#supernatural season 1 fanfiction

[zepskies]

Dream With Me - Part 1

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized!Reader (Latina)

Summary: When your asshole ex-boyfriend calls for help on a case, you have a tough decision to make. But Dean isn’t going to let you do anything alone. AKA: The last hunt you, Sam, and Dean will ever go on together.

AN: Here we go, a three-part story for the Espresso-verse! This is set in the dreaded 15x20 (or the time gap within In Bad Weather.) There are implied references back to Devour Me and Show Me.

Word Count: 4.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, some spiciness, past body insecurity, references to body shaming, references to smut, PTSD, peril, blood and violence.

Start from the beginning of the series: ⤵️

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 1: “On the Drop of a Dime”

Silence reigns as you and Dean get ready for bed. Tonight, it’s your boyfriend who’s watching you closely. 

Something’s off, he thinks, even as he checks you out in the little sleep shorts you just put on. It’s not the spandex ones he likes, but he still gets to see your familiar curves.

It's been a minute since he's gotten reacquainted. He and Sam just got back from a long hunt yesterday. You stayed home this time, for reasons Dean still hasn't totally figured out.

But his eyes trace over you, from thick thighs and tempting ass, to all of what you’re hiding under an old Def Leppard shirt. The rest, he can trace from memory alone.

You notice him watching you from his side of the bed. Your lips tug upwards.

“What?” you ask. Dean nods over, beginning to smile as well.

“Come ‘ere already.”

Huffing a little laugh, you tie your hair up in a big scrunchie and slide your way into bed, and into the inviting space between his arm and chest. He wraps that arm around your waist, pulling you comfortably close. You expel a deep breath and rest against him.

And you smile. “He’s snoring again.”

Miracle, a shaggy mutt Dean rescued, is curled up in his doggy bed at the foot of the humans’ bed where he likes to sleep. And rumble through his nose. He always goes to lay down when he sees Dean venture to the sink to brush his teeth. It’s like he knows his parents are about to go to sleep, so it’s his way of joining you.

“Dogs snore. Who knew?” Dean remarks.

“Who knew you’d be the one to get us a dog,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees in amusement. “Taking home strays is more your thing.”

You smirk at him. “Worked with you, didn’t it?”

Dean scoffs. “Hey, you moved in with me. Which makes you the stray.”

“Hey!” You shove at his shoulder. He traps your hand against his chest and tugs you in to kiss into your neck.

“Aw, but a sexy one,” he says, humming in pleasure against your skin, where he inhales that alluring mix of floral soap and coconutty shampoo. “Mmm. Less Annie, more Pretty Woman. Like Julia Roberts, if she had a Latina ass.”

You have to laugh, despite the arousing graze of his teeth against your pulse point. You hold him close by his shirt. He takes the scrunchie out of your hair with a practiced hand, letting the wild strands curl around his fingers. You tsk at him. He can never just let your hair be.

“Are you really comparing me to a prostitute right now?” you retort. You feel the shape of his grin against your skin.

“What can I say, baby? You’ve got moves,” Dean teases, low and gravel in your ear. A shiver runs down your spine, but you’re both turned on and incredulous all at once.

Again, you hit his shoulder with a burst of laughter. It briefly lightens you from the funk you’ve been in.

It’s been a couple of months since Sam, Dean, and Jack ended Chuck’s reign of terror. Jack snapped the world back into existence and brought you back, along with everyone else…and the monsters.

It means your work isn’t over, even though that work is starting to wear on you. You haven’t let this on to Sam or Dean, however. It’s just been this thing, weighing on you for two months.

Unlike them, you don’t have as much experience with apocalyptic-level events, let alone dying. (And coming back, for that matter.)

Dean’s lips begin to break you from those thoughts, however, when he blazes a warm trail of sensuous, grazing kisses up your neck. Then along the curve of your jaw, as he holds your other cheek. Finally, he claims your lips.

You breathe into it, and into him as he almost succeeds in distracting your weighted mind. You give him a couple of sweet kisses in return before you slowly break from him.

“You have another long drive tomorrow,” you remind him, rubbing a hand across his chest. “Maybe you should sleep.”

Dean frowns as he looks on you. He tries to read whatever you’re hiding back there, behind your eyes.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” he asks, and not for the first time. “Could use your help on the case.”

Sam already found another one: a string of suspicious murders in Boston—potentially a cursed Red Sox collectible cycling its way through unsuspecting baseball fans. In the morning, he and Dean are going out to investigate. You’ve elected to opt out. 

“It’s okay. I want to give Jody a visit,” you reply. You reach for the bedcovers to cover yourself up to your chest. Dean strokes your hip underneath.

“We could always swing by Sioux Falls after the hunt,” he says.

“It’s okay, baby. You and Sam go ahead,” you say. You twist away from him to turn off the light, but Dean stops you.

“All right,” he says with a sigh. “What’s going on?”

You raise a brow at him. “What?”

“You what,” Dean retorts. “This is the second time in a row that you’re blowing off a hunt.”

He’s right, but you don’t have a good answer for him. Your lips purse.

“I don’t know, I mean…are you going through some kind of slump?” he asks. “‘Cause you know I’ve been there.”

It’s your turn to sigh. You sit up in bed, and you debate the words you want to use to broach this with him. It’s been percolating in your mind for a while now, but it seems like this is the time to finally let it out.

“Okay, here it goes,” you mutter, trying to ignore your trepidation. “Do you ever think about…retiring?”

Dean’s attention piques, along with his frown.

“Retiring?” he repeats.

You reach out to grab his wrist, and you draw your thumb back and forth across his skin. 

“You ever think of…a house,” you pose. “Maybe a cozy cabin, or a little cottage-style thing somewhere, with a backyard for Miracle. And like, at least three bedrooms.” 

Dean smiles a little. He allows himself to contemplate the picture you’re painting.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why three bedrooms?” he asks.

Hope begins to flutter in your chest.

“Well, there’s our room of course,” you say, with a flirtatious gleam to your smile. “That’s where the magic happens.”

He smirks. “I’m in agreement so far.”

“Then there’s a guest room, for whenever Sam and Eileen come to visit,” you continue. “And then…there’s a third room for whatever we need.”

Your tone is leading him somewhere, along with your hand trailing up and down his arm.

“Like, you know, a gym. Or an office. Or a kid’s bedroom…or maybe two,” you say.

Dean’s expression slackens as surprise overtakes him. He probably should’ve known though.

“Two,” he intones, chuckling nervously. But, his face softens as he watches you with new understanding. “You’ve really been thinkin’ about that, huh?”

“Maybe,” you confess. You gain some courage and take in a deep breath. “Do you think about it? Dean, do you ever want to have a simpler life?”

He hums deep in contemplation. It’s a heavy sound, and it doesn’t spark your confidence.

“You know I’ve tried that before,” he says at last. “That life…sweetheart, it’s not my life. It never has been.”

“It could be,” you insist. “Chuck is done—”

“But the monsters ain’t,” Dean retorts. 

“There are other hunters,” you point out. “Haven’t you given enough? Haven’t we given enough?”

You squeeze his hand to punctuate your point. Dean glances down, feeling the near desperation in your grip. Eventually, he’s able to meet your eyes again.

“Look…I’m the Job, you know? What the hell would I even do if not this?” he says.

You raise up his hand and lay a kiss to his knuckles. You know he thinks being a hunter is all he’s good for—all he’s equipped to do. You also know that he’s so much more than the Job. 

“Dean, you’re one of the smartest, most resourceful people I know. You can…restore cars, build cars,” you suggest. Your excitement grows as you brainstorm for him. You tap on his thigh.

“Oh! You could open up a bar. Call it the Roadhouse, after the one your friends had. Or hey, we could open up a bakery. We’ll sell pies and flan and whatever the hell else you want me to make.”

You say that last bit with a giggle. It earns Dean’s smile, but you know, looking into his eyes, that he’s not convinced. You grab his hand again with both of yours.

“Come on, Dean. Dream with me for a second,” you implore. “I know we could do this. We could…we could have a different life. A peaceful life. We could have a family.”

Dean sighs, glancing down at his hands. They’re calloused and scarred, and he has the memories to match.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I just uh…I think it’s too late for me to dream like that.”

Tears well up in your eyes as your heart begins to break. Dean sees the fractures, and immediately feels guilty for it.

“Sweetheart,” he tries, reaching out for you, but you shake your head and turn away from him. He feels the loss of your hand.

“Good night,” you say, more sharply than you mean to. I knew he wouldn’t go for it, and I opened my mouth anyway.

He touches your shoulder. “Hey, come on—”

“Good night, Dean,” you repeat. I knew he wouldn’t…

You shouldn’t have said anything. You turn off the lamp on your nightstand, casting the room into darkness.

Dean hesitates. He hadn’t meant to hurt you, even though he knows he has. He just doesn’t know how to comfort you this time. His hand falls away from you as he turns onto his back, his lips pressing together.

“Thought we weren’t supposed to go to bed angry,” he dryly remarks.

“I’m not angry,” you mutter.

She said, friggin’ angrily, Dean finishes in his mind.

He sighs and tries to go to sleep. 

In the morning, you’re quieter than usual. You keep saying you’re not mad. You keep telling him to forget about it. But after four years together, Dean knows when you’re pulling away from him. 

You don’t even make espresso from your little cafetera press, like you usually do. You’re rummaging through the pantry, seemingly trying to decide what you’re going to have for breakfast.

“Coffee?” Dean asks.

You point to the percolating machine that spits out normal black coffee—a silent gesture that tells him he should make it himself.

Which he does, while frowning in annoyance at your attitude. He thinks it might be good that he and Sam are leaving on this hunt soon. It’ll give you a chance to cool off, and Dean a chance to figure out how to make this right with you. The problem is, he knows he won’t be able to do that without giving you what you want.

Retired? He scoffs in his mind. Bobby and Rufus never fucking retired from the life. Hell, Dean never even thought he’d live this long.

And what happened to Bobby, Rufus, Ellen, Jo, Cas, and too many others…

Dean doesn’t let himself dwell on that interjecting thought for too long, even though it adds a familiar weight to his shoulders. He makes himself some buttered toast. He then sits across from Sam, who’s eating cereal while scrolling through the news on his laptop.

You sit next to Sam after grabbing a steaming cup of an Americano and a protein bar. Dean can tell by your face that you’re not enjoying either one. He debates if he should ask if you still plan to drive out to go see Jody today.

Sam glances over at his brother. He’s sensing the unspoken tension between you and Dean, but the latter can only give a small shake of his head.

You don’t want to know, Dean’s face says.

Your cell phone rings, breaking the silence. It’s an unknown number. You frown in confusion, but you still pick it up.

“Hello?” you answer.

“Hey. It’s me.”

Your frown deepens. You think you know the voice on the line, but you figure you should make sure, before your shitty morning gets even better.

“Who’s this?” you ask.

“It’s Carter,” he replies.

In other words, your insufferable ex-boyfriend. The last time you saw him was at a wake for a fellow hunter, Alicia Jackson. By the end of it, Dean nearly broke the man’s hand by the table of mini quiche. 

“You have some goddamn audacity,” you say in a biting tone. It has both Sam and Dean perking up in curiosity. 

“You’re the one who didn’t change your number,” Carter points out. You sigh and cover your eyes with your hand. 

“Why the hell are you calling me?” you ask. There’s a pause on the other line, but you lose patience.

“Carter, don’t waste my time. What the hell do you want?”

At hearing that name, Dean’s face falls with a dark frown. You raise a placating hand to him while you listen. 

“I need your help,” Carter says. “I’m on this case. A town in Nebraska on the edge of the woods. Three infants taken from their cribs. Townsfolk have been hearing noises from the woods. Sound familiar?”

Unfortunately, it does. You remember a case you worked a few months before you met Carter, in a small rural town in Louisiana. It had affected you so deeply, you remember telling him about it, when you two were still together.

“A cadejo isn’t going to go that far north,” you say.

Originally from South America, cajedos are dog-like creatures, except for their hooves. They’re creatures of habit, and they like the warmth. They also prefer the taste of children. The younger the better.

“It will if it’s hungry,” Carter points out. “You’re the only one I know who’s hunted one of these things.”

“…Okay. Where are you?” you sigh in defeat. 

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Dean whisper-yells. Your lips purse, and again you raise a hand, wordlessly telling him to wait. 

“Arcadia,” Carter replies.

You shake your head at the prospect of actually going along with this. 

“You know I’m probably not going to meet you alone, right?” you say.

“Yeah, I heard Hasselhoff back there,” Carter remarks. “I’m sure he and the other Twin Terror will be right behind you.”

“If you’re gonna be an asshole, you can get fucked by the cadejo for all I care. Call another hunter.” You’re ready to hang up when Carter backtracks.

“Okay, okay! I can be civil,” he says. “Come on. I need your help.”

You deliberate internally with indecision as you set down your phone for a minute. You glance up at Dean, whose facial expression makes it pretty damn clear what his stance is. Sam seems to be waiting on whatever you decide, but is still wary.

You reluctantly hold the phone back to your ear.

“All right. I’ll be on the way in a bit,” you reply.

“Well, all right then. See you soon,” Carter says, in a quasi-flirtatious tone that makes you grimace in disgust.

You hang up the phone and set it down on the table in exasperation. When you raise your gaze, you find exactly what you expect to see.

Dean’s jaw is clenched.

“Wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he asks. You frown at him in annoyance.

“You want to calm down?” you say.

“What, so I’m supposed to be okay with you agreeing to go see that son of a bitch?” Dean says. “After what happened last time?”

“Dean…” You rub at your forehead, frowning at the beginning of an ache behind your eyes. 

Sam knows instinctively that this is a conversation better had between just you and Dean, but he feels weird about getting up from the dining table. In his indecision, he stays. 

“This isn’t about me,” you say at last. “And it’s not about him. This is about saving people who need help.”

It’s a point Dean can’t readily refute. So you give him a sly smile. 

“Besides,” you say. “Are you really going to let me go alone?”

That’s how Dean ends up driving you and Sam to Nebraska on a Tuesday morning, after calling another hunter to take on that case Sam had found.

Dean is taciturn and downright grumpy all the way there. Even though you know why, it still irks you. Despite your argument last night, he’s become an amazingly supportive boyfriend in so many ways. So why is he being such a man child about this?

When you all get to the motel, you and Dean book a room while Sam grabs his own. You don’t blame him for wanting some distance from the tension the elder Winchester is exuding. You only wish you could get a room by yourself.

You text Carter to let him know that you’ve arrived at the same motel he’s staying at: 

Where do you want to meet up?

Dean notices you texting. 

“Right, let’s get this over with. Where’re we meeting your boyfriend,” he snarks.

But you’re not laughing. You let out an angry huff, your hands moving to your hips. 

“I’d appreciate it if you’d stopped being such an ass about this. I have enough on my mind without dealing with your pouting,” you say. 

Dean looks down at you, crossing his arms. “I’m not pouting. I’m here trying to watch your back while you go and let that bastard play you like a damn fiddle.”

You stare at him in disbelief. 

“Do you really, actually think I want to see Carter?” you ask. “Do you think I’m that stupid, that I don’t know what he’s trying to do?”

You already know Carter is using this to try and get back into your life, or at least, under your skin. You don’t intend to let him accomplish either one.

Meanwhile, Dean’s frown deepens.

“Okay. If you’re seeing 20/20, then why’re we here? Why not call another hunter and let them fill in?” he asks.

“Is that what you would do?” you counter, pressing a finger into his chest. “If it was your ex who needed help, you would be doing the same damn thing that I’m doing, and don’t pretend it’d be any different. So stop trying to make me feel guilty for trying to do this right.”

You grab the empty ice bucket from the counter. Right now, you need any excuse to get some air, and get out of this oppressive room. 

Dean lets you go, even though he’s silently fuming. The door slams shut behind you. 

He sighs. He doesn’t feel like being in this room either, so he steps out and knocks on Sam’s door. 

Sam opens it, and has to move to the side when Dean slips inside without asking. 

“Sure, come right in,” Sam says wryly. He watches Dean sit down on the bed and drop his head into his hands, rubbing his face. 

“Dude, you need to chill out,” Sam says. Dean’s head raises, and he gives his brother a sarcastic look.

“Oh, really? Is that what the fuck I need to do?” he says. He draws a frustrated hand over his mouth. “This guy’s a problem Sam. This whole thing…it doesn’t feel right.”

Sam doesn’t understand just how bad the repercussions were, after what happened at Alicia’s funeral. You having to deal with Carter that night had set you back, mentally, in more ways than one. It had you thinking things about yourself, and your own body, that made Dean want to track that bastard down and bash his skull in.

But instead, Dean had spent that entire night trying to help you feel comfortable in your own skin again, and comfortable with him. He’d continued trying to erase those old insecurities from your mind for the rest of the damn week—mainly by fucking it out of you.

In your bed, in the shower, in the backseat of his Baby, on that comfy couch in the library that's already been christened three times before (luckily, no one caught you guys that time), and even in the dirty bathroom of a roadside bar after a hunt.

...Yeah, you’d taken some convincing on that last one.

Worth it, Dean thinks, smirking internally.

Besides all of that though, there’s something else gnawing at his insides. Something he hasn’t told Sam, or even you for that matter.

Since the world nearly ended with Chuck and his snapping fingers, Dean has lived with…a kind of edge. An edge that makes him wary whenever your safety is concerned, beyond the usual dangers that come with a hunt. Beyond the things Dean feels equipped to handle with certainty. 

“Be that as it may, she can take care of herself, Dean. You know that,” Sam says, breaking Dean from his thoughts. “All we can do is watch her back on this. And we will.”

After a beat to consider that, Dean nods, however reluctantly. Despite your recent struggles, he also knows how strong you are, and not just in your stubbornness that’s more than a match for his own.

Even though he’d rather you not have to go through this bullshit at all with Carter, Dean knows you. He knows you’ll do what you think is right, with or without his say so.

His shoulders deflate with his breath of exasperation. He gets up, claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Dean leaves his brother’s room to return to his own.

He frowns when he finds it empty. 

He backs out of the room and looks down the sidewalk. There’s no one in sight. 

He follows down the path you must’ve gone to find the ice machine. He turns a corner, and he finds a half-full bucket of ice…on the ground, laying on its side. Dean rushes back to the parking lot.

He doesn’t see you anywhere. The Impala is still parked where he left her, so you haven’t taken off by yourself. At least, not of your own volition.

He goes back to Sam’s motel room and pounds a fist three times on his door. Sam opens it with an annoyed frown and a ready protest, until Dean speaks over him. 

“Sam, I can’t find her,” he says. “She’s gone.”

Slowly, you wake in what looks like a dusty old barn.

You’re sitting in a wooden chair that hurts your ass, and your back is aching due to the thick knot of rope holding your wrists behind the chair. There’s a pounding in the back of your skull that makes you wince.

You have a dull memory of feeling a presence behind you, and then being hit before you could even throw a punch.

Someone calls your name gently. You turn to your left, and there’s Carter, strapped to his own chair. He looks rough. His eyes are bloodshot and tired, and he bears a ragged wound on his neck. It’s weeping with blood that stains his shirt, likely hours old, by the way it’s dried. 

You would know that kind of bite anywhere. You feel the phantom pain where your neck meets your shoulder.

Vampires.

“You okay?” Carter asks. He looks genuinely worried for you.

“What?” you utter. You’re still a bit dazed, until a woman steps into the room. Her long brown hair is tied up in a ponytail, and her leather jacket matches her dark wash jeans and black boots. She gathers her hands behind her back and gives you a smile. 

“Morning, sweetheart. Have a good little nap?” she asks. 

“You know...I’ve had better,” you reply, rolling the crick out of your neck. Again, you glance at Carter. He looks like he’s been here for days. And, he looks guilty as hell.

A terrible feeling grows in the pit of your stomach, but you take in a breath and return your attention to the woman in front of you.

“It’s a cocky game, hunting for hunters,” you say. “What, got tired of sucking on cows and hookers?”

What can you say? After four years, Dean has rubbed off on you.

The woman cocks her head, and her smile deepens. She steps closer. Close enough to smell you as she leans in close to your cheek. She inhales your scent, her lips brushing your neck and earlobe. You grimace and try to pull away, but she grabs your head, her nails tangling sharply in your hair. 

You fucking hate vampires.

Especially after a nest of vampires turned a child, who then tried to take a chunk out of your neck. It’s been a few years since then, but you’ve always been uneasy on vamp hunts ever since. 

“I’ll make it easy for you,” the woman whispers in your ear. “You’re here because I want one thing. Just one thing… Sam and Dean Winchester.”

That shocks you, but you manage to recover enough to reply.

“Who are you?” you ask. “Why are you after them?”

