Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She couldn’t have said what set her off first.

Maybe it was the air, heavy in her lungs. Maybe it was the silence, too thick for any patch of woods. Or maybe it was just the tight twist in her stomach that warned her before she had words for it.

Whatever it was, every nerve in her body told her something here was wrong.

Notebook still clutched in her hand, she stepped out of the cabin and froze on the porch.

The first thing she noticed was the sky. Clouds sagged low and swollen, their edges tinged a sickly green and purple. The horizon looked bent, like weather that didn’t belong to this world.

The air smelled damp with pine and soil, but underneath was something sharper, metallic and sour clung in the back of her throat. Breathing took effort. Each inhale felt weighted, like the atmosphere itself wanted her gone.

The clearing was silent. Not the quiet of normal woods, but silence that pressed in, swallowing everything else.

She tried to tell herself the cabin was harmless. Quaint, even.

The porch boards were old and uneven, creaking under her weight. Ferns choked the path leading up, spilling over as if no one had passed in years. The trees ringed the clearing in close, enough to make it feel tucked away from the rest of the world.

When she’d first arrived, that isolation had felt safe.

But solitude has two sides, and tonight it cut deep.

Her excuse for being here was respectable enough: research. Notes. Folklore to shape into something academic. Something professors in their tweed jackets could footnote in journals.

But the truth was messier.

She’d come here to run.

Run from the expectations she’d dragged out of Washington. From the small town where everyone thought she’d be the one to escape. Tougher. Smarter. The one who could take logging-town grit and spin it into something more.

Out of the woods, into academia. Unbreakable.

She wasn’t unbreakable. She knew it, even if no one else did.

So she built herself a mask.

Floral tops and tumblers turned into old sweaters and chipped enamel mugs. Her ballet flats turned into thrifted motorcycle boots. And to tie it all together, a leather jacket that looked worn enough to pass for rugged instead of secondhand. She learned how to disappear into the background of diners, libraries, campus bars.

People saw what they expected: rustic, a little wild, comfortable in her skin. They didn’t see the cracks underneath.

Because under the folklore scribbles, under the late nights of research, she wasn’t writing for anyone else. She was hiding.

And here, in a borrowed cabin tucked into a West Virginia hollow, it was easier to pretend she was just a student. Not someone running from herself.

She’d told herself the unease was just silence, or her own anxiety. She’d lived with it so long it was like background noise. But this wasn’t hers.

This was different.

It whispered in her head in voices that weren’t her own.

You don’t matter. You don’t belong here. Why are you still breathing?

She’d started tallying the strangeness in her notebook, scribbling names when she noticed people leaving town. The farmer who’d tipped his hat. Gone. The postmistress who’d teased her about her accent. Gone. The waitress with the bottomless coffee pot.

Gone.

Her neat handwriting broke into frantic scrawls. Greek words underlined twice. Hesiod. Algea. Spirits of grief.

And then it showed itself.

It seeped into the clearing like grief made flesh. No body. No shadow. Where eyes should’ve been were pits of black tar, pulling light down into nothing.

The first wave hit her like a fist to the chest. The porch tilted under her feet.

She slammed into the doorframe, ribs aching with every shallow breath. Faces of the missing townspeople swam in her vision, dissolving like ink in water.

The voice pressed in again, cruel and familiar.

They’re gone because of you. You killed them.

Her throat clawed for sound, but what came out was closer to a gasp than a scream.

Then came the shotgun blast.

The cabin shook with the force. Salt across the threshold lit up in a sudden flare. The shadow shrieked, not with sound, but with static that clawed through her skull and lifted the hairs on her arms.

“Sam, now!”

Two figures filled the doorway.

The taller one moved fast, deliberate. His hands scattered salt, flipping open pouches of powder with quick, practiced motions. He muttered Latin as he worked, steady, controlled. His whole frame radiated a mix of calm intelligence and urgency.

The other man was broader, shoulders squared under a leather jacket, shotgun already up in his grip. His green eyes locked on the creature, sharp and sure. His aim wasn’t hesitation, it was instinct.

Neither panicked. Neither flinched. They weren’t reacting. They were hunting.

Sam, she caught the name as the taller one moved, hurled a pouch of powder. The shadow flared grotesque, bones snapping into place wrong, limbs twisting out of joint.

She gagged, bile in her throat.

Dean, the green-eyed one, raised his shotgun and fired. The round burst midair, glowing sigils searing into the creature’s form.

The Algea screamed, vibration rattling the walls. The salt lines blazed. The runes along the doorway hissed bright. The shadow writhed, folding in on itself, and then vanished in a burst of light and air.

Silence hit again, sharp and smothering.

Her knees shook so hard they nearly knocked. Her notebook lay in the dirt, pages ruined by the damp.

“Dean, she’s over here!” Sam crossed the room, dropping into a crouch.

His voice was calm, steady, like he was grounding her. “Hey. You hurt? Can you talk?”

She nodded shakily, throat too raw for words.

“Stay down,” Dean said firmly. His voice carried the kind of authority that left no room for argument.

Sam scattered another pouch across the corner, his Latin filling the space. The walls thrummed faintly with residual warding.

Dean crouched across from her, shotgun braced over his knees, eyes sharp as he studied her. “You know what that was?”

Her lips cracked on the word. “Algea.”

Dean’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile, more recognition. “Greek. Personifications of sorrow. Nasty sons of bitches.”

“We’ve dealt with worse,” Sam added quietly. “But you can’t stay here. Not tonight.”

For a second she thought about arguing. About insisting on her notes, her work. But the farmer’s hat. The waitress’s grin. The voice echoing alone.

She swallowed hard. Nodded.

Dean swept the room once more, then crouched close, scar across his brow catching the low light. His green eyes held steady. “We’ll get you out of here.”

He hauled her up by the hand, grip firm, not letting her stumble.

Sam guided her toward the porch. “I’m Sam,” he said softly, voice carrying that calm steadiness again. “Sam Winchester.”

Dean followed, shotgun propped against his shoulder. “And I’m Dean. Winchester.” His eyes cut to hers briefly, reading her, but his mouth tugged faintly at the corner.

Her own name slipped out in a small whisper.

Minutes later she was folded into the backseat of a black ’67 Chevy Impala.

The bench creaked as Dean started the engine, its growl low and powerful beneath her.

A scratchy blanket was thrown over her shoulders, smelling faintly of smoke and oil. Up front, Sam bent over his laptop, blue light flickering across his face.

Dean’s hands gripped the wheel, eyes locked on the road.

The car smelled of worn leather and years of work. From the speakers, classic rock played low, steady.

Sam finally broke the quiet, his voice low enough that she realized he didn't want her to hear. “For now, it’s gone. But they’re relentless. It’ll wait until it thinks you’re vulnerable again.”

Dean’s voice came low, rough, certain. “That thing’s not her problem anymore. We’ve got it, Sammy.”

She pressed her forehead to the cold glass, trees blurring past. Fear still curled sharp in her chest, but under it, something else flickered.

The Algea wanted her cut off. Wanted her alone, erased before she was even gone.

But she wasn’t.

Two strangers had pulled her out of the dark, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, that felt good.

Better than it should.

Chapter Text

The motel reeked of the kind of years nobody wanted to remember.

Old smoke hung in the curtains, stale and acrid, like someone had chain-smoked three packs a day in here for decades. The carpet smelled damp, mildew sunk into the fibers, with that faint metallic tang of radiator water lingering underneath it all. Overhead, the fluorescent light buzzed on a dying circuit, one bulb stuttering in a slow, irritating blink.

The furniture hadn’t been updated since Reagan was in office, and probably wouldn’t be until someone bulldozed the whole place.

She sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, wrapped in the motel’s scratchy blanket. It wasn’t warm but thin, probably having been washed too many times, but she held it around herself anyway. The notepad from the nightstand rested in her lap, pen hovering useless above the lines.

She’d been staring at the same empty page for what felt like hours. When she pressed the tip down, the pen shook in her hand and dragged out a crooked half-arc of ink before she froze again.

No words came.

Just the heavy, suffocating silence of the room.

Dean paced by the window, boots grinding into the carpet like he was daring it to wear through. His leather jacket hung open, hands jammed into the pockets, shoulders stiff. Every few seconds he flicked two fingers through the blinds and glanced outside, green eyes sharp, sweeping the parking lot like the whole damn motel was out to get them.

His jaw was set hard enough she half expected to hear a crack.

And still, even wound tight, even pissed, he looked…good. Too good.

The lamplight caught the rough scruff on his jaw, the curve of his mouth set between a scowl and a smirk. He was exhaustion and anger and focus all wrapped up into one unfairly magnetic package.

And she caught herself staring.

Sam had claimed the desk, hunched over his laptop. The glow lit his face in pale blues, catching the lines of concentration carved into his brow. His long fingers tapped across the keyboard in short bursts, pausing every few seconds to scroll. He was calm, measured. His body looked relaxed, but every detail on the screen seemed to pull him further into his studied.

Sam was steady, reliable, quietly handsome in that way that made you think of professors who were too young to be taken seriously, except smarter.

But her eyes drifted back to Dean. Always back to Dean.

Dean was different from Sam. Broad in the chest, strong arms, worn boots planted like he owned every square foot of the floor. Even when he was pacing, he felt solid, like he filled the room with nothing more than his presence. And his eyes, those sharp green eyes, never stopped moving.

He wasn’t polished like Sam, but he didn’t need to be. There was something about him that pulled her in, sharp edges and all, and she hated how hard it was to look away

The TV in the corner flickered silently, picture stuttering. Headlines crawled across the bottom of the screen in angry red while a news anchor’s mouth moved without sound. Another death. Another family torn up by something no one on camera could put into words.

She didn’t need the volume to know how the story ended.

Sam broke the silence first. His voice was quiet but deliberate, like he’d thought the words through ten times before speaking.

“Dean…” He didn’t look up from the laptop. “If you want her safe, she shouldn’t be holed up in this mess with us. She should be gone.”

Dean’s head snapped around. The blinds clattered against the glass. “You kidding me? She’s the only one who’s been toe-to-toe with that thing and walked away. That’s not someone you send packing.”

Her stomach twisted under the weight of his gaze. Dean wasn’t just looking, he was measuring, weighing, studying her.

Most of her life, people looked right past her. But not him. His eyes held, steady, and she hated how much she wanted it to matter.

Sam finally looked up, his voice sharper this time. “She’s not a hunter, Dean. She doesn’t belong in the middle of this, and the longer she stays, the worse it’s gonna get.”

Dean’s fists curled. “Oh, yeah? Safer to leave her alone in that cabin so it can stroll back in and finish the job? That’s your brilliant plan?”

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off with a snap. “Yeah. Real safe, Sammy.”

The air turned tight, heavy with the kind of tension that pressed into your ribs.

“She’s vulnerable,” Sam tried again, softer, but no less insistent.

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Vulnerable? She’s alive. You know how many aren’t? That farmer down the road. The waitress. Half the town. She’s still standing.”

He jabbed a finger toward her. “That’s not fragile, Sam. That’s courage.”

“I can pull my weight, I just don’t want to end up being dead weight." she blurted, before she could swallow the thought.

Dean froze mid-step. The hard look in his eyes eased, but only a fraction. “You’re not dead weight, sweetheart, not yet. You’re part of this now, whether you like it or not. How deep you get in, well, that’s on you.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded. “I want in.”

Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. “Dean—”

“She’s coming.” Dean’s voice cracked louder this time. Final. “End of discussion.”

The silence after that was deafening.

Dean turned away, grabbed the shotgun from the table, and started checking the chamber.

Her eyes followed him as he moved across the room, every step purposeful, every action sharp. It pulled her back to the clearing outside the cabin, the echo of the shotgun blast, the way he’d thrown himself into the thick of it without hesitation.

No shield, no thought for himself, just charging headlong at something that could’ve gutted him in a second.

And if she was really about to throw herself into whatever insane war these brothers were fighting, she needed to understand why. Why he did it. Why he carried that kind of weight on his shoulders.

If she was going to be part of this, she had to know what kind of man she was standing beside.

“Why do you do that?” The question slipped out before she could bite it back.

Dean’s head snapped toward her. “Do what?” His voice was low, clipped, like he was already bracing for a fight.

“Back at the cabin,” she said carefully, choosing her words, “you didn’t think twice. You just...ran straight at it.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, but she pressed on. “I get that it worked this time, but if that’s how you handle things… it’s a problem. For you. For everyone around you.”

Her fingers twisted the motel blanket tighter in her lap. She kept her tone even, not wanting it to sound like an attack. “I don’t know you, Dean. Not really. But I’ve seen enough to know what happens when someone’s always first in the line of fire.”

Her gaze flicked up, steady despite the nerves pulling in her stomach. “I need to know if that’s what you are...reckless. Because if it is, it’s not just your neck on the line. It’s mine too, and Sam's.”

For once, he didn’t fire back right away. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He looked at her, really looked, and for a split second something broke through, the flash of surprise, maybe even fear, but it was gone as quick as it came.

His jaw tightened, the scowl sliding back into place like it belonged there.

“Careful,” he said, voice low, the corner of his mouth quirking. “We’ve known each other less than a day and you’re already trying to psychoanalyze me? Might start thinking you’ve got a thing for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, though her pulse skipped when his smirk lingered.

Dean tilted his head, eyes still locked on hers. “Didn’t say you had to. I do plenty of that on my own."

Sam pushed back from the desk, hands up like a referee. “Okay, that’s enough before one of you puts a hole in the wall.”

Dean glared, defensive. “I’m fine.”

She laughed, sharp, bitter. “Yeah, sure. Totally fine. Nothing to see here.”

Dean’s mouth curled into something that looked too much like a smirk. “Relax. I’ve got a plan. Stick close, follow my lead, we’ll be fine.”

She shook her head but forced out, “Got it.”

The look he gave her was sharp enough to cut, caught somewhere between pissed off and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Sam went back to the laptop, fingers moving over the keys with a little more force than before, clearly annoyed but choosing not to push Dean further. That was Sam’s way. He’d push until it became clear Dean wasn’t going to budge, then circle back later when tempers cooled.

She stayed frozen on the bed for a long moment, blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders, notebook still empty on her lap. Her chest felt tight, like every breath dragged through wire. She stared down at the paper until the lines blurred, refusing to look at either of them.

Dean started pacing again, the familiar rhythm of his boots dragging against the carpet filling the silence. He looked like he wanted to say more but kept swallowing it down.

Every so often, his gaze flicked back to her, unreadable.

Sam’s voice was the one to finally break through. He didn’t look up from the screen, just said, “According to the lore, Algea don’t usually come back right after you hit them,” Sam said, his tone even but edged with caution.

“But they don’t stop. They’ll circle back eventually.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. “Doesn’t matter, she’s not getting left behind.” His eyes cut back to her. “That thing shows up again, it’s gonna have to go through us first. And between you and me, sweetheart, I like our odds.”

Her throat closed up around the lump rising there, words bottling until they hurt.

Both of them were staring, waiting, and the weight of it pressed down until she couldn’t think straight. She clutched the pen like it was a lifeline, tried to force something, anything, onto the motel stationery. Her hand shook too hard. The lines came out jagged, unreadable scratches, and the harder she pressed the worse it got. Panic clawed up her chest.

Finally she let the pen slip free, letting it clatter against the nightstand.

“This is insane,” she muttered.

Dean stopped pacing. “What?”

She shook her head, clutching the blanket tighter. The words spilled out too fast, her voice sharp. “Listen to us. Grief demons, salt lines, Latin spells...like this is all just…normal.” She barked a humorless laugh.

“It’s not. None of this should be real. I was supposed to be writing folklore papers, not living them.”

Her chest constricted tighter with every word. “I signed up for study abroad, not a field trip to the end of the world. And now half a town’s gone, and I’m…” She trailed off, breath coming shallow, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Sam pushed back from the desk immediately, his chair scraping across the carpet. “Hey. Slow down.”

But she couldn’t. Her body had betrayed her. Breath came in broken gasps, vision tunneling, the flicker of the fluorescent bulb turning into a relentless strobe. Sweat prickled along her scalp and her hands shook hard.

Dean was at her side before Sam could take a step. His hand closed around her wrist, warm and rough. “Hey. Come on now.” His voice was low, steady, sharp enough to cut through the panic.

She tried to pull away, muttered, “I can’t—” but he didn’t let go.

His grip wasn’t rough, but steady. His thumb pressed against her pulse like he was checking it, reminding her she still had one.

“Yes, you can,” Dean said. His tone left no room for argument. “Breathe.”

Her chest heaved, air scraping ragged through her throat.

But she matched his voice. In. Out. In. Out.

Dean’s other hand came up to her shoulder, heavy but careful, his thumb brushing along her sleeve. “There you go. That’s it. You’re fine.”

Sam hovered nearby, tense, but didn’t step in. He knew when to let Dean handle it.

The buzzing light overhead softened back into background noise. Her vision steadied. The motel came back into focus. The ugly carpet, Sam’s laptop glow, her Converse still resting against the floor, anf Dean’s eyes locked onto hers like nothing else in the world mattered.

Dean leaned back a little, eyes steady on hers. “Hey, cut yourself some slack. You’re still breathing. Call me crazy, but I’m counting that as a win.” He let the corner of his mouth twitch up, a spark of teasing in his voice. 

Her throat burned. She hated the tears that stung her eyes, hated the way her face twisted under the pressure of it.

But he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He stayed with her, holding her steady until her breathing finally evened out.

When she could speak again, her voice came out raw. “How do you do this? How do you live like this?”

Dean’s mouth tightened. For once, there was no smirk to hide behind. “Not well,” he admitted. “But you keep getting back up. That’s the job.”

The words sank heavy into her chest. She swallowed hard and nodded.

Dean let go slow, reluctant, like he didn’t actually want to, but finally pulled his hand back. His thumb lingered against her wrist one beat too long before he stepped away.

Sam eased back into his chair, exhaling quietly. “She’ll be okay.”

Dean’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Yeah. She will.”

The room fell back into its rhythm. Sam at the desk, pulling up more articles, cross-checking notes. She slid the notepad back into her lap, scribbling half-legible translations, muttering bits of lore under her breath. Dean kept moving, restless, shotgun already checked and reloaded, salt rounds stacked on the nightstand.

But every time she glanced up, Dean’s eyes were on her again.

When Sam leaned over her shoulder to scan her notes, their heads nearly touching as they worked through the details together, Dean’s pacing grew louder, heavier.

He didn’t say anything, but his jaw locked tighter, his hands flexed at his sides. Normally he’d crack a joke, call them nerds, maybe toss out a line about research dates, but tonight he kept his mouth shut.

And she noticed.

Noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept flicking toward her, the way his mouth pressed into a line when Sam leaned closer.

She almost smiled at the realization, almost wanted to test him just to see how far it would go.

But instead she leaned back in her chair, glanced at Dean, and let her lips curve into a slow, smug grin.

He caught it. His green eyes narrowed, and for just a second, his mouth twitched like he might actually smile back.

Then he turned away, muttering something about needing more coffee, and slammed the motel door behind him harder than necessary.

She bit back a laugh, warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the blanket.

Dean came back ten minutes later with a paper cup of coffee and a scowl that could’ve curdled milk. He dropped the cup onto the desk next to Sam, earning himself a sharp side-eye.

Sam didn’t say anything, but the look was enough.

Dean ignored it, flopped onto the edge of the other bed, and dug through the duffel for more shells.

His movements were louder than they needed to be, every clatter of brass against wood a pointed statement.

She set her pen down, rubbing at her temples. The headache had settled in, a dull throb behind her eyes from too much adrenaline and not enough oxygen.

She glanced at Dean, watching the way his jaw clenched as he loaded each shell with deliberate force.

“You always this cheerful after a coffee run?” she asked, voice slightly husky from disuse, just enough bite to poke at him.

Dean’s eyes flicked up, narrowed. “You always run your mouth this much, or am I just special?”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “If you were actually special, Winchester, I’d be using my mouth for something better."

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, a laugh catching in his throat. For a second he just stared at her, equal parts shocked and way too into it, before that slow, dangerous grin spread across his face.

Sam groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “Seriously? Can we not do this right now?”

Dean shot him a look. “What, can’t handle a little banter, Sammy?”

Sam slammed the laptop shut with a little more force than necessary. “What I can’t handle is the two of you turning everything into a contest when we’ve got people dying out there.”

She pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders, feeling the edges of her panic still lingering, but the tug-of-war between the brothers was heavier.

Dean finally broke it, voice low. “We’ll stop it.” He looked at her, steady. “You’ll help us stop it.”

Her heart thudded harder at the weight of his words. Not a question. A statement. Like it was already decided.

She nodded.

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll take shifts tonight. One of us stays up, makes sure it doesn’t circle back.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Dean said immediately.

“Of course you will,” Sam muttered under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

He shoved the laptop into his bag and stretched out on the bed, back to them both, leaving the faint hum of his steady breathing as the room’s new background noise.

Dean leaned back in the chair by the window, shotgun resting across his lap. His eyes flicked to her, softer now, like the edge from before had dulled.

“You should try to get some rest,” Dean said, leaning back against the wall.

She shot him a look. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Why? You planning on staring holes in the wallpaper all night?”

“Better than snoring like you,” she countered, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Dean scoffed, straightening a little. “I don’t snore.”

She arched a brow. “Right. Sure you don’t.”

For a second, the corner of his mouth curved, like he couldn’t quite help it. “You’re a brat, you know that?”

She shrugged. “And you’re bossy. Guess we’re even.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was something else. She could feel his gaze lingering, and it felt good.

Finally, she pulled the blanket tighter and muttered, “Don’t watch me while I sleep, Winchester. That’s creepy.”

Dean smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Who says I’d want to?”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugged at her mouth anyway.

The hours crawled by. Sam’s breathing stayed steady, the only real sound besides the hum of the old radiator.

She drifted in and out, caught somewhere between half-dreams and the ever-present thrum of anxiety.

When she jolted awake again, Dean was still in the chair, eyes on the window. The shotgun hadn’t moved. But his hand, his hand had drifted, resting against the side of her bed, close enough that if she shifted even an inch, their fingers would touch.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Her hand twitched toward his before she forced it back, nails digging into the blanket.

She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, even as her heart slammed against her ribs.

Her hand betrayed her again, sliding a fraction closer until her fingers brushed against his. She kept her eyes shut, steadying her breath, pretending to be out cold.

Dean glanced down, caught the contact.

For a second he didn’t move, just stared at their hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Then, slow and careful, his fingers closed around hers.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

He leaned back against the headboard, thumb brushing once over her knuckles, and let out the smallest sigh.

“Stubborn girl,” he murmured under his breath, so soft it was almost swallowed by the hum of the room.

He didn’t let go.

She stayed like that until dawn cracked pale light across the peeling motel wallpaper.

By morning, the motel room felt smaller, suffocating with stale smoke and bad air. Sam was already up, pouring over obits again. Dean hadn’t moved from his chair, but the warmth from his hand had now vanished.

She sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off her shoulders, hair a mess, throat dry. She rubbed at her face, wishing she could scrub the exhaustion off with her palms.

Sam glanced up with a scoff, his voice coated in sarcasm. “You get any sleep?”

"Whatever, Spengler,” she muttered.

Dean finally looked at her, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’re still here. That’s what matters.”

She snorted, grabbing the motel pen and twirling it between her fingers. “Guess I survived my first night at Camp Winchester.”

Dean’s mouth curved into something that might’ve been a smirk. “Don’t get cocky. It only gets worse from here.”

Sam gave him a look, but Dean ignored it, already on his feet, already moving, restless as ever.

The day ahead loomed heavy, filled with research and warding and the promise of more blood.

She wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time since the clearing, she didn’t feel like she was facing it alone.

And across the room, Dean looked at her like maybe, just maybe, she’d make it through.

Chapter Text

The Impala rumbled steady against the highway, its low hum a dull comfort. Night pressed hard against the windows, the kind of rural black that swallowed headlights whole.

Dean had one hand hooked over the wheel, the other drumming along to Warrant on the radio. He wasn’t even close to in tune, and Sam’s wince in the passenger seat said as much, but Dean kept going, muttering half the lyrics like they were muscle memory.

She sat in the back. The motel’s complimentary pen was clenched tight in her hand, notebook propped on her knees. Her handwriting looked foreign to her. cramped, slanted, scattered across the page. Not field notes, not structured analysis like she was used to.

This was raw, panicked scribbling. Sketches of sigils. Names she remembered from half-read texts. Half the page was clawed through with lines so dark the ink bled.

She told herself she was analyzing and grounding herself. That if she got it on paper, it wouldn’t keep eating holes in her chest. But her hand shook too much, and the pen dragged an ugly scar of ink across the margin. She dropped it with a curse.

Dean’s eyes caught her in the rearview. “You writing me a love note back there?”

Her head snapped up. His mouth curved, that crooked half-smirk.

“Yeah,” she said, tone flat. “Right between ‘demonic possession’ and ‘personal tragedy.’”

Sam didn’t even look up from his laptop. “Charming.”

Dean snorted, his gaze flicking back on the road. “Hey, some of us gotta make sure the mood stays light. Can’t all sit there pretending this is a grad seminar.”

Sam’s tone was patient, but his knuckles were white against the laptop. “This isn’t about moods. It’s about figuring out how to stop the damn thing before more people die.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean muttered.

Her gaze drifted from Dean’s profile to Sam, bent over the blue glow of the screen. “Anything?”

Sam tapped the trackpad, scrolling. His face was lined, serious, that steady calm she’d already started to realize was his default.

“Cross-referencing reports with what you told us. Patterns line up with what the lore says about Algea. They don’t attack at random. They zero in on grief that’s already there. People who’ve lost something, who can’t move on.”

Dean’s eyes flicked back to the mirror. “So, basically, everyone in this whole damn town.”

Sam ignored him. “According to the texts, once it makes contact, it pushes until the victim breaks. It doesn’t usually double back right after getting hit, but it will.” He glanced at her, serious, steady.

The Impala ate another mile in silence before Dean spoke again. “You’re sure it was an Algea?”

She straightened against the seatback, fighting the urge to shrink under his tone. “That’s what the sources point to. They’re from Hesiod originally. Personifications of grief. They bleed into other traditions, sometimes called spirits of anguish. The symptoms fit.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Hell of a step up from ghost stories in the library.”

“Guess your timing was lucky,” she shot back. “If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be in its scrapbook by now.”

He grinned, shameless. “You’re welcome.”

Sam shook his head like he’d heard this routine a thousand times. “Focus. If it’s following the same behavior as before, it’s circling. Next attack is a matter of when, not if.”

“Then we hit it before it hits her...us again,” Dean said. His knuckles tightened against the wheel. “End of story.”

Sam’s voice cut through the hum of the tires. “Yeah, but Dean, we need a plan that doesn’t involve you charging in blind.”

Dean smirked, eyes still on the road. “Charging in works just fine.”

“Until it doesn’t,” Sam muttered.

Dean’s only answer was to turn the volume up on the radio.

She closed her notebook, pressing it tight between her palms until her hands steadied. Her chest still ached, but the worst of the trembling had passed. She caught Dean’s gaze flick up to the mirror again. He didn’t smile this time. He just looked at her for a second too long, something unreadable in his eyes, before turning back to the road.

They rolled to a stop at the swamp’s edge.

The world here was heavier, like stepping into a place that didn’t want them. Mist clung to the water, thick enough to blur the line between earth and sky. The reeds whispered in the breeze, frogs croaked low, but underneath it was silence that scraped against the skin.

She climbed out, boots sinking into the mud. The blanket was shoved into the car, useless now. The air smelled like rot and iron.

Dean popped the trunk and handed out gear like it was second nature. Shotgun for him, duffel of powder and salt for Sam, an iron blade pressed into her hand before she could argue.

He caught her eye as he checked the shotgun, the barrel breaking open with a smooth snap. “Don’t wander,” he said, tone flat, the kind that left no room for argument.

Her brow arched. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Didn’t say you were.” He slid a shell in, snapped it shut, grin tugging sharp at the corner of his mouth. “Just… you don’t exactly scream weapons expert.”

That one hit. Her chin lifted, her voice cool. “My foster dad used to take me to the range every other weekend. Pistol, rifle, twelve-gauge...you name it. I know how to shoot, Winchester.”

Dean’s brows shot up, just for a second, before he caught himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, folding her arms. “I could probably out-shoot you if you’d get your ego out of the way long enough to test it.”

That earned her a real grin, teeth flashing in the low light. “Careful, sweetheart. Talk like that’s damn near foreplay in my book.”

She rolled her eyes, but heat pooled in her stomach anyway. “You wish.”

