Playthings | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ? ;) )
Warnings: DESCRIPTIONS OF CHILDHOOD PARENTAL ABUSE. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THIS. descriptions of parental death, canon violence, canon gore. please take care of yourselves, lovebugs.
Word Count: 6025
A/N: look at his gorgeous face i'm gonna scream.
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Dean definitely changed after that night with you before Sam disappeared. To be fair, you had as well. But both of you refused to talk about it. It was just subtle enough that Sam couldn’t pick up on it, but there were some lingering glances Dean stole at you and moments when your heart would swell in your chest just catching sight of him.
Well, Sam probably would have noticed your change in behavior had it not been for the John-Winchester-level investigation he was doing into Ava’s disappearance. Papers covered every inch of your motel room in Peoria, Illinois; some of which were of Ava’s face, some of etchings of demons from the pages of library books, and some even you couldn’t quite make out. You were one-hundred percent beginning to worry about Sam’s mental state.
He’d been on the phone with Ellen for about thirty minutes now searching for more information. You sat on the floor, leaned against Dean’s bed, scribbling in your journal. Dean returned to the room carrying three coffee cups toward the end of Sam’s phone call. “What'd she have to say?”
Sam sighed. “Oh, she's got nothing. Me, I've been checking every database I can think of— federal, state, and local. No one's heard anything about Ava, she just— into thin air, you know?”
Your lips twisted to the side in confusion. He gave you a coffee cup and one to Sam.
“Ellen did have one thing,” said Sam. “A hotel in Cornwall, Connecticut. Two freak accidents in the past three weeks.”
“What’s that got to do with Ava?” you questioned.
“It’s a job,” he replied simply. “I mean, a lady drowned in the bathtub; then a few days ago a guy falls down the stairs, head turns a complete one-eighty. Which isn't exactly normal, you know? Look, I don't know, it might be nothing, but I told Ellen we'd think about checking it out.”
Dean’s eyebrows raised. “You did?”
Sam scoffed. “Yeah. You seem surprised.”
“Well yeah, it's just, you know. not the, uh, patented ‘Sam Winchester’ way, is it?” Dean joked.
Sam deadpanned at him, “What way is that?”
“I just figured after Ava there'd be, uh, you know, more angst and droopy music and staring out the rainy windows, and—”
You gave Dean a look.
He deflated. “Yeah, I’ll shut up now.”
“Look,” Sam huffed. “I'm the one who told her to go back home. Now her fiancé's dead, and some demon has taken her off to god knows where. You know? But we've been looking for a month now, and we've got nothing. So I'm not giving up on her, but I'm not going to let other people die either. We've got to save as many people as we can.”
Dean snorted. “Wow. That attitude is just way too healthy for me, and I'm officially uncomfortable now. Thank you.”
Sam ducked his head, chuckling, as did you.
“I’ll call Ellen,” you said. “I’ll tell her we'll take it.”
***
“Dean, can I pick a cassette? I’m dyin’ over here with Metallica. Love ‘em, but you haven’t changed the tape in, like, a week and a half now,” you groaned.
“(Y/N), you know the rules,” Dean warned.
“Yeah, but—”
“ ‘Sides,” he cut you off, “We’re almost there anyway. I’ll change it when we’re back on the road, deal?”
“Deal.”
Sam looked between the two of you strangely.
“What?” Dean questioned.
“When’s the last time you changed your music when somebody asked you to?” Sam questioned.
Dean thought for a moment.
The younger brother shook his head. “Exactly.”
“I’m thinking,” replied Dean, scratching his head. He seemed to pick up on what Sam was suggesting and was doing his best to dodge questions. You understood; the two of you hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to discuss anything— not that you even wanted to. You were perfectly content just… “being,” as you’d written in your journal.
The car’s rumble quieted down considerably as Dean slowed in front of a victorian-style structure marked “Pierpont Inn” by the sign on the front. The air was slightly misty, blanketing the ground in a bit of a haze as your boots hit uneven gravel.
