled. Dean, too, sat still as stone for what felt like hours, staring straight ahead at nothing. But the gears churned between his ears, so loud I swore I could hear him thinking. All too familiar, I knew the imaginary situations that played out in his mind, scenario after scenario. Endless torture, that. No good in ruminating, in worrying what response you might get. I wanted to tell him all those things, but how much of a hypocrite would that make me?

I wavered on the precipice of futility, that precarious knife’s edge where on one side, an infinite future spread as far as the eye could see and on the other stretched complete and utter nothingness. And yet, the longer I balanced on that deadly razor, my untimely end neared. Dean’s predicament had drawn out the worst of my subconscious. As I turned to regard Sam through the car, I swore a solemn oath, if only to myself, that I’d finally come clean.

I stood then to do what I should have done months ago, but the moment my boots touched the concrete, the bell above Madam Drina’s door twinkled again, and Dean startled. He grabbed my shoulder and turned me to face him as he spoke, an insistent furrow to his brow.

“All of them,” he stated.

So lost in my head, I asked, “All of what?”

“What you said earlier,” he replied. “I’m constantly thinking about him, and I don’t know why. Besides you and Sam, Cas is my best friend, and I… I don’t know what to do.”

When I opened my mouth to reply, Sam exited the driver’s door, and Castiel followed not a beat later from the passenger’s side. I turned back to Dean and lowered my voice. “Just tell him.”

“What?!” he snarled under his breath.

“I’m serious,” I insisted in a thin hiss. “Tell him everything!”

When Sam rounded the end of the car, all rational thought fled. I’d made a promise to myself. And, in a way, to Dean, too. No way I’d go down as some plaster saint spouting hollow words in my final hours. Go big or go home.

Sam caught me. Barely, but that hardly mattered. When I had jumped, I knew I had leaped in faith, not in Sam’s ability to catch me—although I knew his arms were more than capable—but in his equal, mutual, maddening adoration for me. Like the heat of a summer’s noonday sun, his embrace smothered me. I soared too close to that roaring heat, and my plaster wings melted as I planted my lips on his.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you I can’t take my own advice.

“I am sorry, Dean.”

Castiel’s gruff apology ruined the moment. Almost. Sam squeezed me so tight to his chest and returned my kiss twofold despite our lack of privacy. But my eagerness to witness Dean and Castiel’s truth rivaled my endless exultation. I parted from Sam but remained in his arms as I looked over my shoulder.

Dean’s crooked eyebrow lowered as he turned from Sam and I to Castiel. “I know. But thanks,” he said as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Are you two finished?” He turned back to Sam and I. “Can we go kill this son of a bitch succubus and get the fuck out of here?”

Forgotten. For one glorious, blissfully unaware moment, I’d forgotten that a creature as vile as a succubus could exist.

The four of us looked down the hill towards the shop where Madam Drina waved goodbye to her patron as he walked down the block to the east. “That looks like our window,” Dean stated.

Two worlds collided with that simple phrase. The reality I had dreaded all day loomed like the specter of an urban legend. A sudden hyper-awareness seeped into my skin, my bones, my soul. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and gooseflesh spread across my arms. The ceaseless ticks of my watch counted the last beats of my heart as though finite, and I knew too few remained. Like so many grains of sand, time slipped through my fingers no matter how I clung to them.

Still in his arms, I looked up to Sam, but he said nothing. Those three little words balanced on the tip of my tongue. But as my lips parted, Sam stopped me.

“I know. Me, too.”

That would have to do.

A dreaded chill replaced Sam’s embrace as I headed down the street to Madam Drina’s Visions.

“Hello?”

I’d expected Madam Drina to meet me at the door as she had her previous client. When a few minutes passed with no sign of her, I grasped the handle and swung the door wide. As I spoke, her doorbell’s chime faded, then struck again as the door closed behind me.

Incense suffocated the cramped space. Thick strands of smoke rolled like massive coils of so many snakes, crawling and gliding ever so slowly through the room in an endless drift. Gaudy furniture pressed in from all sides like banks of a river to guide souls to the room’s center. There sat an intimate, circular plinth covered by several ornate silk scarves, and on its center rested a large crystal ball.

Overhead, similar swaths of silk stretched from the corners to the center of the room directly above the plinth. From the center of the ceiling, numerous large crystals hung from delicate silvery chains. Despite the swirling smoke, those crystals remained poised, still as stone. Azure and amethyst and amaranth lights illuminated the walls from floor to ceiling, reflected in glittering crystals and the sizeable transparent ball on the plinth, completing Madam Drina’s incredible soothsaying display.