Dean chuckled, stepping closer, close enough that she caught leather, motor oil, and smoke off his jacket. His voice dipped low, amused and just a little rough. “Don’t gotta wish. One day, I’ll put a gun in your hands and see if you’re all talk.”

“Just don’t cry when I embarrass you in front of your brother.”

Dean’s laugh was low, genuine, his green eyes flashing with challenge. “Now I have to see it.”

Sam crouched near the bank, fingers digging into the soil as he drew precise lines in the mud. Salt, ash, Latin muttered low, then the strange slant of Greek runes woven between. She knelt beside him without being asked, scribbling notes onto a torn page from her notebook.

“Salt keeps it out,” Sam said, tone instructional. “But binding it takes more. It doesn’t hold like a ghost. This thing… it’s older. Meaner.”

“Good to know,” she murmured, jotting down his Latin against the rough Greek she remembered from her research.

Dean prowled along the edge of the mist, shotgun loose in his grip, every step restless. “Alright, let’s stop talking and start shooting.”

Sam sighed, but his hand never stopped moving.

The swamp breathed cold against her skin. And then, without warning, the weight pressed down again.

A low moan rippled through the reeds. Shadows slid across the mist, wrong angles moving in ways the eye didn’t want to follow. The air tightened, like it was being squeezed out of her lungs.

Her grip on the knife trembled. She forced her voice steady. “It’s here.”

Dean swung the shotgun up. “Yeah, I see it.”

The Algea pulled itself together in front of them, a smear of darkness twisted into something almost human but not right. Its eyes were pits that drank the light, its mouth a hollow stretch of static.

Her chest locked. She heard it again, not outside, but inside, crawling through her thoughts.

You should’ve died. You don’t matter. Everyone you touch disappears.

Her legs wobbled for half a second, the knife shifting in her grip, but she clenched harder and forced herself to steady.

Dean’s shout cut through it like a blade. “Sam!”

Salt rounds exploded in the dark, light flaring hot. The thing screamed, a vibration that rattled her teeth.

Sam’s sigils flared white in the mud, binding the shadows where they tried to spill. His voice was steady, chanting in a rhythm that built walls around them.

She forced herself to her feet, fingers digging into the pouch of salt at her hip. Her throw was wild, clumsy, but the granules cut into the thing’s chest and flared bright.

Dean surged forward with a shout, slamming the butt of the shotgun into the opening she’d made. The blast tore the shadow apart, smoke and static whipping across the swamp.

It reformed, screaming louder.

A blast lit up the swamp, but the Algea didn’t go down easy. It shrieked, a soundless pressure that rattled her skull, and re-formed in front of them, limbs bending, shadow stretched into something that mocked a human shape.

Dean didn’t flinch. He racked the shotgun again, mud streaked up his jacket. “Ugly son of a bitch just doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Dean!” Sam barked, his voice sharp over the chanting. "Focus!"

“Yeah, yeah, I’m focused,” Dean snapped back, but his eyes flicked toward her.

The thing’s whispers slid through her skull, crueler this time.

They’re already dead because of you. You’ll drag them down too.

She staggered, nearly going to her knees, but Dean’s voice snapped her back. “Hey! Stay with me!”

Her grip tightened on the salt pouch. She forced her hand steady, forced herself to move. If she didn’t, it would win.

She scattered another handful across the mud where Sam’s sigils glowed, reinforcing the line. The Algea recoiled when the salt hissed, its form bending like it had been burned.

Sam’s chanting built louder, his voice strong and deliberate. The wards lit brighter, hemming the shadow in. “Almost there!”

The Algea lunged, a wave of darkness slamming toward them. Dean fired again, the blast cutting through the chest, but the thing surged right back. The whispers slammed harder in her head. too much, too loud. She felt the knife slip in her grip.

The thing lunged, its shadow twisting toward Dean’s unguarded side. He didn’t see it coming, too focused on keeping her leveled.

But she did. And she moved.

Her chest was on fire, her body screaming to stop, but she shoved herself forward anyway. The knife came up fast, steel biting through the black mass just before it could close the distance.

The blade tore across the shadow’s torso, splitting the form in two. It shrieked, static ripping the air, staggering back from Dean’s blind spot.

For a split second his eyes widened, surprise cutting through the usual cocky mask, like he couldn’t believe she’d caught it faster than he had.

“Sam, now!” Dean bellowed, eyes locked on the creature as if he’d been in control the whole time.

Her grip tightened on the knife, heart hammering. 

Sam flung the final pouch of powder into the circle and shouted the last words of the chant. The ground beneath them pulsed, the runes flaring like fire, and the swamp air snapped so hard it rattled her bones.

The Algea convulsed, its body ripped apart by the wards. The screams weren’t sound anymore, they were vibration, rattling every nerve, clawing at her skull until she thought she’d pass out.

And then, with a violent hiss, it collapsed. The shadow shredded into smoke that burned white, then vanished into nothing. The swamp went still.

Only the croak of frogs and Dean’s ragged breathing filled the silence.

He bent over, shotgun slack in his grip, mud streaked across his face and jacket. Sam straightened slowly, sweat beading his brow.

Her legs trembled, but she stayed upright, knife still tight in her hand. Every nerve in her body screamed to sit down, but she forced a crooked grin instead.

“Well, awesome. Almost got strangled by the Swamp Thing.”

Dean barked a short laugh, now standing in front of her with his shotgun balanced across his shoulders. “Hey. You good?”

She blew out a shaky breath, humor still laced in her voice. “Good’s a stretch. If this is my new normal, I’m gonna need a raise and someone on call with a psych degree.”

“You’re still vertical. That’s better than half the people we drag out of these things.”

Sam dropped onto a log, dragging a hand across his face, exhaustion clear in every line. “That’s one way to put it.”

Dean ignored him. He reached up, brushing a streak of mud from her cheek with his thumb. The touch lingered longer than it needed to, green eyes locked on hers. “Not bad for your first night out, sweetheart.”

Her smirk sharpened. “You always show women this kind of fun, Winchester? Take ‘em to swamps, almost get them killed?”

Dean’s grin widened, cocky and warm all at once. “Hey, some guys buy dinner. I like to make sure she can handle herself first.”

She raised a brow, voice dropping just enough to make her point. “Guess you’ll have to try harder if you’re aiming to impress me.”

Dean’s chuckle came low, rough. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a few tricks left.”

Sam groaned into his hands. “Seriously? Here? Now? Can you two not—”

Dean smirked, eyes still locked on her. “Sorry, Sammy. Can’t turn it off.”

The drive back to Bobby’s was quiet, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It was heavier, tired, but threaded with something else, relief, maybe, that they’d all walked away.

By the time the Impala crunched up the gravel of Singer’s Salvage, the first hints of dawn were cutting the horizon. The house stood solid, stubborn against the years, lights already on.

Bobby was waiting on the porch, shotgun balanced against his shoulder. His eyes narrowed the second he saw them climbing out, then flicked toward her, sizing her up.

“You must be the stray they dragged in.”

Dean gave Bobby’s shoulder a pat, that half-grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s not a stray. Call it… an improvement to the lineup.”

Sam rolled his eyes, hauling the duffel up the steps. 

Bobby’s gaze lingered on her, sharp but not unkind. “You sure you know what you’re walking into?”

She swallowed hard, then nodded. “Sounds like a blast. Even though you're all crazy.”

Bobby grunted, like that was enough. “Fair answer.”

Inside, the house smelled like old books, whiskey, and oil. Lore was piled high on every surface, notes scribbled in margins, stacks leaning dangerously.

The kitchen table was already cluttered when they walked in, stacks of lore, an open bottle of whiskey, Bobby’s reading glasses folded neatly on top of a yellowed newspaper. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a weak circle of gold.

Sam dropped into the chair closest to the books, already pulling the laptop back out like he hadn’t just spent the whole night running circles. He muttered something about checking cross-references, fingers already flying across the keys.

Dean made a beeline for the cabinet, pulled down three mismatched glasses, and poured whiskey into two of them. He slid one across the table toward her before taking his seat, leaning back.

Bobby gave Dean a pointed look. “Pouring her a drink already? Hell of a welcome wagon.”

Dean just smirked and raised his own glass. “She earned it.”

She eyed the amber liquid, then the man sitting across from her. His grin was smug, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, challenging. With a steady hand, she picked up the glass and downed it in one swallow. The burn slid down her throat, sharp enough to make her wince once before she set the glass back down with a dull clink.

Dean’s smirk widened. “Atta girl.”

Sam glanced up from the laptop, eyes flicking between the three of them. His voice was even, but there was a thread of warning in it. "Just because she made it through one fight doesn’t mean we keep dragging her into the next. She doesn’t need to be pulled any deeper into this.”

Dean’s chair scraped back a little as he leaned forward, all casual confidence wiped clean from his face. “Dragged? You think she’s here because we dragged her? She faced that thing head-on and lived to tell the tale. That’s not just luck, Sammy. It takes a decent amount of grit.”

Bobby’s gaze studied her, eyes lingering on the faint tremor in her hands before she tucked them under the table. “Grit’ll keep you standing, sure. But it won’t keep you alive if you start thinking you’re invincible.”

Her jaw tightened, but she forced herself to answer steady. “I don’t think I’m invincible. I know exactly how close it was out there. But hiding isn’t gonna cut it either. If I’m in this now, then I want to know what I’m up against. All of it.”

Sam leaned back, crossing his arms, frustration written plain on his face. Dean, though, watched her like he’d been waiting for that answer.

The silence stretched until Bobby finally huffed, shaking his head. “Fine. Your funeral.”

Dean shot him a look. “Not helping, Bobby.”

Bobby ignored him, muttering as he shuffled back toward his bookshelves. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sam’s sigh was heavy. Dean, though, leaned back in his chair, green eyes fixed on her.

Hours later, after Bobby had fallen asleep in his chair and Sam was still typing quietly at the desk, Dean found her on the porch.

The dawn had broken fully now, the yard bathed in soft gold, the air sharp with the bite of early morning.

She sat on the porch steps, blanket draped around her shoulders, notebook open on her lap again. This time, though, the pages weren’t frantic scribbles. Just a few words here and there, steady, controlled.

Dean leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She didn’t look up. “Didn’t try.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Know the feeling.”

Silence stretched between them, almost companionable.

Finally, she shut the notebook and leaned back, eyes flicking around the property. “This is… not exactly what I pictured when I thought grad school fieldwork.”

Dean glanced up from cleaning his shotgun, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Guessing you left ‘moldy books, demons, and a cranky old guy with a shotgun’ out of your syllabus.”

Her brow arched. “Definitely wasn’t listed under electives.”

Dean’s grin widened. “What about living out of motels with a nerd and a ridiculously handsome older brother? That in the fine print anywhere?”

She snorted. “Please. In my old life, the closest thing I had to excitement was bad coffee and professors arguing over citation styles. This? This is… a lot.”

Dean’s eyes lingered on her, sharper than the smirk he wore. “Different doesn’t mean worse.”

Her lips twitched, fighting a smile. “It's less like school and more like I just got drafted in world war three.”

Dean glanced over at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Drafted, huh? You say that like you didn’t have a choice.”

She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, eyes dropping to the scuffed wood of the porch. “Did I?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He set the shotgun down, rubbed a hand over his jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the quiet. “Coulda left. After the cabin, after the swamp. Hell, even last night. You could’ve packed up, caught a bus, and been halfway across the state by now.”

Her throat tightened, but she held his gaze when she finally looked up. “And go where? Pretend none of this exists? Pretend I didn’t see what I saw?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I could pull that off.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, not unkind, but like he was testing her words. “A lot of people would’ve tried. Most people do. Denial’s the only thing that keeps ‘em breathing. But you...”

He broke off, tilting his head, studying her. “You didn’t run. So what’s the deal? Curiosity? Stubbornness? Death wish?”

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe all three.”

Her fingers picked at the corner of the notebook in her lap. “Honestly? I don’t know yet.”

Dean leaned back against the railing again, arms folding across his chest.

For a moment, the only sound was the wind through the trees and Bobby’s screen door creaking somewhere behind them.

Then, softer, he said, “Yeah. I get that.”

She cocked her head. “Do you?”

He smirked, but there was no real bite to it. “What do you think keeps me in this gig? It ain’t the health insurance.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “So what does keep you here?”

Dean’s eyes cut back to her, something sharp but tired behind the green. “Same reason as you, probably. Doesn’t matter how much you want to walk away...once you’ve seen it, there’s no going back. Normal’s gone. Best you can do is keep swinging.”

Her chest pulled tight at the honesty in his voice. She wanted to argue, to push back, but the words caught in her throat. So instead, she settled for a quiet nod.

Dean watched her for another long moment, then shook his head. “Still think you should’ve skipped town, though. Would’ve saved you the headache of dealing with me and Urkel over there.”

She shot him a look. “I can handle you, Winchester.”

His smirk twitched into something closer to a grin, slow and amused. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost smug. “I bet you can.”

She shook her head, but her smile betrayed her.

For the first time since she’d stepped out of that cabin, the weight in her chest eased just a little.

And for the first time, Dean let himself think she might just stick around.

Chapter Text

The morning in Bobby Singer’s house was surprisingly peaceful.

She took her time moving through the space, flannel wrapped tight around her shoulders. Her notebook dangled loosely from her hand, but the pages stayed shut.

For once, there was nothing she needed to scribble down.

The smell hit her first, oil, gunpowder, old books, and whiskey. Not the kind of whiskey you sipped for taste, but the kind that burned. That smell clung to the boards, the furniture, maybe even the walls.

Books were everywhere. Not just on shelves, but stacked across the floor, slouching against counters, piled high on tables like towers. Some were bound in cracked leather, pages yellowed and curling. Others were spiral notebooks with chicken-scratch notes jammed between translations of runes and exorcisms.

She traced her fingers over one spine.

Greek. Another was Latin, scribbled over with English footnotes. She recognized half a dozen authors from her own studies, but the way Bobby’s books bled into one another told her that this wasn’t academia. This was survival.

The coffee pot gurgled faintly from the kitchen.

She followed the smell, hoping for something to clear the fog in her head. When she stepped into the doorway, Bobby was already there.

He looked rougher in the daylight. Rumpled flannel shirt, lines cut deep into his face, and eyes that had seen more than they’d ever tell. He thunked a chipped brown barn owl mug onto the counter hard enough to send sludge over the rim. The way he stared at her, arms crossed, said he wasn’t offering it.

“So.” His voice was rough, gravel dragged across wood. “Who the hell are you?”

The question landed heavy.

She swallowed, shifting her grip on the sleeves of her top. “I’m from Enumclaw, Washington. Small town...rain, logging trucks, nothing worth bragging about. I go to WVU, working on a folklore degree. I was in the Blue Ridge here for field notes, Appalachian myths, that sort of thing.”

Her mouth twitched into something close to a smile, but it didn’t last. “Guess I took the research part too literally.”

Bobby’s stare didn’t waver.

She kept her chin level, voice even. “I didn’t come out here looking to be brave. I was in the mountains because I figured some distance might fix a few things. Turns out, solitude doesn't do much.”

Her eyes met Bobby’s, steady now. “Then the Algea showed up. And I, we, dealt with it. That’s why I’m here.”

For the first time, Bobby’s brows lifted. His tone sharpened. “Algea?”

She nodded.

“Spirit of grief,” Bobby muttered. His gaze narrowed, measuring her. “Didn’t think I’d hear that name outside of text. And you went up against it?”

Her throat tightened. “Didn’t exactly have a choice.”

Something shifted in Bobby’s face. Not warmth, but the edge dulled slightly. “Well, you didn’t run. That’s more than most. Gutsy, kid.”

Her chest loosened a fraction. “I try not to run too much.”

Before Bobby could answer, another voice cut in.

“See? Told you.” Dean leaned against the doorframe, grin spread across his face like he’d just won an argument no one else knew they were having. “Total keeper, Bobby.”

Bobby’s head turned slow, the look he shot Dean sharp enough to slice steel. “Yeah, I get that. But what the hell were you thinking, dragging a civilian into a swamp with something like that?”

Dean’s smirk didn’t budge.

He waved a hand, casual. “Relax. She’s not a civilian anymore. She’s one of us.”

“One of you?” Bobby barked, stepping forward, voice climbing. “You don’t just knight people into this life, Dean. This ain’t a clubhouse.”

Dean’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Tell that to the farmer who didn’t make it. Or the waitress. Or the postman. She’s still standing. She fought back. That’s more than most people we’ve ever tried to save.”

Sam, who’d been quiet in the corner with his laptop balanced on one knee, finally pushed off the wall. His voice was calm, but firm. “Dean, Bobby’s right. This isn’t a game. Surviving one night doesn’t make her a hunter.”

Dean snapped his head toward Sam. “Don’t start, Sam.”

Sam straightened, not backing down. “She didn’t ask for this. You pulled her in, and now you’re acting like it’s her job.”

“She was already in it!” Dean’s voice boomed, sharp enough to rattle the books stacked on the table.

He jabbed a finger toward the floor, like the swamp was still under their boots. “That thing found her. Sitting alone in that cabin wasn’t safer, it was a death sentence.”

“She’s not ready for this life!” Sam’s voice cracked. “Nobody ever is!”

Dean’s fists balled at his sides, chest heaving. “Doesn’t matter. It found her. End of story.”

The air in the room grew hot, tension thick enough she could feel it on her skin. She gripped her notebook tighter, watching the exchange like someone standing too close to a live wire.

And then Bobby slammed his hand on the counter hard enough that the mug cracked, coffee sloshing over the edge.

“You sound just like your daddy,” Bobby growled, voice low, dangerous. “Dragging people into fire they didn’t deserve.”

Dean went still.

For the first time that morning, the smirk slipped. His shoulders tightened, and his eyes flicked to her before dropping back to the floor.

Bobby’s glare stayed locked on him. “Well? You got anything to say for yourself?”

Dean’s head lifted slowly, like he was dragging the weight of the world with it.

His eyes burned, but his voice was sharp. “She’s alive, isn’t she? That’s the whole damn point.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Dean’s jaw worked, muscle twitching. He finally spoke, voice low, edged like broken glass. “What do you want me to say, Bobby? That I should’ve just let it happen? Stood there and done nothing while that thing ripped her apart?”

“You don’t get to play God, boy,” Bobby snapped.

Dean’s head came up, sharp, green eyes blazing. “Yeah? Watch me try.”

Sam stepped forward, voice rising. “That’s the problem, Dean. You can’t stop yourself. You make calls for everyone else and expect us to live with it.”

His face twisted, frustration and worry bleeding into every word. “You dragged her into this because you couldn’t let her walk away.”

Dean pointed a finger at him, voice snapping like a whip. “She’s only alive because of us!”

The sharpness of his voice made her chest tighten. 

Bobby’s voice cut through it, lower now, steadier. “No, Dean. She’s alive because she fought like hell on her own. Don’t twist it into your damn martyr complex.”

Dean’s throat worked, but before he could answer, Bobby’s tone shifted. 

“You’ve been making calls like you’re the only one steering this ship. And I know why.” His eyes cut to Sam, then back. “Because you’re still trying to outrun what happened.”

Dean stiffened, every muscle pulled tight like wire.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice a growl. “Don’t drag that night into this.”

Dean’s head whipped toward him, eyes wide just for a second before the mask slammed back down. “Oh come on, he’s—”

"I saw it, Dean. With my own eyes. He was gone.”

Sam’s breath stuttered, his chest rising too fast. “Dean…?”

His voice trembled, like he already knew the answer. “Is that true? Did I...did I die?”

Dean’s fists clenched. His voice came out slightly strangled. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“Dean,” Bobby pressed, voice softer now. “Tell him the truth.”

The silence was suffocating. She could feel her pulse in her throat.

Dean’s boots scuffed against the floor as he shifted, the sound louder than it should’ve been. His voice finally broke through, quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“You wanna know?” His eyes flicked to Sam, then away. “I made a call.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What call?”

Dean dragged a hand over his face, his laugh short, bitter. “Crossroads.”

Sam staggered back a step, face pale, jaw slack. “A deal?” His voice cracked. “You sold your soul?”

Dean’s laugh was humorless. “Classic Winchester move, right?” His voice rose, sharp now. “I couldn’t watch you die, Sammy.”

Sam’s face flushed, heat chasing the color back.

His fists clenched at his sides. “You think I wanted this? You think I can live with that?”

Dean stepped forward, green eyes blazing. “You think I could live without it?”

Sam’s breath came hard, sharp. “So what? You decided for me? You decided my life was worth more than yours?”

Dean’s jaw locked. “I decided I wasn’t going to bury you.”

Bobby slammed his hand on the counter again. “You idjit.” His voice shook with fury. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

Dean didn’t answer. His silence was the only answer they needed.

Sam shoved a hand through his hair, voice breaking. “I can’t—” He shook his head, eyes glassy. “I can’t do this right now.”

The door slammed behind him, rattling the walls.

Dean stood rigid, fists clenched, the storm still raging in his eyes. Bobby’s glare didn’t waver, but there was grief in it too.

Her chest was tight, words stuck somewhere she couldn’t reach.

Instead, she stepped in close and set her hand against his arm, fingers pressing into the worn leather of his jacket.

Dean’s eyes flicked down at the contact, then back up, and for a second all that bravado he wore slipped, just enough for her to see the emotion underneath.

Fear. Not of dying. Dean Winchester never feared death. But fear of leaving. Fear of failing the people he bled for.

For a beat, his jaw worked, like the words caught in his throat.

Then, slowly, his hand came up, covering hers. Rough, warm, steady. She didn't say anything and neither did he. It was better that way.

Bobby muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “If you’re gonna stay in this life, girl, you do it smart. You listen when we tell you something’s for your own good. You’re family now. And family means we look out for each other, even when it’s ugly.”

The word family landed deep in her chest, heavier than she wanted to admit.

The slam of the screen door cut through the quiet.

Both she and Dean looked up as Sam stepped back into the room, moving slower than usual, like every limb weighed double.

His shoulders sagged under an invisible load, and the faint bite of whiskey trailed in with him.

He hovered near the doorway for a moment, eyes glassy, unfocused, before they finally lifted to Dean. The look didn’t last. His gaze slipped down to the floor, jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn’t want to spit out.

“I…” Sam cleared his throat, rough, unsteady.

He tried again, quieter. “I get it.”

Dean froze.

Sam rubbed both hands over his face, dragging them back through his hair. “God, I hate it. But… I get it. You—” he jabbed a finger loosely in Dean’s direction, “you watched me die. I know what that…what that would’ve done to you.” His voice cracked, softer now, less steady.

“Hell, I probably would’ve made the same damn call.”

Dean’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Sam pressed on. “That doesn’t mean I’m not pissed, or not scared outta my mind. But I get it, okay? I do. I’m not gonna waste what time we’ve got yelling about it. I’m gonna—” he sighed, rubbed his forehead, then steadied, voice raw but firm, “—I’m gonna spend it trying to fix it.”

Dean let out a shaky laugh, one hand scrubbing over his mouth. “You really think you can fix this?”

Sam gave him a crooked smile. “I’ve got Bobby. I’ve got her. And I’ve got you. That’s a start.”

Bobby snorted from his place in the doorway of his study, shaking his head. “Damn right you’ve got me. Don’t think I’m letting either of you idiots go down without a fight.”

The sharpness in Dean’s eyes softened just a little. He let out a long breath, shoulders sagging.

The rest of the night passed in low voices and heavy whiskey.

Plans half-formed, theories tossed around. Dean cracked jokes, sharp and reckless, until Bobby snorted into his glass. 

They weren’t fixed. They weren’t safe.

But they were family.

Scarred, sure, and stubborn as hell, and still standing. Still alive. Still real.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The motel smelled the same as the last one.

Burnt coffee, stale carpet, and the faint mildew of air conditioning that hadn’t been serviced in years.

She sat on the edge of one of the double beds, floral bedspread scratchy against her jeans. The notebook Bobby had given her rested in her lap, leather cover soft with wear, pages crammed with her messy scrawl. Names. Dates. Maps. Lore fragments. Half-legible notes running across the margins.

Dean had taken the only armchair in the room, feet kicked up on the coffee table, his weight making the cheap furniture creak in protest. He spun the Impala’s keys in one hand, the metallic clink cutting through the silence every few seconds. His eyes looked half-shut, lazy, but the restlessness in his hands gave him away.

Sam sat at the desk, hunched in the glow of his laptop. His brow was furrowed, jaw tight, fingers working with quiet urgency.

Every so often, he muttered fragments under his breath, names, witness statements, obituary dates, stringing them together like puzzle pieces no one else could see but him. She was sure that he'd begin to draw a messed up clock at any moment.

“You ever think maybe you’re reading too much into this?” Dean's voice was low, casual, with that teasing drawl he pulled out whenever he wanted to get a rise out of someone.

“We’re in Pennsylvania. Pretty sure the scariest thing out here’s still Scranton.”

Her brow arched, mouth twitching into a sharp smile. “Yeah, well, boredom usually doesn’t leave people with bite marks and broken bones. Unless you’re trying to argue this was death by ‘killer boredom,’ I’m sticking with supernatural.”

Dean chuckled, his grin widening. “Smartass.”

He leaned forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees. “You’re like MacGyver of monsters. Notebook out, solving crimes before the cops even catch up.”

Sam finally looked up from his laptop, exasperation flickering across his face. “Dean.” His tone was clipped. “Focus. Witnesses said they saw someone changing shape in front of them. That’s classic shapeshifter behavior.”

Dean groaned loudly, throwing his head back against the chair like the ceiling had personally offended him.

“Shapeshifters. Fantastic. Because Greek grief demons weren’t enough of a thrill. What happened to simple hunts? Salt the bones, torch ‘em, grab pie, and call it a night?”

Her pen tapped against the page. “Patterns matter. If it’s a shifter, we track sightings, lay out a timeline, figure its hunting grounds. Same drill as profiling a serial killer, just, y’know, one that can jack your face.”

Dean leaned in, grin crooked. “Now that I can work with. Girl’s already drawing up the playbook.” 

She shot back without missing a beat. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from charging in like a moron with a death wish.”

Dean arched his brows, leaning back in offense. “Reckless? I prefer… creatively tactical.”

She smirked, rolling her eyes. “That’s one way to spin it.”

From behind the laptop, Sam muttered, “Unbelievable,” and kept typing.

The abandoned gas station reeked of gasoline and mildew. Rainwater pooled in potholes outside, the night sky stretched thin over the lot. Inside, broken fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering and throwing stuttering shadows across cracked tile floors.

“Well, this is cozy,” Dean muttered, flashlight sweeping across the shadows. “Place smells like a damn petri dish. What are we even looking for...besides black lung?”

She crouched low near the counter, smaller flashlight beam tracing over stains on the floor. Blood smeared in uneven streaks. Deep scratches gouged into the tile.

She bent closer, penknife tapping gently at the edges.

“Shapeshifter,” she said, mostly to herself. “These marks...not human. Looks like it was cycling mid-shift, fighting to hold form.”

Dean stepped in close, crouching until his shoulder pressed lightly against hers. The familiar mix of leather, soap, and gasoline clung to him, distracting and impossible to ignore. When he spoke, his voice was low, the warmth of it brushing her ear.

“Yeah, I see it...”

Sam’s voice cut in from across the room. “We need wards. Salt rounds won’t hold if this thing’s adapted.”

Dean huffed, pushing up to his feet. He angled his flashlight toward the far wall, covering the space while Sam crouched to start laying down salt lines.

She stayed focused, penlight sweeping across the scratches, memorizing every jagged groove. But she could still feel Dean’s gaze on her, steady and sharp. 

Hours later, back at the motel, the shapeshifter was still a step ahead of them.

Sam sat hunched at the desk again, typing notes into his laptop, the glow painting his face pale. His expression was set, determined, but weariness tugged at the edges.

She sat on the bed, notebook open but abandoned. 

Her eyes had fixed instead on Dean, watching him pace like he always did when the walls felt too close. Not frantic, just restless, like he couldn’t stand still for more than a heartbeat.

“You ever get bored of doing laps?” she teased, closing her notebook. “A couple more and I’m slapping a number on your back and calling it Talladega."

Dean stopped, turned with a grin, and leaned against the doorframe. “Hey, could be worse. You should’ve seen me in high school detention, three hours straight of this and the principal threatened to bolt me to the chair.”

She smirked, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Bet you deserved it.”

“Obviously,” he shot back, then tilted his head.

“What about you?” Dean shot her a look, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Bet you were front row at fancy pants university, hand in the air, makin’ the rest of the class look bad. Real apple-polisher stuff.”

“Not true,” she said, laughing. “I sat in the second row. Front row was too much pressure. And WVU wasn’t exactly thrilling. Half the time I was sneaking a book under the desk. My chemistry teacher thought I was a genius until he realized I was reading Stephen King instead of the periodic table.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Knew it. Nerd chic. Should’ve guessed. What was it, Carrie or The Shining?”