“Dude, this is sweet. I never get to work jobs like this,” Dean grinned.
“Like what?” you asked.
“Old school haunted houses, you know? Fog and secret passageways, sissy British accents— might even run into Fred and Daphne while we're inside.” He closed his eyes contentedly. “Mmm, Daphne. Love her.”
You jokingly shoved his head as if to say, “Shame on you, I’m right here.”
He chuckled at your antics. Sam turned to you strangely once more, but shook his head.
You noticed an urn on the porch next to the front door. “Hey, wait a sec,” you said, inspecting the urn more closely. You noticed a five-point symbol engraved on the urn. “I’m not so sure ‘haunted’ is the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Dean questioned.
Sam nodded. “Good eye, (Y/N/N). That's a quincunx; that's a five-spot.”
“Five-spot,” Dean repeated. “That's used for hoodoo spellwork, isn't it?”
The brunet affirmed, “Right, yeah. You fill this thing with bloodweed and you've got a powerful charm to ward off enemies.”
“Only thing is,” you began, “I don’t see any bloodweed.”
“Yeah, anyway, don't you think this place is a little too, uh, white meat for Hoodoo?” Dean jested.
Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”
You held the door open for the brothers and followed in behind them. An auburn-haired woman briskly entered the room. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Hi, yeah, we’d like two rooms for a couple of nights,” Dean said.
You jolted back as a young girl darted in front of your legs. You smiled at her as she ran away giggling; you couldn’t remember a time when you’d ever felt that innocent.
“Hey!” the woman called after the girl. She gave you a weary smile. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” you said.
She sighed. “Well, um, congratulations, you could be some of our final guests.”
“Well, sounds vaguely ominous,” Dean stated.
You fought back a grin.
“No, I'm sorry, I mean we're closing at the end of the month,” she said, seeming a little sad.
“Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry about that,” you told her. “I’m into antiquing; this place came up on my radar. Figured I’d stop by before you guys shut down. I, uh, dragged these two along for the ride,” you finished, gesturing between Dean and Sam.
“Y'know, speaking of antiques,” Sam cut in, “you have a really, really interesting urn on the front porch. Where did you get that?”
“Oh, I have no idea, it's been there forever,” the woman shrugged. “So, two rooms, two kings?”
“No, no,” Dean said hurriedly. “We’re brothers. (Y/N)’s just a friend.”
You nodded, feeling slightly upset by being called “just a friend,” but you understood why he did. Still, you wanted him to proudly show you off and claim you as his. “Two queens. And a king, please,” you said, handing her your card.
Moments later, she handed it back to you along with a key.
“Thanks,” you told her as she rang the bell on the desk next to her.
“You'll be staying in rooms two-thirty-seven and two-thirty-eight. Sherwin, could you show these people to their rooms?”
You turned to see a balding old man in a black blazer shuffling up behind you. You found him incredibly endearing. He grinned at you, introduced himself, and dragged your clunking duffel bag up behind him.
“I could give you a hand with that,” you suggested to him.
“I got it,” he politely insisted.
You smiled softly at him, grateful.
“So the hotel's closing up, huh?” Sam jumped in.
“Yep. Miss Susan tried to make a go of it, but the guests just don't come like they used to. Still, it's a damn shame,” he explained.
“Oh yeah?”
He went on to explain the history of the hotel; lots of weddings, politicians, and a popular spot for those passing through. He let you into your room, and you tipped him generously before telling him goodbye.
The decor of the room unsettled you quite a bit. An antique wedding dress was displayed on the wall in a weird configuration that almost made it seem like someone was actively wearing it. The room itself was clean, but everything about it made a chill crawl up your spine. You’d take a dilapidated motel room with possible bed bugs over an inn where someone definitely died on the pillow you were going to have to sleep on.