“Jenny. At least, that's the name they'll remember,” she replies, toying with a strand of your hair. “And let’s just say, we have history. They killed my family. And that crime has no statute of limitations.”  

“You really think you’re going to get the drop on them?” you say, even though you’re trying to calm your breathing, and your racing heart. “Good luck, bitch.”

She grabs you by the hair, making you wince. 

“Leave her alone!” Carter says. He’s exhausted, but his anger and frustration fuel him.

The vampire suddenly releases you. But she walks behind you and moves over to him. She grabs him by his short blonde hair and forcefully cranes his head back. He makes a sound of pain, and her lips draw near to the open bite wound on his neck.  

“You shouldn’t be talking,” Jenny threatens. She abruptly lets him go and comes around to stand in front of both of you with her arms cross. She glances over at you, and gestures at your companion. 

“If you want to find the world’s most infamous killers, ask a killer,” she remarks.

You slowly turn your head toward Carter. Your expression tightens with anger—such anger that even brings furious tears to your eyes. 

“You…you lured me here,” you realize.

Carter confirms it when he can’t meet your eyes. His face tells a story of immense guilt. 

“I just thought they’d try to get the jump on Sam and Dean,” he says.

“Cooooño,” you mutter a drawn out curse through clenched teeth. Briefly you close your eyes. 

“I figured the three of you could take ‘em. I didn’t think they’d take you!” Carter exclaims.

It doesn’t change the fact that he’d lied to you, betrayed you. He tried to trade his own life for theirs, and yours as well.

“I knew you were a fucking asshole, but I never thought you were this big a coward!” you hiss.

“I’m sorry,” he tries.

“I don’t want to hear it!” you snap back. You look up at Jenny, who looks bemused watching the scene.

“And you better come packing, Twilight, because Sam and Dean are gonna gut you like a fish,” you say snidely.

Jenny smiles as one, two, three and more men step into the barn and join her. She greets them all with a nod of her head, before she turns back to you with a sharp grin.

“Oh, I’m certainly not alone.”

“Son of a bitch. I fucking told you," Dean grouses. "I knew there was something off about this whole deal.”

“I hear you,” Sam says. His tone is steady to try and anchor his brother. “We’re almost there.”

Dean is pushing Baby to her limits on a dusty road out to Bumfuck Nowhere, Nebraska. Sam has been able to track your cell phone, and even break into your text messages from his laptop. Carter’s last text to you held the location of where to meet in exact coordinates. Even Sam agreed that was strange, as if your kidnapping wasn’t bad enough. 

It has Dean white-knuckling his grip on the steering wheel. Sam’s route is leading him further away from civilization, and deeper into the woods on either side of the road. 

“How much longer, man?” Dean asks. 

Sam gives his brother a reassuring look. He’s worried for you too, but he knows he has to lock it up for Dean’s sake. 

“Couple more miles," Sam replies. "Then it looks like we’re going off-road.”

“Into the woods?” Dean asks. 

“Most likely,” Sam says. 

Fuck, Dean thinks. His gut churns with apprehension. He doesn’t even know what you’re going through right now, let alone who (or what) has you. All he knows is, he’s not losing you.

Not like this.

Not again.

Spanish Translation: “Coño.” -> "Fuck."

AN: 😮‍💨 Diving into the thick of it on this one! Lots of conflict and tension, but what did you think of her argument with Dean about her "dream?" And how do you think it's going to play out with Carter? 😬

Here's a sneak peek at where we're going:

Next Time:

Your lips thin into a line. “Or you’re just stupid enough to leave a couple of hunters alone. You better damn hope he doesn’t find Sam and Dean. Even when they don’t know what’s coming, they should be the stuff of your nightmares. But when they’re prepared?”

You lick your dry lips and give Jenny a grim smile, with more confidence than you actually feel.

“Say goodbye to your family,” you say.

After a beat, Jenny smiles tightly and grabs your face. Her nails bite into your cheeks.  

“All right, Nate. You can have a taste,” she says.

She steps to the side as one of the larger backup dancers in her little entourage draws near. Jenny wrenches your head back by your hair so he can lean in and bite into your neck. Your scream reverberates on the barn walls.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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[underground-secret]

The Hunter and the Witch ~ Dean Winchester x fem! reader

Description: y/n l/n (aka reader) has known the Winchesters ever since they helped her family start anew, away from a town that hated them for being witches. Or more specifically for y/n being a witch and accidentally causing mayhem. So when Dean comes knocking at her door asking for help she obviously complies, even if it means being stuck on the road with the man she’s secretly in love with.

Or it’s basically just y/n following the adventures of Supernatural

warnings: cannon violence, most likely poor representation of witch craft, everything written is fiction and should not be taken seriously

Prologue

Playlist

Outfits

Season 1

Chapter 1: The Woman in White

Special: Halloween Drive

Chapter 1~ Continuation

Chapter 2: Wendigo

Chapter 3: Dead In the Water

Chapter 4: Phantom Traveler

Chapter 4.5: Can you Promise Me?

Chapter 5: Bloody Mary

Chapter 6: Skin

Chapter 6.5: You’re not him

Chapter 7: Hook Man

Chapter 7.5: A fool in love

Chapter 8: Home

Chapter 8.5: Reunion

Chapter 9: Asylum

Chapter 10: Scarecrow

Chapter 10.5: Rest

Chapter 11: Faith

Chapter 12: Route 666

Chapter 13: Nightmare

Chapter 13.5: Words mean more at night

Chapter 14: The Benders

Chapter 15: Shadow

Chapter 16: Hell House

Chapter 17: Something Wicked

[deanscherrypie420]

His Sassy Girl

A/N: I literally had like - dead - while writing this but WE GOT THERE! YEAH! My friend helped me with the idea, love them for that. I hope you enjoy!

Characters: Sam Winchester, Reader Y/N, Dean Winchester

Pairing: Sam Winchester X Reader

!Warnings!: Rude comments/remarks, alcohol, partying, vampires, blood, threats, abduction, unwanted sexual actions, angst, fluff, wounds/injuries, violence, mild but very sensual smut (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Summary: After meeting at a party, Sam doesn't take a liking to you. You on the other hand, were practically in love with the giant. However, after you and Sam had an argument you went missing. Sam and his brother both know it's the vampires to blame, the ones they've been hunting, but Sam can't help but feel responsible for your disappearance.

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"Oh my God, that was so funny!" Y/N laughed loudly. She was clearly drunk.. very drunk. She couldn't help herself though, she loved the party scene. Lived in it. She was well known and always - in her opinion - seemed to make things more fun.

Sam was sitting next to her, along with a few other friends across from her. Sam's friend sat next to him. It was loud, music playing in the background of their conversation.

Sam was glad to be back at Stanford, even if it was for a case, but he really did not miss the partying.. or the drinking. While Y/N and her friends chatted, he zoned out a bit.

She was loud, and rude to people for no reason. It really irked him. Within the few days of meeting her, introduced by his friend, Sam really disliked her. He just wasn't a part of her crowd.

"Sammy!" She hiccuped, "What are you thinking about, lover boy?" Her voice was loud and had an obnoxious amount of giggling that followed after it. His brows furrowed and he excused himself. "I gotta go. Early morning."

She turned to her friends and frowned after he left. "Did I say something?"

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A couple days later, Brady called him and asked to party with him and the "gang." He reluctantly agreed, making Dean tag along as a buffer. Dean agreed, of course. It was his crowd.

When they got there, Y/N pulled Sam aside. She was a lot more sober than usual, but still clearly drunk, and she seemed a bit antsy. "Did I do something to upset you?" She said quickly and Sam's brows quirked in confusion. "No..? Why are you asking." She groaned and rolled her eyes, "Because, Sammy-" Sam cut her off quickly, "Don't call me that." She nodded and continued. "Because, Sam, you don't like to be around me. Is it something I did or said? I don't get it."

Sam rubbed between his eyes for a moment, really not having the energy to deal with her. "Look, I don't like you. I mean, I'm sure you're great but you aren't somebody I like to be around." He was quick with the way he spoke and his eagerness to end the conversation was very annoying to her.

"What is your problem? I didn't do shit to you. I've been nothing but nice to you-" He cut her off again, not in the mood for her attitude. "Yeah, but you're not very nice to anyone else. Can we wrap this up please?"

She paused for a moment, her eyes started to cloud with tears. She laughed, more at herself than at him. Even when he was being rude he still said "please." She ran her fingers through her hair and bit her lip. "Yeah, fine. Go find some hot sorority chick to fuck." She waved her hand dismissively and turned to walk away.

Sam grabbed her wrist and turned her back to face him. "What's your problem? Why are you getting so worked up about this?" He genuinely was curious. He didn't understand why she was teary-eyed, nor why she was pissed off.

"Oh, I don't know Sam. Maybe because I really fucking like you and it's not just the tequila talking," She laughed, "I really like you and you don't like me at all because I'm a bitch." She said it all really quickly, then she sucked in a breath and her cheeks turned warm. "I have to go." She announced and then she was gone.

Sam was still standing there for a moment, wondering what the fuck just happened. She likes me?

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The next morning Sam received a few texts from Y/N. He frowned, feeling a bit bad about how the conversation went from the night before. The first text was long and explained how sorry she was. The next was her begging for him not to hate her and the last one confused him.

Six

He studied the message for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell it meant. He texted back, Hey, you alright? Now the message was green. All their brief messages before that had been blue, but now this one was green.

After talking with Dean about it, Dean barely agreed it was suspicious. "She's lovesick, she wants your attention. It's nothing weird." Dean explained, but Sam just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. "Dean-" The older Winchester cut him off with a slight eye roll, "Save it, lets move on. Can we track down those damn vamps now?" The second Dean said it, they each looked at each other, realization flashing across both of their faces.

The fucking vampires.

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She woke up with a raging headache, like drums pounding against her forehead. She was tied to a metal pole with a rope that burned her skin. Her eyes squinted open and her vision was foggy. There was not much lighting, just a dim white overhead light that lit up a small section of the room. She looked around, trying to find something, anything that could help her.

Nothing.

Dammit, she thought to herself. She squirmed in the rope but froze up instantly when she heard a big metal door open. Two tall men emerged, one leaning against the wall and the other coming closer to her.

"You are just.." It inhaled and grinned, "Marvelous." She cringed and spat at it. "The fuck do you want?" Her face was quickly met with a hard slap and she seethed. "Oh, you're real friendly, huh." She croaked, her throat dry. The man from the wall got up and approached her. "I'd shut your mouth if you knew what was good for you." She scoffed and chuckled, "Where are your friends, huh? There were six of you before." Everything was happening so fast and she felt lightheaded, but she still continued speaking. "Cowards, huh. What do you even want from me anyway?"

They clearly didn't like her talking, because with one hard smack she was out. While she was unconscious they undressed her and left her almost completely exposed. She remained in her undergarments. They took a few pictures of her before an older vampire came in.

Thank God she wasn't awake.

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When she regained consciousness she had fallen to the ground, her eyes just barely opening. "What the fuck.." She groaned as she scooted back towards a wall. She was alone and untied. She got up quickly, a sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through her body.

She managed her way out of the metal room and found a seemingly normal home outside of it. She heard commotion up the stairs so she quickly sneaked out the back door. Her head was still buzzing and it took all of her strength not to collapse. Once she was outside she hid behind the side of the building. She tried her best to regulate her breathing. Looking down at herself for the first time she finally realized how beat up she was. Cuts and bruises everywhere.

What evil fucks.. She thought.

Suddenly, a loud crash adverted her attention away from herself and towards the back door. "Shit.." She muttered. As she turned to run, two strong arms wrapped around her and she felt her breath disappear.

"You're okay, you're safe. I promise you, you're okay." The familiar voice whispered in her ear. "Sammy?" She breathed out. "Yeah, there you go. I got you, I'm here." He soothed and she broke down. She turned around and hugged him tight, releasing a flood of sobs into his shoulder. His hand rubbed up and down her back, his lips pressed into her hair as he calmed her down.

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It had been a few days since her rescue and Sam refused to leave her side. They hadn't spoken about her feelings towards him, but he listened when she vented about how scary it was. Something he thought was cute is how she tried to be positive about it. Make light of the situation.

"Now, I have a kickass party story." She giggled, wincing slightly. Each time she laughed her ribs ached. Sam quickly came over and sat by her. "You really should get more rest.." He tried to sound serious but he couldn't help it. Every time she smiled, he smiled.

"You need to let me heal on my own, mister." She teased, nudging his back with her knee. He turned so he was facing her a bit more and gently grabbed her knee, moving it back and forth to mock her nudge. She laughed and he did too. It was such a silly thing to laugh about, but neither of them really cared.

The two of them put on a movie after some time and Sam let her snuggle up next to him. He let her put on one of her cheesy chick-flicks and she was so ecstatic. She couldn't stop laughing at the jokes and he nudged her, laughing as well. "How do you find this funny? It's so corny!" He teased her, and that only made her laugh more. She was looking up at him and in a giggling fit, making him chuckle. "God, you're adorable." He said under his breath and shortly after, her laughing died down.

There was a silence between the two of them. She was looking up at him and he was looking down at her. Her cheeks were warm and he cleared his throat. "We should.. uh..." He said quietly, eyes not leaving hers. He was gonna suggest they finish the movie, but his words seemed to get lost. He turned his head away slightly and cleared his throat again.

"Sammy," She said softly and he turned back to face her. They were silent for a moment. Her eyes glistened slightly from the movie light and the darkness of the room contrasted her face perfectly. He was about to say something but his mind went blank.

Screw it, he thought to himself.

He leaned down and kissed her, one of his hands reaching up to cup her face. She was shocked but it wore off quickly. She kissed him back and he adjusted himself so he was on top of her, holding himself up with one arm as he praised her mouth.

"Sammy," She said, breaking the kiss. "Yes, beautiful?" He said, slightly out of breath. She smiled at him, just taking him in for a moment. "Would you want to.. maybe.." She motioned with her hands, making a circle with one and putting her other finger through it. He laughed at how ridiculous she was. "Use your words, love." He said with a smile and she felt her face flush. "Okay, that turned me on." She said quickly, and he laughed more. He captured her lips again and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you sure you want to?" He asked in between gentle kisses. She smiled and nodded, "Yeah, dummy." She giggled and kissed him again.

He was so addicting, his mouth, his tongue, his kisses. She wanted to just lay there forever but he broke the kiss and she pouted. "Don't pout at me, baby girl." He said with a smirk. He then got up and removed his shirt. He gestured for her to sit up and she just huffed, turning her head away. "Stubborn baby." He chuckled and tilted her face towards him. "Let me take care of you, sweetheart."

With that, she listened. He took off her shirt and then her sweat pants. He looked her up and down and 'tsked' in disappointment. A wave of insecurity rushed over her, but it was quickly washed away once he spoke. "I hate seeing you hurt." He sighed before climbing back on top of her, trailing gentle kissing up and down her body.

"Sammy, baby," She moaned out and he let out a quiet groan. Her hands found their way to his hair and she tugged it gently, earning quiet grunts of approval from Sam.

He kissed down her torso and thighs before coming back up and kissing her core through her panties. She rested her head back onto the pillows and let out a soft moan. He climbed in between her legs and removed her underwear, tossing them somewhere on the floor.

The second his mouth started moving on her, she was a goner. His tongue circled her clit and one of his fingers slowly made its way into her entrance. She gasped and moaned at the feeling. "Are you okay?" He murmured as he looked up at her. She nodded quickly and he kissed and gently nibbled her thigh, retreating from her center. "Use words, baby. I want to be sure you're alright." He said in a gentle but stern voice. She nodded, "Y-yes, I'm okay."

He smiled and continued to feast upon her. She felt so good. Sam was gentle yet so dominant with her and she loved it. She loved everything about him. His kindness, his strength, his brains.. She loved all of it.

She loved him.

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After they had finished, he cleaned her up and carried her to the bathroom. He had retreated to the bed as she did her business, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. When she came out he smiled and she immediately melted. She crawled into bed with him and he kissed her forehead.

"How ya feeling, love?" Sam asked. She didn't know if words could really formulate exactly how she was feeling, but she was too tired to say anything different. "I love you."

After a moment of no response, she worried if it was too soon. Hell, she knew it was soon but she considered with everything that happened that maybe timing wouldn't matter.

And she was right.

"I love you too, princess."

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A/N: I don't know how I feel about this one now that I've finished it but ya know.. Whatever, someone out there will like it. :)

Thank you for reading!

Feel free to reblog, like and comment <3

[hobiespick]

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

[inknopewetrust]

𝐍𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧.

[𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫] [𝐰𝐜: 𝟕.𝟎𝟐𝐤]

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝟏 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟕.

𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

The weather had leveled out in the days that followed.

It sprinkled and poured, sleeted and hailed when the wind got bad enough but it was never a match from the stormed that brewed inside of you like the darkest magic taking hold. You weren’t sure if Hell was nicer than watching Dean weave his way into each town and flirt with all of the girls that looked his way but if it were up to you, you’d rather be there burning.

Every time you’d glance across the bar his eyes would be twinkling. Full of this mischievous fire swirling to lock onto a face he’d forget, a name he wouldn’t recall. For what? You rapped your fingers against the tabletop. There was no answer to the question.

Your “few days” had turned into a few weeks of hunting.

You’d taken every ounce of your vacation time without truly thinking of the consequences that laid in your path. No new stories, no angry emails from patrons across the states, no pressing concern from the higher-ups to come back to work. Those elements paled in comparison to sitting in a hole-in-the-wall wallowing with Sam as Dean fished for a catch—nevertheless it was a change of pace and a difference from what you had grown used to.

No one was reading The Supernatural Chronicles in December. It was out of season, unimportant. There was a lull and every part of your life besides the strange happenstances of the battles they chose to take on.

You didn’t think this small excursion at Sam’s call would have ended up with you sitting in the back of Baby a whole month later. You didn’t have enough clothes, you barely had time to call your landlord, and worse, your job was hanging by a thread. It stretched thin and every passing day kindling the twine to its thinnest string.

And then the skin-walker incident happened.

And the police were always hot on your tail… well, Sam and Dean’s tail… but mostly Dean’s.

The fights between you and Dean, however, were nothing short of familiar. You wallowed in choice as the day ended and the night rose. A one-hit-wonder played in the air around you; condensation ran along the edge of your glass to puddle on the coaster.

Sam’s head was buried in his father’s journal beside you.

John Winchester had been missing for months. Not a peep heard from Bobby to Ellen to the tiniest taps of his shoes but both of them continued to look as the mysteries took you around the states. Every hint John had laid bare in his journal ate away at Sam. It was as though the hints were unintentional, in many ways. Little crumbs to dead ends and situations that stole their attention away for not three-days at a time.

“What’s he sayin’ now?” You turned the straw in your drink to create a tornado.

“Dean’s sixteenth birthday,” Sam droned. “He ever tell you about that one?”

“The werewolf?”

Sam nodded and you recalled most of what Dean had ever told you—although he had been in your life, they both have, for a little over half of it—making it had to sift through the pages.

“Yeah,” you nodded faintly. “John made him take the lead. One of his first ‘big boy’ jobs, if you will.”

Sam snickered with a sly grin. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

You glanced in Dean’s direction again. He was occupied with a blond in a short jean skirt. “I doubt he’d hear it even if I shouted.”

Sam looked up and toward his brother in turn. Even if you had been playing a strong game, you wore it on your sleeve. Jealousy was an ugly bug for two people who seemed to be on different ends of planet earth.

“What was your favorite job?” Sam interjected the staring before it was too far gone. You peered into your glass.

“You mean a hunt or a real job? Like a job, job?”

“Hunt, I guess.”

“I’ve been on so many they seem to blur together sometimes.” Sam nodded in agreement as he closed John’s book. “I think I was… eighteen? Just turned eighteen. Do you remember when I graduated high school and Dean wanted to go roadtripping for a week?”

Sam noted fondly. “I remember how bad I wanted to go along, yeah.”

“Sorry about that,” you apologized half-heartedly. “But Dean took me up to Michigan and we spent a week in Munchkin Land.”

“Munchkin Land? Like the—“

“Wizard of Oz?” You finished. “There’s a graveyard with the remains of a bunch of kids—two girls in particular who were said to haunt the area because they’d been murdered by a priest and then the God fearing man killed himself out of remorse… or so they say.”

“What drew you there? Why go?”

“Dean caught wind of it, he said, through a New York Times article.”

“Oh,” Sam’s eyes widened slightly, brows going high.

“Turns out it was all… fake. A true urban legend of the area.”

“That’s not really a hunt then, is it?”