“Hello?”

Not even a hint of an echo. Slow steps bore me downriver, and I called out once more. “Madam Drina?”

I had done my best to prepare my senses, steel my nerves, and harden my resolve. Few women rivaled Madam Drina’s beauty. But when she entered the room through a thick layer of silk scarves across the room, death breathed its icy breath down my spine, and I shivered from head to toe.

Pale as the moon, Madam Drina glowed in the lamplight. Dark curls of midnight hair hung from her headwrap, and large almond eyes widened when she spotted me. A petite nose ended in a delicate slope upwards, and beneath it stretched plump lips painted so very red to reveal a brilliant smile. She opened her arms, dark linens billowing from her wrists and elbows, and showed a tightly bound dress of sanguine silk, satin, and chiffon. Around her neck wrapped a woven leather choker, and at its center sat a ruby the size of my thumbnail. From that ruby, three delicate leather straps of varying lengths and bearing tiny red stone droplets plunged to her deep neckline and settled just above her admittedly impressive cleavage.

I could hardly take my eyes off her. And not just out of fear for my safety.

“Good evening, my dear,” she cooed, her voice velvety smooth and throaty with a hint of her breath. “I apologize for my tardiness. I had to... powder my nose.”

The first wave of her power rolled through my chest, and the room shimmered in a blurry rush, but the sickening sensation passed in a single breath. When my focus returned, I found Madam Drina glaring daggers at me. But in a blink, her anger disappeared, and she motioned to the table.

“Please, sit. What would you like to know?” She crossed the space and sat in a plush, overstuffed chair on the plinth’s opposite side. The layers of her dress parted as she spread her knees to either side of the pillar and slid her chair closer. “Come, dear. Tell me what you see here,” she beckoned as she pointed at the crystal ball with a black, claw-like fingernail. “I can tell you what it means.”

A nervous twitch of my hand checked the machete behind my hip. The cold bronze stake up my sleeve needed no such confirmation. As casually and confidently as I could, I strode to the empty chair and sat across from Madam Drina.

The second rush of power caressed my thighs, gentle as a lover’s touch. A heady aroma of oakmoss and elderberry flooded my nose, and once more, death breathed her icy chill down my neck. But again, the moment passed almost as if it had never happened. Disappointment twitched across Madam Drina’s intense gaze, her pale blue eyes flashing in frustration. And just as she had before, that display of emotion vanished, her calm countenance returned.

“You,” she drawled, “are better suited for cards.” A snap of her fingers vanished the crystal ball, clearing the plinth between us. I startled to feign surprise at such blatant use of magic, but I worried she saw through my ruse.

“Place your hand on the table,” she said as she smoothed the fabric. “Right here, my dear.”

Call it prescience, call it a sixth sense, hell, call it a woman’s intuition if that helps. Whatever it was, every fiber of my existence railed against the habit to lay my right hand on the table, and instead, I placed my left in the center with all the confidence I mustered.

Her long nails slipped beneath my palm and lifted my hand from the table. A scant inch from her nose, she examined my skin, fingers, and nails until she turned it over to scrutinize my palm. “Beautiful,” she purred, “so healthy. And strong.”

“You can tell that just by looking at my hand?” I asked.

The corners of her lips twitched, and she traced tantalizing trails along the lines of my palm with the pointed nail of her index finger. “That and much, much more.” She paused, her pale stare locked on mine. “But that is for another night. Cards. The cards will have the most insight for you tonight.”

Fight or flight. An opening squandered surely sealed my fate. Lost in thought, I noticed too late the creep of magic crawling along my arm, and when Madam Drina returned my hand to the covered plinth, death sang her siren’s call to me for the third time. That frigid touch of magic bound my hand to the table, frozen solid as a block of ice. A roiling surge in my stomach threatened to empty it there on the table, instinctual, primal. My final lucid moment chose flight.

As Madam Drina withdrew a deck of tarot cards from her waist wrap, I took my chance. Below the plinth, I slipped my right hand beneath the hem of my coat for my hip. There, the two-way radio’s textured button brushed beneath my fingers as I fumbled for my lifeline. But before I could press the button, Madam Drina held the deck out to me and spoke.

“Cut.”