You connected the victims from the file you put together that both victims were tied up in shutting the hotel down. However, Susan and Sherwin didn’t strike you as the type to be dabbling in spellwork. Given what she said about the urn, you thought it possible that someone who owned the hotel previously or worked here long ago was dealing in hoodoo.
You caught sight of the little girl running around outside on the playground and heading over to one of the swings. Seeing her so happy sucked you back into your memories.
Reliving your memories always gave you an almost bird’s-eye-view of the situation; you weren’t you. You were standing in the corners of your memories, helpless to change anything and forced to watch your younger self go through those moments all over again.
Your dad was cleaning his guns on the “dining room” table of the motel you were holed up in for the week. You couldn’t have been anymore than ten at the time of this memory. Stevie was playing on the floor of the room with a truck while Scooby-Doo, his favorite cartoon, played in the background on the staticky television.
“Dad, I want my toys back. I promise I’ll still practice, can I have them back?” you pleaded.
“No can do, kiddo. I sold ‘em,” he replied, not looking up at you.
“What? Why?” you sniffled, beginning to well up with tears.
“Baby, my job doesn’t pay well. I needed that money to get Stevie his toys,” he sighed. “Besides, you’re better off training with me than playing.”
“But… I don’t wanna train,” you cried softly.
Your father’s head snapped up to you, and he slammed the gun he was cleaning on the table. “Too damn bad. This is important, (Y/N). You’re the big sister. I need you sharp for when mom and I are out.”
“But Dad—”
“(Y/N). Enough,” he stated menacingly.
You cowered away, wiping your nose with the back of your sweater sleeve.
Your dad picked part of his gun up again. “And cut the crying crap. You’re too big for that.”
Your heart broke as you watched little you trying to stifle your cries. You knew if you kept crying for much longer, your father would be sure to punish you. You wanted nothing more than to hug your smaller self and tell her that it was okay to be sad, and your father was wrong. You watched Steven get up from the floor and bring you his well-loved toy airplane. He offered it up to you, and you took it, smiling through a sniffle. That gesture broke you even more.
Your brother’s kindness truly knew no bounds. He was often the one to pick up the pieces after you’d gotten into a fight with your father or mother. As much as you tried to be the strong one for your little brother, there were just some things you couldn’t hide from him.
You were sucked into another memory from that stream of consciousness.
“Dad, I wasn’t gonna shoot with you standing in the way! I couldn’t get a clear shot!” you screamed at him. The two of you had gone after a werewolf in Arkansas, leaving your twelve-old-brother and mom back in the motel room. Your dad had insisted you needed to kill this thing yourself as one of the many tests he laid for you to prove your abilities. You were fourteen at the time.
“(Y/N), we’ve discussed this. You always. Take. The shot. No matter what,” he argued.
“What, even if it costs me somebody else’s life?” you protested.
“You should be a good-enough shot that that shouldn’t matter!” he roared. “You and I are going to the range. First thing tomorrow.”
“Dad, no,” you shook your head, backing up in fear. The last time you missed a shot on one of the moving targets, he beat you so hard when you got back to your motel room that he bruised one of your ribs.
He glared at you harshly, stepping closer to you. “What was that?”
“I— I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Uh-uh,” he said firmly. “You know ‘I didn’t mean to’ doesn’t mean shit. You argued with me. We’ll go to the range every day for the next week.”
You brushed the scar on the right side of your jaw from the beating that followed one of your sessions at the range that week as you came out of the memory. He punched you so hard that he split the skin deeply, and you had to stitch it up yourself. You refused to speak to your father for a month after that.
“I do this because I love you,” he’d said. “I need you to keep getting better, so I know you’ll be safe when you’re on your own. I want you to be even better than me.”
You’d been doing well with keeping memories like that at bay while you helped Dean and Sam recover from their father’s passing. However, it was beginning to overwhelm you. The mental walls you’d built around those awful memories were beginning to crack. Leaking through those cracks was the memory of having to lay your parents to rest.