“No,” your hands drug against the tabletop and into your lap as you looked at Sam. He had bags under his eyes. He hadn’t slept good in days. “But I think we were all a little happier back then.”

“It’s hard not to think about that,” Sam said quietly while the music drowned him out.

Everything was heavy. The world was weighing down and sitting pretty on top of the shoulders of the damned. If you had truly been granted a peaceful life, perhaps you’d be happy. Maybe Sam would have graduated, Dean would have a real job, and maybe you’d all have parents who loved and encouraged you.

“What was so great about Michigan? I mean, I’ve been there a few times now and I don’t think it’s too much to say that it’s no different than Illinois, or Wisconsin, or Indiana.”

“I guess it was just… we spent seven days weaving in and out of hunting and almost vacationing. It was normal. Or at least a normal as you could get. No motel, an actual hotel. It was on the cusp of fall and there’s truly no fall like a midwest one. There’s something that’s stuck with me. I can’t get rid of it even if I tried.”

Sam peered at Dean again.

“Does it bother you? If it’s any consolidation, he’s like this everywhere. Ever since he picked me up the first time, every place we go is the same.”

You shrugged. To tell Sam the truth? Never. He didn’t need to deal with petty things. A girl who can’t seem to get over an ex who seemed to do everything in his power to make her dislike him? Dean just reeled you in.

“Dean will be Dean. I’m not trying to control him.”

“No one can,” Sam scoffed. “But I do think dad going missing is weighing on him more than he lets on.”

“Tell me something new, Sam,” you swallowed your words with a sip of your drink. “John was the center of his world when you left and well before that. You know he was. It was like trying to keep a dog on a leash before it obliterates a squirrel just because it can.”

Sam furrowed his brows at you. Shaking your head, you dismissed it. “For another time.”

“I could read your journal and find out about it for myself,” he countered.

“And your hands will go missing in the night if you touch it, Sammy. I swear,” you groaned playfully, “you Winchester boys will be the death of me.”

“Not before we solve the case in Iowa.”

Ankeny, Iowa.

Dean read a local journal yesterday morning of a case where the suspect was already being tolled around as a “ghost.” The only witness was too terrified to be interviewed, too frightened to give a real description other than “ghost.” To anyone else it would have been plain and simple: she was crazy.

But those stories aren’t lore. They’re not lies nor is that victim crazy.

“Not before we solve the case in Iowa,” you repeated and sat up straighter at the mention of a case. It had summoned Dean unknowingly to the table. He moved with a casual sureness that he’d snagged a woman’s number wrapped in a bar napkin.

He tucked the white napkin into his pocket, lightly grinning as he chewed gum obnoxiously. Those eyes still gleamed in the low light of the bar.

“What’s with the mopey looks?” Dean questioned. He sat on the stool across from you and you pulled your drink closer as if to distract you.

“Just tired,” Sam covered. “We gotta get going, Dean. If we want to get there by ten we’ve gotta leave.”

Dean’s face contorted. “Oh, come on!”

“You wanted to take on this one!” Sam defended.

“We can’t just get a room somewhere here?”

“So you can hook up with some random girl you’ve just met?” Sam argued back. Dean’s eyes flicked to you but you weren’t looking at him. In actuality, you were looking everywhere but him.

Dean stressed to Sam silently to be more ‘aware’ of his surroundings yet Sam had little sympathy.

“No!” Dean offered exaggeratedly. “You said it, we could use the rest. We’re all tired.”

“Not tired enough to go to a bar, not tired enough to flirt with some no name—“

“—I know her name,” Dean lamented.

“Oh yeah? What is it?” Sam challenged.

“Sam, come on,” you shook your head. Dean stuttered. He glimpsed back at the blond he had been talking to who wiggled her fingers in a wave toward him.

Dean turned back to you and Sam. “Alright fine. I don’t remember her name but it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Right,” you laughed. “You can make a girl feel really wanted that way.”

“I’m not looking to date her, sweetheart. I think we each deserve a little fun after all we do for the world. We’re heroes, practically.”

“Sure,” you agreed loosely. “But the second I’d go and hit on Mr. 401k over there—“ there was a man, a little older than you, dressed in a suit and drinking whisky on the other end of the bar from the blond. “—we’d be out the door without a second thought.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, elbows finding themselves on the table top and leaning in.

“Why is it such a big deal if I sack a broad, hm? As far as I’m concerned, there are no strings attached.” His finger motioned between the two of you.

“It’s not a big deal,” you swirled off the chair and landed your feet on the floor. “I don’t care what you do, Dean. And maybe work on your flattery a little bit? She deserves better than ‘broad.’”

Sam followed suit. “We’ve gotta go, Dean.”

Dean sighed. He leaned back on his own chair and ran a hand over his face. Eventually, he conceded. Jumping off his own chair and following behind you as Sam took the lead to exit the bar.

Dean loomed even if he wasn’t as tall as Sam. His presence was drawing, eclipsing the space around you as your shoes clattered on the rickety wooden floor to trail Sam. You didn’t dare stagger in step with him hot on your tail. His boots nearly nipping the backs of your shoes, he kept close as the three of your weaved through the patrons.

Reaching the end of the bar, you passed Mr. 401k who hadn’t even peaked in your direction but after you had passed, Dean’s elbow abruptly knocked into his back and sent his drink spilling into his lap. The man made a sound of ‘what the fuck, man?’

“So sorry! It was an accident,” Dean offered as he continued to walk past. You barely turned around to see the commotion when Dean’s hands rested on your shoulders and prompted you forward.

“Wha—“

“Nothin’,” he shrugged off and you felt the air shift. You were right. Dean’s immaturity leaked through like a sieve and you were reminded of why the world wasn’t kinder to your love before.

“Dean—“

“I thought you didn’t care?” He questioned with his voice low enough to hear over the music that still streamed from the bar. His hands slipped from your shoulders.

“You think he’s cute? Kinda your speed now, isn’t it?”

“You’re being childish. We have work to do. Why can’t you just put this one night to bed?”

“So you do,” Dean pressed as though he had cracked a larger case. He didn’t, but he felt like he did.

“Please,” you shook your head as Sam held open the door for you both. Breaching the threshold, you felt the cool air and could breathe again. “I don’t care what you do. But don’t pretend you don’t care about what I do. I’m not interested! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I don’t care!” Dean bickered after you like a seven-year-old. Baby was in sight and Sam was quick to get in the car.

You paused at the door handle of the back drivers side seat that you’d claimed as your own. Dean couldn’t see you as well through the mirror when you sat there and you could always make reactions to Sam from that side.

“If this is going to work then we need to be civil.”

“I have been being civil, sweetheart.” He stressed but was still aggravated. He may have been pent up, maybe grated by the snub of a lay.

“No,” you scoffed. “You haven’t and shit, neither have I but God, Dean, I think the last few hunts have been the worst I’ve ever been on because we fight all the time.”

“You’re gonna leave eventually,” Dean turned his body to rest his arms atop of Baby’s roof. “What’s the point?”

“Of being nice to each other?”

“You’ll go back to New York in what? Three weeks? And then who knows when we’ll see you again. With our luck maybe never so what’s the point?”

“I’d rather our last conversation together not be about hating each other. I don’t hate you, Dean.”

“Well that’s good,” he condemned. “But you don’t like me either.”

“I don’t think you like me very much either.”

Silence sat around Baby for what felt like the hundredth time since you joined them. You hated the silence that fell around Dean and yourself.

“In three weeks I’ll go back to my corner of the world and there’s a chance your dad will be back by then,” you laid out. “If you want to check in you can always call or call Bobby.”

“Bobby ain’t gonna tell me anything,” you looked at you as if to say ‘seriously?’

“You’re the closest thing he has to a son, Dean. He might love us both but he’s not evil enough to close us off.”

“No we just do that ourselves.”

“I don’t care if you sleep with other girls,” you brought up again. “But I’d appreciate a little courtesy. And in front of Sam? He doesn’t need to hear it either.”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek and looked out into the dark parking lot.

“It’s funny, you know… that this is where we’ve end up.”

“Three weeks,” you reminded him. “Then you don’t have to see me again.”

You opened the car door and slipped inside of the cab.

You can’t recall the last time you went to church on your own volition. The choice to spend time away from something more to pray to a power that had no proof of existence had befuddled you. It didn’t hurt that religious folk often soiled their own reputation with foot-in-mouth syndrome or the plain fact that the most devoted were the most wicked.

And you’d seen enough wickedness for one lifetime.

Sam and Dean had gathered that the victim turned out to be the reverends daughter in town. So, parked outside in Baby, the three of you scoped out the building before thinking of joining the service. Sam let the door close roughly behind him to where it squeaked on its hinges.

You slid into the pew behind Dean and looked around. The stained glass told the story of the damned rising to heaven on forgiveness.

“The loss of a young person is particularly tragic. A life unlived is the saddest of passings,” the Reverend focused on his congregation. A girl in the front, brown haired and innocent, peered back to where Sam sat last.

It didn’t surprise you that she caught his eye. Sam bled empathy—a stark contrast to the harshness of Dean’s stoney face and unless she was looking for sympathy from a woman, she didn’t bother to pass over you.

Sam gave her a tight smile.

His kindness wasn’t enough to heal wounds or make a difference in her life then, but you could see the string of connection bloom. It was the case that sucked you in too much, the one you couldn’t leave behind in the end.

“So, please, let us pray. For peace, for guidance, and for the power to protect our children.”

You didn’t feel the rays of Heaven bless you in prayer.

Once the service ended and the congregation exited their pews, Sam spotted Lori, the girl, outside along the sidewalk waving goodbye to her friend that had been sat beside her inside.

“So, what are we?” You asked Sam in the doorway.

“College students. We told the fraternity that we were brothers from another state so why change it. It worked, got us in.”

“Plus no badges, no investigations. We’re young enough.” Dean smiled widely at the two of you.

“Sam take the lead,” you stated. Sam nodded and walked around you to approach Lori. He stated the three of you as new transfer students with a knack for the Lord and what he offered.

“We don’t want to bother you,” Sam played the nervous, unwanted attention type well. “We heard about what happened.”

“And wanted to say how sorry we are,” Dean interjected.

“I kind of know what you’re going through. I kinda saw someone get hurt once. It’s something you don’t forget.”

Behind Lori, her father watched cautiously as she conversed with the three of you. He watched Sam and Dean, not you. You never were the threat for so many of these men you’ve encountered over the years. The Reverend finished his conversation and put a hand on Lori’s back.

“Dad,” Lori turned to her father’s presence. She introduced Sam, Dean, and yourself. “They’re new students.”

Dean extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you sir. I must say that was an inspiring sermon.”

You could have thrown up from the lying. Dean had never been inspired by men of God. They had only ever looked at him, at John, as false prophets to a cause they wouldn’t recognize as real. As you had determined before, the God fearing people of the planet were the worst of their kind.

Her father pondered at the three of you carefully. He took in Sam and Dean, judging their clothes and their hair and their attitudes along with their statures that stood tall. The Reverend held no reverence for you—squashed in-between the brothers like a little kid.

A twenty-something-woman settled between two twenty-something-men and they didn’t look alike? A sin in his playbook.

“Thank you very much. It’s so very nice to find young people who are open to the Lord’s message.”

Dean took the Reverend away from Sam and yourself. Lori, in the comfort of the two of you, shed light on what had happened and what she had heard and thought she’d seen. You thought she was holding herself remarkably well for someone who witnessed her date’s murder.

An hour later, Lori’s details had led you to strain your eyes over criminal records of the town. You knew two items to look: 1. It may have been the Hook Man’s urban legend and 2. It may also not be an urban legend but a ghost.

“I’ve got nothing but men murdering their wives and the odd death by horse,” you groaned into your hands as you rubbed your eyes.

Dean leaned back on his chair. He tossed his file folder further onto the table in defeat also.

“Nothin’” he reaffirmed. You could hear Sam’s sigh from behind you as he flipped through the pages of the next year.

“Hey,” Sam alerted. “Check this out.”

You turned in your chair as Dean took up a spot next to Sam. A preacher killed thirteen prostitutes after the immorality of the red light district had finally gotten to him. Dean picked up one of the pages that had old printings on it. He turned it in the direction of you who nodded after taking it in.

“Sounds like Jack the Ripper almost.”

“OoO,” Dean cooed. “I’d love to meet him.”

“So, nine mile road?” You questioned. “But what if he’s attached to Lori? He could go after her even if she’s not there.”

Sam hummed in agreement. “We’ll drop you outside of the sorority. You could just keep watch until we get back.”

Dean let out a laugh. “No way,”

You scowled at Dean. “Why not? That’s a fine plan.”

“We’re not leaving you out on sorority row on a Sunday night,” Dean came around from the bookcase and began cleaning up the files.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”

“Just leave her a gun and it will be fine.”

“We can just do this together, alright? I don’t know what’s so hard to understand about that.” Dean’s voice was gruff. The kind he’d use when he wanted something done his way over anyone else’s.

“Dean,” Sam sighed. “We need to cover ground. If she’s by Lori, then it’s one less life we have to worry about losing. What happens when the only girl who has seen this thing dies?”

“Then I’ll go. You two can go to nine mile road.”

“You are not sitting outside of a sorority house. If someone sees you, they’ll call the police,” Sam wanted to laugh but knew he couldn’t.

Dean closed the lid of the box with a long breath. “When we’re done, we are all staking out her place. Got it?”

Sam nodded, not willing to argue against his concession. Dean glanced at you and you could see the displeasure in his eyes. That stewing vexation; you were a bit peeved at his upset. Did he even have a right to be?

“I’m capable of more than this,” you told him as you stacked your box atop his. “Stop pretending that I’m incapable of what we’ve always know. It’s a ghost. It’s not going to kill us.”

“But wh—“

“But what about nothing. Nothing, Dean.” Sam graciously took the boxes back to the librarians desk to escape your conversation. “I asked us to be civil, not for you to be a bump in the road. We’ve faced worse than this.”

“Alright.” he walked off and left you at the table to clean up the rest.

No one would pick up the phone.

The voicemail kept replaying over and over. It’s generic, preset voice replaying the number and tone repeatedly until you had given up. You called five times and figured whatever had led them to not answer your call, it better have been better than this.

You were the one to hear Lori scream from inside the house.

Night had come and went with a snap and you woke between the trees of the fence and driveway to the sound of her screaming her lungs out on the second floor. An anonymous tip led the police to the sorority and while Lori had come out of the night unscathed, her roommate hadn’t.

Prompted again by the passing police men, you called Dean’s phone in hopes that he’d pick up. It rang twice and he did. He said your name through the receiver and it, for a brief moment, was the best sound you’d ever heard.

“Goddammit, Dean, where were you?” You spat into the phone. “I’ve been trying your phone all morning!”

“We got tied up with the brass,” he said casually on the other end.

“You were in jail?”

“We handled it. What’s the problem? Girls having pillow fights in their underwear?”

You removed the phone from your ear and closed your eyes. Dean never thought too hard into what he said. He was still twenty-one when his body became twenty-six.

“Lori’s roommate was killed,” you put the phone back to your ear. “If you two are doing dicking around maybe we can find this son of a bitch before it’s too late.”

Dean laughed. “Who lit the fire under your ass, sweetheart? I like it.”

“Just get here, please. I’m not sure how much longer they’re gonna accept the idea that I’m a pledge.”

“Nah,” Dean had a smile on his face. “You’ll pass just fine. You remember when I came to visit you at NYU? That Halloween—“

Dean removed the phone from his ear when the signal went dead. You’d hung up on him before he could finish and still had a victorious grin on his face while Sam looked on in slighted disappointment.

“You know,” Sam shook his head, “I really don’t get you two.”

“What?” Dean’s face drew flat at his brother. Sam weighed whether to go on as Dean’s words from weeks ago played through his memory.

“I don’t care if we grew up with her, I don’t care if we know her, I don’t care if everything goes to shit. You don’t get to talk about us.”

“I don’t know why you prod it like that.”

“Sam,” Dean scolded. “You say a lot of dumb shit sometimes but I never want to hear you say that again.”

“Poking the bear, I mean. Just be normal for once.”

“Just in case you haven’t noticed, Sam, but we’re not exactly normal to begin with.”

“I mean with her!” He exclaimed loudly. “You’re acting like a teenage boy who can’t get over his first crush. She knows what she’s doing and I wouldn’t have called her if I didn’t think she could.”

“We’re not having this conversation again,” Dean cut in. “I’m making amends. We’re trying to be civil—at least that’s what she said.”

“Then be a little less chauvinistic. Or for God sakes just treat her like a hunter if you can’t separate from having loved her once.”

“Be strangers… is that what you’re asking?”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Dean went silent and Sam allowed it to settle. Baby’s roar drove them to the sorority house and to the back where you’d been standing beside the line of evergreen trees.

You let out a breath of relief at the sight.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Took you long enough.”

“Can you get us in or do we have to, you know, climb the window?” Sam asked.

“There are girls in there yet. I don’t know why the police haven’t cleared the scene.”

“Because they haven’t faced something like this in years,” Dean tugged on the lattice along the siding. “They’re idiots. Real easy to convince that Sam’s a dumb ass pledge.”

Dean climbed up the lattice and went over the surrounding deck at the top. He motioned to Sam who tried to be inconspicuous as he climbed his tall, lanky body along the house. With you third, Dean grabbed your hand as you reached the top and helped tug you over.

Inside of making a comment or a chided facial expression, he dropped it and opened the window to the room.

The room was untouched from a morning interrupted. But the smell was unmistakable. It was a spirit.

“There,” you pointed to the bottom of the blood written message on the wall. “The cross.”

“I’ve seen that before,” Sam stated. Staring at it deeply, the image could have been hard to decipher had you had done the research before.

“The hook. It’s on the hook!”

“Karns’ pendant,” Dean ended the mystery.

“It’s a sigil, perhaps?” You questioned and the brother’s shrugged. Sam said he had papers scanned in Baby and recalled that Karns had a obituary attached to one of the scans.

And like the professionals you were, you slipped out of the sorority house and uncovered the story without anyone blinking an eye.

It began to drizzle the second you flipped on the flashlight.

Crickets chirping in the distance or beneath your feet, every branch tweaking or grass that blew the wrong way had you and Dean on high alert. Delegated with the task of burning and salting the bones of one Preacher Karns, Dean shouldered the bag of materials while you carried a flashlight and the shovel.

“Can I ask you a question?” Dean asked you as you followed a step behind.

“Shoot.”

“Why’d you answer Sam’s call?”

“I don’t know really,” you said honestly. “I had a feeling, I guess.”

“Intuition,” he pondered. “You didn’t see the caller id or…?”

“No.” You flashed the light along the graves scattered around you. None were unmarked. “I, well, I deleted your number from my phone after everything. I just… couldn’t.”

Dean nodded shallowly in understanding.

“He lied to me at first, you know? Said he was a reporter from a newspaper and that the front desk gave him the number. I thought it was a stupid mistake but maybe it was on purpose. Sam’s always been more intentional.”

“I don’t know he called you. I told him not to.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Dean.” With your flashlight, you walked around him and wandered through the graves.

“I know you think I’m an asshole,” he called after you. His steps catching up with the crunch of the grass. Dean’s shoulders were dusted with raindrops.

“Sometimes you are,” you answered honestly.

“And sometimes you’re a bitch,” he countered.

“I hope so,” you stopped again and flashed the light around. “You can’t always be a ‘nice girl’ and get what you want. Sometimes, you’ve got to be a right bitch and so be it.”

Dean never thought of the world that way. He’d been so focused on what he had known, what he had learned to know through his father and if his mother had lived a long life, he’d understand women like you better.

“When we find my dad, maybe we could start over.”

His words took you aback. Start over? For what? To when? There was no world in which you could start over with Dean Winchester. He’d follow you into every lifetime, every decade, and every story but you’d never start over.

“You really think having your dad back is going to make our lives easier?”

“Yeah,” he believed so. “But I know he doesn’t want to be found. That’s why he’s sending us on a goose chase.”

“Then maybe we can’t start over.”

“What do you, uh,” Dean steered the conversation as the graves around you went moot again, “think Sam’s up to?”

“Probably watching over her just like he said he would. Sam isn’t the lying type, you know that.”

“Remember how I told you about Jessica?”

“His girlfriend?” You recalled. “Yeah.”

“And how he wasn’t sleeping well?”

“You said he wasn’t doing well. Those are two separate things, Dean.”

“For the past two weeks, he hasn’t sleep a whole night.”

You kept looking around you until finally, you spotted the grave marked by the same symbol. You tipped your head in the direction of the grave illuminated by your flashlight and Dean dropped the bag.

“I’m going to assume you know that because you’re not sleeping either?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Well someone took the bed I was using… the floor isn’t great.”