“Pet Sematary,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Nightmares for a week. Still kinda worth it, though.”

“Pet Sematary? Damn.” He gave her an approving nod. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Remind me not to piss you off, you’d probably bring some freako zombie cat back just to spite me.”

She laughed. “Please. Like you’d even notice a zombie cat with all the other things chasing us.”

“True. Still, pretty badass for the girl who claims she’s all about books and research.”

She arched a brow, smiling as she stepped closer. “And you think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

His voice dropped just enough to turn teasing into something softer. “Not even close. But I like the homework.”

Dean’s smirk came back, slower this time, a cover slipping back into place. “Alright, we’ve got a shifter to gank before Sammy here writes us a damn thesis on it.”

Sam sighed loudly without looking up. “Funny. Real funny.”

Dean grinned. “I thought so.”

The next night bled into another hunt, and the shapeshifter was still two steps ahead.

The Impala rolled to a stop in front of a row of abandoned houses on the outskirts of town. Paint peeled from the siding, shutters dangled crooked, and weeds had grown tall enough to swallow the cracked walkway.

Dean killed the engine, drumming his fingers against the wheel. 

Sam was already scanning the houses, hand wrapped tight around a flashlight. “Reports say this is where the last victim was spotted. Neighbors saw movement in the windows last night.”

Dean twisted around in his seat, eyes landing on her. “You stick close. Shapeshifters are fast. Stronger than they look.”

Her brow lifted. “I’m not planning on wandering off, Winchester. Thanks for the pep talk.”

His mouth twitched into that smug grin again, but his eyes flicked over her, serious. “Good. Just making sure.”

The house smelled like mold and rot, the air damp enough to cling to the back of her throat.

Sam led the way, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. Dean followed behind her, shotgun raised, his other hand brushing her arm once in awhile as if he thought she would run off.

The silence inside was sharp, broken only by the creak of floorboards.

Then it came.

A rush of movement.

The shapeshifter barreled out of the shadows, its skin rippling mid-shift, features twisting into someone else’s face before snapping back to half-formed.

“Down!” Dean shouted, shoving her back as the thing lunged. He fired, salt round tearing through the creature’s chest, sending it stumbling.

Sam darted to the side, pulling a silver knife. “Now!” he barked.

The shifter recovered quicker than expected, lunging again, this time straight for Dean. She was moving before her brain even processed what was happening. Her knife came up, silver catching in the faint glow, and she slashed across its arm. The thing shrieked, skin bubbling where the blade connected.

Dean spun, eyes flashing wide for a second. “Nice swing,” he muttered, half impressed, half irritated he hadn’t seen it first.

The shifter lashed out, its fist catching her shoulder hard enough to rattle her teeth. Pain shot down her arm, but she stayed on her feet, knife ready.

Dean drove forward, shotgun raised, blasting the creature point-blank. It hit the wall hard, body twisting, morphing again in spasms.

Sam stepped in fast, plunging the silver blade deep into its chest.

The creature gurgled, body convulsing once before it went limp, sliding down the wall in a heap.

For a long moment, the three of them just stood there, chest heaving, the only sound the drip of water from a busted pipe overhead.

Dean finally lowered his shotgun, his voice low. “Well. That sucked.”

She let out a shaky laugh, shaking her sore arm. “Not exactly my idea of a Saturday night.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You held your own.”

Her smirk sharpened. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Sam wiped the blade clean on his sleeve, muttering under his breath. “Great. Shifter down. But we need to make sure this was the only one.”

Dean groaned. “Of course we do. Because nothing’s ever simple.”

By the time they made it back to the motel, exhaustion clung to every muscle.

Sam collapsed into the desk chair again, already pulling up reports, eyes bleary but determined. “I’ll cross-reference the disappearances. See if there’s a pattern. We need to be sure there aren’t more out there.”

Dean tossed the shotgun onto the bed, flopping down beside it with a grunt.

He looked over at her, still holding the knife loosely at her side. His grin softened into something else, quieter, almost proud.

“You did good tonight,” he said, voice low.

Her chin tilted, sharp. “Good enough to not need babysitting next time?”

Dean’s smirk widened, but there was heat in his eyes that made her pulse kick. “Sweetheart, if I’m babysitting, I’m doing it wrong. I’ve seen you in action. You don’t need hand-holding. But I’m not gonna stop watching your back either.”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a small smile. “You just like having an excuse to stare.”

Dean chuckled, low and rough. “Busted.”

Sam sighed loudly from the desk. “You two done, or should I leave the room?”

Dean leaned back on the bed, hands behind his head, grin smug as hell. “Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll keep it PG just for you.”

“Unbelievable,” Sam muttered, eyes glued to the laptop.

Later, when the motel finally fell quiet, she sat cross-legged on the bed, notebook open again. Her handwriting was uneven, hand cramping from the notes she’d scrawled about the shifter.

Dean’s jacket was draped over the chair, his boots kicked aside near the door. Sam had passed out at the bed closest to the window, his faint snores being the only audible sound beside her pen scratching on paper.

Dean shifted in the armchair, glancing at her over the papers he was reading. “You should get some rest.”

She snorted softly, not looking up from her notes. “After that? Not exactly easy to shut my brain off.”

He watched her for a moment, something wry tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, that tracks. You’d be the one trying to figure it all out on paper before you even shut your eyes.”

She lifted a brow, finally meeting his gaze. “And that’s a problem, how?”

Dean let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Just sounds like you.” His tone dipped, softer now. “Still… I’m glad you’re in this with us.”

Heat crept up her neck, but she masked it with a smirk. “Easy there, Winchester. Say things like that and I might start thinking you mean it.”

Dean’s grin widened as he lifted his glass in a lazy salute. “Let’s not get crazy. Last thing I need is people thinking I’ve gone soft.”

The night dragged on, heavy silence filling the room. The desk lamp buzzed softly, throwing a warm circle of light over her notebook. She’d been scribbling down details for hours, pen moving faster than most people could think. But at some point the lines trailed off, the pen slipped sideways, and her head tilted until her cheek rested against her folded arms.

The rise and fall of her shoulders evened out, steady with sleep.

Dean glanced up from the lore spread across the table, half a mind to tease her about outworking herself, but the words caught in his throat.

He set the book down quietly and leaned back, watching her instead.

Up close, she looked different in sleep. Softer. The sharp edges she carried in the daylight, her quick wit, her confidence, the way she never flinched from him or from the hunt, smoothed out into something almost peaceful.

Stray strands of hair had fallen across her face, and her lips were parted just slightly, a hint of a frown still tugging like she wasn’t ready to let the world go, even in her dreams.

Dean swallowed, throat dry.

She was beautiful, yeah, but it wasn’t just that. It was the kind of beautiful that hit hard, like she belonged somewhere higher than all this motel grime, higher than the life they lived.

He knew what he saw when he looked in the mirror, scars, regrets, a man held together by duct tape and stubbornness.

But looking at her… she deserved better. She deserved more.

And still, here she was, crashed out at some rundown desk in some forgettable town, shoulder to shoulder with him.

After a moment, Dean pushed off his chair and crossed the room. Carefully, he slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her from the chair. She stirred only once, a soft sound at the shift, her head tucking naturally against his chest. The trust in that small movement made something twist deep in his chest.

He laid her down on the bed, easing her into the thin blankets. But before he could step back, she shifted again, snuggling closer, fingers brushing against his shirt as if searching for him even in sleep.

Dean froze, panic shooting through him. This wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t built for this, warmth, comfort, whatever the hell this was. He tried to pull back, but the sound she made, quiet, sad, almost pleading, stopped him cold.

For a long beat he stood there, caught between instinct and something more. Then he exhaled, braced himself, and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

Slowly, stiffly, he slid in beside her, the weight of the bed shifting under both of them.

The second he settled, she melted against him, curling into his chest like she’d been waiting for him to be there all along.

A small, content smile ghosted across her lips, so fleeting he almost thought he imagined it.

Dean stared at her, heart hammering, caught off guard by how easy it was to want this. Too damn easy.

His chest tightened, not with panic now, but with the quiet, unsettling realization that maybe he liked her more than he should.

And for once, he didn’t move. He just let himself watch her, steady and still, while the rest of the world faded into silence.

Sam was apparently not a morning person. He looked like death warmed over, dark circles under his eyes, but he was already hunched over the laptop, muttering about obits and missing persons.

Dean brewed coffee in the ancient motel pot, the sludge so bitter it could’ve peeled paint.

She dragged herself from the bed, hair tangled, blanket slipping from her shoulders. 

Dean slid a mug across the table toward her. “Drink up. It’s terrible, but it’ll keep you vertical.”

She took a sip, grimaced. “Vertical and poisoned.”

Dean chuckled, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “What can I say? I aim to please.”

By the time they piled into the Impala, the sun was high and the day heavy with heat.

Sam insisted on hitting the police station, muttering about witness statements. Dean complained the whole way, but he still drove.

She sat in the back again, notebook balanced on her knees, sketching out timelines and possible hunting grounds for the shifter’s trail. Her shoulder still ached from the fight, but she didn’t let it slow her down.

Dean kept catching her eye in the rearview, one corner of his mouth tugging upward.

She arched a brow once, daring him to comment, but he only smirked and looked back at the road.

The day dragged with dead ends, cops who stonewalled, neighbors who gave vague stories, records that didn’t add up.

By the time they rolled back to the motel, tempers were frayed.

Sam dumped himself into the chair at the desk, jaw tight. “There's gotta be something we're missing.”

Dean kicked the door shut behind them, tossing his jacket across the bed. “Or maybe it’s just screwing with us. Shifters love games. Sick freaks.”

She set her notebook down, rubbing her temples. “So what’s next? We keep chasing our tails?”

Dean looked at her, grin slipping into something harder. “No. We wait it out. It’ll come to us.”

Sam’s head shot up. “That’s your plan? Just sit here until it decides to show up again?”

Dean shrugged, dropping into the armchair like he owned the place. “Worked before. Sometimes you let the monster make the first move.”

Sam cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Dean smirked, but his eyes flicked to her. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in one piece.”

She scoffed. “Big promise from the guy who nearly got his ass kicked last night.” He rolled his eyes. “Keyword there is nearly. Don’t forget who’s still standing.”

Sam groaned from the desk.

The next night, the hunt came to a head.

They tracked the shifter to another run-down house, this one abandoned longer, windows boarded, weeds taller than the porch. The smell of rot hit them before they even stepped inside.

Dean went first, shotgun raised. Sam covered the flank, silver knife ready. She followed tight, knife clenched in her grip.

The house creaked and groaned under their weight, dust thick in the air.

The shifter struck fast, bursting from a side room with a guttural snarl. Its face rippled mid-shift, flickering between strangers and then, sickeningly, Sam’s face.

She froze for a split second, breath catching.

Sam didn’t. He lunged forward, blade flashing, but the thing twisted out of reach, morphing again, this time into her.

Dean’s shotgun roared. The blast knocked the shifter sideways, chunks of plaster raining down from the wall. “Really?” he barked. “That’s low, even for you.”

Knife in hand, she cut deep across its ribs, silver tearing into flesh. The monster screamed, staggering, and Dean finished it with another shotgun blast.

The body convulsed, then stilled, collapsing in a heap.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Her chest heaved, hand trembling around the knife. Dean’s eyes were on her, sharp and burning. “Hell of a move,” he said, voice rough. She smiled, breathless.

Sam sheathed the knife, his shoulders sagging. “It’s done.”

Dean wiped sweat from his brow, chuckling. “About damn time.”

The hunt had left them grimy, bruised, and buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

Dean, refusing to head straight back to the motel, had steered the Impala toward the first neon-lit bar he saw off the highway.

The place looked like it had been sticky since the seventies with dim overheads, a jukebox humming Skynyrd in the corner, tables scarred with burn marks, and the sour smell of spilled beer ground into the floorboards.

Sam wondered off, muttering something about research, and claimed a booth in the back with his laptop and a cup of coffee.

That left Dean to his favorite form of stress relief, hustling pool.

At first, it looked like he had the table under control, cue in hand and that cocky grin plastered across his face.

But three games in, he was down money to a trucker with arms like tree trunks and a mean squint. Dean scratched on the eight ball, and the guy’s smirk stretched slow and satisfied.

“Hell of a game, Winchester,” she drawled from her barstool, eyebrow cocked. “Didn’t know losing was your strong suit.”

Dean shot her a glare as he racked the balls again. “Just warming up, sweetheart.”

The trucker snorted. “Looks like you’re warming up my wallet.”

When Dean bent over for the break and sent the cue ball skittering off the felt with a weak crack, she couldn’t help it, she laughed. Loud enough that Dean straightened up and gave her a look that promised hell later.

"By all means, sweetheart, show me how it’s done." he challenged.

She plucked the cue from his hands. “Don’t pout when I wipe the floor with you."

Dean leaned against the rail, arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth as he watched her chalk the tip.

She lined up the shot, bending her hips just enough to make him forget the game entirely for a second. The break was clean, two solids sank in quick succession, the crack of impact ringing sharp through the smoky air.

“Well damn,” the trucker muttered, his smirk faltering.

She circled the table, calling her shots. Corner pocket. Side. Clean angles. One by one, balls disappeared into the leather pockets.

Dean whistled low.

“Guess I’ll just sit back and let the lady work.” His eyes never left her, tracking the bend of her waist over the table, the set of her shoulders, the easy control in every movement.

The trucker grew surlier with each ball she sank. “Beginner’s luck,” he grumbled.

She gave him a sweet smile, then banked the six off the rail and dropped it clean into the corner. “Sure. Luck.”

Dean just grinned wider.

When the last stripe clicked into the pocket, she leaned on her cue, eyes flicking to the trucker. “Eight ball. Side pocket.” She lined it up, tapped it with effortless control, and the ball rolled smooth and silent before dropping with a satisfying thunk.

The bar went quiet for a beat before the trucker cursed under his breath. He slapped the cash down on the rail, scowling as he stalked off toward the bar.

She collected the money, folded it neatly, and handed it off to Dean. “Try not to lose it this time.”

Dean stared at her for a long second before taking it, grin stretching slow. “Marry me.”

She rolled her eyes, brushing past him to drop the cue on the table. “You can’t even buy your own drinks. Hard pass.”

He watched her cross the bar, eyes tracking every step, before he turned back to Sam. “Told you she was good.”

Sam didn’t look up from his laptop. “You should thank her. That could’ve been your gas money on the table.”

Dean’s grin only widened.

Chapter Text

The sun pushed weakly through the motel curtains, dull light striping the stained wallpaper.

The air reeked of burned-out coffee and the sour tang of old carpet.

Dean stood at the window, mug in hand, shoulders broad against the frame. Steam drifted up from chipped porcelain, but he hadn’t drunk a drop.

His stare was fixed on the empty lot beyond the glass. Guard duty without a post.

She sat up slowly, the mattress springs groaning under her weight. Her hair was a mess, her throat dry, but her eyes still caught on him.

The tough guy stance, yeah, but also the back of his head, hair sticking out at odd angles, flattened here, wild there. He looked less like a hunter and more like a guy who’d fought a losing battle with a pillow.

The corner of her mouth tugged before she could stop it.

“You know,” she rasped, voice heavy from sleep, "for all the tough-guy leather and big-bad-hunter routine, your bed head kinda ruins the effect."

Dean turned, green eyes narrowing just enough before a grin cracked across his face.

“Says the girl swimming in my shirt.” His gaze dipped, lingering, deliberate. “Not that I’m complaining. Looks better on you.”

Heat curled low in her stomach, but she tilted her chin up, giving as good as she got. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it, Winchester.”

The bathroom door creaked. Steam spilled out, Sam behind it, towel draped around his neck. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead. He glanced once at the two of them, her in Dean’s shirt, Dean leaning too casual against the window, but didn’t say anything.

Just dropped into the chair at the table, flipping open his laptop.

"Productivity before breakfast," she teased, leaning forward on the bed with a smile. "You're gonna make the rest of us look bad, Sam."

His mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a grin but close enough. "Somebody's got to keep us on track."

Dean shifted against the window, jaw tightening just slightly as his eyes flicked between them. "Yeah, well, don't hurt yourself, Sammy," he muttered, forcing a crooked smile around the rim of his mug.

She caught the edge in his tone, the way his green eyes lingered on her a second too long, and it pulled a spark of amusement out of her.

She laced her boots with quick, jerky movements, tugging the knots tighter than they needed to be. It was something to do with her hands, a distraction from the mess of words she hadn't said.

Sam broke the silence with a low, "Got something." He turned the laptop toward them, the pawn shop security footage sputtering in grainy colors and static. A woman walked into frame, then her skin rippled like water, folding in on itself until an older man stood in her place.

Sam leaned in, muttering as he worked, "Same exact shift we saw in the other cases. Happens right before the kill. It's definitely a pattern." His fingers flew over the keys, pulling up another clip.

Dean squinted at the screen, unimpressed. "So what, it's showing off now? Real party trick."

She tilted her head, arms crossing as she studied the distorted figure. "Not a party trick. That's classic shapeshifter lore...shows up in half the Appalachian stories I studied and wrote about."

Dean's eyes flicked to her, one brow arching. "Well, good news is, we're not writing a paper on it. Bad news? We still gotta gank the son of a bitch."

Sam cracked the faintest smile, shaking his head. "She's right, though. It lines up with the folklore. We can use that."

She barely heard their back-and-forth, instinct cutting through when something flickered across the screen.

"Wait," she said sharply, leaning forward. "Rewind that. Stop there."

Sam slid the bar back and froze the frame. A single shot of static-riddled footage hung in place.

She jabbed a finger toward the screen. "Right there...see that? Its eyes. They don't shift. Folklore says the eyes always give them away, no matter what form they take."

Sam blinked at her, impressed. "She's right. I read the same thing in one of Dad's journals."

Dean cut her a sidelong glance, that crooked grin of his tugging higher. "Guess the nerd club's got a new member."

She ignored him, leaning forward and pointing at the distorted frame. "No, seriously. Look at the hand."

Dean cocked his head, squinting. "What is that supposed to be? A Zune?"

"Not a Zune. It's a box. Wooden. See the carving? Horseshoe, but upside down. That's not protection...it's inverted into a curse."

Sam's eyes widened. "So the shapeshifter isn't the real problem. It is a side effect."

"Exactly," she replied quickly. "Celtic lore. Objects cursed to become what people desire most. They corrupt everything they touch. The shapeshifting is just chaos to keep anyone from breaking the curse."

The theory held. 

When she looked at Dean, his eyes were on her, sharp and certain. No smirk, no brush-off, just solid approval, like he had no doubt she was right.

The warehouse sat like a carcass on the edge of town, all corrugated steel and broken windows. Rainwater pooled in the cracked asphalt, reflecting the streetlight in fractured streaks. The place had been shut down for years, but tonight it pulsed with the kind of wrong energy every hunter knew by instinct.

Dean killed the Impala’s engine and scanned the dark building. His fingers tapped twice against the steering wheel, restless. “Well,” he muttered, “this looks like the opening scene of a bad slasher.”

Sam didn’t look away from the laptop balanced on his knees. “Security feed shows the last two victims walking in. They never walked out. This is the spot.”

Dean popped the trunk, pulling out his shotgun and a fistful of silver rounds. “Great. Shapeshifter hideout slash cursed-object rave.”

He tossed her a flashlight, grip first. “Stay close. No wandering.”

She caught it one-handed. “Not a rookie.”

Dean’s smirk was quick, sharp. “Prove it.”

Sam shut the laptop and slid out, shoulders hunched in determination. He carried his own shotgun, already loaded with silver, a duffel of salt rounds slung across his back. The three of them moved toward the building in silence, boots crunching against gravel.

Inside, the air reeked of mildew and rust. Their flashlights cut through rows of toppled shelving and busted crates. Every step echoed in the cavernous space, loud enough to set her teeth on edge.

Dean's boot crashed into the door, the metal shrieking as it swung open, the sound rattling down every hallway like a warning shot.

She hissed under her breath, eyes flashing as she leaned closer. "What, you planning on sending out engraved invitations too?"

Dean glanced back at her, grin tugging slow and crooked. "Relax, sweetheart. Subtlety's overrated."

"Whatever," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

They pressed deeper. The air grew colder, heavy with a weight that scraped along her nerves. In the back room, a single candle burned low on a makeshift altar. Its flame guttered and spat shadows against the walls. At the center sat the box, the warped horseshoe glowing faintly in the flickering light.

Sam's breath rasped, sharp and uneven. "That's it."

Dean stepped closer, jaw set, but before he could reach it, the corner of the room warped. The shadows themselves seemed to peel away, stretching into the rough shape of a man.

Its face convulsed, flesh rippling like water under a storm. One blink, and it was an old man, eyes sunken and cloudy. Another, and it snapped into the face of a young woman, lips stretched too wide in a smile that didn't belong. Then nothing at all, just a faceless smear where features should be, like wax left too close to a flame.

Not a shapeshifter. Not even close. This was a puppet, flesh and bone strung up by the curse, hollowed out and forced to move.

Her stomach iced over, dread sinking deep. The air thickened in her lungs, each breath burning like fire even as fear surged hot and sharp through her veins.

Dean lunged first, anger sparking off him like a live wire.

"Dean, wait!" Her voice cracked, panic shredding through it. But he was already moving, charging headlong into something she could barely process.

The cursed host swung wide, the blade hissing through the air.

Sam caught the blow, steel biting into his arm with a wet, tearing sound. His cry tore through the room, blood spattering across the concrete like paint.

Her stomach dropped.

Her mind couldn't keep up, this wasn't research, it wasn't folklore written neat in margins. This was blood. Screaming. The smell of iron so thick it coated her tongue.

And she wasn't ready. God, she wasn't ready.

She threw herself at Dean, shoving him hard, desperation ripping her words out. "You're going to get yourself killed, get us killed!"

His eyes went flat, jaw clenched. But he didn't answer her.

He turned back to Sam instead, fury carrying him forward as he barreled into the host, tackling it to the ground with brutal force.

She saw the opening. Instinct took over.

She snatched the box from the altar, its cursed wood searing her palms, and hurled it into the candle flame.

The scream that erupted was not human. The air quaked with it, shaking her bones, rattling her teeth. Smoke coiled foul and acrid, filling her lungs.

The box dissolved into ash, collapsing in a heap of black dust.

Dean staggered back from the puppet as it convulsed, its body collapsing in on itself. Limbs twisted, features melted, until it was nothing but a lifeless husk sprawled on the concrete.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Sam's ragged breaths.

The drive back was agony.

The Impala's engine rumbled low and constant, but the silence inside was louder than anything. Sam slumped against the backseat, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, his arm swaddled in blood-soaked bandages that refused to stay clean. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each hitch of it like a nail in her chest.

She sat stiff in the passenger seat, her hands wringing together until the skin burned, fingers digging crescent moons into her palms. Every bump in the road jostled the silence, but no one spoke.

Dean's grip on the wheel was a death lock, veins bulging, knuckles bone white against the leather. His jaw was clenched so tight she swore she could hear it grind. His eyes never left the dark stretch of road ahead, not once sliding her way.

By the time they reached the motel, her nerves felt flayed raw. The fluorescent lights inside buzzed mercilessly, bathing everything in a sickly yellow.

Dean worked on Sam's arm with grim efficiency, dousing gauze in antiseptic, pressing down hard while Sam hissed through his teeth. His hands never shook, but the way he moved, clipped, sharp, every motion too fast, too hard, burned with fury he wasn't voicing.

She hovered at the edge of the room, useless, guilt winding tighter with every heartbeat.

Her muscles locked, throat thick. She wanted to step in, to help, to say anything, but her mind replayed the fight, her words, Sam's cry, over and over like punishment. And the weight of it pressed so heavy she could hardly breathe.

Sam tried to break the tension. "It's fine, Dean. Just a scratch. We got the box."

Dean didn't answer right away. He taped the bandage tighter than it needed to be, the motion sharp, almost punishing.

Then he finally looked at her, and the emptiness in his eyes hollowed her out.

"Do me a favor," he said, voice low, clipped. "Don't hover."

The words landed like a blow. He turned away before she could respond, disappearing into the bathroom without another glance.

She froze, shame rooting her to the spot.

She wanted to tell him the anger had been fear, that every sharp word had been born from the thought of losing him. But the confession jammed in her throat, stuck fast where it hurt most.

The silence that followed swallowed her whole.

Later, when Sam finally drifted into a restless sleep, the room filled with the harsh rasp of steel against stone.

Dean sat at the table, his back to her, shoulders rigid. Each movement of the whetstone was deliberate, too precise, like he was holding himself together one drag at a time. The sound carved through the silence, colder than any scream.

She hovered near the bed, uncertain. "Dean..."

He didn't turn. His hand paused only long enough to mutter, clipped and flat, "Go to sleep."

The scrape of the whetstone started again, louder now, shutting her out.

She lay awake in the dark, listening to the scrape of steel on stone, and the awful thought pressed down on her chest.

Maybe the real danger wasn't the monster at all.

Chapter Text

The motel looked like it hadn’t been touched since Nixon was in office.

The overhead light flickered, buzzing every few seconds like it could burn out at any moment. The carpet smelled of mildew, damp and sour, and the bedspreads were stained from years of use.

None of it mattered, though. Hunters didn’t get luxury suites. They got whatever dive had vacancy and enough distance from their last mess.

What mattered was the quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that meant safety. Not even the uneasy kind after a hunt, when everyone’s too wrung out to talk. This was heavier. It was the kind of quiet you couldn’t fight with lore or Latin.

Two days since the warehouse. Two days since blood and bruises and words she couldn’t swallow back.

And Dean? He’d gone stone-cold. No smartass remarks, no cheap nicknames, no warmth. Just walls.

And that, God, that was worse than any monster.

Sam had tried. He’d lobbed jokes about pie, made nerdy references he thought might break the tension, even threw out an X-Files quip that normally would’ve earned at least a grin from Dean.

But the best he got was a grunt.

Now, the bathroom door was shut, the hiss of running water steady. The sound filled the room like white noise, but it didn’t ease anything. It was just a reminder that the only time she could count on Dean making any kind of sound anymore was when there was a wall between them.

She sat on the edge of the bed, jaw tight, staring at a stain in the carpet that looked like it was smirking at her. Fitting.

Sam’s voice finally cut through.

“You know,” he said, tilting his laptop her way, “your notes on the curse marks line up with something Dad wrote. Not the same hunt, but the symbols, same pattern.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Seriously? I thought I was just spitballing.”

Sam shook his head, almost smiling. “No, you nailed it. Most people wouldn’t notice that kind of detail.”

A warmth she didn’t ask for flickered in her chest. “Guess those years of folklore papers weren’t a total waste.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, it all connects somehow.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at her mouth. “Sure. Next thing you know, I’ll be publishing in Scientific American.”

That earned a laugh, and for a second, the air didn’t feel so crushing.

Then Dean’s voice cut through, sharp as glass.

"So, you two have a thing now, huh? The brains of the operation, bonding over rocket science and Newton's laws."

Her head snapped up.

He was leaning in the doorway, hair still damp, towel slung around his shoulders, wearing that practiced smirk he usually saved for waitresses. Only it didn’t reach his eyes.

Sam’s mouth twitched, unsure, but he didn’t say anything.

She narrowed her gaze. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

His smirk was lazy. "Come on. I'm just saying...you and Sammy over there, all lit up about symbols and folklore... real brainy stuff. Cute."

It wasn’t just teasing. She caught it. The flicker in his eyes, the edge in his tone. Not just sarcasm.

Jealousy.

And the fact that he was standing there acting like he wasn’t eating himself alive with it made her blood boil.

“Funny,” she shot back, her voice sweet but sharp. “Didn’t realize sharing research was so offensive.”

Dean’s smirk twitched, almost a sneer. “Nah, not in the slightest. Just…different. Watching you two geek out over Dad’s journal.” He let out a laugh that didn’t sound remotely amused. “Leaves me wondering what I’m here for. Punchlines? Target practice?”

Her fists curled, heat rising fast. The gall of him, Dean Winchester, king of reckless stunts and emotional constipation, standing there accusing her of...what? Betrayal? For having a conversation?

“Oh, bite me,” she snapped, standing before she even thought about it. “You’re jealous because I had a normal conversation with your brother? That’s your problem? Newsflash, Dean, maybe if you didn’t spend half your time trying to self-destruct, we’d actually talk. Like we used to. Before you started treating me like I’m in your way.”

That got him. His mouth twisted, sharp and ugly.

“So that’s it?” His voice was harsh, raised enough to rattle the thin motel walls. “Sweetheart, this is hunting. It’s bloody, it’s ugly, and it’s been my life since I was a kid. You don’t just waltz in with your textbooks and decide you know better.”