As though a spun valve had released the pressure on my left hand, sensation returned to my fingers. I reached for the deck and stared Madam Drina directly in the eye. A rookie mistake, one I regretted immediately. Her piercing blue stare bored a hole straight into my soul, and my secrets laid bare. She knew. She saw straight through me, read me like an open book. Most of all, she knew that danger had found her that night. Too risky. I backed down from my radio and returned my right hand to my knee. With the left, I grabbed a large portion of the deck from her hand.

“Bold,” she commented as she placed the cards in her hand atop the cut. “But unsurprising.” The warmth of her touch covered mine on the table, only to seize in a flow of icy magic, chained once more. “I knew you would be an interesting read the moment I saw you.”

With ease, she moved my hand to the edge of the plinth. I tested my invisible restraint to no avail; that magical bond held fast. “Now,” she started, “I want you to think deeply about your being and how it has manifested itself thus far in the universe. Take your time. Connect with yourself. This may feel very new and even uncomfortable.”

To maintain pretenses, I did as she instructed. My gaze fell to the deck of cards where I drifted, unseeing. The room faded into an endless nothing, but within seconds, distant shapes formed in swirling clouds of dark smoke. As I neared them, they focused, solidified, and settled into my best friends. Castiel stood off to the side, his forlorn gaze staring across the nothingness at Dean, who stood beside Sam. And Sam’s appearance faded, opaque and wispy, where tendrils of smoke leached from him. Soon, he disappeared, and, though strange, I understood. I knew, without question, the meaning of that vision.

When Dean and Castiel remained, Dean gazed into the middle distance, and Castiel continued to stare at him.

“Ask your question.”

Madam Drina’s voice interrupted my thought, and in a wild, sliding rush, the room returned to focus around me. Her touch at my left hand, with her nimble fingers drawing delicate circles, elicited a well of sensations that itched beneath the surface, eager for release. But that ache was not alone. Death stalked in the shadows.

“You know what it is you seek, darling. Ask. Ask the universe your question, and the cards will tell you all you need to know.”

I heard myself speak before the thought had even formed in my mind. “How can I help my friend understand the truth?”

Madam Drina breathed in so deep, her chest swelled, and her eyes rolled back as they closed. “Ah, it is a man, no? A man you wish to… know the truth?”

“Yes,” I stated. “He deserves to know.”

“They all do,” she agreed as her gaze drifted to her hand atop mine. “They all should know the truth of a woman’s touch.”

Wait. What? “No, that’s… not—”

“Hush, dear,” she interrupted. “You have asked, and the cosmos will respond.” She lifted the first card from the top of the deck and turned it over. “Oh, how fascinating. You are not one to disappoint!”

A man hung from a tree by his ankle but rose above it against gravity. “The Hanged Man, inverted,” she said. “You are learning a new perspective on love. This man of whom you speak should know this, yes.”

But I knew The Hanged Man had many more meanings. Despite my question, I worried it related more to the situation at hand. I dodged sacrifice every second I lingered in Madam Drina’s presence.

She flipped the second card and hummed a knowing song. “The Seven of Pentacles, upright. You have long put work into this friendship. That is how you weather this storm. It will pay off with romance.”

The urge to contradict her nearly overcame my sensibility. Hard work, perseverance, and patience would see me through my encounter with such an abhorrent creature.

The third card flipped over, and Madam Drina hummed again as if she expected the result. “The Eight of Cups, inverted. You are learning the lessons of fear, sweetheart. Loneliness and loss are hard lessons, undoubtedly.”

Until that moment, I had held absolutely no faith in the power, ability, or knowing of tarot cards. But as I stared down that inverted Eight of Cups, my once unwavering disregard for tarot faltered. I feared not loneliness, but indecision. Inaction. Stagnation. I had to choose a path and commit to it before stalling at the crossroads got me killed.

Madam Drina grasped my left hand in hers and said, “You will see this through to your end, my dear. I know it.” She flipped over the fourth card and beamed with such pride I wondered if I had imagined her sense of danger earlier. “Strength, inverted!” she cried, almost a moan. “You shed your low self-esteem and insecurities, and are born again confident in love!”

No. What I relinquished in her presence was not insecurity, but fear. I stared Madam Drina dead in the eye again. I forced myself to meet her enraptured gaze of pure, unadulterated lust head-on and without fear any longer.

The fifth and final card flipped over with a snap of the cardstock. And that time, she cried out such a lascivious moan, I desperately wished to be anywhere else but in that room with her. “The Queen of Wands, upright,” she sighed. “You move forward with independence, confidence, and openness with your lover!”