The second night on the road was the first time Dean had been decent to you since you reunited. Without a fight, he had offered you the bed he claimed every time and took the floor. It felt wrong but he wouldn’t listen to an argument. He simply took the pillows from the side he’d always claim as his own and laid them down at the foot of the bed.

“I told you that you didn’t have to sleep on the floor,” you defended. Dean took the shovel and broke ground.

“You know what happens when we share a bed, sweetheart.”

“Anyway,” you motioned for him to continue with a roll of your eyes. “Sam?”

“I was just gonna say that I think he’s projecting on this girl.” You kicked clumps of grass out of the way.

“They have something in common at least. Not to mention that she’s not going bat-shit-crazy for seeing what she has. Lori’s… fine, by all means of the word.”

Dean paused digging for a second to shed his leather jacket. You took it from his hands and laid it across a headstone not far from where you were standing.

“We need to be looking out for him. I-can’t explain it. I can feel it. Like how you felt something about answering the call. It’s stupid—“

“It’s not stupid, Dean. It’s alright,” you reassured. He didn’t deserve your security. “We have each others backs no matter what, yeah?”

Dean ducked his head to pick the ground with the shovel. As he gripped the handle, you couldn’t help but look at the way his arms tightened and the lines became more prominent.

“If you’ve got my back, you think you could grab the shovel in the bag and start digging? Otherwise this is gonna take me all night.”

You smiled at him honestly for the first time in awhile.

“Sure. Let’s burn this son of a bitch.”

Everything had gotten worse after you had burnt and salted the bones with Dean.

It hadn’t solved anything.

Lori’s father had been attacked after Sam unveiled the Reverend’s own immorality that Lori deemed sinful. It was clear that Lori was the summoner—or at least the living attachment the poltergeist had to this world. It was also abundantly clear after Sam asked about the hook that a piece of this monster was still roaming the earth, even if not made of flesh and bone.

You knew there was no hook. Surely Dean would have made a comment, tried it on for shits and giggles before burning the bones. But he hadn’t and when Sam called panicked at the local hospital, it gave neither of you time to process that the feature hadn’t been there.

“What do you think happened to it?” Dean asked Sam with worry on his face that this may be the first case in a long time they couldn’t solve.

“His belongings were returned to the church.”

“The church where Lori’s dad’s a Reverend?”

“The same one,” Sam saw a silver lining. Although, it did not mean the hook was there or even in its original form.

“We could rip that place apart and still never find it,” you interjected. “What material was it made from?”

“Silver,” Sam informed.

“Think about it,” you folded your arms in front of you. “It’s 1860, it’s a church in a small community… you think they get silver like that everyday?”

“Reforged?” Dean inquired.

“That’s the best bet, wouldn’t it be? Felon’s items are donated, can’t keep the murder weapons—the public wouldn’t have liked that. Church needs to keep up its image after their Preacher goes on a spree… reforge. Forget it happened.”

“We could burn the silver in the furnace. I’m sure it’s hot enough.” Sam and Dean were quick to make an exit which had you scrambling behind.

“That could be thousands of pieces of silver!”

“You said it yourself!” Sam called out to you. “It’s a small town church!”

There was a frantic pace to the gathering. Everything from candlesticks to crucifixes to the handles of drawers needed to be sifted through in minutes.

Your hands tossed whatever silver you could find down the stairs to the basement to where Dean threw them in the furnace. Sam tossed you a chalice that looked like something out of Indiana Jones.

You threw it down the stairs and heard Dean go: “hey! This is like—“ and you felt the sentiment of starting over to grow even more impossible. Sam had left and come back in seconds with nothing more in his hands.

“I got nothing,” he panted as the sounds of Dean’s clattering went quiet.

“That it?” Dean shouted from the basement.

“That’s it,” you responded as Sam and yourself joined him beside the furnace.

“If this doesn’t do it, I don’t know what else could.”

“The a-“ your words got lost in space as the ceiling began to creak and the dirt between the boards rained down on you. Sam took the lead up the steps and with a peak, the back of Lori’s head sat in one of the pews near the front of the church.

Sam motioned for you and Dean to fall back and although Dean wanted to keep Sam in his sights, he walked back into the basement to watch the silver burn.

“He’ll be ok, Dean,” you soothed. “Sam can handle himself too.”

“I know he can,” he replied more aggravated than he should have. “I know.”

He paced around the basement to look for more silver. Dean grabbed a couple items and tossed them into the furnace.

“Too bad all this silver is going to waste… could’ve paid for better motels,” you attempted to joke but he didn’t budge.

“I just want to pro—“ this time, a shriek cut Dean off.

Above you, the thunderous roar of footsteps began to escalate around the exit of the church. The walls shook as they took the brunt of the blow from what you were both quick to assume was Jacob Karns finally manifesting himself for the end.

“Sam!” Dean yelled as he sprinted to his bag and grabbed the shotgun loaded with rock salt. “Stay here!” He shouted at you.

“Tough shit, Dean!” You argued back as you followed him up the steps and grabbed a fire poker on the way out. You knew it was worthless against a spirit like Karns but it was better than empty hands.

Through the wide halls of the church, the carpets bunched up as the speed of which Dean was running made them hazards. He followed the sounds of Lori’s screams, the grunts of Sam, and the damage of Karns’ destruction.

“Sam, drop!” Dean rose the shotgun and fired a blow into Karns’ back. He disappeared for a moment.

“I thought we got all the silver!” Sam panted.

“So did we!”

“Lori,” you caught your breath. “Where did you get that necklace?” Everyone’s eyes went to her chest as a cross laid in silver dangling on a matching chain.

“My father gave it to me?”

“Where’d your dad get it?” Dean was quick to ask.

“He said it was a church heirloom!”

“Is it silver?” Sam pressed.

“Yes!” She panicked. Sam grabbed the necklace from her neck and tugged hard which allowed it to break.

Behind you, the cracking of the drywall split with the hook of Karns. Dean turned his head, watching it break into pieces and itch its way closer and closer. He grabbed your arm and pulled you in tightly.

“We’ve got to get to the furnace,” you told him. “That’s it. I know it is.”

“Give me the necklace Sam,” Dean swapped his shotgun for the necklace and Karns’ hook reappeared on the ceiling to the Reverend’s quarters.

“Go!” Sam yelled at Dean who stumbled on his feet to get around you. You remained with Sam and Lori, guiding her and yourself around the desk as Sam tried to stand with an injured arm and fire the gun.

“Come on,” you muttered as the ghost appeared before you. Sam raised his hand but the gun was knocked from him in a weak toss.

There was nothing standing between you and the afterlife besides Dean.

You backed up as far as you could go beside Sam and Lori—the latter who hadn’t stopped panicking the entire time. Sam scrambled into your legs and wedged his body above your foot.

This hunt had been the definition of easy sans this moment. These were always the moments where you wished you were at home in your bed and safe from the world that existed in the nether between here and there.

“Sam!” You shouted at him as though he could do anything more than you.

“Come on, Dean!” Sam prayed.

And then like a crackle from a tiny spark, you heard it. A fire ignited beneath Karns. It caught on his clothes and hair; hook melted into thin air as the burn of Lori’s cross finally sent him away for good. At peace in the in between.

Dean sprinted up the steps and ran as quickly as he could to the office where he’d left the three of you. The relief washed over him as three sets of eyes met his safe and relatively unharmed.

You felt Sam sag against your leg and you knew it was over.

In the back of Baby, you sat adding to your own journal the events of the week.

Dean sat in the drivers seat while Sam said his goodbyes to a girl he’d never see again. The radio was playing faintly while the windows cracked let in the cool air of Iowa.

It was quiet and content and at ease with the visitors inside of the Impala.

Dean watched in his side mirror Sam hesitate around Lori. His schoolboy stance with his bag slung over his shoulder and his hair falling into his face; Sam shuffled on his feet.

He was nervous, but he was himself. And that was something Dean couldn’t say about himself.

The eldest Winchester peered into the rear view and thought for a moment that they could stay. That this small little town could bridge a gap that Sam had been longing for and bring some normalcy in their very ‘not normal’ lives.

He saw you in the back picking apart your writing which only made him think of the career you left behind for them.

Dean felt guilty for not giving what was necessary. However, he couldn’t provide it. He couldn’t will it within him to bargain an honest offer other than, “we could stay?” to Sam as he sat in the passenger seat and you strapped on your seatbelt.

The obvious answer would always be no.

Because with the Winchester’s, there was no place to call home.

[thsillystringbeanscribbler]

Bunny Slippers

Summary: While on the hunt for their dad the Winchester brothers are encouraged by Bobby to reach out to an old hunting buddy of John and Bobby. The trip leads to meeting not only a rugged hunter which is a missing puzzle piece to their dad's disappearance but also got to make the acquaintance of his lovely daughter.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC ]

Warnings: mostly fluff with a sprinkle of possible violence or angst, maybe slow burn (i'm not too sure)

Word Count: 4,685 words

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction. I dont really know how to write y/n so oc is all you're getting. I recently discovered the world of Supernatural and I am in love. This story takes place during Season 1, it doesn't really follow the story line and there might be some lore in accuracies. Please be kind, and I hope you enjoy my little story.

image from Pinterest

With Bobby's wise counsel and the elusive hints scattered in John's journal, he implored the brothers to seek out Rob Blackburn, who could potentially steer them toward John. Rob, as Bobby explained, wasn't just an ally; he was a long-time comrade of both John Winchester and Bobby, often accompanying them on perilous hunts. Armed with this knowledge, Sam and Dean embarked on their journey to Boston in the trusty Impala. Dean took the wheel, immersing himself in the thumping beats of rock and roll, while Sam, map in hand, navigated the labyrinth of roads leading to Robert Blackburn's whereabouts. The pages of John's journal rustled in the background, revealing his own trek to Massachusetts, where he had joined forces with Rob to confront a formidable Wendigo.

In the early autumn morning, the Impala turned down the street of the Blackburn home, the epitome of historical charm found in Boston. The townhouse stands out with its red brick facade, large curved windows adorned with black shutters, and stately black entrance doors. Wrought iron railings line the stone steps leading up to the front doors, and mature trees along the sidewalk cast dappled shadows onto the cobblestone street. The vehicle comes to a halt in front of the winsome townhouse, with its elegance further accentuated by the cascading wisteria, lending a touch of natural beauty to the urban setting.

Dean cut the engine, his gaze shifting from the Blackburn residence to his brother. Sam, peering at Dean, broke the silence with his characteristic intensity. "So, think you're ready to face whatever's in there?" he asked, his voice tinged with both concern and determination.

Dean responded with his usual bravado, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ready? Sam, I was born ready. Let's do this." His tone was confident, almost playful, yet underscored by the seriousness of their mission.

Moving in unison, the brothers climbed the steps to the Blackburn residence. A silent exchange of resolve passed between them as Dean turned to face the ominous black door. He pressed the doorbell, and for a moment, there was only silence. Impatient, Dean began to knock forcefully, intent on getting an answer.

Before he could knock again, hurried footsteps approached from inside. The door swung open to reveal a petite, dishevelled woman. Her light auburn curls were hastily tied atop her head, and her sleepy green eyes, magnified by tortoise-rimmed circle glasses, blinked at the unexpected visitors. Dean's gaze travelled over her, taking in the oversized Van Halen band t-shirt, the long flannel Batman pyjama pants tucked into mismatched white tube socks, and the pink bunny slippers, all indicating she had indeed just rolled out of bed.

The woman, stifling a yawn and crossing her arms defensively, addressed them with a groggy, gravelly voice. "Hello? Can I help you with something?" Her sleepy demeanour contrasted sharply with the urgency of their visit. 

The faintest hint of a smile played across Dean's face, a touch of warmth amidst the crisp Boston morning. The dishevelled stranger before him, a haphazardly charming vision in her comic book pyjamas and mismatched socks, sparked a flicker of amusement in his hunter's gaze. She couldn't be much older than Sam, he mused, who was barely past the threshold of twenty-two himself.

Clearing his throat, Dean straightened up a little, his eyes locking onto hers with an earnest steadiness. "Morning," he started, his voice carrying the signature gravel of a man used to long nights and the roar of a V8 engine. "Sorry to wake you, but we're looking for Rob Blackburn. The thing is," he paused, the weight of their search momentarily tightening his features, "our dad was working a case with him, and now... Dad's gone off the grid. We were hoping Rob might have some answers."

He watched her closely, not just for her response, but for any sign, any tell that might unravel the mystery of their father's whereabouts.

The woman's head tilted slightly, causing a few untamed curls to escape her hastily made morning bun. She squinted at Dean, her eyebrows knitting together in a puzzled frown. As her gaze shifted between Dean and Sam, a hint of wariness crept into her expression. "Sorry," she murmured, her free hand sliding under her glasses to rub at a sleepy eye. "But who are you guys, exactly?" she asked, her lips pursed slightly, clearly waiting for an explanation.

Dean met her gaze squarely, his expression a blend of seriousness and charm. "Name's Dean and this towering figure here is my brother, Sam," he said with a hint of a smirk. "We're here looking for Rob. You might know him through our dad, John Winchester. They go way back, and it's kind of important we talk to him." His tone carried the urgency of their quest, yet remained respectful, acknowledging the oddity of their early morning visit.

Her eyebrows lifted from their puzzled frown as the name John Winchester sparked a flicker of recognition in her features. Hesitating for a moment, she leaned slightly forward, peering past Sam and Dean to scan the street. Her green eyes settled on the shiny black Chevy parked in front of the house. Dean, noticing her gaze, followed it to the Impala.

With his trademark flirtatious smile, Dean couldn't resist a playful comment. "Hey, if you're interested, I could show you what she's really capable of," he said, nodding towards the Impala. The woman's eyes snapped back to Dean, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. Realizing how his words might have sounded, Dean quickly clarified with a cheeky grin, "The Impala, I mean. A ride in the car."

She nodded silently, her cheeks now a deeper shade of red. A bit flustered, she stuttered, "Uh–" but then, meeting Sam's hazel eyes, she paused, took a deep breath, and regained her composure. "I'll be right back," she said before gently closing the door.

Dean left staring at the black door, perked up his ears as he heard her voice escalate inside, calling out, "Dad! The Winchesters are here!" After a brief silence, her voice rose again, more insistent this time, "DAD!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look of surprise at the volume of her shout. The response came in the form of a deep, muffled reply from within. The door creaked open again, and the woman offered an awkward smile. "He'll be down so–"

Before she could finish, a tall, muscular man in plaid flannel pyjama pants and a simple grey t-shirt descended the stairs. He stood imposingly behind her, his voice deep and gravelly. "Mornin'," he greeted, eyeing the brothers. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Definitely John's boys," he observed as he extended his hand.

Dean grasped his hand firmly. "Dean," he introduced himself with a nod.

Sam followed suit, shaking Rob's hand. "Sam. It's good to meet you."

Rob's genuine smile broadened. "Rob. Nice to finally meet you boys. John's told me a lot about you two."

In the midst of the heartfelt introductions, Rob's daughter slipped out under her father's arm, who was now holding the door open. He quickly turned his head to call after her, "Jay, boil the water. We're gonna need some coffee."

Rob then stepped aside, inviting them in. "C'mon in," he said, glancing once more at the street as the brothers entered. "Damn, is that John's Impala?" he asked, intrigued.

Dean turned back to Rob, a hint of pride in his voice. "Actually, she's mine now. Dad left her to me. She's got more history and miles on her than most cars on the road. Runs like a dream, though." His words were laced with respect and a touch of nostalgia for both the car and his father.

The boys followed the barefoot Rob Blackburn into his living room. The space was a testament to a life well-lived and richly layered, a striking balance between the modern and the memorabilia of yesteryear. They stepped through the wooden archway, and Dean's gaze swept the room—a harmony of contemporary and eclectic tastes.

The living room was bathed in morning sunlight from a large, bay window framing the greenery and wisteria blossoms outside, its grandeur contrasted by the cozy array of furniture. A plush, dark green sofa accented with earth-toned pillows invited comfort and long conversations. Across the room, a pair of vintage armchairs stood guard, their fabric hinting at a past era. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, a ladder poised as if in mid-ascent, suggesting a world of knowledge and stories just out of reach. In the center, a stately wooden coffee table bore the weight of books and vases, while a Persian rug beneath whispered tales of ancient craftsmanship.

Above the mantel, a flat-screen TV was mounted, an anachronism amid the classical vibe. The mantle itself was a gallery of personal history, with frames marching across its length like milestones. Dean's eyes traced the journey of the dishevelled girl named Jay through frozen moments: school plays, graduations, and candid laughter.

One photograph, in particular, seized Dean's attention, squeezing his heart with the force of a long-forgotten song. There, captured in the stillness of time, was a young woman with auburn curls, her arm casually draped over a youthful Mary Winchester. Beside her, a younger Rob stood with an easy stance, and on the other side, John Winchester's smile reached out, as bright and as real as if he were standing in the room with them.

Dean found his voice, roughened by the swell of memory. "You've got quite the place here, Rob. Feels like a home that's seen a lot of good times," he said, his eyes not leaving the photograph.

Rob, following Dean's gaze, nodded with a touch of nostalgia. "Yeah, it's been through a lot. Every piece has a story, especially those photos," he said, his voice softening. "That one there," he pointed to the photograph that held Dean's gaze, "was from a summer BBQ we had right after John got back from a tour. Good times indeed, Dean.”

With a comforting pat on Dean's shoulder, Rob motioned towards the dark green sofa. "Please, take a seat," he said in a voice that carried the warmth of a seasoned host. Sam was already lounging there, looking every bit the part of a man ready to delve into matters of gravity and ghosts. Rob's towering presence moved towards one of the vintage armchairs, his movements measured and graceful. He sank into the chair with the ease of a man in his own sanctuary.

Dean observed Rob, taking in the rugged features that spoke of a life lived much like their father's—on the road, but always returning home. The man sitting across from him had a face that bore the marks of laughter and squinting against the sun, a generous beard that was well kept but suggested it could tell stories of its own. His hair, though tousled from sleep, had the hint of waves, and the light caught the flecks of gray that ran through it like silver threads in a tapestry. There was a certain comfort in his ruggedness, an unspoken kinship that Dean recognized well.

Rob caught Dean's gaze and chuckled, a sound that seemed to reverberate around the room. "My apologies, if I'd known Johnny's boys would be showing up on my doorstep, I'd have made myself presentable," he said, his fingers raking through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it.

Their conversation was paused as Jay quietly made her entrance, her arms full with an offering of steaming mugs. Dean's eyes followed her every step, noting the careful balance as she placed the coffee on the table with precision. The small, satisfied smile that danced across her lips made Dean's own lips twitch in response. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look of comical frustration.

Jay stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes closed, speaking through gritted teeth. "I was so proud of not spilling coffee, I forgot people might want milk and sugar too."

Dean leaned forward, picked up one of the mugs, and met her frustrated gaze with a reassuring smile. "Don't sweat it, Jay. I take my coffee black as midnight on a moonless night," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "It's the best way to kick-start the day, especially when there's work to be done." He took a sip, letting the rich bitterness of the coffee linger, a stark contrast to the gentle chaos of the morning.

Jay—no, Julia—looked momentarily taken aback, an unspoken question flickering in her eyes about Dean's use of her nickname. Before she could voice it, Rob intervened with a throaty chuckle that broke the brief silence. "Dean, Sam, if it wasn't already apparent, this spirited individual is my daughter Julia."

Julia's expression folded into a mix of amusement and mild embarrassment at her father's words. "Introductions must've slipped my mind earlier," Rob added, his eyes twinkling with paternal amusement.

With a graceful motion that seemed to betray her earlier fluster, Julia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Was a bit scattered, to be honest," she admitted as a soft hue painted her cheeks.

He offered her a warm, appreciative smile, and she, in turn, blushed a shade deeper, hastily picking up the one mug that held coffee lightened with milk. "Anyway, I'm—" she started, her voice trailing off as she backed away, thumbing in the direction of the staircase, "—going to get dressed."

With that, Julia turned, her retreat up the stairs as quick as it was quiet, leaving the conversation to hang in the warm, coffee-scented air of the living room.

The trio settled into an easy silence, the kind that speaks of understanding rather than discomfort. Eventually, Rob broke the stillness, setting his coffee cup down with a soft clink. "Not that I'm complaining about having John's boys over," he began, his voice even and curious, "but what brings you to my door?"

Sam, always the one to dive into the details, took the lead. "Well, Rob, from what we've pieced together with Bobby's input and clues from Dad's journal, it seems John was here in Boston not too long ago. He was helping you out with a wendigo situation," he explained. "You might have been one of the last people to see him. Now, Dean and I are crisscrossing the country, trying to track him down."