Her pulse spiked, fury burning in her chest.

“I’m not trying to rewrite the rules, Dean! I’m trying to keep you alive. To keep us alive.” Her voice cracked against the hum of the fluorescent light, sharp as breaking glass.

“Yeah, I trust Sam, because he actually thinks before he dives headfirst into a fight just to prove a point.”

Dean’s shoulders stiffened, his steps deliberate as he closed the distance between them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice dropped low. “You don’t trust me?”

Her breath caught, heat climbing her neck as she tilted her chin up to meet his glare. He was so close now that the damp on his skin from the shower brushed the air between them, steam still clinging faintly to him.

“You really think I don’t trust you?” she shot back, voice rough.

“I’ve followed you into hunts that would’ve sent anyone else running. I’ve bled with you, I’ve—” Her throat locked, but she forced it out. “I trust you, Dean. I do. And that’s exactly why it terrifies me watching you treat your life like it doesn’t matter.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and he looked boyish for a split-second, but then the walls slammed back down.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” It was pointless now. “You don’t have the right to stand there and tell me how reckless I am like I’m some amateur.”

The word “amateur” dug under her skin like glass.

“I’m not here to school you on hunting, Dean. I just can’t keep watching you push everyone away and torch yourself in the process...like control’s worth more than the people who’d die for you.”

Dean’s jaw clenched so tight she could hear the grind of his teeth. He was looking at her like she was both the problem and the solution, like he wanted to grab her and shove her away in the same breath.

Sam finally pushed back from the table, exasperated. “Alright, enough.” His voice cut clean between them.

“She’s not saying you don’t know what you’re doing. She’s saying she’s scared. Hell, we both are. You keep acting like you’re untouchable, and none of us can keep up with that.”

Dean whipped his head toward Sam. “Stay out of it.”

But Sam didn’t flinch. “No. I’m not staying out of it. You don’t treat her like she’s dead weight, Dean. She’s the reason we're still breathing.”

Dean’s stare slid back to her, and under the anger, there it was again. That crack in the armor, that flicker he couldn’t hide fast enough.

Her pulse thundered, but she didn’t back off. Not this time.

She stepped forward, the space between them collapsing until her chest brushed his.

“I don’t think you’re a liability,” she said, every word tight but steady.

Her fingers found the sleeve of his flannel, curling in without thought. “I think you’re reckless. I think you don’t care what happens to you. And that scares me.”

Dean froze, his body rigid against hers. His jaw worked, his eyes flickering with something jagged and unguarded.

"Because I can’t lose you. Not now. I won’t"

Then, slowly, his hand came up, rough palm cupping her cheek, thumb dragging across her skin like he couldn’t help himself.

“I know,” he rasped, the sound unsteady, raw.

The crack in his mask widened until it shattered completely. His forehead nearly touched hers, his breath mingling with hers in shallow pulls.

“I’m crap at this,” he muttered, voice low, “but I’m sorry. For being an ass. For making you feel like I don’t see you. For all of it.”

Her chest tightened, every part of her shaking with the force of what she’d wanted to hear for days.

She flattened her hand against his chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath her palm. “Dean…”

His grip on her cheek firmed, his eyes locked on hers like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“You gotta trust me,” he whispered, softer now, a thread of desperation woven into the gravel of his tone.

Her throat burned, but she nodded, steady. “Okay.”

The moment stretched, charged, too fragile and too much all at once.

And then, of course, the shrill ring of his phone cut straight through it.

She startled, still clutching his shirt.

His palm lingered against her cheek for one more second before he swore under his breath and dug the phone out of his pocket.

“Yeah?” His voice was rough, uneven until the caller registered. “Bobby. Hey.”

The gravel settled back into him as Bobby’s gruff voice bled through the speaker.

When Dean finally hung up, his expression was back in hunter mode. “Oklahoma. People dropping like flies. No signs of possession.”

The weight of the hunt crashed over them. Back to business.

She leaned in, scanning the notes Bobby had emailed. “No EMF. No temperature changes. Victims all dropped with no cause of death, except their worst fears coming true.”

Dean’s lips pressed into a hard line. “So what are we calling it?”

“Fear eater. Tulpa. Thoughtform,” she answered, piecing together the lore. “Doesn’t matter what name, it’s feeding on fear.”

Dean snorted. “Great. Freddy Krueger’s artsy cousin.” He clapped his hands once, sharp. “Awesome.”

Sam muttered from his chair, “Yeah, awesome. Because that always ends well.”

“Alright,” he muttered, quieter. “Let’s waste this thing before it gets any cuter in here.”

The Impala’s engine roared to life, its growl filling the silence. Sam buried himself in lore in the back seat, laptop already balanced on his knees.

Up front, she flipped through her notebook, but her focus kept slipping sideways, back to the weight of Dean’s touch.

Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, humming low under his breath before breaking the quiet.

“So. Ghostbusters,” he drawled. “You wanna be Venkman or Spengler?”

She shot him a look. “Spengler. Brains of the operation.”

Dean smirked. “Figures. Bill Murray still gets the girl.”

From the back seat, Sam groaned, “For the love of God, focus.”

Dean grinned wider, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

The tension between them hadn’t gone anywhere, it still sat heavy in the space between the seats, but for the first time in days, it didn’t feel like it was choking her.

It felt sharper, closer, something she couldn’t ignore.

And as the miles blurred past the windows, she realized the thing gnawing at her chest had less to do with whatever they were hunting, and everything to do with him.

Chapter Text

The motel smelled like damp carpet and cigarettes that hadn’t been lit in twenty years but still lingered in the walls.

A buzzing neon “VACANCY” sign seeped pink light through the thin curtains, painting the room in a sickly glow.

Dean had thrown himself across one of the beds, boots still on, arms behind his head, looking like he owned the place despite the patchwork of stains on the bedspread. She sat at the table with her notebook open, scribbling through Bobby’s latest notes, while Sam typed on his laptop at the other end of the room.

Dean’s voice broke the silence. “You’ve been staring at that same page for a half hour. You trying to read it, or hypnotize it?”

She didn’t look up, smirk tugging at her mouth. “Just waiting for your brain to catch up. You skimmed Bobby’s notes, didn’t you? Only stopped at the words ‘shotgun’ and ‘blow it up.’”

Dean turned his head on the pillow, grin lazy. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the one keeping you alive. Go figure.”

Her pen stilled, eyes cutting to him sharp. “Funny. I thought I was the one doing that. Or did you forget who dragged your ass out of that basement last week?”

Sam’s snort was muffled behind his screen.

Dean shot him a glare. “Laugh it up, Sammy. She only gives me crap ‘cause you egg her on.”

“She gives you crap,” Sam corrected without glancing up, “because you deserve it.”

Dean sat up, leaning forward on his elbows, grin widening like a dare. “You know what? You’re right. She rides me harder than anyone else.”

He let the pause hang just long enough for her to catch on.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Winchester. You wouldn’t last.”

Sam groaned, slamming his laptop shut. “I’m begging you two to stop talking.”

Dean chuckled, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, the grin lingering.

She snapped her notebook shut. “Okay, freaks, here we go. Two deaths. Both victims died alone. No EMF, no cold spots. Not a ghost. Tulpa.”

Sam leaned in, relieved for the subject change. “Tulpa makes sense. Fear feeds it. Classic psychology-turned-monster.”

“Means we keep our cool,” she said evenly. “Don’t panic, don’t flinch. Otherwise we’re handing it ammo.”

Dean leaned back again. “So don’t freak out. Don’t scream. Don’t run. Cakewalk.”

She arched a brow. “Simple? For you?”

He held her gaze, grin never faltering. “Sweetheart, I’m the definition of composure.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

By the time they hit the road, night had settled deep. Dean’s hands gripped the wheel loose, confident, while the Impala’s engine purred steady beneath them. Sam sat in the back, muttering about phobia studies and feeding patterns, but the real tension lived in the front seat.

Dean flicked her a look from the corner of his eye. “So, who do you think it’ll go for first? Sammy, with his little ‘Ask Jeeves’ habit, or you, with your folklore kink?”

She smirked, arms folded tight across her chest. “You. You’d get possessed again before you’d say the words ‘I was wrong.’”

Sam chuckled under his breath. Dean shot him a look in the rearview mirror, but she wasn’t done.

“Actually,” she continued, “maybe it’ll feed on your ego first. Thing would probably die of indigestion.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but his grin didn’t falter. “Careful, princess. Mouth off one more time and you’re walking the rest of the way.”

She tilted her head, gaze dragging over him. “Please. You’d turn the car around after five minutes just to beg me back.”

His eyes flicked to her, slightly darker, before snapping back to the road a beat too late.

Sam cleared his throat. “You two do realize this thing gets stronger the more tension there is, right?”

Dean muttered, “Relax, Sammy. I’ve got it under control.”

Her laugh was short, humorless. “And there's the first lie of the night.”

The Impala’s headlights cut out, leaving them swallowed in the dark. The house loomed like a corpse, paint flayed from its bones, windows gaping hollow. Even the air tasted metallic, like the aftermath of blood.

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “This is the part where our lovely Victorian ghost shows up in her nightgown.”

Dean’s eyes cut to her, hanging there a second too long before he smirked and shook his head.

Inside, the house pressed down with mildew and rot. Their flashlights carved thin corridors through dust that looked like it had been waiting centuries. Every board groaned under their boots.

Sam crouched over a pile of trinkets, coins, beads, fabric scraps. “It’s echoing its victims’ fears. Ritualistic.”

Her beam swept the pattern. “It’s not random. It’s building a map. But maps mean rules. If it has rules, we can trap it.”

Dean nodded, taking in a deep breath. “Trap it, choke it, send it packing. Music to my ears.”

Before she could answer, the shadows stirred.

The tulpa slithered into form, a smear of black tar climbing walls, twisting into shapes that cut far too deep. Dean’s face distorted with rage. Sam’s eyes turned blank. And hers, hollow, ravaged with grief.

Her stomach flipped, throat tightening.

But she swallowed it down, forced her body to steady.

Dean stepped in front of her without thinking, shoulders squared, shotgun steady. His stance was solid, practiced, like it was second nature to put himself between her and whatever came next.

“It’s hungry,” Dean spoke, voice rough. “Don’t give it what it wants.”

The thing lunged.

She moved, salt spilling in a sharp line, her voice slicing out. “Sigils in the corners, Sam, now!”

Dean’s shotgun roared, fire spitting in the dark, rock salt shredding holes through the black.

The tulpa shrieked, high and jagged, then reformed, faster this time.

Claws lashed across Dean’s mouth, splitting his lip. Blood spattered, wet against the wood.

He spat red, grinned like he liked the taste, and dove right back in.

“Your left!” she barked, blasting the shadow that slipped toward him.

Dean pivoted without thought, syncing with her movements like instinct. She covered his blind spots, he shielded hers. They moved in rhythm, close and sharp, like they’d trained together their whole lives.

The tulpa pressed harder, shadows clawing at their minds.

Her knees dipped before she even registered why. The voices in her head weren’t just noise anymore, they were showing her him. Dean. Laid out on the floor, eyes glassy, skin drained of every trace of warmth.

For a second it didn’t even look like a trick, it looked real, too real. The sight hit her gut hard enough to make it twist, and she had to bite down on a sound that wanted to tear its way out of her throat.

Then his shoulder slammed against hers, solid and grounding. His heat burned into her side, dragging her back from the edge.

“Eyes on me,” Dean snapped, voice sharp, commanding. His gaze locked with hers.

Her chest heaved. She nodded once, grip tightening on her weapon.

Together, they pushed back. Sigils burned white, salt ignited, and the tulpa shrieked as it folded into itself, collapsing into nothing. Silence fell, thick and abrupt.

Dean lowered his shotgun, chest heaving. Sweat clung to his hairline, blood dripping from his split lip.

He looked at her, close enough that she could see the dilation of his pupils even in the dying glow of the sigils.

“Hell of a play,” his words came out ragged, still catching his breath. “You’re a damn genius.”

She shook her head, throat raw. “Team effort, Winchester.”

The words came out steady, but the way her gaze lingered on him betrayed everything else.

Sam’s voice finally cut through, ragged. “We should move. House isn’t going to hold.”

Back at the motel, the neon light still buzzed through the curtains, painting Dean’s split lip a brutal shade of pink.

Sam collapsed into his bed, already scrolling through notes. “I’ll figure out how to keep this thing down for good. Just… don’t bleed on the carpet.”

Dean shot him a look but didn’t argue. He grabbed an ice pack from the mini-fridge, pressing it to his mouth with a hiss.

She sat across from him, patching the cut on her own arm.

The air between them was quieter than the Impala had been.

Finally, Dean tilted his chin at her, lip still bleeding. “Come on, baby, fix me up.”

Her brow arched. “Can’t do basic first aid yourself?”

“Not as fun when I do it,” he shot back, grin crooked despite the blood.

She sighed, crossing the room and pulling the first aid kit from the dresser. Standing close, she dabbed at the cut, slow and precise. His breath hitched when the alcohol stung, but he didn’t pull back.

“Easy,” Dean hissed as she worked over the brunt of the gash, jaw tightening. “You patching me up or working out a grudge?”

She didn’t flinch, mouth curving just slightly. “Depends on how much you whine.”

His eyes dropped to her lips, lingered, then darted back up. For once, Dean Winchester looked caught.

“You know,” she murmured, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw, “most people would call this suicidal.”

Dean’s voice dropped, gravel thick. “Good thing I’m not most people.”

Her hand lingered, the heat of his skin bleeding into her fingertips. His eyes flicked to her mouth, and hers dropped to the split in his lip, still red and raw.

“You look… stupidly hot with that bloody lip,” she admitted before she could stop herself.

Dean huffed a laugh, the corner of his mouth pulling wider.

“You’re a freak, you know that?” He was grinning though, eyes bright.

For a second, neither of them moved. He shifted a little closer without seeming to realize it, and she didn’t back away. His breath was warm against her cheek, the smell of gunpowder and salt still clinging to him. Then she eased back just enough to break the moment, reaching for the gauze like it was nothing.

He leaned away too, casual, as if neither of them had noticed how close they’d gotten.

Sam’s voice carried from his bed, muffled. “If you two are done with your weird… whatever this is, I’m trying to sleep.”

Dean’s grin cracked, genuine this time, though his eyes stayed locked on hers.

She pulled back, dropping the alcohol pad into the trash, trying to steady her breathing.

Dean leaned back against the headboard, ice pressed to his mouth.

She stretched out on the other bed, notebook abandoned on the nightstand. 

The lamp between them buzzed faintly, throwing shadows across his face. Neither of them looked away for a long beat, the quiet humming thick with something neither wanted to touch.

Dean finally exhaled, low. “’Night, sweetheart.”

Her smile tilted, lazy and tired, but her eyes lingered on him as she pulled the blanket over her legs.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

They each lay back in their own beds, the space between them quiet but anything but empty.

Chapter Text

The Impala tore down the highway like she owned it, engine rumbling deep in the night.

Dean’s hands rested easy on the wheel, fingers tapping in rhythm with the radio’s faint static. The dash lights glowed that soft green wash over his face, catching the hard edge of his jaw and the half-shadow of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

Beside him, she leaned against the door with her chin propped on her palm, eyes locked on the endless blacktop. The road kept rolling beneath them, but her mind was stuck somewhere else.

Back in that motel room two nights ago, when Dean’s hand had come up to her face without hesitation, his thumb dragging over her cheek like he didn’t even realize he was being gentle.

She hated that he’d seen her cracked open like that.

Worse, she hated that he hadn’t judged her for it. He hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t smirked it off. He’d just seen her, really seen her, and that fact burned inside her chest now, too heavy to ignore.

The silence cracked when Dean’s phone shrilled loud against the hum of the car. He snapped it open with one hand.

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice came, rough and tired.

There was a pause, then his tone shifted, a grin beginning to make its way onto his face.

“Bela.”

Her stomach sank.

Dean leaned back, mouth twisting into that crooked smirk he wore when he knew it would piss somebody off. “Well, well. My favorite international pain in the ass. What’s the occasion? Don’t tell me you’re calling just to hear my voice.”

Her hand clenched in the leather of the seat. She kept her eyes on the road, not looking his way, but the name lingered in her head.

On the other end, Bela’s laugh carried faint but clear enough to draw a low chuckle from Dean, a laugh he hadn’t let slip in days.

“C’mon,” Dean said, voice warm. “You miss me. Just say it.” A pause, then a soft scoff. “Alright, fine. Get to the point. What’ve you got for me?”

Sam glanced up from the backseat, laptop open on his knees.

His gaze flicked between Dean and her, brows furrowing. He didn’t say anything, but the look was enough.

Dean listened a moment longer, throwing in the occasional scoff or sarcastic “uh-huh,” before snapping the phone shut.

He slid it into his pocket, still looking infuriatingly pleased.

“Well?” Sam asked.

Dean’s grin widened, cocky and sharp. “New case. Woman drowns in her bedroom. Room’s bone dry. Couple days later, guy she was seeing drowns in his car, also dry as the goddamn desert. Weird, huh?”

Sam shifted forward, laptop balanced carefully. “And Bela?”

“She’s got a lead.” Dean’s grin tilted smug, that glint in his eyes flashing trouble. “Says it’s tied to a shipwreck. Haunted artifact in play. She’s sniffing around the same trail.”

Sam groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “So we’re teaming up with her again.”

Dean shrugged, smug as ever. “Girl’s got resources. Might as well use ’em.”

She said nothing. Kept her gaze pinned to the road, jaw locked tight.

Dean cut his eyes sideways at her just once. His grin didn’t fade, but the flicker behind his eyes wasn’t smug, not entirely.

Still, he didn’t comment. Just pressed the gas a little harder, and the Impala devoured the night.

The place Bela picked was the opposite of a hunter’s dive. Polished wood, amber light, low jazz humming from hidden speakers. It smelled like expensive liquor and exclusivity, not beer and peanuts.

They walked in together, and they didn’t fit.

Dean in worn jeans and a jacket that had seen better days, Sam all long lines and sharp edges, and her, boots clicking against hardwood, eyes scanning the room with that instinct she couldn’t turn off.

People looked anyway. Heads turned, lingering on Dean with that mix of intrigue and wariness, on Sam with a quietness, and on her with eyes that couldn’t decide if she belonged or didn’t.

And then she spotted Bela.

Perfect hair, dress worth more than the Impala, heels clicking like a metronome. She sat perched at the bar with a glass of wine, smile already sharpened to cut.

When she spotted Dean, that smile spread wider, hungry and predatory.

“Well,” Bela purred, sliding down from her stool like liquid. “The Winchesters. And…” Her gaze flicked over her, cool and dismissive. “…company.”

Her fists clenched at her sides.

Dean grinned wide, leaning against the bar. “Still stealing from little old ladies, or have you upgraded to grave robbing?”

Bela’s laugh was warm in tone but cold in intent. “Rare antiquities, darling. That some of them come with curses? Not my fault.”

Dean smirked, eyes glinting. “Long as your latest antique doesn’t try to kill us.”

Watching the two of them circle each other made her skin itch.

The smirks, the barbed flirtation, the kind of sparring they both enjoyed far too much. It crawled under her skin until it sat hot in her chest.

Sam noticed. Of course he did.

He leaned down, his voice pitched just for her. “You okay?”

Her reply came too quick, too sharp. “Fine.” A pause, quieter. “This is the worst.”

Sam’s eyes softened. He didn’t say anything, but the slight curve of his mouth told her he understood more than she wanted him to.

Dean, either oblivious or pretending to be, let Bela brush his arm as she laughed at something he’d said. The sound carved into her like a knife.

Enough.

She turned to Sam with a smile that was all teeth.

“So, Sammy,” she murmured, letting her gaze drift over the chandeliers and velvet-draped tables before landing back on him with a sly tilt of her lips, “you ever imagine yourself somewhere like this? Crystal glasses, overpriced bubbles, everybody pretending they belong. Feels like we crashed the wrong set.”

Sam gave a short laugh, adjusting his jacket. “Not exactly my scene.”

He leaned a little closer, dropping his voice. “But you…you fit right in.”

She hadn’t expected it, Sam leaning in like that, eyes holding hers longer than usual. It threw her for half a second, the shift in him sharper than she’d thought he had in him.

Her brows lifted, playful, as she tilted her head toward him. “That so?”

“Yeah,” Sam said smoothly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Classy. You pull it off better than most people here.”

She let her fingertips brush against his sleeve, casual but lingering just long enough. “Careful, Winchester. Talk like that could go to my head.”

Sam chuckled low, meeting her eyes without flinching. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Her smirk sharpened, and she tipped her glass toward him. “You’re full of surprises, Sam.”

Dean’s laugh from across the bar was half a beat too loud, too forced, his jaw tight as he threw another line Bela’s way.

He didn’t look at them, but the twitch in his grip around his glass said plenty.

She leaned in just a little closer to Sam, her voice dropping to a near purr. “See, I think I might like this side of you.”

Sam’s smile edged into something sly, his tone matching hers. “Guess I don’t show it often enough.”

Sam brushed her hand lightly, a casual move that wasn’t casual at all.

Just enough for Dean to notice.

And he did.

Dean’s grin faltered for half a second, jaw clenching, eyes flicking sharp toward their hands.

Then, just as fast, he turned back to Bela with another smirk, too wide, too practiced.

Sam pulled back, the brief touch fading, but the damage was already done. 

The archives smelled like mildew and old ink, the kind of scent Dean hated. Too quiet, too still, no action.

Sam thrived here, hunched over dusty journals, glasses sliding down his nose, muttering dates and names like spells.

She was next to him, leaning close, shoulder brushing his as they flipped through ship logs. Her hair spilled forward, the slope of her throat visible when she tilted toward the page. She whispered something that made Sam huff a laugh under his breath.

Dean paced between the stacks, boots loud on the warped floor. His jaw worked as he muttered low enough not to carry.

“Damn nerd convention in here.”

Sam’s voice carried anyway. “Passenger accounts from the Lusitania. Survivors described a woman in red… same as the spirit last night. Drowned, body never recovered. Fits the pattern.”

She leaned in, hair slipping forward to graze his arm, fingertip tracing the faded ink. “If she’s tied to the artifact, then breaking the model cuts the cord.”

Dean’s eyes snapped to where their shoulders pressed together. He bit the inside of his cheek hard.

“Glad you two are getting cozy over story hour,” Dean said finally, words sharp as a blade. “Just try not to forget people are still dropping dead while you’re playing research partners over there.”

Her head jerked up, eyes narrowing. “We’re working the case, Dean. You could try it sometime instead of pacing.”

Sam straightened, sensing the blast radius. “History matters. Spirits don’t just lash out for no reason.”

“Yeah, yeah, tragic backstory,” Dean shot back. “You two figure out the lore, I’ll stick to the part where we actually kill the damn thing.”

Her smirk sharpened. “Guess that makes me and Sam the brains. You’re the muscle. Good thing you’re pretty.”

Dean froze, green eyes cutting to hers, heat and irritation all tangled up. “Careful.”

Her grin widened. Dean’s fists curled like he had to hold himself still. Then he turned away, stalking down the row with muttered curses.

Sam exhaled slowly. “That’s one way to make him crazy.”

“Good,” she said flatly, eyes still burning holes into Dean’s back.

Dean hated suits. He’d said it three times in the last ten minutes while tugging at the starched collar like it was choking him.

“Seriously. Whole place is glass and gold trim, like somebody’s trying way too hard.”

She stepped out from the motel bathroom in the black dress Bela had insisted on, low neckline, silk clinging where it shouldn’t. 

Dean went silent. His hands stilled at his collar, eyes dragging over her like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

She arched a brow, fighting the smirk. “What?”

Dean’s mouth opened, closed.

He shook his head, muttering, “Nothin’.” But the tips of his ears burned red.

Sam, bless him, offered a smile. “You look great.”

Dean cut him a glare. “Alright, let’s go before this turns into a damn pageant.”

But the way Dean kept glancing at her reflection in the Impala’s window said enough.

The ballroom was marble and crystal, champagne flutes clinking, violins sawing through expensive air.

They didn’t belong.

Dean tugged at his collar again, muttering, “Looks like the Titanic threw up in here. Rich people are freaks.”

She smothered a laugh, her lips curving despite herself.

Then Bela appeared, draped in silk and arrogance, glass of champagne in hand. “Dean,” she purred. “You almost look civilized.”

Dean’s smirk was instant. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”

Her jaw locked tight. Bela leaned in, whispering something into Dean’s ear that made him chuckle. The sound slid like ice down her spine.

She slid closer to Sam, looping her arm through his. Sam stiffened, startled, but one look at her face and he caught on.

His hand covered hers, steady.

Dean’s head snapped around. His smirk cracked. For half a second, his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing before he looked back at Bela like nothing happened.

She caught the shift, sharp and unmistakable, but there wasn’t time to savor the win, because the mood in the room changed fast.

The guards had noticed, eyes sweeping toward them, radios already buzzing. Their window was closing, seconds bleeding out quicker than she could think.

Sam had already moved, slipping through the crowd toward the display. The glass case gleamed under the chandelier light, the ship replica sitting inside like a prize on a pedestal.

He crouched low, jacket hiding most of his hands, and produced a slim pick set from his pocket.

“Figures it’s locked,” he muttered, voice tight but steady, eyes locked on the mechanism. His fingers worked fast, practiced, the faint click of metal on metal almost lost under the hum of the party.

She drifted in beside him, her back to the case, pretending to sip from her glass while scanning the room.

Dean hovered a few feet away, every muscle in his body screaming tension, eyes flicking between the guards and the exit like he was itching for the first excuse to swing.

The guards were closing in fast. Sam’s voice came quick and low, fingers working at the case lock. “Thirty seconds. I just need thirty—”

They didn’t have thirty.

“Dean.”

Her voice cut through the noise like a shot, and Dean stopped dead. He turned on her, brows furrowed, green eyes sparking with a dozen things he wasn’t saying fast enough.

She didn’t give him the chance.

Her hand shot out, fisting his lapel, and she yanked him down hard.

Her mouth crashed against his before he could get a word out.

The kiss wasn’t pretty. Their teeth knocked, her nose bumped his, and for a beat his breath caught like she’d sucker-punched him instead of kissed him.

His body locked solid under her grip, and she had just enough time to think, shit, maybe I screwed this—

Then Dean Winchester moved.

His hand clamped on her hip, rough and sure, dragging her flush against him. The other hand fisted into the back of her hair, holding her right where he wanted her.

It was hungry, chaotic, a crash of mouths and heat that stole the air right out of her lungs. His stubble scraped her skin, his breath came hard through his nose, and when his tongue brushed hers, her knees nearly buckled.

She held on anyway, nails biting into the lapel of his tux.

His chest pressed solid into hers, heat radiating through the thin silk of her dress. 

And it worked.

The guard closest to them froze, face twisting in discomfort. He muttered something under his breath, waved the others off, and turned away.

Dean didn’t stop.

Not right away.

When she finally tore her mouth free, breath gasping, her forehead fell against his. His lips were still parted, green eyes dazed, pupils blown wide like he couldn’t process what had just happened.

“Hell of a move,” he rasped, voice wrecked.

Her pulse hammered so loud she could barely hear herself when she whispered back, “Desperate times.”

Dean’s thumb brushed her cheek like it had a mind of its own, calloused skin dragging soft across her skin.

He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t joking. His voice came lower, stripped bare.

“Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

Sam’s hiss cut through like a slap. “Seriously? You two wanna wrap it up? Kinda got a cursed object situation over here.”

Dean didn’t move. He just kept staring at her like the floor had dropped out from under him.

The air shifted before the first chandelier rattled. Cold rolled in, sharp and biting, frosting the edges of every champagne flute in the room. Guests screamed, heels clattering across marble as they rushed for the exits.

And then the ghost came.

A woman’s figure, translucent and drenched, seawater dripping from her torn gown. Her hair floated in a current no one else could see, eyes wild with rage as she screamed. The sound made her teeth ache, like her head was being filled with water.

“Sam!” Dean barked, already pulling the shotgun from under his jacket.

Sam heaved at the replica, crowbar slamming against the glass. It splintered but didn’t break. “It’s reinforced!”

The spirit lunged. She fired, salt bursting through its face, scattering the apparition into vapor. The recoil numbed her arm, but she held steady.

The ghost reformed midair, closer, shrieking.

The spirit dove, gown dragging water that wasn’t there. Dean fired point-blank, salt shredding through her torso. She shrieked, reforming instantly.

Sam cursed, crowbar ringing against the replica again. “Damn it, guys, I need more time!”

There was no time.