In a brilliant flare of icy sorcery, Madam Drina lunged over the plinth and grasped me by the jaw. “You radiate power, sweetling. Do you not feel it?!” she breathed, oakmoss and elderberry filling my nose once more. “You should. You should experience the pleasures of such power. I can give that to you if you want. I can give you everything.”

Courage. The Queen of Wands symbolizes courage and individualism. To survive the encounter, I needed to believe in myself. Weak knees shook as I stood, the last of my willpower draining like water through a sieve. Madam Drina poured every ounce of her power into me, an unrelenting tidal wave. I wanted nothing more than to give in, surrender to her promises, and experience the culmination of that euphoria. And yet, the tiniest of voices, so thin and frail in the recess of my subconscious, forced its way to the fore of my mind and spoke of courage. Of righteous anger. Of life. Of love.

As Madam Drina pressed closer, her visage wavered, the mirage fading away to reveal her true form. Pale, purple skin stretched thin across her angular face, and endless black depths replaced the blue sapphires into which I stared. Long, curved horns smooth as obsidian protruded from her hairline where the skin crackled like broken earth to reveal tiny streams of violent purple energy flowing through her body.

“You will submit,” she ordered, “I own you now.”

Blood rushed past my ears with each furious beat of my heart, drowning out her words. The succubus continued to speak, continued to pour her delusions into my head. But I heard nothing, saw nothing. The last of my strength focused laser-like on the machete, and I reached behind my hip for the handle.

In a ring of metal and a flash of steel, I stripped the machete from its scabbard. The blade arched in a wild bid for her neck, and time stretched far too thin. Each second dragged, and the blade slid slowly, achingly, to its mark. Strike true, I begged. My life depended on it. God, please, let me strike true.

A sharp, earsplitting crack of thunder rang from the blade as it connected with the succubus’ long claws, her fingers against her neck blocking the machete. She smiled then, her long snakelike tongue darting out to lick her lips as she tore the weapon from my hand and tossed it to the floor beside her. “You will be such a pleasure to break.”

The bronze stake slipped from the sleeve of my jacket with a twitch of my wrist. Time raced to catch up, snapping back like a rubber band. I shoved the finely honed point to her chest, my entire body torqueing for all my strength, but in the final inch, the succubus screamed so loud, I collapsed to my knees. She flung me aside, and the stake flew from my hand to roll beneath a thick chest of drawers. I tumbled with it, crashing into the dense oak, and pain lanced like lightning through my entire body.

She screamed again, another furious screech that echoed impossibly through the shop. Windows rattled in their panes, and my hands snapped to my ears. The succubus stood then, and for the first time, I consumed her entire form. Heeled feet and slender ankles begged the eye up to the perfect curves of her sensuous hips that swayed as she strode to me and straddled my prone body. From the shiny golden gorget at her neck, delicate chains stretched along her pale skin, down her massive breasts, and capped small metal disks over her nipples. More delicate chains crossed along her soft stomach and wide hips, barely covering her sex with a flimsy gauze cloth that draped to the floor. Over her shoulder curled a wicked, seven-foot-long tail protruding from her spine at the top of her long, supple ass.

Lust, incarnate.

“You are inquisitive,” she purred. “I know what you are thinking. I know what they all think when they see my true form for the first time. You wonder.” She leaned over and reached for my throat. Adrenaline surged as I attempted to fight her off, but she pinned me to the floor with no effort at all. “You imagine. You fantasize,” she whispered into my ear. “I can give it all to you, and so much more.”

Her long, lithe fingers wrapped around my throat and gently squeezed. “This,” she started, “is what you crave. What you’ve wanted for years. To know endless pleasure by my hands of mastery. Agree, and I will give it to you. Fight, like you continue to do as you squirm your lithe little body beneath mine, and I will take it from you anyway.”

Darkness pressed in from all sides as my vision narrowed. Her grasp pressed ever so perfectly, and within seconds, I succumbed to the ceaseless nothing.

A thin shattering of glass and a sharp, shrill cry echoed through the emptiness like a distant memory. Light returned, and the room focused as I shook my head, but nowhere near fast enough. The succubus snatched me up from the floor like a child clutching a favored doll. Tiny diamonds of glass tumbled from my hair, my coat, and when she turned me about, I saw Sam and Castiel standing at the front of the shop, guns loaded for bare.

“Hand her over!” Sam barked. “Now!”

“Or what?” the succubus seethed. “You’ll shoot me? You’ll have to shoot her fir—”

“They might.” The thunk of the rifle at the back of the succubus’ head snapped my attention behind her. There, Dean glared at the end of his short barrel and said, “But I won’t.”