Their screams had been horrible. As fangs ripped through their gums, red rimming their eyes as the blood of the recently-decapitated vampire dripped from their lips. Your father approached you first, teeth bared. You ran through the hallways of the abandoned house, trying to find a way out. The windows of the house had been boarded, though, giving you no opportunity to escape. Cornered in a room at the back of the house, you realized what this would likely come to. You gripped the handle of your machete tightly, tears streaming down your face as your father broke into the room by destroying the door.
“Dad, stop!” you pleaded. He approached you slowly, chest heaving as he noticed a cut on your arm that one of the vampires you’d slaughtered earlier had given you. He stalked toward you, teeth glistening in the room’s dim light.
“Dad, please! Don’t make me hurt you!”
“(Y/N), you have to—” he breathed out. “I can’t control myself—”
You shook your head furiously. “Dad, I won’t—”
“(Y/N)!” he roared. “You have to!”
Your tears flowed freely down your face.
“(Y/N)! Now!” he ordered, just as he reached you.
Your sobs wracked your body as you sliced his head clean off. Your breath caught in your throat as you heaved, trying your hardest to gain your composure. You knew your mother wouldn’t be far behind him, and you were trying to keep yourself from breaking down and becoming vulnerable to your mother’s attack.
“(Y/N)!” she called. “Baby, please! Please, help me!”
You ran to her despite your instinct telling you not to. When you arrived, she was sobbing on the floor, shaking. You stayed a distance back from her to avoid her lunging at you.
“Baby, please— you have to—”
You shook your head. “Not you, too, Momma. Please—”
“Baby,” she sobbed. “I can’t control it. I don’t wanna be this. Please. Please!”
“Momma, I can’t—” You backed away from her.
“I won’t be a monster,” she said. “Listen to me.” She temporarily stopped her cries and steadied herself. “You have to. Please. It’s okay.”
You took in a shaky breath.
“(Y/N), I don’t want to hurt you,” she continued. “I don’t wanna hurt Steven. Please.”
At the mention of her potentially hurting your brother, you nodded. “I’m so sorry,” you cried.
“It’s okay, my girl. It’s okay,” she said, closing her eyes in preparation for the blow.
You swung your machete forcefully to make sure her death was quick and as painless as possible. Horrified by your actions, you dropped the machete and screamed. You sank to the floor next to your mother’s body and cried, draping yourself over her bleeding, headless body.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” you sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
Forcing yourself back to the present moment, you took in a shuddering breath. You pressed your hand to your mouth to keep yourself from crying out as you sank to the floor. You buried your hands in your hair and pulled your knees up to your chest, allowing yourself to cry for the first time in quite a while.
“(Y/N)?” you heard from the other side of the door.
‘Dean.’ You couldn’t respond due to the hold in your throat trying to suppress your cries.
“(Y/N), I think we got something, you in there?” he tried again.
Still, you couldn’t answer.
You heard him fiddling with the lock for a few moments before entering your room, searching for you frantically. When his eyes landed on your crumpled form, he rushed to your side. “(Y/N), hey, hey.” He held your head in his hands and swiped away tears with his thumbs. “Hey, I’m right here, sweetheart.”
You collapsed into his arms and wrapped your arms around his neck. You buried your face in his chest as you clung to him, and he held your head to him with one hand and held your waist with the other. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay.”
Comforted by his presence, your sobs turned to sniffles. You wiped tears away with the backs of your hands and apologized profusely for crying all over him.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “What happened?”
“Just… memories.” Your mind was still hazy.
He nodded solemnly. Neither of you needed to say anything after that. He just held your hand and sat with you against your bed while you tried to collect yourself. When you had, Dean talked again.
“C’mon,” he said, standing. He pulled you up with him. “You want a burger? I’m starving.”
You snorted, grinning widely, and nodded.