The ghost’s clawed hand slashed for Dean, catching across his chest. He choked, staggering back, shirt darkening where the water burned.

“Dean!”

Her scream ripped out raw. Without thinking, she threw herself forward, slamming into him, knocking him clear of the spirit’s grip. They hit the marble hard, his weight pinning hers down, his breath ragged against her ear.

Her fingers clutched at his jacket, keeping him there. Dean’s head snapped down toward her, eyes sharp, jaw grinding tight. His hand slammed against the floor beside her head, bracing hard.

Sam’s shout cracked through the air, dragging both their focus back to the fight.

“Now! Both of you, now!”

Dean tore himself away, dragging her with him. Together, their hands closed over the replica, smashing it against the wall. The hull split with a crack like thunder, water bursting out in a torrent of rage and salt.

The ghost wailed, collapsing into herself, form tearing apart until nothing was left but silence and seawater dripping down marble walls.

The ballroom reeked of wet stone and fish. Guests trampled each other for the exits, glass crunching under their heels. Bela sipped her champagne like nothing had happened, not a hair out of place.

“Well,” she purred, gaze flicking between them. “That was effective. A touch theatrical, but effective. You always did love drama, Dean.”

Dean didn’t look at her. His green eyes were locked on the woman still clutching the lapel of his jacket like she hadn’t realized she hadn’t let go.

Sam’s voice was tight, breathless. “I’ll… check the exits.” He was gone before either of them could answer.

Silence settled, heavy and hot.

Dean tore the shotgun strap from his shoulder, tossing it against the wall. He stalked forward until they were chest to chest, his voice low and furious.

“That was one hell of a stunt.”

She forced her chin higher. “It worked.”

“Worked?” His laugh was sharp, humorless.

His hand jerked toward her, stopping short of actually touching. “Don’t stand there and tell me that kiss was just a cover.”

Heat spiked in her chest, equal parts anger and something needier. “And what if it wasn’t?”

He froze.

“You think you’re the only one who gets to throw themselves into the fire?” she pressed, her voice cutting in hard. “You’ve been pulling suicide plays since day one. Don’t get all righteous because I beat you to it.”

His mouth twisted. “Don’t pin this crap on me.”

“Then quit dodging and say why you’re pissed.”

Dean leaned in, close enough to crowd her space. “Because you know damn well it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Her throat closed, words catching.

Her hand lifted before she could stop herself, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble under her touch sent a jolt through her chest.

“Maybe it wasn’t,” she breathed, half-daring him, half-terrified of the answer.

Dean’s chest stalled mid-breath.

His fingers clamped around her wrist, tight, holding her there. His eyes burned into hers, his grin crooked.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he rasped, but the way he said it landed closer to truth than blame.

Her mouth tugged at a smirk, though it faltered at the edges. “Wouldn’t be the only one.”

Chapter Text

Heat of the moment, telling you what your heart meant...

Her eyes flew open. A groan slipped out before she even realized it, her head sinking back into the pillow.

The clock's red digits blinked mockingly in the dim light. Too early. Too bright. Too loud.

Dean's voice sliced into the room, full of cocky, morning energy that no sane person should have.

"Rise and shine, Sammy. Rise and shine, princess."

She cracked an eye open.

There he was, perched on the edge of the other bed, tugging on his boots like some kind of model in a workwear catalog. Smirk plastered across his face, head bobbing dramatically to the music as if they weren't in a motel that smelled vaguely of mildew and smoke.

That grin, too sharp, too easy, too Dean, twisted something in her chest.

Sam groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Dude... Asia?" His voice rasped with sleep and something close to despair.

Dean winked, cranking the radio even louder. "Classic, Sammy. Don't even try to fight it." He bobbed his head, air-drumming against his knee like he was auditioning for some washed-up '80s tribute band.

She shoved her face into the pillow, muffling her voice. "Is this really necessary? It's barely morning."

Dean leaned close, lowering his voice just enough so it brushed across her skin like heat. "C'mon, sweetheart. You love it. Admit it."

Her lips betrayed her, tugging into a reluctant smile.

She turned her head just enough to glare at him. "You could've at least picked Zepp. Or Chili Peppers. Something that doesn't sound like my dad's sad garage cassette collection."

Dean caught the pillow she flung at him one-handed, spinning it like he'd rehearsed it.

His laugh rumbled out, low and dangerous, and it did that thing to her chest again.

"Not a chance," he drawled. "Asia stays."

Sam groaned louder and disappeared into the bathroom, muttering something about noise ordinances. Dean smirked at her, mischief burning bright in his eyes, and cranked the dial higher.

Only Dean Winchester could make something this stupid feel like home.

The diner smelled like burnt coffee and bacon grease, the kind that clung to the walls like a second coat of paint. The bell above the door gave a tired little chime as they stepped inside, sliding into a booth that had probably seen better decades. Doris, all dead eyes and nicotine rasp, slapped down menus without a word.

Dean slid in beside her, his shoulder pressing against hers as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

His warmth bled across the vinyl, steady, distracting. Too distracting.

Sam, across from them, was already digging through a pile of papers. His voice was clipped, more business than breakfast. "Professor Dexter Hasselback. Went missing last week in Broward, Florida. Last spotted at a tourist trap called the Mystery Spot."

Dean raised his brows and leaned back, pretending to lounge. "Mystery Spot. Now that just sounds like fun." He shot her a sideways glance, the smirk daring her to roll her eyes.

She leaned in instead, peering at the flyer. "Physics doesn't mean anything here? That's their slogan?"

Dean chuckled, elbow bumping hers. "Hell yeah. You walk in, gravity goes screwy, people float. It's the ultimate freak show."

Her lips curved. "Fun for you maybe. I prefer to keep my insides where they belong."

Dean's voice dropped just enough for her to feel it in her bones. "What, you scared?" His grin widened at her glare.

"Not scared," she shot back, chin tilting high. "Smart. There's a difference."

"Sure," Dean said, eyes glinting with that familiar spark. "But smart's boring."

She didn't blink. "And reckless gets you killed."

That pulled his grin wider, sharper, like she'd handed him something he'd been waiting for.

"Sweetheart, I've been getting killed since I was six years old. Still here."

Sam groaned, scrubbing his face with both hands. "Please, for the love of God, I'm right here. Literally two feet away."

Heat flared in her cheeks, but she didn't back down. Dean only grinned harder, soaking it up.

When Doris returned, slapping down Dean's triple-stack of pancakes drowning in syrup, the world felt absurdly normal. Too normal.

She didn't realize how much she was holding her breath until Sam muttered, "This doesn't feel right."

It didn't.

She felt it too, the wrongness humming under the fluorescent lights, gnawing at her ribs.

And she was right.

The Mystery Spot itself was a warped funhouse of neon paint and peeling posters, the kind of place that smelled faintly of mold and popcorn oil gone rancid. Her flashlight beam cut jagged shapes through the hall of crooked doors and tilted furniture.

Dean led the way, as always, shoulders squared, shotgun loose in his hands. She kept close, her blade out, breath sharp against the claustrophobic dark.

"See?" Dean said, his voice cocky, reckless. "No gravity tricks. No floating tourists. Just dust and bad paint jobs."

"Dean," she warned, voice low, steady. "Something's off. Stay sharp."

He flashed her a grin over his shoulder. "You wound me. Always sharp."

The words had barely left his mouth before the world cracked.

A voice shouted. The blast of a shotgun tore through the hallway.

Dean's body jerked violently, crimson blooming across his chest.

Her scream ripped out of her throat before she could stop it.

"Dean!"

She was on her knees in a blink, hands pressing desperately against the wound, blood hot and slick between her fingers. Dean's breath faltered, choking, his eyes wide and fading all at once.

Sam's hands joined hers, frantic, useless, his voice breaking. "No, no, no, stay with us, stay with us—"

Dean's chest heaved once. Then stilled.

The silence after was unbearable.

Her forehead pressed to his, tears spilling hot and unrelenting. "Please," she whispered, voice ragged, cracking into pieces. "Please don't leave me. Not like this. Not now."

But his eyes stayed vacant.

The world shattered around her—

Heat of the moment...

Her eyes flew open, a gasp tearing from her chest.

Dean sat perched on the bed, tying his boots. Alive. Smirking.

"Rise and shine, Sammy. Rise and shine, princess."

Her stomach dropped like stone.

Sam jolted awake too, wide-eyed, pale, and she knew instantly. He remembered.

Dean didn't.

Heat of the moment, telling you what your heart is...

The words crawled across her skin like glass shards, every beat of the chorus twisting her stomach tighter. She sat up too fast, gasping, her heart slamming against her ribs like it wanted out.

Her throat closed. It wasn't just déjà vu. It wasn't a nightmare.

He cranked the volume louder, bobbing his head, completely oblivious to the suffocating horror pressing down on them.

Sam's voice rasped, frayed. "Dude. Asia? Again?"

"Again?" Dean cocked a brow, amused. "You mean 'classic,' Sammy. Don't tell me you don't love this one."

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. Every inch of her skin felt wrong.

Dean's eyes flicked her way, playful. "What about you, sweetheart? Don't tell me you're not into it. I thought you had good taste."

Her voice cracked before she could stop it. "Dean, please—"

He froze, caught off guard, his grin faltering into something uncertain. "What?"

She snapped her mouth shut, heart racing.

She couldn't tell him. He wouldn't believe her.

Sam pushed up from the bed, muttering something about needing coffee.

His movements were jerky, forced, like a man trying not to come apart at the seams.

Dean watched him go, then leaned closer, lowering his voice just for her. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."

Her laugh came out thin, hollow. "Funny."

Dean frowned, studying her face with the kind of intensity that usually made her chest burn.

Now it just made her want to scream.

At the diner, Doris dropped menus onto the table without a word. Dean slid in beside her again, the same brush of his arm, the same smirk tugging at his mouth.

Only this time, her hands trembled under the table.

Sam's eyes darted between them, wild, desperate.

He shoved the same flyer across the table. "Professor Dexter Hasselback. Last seen in Broward. Went missing at the Mystery Spot."

Dean chuckled, word-for-word, like someone had hit play on a tape recorder. "Mystery Spot. Sounds like fun."

Her stomach lurched. It was happening all over again.

She grabbed Dean's wrist under the table, her grip tight, almost painful. "We can't go in there."

He blinked, startled. "What the hell, princess? It's a job. It's what we do." He softened a little, confusion slipping through. "You worried about me?"

Her voice was a knife-edge. "Yes."

Dean's grin flickered, softer now, almost tender, and it gutted her. "Relax. I'll be fine. Always am."

She nearly shouted at him.

But the words stayed trapped in her throat.

Later, in the warped halls of the Mystery Spot, the flashlights cut jagged beams through crooked doorways. Her pulse pounded so loud she could barely hear Dean's sarcastic commentary.

"Find anything?" he asked, voice low, shotgun loose in his hands.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Death."

The owner's shout ripped through the silence. The gun went off.

Dean fell. Again.

Her scream tore through her throat.

Sam was on his knees, pressing at the wound, crying out in denial. She clawed at Dean's jacket, desperate, furious, begging the universe to stop.

And then —

Heat of the moment...

Asia dragged her back.

The motel. The boots. The smirk.

Dean alive again.

Her sob broke loose before she could stop it.

Dean froze, laces dangling in his hand, staring at her like she'd grown a second head. "Sweetheart... what the hell's wrong with you?"

Sam's jaw locked tight. "We need to talk."

Asia.

The goddamn chorus clawed into her skull before she even opened her eyes.

Heat of the moment...

She sat up like she'd been electrocuted, chest heaving, throat sore from a scream that hadn't even had the courtesy to carry over into this version of reality.

Dean. Alive again.

Boots. Smirk. Wink. "Rise and shine, Sammy. Rise and shine, princess."

She couldn't look away from him.

Sam did. He sat stiffly on the bed, face pale, eyes darting to the clock, then to her. The silent confirmation was all she needed. They were trapped. He remembered.

Dean didn't.

By the tenth loop, the ways Dean died blurred together.

A car hit him crossing the street.
A dog tore into his throat outside a diner.
An electrical wire fell and fried him in the rain.
He choked on a piece of sausage.

Each one was violent. Arbitrary. Cruel.

And each time, Asia dragged them back.

The weight of it pressed down like concrete. Sam scribbled notes, drew timelines, muttered calculations like math might buy them a way out. His jaw was clenched, his hands tender from punching walls, his eyes hollow.

She broke in a different way.

She clung to Dean.

His laugh at her snark. The press of his arm against hers in the booth. The exact shade of green in his eyes when he teased her.

She memorized every little thing because she never knew how long it would last before a bullet or a knife or a goddamn car stole him again.

Dean didn't understand her sudden intensity.

"Sweetheart," he said once, shotgun slung over his shoulder, grin cocky as ever, "you've been staring at me for ten minutes. You wanna take a picture or...?"

Her lips parted, but the words were too heavy. She wanted to say, because you're going to die in thirty seconds and I'll never forgive myself if I don't look while I still can.

Instead, she said flatly, "I'm making sure you're real."

Dean blinked, grin faltering, eyes searching hers. Something in his face softened, confusion, concern, maybe even something like vulnerability. But he didn't press. He never did.

By the twentieth loop, she'd stopped flinching when the gun went off. Her body still moved, knees hitting the floor, hands pressing against his chest, voice cracking as she begged, but her eyes stayed dry.

Dean died in her arms so many times she started to feel guilty that she was getting good at it.

Sam raged against the walls of the motel, pacing, muttering.

"It has to be a Trickster. It has to be. Nothing else explains this. We'll figure it out."

She wanted to believe him. But her body was too tired. Her soul too thin.

And Dean, alive every morning, dead every night, grew harder to face.

Because she wanted to tell him everything. And she couldn't.

On the thirty-second Tuesday, she cracked.

Dean was bent over his boots, humming along with Asia, and before she could stop herself, the words ripped out.

"I love you."

The room stilled.

Sam's head jerked up, eyes wide.

Dean froze, lace dangling loose in his hand, mouth parting in shock. "What?"

Her heart pounded like it was trying to tear free from her chest.

"I'm in love with you, Dean." Her voice broke.

Dean rose slowly, as if any sudden movement might spook her. His hands came up, cautious, then cupped her face.

His thumbs brushed her cheeks. His voice was low, rough, trembling.

"Sweetheart... you don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do." She fisted his shirt, pulling him closer. "I mean it. I love you."

Dean's eyes searched hers, wide and surprised.

His mouth hovered close, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.

The world tilted.

Heat of the moment...

Her eyes flew open to the radio blaring.

Dean was alive, smirking, tying his boots like nothing had ever happened. Oblivious.

But she remembered.

She always remembered.

The song dragged her out of sleep again.

Heat of the moment...

She wanted to smash the clock into pieces, scatter its glowing red guts across the carpet.

Instead, she sat up slowly. Her throat was sore from screaming last time. From begging. From saying I love you like it was her final breath.

Dean was alive again.

"Rise and shine, Sammy. Rise and shine, princess."

The smirk. The wink. The boots.

It was obscene how normal he looked, how casual. Like his insides hadn't been splattered across her hands twelve hours ago.

Like she hadn't buried her face into his neck and told him the one thing she swore she'd never say out loud.

She couldn't meet his eyes.

Sam did.

He sat stiff, dark circles carved deep, his jaw locked. He didn't even bother asking anymore. They both knew.

Dean didn't.

By the fortieth Tuesday, Sam had stopped trying to joke.

He muttered plans, calculated routes, rehearsed tactics. His voice was flat, drained of everything but focus.

She kept pace, running lore, cross-referencing patterns. Her notebooks filled with pages of desperate notes, ghost lore, curses, folklore twists, anything to explain what was happening.

Dean, every morning, bobbed his head along to Asia and cracked jokes. "What's with you two? You're like the kids from The Shining. Creeping me out."

Sam snapped once. Threw a book across the room. Dean blinked, stunned, but didn't press.

She stayed quiet.

Because if she opened her mouth, she would scream.

By the hundredth Tuesday, Sam was glassy-eyed, scribbling like a madman. She caught him mumbling about patterns, loops, the universe itself collapsing. His desperation was palpable, a storm tearing him apart.

She didn't break like that.

She broke differently.

On the hundred and seventh loop, she kissed him.

No warning. No build-up. Just grabbed his shirt, dragged him close, and pressed her lips to his like she was trying to breathe life into herself.

Dean froze, startled, then kissed back, hard and hungry. His hand fisted in her hair, his body heat crashing into hers like fire.

For a moment, she thought maybe this would change it, maybe this would shatter the loop.

Then the bullet came.

Dean fell, lips still warm against hers.

Asia ripped it all away.

Sam's hands shook as he scribbled across another sheet of motel stationery, numbers spilling into frantic lines, arrows darting between loops, deaths, days. His face was gaunt, sleepless, eyes hollow from staring at Dean's body crumple a hundred different ways.

She watched him, her own pen poised uselessly over her notebook. Notes on folklore, myth, cycles, cursed objects, none of it mattered when Dean still bled out in front of her every night.

The radio clicked, cheerful, merciless.

Heat of the moment...

Dean stretched on the edge of his bed, tugging on his boots with the same grin.

Her stomach twisted.

Sam's chair screeched back, the sound jagged. "I can't do this anymore." His voice cracked, sharp and hoarse.

Dean frowned, confused. "Do what?"

Sam rounded on him, eyes wild. "This. Watching you die. Over and over and over—"

"Whoa, whoa. Sammy." Dean laughed nervously, hands up. "You been sneaking shots without me? Because you sound crazy right now."

Her chest clenched. Dean's words weren't cruel, just thoughtless.

But to Sam, it was gasoline.

Sam shoved the chair aside and stalked toward the door. "No. He's here. The Trickster. He has to be. This is his game, I know it."

"Sam—" she started, but he cut her off, voice like a blade.

"I'm done waiting for another Tuesday. I'm done watching him die while you..." He stopped, but his eyes flicked to her. His silence was loud.

While you cling to him. While you pretend it's normal.

Her throat tightened.

Dean's brow furrowed. "Trickster? I thought we ganked that son of a bitch in Ohio."

Sam's laugh was humorless. "You think something else could pull this off?"

Dean looked between them, lost. His gaze snagged on her like maybe she could explain, like maybe she held the key. But she couldn't. Not without unraveling entirely.

Sam's voice dropped, dark and sharp. "I'll find him. And when I do, I'll end this."

He slammed out the door, leaving the motel rattling in his wake.

Dean turned to her, baffled, unnerved. "Sweetheart... what the hell's going on?"

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "Sam's right. This isn't random. Someone's doing this to us."

Dean's eyes searched hers, his smirk gone, his face open in a way that stripped her bare.

"Then tell me. Why do you look at me like it's the last time every damn time I talk to you?"

Her breath caught, tears threatening. But before she could answer, the door slammed open.

Sam dragged a man in by the collar, throwing him hard against the table. The guy gasped, struggling, but Sam pressed a stake to his throat, rage sparking in his eyes.

"I know what you are," Sam snarled. "You slipped up. Changed your syrup order once. Pancakes, not waffles. You're not human."

The man stammered, wide-eyed. "I'm Ed Coleman! I sell ad space, I've got a wife and two kids!"

Sam pressed harder. "You're a Trickster."

Dean raised his gun, confused. "Sam, what the hell are you doing? This guy's terrified."

Her pulse thundered.

She edged closer to Dean, torn between stopping Sam and clinging to the one person she couldn't bear to lose again.

Then the man shimmered. His face rippled, melted away, and standing there was the Trickster, smirking like the devil himself.

"Ding ding ding," he drawled, smoothing his jacket. "Give the boy a prize."

Dean staggered back, eyes wide. "You've gotta be kidding me."

The Trickster's grin sharpened.

"Oh, I'm not. I've had front row seats to your little drama. And let me tell you..." His gaze slid to her, wicked and cruel. "...watching you two pine and break has been better than cable."

Her stomach dropped, fury igniting in her veins. She raised her knife, voice low and shaking. "You bastard."

Dean stepped instinctively in front of her, his jaw tight. "Why?"

The Trickster spread his hands, smug. "Because it's funny. Dean dies, you two fall apart, over and over. It's tragedy. It's comedy. It's Shakespeare with shotguns."

Sam lunged, fury finally breaking.

The Trickster snapped his fingers.

The world dissolved.

The world blinked.

Her stomach lurched like the ground had dropped out beneath her, and then...

WED.

Her chest seized. Sam sat upright in his bed at the exact same time, their gazes locking across the space with the same thought blazing behind both pairs of eyes.

It was Wednesday.

Dean was alive.

They didn't breathe until they heard him banging around in the bathroom, muttering about running out of hot water, bitching at the shower curtain for sticking.

Relief hit so hard it almost made her dizzy.

She let herself smile, a fragile, dangerous thing, and when Dean emerged dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, rolling his eyes at them for staring, she laughed. Actually laughed.

He gave her one of those looks, the cocky ones that carried more heat than a loaded gun, and she clung to it like a lifeline.

For the first time in what felt like forever, maybe the world had cut them a break.

But the reprieve lasted hours.

The day was quiet. Too quiet.

Sam checked and rechecked the lore, muttering about Tricksters, wormholes, timelines.

She forced herself to help, though her gaze kept drifting to Dean, alive, breathing, teasing her every chance he got.

The sun fell behind the trees. They headed for the car.

And then it happened.

The gunshot split the night.

Dean jerked mid-step, crimson blooming wide and fast across his shirt.

He hit the asphalt with a sound she'd never forget, his body folding into the gravel.

"No!" Her scream cracked as she threw herself down beside him.

Her hands pressed over the wound, slick with his blood, the smell sharp and metallic. "Stay with me! Dean, please, stay with me!"

Sam was there too, hands clamping over hers, his voice shaking so badly it barely made sense. "We've got you, just hold on, don't—"

Dean's eyes flicked up, glassy, unfocused. His lips moved around a word she couldn't hear.

And then... nothing.

His chest stilled.

Sam's hands trembled. Her breath broke. The parking lot seemed to tilt and spin, the universe itself unraveling.

There was no Asia.

No Tuesday.

No reset.

Only Wednesday.

And Dean Winchester was dead.

Month One

The earth over Dean's grave was still loose, soft under their boots. They hadn't salted, hadn't burned. Sam refused, jaw set, eyes dead.

She stood beside him, arms wrapped around herself, waiting for words that didn't come.

That night, in the motel, the phone buzzed.

Bobby's voice, gruff but gentle, spilled through the tiny speaker. Sam. Kid. I know you're hurting, but you can't shut me out. You gotta call me back. Please.

Sam snapped the phone shut. Neither of them moved

Month Two

Sam lived on coffee and feverish research, hunched over the laptop like it might bleed answers. She shadowed him, notebooks stacked, lore scattered across every surface.

The phone buzzed again.

It's been weeks. I don't know what you two think you're doing, but this ain't healthy. Hunting alone, no backup, Dean wouldn't want this. Call me back. Don't make me come find you.

Sam clicked delete. Her chest ached, but she didn't stop him.

Month Three

A motel room in Kentucky reeked of grave dirt and gunpowder. Their knuckles bled from the fight with the poltergeist, their clothes crusted in soot.

The phone lit up on the nightstand. Neither reached for it.

Damn it, kids. I'm trying here. I know you think you can fix this on your own, but you can't. You're not alone. You've got me. Use me, before you burn yourselves out.

Sam's hand hovered over the phone, trembling, then he shoved it facedown.

She didn't protest.

Month Four

Sam punched the motel wall until his hands split, blood dripping down his wrist. She caught them, wrapped them herself, saying nothing.

The phone rang. Again.

You're breaking my heart. Both of you. Whatever you're chasing, it's gonna eat you alive. Dean's gone, and I know that's a hole you don't think you can crawl out of, but you still got each other. That's gotta mean something. Call me.

The message ended. Sam turned back to his research without a word.

She turned the phone off.

Month Five

Their lives collapsed into rhythm. Hunt, research, repeat.

Sam muttered Latin in his sleep. She woke clutching at nothing, half-dreaming Dean's hand had been there to catch hers.

The phone rang. They ignored it.

Please. Just let me know you're alive, Sam. And you, sweetheart. Don't make me bury another one of you.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she slammed the phone shut before Sam could see.

Month Six

The cabin. Candles guttering. A book open on Bobby's desk, pages heavy with ritual.

The phone buzzed. Sam didn't even glance at it.

You want your brother back so bad you'll do anything, I get it. But you're on a road that don't end well. You two are family. You're all I got left. Don't shut me out. Don't do this alone.

Sam's eyes never left the lore in front of him.

She sat at the table, knife spinning between her fingers, the weight of Bobby's words pressing heavy in her chest. But neither of them moved.

Neither of them called back.

The Impala ate up the miles in silence. Every back road looked the same now. Leafless trees clawing at the sky, motels with flickering neon, diners that all smelled of burnt coffee and despair.

She sat in the passenger seat, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights. Sam's grip on the wheel was rigid, knuckles pale, jaw set in stone. Neither of them had spoken for hours.

The phone buzzed against the leather seat between them.

Once. Twice. Sam ignored it.

It buzzed again.

She finally snatched it up, thumb hovering over the glowing screen. Bobby.

Her heart clenched.

She pressed it to her ear, and Bobby's voice rasped through, rough with urgency.

Sam. Kid. Listen to me...I found something. You hear me? I know where that bastard is. The Trickster. If you want answers, if you want even a shot at fixing this...meet me at the cabin. Don't argue. Just come.

Her chest tightened, breath catching. The words sank into her bones like a match striking tinder.

Sam's eyes flicked to her, dark and haunted, but behind them something sparked, the first flicker of purpose she'd seen in months.

She lowered the phone slowly, her hands trembling as she met his gaze.

"Bobby knows."

For the first time since Dean's death, the silence between them wasn't grief.

It was possibility.

The cabin smelled of dust and iron, wood rot heavy in the beams. Candlelight flickered against chalk marks on the floor, shadows crawling across the walls like living things.

The air was too still, too sharp, as though it held its breath along with them.

Sam strode ahead, every line of him taut, rigid, burning with purpose. His boots slammed against the floorboards with a finality that made her chest tighten.

She followed, quieter but no less sharp, fingers brushing the hilt of her knife.

Their months of silence and grief had whittled them into blades, honed, dangerous, obsessed.

Bobby stood at the center of the cabin, book open on the table, candles guttering in the draft. His head lifted as they entered, and for one moment, just one, relief cracked through his gruff expression. His shoulders eased, and his eyes softened in a way that nearly broke her.

"'Bout damn time," he muttered, closing the book. His gaze flicked between them, catching the gauntness in Sam's face, the hollow set of her eyes. "You look like hell."

Sam didn't even blink. "Tell us what you found."

Bobby's jaw tightened. "First thing you're gonna do is sit your asses down."

Sam didn't move. His fists clenched at his sides. She stayed back, caught between them, the weight of six months pressing on her ribs.

Bobby's voice cracked through the silence, sharp. "Sit."

Reluctantly, Sam dropped into a chair. She followed, knife spinning between her fingers, restless.

Bobby shut the book with a thud. "This is the last place that thing, the Trickster, pulled its stunt. I found a summoning ritual. Might be our one shot to drag it back here."

Her breath hitched, but Sam only leaned forward, eyes hungry. "What do we need?"

Bobby's expression hardened. "Blood. A lot of it. Near a gallon. Fresh."

The words slammed into her like a punch. "What?"

Sam didn't hesitate. He pushed his chair back, already reaching for his jacket. "Fine."

She surged to her feet, blocking his path. "No. Absolutely not."

Sam's eyes burned, jaw locked. "It's the only way."

Bobby's voice cut through, steady but tender. "You're not gonna kill some poor bastard just to get your brother back."

Sam spun on him, fury sparking sharp and wild.

"You think I care? You think any of that matters after what we've been through? Dean's in Hell, Bobby. He's burning. Every second we sit here talking, he's screaming."

Her chest twisted, the images searing hot, Dean's body crumpling, his last breaths shuddering, her hands slick with his blood. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. "Sam..."

But Bobby was already moving. He pulled a knife from his bag, the blade gleaming in the candlelight.

His eyes locked on Sam, steady, unflinching.

"You want blood?" His voice dropped into something quiet, devastating. He held the knife out, handle first. "Take mine."

The room froze.

Sam's hand hovered, trembling as it closed around the hilt. His face was stone, but his eyes burned, torn between fury and grief.

Bobby's voice softened. "Better me than some civilian. I'm near the end of my trail anyway. But you two..." His gaze flicked to her, heavy with something like love.

"You still got a fight in you. You're family. You, Sam. And you too, kiddo. You're the closest thing I got."

Her throat closed, hot tears blurring her vision.

Sam's hand shook around the knife. For one terrible heartbeat, she thought he might actually do it.