Dean, meanwhile, was only half-listening, his mind wandering as he sipped the robust black coffee. His thoughts were momentarily caught up with Julia—her surprising affinity for classic rock band shirts, her effortless command of the room, despite her earlier disarray. There was an allure there that Dean couldn't quite dismiss.

Realizing he needed to jump back into the conversation, he met Rob's gaze over the rim of his mug. "So, any chance Julia might know something that could help us out?" he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of hope. It was a thinly veiled attempt to weave Julia back into their narrative—perhaps more for another encounter than actual investigative purposes.

Rob leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips as he cradled his mug. "Julia? She wasn't really involved with the hunting side of things with John. She's the brains, does all the research," he began, but the strains of Led Zeppelin suddenly filled the room, filtering through the walls of Julia’s bedroom, in a muffled but unmistakable riff.

He laughed, a low, rich sound, and shook his head affectionately. "Yeah, she's a history major. She’s got her nose usually buried in old books. But she did dig into the Wendigo lore while John was around. Spent a few hours picking his brain, so it might be worth a shot to ask her," Rob conceded, acknowledging the potential value in speaking with his daughter once more.

As the sun arced higher in the sky outside the arch window, time seemed to fold in on itself within the Blackburn residence. The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, the brothers and Rob exchanging tales and theories about the elusive Wendigo. Engrossed in the retelling, they barely noticed the passage of time until the Led Zeppelin anthem that had been humming in the background abruptly ceased. A hush fell over the house, and Dean couldn't help but cast a puzzled look towards Rob, who appeared unfazed by the sudden silence, continuing his story with the ease of a man accustomed to the unpredictable soundtrack of a busy household.

Dean's attention was drawn towards the hallway as a flash of red caught his eye—a pair of Converse sneakers, the unmistakable hallmark of a casual yet deliberate style. As Julia came into view, his gaze instinctively followed the line of her high-waisted jeans up to her neatly tucked-in white shirt. Gone was the disarray of the morning; in its place stood Julia, transformed. Her light auburn curls, now tamed and flowing gracefully down her back, framed a face of calm composure.

She paused in the archway, and for a moment, there was a silent exchange as Dean's eyes met hers—no longer sleepy, but sharp and full of life.

Rob, seizing the opportunity, looked up at his daughter with a mix of pride and practicality. "Perfect timing, Jay. Do you recall any of the details from when John helped out with the Wendigo case? I'd take a stab at finding the research in the office, but I still can't make heads or tails of your organization system."

Julia's lips pursed lightly, a subtle indication she was preparing to delve into her mental archives, but before she could articulate her thoughts, Rob interjected with decisiveness. "Great, I'll go get changed, and you can show the boys what you've got."

Julia nodded, a silent agreement to take the lead, and Dean couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for the way she navigated her father's expectations with grace. There was more to Julia than met the eye, and Dean was keen to uncover the depths of her knowledge—not just for the sake of their quest, but perhaps, for the simple pleasure of her company.

As Rob ascended the stairs, Julia began gathering the empty coffee mugs with an efficiency that spoke of routine. She gave Sam and Dean a quick, playful grin. "I'll just drop these off in the kitchen, then we can dive into the research. Hope you're ready for a bit of a deep dive," she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of excitement about the task ahead. She turned on her heel, the cups clinking softly as she vanished down the hall.

Dean watched her go, an appreciative gleam in his eye. Sam, catching this all-too-familiar look, turned his entire body to face his brother, his expression a blend of warning and wisdom.

"Dean, I'm gonna say this once: tread carefully, man," Sam advised, leaning in slightly to emphasize his point.

Dean turned to his brother, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about, Sammy?"

Sam fixed Dean with a knowing look, the kind that only a lifetime of brotherhood could perfect. "Julia. I see that look in your eyes," he cautioned, his voice serious but not unkind.

A roguish smirk danced across Dean's face, his thoughts lingering on the spark he'd felt during their brief interactions. "Can't help it if there's a mutual spark. And come on, Sam—she's smart, she's into Zeppelin, and she's got that whole natural beauty thing going on. It's not just me," Dean defended with a casual shrug, trying to brush off the gravity of Sam's warning with his characteristic nonchalance.

Julia reemerged with a swift grace, pausing at the doorway, her demeanor alight with the thrill of sharing her world. The excitement seemed to emanate from her, an infectious energy that promised revelations and secrets held within her scholarly trove. As Sam and Dean stood, ready to be led into her realm of research, Sam's encouragement was both genuine and anticipatory.

"Rob mentioned you're quite the expert. Can't wait to see the treasures you've been working on," he said, his kind smile acknowledging her expertise.

Julia's response was tinged with humility and appreciation. "That's really nice of you to say," she replied, leading the way up the stairs with a lightness in her step that suggested she was as eager to share as they were to learn.

Reaching the second-floor landing, they were greeted by the impressive sight of a bookshelf that seemed to serve both as a doorway and a guardian of knowledge. Passing through the archway, both Winchesters couldn't help but pause, struck by the beauty of the room that unfolded before them.

They were surrounded by the warmth of aged wood and the silent stories of countless tomes. A built-in window seat nestled against a bay window offered a view of the soft purple wisteria blossoms framing the glass. The room was steeped in the warmth of vintage charm and the whispered stories of countless books. The walls are lined with towering shelves, crafted from dark, polished wood that gleams under the soft golden hue of strategically placed lamps. Each shelf is a testament to a bibliophile's passion, densely packed with books of varying sizes, their spines creating a colourful mosaic that speaks to years of collection and care.

In one corner, a plush armchair sits invitingly, upholstered in a rich, patterned fabric that echoes the bygone era of Victorian elegance. Next to it, a small table holds a crystal decanter of amber liquid and matching glasses, alongside a pile of well-thumbed novels, suggesting a perfect nook for sipping and reading. The heavy curtains pulled back from a large window allow the gentle light to filter in, casting a serene glow over the scene.

Despite the room's orderly foundations, there's a deliberate messiness to it that adds character. Stacks of books and papers teeter precariously on every available surface, including the floor, where a worn Persian rug lays as a testament to the many hours spent lost in literature. The desk is a landscape of creative chaos, with open books, notes scribbled on loose papers, and a vintage typewriter pushed to one side to make room for a modern laptop, showing the blend of old and new.

Unique artifacts are nestled among the books: a vintage globe, a brass telescope, and curious trinkets like skulls and antique scissors, each with its own untold backstory. The space is a sanctuary of knowledge, history, and personal quirks, inviting you to explore its depths, both literary and personal.

As Julia completed a graceful pirouette, her arms outstretched to present the room, her eyes met theirs with a spark of shared understanding. "This is where the magic happens," she declared, her smile as genuine as the passion that clearly fueled her pursuit of knowledge. The invitation was clear, and the Winchesters stepped into her world, ready to be enchanted by the magic of her making.

The effervescent joy Julia exuded was infectious, and Dean found himself basking in a reflected glow of happiness as he watched her navigate the room. He leaned against the doorway, observing her as she gathered an armful of papers and books, her movements a dance of efficiency amid the charming chaos. With a deft hand, she rehomed the collected clutter atop another table already brimming with the weight of research.

"Here," she sang out, her voice carrying the lightness of a melody, as she flitted from one end of the room to the other, her presence transforming the space into something ethereal. She was like a sprite in her own domain, orchestrating the energy of the room with every sweep of her arm.

Sam and Dean approached the cleared chairs with a hint of hesitation, not wanting to disturb the artful disorder of her workspace. They settled into the seats, and Julia paused in her bustling, resting a hand on the back of Dean's chair. For a moment, she stood still, lost in thought, and Dean found himself enveloped in the subtle scent that clung to her—pistachio, perhaps, and something sweetly salted, like caramel. It was warm and inviting, and his heart thrummed a little faster in his chest as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Julia's contemplative silence broke, and she turned her gaze to meet Sam's, her expression earnest. "I have a lot of material on the Wendigo—notes, theories, patterns. John had me assist him with something else, too," she confided, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "But before I share anything, you have to promise not to tell my dad. He tends to be... overly protective about certain things."

Her eyes lingered on Sam, seeking an assurance of confidentiality, an unspoken pact between them. Dean felt a tug of curiosity, an eagerness to delve into the knowledge she held, and he nodded in silent agreement, keenly aware of the trust she was placing in their hands.

Sam met Julia's earnest gaze, understanding the gravity of her request. He nodded, a silent promise etched into the gesture. "You have our word, Julia. Whatever you share with us stays between us," Sam assured her, his tone underscored with the seriousness of a sworn oath.

Dean, who had been momentarily caught in the sensory spell of Julia's presence, now anchored himself in the moment, the importance of her trust not lost on him. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking with hers, reinforcing the vow. "We've kept secrets bigger than a bunker," he said, a soft, conspiratorial edge to his voice. "Your research is safe with us."

Julia, seemingly satisfied with their assurance, pulled a deep breath before she began, her eyes momentarily flitting to the ceiling as if gathering the threads of her thoughts. "Okay," she started, her voice now a hushed whisper, "John and I were looking into some lore—old, obscure stuff, not just your run-of-the-mill monster tales. It's about something much older, something he was tracking long before the Wendigo."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Julia spoke, the brothers leaning in, captivated by the prelude to secrets yet untold. The promise they had made bound them to this space, to the words that were about to unfold, weaving them into the fabric of Julia's clandestine work.

With the silence of one well-versed in the quietude of libraries, Julia drifted towards the bay window, her figure briefly silhouetted against the gentle light. She took a swift left into a nook, where a ceiling-high cupboard was nestled like a secret chamber within the room. Sam and Dean sat in anticipation, their ears tuned to the soft hum of her tune, punctuated by the rustle of papers as she rummaged within the cupboard's depths.

The cupboard doors clicked shut, and Julia returned to the table, her arms wrapped around a thick brown accordion folder that seemed to challenge her with its heft. With careful steps, she approached, placing the folder on the table before sliding into the last remaining chair—inevitably, the one next to Dean.

As she scooted her chair in, the proximity brought a subtle contact; her knee brushed against Dean's, a fleeting touch that sent a heightened awareness coursing through him. Julia opened the folder with a sense of ceremony, unleashing a cascade of notebooks and papers, each leaf carrying the weight of diligent inquiry.

Sam immediately delved into one of the notebooks, his eyes scanning the bubbly script and the stark sketches that accompanied the text. Dean, however, remained focused on Julia, his curiosity piqued not just by the research but by the researcher herself.

"So, what was it my dad had you digging into?" Dean inquired, his voice low and earnest, inviting confidence.

Julia's gaze lifted to meet his, a current of intensity passing between them. "A demon," she began, her voice barely above a murmur, as if the very word might invoke the creature's attention. Her eyes flicked to Sam's, ensuring she had both brothers' undivided attention, before she continued, "The Yellow-Eyed Demon."

To be continued . . .

Chapter Two

[selene-writes]

Please go easy on me guys I'm not the best writer and this is my first fanfiction. Anyways... this is the first installment in my series rewrite. It's going to be a Sam x Reader and possibly Dean x Reader. This is an 18+ series and will include canon level violence, eventual graphic smut, dark, and is a slow burn.

My body trembled and my heart raced as tears streamed down my face, their salty taste filling my mouth. I wanted to kill them. An innocent family. I wanted to kill them. The thought disgusted and delighted me at the same time. The mother clutched her daughter in her arms and whispered that everything would be okay. The father was already dead. I had stabbed him. Again, and again. Now, as I raise my hunter's knife over the two of them, I can't help but look into the mirror on the wall, dark, blood-red eyes staring back at me. I smile at myself and bring the knife down...

You woke up to the sound of your screams. The nightmare and the images of the blood-soaked family burned brightly in your mind. You sighed before turning on the lamp next to you, which dimly lit the crappy motel room. The nightmare had felt so real, so alive. "There's no way I'm going back to sleep now," you mumbled aloud.

After lying in bed for a moment, trying to calm yourself and stop shaking, you got up and went to the small bathroom.  The nightmare had been so real, so vivid. The old faucet made a high-pitched whine, and you flinched before the water started to flow. You leaned down and splashed your face, hoping the cool water would wake you up. Your tank top and shorts cling to your skin, wet with your sweat, making you shiver involuntarily. You look up, part of you expecting to see the same blood red eyes you saw in your dream. But to your relief, you see your normal self, albeit with your tangled hair and the purple bags under your normal blue eyes.

Suddenly you heard the door to your room open.

"Fuck," you muttered, fear clutching at your stomach. You weren't here with anyone or expecting anyone. You grabbed one of your knives from the top of the sink, you were in the habit of keeping a weapon in every room and turned off the light in the bathroom. You decided to hide in the shower, closing the curtain as quietly as possible. You planned to wait until whoever was there entered the bathroom, after all, you did not know who or what was out there, and it was better to be safe than sorry. You listened for a moment and heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. "There's one of them," you thought after hearing the footsteps. The door slowly creaked open and you held your breath, clutching your knife and taking a defensive position. The curtain was suddenly pulled open, and you did not hesitate to lunge forward with the knife. The man grabbed your empty arm and twisted it behind your back, holding my knife-wielding hand in front of him. You quickly pulled his leg out from under him, but his grip on you caused you both to lose your balance and fall through the bathroom door. You landed on top of him and held the knife to his throat. Though the room was dimly lit, you could see that toothy smile and emerald eyes everywhere. Your eyes widened and you quickly pulled the knife away from his throat. 

"What the fuck Dean?!" I yell.

"Hey, sweetheart," he replies, smirking. Only then do you notice the position you're in, practically straddling Dean. You immediately get off of him before offering him your hand, which he gladly accepts. As soon as he stands, he wraps his arms around you. 

"It's good to see you." You smile as you put your arms around him. You pull away and your expression darkens. 

"But I swear to God, Winchester, if you ever scare me like that again, I will cut your dick off." You say sternly. He chuckles at your comment. "Yes ma'am."

You walk over to the mini fridge in the motel room and grab two beers. After twisting off the tops, you hand one to Dean. 

"So, what are you doing here?" You ask, turning to face him.

"I wanted to surprise you." He replies gruffly. "Love the outfit by the way." He adds smirking. My face turns red at his comment as I realize how short my shorts are.

"Shut up." You mutter as he laughs. "How did you find me anyway?" 

"Bobby," he replies, sitting down at the small table in the room.

"Of course," You can't help but snort. As his daughter he was very protective and always knew where you were. 

"Well, I don't suppose you're just dropping by to say hello, are you?" You took a seat across from him, it had been six months since you had last seen him, and he looked different, tired. 

"I wish." He mumbled. "My dad's on a case."

"Oh? The great John Winchester needs backup?" You say sarcastically. You stop when you see his face, something is wrong. "Dean?" 

"He's out on a case and I haven't heard from him in three weeks." 

Next part

[westernwinchesters]

Season 1 Sam!!

[salemsvlog]

Look, don’t need Buddie endgame for the end of s7. bare with me, okay?

I need Eddie doing his signature move of putting his hand on Bucks shoulder and just look at it, as if he just realized something.

I need s8 full of moments where Eddies hand starts going up: SHOULDERS, NECK & BEHIND HIS HEAD.

Everything just to end up in his cheeks while he pull him to kiss him.

+ if the kiss is after a dangerous call that makes them believed they’re not gonna make it and their saying goodbye to each other (obviously they make it, abc is not going to destiel them to hell)

That’s my take. Take it or leave it Tim.

[nachthimmelschwarz]

rewatching supernatural and i just realised that in season one every episode had a deeper meaning. like some lesson you could learn from it besides the main plot we followed.

for example 1x14 was mainly about sams powers focusing on the abilities he has and the murder of his mum and jess. but it was also about family stability (dean being the only reason sam didn't turn out the same as max) and abuse and about the question what abuse is (max being abused by his dad and uncle but kinda also his step-mom because she never helped him even though she knew what was happening). it was about breaking the vicious circle that abuse is ('old habits die hard I guess').

or 1x17. it was about the relationship between sam and dean (the simple joy of teasing your loved ones with pranks which kinda escalated at some point). it was about letting professionals handel things (the first time the ghostfacers interrupt one of sam and deans investigations), but it was also about the power of believing in something (mordecai only existing because people believed in him), it was about the hurt a belive can cause (a girl getting killed because the myth changed).

this is not a hot take I guess most people knew this from the start, but it just occurred to me and I wanted to share.

[kayleighwinchester]

Pilot (Part 1)

Alright! I was debating waiting a little while to post this, since I only posted that first little drabble last night, but this portion is finished, so I figured I would post it anyway. This is part one of my rewrite of the Pilot; I'm very slowly working my way through the vast majority of the series! Like the drabbles, these will be tagged by season, and will be posted in order. I think it's important to note that I changed out a portion of the dialogue for the exchange in the original script; I personally think it flows a lot better, and I prefer it far and above what we got onscreen!

Thank you guys for the support I got on the drabble - it means a lot! <3

There were a lot of things Dean Winchester expected when he shimmied open the front window to Sammy's Stanford apartment - and there were a lot of things that surprised him. It was far nicer than he might have expected from a college kid; even one in on scholarships and maybe a part time job. It looked like it was most certainly lived in by more than one person - a few odd touches here and there that were distinctly more feminine. More than anything, though, he most certainly was not expecting the slow, low click of a loading gun, the sound of the safety clicking off, a sound he had never quite gotten used to - and he wasn't expecting to find himself staring down the barrel of a very, very familiar Glock.

"What the fuck are you doin’ here, Winchester?"

Kayleigh Evans's voice made his heart stop in his chest, his eyes finding hers in the darkness. She was a healthier weight than he remembered from high school, from those four years that John had dragged her all over god’s green earth right there with him and Sammy - she’d filled out a bit, no longer almost concerningly thin - her hair was a bit longer, falling in messy curls down her shoulders and back, her eyes foggy with interrupted sleep - but she looked pissed. Even as angry as she was, he half-expected her to lower the gun - at least to point at center mass and not directly between his damn eyes - but there was no such luck. Apparently, seeing that he wasn’t a robber wasn’t reassuring her in the least, and did nothing to assuage her displeasure. If anything, it might have pissed her off even more.

"Whoa. Easy, Leigh. Put the gun down, and let's talk about this for a second." Dean said slowly, his hands raised in surrender. While he might have trusted Sam to be willing to have a semi-civil conversation, that wasn’t necessarily a risk he was willing to take with Kayleigh - not after how they’d left things, not with how he knew her temper, and certainly not with the fact that her first instinct upon seeing him, apparently, was to point what he could only safely assume was a loaded gun in his face.   

"What the fuck are you doin’ here?" She repeated, louder now - she didn’t seem to be trying not to wake Sam up - her eyes flashing back toward the rest of the apartment only briefly as she heard footsteps. Her posture didn’t ease, and the gun didn’t lower, however, even as her eyes met Sam’s, as the youngest Winchester finally came padding into the room.

"Sam, you wanna call off the attack dog here?" Dean demanded, though he clearly didn't think it was a particularly smart idea to move - not with the gun he'd given Kayleigh for her fourteenth birthday still pointed firmly between his eyes at point-blank range with no signs of lowering any time soon.

And to his immense frustration, Sam repeated, essentially, the same thing Kayleigh had said - albeit with distinctly more confusion, and one less loaded gun. "Dean? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well, I was lookin’ for a beer." Dean said, sounding more than a little exasperated by the entire situation. "Can we please get the gun out of my face, huh?" 

"Kay, it's fine." Sam finally said, maybe a bit reluctantly, as he stepped further into the room. Her eyes flashed to his, and slowly, slowly, the safety was back on with a low, soft 'click', and she was brushing past Sam a bit too roughly - more roughly than Dean had ever seen her be with the younger Winchester, damn near shoulder-checking him to show her displeasure - back toward the futon. And then his eyes were back on Dean, voice low, mildly impatient, as if he were speaking to a defiant child, not his older brother. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Okay, alright. We gotta talk.” Dean said simply, opening his arms in mock surrender. Sam stared at his brother for a beat, before dryly suggesting,

“The phone?” Dean’s expression soured just slightly. “If I’d’a called, would you have picked up?” He demanded. Sam hesitated briefly, and he finally relented with a roll of his eyes. 

"Sam?" A fourth voice joined the mix, the lights flicking on, flooding the living room with warm, bright light. For the first time, Dean could see around the room clearly - could see the futon Kayleigh was seated on, a duffel bag shoved beneath it, the painfully familiar sewn-over-and-over-again teddy bear that, even at twenty-six, Kayleigh appeared to have no problem carrying with her - the poor thing was practically more thread than it was ‘bear’ anymore, patched up by various hunters’ wives over the course of their childhood. "Kay?" And Dean's eyes finally flashed toward her, toward the pretty, slim blonde in the doorway. She was leaning against the doorframe, squinting just slightly, her eyes struggling to adjust to the light, and Sam turned sharply.