***
“So,” Dean began through a bite of his cheeseburger, “We think the shut-in granny might be our witch doctor.”
“What makes you say that?” you questioned, chomping a fry.
“She’s got a bunch of creepy ass dolls, Susan was really weird about us going to see her, and they’ve got a creepy ass exact replica of the hotel,” he explained.
“Dolls can be used in hoodoo spellwork,” you considered. “So, I’m guessing after dinner, you and I are lookin’ into the grandma?”
“Yahtzee.”
“What about Sam?”
“Left his ass back at the room. He’s got enough laptop research on his plate to last him enough time for us to look into the history of the hotel at the library.”
“Aw, why’d you do that to him?” you pouted, smiling a little.
“He’s a nerd. Probably enjoys it,” he shrugged.
“You sure you’re not using this as an excuse to get me alone?” Your tone shifted to slightly more sultry, attempting to tease him.
He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I’m a professional. Just thought the two of us could cover more ground lookin’ up the records together.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “Sure.”
***
When you returned to the inn, police and EMTs were flanking the building.
“What the fu—” you mumbled, looking around. You spotted Susan, and you and Dean hurried to her.
“What happened?” Dean asked.
“Oh, the maid went in to turn down the sheets and he was just… hanging there,” she explained, covering her mouth with her hand.
“That's awful. He was a guest?” you asked.
“He worked for the company that bought the place.”
Dean hummed. You’d discussed your theory with him about the spellwork being used against people trying to get rid of the hotel.
Susan shook her head. “I don't understand.”
“What?” Dean pressed.
“Had a lot of bad luck around here,” she sighed. “Look, if you'd like to check out, I'll give you a full refund.”
Dean shook his head. “No thanks. I don't scare that easy.”
When you arrived at Sam and Dean’s room, Sam had his back turned to the door and was sitting in an armchair.
Dean was all-business as he shut the door behind him. “There's been another one. Some guy just hung himself in his room.”
“Yeah. I saw,” Sam said.
You turned to him, surprised. His tone wasn’t usually that dark.
“We've gotta figure this out, and fast. What'd you find out about Granny?” Dean said, still pacing.
Sam raised his hands sarcastically, mocking his brother. “You’re the boss.”
Dean wheeled around in surprise. “What?”
“You’re bossy. And short,” Sam giggled. He actually giggled.
“Are you drunk?” you asked him.
“Yeah,” he replied, still laughing. “So? Stupid.”
You suddenly noticed the several empty bottles around the room.
“Dude, what are you thinking? We're working a case,” Dean scolded.
Sam began to tear up, staring at nothing. “That guy who hung himself. I couldn't save him.”
“What are you talking about? You didn't know, you couldn't have done anything,” Dean assured.
Sam moved his gaze to his brother. “That's an excuse, Dean. I should have found a way to save him. I should have saved Ava, too.”
Dean approached his brother. “Yeah, well, you can't save everyone. Even you said that.”
Sam slammed the table next to him. “No, Dean, you don't understand, all right? The more people I save, the more I can change!”
“Change what?” you asked.
He leaned forward toward you, a hand to his chest. “My destiny, (Y/N)!”
“Alright. Time for bed. Come on, Sasquatch.” Dean leaned over and hauled Sam up by the shoulders. “Come on.”
“I need you to watch out for me,” mumbled Sam.
“Yeah, I always do,” Dean said simply.
Sam stopped his brother. “No! No, no, no. You have to watch out for me, all right? And if I ever... turn into something that I'm not… you have to kill me.”
“Sam—” Dean protested.
Sam shoved Dean to get him to face him. “Dean! Dad told you to do it, you have to.”
“Yeah, well, Dad's an ass,” Dean replied. “He never should have said anything. I mean, you don't do that, you don't, you don't lay that kind of crap on your kids.”
“No. He was right to say it!” Sam cried. “Who knows what I might become? Even now, everyone around me dies!”