Then he drew the stake from his jacket.

And drove it forward.

Blood sprayed, but not Bobby's.

The man's body flickered, warped, and vanished.

The Trickster stood in his place, smirking, twirling the stake between his fingers like a toy. Candlelight gleamed off his teeth, his eyes wicked, cruel.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice smooth as poison. "Look at you, Sammy. Sharp as ever. Family loyalty and a flair for drama? Be still my heart." His gaze slid to her, smug and taunting. "And you. Spiraling like a CW soap opera. Honestly, sweetheart, you've been my favorite part of this whole little experiment. All that anger, all those tears...priceless."

Her knife was in her hand before she realized it, knuckles white. "You son of a bitch."

Dean's blood. Dean's body. Dean's absence. All of it was because of him.

The Trickster only grinned wider, unbothered. "Don't get me wrong. Watching your boy die over and over? Fun for a while. But you? Watching you crack? That's art. I almost don't want it to end."

Sam's voice was a blade, low and trembling. "Bring him back."

The Trickster leaned against the table, amused. "Who, Dean? Kid's soul's roasting on a spit in Hell. You really think I can just snap my fingers and—"

"You can." Sam's voice thundered, desperate. "Do it. Take us back."

The Trickster's grin sharpened. "Even if I could, and I can, why should I? You two have been such great entertainment."

Her voice ripped out, shaking with fury. "Because you've taken everything from us."

The Trickster tilted his head, smirking at the broken edges of her voice.

"Exactly."

The silence in the cabin was suffocating, the weight of months of grief pressing down like a tomb.

The Trickster twirled the stake once more, then sighed theatrically. "But fine. Show's over. Curtain call. Try not to bore me next time."

He snapped his fingers.

The world dissolved into black

Gotta get back in time...

Her eyes flew open. The motel looked the same. The curtains still sagged. The light still flickered. But the glowing red letters on the clock spelled WED.

She bolted upright, heart pounding against her ribs hard enough to bruise.

"Sam."

He was already awake, sitting rigid on his bed. His eyes locked on the clock, wide and hollow.

"It's Wednesday." His voice cracked on the word, disbelief breaking it in two.

Her body trembled. She staggered to her feet and stumbled toward the bathroom. Steam curled from the cracked door, and Dean's voice drifted out, casual and alive.

"What, you two planning to sleep all day?"

Alive.

Her knees almost buckled.

She threw the door open and crashed into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders so tightly it knocked the toothbrush from his hand. He let out a startled grunt, soap still slicking his jaw.

"Whoa, easy, sweetheart," he said, half laughing, trying to peel her arms off. "What's with the Hallmark moment?"

But she didn't let go. Couldn't.

He was warm, solid, his heartbeat thudding steady against her cheek. Tears burned hot, slipping down before she could stop them.

Sam was there a heartbeat later, clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise.

Dean blinked, sandwiched between them, looking like he'd been abducted into some group therapy cult.

"Dude," Dean groaned. "What the hell? You two drunk already? Or did I miss an Oprah marathon?"

Sam's voice was hoarse. "It's Wednesday."

Dean frowned, glancing between them. "Okay. And?"

"You don't get it," Sam whispered, his grip tightening. "You were dead. Every day. Every damn day." His voice broke.

Dean froze, confusion shadowing his face.

His eyes flicked to her, searching for explanation. She met his gaze through tears, her throat too tight to speak.

"I don't..." Dean started, then shook his head. "Look, I remember the Trickster. Then...nothing. Next thing I know, it's morning again."

Sam pulled back. His fists clenched and unclenched, his shoulders tight enough to snap.

"Months," he spat. "It's been months for us."

Dean's mouth opened, but no sound came. For once, there was no smartass quip, no crooked grin. Just silence.

She finally loosened her grip, pulling back enough to see his face. His green eyes were caught between disbelief and guilt.

"I lost you," she whispered. Her voice cracked, barely audible, but he heard it.

Dean's jaw worked, muscles twitching. His hand lifted, tentative, then firm, cupping the side of her face.

His thumb brushed a stray tear from her cheek, lingering there. His smirk tried to return, soft and crooked, but it fell flat against the weight in his eyes.

"You're stuck with me, sweetheart," he muttered. "I'm not that easy to get rid of."

The words should have been comforting. They should have been enough.

But she could still feel the phantom heat of his blood on her hands, the endless weight of his bodies in her arms. The memories haunted her even as he stood alive before her.

Sam stopped pacing, his voice sharp, brittle. "We're leaving town. Now. Before that thing changes its mind."

Dean arched a brow, trying for levity. "No breakfast? You guys really are trying to kill me."

"No breakfast," Sam and she said at once, voices clipped and certain.

Dean blinked at them, incredulous, but didn't argue. He grabbed his jacket and swung the door open, pausing in the frame. His eyes met hers, green and unguarded, and for a fleeting second the world stilled.

Her breath caught in her throat. For one suspended second, the world wasn't a motel room, or a hunt, or the aftermath of endless impossible Tuesdays.

It was just him.

Dean Winchester.

Alive, standing in the doorway, looking at her like maybe she really did matter.

Before she could think, before she could talk herself out of it, she was moving. Crossing the threadbare carpet in two steps, her fingers catching the edge of his jacket.

"Dean—"

His name tore out of her, ragged and trembling.

His eyes widened, surprise flashing green, but then she was on him, lips crashing against his with a desperation that was almost violent. It wasn't soft. It wasn't careful.

It was months of grief and terror, the memory of his blood sticky on her hands, the sound of his body hitting the ground replaying over and over, all shoved into that one kiss.

Tears spilled hot down her cheeks, smearing between them.

She clutched at him like she was terrified he might vanish if she let go, one hand fisting into his shirt, the other sliding up into his hair, pulling him closer, needing the heat of him, the solid weight, the proof.

Dean froze for a heartbeat, stunned, his breath caught between her lips.

And then he broke, melted, gave in. His hands came up rough and trembling, one cupping her jaw, thumb brushing away tears that wouldn't stop, the other curling tight against her back, dragging her flush against him like he could anchor himself in her bones.

Her sob shuddered into his mouth, and he swallowed it like a vow.

His lips were warm, chapped, tasting faintly of coffee and toothpaste, and they moved against hers with a hunger that bordered on worship.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead pressed to hers, their breaths ragged, mingling, her tears damp on his cheeks too.

His voice cracked, low and hoarse, stripped of bravado.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

She laughed through the tears, a broken, gasping sound. Her fingers tightened in his shirt, knuckles white. "You're alive, Dean."

The words hung in the air, trembling.

Dean's hand slid to the back of her neck, firm, his eyes wide and unguarded in a way that made her chest ache. His lips curved, not into a smirk, not into armor, but into something fragile and devastating.

He kissed her again, slower this time, reverent.

And for the first time in months, it felt like the world had finally, mercifully, stopped ending.

His hand reached for hers, fingers lacing tight.

They were in this together.

And this time, they would not let go.

Chapter Text

The Impala’s tires hummed against the frost-stiff asphalt, a low and steady vibration that filled the silence like a heartbeat.

Monument, Colorado, rolled past in dark stretches of trees and pale slices of moonlight. The night air was sharp with mountain cold, thin enough that every breath left a ghostly mist on the windshield glass.

Inside the car, the heater worked overtime, though the Impala carried its own scent that never faded. Leather, gasoline, and the faint gun oil that clung to Dean’s jacket and the arsenal tucked in the trunk.

It was comfort and danger wrapped together, the smell of home and of war.

She sat in the passenger seat, her jacket tugged tighter around her, though it didn’t do a damn thing about the weight pressing down in her chest. This wasn’t just another job. No restless ghost to salt and burn, no cryptid lurking on the edges of small-town life.

And it sure as hell wasn’t some cosmic prank where the Trickster bent time into pretzels just for laughs.

This was Bela.

And Bela had the Colt.

Her stomach twisted every time that thought circled back around. One gun. One weapon that could end Lilith and everything riding her coattails. 

Dean shifted beside her, shoulders rolling as his hands gripped the wheel with ease. He twisted the radio dial, static bursting through the speakers until the familiar wail of half-dead classic rock sputtered to life.

His mouth curved into a grin that spelled trouble before he even opened his mouth.

“You scared, princess?”

The word rolled off his tongue with that cocky lilt that made it impossible to tell if he was teasing, testing, or both.

She raised a brow, crossing her arms tight across her chest. “Scared? Try cautiously concerned. You know, like when you realize the idiots in a horror movie split up.”

Dean barked a laugh, head tilting her way, his grin flashing white in the dark. “Hm, cautious. Not exactly our brand, sweetheart.”

He wasn’t wrong. Not their brand, not their rhythm. They dove headfirst into danger more often than not, and somehow crawled out the other side bloodied but breathing.

Still, Bela wasn’t just danger. She was betrayal dressed in silk and perfume, and if Dean let his guard slip, if either of them did, she’d bury them.

The Impala swung into the cracked parking lot of a motel that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the seventies.

Only one flickering neon tube sputtered over the office, and most of the spaces sat empty. Too empty.

Her gaze combed the lot, muscles drawn tight.

Dean shoved the door open with his boot and strode forward. She followed close, her fingers brushing the knife tucked into her waistband out of habit.

“Showtime,” Dean muttered as they crossed the lot.

The room smelled like stale perfume trying, and failing, to mask dust. The bedspreads were an aggressive floral print, the carpet an even worse shade of puke green. Sam was already crouched at the wall safe, fingers working carefully, eyes sweeping every corner like he expected a tripwire to leap out at him.

She lingered at the door, weight coiled tight. 

Dean disappeared into the bathroom for all of thirty seconds before reappearing, triumph in his smirk. He dangled two wigs from his hands like trophies.

“Yeah,” he said, tone drenched in sarcasm. “Bela’s room.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “What, she got bored of her real hair and moved on to Party City?”

Sam shot her a look, half-exasperated, half-amused. Dean, though, just grinned like he enjoyed every second.

Then the phone rang.

The shrill noise snapped every muscle in her body tight. Sam froze mid-movement, eyes flicking up. Dean’s grin faltered just enough to show his jaw clenching.

“You answering?” he asked.

Sam shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Dean smirked. “Guess it’s my lucky day.” He lifted the receiver, leaning back against the wall.

“Bela. What a surprise. Miss me?”

Her voice slithered through the line, smooth and sharp, dripping honey. “Dean Winchester. Where’s that wicked banter I adore? Don’t tell me you’ve grown dull.”

Dean’s eyes darkened, the humor bleeding out fast. “I want it back,” he said, steel threaded through every word. “Now.”

Bela laughed, soft and poisonous. “Oh, the little pistol? So sorry. Not available.”

His knuckles went white around the receiver. “You get how many people die if you play this game?”

“People die every day, darling,” she purred. “What makes you think I’d ever use it myself?”

Dean’s teeth ground audibly. “Because you’re Bela. You’d sell the only weapon we’ve got against a goddamn army of demons on eBay if it came with free shipping.”

“You think you know me.”

“I know enough. Enough to stop you.”

“You’ll be busy,” she sing-songed. “Did you think I wouldn’t set the board before you sat down to play?”

The door burst open.

Badges. Barked orders. The metallic snap of safeties being pulled.

“FBI! Hands in the air!”

Dean’s eyes went wide, then narrowed, his snarl low and seething. “That bitch.”

Instinct shoved her closer to him, shoulder to shoulder, even as his hands lifted slow. Sam froze by the safe, jaw tight, muscles locked in calculation.

“Hands where we can see them! Down on your knees!”

Dean muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath, his smirk crawling back into place like a challenge.

“Well, princess,” he drawled, “guess the party’s just starting.”

The fluorescent lights in Monument PD buzzed overhead like angry hornets, too bright, too close, flickering with the kind of rhythm that made your teeth ache. Metal bars boxed them in, cracked tile underfoot carrying the smell of bleach and old sweat.

The whole place pressed in on itself, claustrophobic and mean.

Dean was pacing, boots dragging a restless rhythm over concrete, shoulders coiled tight, energy vibrating off him like a live wire. Sam leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes narrowed, already trying to map an escape route in his head.

She sat on the edge of the cot, her back straight, her pulse steady even if her stomach twisted.

The scrape of the lock split the air. The door swung open.

An agent stepped in.

He carried himself with that smug assurance that came with a badge, a manila folder tucked under one arm and a coffee in the other hand.

His gaze swept across the Winchesters, but when his eyes found her, they stayed there. Sharp, deliberate.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth, each syllable dipped in satisfaction. “Dean Winchester. Sam Winchester. And…” His eyes lingered on her. “Miss Ford.”

Her stomach dipped, but she didn’t let her shoulders so much as twitch.

He set the folder down on the desk, leaned against it with practiced ease, arms folded. His smirk was subtle, more dangerous for the restraint in it.

He didn’t bother with the brothers again. His attention stayed locked on her.

“Funny thing about files,” he said, tapping the folder with one finger. “Crack one open, and you find everything.”

Dean stilled mid-step. Sam’s jaw tightened.

He flipped the folder open without looking down, his eyes still on her.

“Enumclaw, Washington. House fire. Parents and younger brother… Quinn, wasn’t it? All gone. And yet somehow, you crawl out alive.” His smile sharpened. “Funny how that works.”

The breath caught sharp in her chest.

For a second she just stared at him, the word fire scraping through her like glass. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

When she finally forced sound past her throat, it was thin, unsteady. “I… it was—” She cut herself off, jaw snapping shut, eyes burning.

His smirk widened. “An accident, I'm sure.” His voice lowered. “Survivor’s guilt looks good on paper, Miss Ford. Real tragic. Makes you sympathetic.”

Dean stepped up to the bars, chains clattering as his hands gripped the steel. “Back off.” His voice was low, dangerous.

The agent pushed off the desk, slow, deliberate. He closed the space until he stood directly in front of the bars.

His voice dropped to a near-whisper, intimate in the worst way.

“You’re cursed, Ford. That’s the story, isn’t it? Everyone who gets too close ends up in a grave. Parents, brother, old boyfriend. And now…” His gaze flicked to Dean, then Sam, then back to her.

“Well. History has a way of repeating itself.”

Dean slammed the bars, the crack echoing through the cell.

His teeth bared, fury vibrating through him like heat. “Say one more word and I swear to God—”

The agent's smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it grew.

He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing the bars, his voice meant for her alone.

“They’ll bleed you dry. That’s what Winchesters do. You’re useful now, pretty face, sharp tongue, knows the right books to quote, but when the weight gets too heavy? They’ll bury you with the rest of them.”

Her nails dug into her palms, blood prickling crescent moons into her skin. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

His eyes glittered. “I know enough. You want to feel wanted. Useful. Needed. And they give you that. But it’s codependency dressed up as family, sweetheart. And one day…”

He leaned closer, coffee on his breath, words a whisper against her ear. “…they’ll leave you like the others did. One way or another.”

Dean lunged. Sam caught his arm, chains clattering as Dean shoved against the bars hard enough to rattle the frame.

The agent finally turned his gaze on Dean, his smirk curling razor-sharp. “Touched a nerve, have I?”

Dean’s eyes burned like green fire, every muscle in his body screaming to put his fist through the agent's face.

His voice came out like gravel ground into steel. “I’ll kill you.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, trying to drag him back.

The agent's smirk held, until the lights flickered.

Once. Twice. Then a pulse rippled through the air like the room itself took a breath.

He staggered. His smirk faltered, replaced by a twitch, his eyes rolling white before snapping to black.

The sound that ripped from his throat was a growl that didn’t belong to any man.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Dean—”

“I see it,” Dean snarled.

The agent's posture snapped rigid, then loose, his head cocking at an unnatural angle. His smile returned, but it was wrong now, stretched too wide, lips trembling like they might split.

His voice came low, warped.

“Well, well. Look at this little family portrait.” His gaze swept them, lingering on her again. “No wonder Hell wants you so badly.”

Her stomach clenched. The black smoke leaking at the corner of his mouth curled like claws.

Dean shoved her back behind him instinctively, his body a wall of fury. “Stay down.”

The demon inside the agent laughed, harsh and guttural. “Always so protective, Winchester. Does she know the way you dream about her? The things you’d do if you weren’t so busy playing the hero?”

Dean’s snarl was pure venom. “Shut your mouth.”

The demon tilted his head, mocking. “Or what? You’ll watch her rot? Just like mommy. Just like daddy. Just like Quinn. You’re a curse, Ford. And Dean’s just another name on the list.”

Her pulse thundered, fury breaking through the ache.

She stepped out from behind Dean, her knife flashing in her grip. 

Dean’s hand shot back, catching her wrist, holding her still even as his own rage burned. “Don’t. He’s baiting you.”

Sam was already chanting, Latin spilling fast and sharp, words laced with urgency.

The demon shrieked, the agent's body convulsing, but it only dug deeper, fighting harder.

The lights exploded overhead, sparks raining down. The air stank of sulfur.

The demon sneered through his twisted grin. “He’ll break you, girl. They both will. And when you’re lying cold, they’ll keep driving. That’s all Winchesters ever do. Leave bodies behind.”

Dean ripped against the chains, bellowing, “Shut your goddamn mouth!”

Sam’s voice rose, louder, stronger. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—”

The demon thrashed, the agent's body slamming against the bars hard enough to rattle bolts loose.

His black eyes locked on her, a hiss curling through jagged teeth. “When you scream, I’ll be there. When you beg, I’ll be there. You belong to the fire—”

“Enough!” Dean’s roar tore through the room, shaking the air.

Sam shouted the final words, voice breaking with force. “In nomine Dei, exorcizamus te!”

The agent's body convulsed violently, back arching near to snapping. The black smoke ripped free in a torrent, shrieking as it clawed up toward the ceiling.

The sound was inhuman, nails on bone, before vanishing in a hiss that stank of burning tar.

He collapsed. His body hit the concrete, twitching once before lying still.

The cell fell silent, except for the ragged breathing of three hunters who hadn’t blinked in minutes.

Dean’s grip was still crushing her wrist. He turned to her, eyes wild, chest heaving.

His thumb brushed her pulse, still hammering under his hand, before he finally released her.

Sam leaned heavily against the wall, breath ragged, sweat slick on his face.

His gaze darted to the agent, still unconscious, then back to them. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

Dean didn’t look at his brother. His eyes stayed fixed on her, green and burning.

The silence after the exorcism didn’t last.

A pounding from somewhere down the hall. One blow. Then another. Heavy, rhythmic.

Sam straightened, eyes cutting to the door. “That’s not them coming to check on him.”

The next slam rattled the walls.

Dean’s smirk returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Showtime.”

The pounding spread, multiplying, until it shook the lockers, sent dust drifting from the rafters.

Voices shouted in the bullpen, the scrape of chairs, the panicked clatter of boots. Then the screaming started.

High, sharp, cut short.

The air thickened, cloying and sulfurous. Black smoke seeped under the cell door, curling like living claws before pulling back again. A taunt.

Dean’s shotgun was already in his hands, chains discarded, body taut with readiness. He grabbed her wrist, hauling her closer, pressing the muzzle to the ground as he leaned in. 

The first officer hit the floor in the hall with a wet crack, eyes flashing black as smoke poured into him.

When his body jerked back upright, his grin was too wide, teeth bared like a predator. He turned for the cells.

Dean lifted his shotgun, eyes burning. “Not today.”

The blast echoed like thunder, rock salt tearing through the demon-possessed body, sending it slamming into the wall. Black smoke hissed out in a shriek before slithering back into the dark.

Sam snapped into motion, voice sharp. “We need salt lines. Devil’s traps. Now.”

She was already moving, dropping to her knees, a tin of salt in hand. Her hands didn’t shake. She traced a line across the threshold, steady and sure, words tumbling under her breath.

Dean covered the hall, firing another round as a second body lunged. The vessel slammed back against the wall, chest torn open, though the demon only laughed through the broken teeth.

The agent groaned, stirring on the floor. His eyes cracked open, confused, flicking between the chaos and the hunters.

“What the hell—”

“Shut up!” Dean barked without looking at him, pumping his shotgun, shoulders squared.

The next impact came from the window, glass exploding inward in a rain of shards. Black smoke poured in, riding on the backs of more officers, their eyes burning coal-black as they snarled.

She ducked, arm raised instinctively, but Dean’s body was there, shielding her as the fragments rained down. His breath was harsh at her ear.

“You good?”

She nodded, quick. “Still standing.”

Dean’s smirk returned, feral this time. “Then let’s raise some hell.”

Sam’s voice cut sharp from the corner. “Exorcism. I can pipe it through the PA system, buy us time.”

Dean grunted, eyes still locked on the hallway. “Do it.”

Sam scrambled, hands moving over the boombox they’d rigged, journal pages fluttering as he found the words.

The pounding on the doors grew violent, rattling hinges. Demons outside didn’t care about subtlety now. They wanted blood.

Dean pressed his back to hers as she traced the last salt line. His shoulder brushed hers, grounding, a silent promise.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

Her smirk was quick, sharp. “Always.”

Dean’s lips twitched. “That’s my girl.”

The first door buckled, wood splintering as bodies hurled themselves against it. Black smoke oozed through the cracks, filling the air with sulfur.

“Go time!” Dean roared.

The door shattered. The demons surged in.

Dean fired point-blank, the shotgun roaring as the first body dropped, smoke tearing free in a shriek.

She lunged for the second, knife flashing, carving the sigil fast into the tile as the demon snarled down at her.

“Sam!” she shouted.

Latin burst from Sam’s throat, booming through the PA.

The words carried power, filling the station like thunder. The demon froze, body jerking violently, before smoke ripped free in a black torrent.

One down. Dozens left.

The station became a warzone.

Salt lines glowed faintly as bodies slammed against them, shrieking when they couldn’t pass. Shotgun blasts echoed, wood and glass shattering, the floor slick with blood.

Dean moved like a soldier, every motion violent efficiency. She matched him, quick and sharp, her knife flashing, her Latin cutting the air.

At one point, a demon broke through the line, lunging for her throat. Dean tackled it mid-stride, slamming it into the wall, forearm crushing its windpipe. He shoved the shotgun under its jaw and fired. The spray painted the wall, black smoke screaming as it fled.

She grabbed his arm, steadying him as he rose.

Their eyes met, burning, wordless. He smirked, even bloody. “Kinda hot, actually.”

“Dean!” Sam barked, exasperated.

“What? Just sayin’.”

She shoved him lightly, smirk tugging at her lips. “Focus, Romeo.”

Dean leaned closer. “Oh, I’m focused.”

The pounding escalated, every surface vibrating. Dozens of fists hammered the doors and windows. The whole station felt like it might collapse.

Sam shouted, flipping the last page. “Almost there!”

“Make it fast!” Dean snapped, firing again.

Bodies piled. The Latin roared. Demons screamed, smoke twisting upward like serpents before vanishing. The exorcism shook the walls, sparks raining from shattered lights.

Dean pulled her against him as the last bulb blew, glass cascading down.

His hand cradled the back of her head, shielding her as the room drowned in red emergency glow.

She buried her face in his chest, leather and sweat grounding her even as the world burned. His thumb brushed her temple, lingering far too long for a moment of war.

The last demon shrieked, smoke clawing skyward, before vanishing into nothingness.

And then, silence.

Bodies lay sprawled across the floor, unconscious vessels, blood pooling under them. The air stank of sulfur, acrid and heavy.

Dean’s arm stayed tight around her waist, grip iron.

His smirk was crooked, softer now. “Told you we’d make it.”

Her brow arched. “Barely.”

Dean leaned close, voice rough, intimate. “Barely’s still alive.”

The doors screeched again, twisted hinges groaning. Boots echoed across the tile, sharp and deliberate.

Ruby.

She strolled in like she owned the place, leather torn, blood streaked, smirk perfectly intact. “Not bad. For amateurs.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, shotgun swinging up. “You picked a hell of a time to show your face.”

Ruby leaned against the splintered remains of a desk, twirling a wicked little blade like it was just a prop.

Her smirk curved sharp when her eyes cut across the room, the broken glass, the bodies.

“Well,” she drawled, smug as sin. “Thirty demons smoking out in one go. If I had popcorn, I’d be applauding.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. His shotgun snapped up, barrel steady on her chest. “You show up late to the party and expect a gold star? Not happening.”

Ruby’s smirk widened, eyes flicking deliberately to the woman still caught against Dean’s side. “Relax, Winchester. I’m not here to gut your girlfriend. Not tonight.”

Heat flared in her cheeks before she could bite it down. “I’m not—”

“Shut your mouth,” Dean cut in, voice low and venomous, not taking his eyes off Ruby. “Before I put rock salt through it.”

Ruby chuckled, slow, mocking. “Testy. Cute.”

She turned her focus to Sam, ignoring Dean’s fury.

“You’re the one who needs to listen,” Ruby said, her smirk fading into something colder. “Lilith isn’t playing anymore. She’s gathering an army. If you think you can wing it with salt rounds and Latin, you’re dead. All of you.”

Sam pushed himself off the wall, exhaustion dripping off him but his eyes sharp, hungry. “What do you know?”

Ruby tilted her head, lips curving. “More than you. And you want to survive? You need me.”

Dean barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, because teaming up with a backstabbing demon is always a great life choice.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, her knife glinting as she twirled it. “You’re still alive because of me, Dean. Or did you block that part out with all the clearance beer?”

Dean’s teeth ground audibly. “The day I trust you again is the day Hell freezes over.”

Ruby’s eyes finally cut to her, the smirk curling slow and deliberate. “So you’re the infamous tag-along,” she said, voice velvet over poison.

She let her gaze drag from head to toe like she was appraising merchandise. “Didn’t think Dean went for the smart ones. Guess you’re the exception.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, shotgun still leveled, his voice sharp. “Don’t talk to her.”

Ruby ignored him, her smirk sharpening. “Relax, Winchester. I’m just introducing myself. I’m Ruby. Demon, savior, take your pick. You’re the reason he’s all soft around the edges lately. Makes sense. He actually smiles now. It's pathetic, really.”

Dean growled low in his chest, voice dropping so only she could hear. “Don’t listen to her. She’s poison.”

Sam slammed his journal shut, cutting across them before Dean could lunge. “We don’t have time for this. Lilith is coming. If Ruby has information, we can’t ignore it.”

Dean turned on him, fury sparking. “You serious? You wanna partner up with her?”

Sam’s jaw locked. “I want to live.”

The temperature dropped like ice water, seeping into their bones. The wind outside howled, rattling the cracked window frames. From somewhere in the dark came the faintest giggle.

Sam froze, gun lifting. “Dean…”

“I know,” Dean muttered, body locking tight. He shoved her a half-step behind him, his arm burning like a brand across her stomach. His shotgun never wavered.

The giggle floated closer, echoing sharp against ruined tile. “Dean…”

Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t just creepy.

The front doors groaned once before tearing off their hinges with a shriek, slamming to the floor in a crash that rattled the foundation.

And Lilith walked in.

She looked like a child. Bare feet blackened by soot, white Sunday dress pristine except for the smoldering edges where it brushed the floor. Golden curls framed a face too sweet, too innocent, her lips stretched in a smile.

In her hand dangled a stuffed rabbit, its seams splitting, fur crumbling to ash that scattered with each step.

Dean’s shotgun was steady, though his jaw ticked. “Great. Creepy kids. My favorite.”

Lilith tilted her head, smile stretching. “You’re Dean Winchester. Daddy’s favorite soldier.”

Dean’s teeth bared. “Kid, if you start singing Ring Around the Rosie, I’m out.”

The giggle came again, shrill and echoing. “You're funny. But you can’t leave, Dean. You’re mine.”

The lights flickered once. Twice. Then every bulb exploded in unison, plunging the station into the blood-red glow of the exit signs.

Sam’s voice was sharp. “Dean, we can’t fight her without the Colt—”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean snapped, eyes locked on Lilith. His voice was steel. “We improvise. Always have.”

The walls groaned, cracks spidering through the ceiling. The floor shuddered like the whole building was trying to crawl away.

Lilith’s eyes blazed white. The rabbit crumbled to dust in her fist.

Then the station detonated.

White light swallowed everything. Fire roared, thunder cracked, walls splintered. Bodies were flung like rag dolls, desks and glass raining down in a maelstrom of sound and heat.

She barely had time to scream before Dean’s arms wrapped tight around her, dragging her down.

His body crushed against hers, shielding her from the blast, his hand cradling her head.

“Hold on!” he bellowed, voice lost in the roar.

The world ripped apart.

Silence followed.

Not peace. Not safety. The kind of silence that rings after devastation.

She coughed, choking on dust, vision swimming. The station was rubble, smoldering beams, twisted steel, blackened stone. The air reeked of sulfur and charred flesh.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice tore hoarse through the smoke.

“I’m here!” Sam staggered into view, blood streaming down his temple.