"Jess. Hey." He breathed out, as if she was all that mattered in that moment - as if seeing her was a relief that nothing else could possibly bring, a single ounce of normalcy in this whole, shitty moment. "Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica." He finally said as he turned back to Dean - and, surprisingly, Jessica's face lit up.

"Your brother Dean?" She asked Sam, not seeming to notice - or maybe willfully ignoring - Dean's gaze on her. He wasn’t expecting that, somehow - that she’d know him, or know of him. He’d almost expected that he would have been relegated to some dark, secret corner, someone that Sam never spoke of. It was, admittedly, a pleasant surprise to know he was wrong.

Dean sauntered forward a step or two, encouraged, at least, by the gun no longer pointed at his face and Jessica's welcoming smile. "I love the Smurfs," He observed, motioning vaguely to Jessica's shirt. "Man, I gotta tell you, you are completely out of my brother's league."

"Let me just go put something on." The smile had fallen from Jessica’s face as quickly as it had come, and her eyes darted to Kayleigh on the futon, to Sam at her side. Kayleigh just rolled her eyes and nodded - something even Dean could read as an unspoken ‘yep, that’s him alright’. 

"No, no, no, no - I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously." Dean said quickly - a little too quickly for Kayleigh's taste, if her expression was any indication - and she pointedly shifted herself to the edge of the futon, digging through her duffel briefly, before she started cleaning the damn gun, like an absolute cliche, her eyes not leaving his face. "Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business, but, uh - nice meeting you." His grin grew, and he gave a wink. Kayleigh's expression soured further, and Jess's grew mildly uncomfortable.

"No - no. Anything you wanna say, you can say it in front of her." Sam said firmly, and Kayleigh's eyes flashed to his, a look of distinct pride on her face.

"Okay." Dean said simply, as if the idea didn’t bother him at all - truth be told, it didn’t. "Dad hasn't been home in a few days." He didn't miss the derisive snort that Kayleigh let out, his jaw working briefly. "You got somethin' you wanna say, Leigh?" He bit out, though his eyes didn’t leave Sam - as if he didn’t trust his own temper if he let himself look at Kayleigh for too long, her attitude quickly beginning to grate on his already frayed nerves.

"So your jackass Dad's workin’ overtime on a Miller Time shift. I'm sure he'll stumble back in sooner or later." Kayleigh said lightly, not looking up from her gun. Sam fought to bite back a smile, even as a soft snort escaped, even as Jessica looked between the three like they'd gone nuts.

"Dad's on a hunting trip," Dean clarified, his voice cold, as his eyes flitted briefly to Kayleigh, and then shifted back to Sam. "And he hasn't been home in a few days." He let himself look back to Kayleigh, to take in the expression on her face. He could see the gears turning, see where her mind went - exactly where he’d intended. Her own father, slumped down in the passenger side of the Impala, his father driving - he didn’t have it in him to offer any kind word to soften that particular blow, even as he saw her expression change, her jaw work, her eyes dart back down to the gun in her lap.

That caught Sam's attention, and for a beat, silence reigned in the small living room. "Jess, excuse us. We need to go outside." Sam said quietly. "Kay, c'mon." Dean stared at Sam for a moment, looking like he wanted to protest - but at the look on Sam's face, he just nodded. This time, Dean let Sam lead the way to the front door of the apartment, sparing a moment to cast a glance around one more time, taking in the quiet domesticity of it - something he’d never had. In spite of everything else, he felt a swell of pride - Sammy deserved as much - and then it was gone as they stepped out into the hallway, Kayleigh pulling the door closed behind them.

All three were silent until Sam nudged open a side door, the cool night air coming in a welcome, refreshing blast - something to clear Dean’s racing mind, even if it was only for a moment. He let Dean pass, falling into step behind him, Kayleigh remaining a few steps behind - it seemed she trusted her own temper around Dean about as far as he trusted his own.

“I mean, come on. You can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you.” Sam finally spoke, voice rather annoyed now as he made his way down the metal stairwell. He kept the volume just a bit quieter than he might have otherwise - maybe to avoid disturbing anyone sleeping above or below, or maybe to avoid drawing attention to, well, any of their conversation.

“You’re not hearin’ me, Sammy. Dad’s missing. I need you to help me find him.” Dean did his best to stay patient, to keep the quickly rising irritation out of his voice. He wasn’t sure he succeeded - the soft snort from Kayleigh several steps above him just confirmed as much.

“You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil's Gates in Clifton? He was missing then, too. He's always missing, and he's always fine.” The younger Winchester retorted, and, in spite of herself - maybe just to add a little fuel to the fire, Kayleigh finally spoke up.

“He’s always fine. The poor sons’a bitches he drags into it with him 'n anyone that trusts him usually aren’t, but… ‘S long as Dad’s okay, ‘s all good, right, Winchester?”

Dean stopped in his tracks, his boots clanking on the stairs as he turned to look back up at her, green eyes narrowing slightly. She stared right back, lips pursed into a thin line, as if daring him to argue, and Sam instinctively shifted, his shoulder just barely in front of Kayleigh’s chest on the step ahead of her, making a barrier between the two, just in case one of them made a move. Dean was silent for a long, long moment, his eyes fixed on Kayleigh’s. “That’s not what we meant, ‘n you know it, Leigh.” He bit out after a moment.

“No, but ‘s how it always goes down.” She retorted, and Sam drew in a deep breath, offering a quiet, ‘guys,’ as a halfhearted warning. Kayleigh ignored him, continuing. “Every time someone’s stupid enough to call John Winchester in to help, they get themselves killed instead. Sure as hell doesn’t make my dad or Jo’s dad the common fuckin’ denominator, Winchester. So why the hell d’you think anyone’s gonna wanna help? ‘N you wanna drag Sammy back into it?” 

His eyes fixed on hers, and he looked like he fully intended to continue arguing, before he finally appeared to choose to, just this once, be the bigger person, his eyes moving to Sam instead. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with the movement, and continued as though Leigh had never spoken up, glancing back up to Sam as he continued down the stairs, “He’s never gone for this long. Now are you gonna come with me, or not?”

“I’m not.” Sam said firmly, eyes fixing on Dean’s. “Look, whatever’s going on here, Dad can handle it.” He stopped dead in his tracks as Dean hit the last stair - abruptly enough that Kayleigh nearly slammed into him, reaching out for the banister to steady herself.

“What part’a this don’t you understand, Sammy? We have to find him. You have to help.” Dean forced himself not to sound as infuriated as he felt - instead, it came out a bit condescending, even to his own ears, like he was speaking to a child. He didn’t miss the way Kayleigh’s eyes flashed to his, a silent warning, so like the ones she’d given so many times when he’d come off too harsh on the little things - his little brother looking at colleges, trying out for a sports team instead of focusing on the job…

“...Why do you need my help?” Sam prompted, and Dean was growing more and more certain that he was being difficult on purpose.

“He’s our Dad. You’re his son. What more do you need? We’re supposed to be family here, Sam.” Dean’s jaw worked as he fought to keep his eyes on Sam, not to respond to the laugh that Kayleigh barked out, along with a soft ‘you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me’.

“News to me.” Sam said simply, though he did glance up to Kayleigh as he spoke, and there was no way for Kayleigh to hide the smirk that tugged at her lips. It wasn’t funny - none of this was funny - but god, was she proud of Sam. It was written all over her face, and it pissed Dean off, more than a little.

“No way you’re bringing that up now.” He grit out, scrubbing a hand over his face, purposely ignoring the intrigued - fucking nosy, was what it was - look on Kayleigh’s face as she shifted to lean against the banister.

“He tossed me – and Kay, for that matter, out on our asses. And you practically locked the door behind me –”

“I seem to remember a few choice phrases coming out of your mouth that night –”

“– and I haven’t heard one word from you guys in, what, two years? That sound like family to you?” 

Dean couldn’t stop himself – he let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You know, you’re even more of a selfish, stuck-up punk than I remember.”

“Oh, am I?” It almost, almost sounded like Sam was close to losing his temper - Kayleigh reached forward, grabbing a handful of the back of his shirt as he took one step down the stairs, one step closer to Dean.  

“Yeah. I mean, I know things have been rocky lately, but still... he’s Dad. And after everything he’s done for you…” 

“Everything he’s done for me?” As Sam spoke, his voice a mixture of incredulity and outrage, Dean opened his mouth like he was about to interrupt, but Sam continued on. “All he’s done for me - for us -” He motioned sharply between the three of them, “is set the land speed record for fucked up childhoods!” There was no mistaking the anger in his voice now - anger that even Kayleigh seemed wary of, if the tug she gave the fistful of tee-shirt was any indication. The younger Winchester brother paused, and, though it seemed like an afterthought, took a slow step backward, up to the step he’d previously vacated. 

“Don’t be overdramatic.” Dean scoffed out, determinedly avoiding the look on Kayleigh’s face. He wasn’t sure he could stand to look at it - to see the well-deserved agreement Sam’s words were getting. Even he couldn’t disagree - he really couldn’t.

“Dean,” Sam sounded exasperated now - back to the tone that reminded him so much of an impatient parent scolding a misbehaving kid. Like he was explaining all of this to a first-grader. “when I told him I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45!”

“Well, what was he supposed to do?” Dean demanded, barely resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest defensively, settling, instead, for shoving his hands into his pockets, staring up at Kayleigh and Sam defiantly. It was two against one - not good odds in a real fight, and not good odds in an argument. Not when Sam was as headstrong as John, and Kayleigh was just as stubborn as both of their fathers combined.

“He was supposed to say ‘ghost stories are just stories’! He was supposed to say ‘don’t be afraid of the dark’!” Sam couldn’t help the disbelief that had begun to slip into his tone. It felt so, so obvious. It should have been. 

“You should be.” Dean shot, any pretense of calm composure gone. “You know what’s out there in the dark. You should be freakin’ terrified.”

“I know. But still -” Sam started, only to be cut off.

“Sammy, should I be prepping for a point here anytime soon?” Dean couldn’t hide the exasperation beneath the anger in his tone - just for good measure, he cast a pointed glance down at his watch – which read well past two in the morning – and back at his younger brother.

“The point is... I never asked for it: the occult homework, and melting the silver into bullets, and the family road trips, hunting down all those freaky-ass things. I never wanted any of it, Dean.” 

“You can’t pick your family, Sam.” Dean shot, unable to keep the mild resentment from his voice now. 

“No, but I can live my own life. And all our gory dysfunction – I buried it, man. I swore I was done with it. For good.” The anger was fading from Sam’s tone, replaced with something Dean knew way better than he wanted to admit – a sort of exhausted resignation. He clearly knew that he wouldn’t be getting anywhere in this argument, wouldn’t be actually making any sort of point that Dean would ever agree with.

“You know as well as I do. Nothing stays buried.” Dean stared up at Sam and Kayleigh, his jaw working for a moment, before he quietly, reluctantly offered, “I can’t do this alone.” 

“Yes you can,” Sam protested, his brows furrowing. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to.” He muttered begrudgingly, not meeting Sam’s eyes this time - and certainly not meeting Kayleigh’s. He didn’t want to see the expression there. While Sam’s was reluctant, maybe a bit torn, he was sure he’d see something worse in hers - utter indifference being the best of several bad options. Hell, he was pretty sure, on a bad day - and this one was feeling pretty damn bad, so far - she may have just laughed in his face, told him where he and his Dad could shove it, and never spoken to him again, and, like it or not, it was seeming like Kayleigh and Sam were coming - or not coming, which was seeming far more likely than he wanted - as a package deal.

He was expecting cold, humorless laughter from Kayleigh, maybe a cold shoulder from Sam. He was expecting something, anything other than for Kayleigh to remain quiet and stone-faced, keeping pace as Sam came down the last step between them. “Fine.” Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, letting out a slow exhale. “What was he hunting?”

[outofbluecomesgreen2]

I posted another chapter of my WIP!!

A Dean centered chapter.

[underground-secret]

The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean Winchester x F! reader

Description: When Dean gets a call from an "old friend" asking for help, old feelings resurface leaving for messy feelings and a complicated hunt.

Warnings: canon violence, feelings of unrequited love, angst, loving someone being difficult, corpses, crime scenes, cursing, mentions of racism, racist ghost truck?

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra , @fablesrose , @ada--44 , @bonkydarnes , @star-yawnznn , @crazyunsexycool

Word Count: 9,251

Route 666

(Master list, Prev Ch, Next Chapter)

I lean against the expanse of the Impala, letting the bright sun shine over me. It was one of those cold but not cold days, where as long as the sun was hitting you it was perfectly right. Sam is next to me looking over the large map he has laid out on the hood of the car, trying to look for a way around a closed-off road.

I’m glad he knew what he was doing ‘cause my map and geography skills only went so far before I was lost.

Meanwhile, Dean was off to the side, his phone pressed to his ear his brows furrowed whoever he was talking to was clearly telling him something important and maybe shocking.

“Ok. I think I found a way we can bypass that construction just East of here,” Sam informs gaining my attention, “We might even make Pennsylvania faster than we thought.” I nod, taking advantage of his hunched-over figure to ruffle his hair, “Nice work, map man.” He snorts, rolling his eyes as he pushes my arm away playfully.

“Yeah. ‘Problem is, we’re not going to Pennsylvania” Dean points out, closing his phone and looking at it thoughtfully. I look at him confused, “We aren’t…?” He nods, wetting his lips, “I just got a call from an, uh, old friend. Her father was killed last night, think it might be our kind of thing.”

“What?” Sam vocalizes. “Yeah. Believe me, she never woulda called, never, if she didn’t need us” Dean clarifies. Without giving us any more information or even a chance to contemplate or counter his statement he gets in the car, “Come on, are you coming or not?”

The Impala cruises down the expanse of the road, a long beautifully green field on one side and a lake on the other. “By old friend you mean…?” Sam asks the question we were both undeniably thinking. “A friend that’s not new” Dean grumbles.

“Oh! Thanks, genius” I remark, he was being weird and that alone was not helping his case. “‘Said her name’s Cassie huh?” Sam said, trying a different angle, “You never mentioned her…”

“Didn’t I?” Dean remarks. He wasn't very good at hiding this one, the car falling silent in the wake of his stupid answer. He finally huffs, “Yeah, we went out.”

“You mean you dated somebody?” Sam asks with a snort, “For more than one night?”

“Oh come on Sammy we're all adults here, we’ve all dated before” I chime in with a smirk. He turns around in his seat, facing me with an expectant look, “Are we talking about the same person here? Dean doesn't date.” Sam exclaims and I push down the ache of that implication, “And aren’t you the least bit curious.”

“Oh no, I am,” I nod enthusiastically, laughing lightly, “I want all the details. I was just tryna be nice.”

He snickers, turning back to his brother, “You heard her, we want all the details.”

I swear Dean’s eye practically twitches, “Am I speaking a language you’re not getting here? Dad and I were working a job in Ohio, she was finishing up college. We went out for a coupla weeks.” 

I want to ask how long ago this was, was it months before his dad disappeared or a year or more ago, but I hold back on my questioning. “And…?” Sam pushes. Dean shrugs slightly.

“Look, it’s terrible about her dad, but it kinda sounds like a standard car accident. I’m not seeing how it fits with what we do,” Sam reasons, “Which by the way, how does she know what we do?”

Dean doesn't answer again, silently shifting in his seat uncomfortably. The realization hits me like a brick, “Oh. My. God,” I lean forward in my seat almost getting choked out by my seatbelt, “You told her! You broke the number one hunting rule! You know, not telling anyone, ever!”

“More than that!” Sam adds, “It’s our big family rule. Number one. We do what we do and we shut up about it. For a year and a half, I did nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick in Ohio a coupla times and you tell her everything?!” I try not to think about my own relationships both romantic and not that rarely ever made it past a couple of months before it ended, not only having to lie about being a hunter but a witch too. Dean stays silent, staring straight ahead, “Dean!” Sam yells.

“Yeah. Looks like,” he finally acknowledges. He continues to stare ahead, pressing his foot down harder on the gas pedal. Sam shakes his head, giving his brother his classic bitchface.

“Oh. He had it bad” I laugh leaning back in my seat, ignoring the sinking and stabbing feeling in my heart. I figured I’d have to keep doing so on this hunt.

The office was dark, the bright sunlight not able to stretch upon the large room not even with the help of glass doors. The place could really open a couple of blinds, let the light shine in.

An old white man with an interesting-looking tie, one of those Western ones with the jewel and black tether, talks to two people a man and a woman their backs towards us. And the way Dean pauses, staring at the woman it isn't hard to deduce she's Cassie. She and the older black gentlemen next to her seem to be having some sort of dispute with the old white guy.

Then suddenly both of the men walk away, clearly frustrated, leaving Cassie to stand there herself. She turns around swiftly, and almost like a perfectly curated romance movie she nearly hits Dean only inches separating the two. I didn't even realize he had moved forward in the time we've been standing here. 

Just looking at her I could tell why Dean fell for her, she's beautiful more than that. She could be a model with her beautiful long dark curls framing her face, full lips colored red, and big brown eyes. She must have stepped out of a magazine, everything about her screamed perfect down to her perfectly shaped eyebrows and perfect nose. “Dean,” she says, her voice smooth despite the look of slight apprehension.

He nods and grins, “Hey Cassie.” And they just stare at each other. He's looking at her in a way I’ve never seen him look at anyone before even despite the tension that hung in the air, unspoken words from however long ago.

His eyes seem to glimmer, you’d have to be a fool not to see he still has feelings for her, that they never went away in the first place. And that it’s more than just any feelings, he loves her and that is a hard pill to swallow.

He clears his throat, breaking the trance they were both in, “This is my brother Sam. And my friend Y/N.” She smiles at each of us before her gaze reverts to Dean, not that I could blame her in the slightest.

“Sorry ‘bout your dad,” he says.

“Yeah. Me too,” she answers.

Her family home was beautiful and extraordinarily large, it was a bit disturbing. Though maybe that was because it reminded me of my home before moving to Kansas, or at least what I remember of it. We sat in the sitting room on vintage settees, another reminder of that home��my mother would quite like the look of this cozy room. 

Cassie finally comes back adorning a tray of tea cups and a teapot along with the little bowl of sugar and a small pouring cup of milk, could she get any more perfect and wonderful? “My mothers in pretty bad shape. I’ve been staying with her. I wish she wouldn’t go off by herself. She’s been so nervous and frightened. She was worried about Dad,” she explains.

“Why?” Dean asks as she takes a seat across from us. He was watching her every move as if dedicating it to memory, I wonder if he’s thinking ‘She moves in the same manner she used to’ or maybe that it changed. Suddenly I was not so okay with sitting between the boys even though that's almost how we always sat when talking to someone on a hunt, as it made it harder for them to fight and made them slightly more comfortable with squishing into sofas with their large frames. But now, being in the middle I could easily watch how he looked at her, studied her.

She skillfully pours tea into each cup, “He was scared. He was seeing things.”

“Like what?” He asked.

“He swore he saw an awful-looking black truck following him,” she responds carefully.

“A truck, did he see a driver?” I ask, diligently accepting the beautiful teacup she handed me. I take a careful sip of the black tea, of course she would know and pick the perfect tea for guests. Does she have any flaws?

“He didn’t talk about a driver,” she answers, “Just the truck. He said it would appear and disappear. And, in the accident, Dad’s car was dented, like it had been slammed into by something big.”

Sam accepts his cup of tea, “Thanks. Now you’re sure this dent wasn’t there before?” And as predictable as Dean was he looked at his cup weirdly before depositing it back on the tray, that man was not a tea person he’d take a coffee or a beer any day. I think the only reason he drank the tea I gave him when he was sick was because he knew how desperate Sammy and I were. 

“He sold cars. Always drove a new one. There wasn’t a scratch on that thing,” she explains, “It had rained hard that night. There was mud everywhere. There was a distinct set of muddy tracks leading from Dad’s car…leading right to the edge, where he went over.” She swallows harshly, bowing her head, “One set of tracks. His.” 

Dean’s face softens, eyes filling with sympathy, “The first was a friend of your father's?” She nods, “Best friend. Clayton Soames. They owned the car dealership together. Same thing. Dent. No tracks. And the cops said exactly what they said about Dad. He ‘lost control of his car.’”

I force my brain to rid itself of any thoughts of Dean and Cassie's relationship. This was like any other hunt, something weird is going on and we are here to help, nothing more.

It was weird, cars don't just drive off the road like that and then have newly made dents that match another vehicle. “Is there any reason you can think of as to why your father and his partner might've been targets? Competition?” I ask. She shakes her head, radiating certainty, “No.”