“Yeah, well, I'm not dying, okay? And neither are you. Neither is (Y/N). Come on. Sam.”
He pushed Dean down onto the bed, but Sam remained seated, clutching Dean’s jacket. “No, please! Promise.”
Dean shook his head. “Don't ask that of me.”
“(Y/N), please—”
“(Y/N), don’t you dare!” Dean cut his younger brother off.
“Sam, I can’t do that,” you protested.
“(Y/N), please.” Sam stared past his brother at you with sad eyes. “You have to promise me.”
You looked between Sam and Dean. Dean cut his eyes at you harshly. However, you knew Dean could never kill his brother if it really came down to it. You weren’t sure you would, either, but you would rather Dean not have another dead family member to blame himself for.
“I promise,” you mumbled.
“Thanks,” Sam grinned. He extended a hand to you. You grabbed it and squeezed. “Thank you. You are—”
“Alright. Come on,” Dean grumbled. He shoved Sam back on the bed. Sam hugged his pillow and snuggled into it. You stared at him sadly, afraid to meet Dean’s gaze.
You turned and left the room, Dean hot on your heels as you unlocked your door.
“How dare you,” he growled. “What the fuck, (Y/N)?! I’m not gonna let you kill my brother!”
“And I’m not gonna do it, either!” you argued, shutting the door behind him. “But I couldn’t let you promise that. I won’t let you.”
“And why not?!” He roared.
“Because I’m not gonna let you have another death to blame yourself for! You’re falling apart, Dean,” you pointed out. “No matter what I say, you’re always gonna blame yourself for John. I’m sure, in some ways, you blame yourself for your mom. Sam is your world. Trust me, I know how that feels. I won’t let you be the one responsible for his death.” You held your ground as he stepped closer to you.
“You don’t get to make that call for me, (Y/N)!” he yelled. “I don’t care what happens, you’re not fucking killing Sam.”
“Dean, you think I wanna kill him? Fuck no! He’s family to me,” you retaliated. “You know I wouldn’t do that to him. But I also saw your face. You were gonna promise him, weren’t you?”
He didn’t answer, looking away from you.
“Exactly. I’d rather you blame me than yourself,” you said, voice quieting considerably.
Dean’s turned-away face was set in hard lines, but he seemed to have nothing else to say.
You stepped in front of him and held up your pinky. “I promise you, I won’t make a move on Sam unless it’s absolutely last resort. I promise I’m gonna do everything I can to try and save him, first. And even then, I won’t do anything until you give the okay.”
Dean considered for a moment, and you could see his brain flooding with conflicting thoughts. Finally and wordlessly, he linked your pinky with his.
“My parents begged me to kill them,” you said after a moment. “I didn’t want to. Everything in me screamed at me not to. But I realized they didn’t wanna become something that wasn’t, y’know, them. I can imagine Sam’s in the same spot. Except… he knows it’s coming. He wants to know that if it does happen, we’ll take care of him.”
Dean still didn't say a word to you for another few moments. “I’m gonna get a drink,” he said finally.
“Okay. G’night, Dean.”
***
The next morning, you were afraid to talk to Dean or Sam. You didn’t want Sam to remember the promise you made to him, and you didn’t want Dean to be upset with you because you were trying to protect him and his heart. You didn’t want him to have to cope with the guilt you felt every single day, clawing at your heartstrings and pounding against your memories.
Knuckles rapped against the door of your room. Having been dressed since three that morning, you opened the door expecting Sherwin or Susan. Instead, it was Sam.
“Oh, hey!” you said cheerfully.
“Hey,” he grimaced.
“Hungover?”
He nodded. “Look, uh, we’re gonna go talk to Rose. You should come with.”
“Sure,” you said. You couldn’t quite gauge if Sam remembered what you, he, and Dean had talked about the night before.