Dean hauled her upright, his arm iron around her waist. His shirt was shredded, blood streaking his arm.

They were alive.

No one else was.

Bodies lay broken, charred, lifeless across the wreckage. The agent. The deputies. Civilians. All gone.

Sam froze, horror etched deep. His voice cracked. “We couldn’t save them. We couldn’t save any of them.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his voice rough and hollow. “Not our fault. Lilith wanted a massacre, and she got it. We did what we could.”

But his eyes betrayed the guilt, heavy and merciless.

She gripped his jacket, dust grinding into her fingers, forcing her voice steady. “We’re alive. That’s what we have.”

Dean’s gaze dropped to her. His thumb brushed her arm, once, quick.

Sam tore his eyes from the wreckage, voice shredded. “We need to move. Before someone finds this and blames us. Again.”

Dean nodded, slipping his arm more firmly around her. Together, they staggered toward the parking lot.

The Impala waited under the moonlight, gleaming black, untouched. The last sanctuary.

The silence followed them into the night.

Chapter Text

The Impala rolled down the highway, engine steady and low. Her black paint caught the weak light from half-dead lamps along the road. Monument, Colorado, was behind them now, ashes, smoke, silence, but the weight of it still clung.

Sam sat in the back, laptop open, the glow painting him pale. He wasn’t typing, wasn’t even reading, just staring, reflection hollow in the screen. His jaw was tight, shoulders hunched.

Dean drove with both hands locked around the wheel like he thought it might fly out of his grip. His shoulders were iron bars, his mouth a hard line. He hadn’t said a word since the state line.

She sat in the passenger seat with her arms crossed tight over her chest. The leather of her jacket squeaked every time she shifted, but she didn’t move much. Smoke still clung to her hair, and the sharp bite of sulfur sat in the back of her throat. Lilith’s laugh stayed with her, not fading with distance, just lodged in her head like an echo that wouldn’t let go.

The silence in the car was heavier than usual, thicker than what any of them could ignore.

“Where to now?” she asked finally, her voice steady even if her chest wasn’t.

“Got a line on a case. Morton House. Indiana.” He tried for a smirk, but it was brittle.

Sam snapped his laptop shut, loud in the silence. Nobody argued. None of them wanted to talk about the station.

By the time they reached Morton House, the sky was starting to lighten, but it didn’t make the place look any better. The house sat at the end of a dirt road with shutters hanging loose and a porch that looked ready to collapse. It had the kind of run-down look that warned anyone with sense to stay out.

Dean stood in the yard with his hands on his hips, squinting at the sagging gables. “Well. This looks inviting.”

Sam shot him a sharp look over the EMF reader. “This place has a body count, Dean.”

Dean smirked. “So does Vegas. Still let me go there.”

She tugged her jacket tighter, nose wrinkling at the reek of mildew and copper. “Yeah, but in Vegas the odds of tetanus is practically zilch.”

Dean turned his head toward her, eyebrows raised. “Princess, you wound me. You really think I’d let you get tetanus? I carry shots in the trunk.”

Sam groaned without looking up. “You don’t.”

Dean’s grin curved wider, real this time. “Nah. But it’s the thought that counts.”

The porch groaned under their boots. Dean tested the doorknob, frowned when it stuck, and then kicked the door open in one sharp move. Dust burst outward in a choking cloud.

“Subtle,” she muttered, coughing into her sleeve.

Dean shot her a grin over his shoulder, cocky and sharp. “Stealth is for ninjas. We’re rock stars.”

“More like the Monkees,” Sam said, brushing past them.

Inside, the house had all the warmth of a grave. Wallpaper peeled in strips, furniture hunched under moth-eaten sheets, and the floorboards wailed with every step. The air was thick with the metallic bite of iron.

Dean swept his light across the hallway. “Reminds me of that frat house in Cleveland.”

Sam raised a brow. “The one with the poltergeist, or the one with the cheerleader who tried to hex you?”

Dean smirked, sharp and quick. “Both. Good times.”

Sam’s glare was practiced. “We almost got arrested.”

“Key word: almost.”

Her light skimmed faded chalk scrawls on the wall. She crouched, brushing dust away from crooked sigils.

Dean crouched beside her, shoulder brushing hers as he leaned in. “Guess we’re not the only ones who thought this place needed pest control.” 

The sound behind them wasn’t the house.

They spun in unison, guns raised, flashlights cutting the dark.

“Freeze! Police officers!” Dean barked, too loud, too sharp.

Two figures stumbled into the foyer, neon jackets, oversized cameras.

Dean groaned out loud. “Son of a bitch.”

Her brows lifted. “Friends of yours?”

Sam sighed. “Unfortunately. They uh...ghostbusters? Ghostfellas?”

“Ghostfacers!” the taller one yelled, throwing his arms out like he was announcing a rock band. His buddy jumped in right on cue, striking the same pose with their camera front and center. Clearly, they’d practiced this a hundred times before.

She blinked. “…They’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Sam muttered.

Dean leaned in, voice pitched low at her ear. “Bet you twenty bucks one of ’em tries to flirt with you.”

Her smirk curved slow. “Bet you fifty I take one home tonight.”

Dean’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “The hell you will.”

Her smirk didn’t fade. “Guess we’ll see.”

Sure enough, Harry shuffled over within minutes, chest puffed out like he thought it helped. “So, uh… you, uh… come here often? To, y’know… haunted houses?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. His whole body shifted closer, like instinct.

She arched a brow. “Only when I’m bored. Guess tonight’s your lucky night.”

Harry’s face lit up like he’d just won a science fair ribbon.

Before he could open his mouth again, Dean cut in, voice low and sharp. “Not that lucky.” He stepped closer, sliding himself between them with a look that could’ve stripped paint.

“Eyes front, Harry Potter. You’re here to hunt ghosts, not get yourself laid.”

Harry blinked, shrinking back, muttering something about “just being friendly.”

She bit back a smirk, satisfaction warming her chest at how easy it was to set Dean off.

Sam muttered, “This is going to be a long night.”

They pushed deeper into the house, flashlights slicing jagged paths through the dark. The Ghostfacers trailed behind like overeager interns, whispering too loud.

Dean tossed Scooby-Doo jokes; she shot back with Ghostbusters references. Sam muttered both were more competent than the tagalongs. But beneath the banter, the air grew colder. The walls seemed to lean closer.

The second floor complained under their weight, wallpaper peeling like old scabs. Something dripped in the dark, slow and patient.

Dean’s light cut across the walls. “Couple throw pillows, flatscreen. Boom, sexy bachelor pad.”

She arched a brow. "Yeah, this place is a real panty-dropper, Winchester.”

Dean chuckled, low and rough, the sound sinking into her chest.

Ed swung his oversized camera rig around without looking, the edge of it coming a little too close to her head. She had to jerk back to keep from getting smacked in the face.

He froze, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Whoa, sorry! I mean, uh, careful. Wouldn’t wanna… you know… mess up that, uh, really… gorgeous face.” He grinned nervously, cheeks flushing.

Dean’s head snapped around so fast she thought he’d sprained something.

His glare burned holes in Ed, jaw clenched tight. “Eyes front, Spielberg.”

Ed fumbled with his lens. “Just… posterity!”

Dean brushed close enough to her that his jacket grazed her arm, voice low. “Posterity my ass.”

Sam sighed. "Just shut up, all of you."

Old taxidermy mounts lined the walls, their glassy eyes following every movement. Dust-coated antlers cast long shadows across the cracked wallpaper.

She tilted her head, studying the stuffed fox mounted crookedly on the wall. "Huh. My foster dad used to collect this kind of junk. Had a whole den of it. Couldn't stand the place...smelled like chemicals."

Dean arched a brow. "So this feels like home to you?"

"Hell no." She smirked. "Just means I can tell you that fox is mounted wrong. Whoever did it didn't know what they were doing."

Dean's mouth curved. "So you're saying our ghost was a crappy taxidermist?"

"Exactly." She crouched, brushing her hand across a layer of dust on the floor. "And judging by how this house is layered in his hobbies, he didn't just kill people. He kept them."

Sam’s frown deepened. “Daggett. Fits the lore.”

Dean spun his shotgun once. “Taxidermy Ted Bundy. Great.”

Harry piped up, voice squeaking. “Wait...you mean he stuffed people?”

Dean shot him a flat look. “Congrats, Scooby. You cracked the case.”

Ed aimed his camera like he was filming Bigfoot. “Can you repeat that? Perfect delivery.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Not your soundbite.” His chin jerked toward her. “If you want pretty, film her.”

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “Careful, Winchester.”

Dean smirked, sharp, eyes catching hers. “Who says I’m not?”

Cold air slithered through the hallway. The EMF shrieked to life in Sam’s hand.

Dean’s grin hardened. He shifted closer, shotgun raised. “Showtime.”

The lights flickered once, twice, then cut to black.

The blackout dropped like a stone. One second, flashlights cut the walls into jagged stripes. The next, everything drowned in pitch.

Her light flickered, then died. So did Sam’s. Only Ed’s camera rig glowed faintly, casting a shaky cone over their faces like something out of cheap found footage.

"Uh...uh...this is fine," Harry stammered, his voice breaking an octave higher. "This is totally fine. Spirits drain power all the time. Normal haunting behavior. Textbook."

Dean chambered a round, the click loud in the suffocating silence. “Textbook, huh?”

“Dean,” Sam warned, eyes narrowed on the EMF, which screamed loud enough to rattle.

Her skin prickled cold. Every hair on her arms stood sharp. She swept her useless flashlight across the dark anyway, her breath fogging in the air.

The fox on the wall hung crooked, head tilted at an angle she swore hadn’t been there before. Her stomach tightened. “Sam. That mount moved.”

Sam spun. “What?”

Dean swung his beam onto it, jaw tight. “That’s just fantastic. Chuck Testa’s got tricks.”

Harry shuffled closer, shoulders hunched, voice squeaking. “Y-you’re not, um… scared or anything, right?”

She glanced at him, smirk curling slow. “Nope. But if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you hold my hand.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Wait, seriously?”

Dean didn’t even let him finish. “Kid, the only thing she’s holding is a loaded gun, and trust me, you don’t wanna be on the receiving end of either.” He shot Harry a look sharp enough to send him retreating two full steps.

She bit back a laugh, satisfied, while Dean’s smirk tugged crooked.

Sam’s voice was sharp. “Readings are spiking. He’s here.”

The temperature plummeted. Their breath fogged the air. A groan rolled through the walls, low and guttural, rattling the floor beneath their boots.

Ed squeaked, camera shaking in his grip. “What was that?”

Dean’s smirk flashed sharp, feral. “That? That’s Daggett saying hello.”

Something scraped down the far wall, long, metallic, like nails dragged slow across steel. It circled, closing in.

Sam’s voice cut low, urgent. “Basement. That’s where the activity’s strongest. If we want to end this, we go now.”

Dean’s nod was sharp, decisive. “All right, Sammy. You take Tweedledee and Tweedledumbass, keep ‘em from tripping over their shoelaces.”

He jerked his chin toward her. “She’s with me.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, how come she—”

Dean cut him off without missing a beat. “Because I called dibs. End of story.”

His grin widened, wicked and smug. “Besides, she actually knows what she’s doing. Unlike you clowns.”

She arched a brow, lips twitching. “Wow. Real romantic, Winchester. Nothing says devotion like being claimed like a shotgun.”

Dean tipped his head toward Sam wrangling the Ghostfacers. “Sweetheart, you and me? We’re the A-team. Sammy’s already got babysitting duty.”

She arched a brow. “So I’m stuck with you.”

Dean stepped in just a little closer, his flashlight beam slicing past her shoulder. His eyes flicking over her face before locking onto hers. “Lucky you.”

Harry piped up weakly. “If you two die first, does that make us the new A-team?”

Dean didn’t even turn. “No. That makes you snacks.”

It was silent after that.

The basement stairs groaned under their boots, each step raining dust. The air thickened, cloying, stinking of mildew and old blood.

By the time they reached the bottom, the flashlight beams caught rusted saws, deer hides hanging in strips, and jars of clouded glass filled with things better left unrecognized.

Dean’s fingers skimmed hers for a second as he adjusted his grip on the shotgun, his eyes cutting sideways. His voice was low. “Stay sharp. This one won’t fight clean.”

Her pulse kicked hard, but she kept her chin high. “Good.”

Something skittered across the far corner, too fast to track.

Sam’s voice echoed faint through the floorboards above. “Readings are through the roof. He’s right on top of you.”

Dean’s shoulders squared. “Come on out, Daggett. Let’s dance.”

Silence pressed in like a living thing.

Her flashlight flickered once, twice, then cut out. Shadows twisted.

And when the beam steadied again, Daggett was there.

His face convulsed in and out of focus, skin slipping like it couldn’t decide if it was still alive or already rotting. One cheekbone jutted bare while the other clung to slick, gray flesh. His eyes were pits, swallowing the beam of her flashlight until there was nothing left but black.

And his mouth… it split too far, teeth jagged and uneven, stretching into a grin that looked carved on with a knife.

Her chest locked. Just for a heartbeat. And that was all it took.

Cold snapped around her wrists like shackles, yanking her backward. Her flashlight clattered across the floor.

Dean shouted her name, boots slamming against the concrete, but the shadows surged, swallowing her whole.

Darkness slammed shut.

The basement floor vanished under her boots. Cold clamped her chest like wire. She hit hard, dust choking her throat, walls pressing in crooked and warped.

Daggett loomed, half-smoke, half-solid, grin splitting his face. Skeletal fingers brushed her cheek, mockingly gentle.

“You smell like fear,” he crooned, voice like stone dragged across glass. “Sweet. Sharp. You’ll do.”

Her chin jerked up, defiance sharp. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t scare easy.”

Daggett’s head tilted. His fingers snapped. Shackles yanked her tight against the wall, invisible bonds burning cold into her wrists.

“You don’t have to scare,” he whispered, leaning in, rancid breath curling across her skin. “You just have to remember.”

Images tore through her skull. The fire, Quinn’s scream swallowed in smoke, her foster homes, Harrison’s body bag after the crash. Every jagged edge shoved to the surface.

Daggett laughed, feeding on the shiver she couldn’t stop.

Her throat tightened, words catching before she forced them out. “Don't do this.” Her voice shook despite the steel she tried to put behind it.

Dean’s roar echoed faint through the warped hallways. The slam of his fists against the wall rattled plaster. “Son of a bitch took her!”

Sam’s voice was urgent. “Daggett isolates his victims. Dean, listen, he feeds on fear. If you—”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” Dean barked, shotgun clattering against his palm.

Her scream tore through the walls, muffled, strangled, but real.

Dean’s head snapped up, eyes wild. “There!”

Daggett leaned closer, grin slicing wide. “The hunter will come for you. They always do. And when he does…” His fingers skimmed her jaw again, obscene in their mockery of tenderness. “…I’ll make him watch.”

Her pulse hammered, but her lip curled. “You think he’ll break? You don’t know Dean Winchester.”

Daggett hissed, retreating into shadow, but his laugh slithered across the walls, wrapping tight around her ribs.

Dean tore through the basement, shotgun raised, teeth bared. Sam stumbled behind, gun already cocked.

When her scream split the dark again, his fury hit a fever pitch. He threw himself at the wall, slamming his fist until the plaster cracked, voice hoarse and violent. “Hang on! Hang in there, baby, I'm comin'.”

Daggett’s laugh echoed, low and gleeful.

Daggett’s grin stretched, wide enough to split his face. His shadow hands cinched tighter, wrists burning where they cut into her skin. He leaned close, lips grazing her ear though there was no heat to his body at all.

“You’re mine now. You’ll keep me full for years.”

Her chest rose fast, every instinct screaming to fight, but the bonds were unrelenting. “Get in line,” she hissed. “You’re not the first monster who’s tried.”

Daggett’s eyes burned black, delighted. “But I’ll be the last.”

The wall to her right exploded inward.

Dean came through like a wrecking ball, shotgun roaring. Salt rounds tore through Daggett’s half-formed body, shrieking as his grin wrenched into a snarl.

“Get your hands off her, you son of a bitch!” Dean bellowed, fury shredding his voice.

Sam charged in behind him, his flashlight beam carving jagged lines over the warped walls.

The shadow bonds shattered under Dean’s grip, his hands wrenching her free. She crumpled into his chest, his arms snapping around her.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he rasped, his hand fisted the back of her jacket like he was terrified she’d vanish.

Daggett reformed, snarling, lunging straight for them. Dean shoved her behind him with one arm, shotgun swinging up in the other, body planted between her and the spirit. “Come on then, you son of a bitch. You want something to tear apart? Try me.”

The spirit slammed him back into the wall. His shotgun clattered across the concrete. Dean’s fist lashed out anyway, knuckles crunching into smoke that felt like bone. Daggett shrieked but held on, feeding on the rage pouring off him.

“Sammy!” Dean shouted, voice strangled.

Sam fired from his pump-action, bullets booming off the walls, forcing Daggett to flicker, his form spasming with each shot.

Dean tore free, staggering. He spun back to her, his hands closing over hers, hauling her close. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, jaw tight.

Her knife was already out, grip steady despite the hammer of her heart. “Not a chance.”

Daggett lunged again, but this time Sam’s sigils caught. The walls blazed with fire, trapping the spirit in a cage of flame. Daggett howled, writhing, black smoke peeling from his body.

Dean’s arm snapped around her waist, holding her against him. Sam’s at him a few more times, forcing the ghost’s scream higher, sharper, until finally the spirit tore apart in a burst of light, leaving only silence and scorched plaster in its wake.

The basement collapsed into quiet.

Dean didn’t let go. His chest heaved against hers, sweat running down his temple, eyes wild.

He cupped the back of her head, forehead pressed to hers.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he muttered, voice broken.

Her throat closed, words catching. “Not on purpose.”

His mouth crashed onto hers.

No hesitation, all heat and pressure. His lips were warm, chapped at the edges, the scrape of stubble brushing against her upper lip and chin as he pressed closer. His breath was uneven, carrying the burn of adrenaline and the faint taste of blood. He angled his head, pushing deeper, and his grip tightened like he was making sure she couldn’t slip away.

When he finally broke away, he dropped his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, uneven.

The moment shattered with a squeal.

Ed nearly dropped the camera, eyes bugging out. “Duuude! Did you see that? He totally kissed her! Like...like, actual lips-on-lips, no space-bar kiss!”

Harry’s voice pitched high. “Dude, I got the whole thing. Emmy-worthy.”

Dean’s head snapped around, eyes blazing. “Turn. That. Off.”

The Ghostfacers giggled like kids who’d just seen something dirty, bouncing on their heels. Maggie actually clapped.

Sam sighed so hard it sounded like his soul was leaving his body. “We're never living this down.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his arm still around her waist. “Delete it, now.”

Ed squeaked, retreating behind Maggie. “But it’s history! Art!”

“Do it,” Dean snapped, his tone low.

She pressed a hand against his chest, voice light. “Come on, Winchester. Not worth catching a charge over. Unless you really wanna make the evening news.”

Dean’s eyes flicked down at her, his jaw still tight, but the fire in them dimmed just a little. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Still worth it.”

Sam ran a hand down his face. “Daggett’s gone, but this house is still a magnet. We need to salt it and burn whatever’s left.”

Dean exhaled sharp, glaring one last time at the Ghostfacers before tugging her toward the stairs. 

Outside, the night air hit cold and sharp, the moon hanging pale above the ruined house. The Impala gleamed under it, untouched, waiting.

She pulled her wrist gently, but Dean didn’t release it until Sam gave him a look that was equal parts serious and are you cutting off her circulation?

Dean’s eyes swept over her for the fifth time, like he was checking for damage he’d missed. His hand lingered too long at her elbow. “You sure you’re okay?”

She straightened, forcing a smirk. “I’m fine, Dean. Really. Little shaken, not broken.”

His jaw worked like he didn’t buy it. “Didn’t look fine when he had you pinned to the wall.”

Her voice dropped, steadier. “And yet… I’m standing right here.”

Dean exhaled hard, the tension easing just enough for his mouth to twitch. “Yeah, well. Next time, I’m not letting some creep string you up. If anybody’s tying you down, it’s gonna be me.”

Sam groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do me a favor? Never say that again.”

The Ghostfacers tumbled out behind them, high-fiving, babbling about shipping wars and internet stardom. Dean muttered a string of curses under his breath, but he didn’t take his arm off her waist.

When they finally slid into the Impala, silence settled heavy again.

Sam sighed in the back, exhausted. The Ghostfacers trailed off down the road, still chattering.

Dean kept one hand on the wheel, the other on her thigh. His knuckles brushed absent circles through the denim, subtle and steady, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

His voice was quiet, almost offhand, eyes still on the road. “Scared the crap out of me back there.”

Her chest pulled tight, but she kept her tone even. “Yeah… but I knew you’d show.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, his grip tightening slightly. “Damn right.”

He finally reached for the box of tapes, slid one into the deck, and let the Impala fill with the scratchy hum of old vinyl.

“This thing called love, I just can’t handle it…”

Dean smirked faintly, eyes still on the road.

Chapter Text

The Impala’s tires thrummed low against the road, the only steady rhythm in a car gone quiet.

Morton House was miles behind them, but the stink of mildew and blood seemed baked into her skin.

Her arms stayed wrapped tight around her ribs, jacket zipped up to her chin, though it didn’t help.

Sam hadn’t said a word since they got in. He sat in the back with the laptop propped on his knees, screen glow painting him pale.

His hands hovered over the keyboard, frozen mid-gesture, as if the right combination of keys might unlock the universe and spare his brother.

She didn’t bother trying to pull his attention away. She knew that look too well. Sam in research mode was immovable, like if he stopped moving, he’d break apart.

Up front, Dean drove with both hands loose on the wheel, but she could see the tension in the tendons of his wrists.

The way his jaw clicked every time he shifted gears. The silence pressed heavier than any night they’d driven before, and it wasn’t like him to let it sit.

Sure enough, he spoke first. “You two gonna sulk the whole ride, or what? We’ve pulled off worse.”

His voice was light on the surface, but she caught the strain under it.

His grin flickered her way for just a second before snapping back to the road. “Some demon deal, little hellfire, cakewalk. What’s life without a little drama?”

Sam didn’t answer, just adjusted the laptop on his knees.

Dean tried again. “Relax. Sammy’ll keep working that nerd magic, you’ll keep schooling me with bedtime stories from the Book of Creepy, and I’ll… y’know. Manage.”

Her eyes stayed on him, studying his profile in the dashlight.

He knew she was watching, he always knew, but this time he didn’t mask it with a joke.

He kept his gaze forward, mouth tight, and tapped his thumb once against the wheel.

She leaned her head against the seatback, voice quieter than she meant it to be. “You’re not managing, Dean. You’re pretending.”

His lip twitched, almost a smile, but there was no real humor in it. “What else am I supposed to do, huh? Cry about it? Don’t really see the point.”

Her chest tightened. “The point is you’re not dead yet.”

Dean’s eyes flicked toward her, just for a beat, then back to the road.

“Not yet,” he admitted. His tone was gruff, but softer than he usually let it be.

Her fingers curled tighter against her arms.

Sam shifted in the backseat, breaking the moment. “Dean.” His voice was sharp, low, all warning.

Dean let out a humorless laugh, lifting one shoulder. “What? He’s right. I’m not dead yet. Might as well enjoy the ride while I’ve got it.”

For once, he didn’t try to hide the way his knuckles tightened against the wheel.

The motel was two towns over, a squat little place with flickering vacancy lights and walls thin enough to hear the traffic on the highway. Dean didn’t even comment on the decor when they walked in, which told her more about his state of mind than anything else. Normally, he’d at least crack a joke about the mildew stains or the cigarette burns in the carpet.

Sam set up immediately at the small table, laptop open again, papers spread around him in neat stacks.

He didn’t look up once.

Dean sat heavily on the bed closest to the door. She followed, lowering herself beside him.

He didn’t push her off or crack a joke about her stealing his space.

Instead, his arm slid around her automatically, pulling her against him like he needed the contact as much as she did.

The television clicked on with static, no channel tuned in, blue glow bleeding across the room. Neither of them reached for the remote.

She pressed her cheek against the fabric of his shirt, breathing in motor oil, gunpowder, and the faintest trace of soap.

He hadn’t shaved in two days; his jaw rasped against her temple when he turned his head.

Dean didn’t say anything for a long time.

His hand just moved slowly, absently, his thumb brushing the curve of her shoulder over and over like he wasn’t even aware of it.

Her arm tightened across his chest, her hand fisting in the fabric there. She didn’t want to let go, didn’t trust herself to.

The clock ticked loud on the nightstand. Each second sounded like a countdown.

Finally, Dean’s voice broke the silence, softer than usual. “Eighteen hours.”

Her throat burned. She swallowed hard before answering. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t count them out loud.”

Dean huffed, not quite a laugh. “Sorry.”

She lifted her head just enough to look at him. He was staring at the ceiling, eyes darker than usual, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones.

His jaw was clenched tight, like he was holding in every word he wanted to say.

She touched his chin gently, coaxing him to look at her. “You don’t have to act like it doesn’t scare you.”

His eyes met hers then, in a way she’d only seen a handful of times.

The usual armor, sarcasm, cocky grins, bravado, was stripped bare.

“It does,” he admitted quietly.

Her chest twisted so hard it almost hurt.

He reached up, cupping her face, rough palm warm against her skin. His thumb brushed under her eye like he was memorizing her.

“I just don’t want you to see me like that. Weak.”

Her voice broke as she whispered, “You’ve never been weak a day in your life.”

Dean let out a shaky breath, forehead pressing briefly to hers.

His voice was rough when he spoke again. “You know you’re it for me, right? Always have been.”

The words hit her like a punch, sharp and brutal, because he meant them. He meant every single one.

She closed the distance before she could think, kissing him hard, not caring that Sam was a few feet away.

Dean kissed her back immediately, no hesitation, his grip tightening in her hair, pulling her closer like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go.

It wasn’t playful or teasing. It was desperate, like both of them were clinging to the last thread they had left.

When she pulled back, breathless, her forehead stayed pressed to his.

Her voice was a broken whisper. “Then don’t go. Please don't go."

A pause.

“I don’t want memories. I want you.”

Dean’s eyes closed. His jaw clenched. “Baby…” His voice cracked. “If I could trade places with anyone else on the planet, I would.”

Her tears slipped free, hot against his skin.

Dean kissed them away, his lips rough but careful, like he could erase them.

His fingers threaded into her hair, slow and absent.

“You should sleep,” he murmured finally, voice low, close to her ear.

She shook her head against his chest, whispering something she didn’t even finish, because the sound broke into a sob halfway out.

He hushed her without thinking, his palm smoothing over the back of her head. 

Her throat tightened. “You really think I could?”

Her hand slid under his shirt, palm against the hard muscle of his stomach, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

She traced the lines of him like she was memorizing a map. Dean’s body went still for a second, then shuddered, his hand covering hers, holding it flat against his skin.

“Don’t stop,” he said, barely audible. “Just… stay right there.”

So she did. They stayed like that, tangled together, sharing the same air, clinging as if neither could let go. She felt his heartbeat through her palm, steady but fragile, a reminder of how human he really was.

When he finally spoke again, it was a whisper. “Promise me something.”

Her eyes lifted. “Anything.”

“Remember me like this. Just me. With you.”

Her tears slipped hot down her cheeks, but she nodded. “Then you promise me something too.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll fight anyway.”

Dean closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers again. “I’ll fight. For you, I’ll fight.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, softer, but no less desperate. He kissed her back with the same weight, like every second mattered.

Across the room, Sam’s chair scraped faintly against the carpet, but he didn’t say a word. He let them have this.

----

By the time the sky outside the motel lightened into a washed-out gray, Sam had packed and repacked his bag twice.

He moved like a machine, his expression shuttered, and the sound of zippers and papers stuffed into folders filled the silence Dean refused to break.

She stirred when Dean slipped out of bed. The dip of the mattress lifted, and the warmth at her side left with him. She sat up, rubbing at her eyes, and watched him shrug into his jacket.

“You should’ve slept,” she said quietly.

Dean glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression softened. “Didn’t want to waste the time.”

Her throat tightened, but she got up too.

She crossed to him and tugged at the collar of his jacket, smoothing it down. He caught her wrist halfway through and held it against his chest.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Sam’s voice finally broke the quiet. “We need Ruby.”

Dean froze, jaw working. “Not this again.”

“She’s the only one with the knife,” Sam shot back, sharper this time.

His voice was too tight, like it had been waiting to break all night. “We can’t kill Lilith without it.”

Dean let out a low, bitter laugh. “So your plan is to run straight to the demon who’s been jerking your chain since day one? Yeah, real solid game plan, Sammy.”