“And you think this vanishing truck ran them off the road?” Sam points out.

“When you say it aloud like that…,” she sighs, “listen, I’m a little skeptical about this…ghost stuff…or whatever it is you guys are into.”

Dean huffs, “Skeptical. If I remember, I think you said I was nuts.” 

“That was then,” she bites back. Then they fall back into that thing where they just stare at each other, “I just know that I can’t explain what happened up there. So I called you,” she adds, directing her words only to him. I clear my throat, weary of the bubble they seem to have put around themselves, “You were right in calling” I reasoned softly, “It is very strange and on the off chance it isn’t anything supernatural then it was certainly a cover-up.”

Her perfect eyebrows furrow but before she can respond the sound of the front door opening catches all of our attention, a middle-aged white woman enters through and I assume it's her mother. She shared her mother's eye shape and her nose, but the rest of her she must have gotten from her father.

As if we had gotten caught we all rise from the sofa. Cassie goes over to her mother, taking her arm, “Mom. Where have you been I was so…” her mother cuts her off looking at us, “I had no idea you'd invited friends over.”

“Mom, this Dean, a…friend of mine from…college. ‘His brother Sam and friend Y/N.”

“Well, I won’t interrupt you” her mother smiles nervously.

“Mrs Robinson,” Dean says suddenly, “We’re sorry for your loss. We’d like to talk to you for a minute if you don’t mind.” And as if offended she recoils, “I’m really not up for that right now.”

The morning sun is dimmer today, perfect for the scene we were walking upon. The man Cassie was standing with yesterday, Jimmy, was the newest victim. He died in the same way as the others sometime late last night. Cassie was again arguing with the old white man from yesterday. As we approached I could hear his condescending voice, “Close the man road. The only road in and out of town? Accidents do happen Cassie, and that’s what they are. Accidents.” 

We stand beside her, Dean speaking up immediately, “Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy’s car, see if it was pushed?” 

Without missing a beat and without looking away from Cassie the man asks, “Who’s this?”

“Dean and Sam Winchester, Y/N L/N. Family friends. This is Mayor Harold Todd” She replies smoothly. This man went from just any old white guy to a powerful old white guy, even worse. And he had two first names, you never trust someone with two first names. Reluctantly Mayor Old Guy answers Dean’s initial question, “There’s one set of tire tracks. One. ‘Doesn’t point to foul play.”

Cassie scuffs, “Mayor, the police, and town officials take their cues from you. If you’re indifferent about…” 

He cuts her off, “Indifferent!”

“Would you close the road if the victims were white?” she counters.

Oh. Could she get any more iconic?!

“You suggesting I’m racist Cassie?” He spits, “I’m the last person you should talk to like that.” 

“And why is that?” She counters, stepping closer to him.

“Why don’t you ask your mother” he answers before walking away. My jaw drops, what the hell is going on in this town?

I huff, blowing a piece of hair out of my face. I really didn’t want to get dressed, for as much as I’ve been trying to ignore the whole Dean and Cassie situation I was feeling horrible.

I sit on the soft motel bed in nothing but my underwear and a nice white button-down, haven given up on dressing. I feel stupid. Incredibly stupid.

Maybe Sam’s words had gotten to me, maybe I had gotten my hopes up without even realizing it.

He loves someone else, and he’s had for a while. I always thought when you love someone those feelings don’t ever truly go away, there's always a part of you with them. They wind up crossing your mind and you wonder where things went wrong. But I guess I never considered this would also apply to Dean, which is cruel to believe within itself. Which is funny too, all these years I’ve spent loving him…But Sam was right he didn’t date so I guess I assumed he never fell for anyone during his countless one-night stands.

I know death is cruel but maybe love is tied with it. Because I feel like someone took my heart and ran with it, leaving me with this void in my chest and an ache so intense that it throbs in its place. It was stupid to think I had a chance to begin with. I knew not to believe I had one in the first place, but somewhere along the line I had completely forgotten about any of that. So much for listening to my past self, if I had maybe I wouldn't be feeling so damn bad.

But I couldn't be mad. Cassie was wonderful in every possible way and you don't need to know her for long to realize that. They seemed perfect for each other really. She was feisty and had no issue putting someone in their place, which I quite admired, and I know Dean could use that every now and then. If she was a jerk I’m sure I’d have no issue disliking her, but she wasn’t! She was impossible to dislike, and it would be horrible of me to hate her just because she harbors feelings for someone that I love or the fact that he loves her back. That wasn't her fault, it was neither of their faults.

Loving someone has to be the hardest thing one could do.

I get up from the bed and put on my skirt. I couldn't sit here forever, the boys would come knocking and I wouldn't have a good excuse as to why I’m in a mood. Quickly I check myself in the mirror, at least I didn’t cry which means I don't gotta redo my makeup, even if it was minimal to begin with.

How do you stop loving someone? I could use that answer.

I knew I loved him for a long time, too long. But I suppose I didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten, how much it had flourished and I had never expected that to be possible. I love him.

I love him and it hurts so much.

How many times did I have the opportunity to tell him? It had to be in the hundreds. Maybe it was better that I didn’t, he loves someone else and I should be happy for them. I am happy for him. He deserves to be loved and be able to love. Yes, I am happy.

I approach the two older men having lunch, focusing on the wet ground and the wholesomeness that is them eating on a pier. “Hi, sorry. Are you Ron Stubbins?” I ask, taking the lead. I needed to throw myself into the work, I needed the distraction. The older man nods looking at us confused, his black cap bobbing with his head. “You were friends with Jimmy Anderson?” Dean follows up.

“Who are you?” Ron responds with, sitting up straighter. He was sizing us up, skeptical of us, which he had every right to be. “We’re Mr. Anderson’s insurance company. We’re just here to dot ‘I’s’ and cross ‘T’s’,” Dean explains, flashing his badge.

“And they needed to send three of you?” He counters. I giggle, tilting my head slightly, “Would you prefer me leaving?” I ask sweetly. And as predictable as men can be he drags his eyes across my body before shaking his head, “No. No. That won’t be necessary.” I ignore the dirty feeling that washes over me and sticks to my bones like a new layer of skin, it was necessary to do that because now he won’t bother questioning us anymore on that topic. 

“We were just wondering, had the deceased mentioned any unusual recent experiences?” Sam questions, getting back on topic. Reluctantly Ron looks away from me to look at the man who questioned him, “What do you mean, unusual?”

“Well visions, hallucinations” He elaborates. 

“We’re working with local psychologists to broaden our questioning and research,” I explain, trying to clear the confusion from his face, “It’s all very standard.”

“What company did you say you were with?” Ron counters. Maybe he was more on guard than I thought. “All National Mutual” Dean answers smoothly, “Tell me, did he ever mention seeing a truck? A big black truck?”

“What the hell ‘you talking about?” Ron exclaims, “‘You even speaking English?”

Wow, what a lovely guy.

“Son this truck, a big scary monster-looking thing?” Ron's friend suddenly says.

“Yeah actually, I think so” Dean answers. The man hums to himself in thought, please let this interaction be useful. “You’ve heard of something like that?” I ask the man. “I have,” he nods, not bothering to elaborate.

“You have. Where?” Sam pushes.

“Not where,” he finally answers, “When. Back in the ‘60s, there was a string of deaths. Black men. Story goes, they disappeared in a big, nasty, black truck.”

“They ever catch the guy?” I ask. He shrugs, “Never found him. Hell, not even sure they really looked. See there was a time, ‘this town wasn’t too friendly to all its citizens.”

“Thank you” Sam nods.

We walk away, heading back to the Impala. “Well, it seems like history is repeating itself,” I began, “From the lack of investigation and racism down to the–”

“Truck,” Dean says, finishing my sentence. “Keeps coming up doesn’t it?” Sam adds.

“You know, I was thinking. You heard of the Flying Dutchman?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, a ghost ship, infused with the Captian’s evil spirit. It was basically part of him” Sam answers, explaining the lore. Dean nods, “So what if we’re dealing with the same thing? You know, a phantom truck, an extension of some bastard’s ghost, re-enacting past crimes.”

“The victims have been black men” Sam continues the theory. I half-shrug, “I don't know. The town has to have more than a handful of black people, but it only seems to be going after specific people. It’s practically targeting those connected to Cassie and her family. I’m sure there’s some deeper link there.”

“That’s why I think it’s more than that,” Dean says.

“All right. Well, you work that angle, go talk to her,” Sam tells his brother specifically, clearly playing matchmaker. “Yeah, I will,” Dean agrees.

“Oh, and you might also wanna mention that other thing” Sam noted, a playful smile on his lips. Always the meddler. “What other thing?” Dean asks, either genuinely lost or faking it. “The serious, unfinished business?” Sam elaborates. I huff a laugh, “Yeah, seriously Dean it's so painfully obvious. Just talk to the girl.” It pained me to even suggest that, to motivate him in such a way but I want him to be happy, and if that means being with her then so be it.

Dean stops just as we reach the car, going obstinately silent. Sam huffs a laugh this time, “Dean, what is going on between you two?”

“All right, so maybe we were a little more involved than I said,” he finally admits. I give him a pointed look, “Yeah…that was obvious.” 

He huffs, “A lot more. Maybe. And I told her our secret, about what we do. And I shouldn’t have.”

“Ah look man, everybody’s gotta open up to someone sometime,” Sam reasons, being a little too understanding compared to how we were only yesterday. “Yeah I don’t,” Dean argues, “It was stupid to get that close. I mean, look how it ended.”

I smile at him softly, hoping any sadness is concealed far behind my eyes, and I realize Sam is giving him the same look except he’s nearly beaming. “Would you both stop!” he shouts. But we don't because this is a side of Dean we’ve never seen before, and it is beautiful even if it's heartbreaking for me. “Someone blink or something!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up.

“You loved her,” I say softly, the gape in my chest deepening at the verbal declaration. Saying it aloud was so much worse. “Oh God,” he groans, turning to the Impala. “You still do!” I call after him.

“You were in love with her, but you dumped her,” Sam states, connecting the pieces. Dean goes silent, staring at the ground, then carefully glances at his brother before reverting his eyes. “Oh wow. She dumped you.”

I have to stop myself from taking in a sharp breath, there was a lot to this he wasn’t telling us. But why would she break up with him if she still has feelings?

“Get in the car” Dean demands, done being “emotional” and open, “Get in the car!”

Sam hands me my hot chocolate, but not even the sweet treat or the soft snow falling just outside can lift my mood. It makes me feel a little better but it does not fix my heart. Dean didn’t come back last night and I know it’s because he spent the night at Cassie’s. I’m happy they worked things out and hopefully had a wonderful night but again it does not fix my heart.

I held the cup tighter, welcoming the immense warmth it brought to my frozen hands as we stepped out of the small coffee shop. The air was crisp yet gentle as the light fluffy snowflakes descended onto us, the cold flakes collecting in my hair. A small smile graced my face, maybe it was making me feel better. I like the cold, preferred it even, I was cozy in my thick turtle neck and my favorite fleeced-lined jacket. 

Sam and I walk in comfortable silence side by side, sipping from our cups and basking in the scenery of the unexpected snow. It was early May in Missouri, it really shouldn’t be snowing but I suppose if it could snow here a little in April then early May couldn't be that weird. Plus it was a light snow that likely wouldn't even stick. But the calming scenery is cut in half by an ambulance that speeds past us, sirens blaring. We share a questioning look but ultimately ignore it until two cop cars rush past us heading the same way. That we can’t ignore. With another shared look, we follow after the sirens.

I look out at the macabre scene, the yellow caution tape not having stopped me from investigating thanks to the use of a fake ID. The body had been bagged after countless photos were taken, but the blood of Mayor Todd still stains the streets. It was a gruesome scene, arguably worse than the others in this case his organs squished out like roadkill and, truthfully, that’s what he had become. 

“L/N” Sam calls out from just a few feet behind me. I turned around swiftly, the snow whirling around me, Dean stood next to his brother. He came. 

I walk over to the two boys, watching Dean’s clear expression of shock masked by annoyance, “‘You gonna ask me a bunch of questions too?” he asks. I look at him confused, “...no” I drag out slowly. His face seems to relax slightly, something unrecognizable passing in his eyes, “Good,” he nods. 

“I already know you made up–made out” I add, his face drops, “Anyways, crime scene,” I point behind me.

“Every bone crushed. Internal organs turned to pudding,” Sam explains the case, catching his brother up, “The cops are all stumped, it’s like something ran him over.” The wind picks up again, swirling the snow in its own private storm, the cold will help with the case as it preserves the body longer. “Something like a truck?” Dean asks, gaining his footing in the case.

“Yeah, except of course there’s no tracks” I answer. He nods, rubbing a hand down his jaw and I have to force my eyes away from the movement, “What was the Mayor doing here anyway?”

“He owned the property. Bought it a few weeks ago” Sam says referring to the building site.

“But he’s white, doesn’t fit the pattern,” Dean points out. Sam nods, “Killings didn’t happen up on the road. That doesn’t fit either.”

I shove my hands into my pocket, taking a quick look back at the crime scene before turning back to the boys, “Then it seems like this case is one of revenge.”

I shuffle through the papers in front of me, glad that I was sent to do research at the town's main library rather than be at the newspaper office with the boys and Cassie. She was probably looking at him all sweetly and being a kind person, and I did not wish to see the loving way they looked at each other. And if avoiding that meant having my nose in dusty boxes of court records then that was okay.

I pull out my phone calling Sam directly instead of Dean, the phone rings a couple of times before he picks up, “Hi” I greet, “I got some info.”

The line goes quiet for a second before I hear his voice, “Alright you're on speaker.”

“Ok, so,” I start, balancing my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I look over the papers, “I have courthouse records here, and according to them Mr and Mrs Mayor bought an abandoned property. The previous owner was the Dorian family who owned it for, like, 150 years.”

“Dorian?” Dean repeats back. “Yes.”

His voice grows quieter but still in range enough for me to hear, “Didn’t you say the Dorian family used to own this paper?” he asks someone else in the room. “Along with everything else around here. Real pillars of the town,” Cassie answers. “Right, right” Dean responds followed by the clicking of keys.

“You got something there?” I ask, readjusting my phone. 

“Think so” Sam mumbles, seemingly focused on whatever was happening over at the office.

“This Cyrus Dorian. He vanished in April of ‘63. The case was investigated but never solved. It was right around the time the string of murders was going on back then,” Dean informs, adding more information to what that man yesterday had told us.

“Well to add to that information, the Dorian place seemed to be in really bad shape when the Mayber bought it,” I add, “He bulldozed the place.”

“Mayor Todd knocked down the Dorian place?” Dean asks, presumably, Cassie. “It was a big deal” she answers, “One of the oldest houses left. He made the front page.” I huff a breath, everything connecting yet leaving so many questions at the same time. “You got a date, Y/N?” Dean calls back.

“Um,” I hum shuffling the papers around and reading over the words quickly, “‘3rd of last month.” The line goes quiet again the only sound ringing back being the sharp noise of fingers on a keyboard, “Mayor Todd bulldozed the Dorian family home on the 3rd,” Dean finally responds, “The first killing was the next day.”

Pouring the boiled water into the mug I take a quick look back, Dean kneels in front of the shaken-up Cassie rubbing her knee softly and looking at her with pure determination and adoration. I swallow roughly looking back at the mugs in front of me, nearly overspilling and burning myself. 

This was not the time to grieve a love that never happened. Cassie called Dean afraid, having seen the black truck. We were here to help, I was making a soothing herbal tea for her and her mother to calm the nerves. 

Finishing with the mugs I carefully carry them into the sitting room. Sam takes one from me, gently handing it to her mother. I hand the mug to Cassie, her shaky hands accepting and rattling the cup, Dean immediately moves to sit at her side but it does not stop his protectiveness if anything it amplifies it; he practically radiates it. “Maybe you should throw a couple of shots in here,” she says, half joking.

I huff a laugh, “Well while the effects of alcohol do have the capabilities of easing the central nervous system, when the effects wear off your body will be jolted back from its depressive state which would really only make you feel worse, more anxious as well as stressed.”

She gives me a half, almost awkward, smile before taking a sip from her mug. Did I say too much? Why didn’t someone stop me? Someone should’ve just cut me off, especially if I wasn’t helping.

“You didn’t see who was driving the truck,” Sam says suddenly, pulling the awkwardness out of the air. “It seemed to be no one. Everything was moving so fast. And then it was just gone,” she explains, “Why didn’t it kill us?”

“Whoever was controlling the truck wants you afraid first,” Dean answers. This would explain why at least one of the victims had seen it and truthfully thought they were going mad. “Mrs Robinson,” Sam began, “Cassie said that your husband saw the truck before he died.” Mrs Robinson doesn't answer, seemingly lost in her mind as she shakes. “Mom?” Cassie says carefully, worry laced in her voice.

The older Robinson shakes her head nervously, “Oh. Martin was under a lot of stress. You can’t be sure about what he was seeing.”

“Well after tonight I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck. What happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked. Ok?” Dean snaps, “Your daughter could die. So if you know something now would be a really good time to tell us about it.”

“Dean…” Cassie warns. But her mother's face contorts in emotion, something in her breaking, “Yes. Yes, he said he saw a truck.”

“Did he know who it belonged to?” Sam asks, taking a seat across from the woman. “He thought he did,” she answers cryptically. “Who was that?” Dean pushes. Her eyes get watery and she sinks into herself, “Cyrus. A man named Cyrus.”

My gaze flickers to the boys, we are all thinking the same thing, I look back at her, “By any chance was it Cyrus Dorian?” I ask carefully. Dean pulls out a newspaper from inside his coat, handing it to the woman. She doesn't shake her head or nod only replying with, “Cyrus Dorian died more than 40 years ago.”

“How do you know he died, Mrs Robinson?” Dean asks softly, “The papers said he went missing. How do you know he died?” 

She hesitates, her mouth agape like a fish out of water or in reality that of a person who got caught, “We were all very young,” she says, “I dated Cyrus a while, I was also seeing Martin…in secret of course. Interracial couples didn’t go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus and when he found out about Martin, I don’t know, he, changed. His hatred. His hatred was frightening.”

“The murder,” Sam voices.

Her voice wobbles, “They were rumors. People of color disappearing into some kind of truck. Nothing ‘ever done,” she swallows shifting in her seat, “Martin and a…Martin and I, we were gonna be, uh, married in that little church near here, but last minute we decided to elope as we didn’t want the attention.” She pushes her short hair out of her face, stressed. “And what became of Cyrus?” I ask.

Endless tears fall down her cheeks, “The day we set for the wedding, was the day someone set fire to the church. There was a children’s choir practicing in there. They all died.” I suppress the gasp that wishes to leave my lips, the room seems to dim with the information. What was meant to be a beautiful day was soiled by the blood of innocents.

“Did the attacks stop after that?” Sam asks softly, careful of her fragile mindset.

A sob escapes from her chest, “No! There was one more. One night that truck came for Martin. Cyrus beat him terribly. But Martin, you see, Martin got loose. And he started hitting Cyrus and he just kept hitting him and hitting him.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?” Dean pushes. She continues to cry, “This was forty years ago. He called on his friends, Clayton Soames and Jimmy Anderson, and they put Cyrus’ body into the truck and they rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land and all three of them kept that secret all of these years.” 

“And now all three are gone,” Sam acknowledges. This all confirms the theory of a vengeful spirit. “And so is Mayor Todd,” Dean adds, “Now he said that you of all people would know he is not a racist. Why would he say that?”

“He was a good man,” Mrs Robinson answers, “He was a young deputy back then investigating Cyrus’ disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the others had done he…he did nothing, because he also knew what Cyrus had done.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cassie asks, her voice hard yet full of emotion. I couldn't imagine what was going on in her head, to find out something like this–“I thought I was protecting them. And now there’s no one left to protect,” her mother reasons.

“Yes, there is” Dean counters, fiercely. His green eyes harden with determination as he looks at Cassie.

I sit on the cold hood of the Impala, gently kicking my legs back and forth watching Dean pace in front of me. Sam leans against the car next to me, his arms crossed as he too watches his brother, “Ah, my life was so simple. Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms…”

I look at him with an amused smile, “I have no idea what that last part is but it sounds fun!” That stops Dean in his tracks for just a half of a second, he points at us, “No it doesn’t. I saved him from a boring existence.”

“Yeah, occasionally I miss boring” Sam reasons. I nod enthusiastically, “Honestly, we have not had a normal day in like months. Kinda miss it.”