Another blinding flash of power roared through the room as everything happened at once. The succubus flung me from her arms, and I soared across the room to crash into Sam. We toppled together to the floor, and not a beat behind me, Dean and his shotgun followed. He rolled as he landed, but barreled into Castiel, who only just caught him.

An infuriating lilt of her humming pleasure caught us all off guard. “You brought men to defend you?” She howled with haunting laughter. “Maybe you are not so bright after all,” she simpered with a wave of her hand.

On pins and needles, I could only watch as Sam, Dean, and even Castiel reached for their heads, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. But just as I had resisted her magic, so did they. A few shakes of their heads and a breath later, Dean picked up his shotgun, Castiel aimed with his once more, and Sam helped me to my feet. As I stepped back, my heel kicked something hard, larger than the shards of glass strewn about the shop’s entry, but I dared not look down as the succubus advanced on us.

“Oh,” she mused as she took her sensuous rolling steps. “Your friends are strong, too. Stronger than you? Will I break all four of you? Together?”

“Back off, bitch.”

The crack of Dean’s shotgun exploded in the tiny shop, and my ears rang for several seconds before I heard more pealing laughter from the succubus. Rock salt lay scattered on the ground a foot before her as though it had hit an impenetrable wall. “You think you can just shoot me, Dean Winchester?”

Dean balked then, appearing shocked to hear his own name. “No. You don’t know me. Don’t even pretend like you do.”

“Oh, but I do,” she said as she stepped once more. In that second, her skin shimmered and shifted until it transformed into a dark suit, blue tie, and tan trench coat. “I know everything about you.”

Her eyes turned brilliant emerald green as they snapped to Castiel. “And you. The disgraced angel, Castiel, who once tempted the fate of the entire world by becoming God. The things I would love to do to—”

“Shut it,” Sam hissed as he raised his shotgun.

The succubus looked at the rock salt at her feet, then back to Sam. “What makes you think your gun will work after his didn’t?”

“I’m not packin’ rock salt, honey,” he stated. “Now back up.”

“My dear Sam, do not make me…” her voice clipped short as she hesitated, then her coat and suit shifted to match my own outfit. She turned to me, and her clothing twisted into Sam’s burnt orange jacket. “Well, aren’t I a lucky girl?” Her clothing vanished in a shiver befitting a burlesque dancer. “Four pining souls all desperate for pleasure. You’ve come to the right place. I think I’ll start with you.”

When the succubus pointed, Dean choked as though on cue. His shotgun dropped from his hands and clattered to the floor, and though it was within reach, I dared not move. Sam and Castiel raised their rifles to shoot, but a flippant wave of her free hand sent them flying into the opposite wall of the shop. They crashed into the ornate furniture in a hail of wood and metal, then collapsed beneath the rubble. Where Sam had slumped motionless, Castiel remained conscious, but he struggled to do even that.

“Cas, you hold on!” Dean choked. “Y/N, help him!”

With a subtle shift in her pointing hand, Dean rose to the tips of his boots, barely touching the floor. I alone remained standing, but mine was no longer the only life on the line. Once more, I stood at the crossroads and had to commit to a path.

I dropped to the floor for the rifle, and no sooner than my hands graced the stock, it sailed across the room. “Dean goes first,” the succubus declared. “Then once I’m through with him, I’ll break Sam. And then you.” She turned back to Dean. “While your big, dumb men watch.”

“Don’t you touch them!” Dean choked as he clawed at his neck. The tips of his boots scraped the floor where the succubus dangled him. “I’ll fucking kill you if you lay a single finger on any of them!”

One heeled foot stepped in front of the other as the succubus closed the space between her and Dean. “Your brother was supposed to be my king. Did you know that?” she breathed. “You could be my king, and I’ll serve you however you see fit. I’ll leave her alone. I’ll leave Sam alone. I’ll even leave dear, sweet Castiel alone.”

She looked to Castiel, who stumbled through the rubble to rouse Sam’s motionless body. “Look at him. Bumbling fool,” she hissed. “What do you see in him that you don’t see in me? I can give you so much more.”

Dean tried to choke out another retort, but her invisible grip at his throat tightened. When she reached him, she pressed her entire body against his, and a virulent wave of power roared to life around them, crackling like fire but dark as night. A violently lewd shiver coursed through her, running from shoulder to tail as she moaned, and Dean’s face turned a putrid shade of green I had never seen on a human before. “Aw, you don’t like being choked? Poor thing. You’re missing out. I can teach you to love it.” Her long forked tongue teased at Dean’s jaw, and she moaned again as he jerked his head away from her violently.