Dean picked the lock to the private quarters after ensuring the room was clear. You headed up a winding staircase to see an old woman, possibly in her nineties, sitting in a wheelchair. She was trembling unceasingly, and you started connecting the dots as to what was going on here.
“Guys… she’s had a stroke,” you explained gently as the two of them were trying to soothe her tremors.
Dean turned and spoke to you for the first time that morning. “Yeah, but Hoodoo's hands-on; I mean, you've got to mix herbs, chant, and build an altar.”
“Yeah. So it can't be Rose,” Sam added. “Hey, maybe it's not even Hoodoo.”
“Or she could be faking,” Dean suggested.
You scoffed. “Yeah, what are you gonna do, poke her with a stick?”
Dean frowned, nodding.
“Dude! You’re not gonna poke her with a stick!” you hissed.
“What the hell?!” came Susan’s voice from behind you. “What are you doing in here?”
You and the brothers babbled, searching for an explanation.
Susan rushed over to her mother. “Look at her, she is scared out of her wits. I want you out of my hotel in two minutes or I'm calling the cops.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you nodded, leaving without hesitation.
***
When you got in the car, Dean pulled just down the road from the hotel to watch the entrance and exits for anything suspicious and searching for an opportunity to go back inside.
You and Dean still hadn’t spoken to each other. It was odd; usually you were talking to each other at a mile a minute. However, to your shock, Dean took out the Metallica cassette tape he promised he’d change and replaced it with your favorite Alice in Chains cassette; “Facelift.” You took it as a sign of goodwill and smiled to yourself.
About an hour or two passed before you saw Susan exiting the hotel and packing boxes into her car. You and the brothers ducked down when you noticed Sherwin driving in your direction. When your heads popped back up, Susan was walking over to the playground at the sight of a swing moving back and forth on its own. Without needing to say anything, you and the boys hopped out of the car and sprinted into the woods to get closer to the situation and help Susan, should anything happen.
The see-saw moved up and down next, then the rest of the playset. Suddenly, her red car’s engine revved. Sam knew what was going to happen and ran at Susan to tackle her out of the way of the charging vehicle.
“Are you okay?” he asked her while he pulled her up from the ground.
“I think so,” she replied breathlessly.
“C’mon, let’s get inside, let’s go,” Dean ordered.
Sam helped Susan into the inn and over to the bar.
“Whiskey,” Susan demanded when she sat down.
You headed behind the bar and slid it over to her.
“What the hell happened out there?” she asked.
“You want the truth?” Dean chimed in.
She nodded.
“Well, at first, we thought it was some sort of Hoodoo curse,” the older brother began, “but that out there? That was definitely a spirit.”
Susan scoffed. “You're insane.”
“Probably,” you shrugged.
“Look, I'm sorry, Susan. We don't exactly have time to ease you into this, but we need to know when your mother had the stroke,” Sam urged.
She looked at him strangely. “What does that have to do with any—”
“Just answer the question.”
“About a month ago.”
You licked your teeth. “Right before the killings started.”
Sam looked to you and Dean. “See? So what if Rose was working Hoodoo, but not to hurt anyone. To protect them.”
“She was using the five spot urns to ward off the spirit,” Dean noted.
“Right, until she had a stroke, and she couldn't anymore,” the brunet finished.
Susan laughed humorlessly. “I don't believe this.”
“Listen, sister,” Dean grunted, “that car didn't try to run you down by itself, okay? I mean, I guess it did, technically, but, but the spirit can— forget it.”
Sam interrupted his brother’s quickly derailing train of thought. “Look, believe what you want. But the fact is you and your family are in danger, all right? So you need to clear everybody out of here: your employees, your mother, your daughters, everyone.”
“Um, I only have one daughter,” Susan replied.
“One?” Sam questioned. “I thought Tyler had a sister named Maggie.”
“Maggie's imaginary,” she said simply.