Dean brushes our light complaining off, “So this killer truck–”

“I miss conversations that didn’t start with ‘this killer truck’” Sam quips with a dramatic sigh. I failed to hold back my laughter, Dean laughs lightly and for a brief moment, things feel how they used to, “Well this Cyrus guy. Evil on a level that infected even his truck. When he died, the swamp became his tomb, and his spirit was dormant for 40 years.”

“So what woke it up?” Sam asks.

“The construction on his house. Or the destruction,” Dean points out. 

“Right. Demolition or remodeling can awaken spirits, make them restless” Sam recalls. His brother hums a ‘yes’, nodding.

“Like that theater in Illinois, ya know?” Sam references, and I in fact had no idea what he was talking about. “And the guy that tore down the family homestead, Harold Todd, is the same guy that kept Cyrus’ murder quiet and unsolved,” Dean adds, bringing it back to the case at hand.

“So now his spirit is awakened and out for blood,” Sam acknowledges. 

“Yeah, I guess. Who knows what ghosts are thinking anyway” Dean shrugs. 

“Wait, does this mean we have to go swimming in that swamp?” I ask. I mean if we had to salt and burn the bones then we would need said bones which are in a swamp, how nice. Dean smiles at me, I know that look. “No” I warn, pointing at him like an animal that did something wrong. “You said it” he rationalizes. 

“Noooo” I whine a pout on my lips, “Do I have to do it alone?”

His wicked smile deepens, “‘Course not, Sammy’s gonna be with you.”

Sam’s shoulders drop, “Man,” he sighs. 

Suddenly a familiar figure approaches, her hands tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. Dean stands up straighter, “Hey.” She smiles sadly, “Hey. She’s asleep. Now what?”

“Well, you should stay put, look after her…and we’ll be back. Don’t leave the house,” Dean explains, looking at her in that way that hurts my heart. But she smiles, any worry melting off her face, “Don’t go getting all authoritative on me. I hate it.”

Dean glances back at us, Sam looks down grinning acting as if neither of us could hear the conversation. He turns back to Cassie mumbling something I can't quite make out but whatever it was must have been good because he slowly leans in to kiss her. I drop my head and gaze at the very interesting ground, trying my best to ignore the sound of their intensifying making out. A pang of jealousy, longing, and pain shoots through my chest. If the ground wanted to just open up and consume me now I wouldn’t complain, I’d even help it and just throw myself in it wouldn’t have to work very hard. Sam clears his throat, I look up but Dean just holds out a finger to wait as he brings Cassie even closer.

I drop my eyes again. 

Loving someone never hurt so bad. Loving him never hurt so bad. 

Was it wrong to love him? Was this always going to be my fate? To see him evermore with other girls, loving them more than he could ever love me. 

“You two comin’ or what?” Dean asks. I look up once more and this time his lips aren’t on Cassie.

I tug on the chain again, making sure it's secure, my hands getting wet in the process. I wipe my icky hands off on my jeans as I back away, “Alright he’s good,” I call out to Sam who stands feet away from me, closer to the butt of the pickup Dean was driving. He gives a thumbs up to his brother who begins to move the car forward, the pickup moving slowly in the weight of the heavy truck and water pressure.

We had already gotten it up a lot, but it had gotten stuck on the side of the swamp so we had to readjust its hold to get it the rest of the way up. 

The years in the water had diminished it. The old black truck was now more like a rust bucket, remains of the swamp water spilling out from the seams. “All right. A little more…little more,” Sam leads, “All right, stop.” 

The engine shuts off and Dean heads to the Impala, he pulls it open rummaging through the various weapons. “Now I know what she sees in you” Sam declares with a snap of his finger, meaning he finally understood what that look in her eyes meant. “What?” Dean asks.

“Come on man, you can admit it. You’re still in love with her” Sam clarifies. I nod even though the implications hurt, “Plus it’s not like no one else knows. So the only person you’re hiding from is yourself.”

Dean looks up from the trunk, “Uhh, can we focus please.”

I purse my lips, “Yeah…focusing has never really been our strong suit…” A container of salt is pressed into my chest, “Hold that” Dean says swiftly.

His expression hardens, all jokes put to rest as he dishes out items, “Gas” he says first, handing the large container to his brother, “Flashlights,” he lists out next filling my empty hand with one. 

“Ok, let’s get this done,” he quips, closing the trunk.

We trudge back over to the rusty truck, our flashlights leading our way across the grass. Dean places his hand on the handle and I must wonder how he isn’t grossed out by just the feeling of the flaked paint and rotting metal. He glances at us in a silent ‘you ready?’ We give a nod and he opens the door.

A decaying wet corpse falls out the door and onto the soft grass, a small gush of water following its lead. I leap back like a scared cat, clasping a hand to my mouth and nose the decomposition of the body as well as its marinating in swamp water left a putrid smell. One perhaps worse than anything I've ever smelt before which was saying something considering what I’ve hunted. 

“All right let’s get to it,” Dean says. Sam pours the gasoline all over the body, careful not to get it close to us and I jump in with the salt, opening the little latchet to sprinkle the small white crystals over the open-mouthed corpse. The satisfying scratch and flick of a match sounds softly beside me in the quiet night followed by the drop of the matchstick on the body. In mere seconds the remains go up in flames, the warm glow of the fire reflecting on the truck just beside it. I hoped no one would come looking over here with the whirl of smoke twirling above us, the heat powerful enough for me to take another step back. 

“Think that’ll do it?” Sam voices, staring down at the burning corpse. But his question is followed by the revving of an engine and two blinding lights pointed at us. Without looking in the direction I knew it was the ghost truck. “I guess not,” Dean quips.

 “So burning the body had no effect on that thing?” the younger Winchester asks. “Sure it did. Now it’s really pissed,” Dean responds. I glare at him, “I don't know if this is the time for cool jokes.”

“But Cyrus’ ghost is gone, right Dean?” Sam asks, a hint of panic in his voice as the tuck stares us down. But his brother doesn't answer right away, instead, he starts to walk away, “Apparently not the part that’s fused with the truck.”

 I go on my tip toes trying to peak into the truck, maybe we missed something like a severed piece of him that didn’t spill out but before I can vocalize this Sam is calling out to his brother, “Where are you going?” I turn around, catching up to the boys, “Goin’ for a little ride,” Dean answers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What?!” Sam and I exclaim in unison, “That’s a horrible idea!” I add. But he ignores our concern, “Gonna lead that thing away. That busted piece of crap, you gotta burn it.”

“How the hell are we supposed to burn a truck, Dean?” Sam asks, voice raising in volume. But being the determined man he is he shrugs, “I don’t know. Figure something out.” He rounds the car, opening the driver's door, “At least let one of us come with you, this is horribly dangerous,” I try to reason.

His eyes move up and down my face, before he settles on my eyes once more, “‘Exactly why you’re not comin’ with.” Before I can come up with a retort on how stubborn he is he settles himself into the car, closing the door behind him. I look to Sam for any support on this but he just stares at the car muttering, “Figure some–something–”

I rack my brain for ideas because Dean wasn’t going to listen and would rather be all hot and stubborn than be reasonable, “An explosion?” I suggest. Sam shakes his head, “No, that wouldn’t work. Parts would go everywhere and everything has to burn.”

I huff, frustrated, “I hate when you’re right.” 

Dean reverses the Impala and takes off, the engine revering. As predictable as possible the ghost truck roars after him. I try to rack my brain for more ideas, even if we could suddenly light a truck on fire it would take too long for it to burn completely, “Sam, please tell me you got some idea rolling around in there.” He doesn't answer, lost in concentration with his bottom lip between his teeth. 

My phone suddenly rings in my pocket, I pull it out swiftly seeing Dean’s name glowing. I flip it open bringing it to my ear, “You okay?” I say immediately. “Uh…yeah,” He says but I remain not convinced, “what are we doing?” 

I look at Sam, panicking slightly, “Um, Sam what are we doing?”

He pulls out his phone, “You gotta give me a minute.” He presses his phone to his ear, “He says to give him a minute, I think he’s callin’ someone.”

“I don’t have a minute!” He half yells. “Dude, I don't know!” I panic, “Just…just don’t die, okay?”

“Trying here sweetheart.” I look back at Sam who has stepped away, I give him a hand motion of ‘please hurry up.’ He nods, coming closer to feed me info, “Ask him where he is.” I pull my phone away from my ear putting him on speaker instead, “Okay, Dean where the hell are you?”

“In the middle of nowhere with a killer truck on my ass!” he exclaims, “It’s like it knows I put the torch to Cyrus.”

“Listen to me, this is important” Sam orders, calmly, “I have to know exactly where you are.” Seemingly taking his advice he goes quiet for a beat, “Decatur Road, about two miles off the highway.”

“Ok. Headed East?” Sam follows up.

“Yes!”

A rattle and a bang followed by skitting noise sounds from the phone followed by cursing, “You son of a bitch!” 

“Sam!” I yell, begging him to hurry up. “Ok, uhhh, turn right! Up ahead, turn right.” Again the line falls silent, “You make the turn?” Sam questions softly. My heart beats faster with each silent moment that passes. “Yeah, I made the turn!” Dean yells, “You need to move this thing along a little faster.”

“All right, you see a road up ahead?” Sam asks.

“No!... Wait. No, yes, I see it.”

“Ok turn left.”

“Wha..?” Dean half says before he goes quiet again the only sound coming from the line being more screeching and shuffled movement. “All right, now what? He finally responds. 

“You need to go seven-tenths of a mile and then stop,” Sam explains. I looked at him strangely, noticing he wasn’t on the phone anymore, but what the hell was he talking about? “Stop?” Dean voices.

“Exactly seven-tenths Dean” Sam repeats. 

“God, I hope you know what you’re talking about,” I tell the man beside me. “Me too” he mumbles over the sound of his brother repeating the words ‘seven-tenths.’ I look at him my mouth agape, “You wha–” 

“Dean, you still there?” He cuts me off, focusing on his brother again. “Yeah,” Dean responds.

“What’s happening over there?” I ask, not knowing was killing me. “It’s just staring at me,” he answers carefully, “what do I do?”

“Just what you’re doing, bringing it to you,” Sam replies.

“Wha–” Dean began before cutting himself off, the line going quiet for the umpteenth time, “Come on. Come on,” he mumbled quietly but just loud enough for the phone to pick it up. My heart thumps in my chest, anticipation and fear running through my veins as well as something else from those two stupid words–something had to be wrong with me to find that hot now of all times.

The line is silent, for one beat, then another, then another…I grip my phone tighter, “Dean? Dean, are you there? ‘You okay?”

“Where’d it go?” he responds with a mix of shock and confusion. “Dean, you’re where the church was,” Sam explains. “What church!” he freaks.

“The place Cyrus burned down. Murdered all those kids,” Sam clarifies. 

“There’s not a whole lot left,” Dean responds.

“Church ground is hallowed ground, whether the church is still there or not. Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground, and sometimes they’re destroyed, so I figured, maybe, that would get rid of it,” Sam explains. I hit his arm, “That was a hunch?!”

Dean adds in with the lecturing, “Maybe? Maybe!! What if you were wrong?!”

“Huh,” Sam hums, “Honestly, that thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

I glare at him sharply, hitting his arm again as I say, “You’re too sassy for your own good.” He laughs, a boyish grin on his face.

I wait in the back, Sam in the driver seat for Dean to say his goodbyes. I liked the back seat, more now than ever because being in the front would mean being able to see out the side mirror and watch Dean kiss the woman he loves and say a goodbye I was sure he didn’t want. 

Life was being really unfair and uncool.

I bury my nose in my new book, it would be better to just escape into this world than have to deal with my feelings here in the real world. My feelings in the real world were not fun, they were depressing and hurt…a lot. But no amount of ink on paper formed into beautifully crafted words could fill the gaping hole in my heart, still, I tried as there was nothing else to do.

What is worse is knowing there will never be a chance for me to be loved by him, at least not in the way I do, because there will always be a place in his heart for her. He’ll think of her all the time, dream about her, and perhaps see her in the breeze. His heart belongs to her, and possibly always has.

I needed to accept that. The sooner I did the quicker the pain would go away. I couldn't go on believing I had a chance I needed to huff the flame out now. 

No more hope. No more love. We’re friends, always have been, and always will be. That will have to be enough. I couldn’t love him anymore, not if it meant feeling this much pain. I wouldn’t accept his touches anymore for they gave me more hope than I’d like to admit.

No. I was wrong.

Worse of all is knowing that I can’t just stop loving him. Let it be the Gods' fault or the stars or whatever it is I’m meant to believe in but my heart has long been his and always will be. I could never love someone the way I love him, I wasn’t capable of that. Let it be that our love was written in the star's constellations that it was undecided by me or him for my love had to transcend the binds of that nonsense.

I loved him and he did not love me and maybe it was that which I had to accept because to stop loving him would mean to stop my heart from beating. Though even then I suspect not even the afterlife could keep me from my eternal love. And maybe that was pathetic or stupid, especially since he did not care for me in such a way, but it was the truth and no one has ever claimed truth to be a beautiful thing.

I’m brought back to reality with a bump. When did we leave and start driving? I look out the window, we had already made it to the highway…I look at the boys, but both seem fine. Ok then.

“I like her,” Sam says, and suddenly I wish to be lost back in the state I was in moments ago. I would love not to hear or be a part of this conversation. “Yeah,” Dean replies, seemingly just to get his brother to stop.

“You meet someone like her, doesn’t it make you wonder if it’s worth it? Putting everything else on hold, doing what we do?” Sam asks innocently perhaps trying to get him to understand what he had felt with his girlfriend. But something flickers in his face and suddenly he’s making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, his eyes written in apology as if it just hit him now what all of this was doing to me. It was that puppy dog look. 

I smile sadly at him, giving him a curt nod in a silent ‘it’s okay.’ His gaze flickers back to the road.

Dean leans forward pulling sunglasses from the glove box, he puts them on carefully ignoring his brothers' initial question, “Why don’t you wake me up when it’s my turn to drive?” He slouches down in his seat with a sigh. I shake my head, roll my eyes, and go back to my book.

We were leaving Missouri and all would be well, or as well as they could be.

[bored-writer101]

Sam Winchester X Reader|Supernatural Rewrite|Masterlist

SEASON ONE

1. Pilot: John’s missing, and Dean needs your help to find him. It won’t be the first or the last time you’ll be cleaning up one of John’s messes.

2. Wendigo: Coming soon!

[hobiespick]

all of the reader inserts and overall everything I have written for spn ⬇️ <3

Sam

Sam winchester x Reader hcs part I

Sam Winchester x Reader hcs part II

"..You can't help but travel your hand up to his hair to run your fingers through it and kiss his temple. "Night, Sammy" you whisper. He mutters something else in your neck but you know it's 'goodnight', feeling him smile against your skin before falling asleep fast, a result of the level of trust he has in you."

Sam Winchester x Reader hcs part III

"...Regret hits you like a hurricane after a few seconds of silence, that's the last thing you wanted to do, make Sam remember what a shitty childhood he had with just a stuffed animal, a fucking toy. The thought that this could come off as a reminder for him that's like 'Hey buddy, your childhood is so fucked up I felt sorry for you, here' didn't even occur you. All you wanted to do is give him something normal, to make him feel normal, a feeling he has been chasing all of his life."

The thing that should not be

ask : "Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)"

"After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go. "..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam. "

Dean

Imma big boy, I can handle myself just fine! (little fearless Dean thoughts)

[luwritesomething]

Dean Winchester x Reader: worrying chronicles.

Warnings: Swearing (probably), angsty?? but not really. John Winchester mentioned throughout the whole thing.

Tags: a bit angsty but with happy/fluffy ending, childhood friends, can be read as romantic, romantic coded, hunter!reader, reader has known sam and dean since kids, season 1, pre-season 1, can be read as black reader, can be read as plus size reader.

Reader pronouns: Non stated.

Word count: 1036

Summary: Dean calls reader and tells them he’s going to Stanford to get Sam. Reader wants him to rest.

Author’s note: I rarely ever write for Dean! Not because I don’t like him (I LOVE HIM), but because since I haven’t finished the show (i’m on season 8) the requests have to be either pre-show or within those seasons. Anyways, Dean and Sam Winchester requests are open, but with those conditions !! love my boys <3 graphic made by me (CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW PRETTY HE IS?)

You weren’t doing anything special when Dean called, you were planning foods and cooking weeks in advance. The hunter life you had led all your life had taught you enough to know homemade foods were a privilege, and that new hunts would always come into your life without a warning, wrecking all your plans. So, after those terrible, almost death experiences you liked to call a work well done, it was nice to go back home and find your fridge full of frozen food you could just heat up and eat.

It was the ringing of the phone that made you lift your gaze up from the vegetables you were cutting so carefully, your movements coming to a halt in order to not lose a finger without it being in a worthy battle. You didn’t let go of the knife as your hand, after slightly cleaning it against your jeans, came to grab the cell phone on the counter. Barely glancing at the name from whom the call was, you pressed the device against your ear and continued with your work.

“It’s me.” You answered quickly, hearing the background noise from the other side of the line. It was easily recognizable, considering you were able to recognize the noises Dean’s Impala made even in your deepest sleep. Perks of being friends. “Y’know, you shouldn’t make phone calls while driving.”

“I can do two things at once.” Dean said with a little huff, and even though you were probably a good amount of miles apart, you noticed the way his voice didn’t sound the same. He had never been good with masking his worry, and you had never been good at not worrying about him. 

You stopped cutting slowly and moved away from the counter. If something had happened, you couldn’t have your attention split in two. “Yeah, you tell that to the cops… Is everything alright?”

A beat of silence, which Dean used to avoid your question. “I’m driving to Stanford to go get Sam.”

“What?”

The silence let you know Dean wouldn’t be repeating himself, but thankfully enough he stayed on the line, waiting for your amazement to reduce. You had known the Winchesters for years — Hell, you three had practically grown together. It had been some long time ago, but you still remembered like it was yesterday the phone call you received from Dean to tell you that Sam had given up on the hunter life and basically left home after a big argument with their dad, John Winchester. You also remembered Sam’s call, after Dean’s, telling you the news. It hadn’t hurt from Sam’s part, knowing that was what was best for him, but it had from Dean’s, since he hadn’t been able to accept that his brother leaving had nothing to do with him.

You wanted to tell Dean that dragging Sam back into a life he did not want was not what he was supposed to do as a brother, but your mind went into another direction, knowing he wouldn’t accept that lesson from you; or anyone. All these years, Dean had been working wonderfully with his father, or so he made it look like — if he needed Sam, something bigger was happening, and he wasn’t completely avoiding telling you.

“Why?” You asked finally, your hand coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose. Was a headache coming your way already?

“My dad’s on a hunting trip.” He replied quickly, and something in the way he  said it told you he had rehearsed those same words a lot. Not because of being untrue, though, you knew John had gone on a big trip on his own for some reason Dean either didn’t want to tell you or didn’t know about. “He hasn’t called, he hasn’t said anything. I don’t know crap about him.”

That was bad. John could be an asshole, but his rules during a lone hunt were unbreakable, and those included informing constantly about his whereabouts. “Have you asked Bobby? Maybe he—”

“No one knows anything.” Dean interrupted you, rather abruptly. He was truly worried, and you just hoped he wouldn’t lose sight of the road ahead of him. “Nothing, none, nada. I’m getting Sam, and we're going to find where the hell he is.”

“Dean, wait.” Your glance shifted to the clock in your kitchen, your hand closing in a nervous fist. “It’s too late. You should rest tonight and go tomorrow morning, early.”

You could almost see him shaking his head. “We can’t lose time.”

“What is going to change if you arrive tonight at Stanford?” You insisted, rolling your eyes at how strong headed he was. Years together, and you still were amazed at how little he listened. “Dean, you’re in no condition to drive. You’re tired and nervous, just drive to my place, and then tomorrow—”

He called out your name rather harshly, to make you stop. “I have to find him.”

“And you will. Just come and rest, De.”

Your eyes glanced again at the clock when silence and the noises from the road were the only thing you could hear. Dean was really good with his car and he didn’t drive badly, but when he was worried things changed — you had been in enough almost accidents for you to have good reasons to not want him so late in the road. And he knew you were right, but the decision was on his hands, and it couldn’t help but irk you slightly.

You could still push it, though. “Please?” You murmured, loudly enough for him to hear it but also low enough to be able to be lost in the distance between you.

Dean clicked his tongue, and then sighed. “I’m fifty miles away. Don’t wait for me, I’ll climb through your window or something.”

“I’ll wait.” You retorted, with that voice you used to show you were completely adamant about your decision. It wasn’t difficult to hear the little huffed chuckle he let out, and it made you ease up, to know he was finally slowing down and rationalizing things. “Don’t run too much, dickhead.”

With a little scoff, Dean hung up and you found yourself smiling at nothing at all.