In one infinitesimal second, horrors unlike any I had experienced before flashed before my mind’s eye. In the next breath, those terrible visions faded in a haze of red, insatiable bloodlust. No coherent thought penetrated that curtain of rage, that raw, unbridled fury, and I committed for the third and final time that night.

Fast as lightning, I lunged. My machete lay where I had unknowingly kicked it not minutes earlier. In an odd twist of fate, it had come to rest in a place so perfect. I could not have picked it ahead of time, given a chance. In a move that put Neo to shame, I rolled through the wild dive for the machete and sprang to my feet, armed. Distracted so by her prey, the succubus turned too late to defend herself. And I wasn’t about to let her get the last word before I snuffed out the wick that was her pathetic existence.

“Choke on this, you sick son of a bitch.”

Steal sang through the air, harmony to the melody of my frenzied scream, and sliced through her skin, sinew, and bone like a hot knife through butter. A fine black mist of demon blood billowed from the strike, covering my face. As the succubus’s decapitated head and body dropped to the floor in a resounding thud, a thin arc of demon blood lanced across Dean’s chest, and he vomited.

He continued to wretch until Castiel rushed from the heap of broken furniture and wrapped one arm around Dean’s back as the other cupped his forehead. Dean gasped, plunged so suddenly beneath the icy waves of healing. But as quickly as Dean’s nausea had come on, it passed in the wake of Castiel’s touch, and he stood tall once more. When Dean nodded in reassurance, Castiel headed back for Sam as he stirred to life in the rubble.

Black runnels of thick blood ran in rivulets down the blade of my machete. White knuckles yet clutched the hilt, and a moment passed before reality, dancing at the edges of my consciousness, sank in. Those were my knuckles, stiff and shaking under straining muscles. A freak spasm snapped my fingers apart, and the blade thumped to the floor.

“Hey,” Dean started as he neared me. “Keep it together, Y/N. You did what you had to do. Look at me. Focus on me.”

Lingering bouts of rage trickled through my blood and rendered my mind near useless. Dean’s lips moved, but I hardly heard a sound, his voice muted. That suffocating rage dragged me down like a treacherous undertow. I did my best to read his lips. Did what you had to. Look. Focus. He pointed two fingers at me, at my eyes, then at himself.

I only noticed Castiel had returned with Sam in tow after Dean had turned to ensure they were alright. A short, muted conversation passed between them, but when Sam spotted me, he closed the remaining space between us and asked, “Do you want to leave?”

The silence shattered, and I heard his voice clear as a bell. But with that clarity came understanding. My stare had unwittingly fallen on the lifeless body, once virile and full of limitless power, sprawled on the floor, her head a few feet away. Even in death, the overt lust of the succubus imposed, branding my mind with an indelible memory I begged to forget.

And then she was gone, blocked by Sam’s broad shoulders and towering frame. “Cas and Dean can handle the body,” he said as he reached for me. I recoiled, an unbidden reaction that surprised even myself. A pained frown I never wished to see again knotted Sam’s brow. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry you went through this alone. It was a terrible plan—”

He choked on his words as I lunged into his arms again, and he remained quiet as he held me. In that moment of silence, I wanted nothing more than to scream, to take out every ounce of my furious hatred for that abomination on her corpse. But the longer I breathed in Sam’s embrace—free of any oakmoss or elderberry, thank Christ—that righteous rage subsided.

“Jesus. No wonder men just fall into their laps,” Dean commented.

I looked past Sam to find Dean and Castiel looming over the body of the succubus.

“I never understood why God created humans to be so…” Castiel paused as he neared the head. “So…”

“Simple?” Dean asked. “So easily fooled? So… basic?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes.”

Dean managed a chuckle at that. “I wish I knew, too.” He paused as he stared at her for one lingering moment. “I hate everything about this. Let’s torch the body outside of town and get the hell out of here.” He tossed a heavy burlap bag at Castiel.

“Why do you hate them so much?” Castiel asked as he caught the bag.

“Because,” Dean grunted, “it’s not fun if it’s not consensual. And if there’s one thing a succubus gets off on most, it’s an extreme lack of consent. And that is fucking gross.”

As Sam led me to the shop’s front door, I glimpsed the tiniest reassured smile on Castiel’s face. And then I understood.

The tarot cards had been right all along.

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