‘Fuck,’ you thought. “Where’s Tyler?” you asked, trying to keep your cool.
“Uh, maybe in the playroom,” Susan suggested, sounding frantic. “Tyler!” she called as she burst through its door.
You were horrified to see the floor littered with broken porcelain dolls, and Susan’s panic became worse. “Oh, my god. Tyler. Tyler!”
“Susan, tell us what you know about Maggie,” Sam demanded.
She tried to steady herself. “Uh, not much. Um, Tyler's been talking about her since Mom got sick.”
“Okay, did you ever know anyone by that name?”
She shook her head.
“No dead relatives?” you chimed in. “Maybe somebody who used to work or live here?”
“Oh, my god,” she realized. “My mom. My mom had a sister named Maggie. She died when she was little.”
“Uh-huh,” you encouraged. “Where?”
“She drowned in the pool!”
***
You and the Winchesters raced to the poolhouse with Susan in tow. You could see Tyler standing on the opposite side of the balcony, leaning forward.
“Tyler!” her mother screamed.
You ran to the other side after spotting a glass window across the way. You took the butt of your gun that was tucked into your jeans and smashed the glass with it. Your breath caught at the sight of Tyler falling into the pool below, screaming.
Finally, you managed to get the glass broken enough to get through. You dove over the balcony’s railing headfirst toward the little girl wrapped in the plastic tarp from her struggling. You turned on your back and kicked with all your might over to the side of the pool, holding the unconscious girl in your arms. You gently laid her on the pool’s edge, listening for a pulse. Thankfully, it was there, and all you could do was wait to see if she woke up.
Moments later, Tyler sputtered, choking on water, and she woke up.
“Thank god!” Susan cried, pulling her daughter into her lap. “Thank god, thank god.”
Soaking wet, you crawled out of the pool. “Tyler, do you see Maggie anywhere?”
The girl shook her head. “No, she's gone.” She buried her face in her mother’s neck, hugging her tightly. Your heart broke a little at the sight.
You rung your hair out and followed behind Sam and Dean as they discussed Maggie’s potential whereabouts, heading back up to the hotel.
Susan held Tyler close as they climbed the stairs to get the eldest woman in their family and leave the hotel.
Cold and shaking from the pool mixed with the slight chill in the air, your teeth began to chatter. Wordlessly, Dean took his leather jacket off and wrapped it around your shoulders.
“Thanks,” you smiled sheepishly.
Suddenly, Susan screamed loudly. You and the boys ran up the stairs to see Rose slumped over in her wheelchair, dead.
***
Paramedics swarmed about as Sam attempted to comfort Susan and send them off. You were slightly drier, now, having changed into a different set of clothes. Still, you kept Dean’s much larger jacket wrapped around your body. The man in question leaned against the Impala next to you.
“Are… are we okay?” you asked suddenly.
He turned to you, arms crossed. “I don’t know, are we?”
You grimaced. “I just, after last night, I just wanted to make sure that—”
“Yeah, (Y/N), we’re fine. But I don’t wanna keep bringing it up.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
A moment of tense silence passed. Then, he draped his arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “Promise. We’re fine.”
You stuck out your pinky. He chuckled and linked yours with his.
Sam approached you and Dean, still seeming confused by the two of you. He shook his head, though, deciding against asking.
“Feels good getting back in the saddle, doesn't it?” Dean smirked at his brother.
“Yeah, it does,” Sam nodded. “But it doesn't change what we talked about last night, Dean.”
“We talked about a lot of things last night.” Dean’s voice had a warning edge to it.
“You know what I mean.”
“You were wasted.”
“But she wasn’t. And she promised,” Sam said.
You looked up at him. “Sam—”
“You promised, (Y/N).”
You had nothing to say to that. “But I am gonna try everything in my power not to have to do that,” you added.
Sam nodded solemnly. The three of you got in the car without speaking to each other and cruised down the road as Alice in Chains played in the background.
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