Sam’s hands slammed down on the table, the sound loud in the cramped room.

“You’re dying, Dean. Today. And you’d rather go out swinging blind than admit we need her?”

She stepped in before Dean could explode, her voice even but firm. “It’s not about trusting Ruby. It’s about the knife.”

Dean’s gaze snapped to her.

For a second he looked furious, betrayed even, but then it cracked.

His eyes softened, and he shook his head, muttering, “Not you too.”

She reached for his hand, squeezed tight. “I’m not siding with him, or her. I’m siding with you staying alive.”

Sam pressed the advantage. “One shot. That’s all I’m asking. We don’t have any other choice.”

Dean’s jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked, but he didn’t argue again. 

“Fine,” he bit out. “But don’t expect me to play nice.”

The barn Ruby had chosen looked like it would collapse if the wind picked up too hard. Dean led the way inside, every step deliberate, protective, like he expected the walls to attack. She stuck close to him, her hand brushing his jacket every so often.

Ruby leaned against a support beam like she’d been waiting hours, smirk already loaded.

Her eyes slid over Sam, then Dean, then lingered on her.

“Well, well,” Ruby drawled. “Finally decided to see reason?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Spare me the reunion tour. Hand over the knife.”

Ruby arched a brow, smirk tugging at her mouth. “Always straight to business with you, Dean. No wonder she sticks around, you’re useless at foreplay.”

Dean’s mouth twisted, eyes cold. “Funny. Didn’t ask for your commentary. Just give it up.”

Sam cut through the tension, voice strained. “Ruby. Now.”

Ruby’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she pulled the blade free and tossed it toward Sam. He caught it, relief flashing across his face.

Dean’s glare didn’t soften. “You so much as breathe wrong, and I’ll put this through your throat.”

Ruby’s smirk returned, but thinner now. “Charming as ever.”

Back in the Impala, the knife sat heavy in Sam’s lap, glinting faintly with every bump of the road.

The silence inside the car was thick again, broken only when Dean muttered, “We’re still screwed.”

“No,” Sam said quickly. “We’re not. We have a chance now.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel. “You really believe that?”

Sam’s voice cracked. “I have to.”

From the backseat, she leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on Dean’s shoulder.

His muscles tensed under her palm, then eased. 

“You’ll fight,” she whispered. “You’ll make it.”

Dean swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the empty road ahead. “Yeah,” he said, but it didn’t sound like he believed it.

The Impala carried them out of the backroads, the knife sitting in Sam’s lap like it was the only lifeline left in the world. 

Sam shifted in the passenger seat, his knee bouncing. “We need a plan. We can’t just roll up on Lilith and hope the knife’s enough.”

Dean finally barked out a laugh, dry and humorless. “Plan? Sure, Sammy. Step one, don’t die. Step two, stab the bitch.”

Sam slammed his laptop shut with more force than necessary. “This isn’t a joke!”

Dean’s voice cut sharp. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hear the clock ticking every damn second?”

The words cracked through the car like glass.

Silence hung heavy after, the only sound the Impala’s low rumble.

The motel curtains didn’t do much against the afternoon sun, thin fabric bleeding yellow across the floor.

It had been about an hour since they’d dragged themselves back from the barn, Ruby’s words and that damn knife still hanging between them.

Sam was already hunched over the desk with his laptop glowing against his tired face. He didn’t glance up, fingers moving steady on the keys as he muttered about omens, broken seals, and where Lilith might hole up next.

“You find her?” Dean asked, voice rough.

Sam finally looked up, eyes bloodshot. “Yeah. Pretty sure I did.” He slid the laptop around, showing an address.

Suburban neighborhood. White picket fence, two-car garage, the whole picture-perfect lie. “She’s here. No doubt.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Figures. Hell’s queen holed up in Mayberry.”

Sam started shoving papers into his bag again, the tension between them all thrumming so sharp it made her stomach twist.

Dean finally stood, pulling on his jacket, loading his gun with smooth, practiced motions. Every click echoed.

“Sam,” Dean said suddenly, his tone sharp, “you stay back when we go in.”

“What? No way.”

“I mean it.” Dean shoved the shotgun into his duffel and zipped it closed. “You hang back with her, keep her safe, and—”

“No,” she cut in, standing. “You don’t get to sideline me. Not today.”

Dean’s head snapped toward her, his expression stormy. “You think I want you in there when this goes down? You think I could—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “Absolutely not.”

Her chest ached, but she held his stare. “You know I'm gonna be there."

For a second, he just looked at her, raw and stripped down in a way Dean Winchester never let anyone see.

Then he exhaled, muttering, “Goddamn stubborn woman,” before slinging the duffel over his shoulder.

Sam glanced between them, but didn’t say a word. He just opened the door.

The drive to the neighborhood was suffocating. Every clapboard house, every carefully trimmed lawn, felt like a mockery.

Kids rode bikes in circles, sprinklers ticked across the grass, dogs barked in the distance, normal life playing out against the storm waiting for them.

Dean parked two streets over. They walked the rest of the way, weapons hidden under jackets, adrenaline hot in their veins.

She kept close to Dean, brushing his hand every few steps until he finally caught it and squeezed hard.

The house was lit up like any other, warm glow in the windows, family shapes moving around inside.

Sam muttered, “She’s here. I can feel it.”

Dean’s voice dropped to a growl. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

They burst through the door.

The family inside froze, forks halfway to mouths, eyes wide and terrified. For half a second, it looked real.

Then the lights flickered, the air turned cold, and black smoke bled from their eyes and mouths.

The mother hissed, lunging across the table. Sam grabbed her and slammed her against the wall, the knife pressed to her throat. The father flew back under a salt round from Dean’s shotgun, smoke shrieking out of his body.

The little girl stayed in her chair, swinging her legs, smiling sweetly.

“Hi,” she said, voice sugar-coated. “Took you long enough.”

Dean swore under his breath. “Lilith.”

Her glowing white eyes cut across the table, landing on Dean, then on her.

The smile widened. “Oh, I like this. I really do.”

The floorboards groaned. Something heavy scratched against the walls outside.

Sam’s head jerked toward the sound, panic written all over his face. “Dean...?”

Dean’s grip on the shotgun tightened.

He gave her one quick look, not fear, not doubt, but something worse. Finality.

“When those doors break,” he spoke, voice low, “they’re coming for me. Not you. Not him. Me. So you run.”

Her stomach dropped. “I’m not leaving you.”

Dean’s jaw locked, his eyes burning into hers. “Don’t argue with me now. Just do it.”

The growls outside grew louder, claws raking the siding, glass rattling in the windows.

Sam’s voice shook. “Dean, we’re out of time.”

Dean reached for her suddenly, cupping her face in both hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks.

His forehead dropped to hers, his breath ragged. “Whatever happens in the next five minutes… you remember this. That’s all I want.”

Her lips trembled, but she leaned in, catching his mouth in a kiss that was hard, desperate, everything she’d been holding back.

He kissed her like a drowning man, like she was the last anchor left in the world.

And then the doors exploded inward.

The hellhounds came crashing through, unseen but unmistakable, claws ripping into wood, teeth snapping.

Dean shoved her behind him, shotgun blasting into the air.

The sound of the first hound’s howl rattled the walls, sulfur burning her lungs.

Sam shouted, lunging forward with the knife.

Dean roared, firing again, forcing the invisible beasts back step by step.

He glanced at her once over his shoulder, green eyes raw and wild.

“Run!”

But she didn’t move.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, slashing with the knife, hitting nothing but shadows that moved faster than the eye could catch.

The room spun with chaos, chairs toppled, plaster cracked from ceiling to floor. The stench of sulfur thickened until it burned her throat raw.

Dean fired again, body braced against the recoil. “Come on, you bastards!” he roared. “Come and get me!”

The first hound hit.

Dean’s body snapped sideways, slammed into the wall so hard the plaster fractured.

He grunted, teeth clenched, blood already blooming across his shirt as claws tore across his chest.

“No!” she screamed, rushing forward, but Sam’s arm locked around her waist, dragging her back.

“You can’t—!” Sam’s voice cracked, raw with desperation.

“Let me go!” She thrashed, nails digging into Sam’s arm, but his grip was iron.

Dean was thrown across the room, crashing into the dining table. The wood splintered under his weight, shards scattering like shrapnel.

He dragged himself up, breath ragged, and slashed out with Ruby’s knife. The blade cut something, blood sprayed across the air from a wound on nothing.

The hellhound shrieked, retreating for only a second before lunging again.

Dean stabbing it again, fury pouring out of him with every strike. “You’re not taking me easy!”

But there were more.

Growls layered over growls, closing in from every side. She could feel the heat of their breath on her neck, the thud of their claws on the floor.

Dean looked at her then, across the carnage.

His face was bloodied, pale, but his eyes, God, his eyes, were clear.

They locked on hers, unyielding, memorizing her even as the hounds circled.

“For once,” he rasped, voice torn and broken, “do what I tell you.”

And then the hounds struck all at once.

Dean’s body jerked violently, claws raking across his chest and shoulders.

He screamed, the sound tearing through her like a blade.

Blood splattered across the walls, the floor, her face.

The knife clattered from his grip.

“Dean!” she screamed, the word breaking.

She tore free from Sam this time, falling hard to her knees beside him.

His blood was everywhere, hot, slick, spilling through her fingers as she pressed her hands to his chest.

She couldn’t even see where the wounds began, only that there were too many. Too deep.

“Stay with me, please, please stay with me—” Her voice cracked into sobs, hysterical, her whole body shaking.

Dean’s hand found hers, weak but steady enough to squeeze. His grip was slick with blood, trembling, but he forced it closed over hers. His green eyes locked on hers, glassy but still burning.

“You,” he whispered, choking on the word, “I-I—”

Her tears streamed, blurring everything but him. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say goodbye—”

He coughed, blood staining his lips.

His other hand lifted, shaking, brushing her cheek.

He left a streak of red across her skin. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke.

“Stop,” she begged, clutching his hand against her face.

He tried to smile, weak and uneven, but his eyes softened in that way that stripped him down to nothing but love.

Love.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Her heart split open. The words she’d been holding back crashed out of her.

“I love you too. God, Dean, I love you.”

His thumb brushed her cheek one last time. His breath hitched, then stilled.

His eyes stayed open. Empty.

The silence after was worse than the attack.

“No, no, no,” she sobbed, shaking his body. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me—” Her voice broke into incoherent pleas, words dissolving into screams.

Sam collapsed on Dean’s other side, his massive frame folding inward.

He clutched Dean’s arm, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Dean,” he whispered, voice strangled. “Oh, Dean…”

She pressed her forehead to Dean’s, her body curled over his like she could shield him.

Her sobs broke into gasps, every breath torn from her chest.

“You promised me,” she whispered against his cold skin.

Sam’s fist slammed into the floor, splitting open his knuckles, his grief spilling out in violent tremors.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her tears dripped onto his face, mixing with the blood streaked across his lips.

Her hands shook where they gripped his shirt, holding on like if she let go he’d vanish completely.

“Come back to me,” she begged, voice raw. “Please. Just come back.”

But he was gone.

Dean Winchester was dead.

And then came the sound.

A light, sing-song giggle.

It sliced through the silence like a blade, high and sweet.

Both she and Sam froze.

The front doorway was splintered, glass and wood littering the floor, and through it stepped a little girl in a spotless white dress.

Her curls bounced with each step. Her bare feet left tiny prints through the blood pooled on the floor.

Lilith.

Her glowing white eyes locked onto them, and her mouth curled into a smile too wide for her face.

Sam surged to his feet, the knife trembling in his grip.

His face was streaked with tears, twisted with rage. “You,” he spat.

Lilith tilted her head, curls falling over her cheek. “Poor Sammy. Poor little lost boy. Always watching the people you love die.”

Her eyes slid to the body in his arms. “Always too late.”

Sam took a step forward, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I’ll—”

Lilith giggled, the sound grating. “You’ll what? Cry harder? Beg? You can’t even touch me.”

Her gaze shifted to her, where she knelt clutching Dean’s body.

The smile sharpened. “And you. Hiding behind them, always hiding. Letting them bleed for you.”

Her stomach lurched, fury and grief colliding, but her throat locked.

Words wouldn’t come.

Lilith lifted her little hand, palm glowing with white-hot light.

She aimed it at Sam, then at her. The glow flared, so bright it seared her eyes shut.

And then it sputtered.

The light fizzled out.

Lilith blinked, confused. She tried again, eyes narrowing.

Another flare of power, hotter this time, but it snapped out mid-burst like a broken bulb.

“What the hell?” Sam whispered, voice hoarse.

Lilith’s expression cracked. Her perfect smile twisted into something darker, sharper.

She glared at them, rage spilling into her childlike voice. “Not yet. Not you two.”

Her little body shuddered, and then with a sound like wings tearing through the air, she was gone.

The silence crashed back.

Sam’s chest heaved as he lowered the knife, his hands trembling. His eyes darted to her, to Dean’s lifeless body still clutched in her arms, and his face collapsed all over again.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Her fingers dug into Dean’s shirt, clinging like letting go would erase him from existence. Her tears blurred his face until he was nothing but shape and color beneath her.

Sam lowered himself beside them, his huge hand closing around Dean’s arm, gripping tight like he could anchor him to earth.

His shoulders shook violently, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

Time didn’t exist anymore.

Just the weight of Dean in her arms, the steady tick of the clock somewhere in the wreck of the house, mocking and merciless.

Dean Winchester was dead.

Chapter Text

The shovel bit into the earth with a dull thunk, the sound carrying in the thick night air. Each strike landed harder than the last, metal slicing through dirt in a rhythm that was more violent than steady.

The silence around it didn’t help. No crickets, no wind, nothing but the relentless scrape and slam of steel against packed soil.

She’d thought the tears had dried up hours ago, thought she was wrung out past the point of breaking.

But every time the shovel’s edge tore into the ground, it was like something inside her tore right along with it.

Dean deserved fire, salt, and smoke curling into the night sky. A hunter's ending. A warrior's pyre.

Not this.

Not cold earth in Bobby Singer's backyard, hidden away.

But Sam hadn’t been able to bring the match to life, his hand frozen around the lighter.

And when it came down to her turn, she found she couldn’t do it either.

So here they were, beneath a Kansas sky bruised purple and gray, digging a hole in the dirt. 

Sam’s face was hard, jaw tight, streaked with sweat and dirt.

He gripped the shovel with both hands and slammed it into the ground again and again, each movement sharp.

His shoulders bunched with the effort, muscles straining as he dug with a kind of furious determination, like sheer force alone could make the earth give him what he wanted.

His knuckles went white on the wooden handle, shoulders shuddering with the weight of rage he had nowhere to put.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

Every rough swing of the shovel showed how much it cost him, his grief bleeding through in the set of his jaw, his guilt clear in the way he refused to slow down.

Watching it hurt, because she recognized the same ache in herself.

Bobby leaned against the hood of an old rust-bucket Chevy, flask loose in his hand, the dim porch light painting his weathered face in tired gold.

He hadn’t said a word all night.

He just stood back, watching.

Finally, his voice cut through the stillness, slow and gravelled. "You two oughta stop."

Sam froze mid-swing, chest heaving, breath hot and ragged. "What?"

Bobby took a long swallow from his flask, then gestured at the half-dug grave with the edge of his hand. "He's gone. Buryin' him ain't gonna change that. And what comes next..."

His eyes were hard, sharp as iron. "You can't charge at it like bulls in a china shop."

Her throat tightened until it hurt. She dragged her sleeve across her face, smearing sweat and grit, and when she finally forced the words out, her voice broke under the strain.

"So what? We just sit here? Pretend Lilith didn't drag him to Hell while we watched? Pretend he isn't..." Her voice broke entirely. "Pretend he isn't gone?"

Bobby's jaw tightened. "I'm sayin' you lay low. Regroup. You go stormin' after her right now, you'll get yourselves killed. And then where'll we be? Three Winchesters in the ground instead of one."

Sam hurled the shovel down, dirt scattering across the grave like shrapnel.

His voice boomed across the yard.

"You think I care?!" His whole frame shook. His eyes blazed, wet and furious.

"She took him, Bobby! She took my brother. And you're telling me to just sit here? To wait?" His breath hitched. "Screw that."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the cicadas seemed to have gone quiet.

She forced herself to speak, though her voice trembled. "He wouldn't want us to stop."

Bobby's eyes softened, but his words cut sharp. "He wouldn't want you dead either, girl. Neither of you."

Her arms tightened around Dean's jacket.

The leather was heavy on her shoulders, still rich with his scent, motor oil, gunpowder, cheap motel soap, and that faint hint of aftershave he swore he didn't use.

She pressed her face into it, shoulders shaking, and the words slipped out between breaths. “I can’t do this without him. I don’t care what happens to me...I just need him back.”

Sam's head snapped toward her, eyes wide and wet, his grief a mirror of her own.

Bobby muttered a curse under his breath and turned away, dragging a hand under the brim of his cap. "Idjits. Both of you."

Sam stepped closer to the grave, fists tight at his sides. "We'll finish this. Lilith. The demons. The hellhounds. I don't care."

Bobby's shoulders sagged, heavy with decades of battles lost and friends buried. "That's exactly what she wants."

But no one answered.

Together, the three of them lowered Dean into the ground.

Bobby muttered the hunter's prayer, his voice hoarse. Sam said nothing.

As the dirt hit the coffin with a hollow thud, her voice barely broke above a whisper.

“Don’t leave me here.”

The motel room was quiet except for the air conditioner sputtering and the clock ticking on the wall. Neon light from the sign outside slipped through the curtains, painting everything in a flat red glow.

The bed sagged in the middle. The carpet was worn thin.

Sam moved back and forth across the room.

His steps were heavy, his hands running over his face and neck like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Sometimes he stopped at the window, pressed his forehead to the glass, then turned away again.

He hadn’t sat down since they got in.

She stayed on the bed, Dean’s jacket spread across her lap.

Her fingers traced the seams, her grip tightening every time she breathed in the faint smell that still clung to it. Motor oil. Soap.

The smell of him that hadn’t faded yet. It hurt to breathe it in, but she couldn’t stop.

Sam finally dropped into the chair by the window.

His elbows rested on his knees, his head bowed low. His shoulders stayed tense like he couldn’t let himself rest.

She slid off the bed and sat on the floor beside him, her back against the mattress.

She pulled the jacket close to her chest, her knees tucked in. 

Sam kept his eyes on the floor. She pressed her face into the leather, tears soaking into it, her breath hitching against the fabric.

He dragged a hand over his face, rubbed his palms into his eyes until the skin turned red, but he stayed silent.

They sat that way for hours, both exhausted but unwilling to lie down.

The room smelled like dust, stale air, and Dean’s jacket. That was all there was left.

When the night finally gave way to morning, Sam got up and poured coffee into two cups.

He set one by her hand without a word and sat back down in the chair.

She wrapped her hands around the cup, holding it just to feel something warm.

Neither thanked the other. Neither said a thing.

The room remained silent.

Chapter Text

It had been one hundred and twenty-one days.

She knew the number because she carved a tally into the bedroom wall every morning before her first cup of coffee. A ritual now.

The knife scraped the plaster, sharp and steady, and left another scar in Bobby Singer’s old farmhouse that he probably noticed but never mentioned.

The air in the house was always the same.

Dust mixed with motor oil, fried eggs that lingered from Bobby’s breakfast, and the faint sting of whiskey from the flask he kept at his desk.

To her, it was the closest thing she had to home, but even home felt hostile now.

Bobby didn’t talk much, he never did, but he let her stay. Let her haunt the hallways in Dean’s flannel and jacket, his amulet pressed so hard to her chest it might as well have fused there.

He didn’t say anything when she gave up the guest room for the couch, didn’t question it when she curled into cushions Dean had sprawled across hundreds of times.

The couch was worn and uneven, but it felt safer, like it still remembered him.

Bobby’s kindness was a silence more comforting than words. A mug of coffee slid toward her when she forgot to eat. A blanket dropped over her shoulders when she fell asleep with lore books open on her lap.

The closest thing to a father she’d ever had.

She clung to that, because everything else was gone.

And still, she was drowning.

Every night when Bobby finally dozed off in his chair with a lore book across his chest, she hunted, not with salt and shotguns, but with desperation.

She devoured resurrection myths until her eyes burned. Dug through sketchy forums full of self-proclaimed witches and drunk conspiracy theorists. Half the posts read like bad fanfiction, the other half like suicide notes.

She smeared chalk into summoning circles across the kitchen floor, wiped them away before morning.

Once, she even stood at a crossroads, dirt in one hand, matches in the other, Dean’s jacket zipped up to her chin.

Her heart thudded loud enough to drown out the night. She waited. No demon came.

It was as though they knew she’d say yes without hesitation, and that kind of recklessness was dangerous.

She drowned her guilt and grief with whiskey.

Some nights the burn of it was the only thing that anchored her to the present.

She kept bottles hidden in drawers and under couch cushions, the same way Dean used to stash emergency flasks in the Impala.

She told herself it was survival. She told herself Dean would’ve understood.

But Bobby’s walls began to close in after a while.

The floor creaked like Dean was walking down the hall, and every sound of the pipes settling at night was his laugh echoing back.

It was too much.

So she left.

Enumclaw wasn’t home anymore. She drove to Seattle, then Tacoma, then Olympia.

She rented rooms with peeling wallpaper, took jobs that barely lasted weeks, kept herself in motion like running could silence the echo of Dean’s absence.

It didn’t work.

Every bar smelled like the one Dean once dragged her into. Every leather jacket reminded her of his. Every song on the radio was something he’d sung off-key at her just to make her roll her eyes. Even strangers’ laughter dug under her ribs because it wasn’t his.

One night in Tacoma, after too many shots, she let a stranger push her into the bathroom of a dive bar.

His breath was hot on her neck, his hands rough at her waist, and for one dizzying second she thought maybe this was the answer.

Maybe she could drown it this way, too.

But when she met his eyes in the cracked mirror, all she saw was Dean’s. The tilt of his grin, the spark of green that no one else would ever have.

Her stomach lurched.

She shoved the stranger off with a muttered excuse, ignored his curses, and stumbled out into the night.

She vomited in the alley until her throat was raw, then sat there in the cold with tears running hot down her face.

She couldn’t replace him. She didn’t even want to. She only wanted him back.

So she drove home. Back to Bobby’s.

Back to the couch that had molded to her shape. Back to the tally marks on the wall and the stale smell of whiskey that clung to her clothes. She didn’t explain when she came in at dawn. Bobby didn’t ask. He just handed her a mug of coffee and slid a lore book across the table.

“Rough trip,” was all he said.

She dove back into research.

Some nights, when even that wasn’t enough, she drove to the grave.

The grass was always damp, clinging to her jeans when she sat down in front of the wooden cross.

Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she screamed. Sometimes she just pressed her cheek to the wood until the chill numbed her skin.

Other nights, exhaustion dragged her under and she woke curled against the earth, dew in her hair, the sun rising on a pain that didn’t ease.

Once she brought a bottle of whiskey and left it half-empty by the marker.

Another time, she pressed Dean’s amulet against the wood until her hands cramped, whispering bargains into the dirt.

It never worked.

Every time she walked back it felt like leaving him behind all over again.

The days bled together, one indistinguishable from the next. Coffee, research, drinking, sleep in restless scraps.

She was still carving tally marks into the wall, but sometimes she skipped a day without realizing it, and that felt even worse.

Bobby caught her staring blank at the plaster once, knife still in her hand, and he didn’t say a word, just gently took it from her grip and left her alone.

Sam had been gone for months now.

She told herself she was grateful for the silence, but the lie cracked every time she sat too long in the Impala’s passenger seat, staring at the empty driver’s spot.

Sam’s side felt wrong without his nervous tapping against the window glass.

The anger finally broke through on a night she hadn’t expected it.

She was sitting on the porch, Dean’s jacket zipped up to her chin, bottle of whiskey sweating in her hand. The night was warm but she shivered anyway. Bobby had turned in hours ago.

She hadn’t even noticed the crunch of tires on gravel until the door opened behind her.

Sam.

He looked thinner, sharper.

His hair hung longer around his face, his eyes dark in a way that didn’t have much to do with lack of sleep.

He didn’t say hello. He just looked at her, then at the bottle in her lap, and something flickered ugly in his expression.

“You’re drinking yourself to death.” His voice was flat.

She laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Takes the edge off.”

“Does it?” He stepped out onto the porch, looming, his shoulders wound tight. “Because you look worse than when I left.”

She bristled, her grip tightening on the glass. “Don’t throw stones, Sammy.”

He flinched slightly, but his jaw locked. “I found Ruby.”

Her stomach dropped. “Of course you did.”

“She can help.” His voice rose. “She knows things. She’s taught me things.”

“Ruby is a demon, Sam. Dean hated her. And you think she’s your salvation? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You think I don’t know she’s a demon?!” he shouted, finally breaking. “You think I’m stupid?”

“I think you’re desperate,” she snapped back. “And she’s playing you like a goddamn puppet.”

His hands clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts.

“At least I’m doing something. At least I’m not sitting here, crying into a bottle, pretending that’s fighting for him.”

Her throat closed, rage and grief choking her in equal measure. “You don’t get to say that to me. You don’t get to measure my grief against yours. I loved him too—”

“Not like I did!” Sam’s voice cracked raw. His eyes shone, wet and furious.

“You’ll never understand what it’s like to lose him when he’s your brother. When every damn second of your life was built around him. You think you’re broken? You don’t have a clue.”

The night air pressed heavy against her ribs. “Don’t you dare—”

“No, listen to me.” His voice dropped low, guttural.

“Dean’s dead because of me. Because I wasn’t strong enough. And maybe if I’d been less busy babysitting you, less busy holding your hand, I could’ve stopped it. So yeah, you remind me every second that he’s gone. And you know what? Sometimes I wish it had been you instead.”

For a long, shattering moment she just stared at him, stomach hollowing like she’d been gutted. Her body moved before her mind caught up.

She shoved the bottle off the porch. It shattered across the gravel.

Her voice came raw and low, shredded. “Then maybe you should’ve been the one ripped apart in front of me. Maybe you should’ve been the one I held while the life went out of your eyes.”

She shoved past him, back into the house, tears spilling so hot they burned her skin.

Bobby found her later, curled on the couch with Dean’s jacket clenched in her fists. 

The silence between her and Sam stretched colder than any grave.

The house never recovered from that fight.

Sam stayed, but the silence between them was jagged.

They shared the same kitchen, the same books, the same grief, but never the same air for long.

He avoided her eyes. She avoided his voice.

Bobby noticed, of course, but he didn’t push. He’d mutter about “idjits” under his breath and bury himself in lore, as though the three of them weren’t splintering into pieces right in front of him.

The hundred and twenty-first night was the one that broke.

It started with a tremor, the windows rattling in their frames, glasses clinking in the cabinets.

Bobby swore from the living room, fumbling for his shotgun.

Sam barreled down the stairs, eyes sharp, on edge. She was already on her feet, Dean’s jacket zipped high.

The lights flickered, once, twice, then died. The house plunged into black.

She froze, her pulse surging. The amulet at her chest went ice-cold, pressing into her skin. The air thickened, pressing down until her lungs struggled to pull in air. It wasn’t thunder. It wasn’t a quake. It was something else.

The pressure cut out in a snap. Silence followed, dense and unnatural.

And somewhere miles away, Dean Winchester’s hands clawed through dirt.

When the knock came at Bobby’s door hours later, it wasn’t a knock at all, more like a weak thud.

Bobby cocked the shotgun and went for the handle as she lingered a few feet behind him.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Dean.

Dirt clung to his face, streaked through his hair, ground into his torn shirt.

His knuckles were shredded, his chest rising and falling like every breath was a fight. His lips were cracked, raw.

Bobby’s shotgun rose before she could think. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink.

Dean’s voice was sandpaper. “Bobby…”

Bobby snarled. “You son of a bitch. What the hell are you?”

Dean’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Bobby.

He lifted his hands slow, palms open. “It’s me.”

“Bull.” Bobby shoved the barrel into his chest. “Dean Winchester is dead. I buried him myself. So whatever trick you are, you’ve got ten seconds to prove otherwise.”

Her voice cracked without her permission. “Stop.”

Dean’s eyes snapped to hers.

The look in them gutted her. It was him. It had to be him.

“Sweetheart—” His voice cracked on it, broken and desperate.

Her knees almost buckled.

Four months of tally marks, of whiskey, of sobbing into a jacket that still smelled like him, and now he was standing there saying her name.

She shook her head violently, tears burning hot in her eyes. “No. No, this isn’t—”

“Look at me,” Dean begged. “It's me.”

Bobby snarled something, yanked out his flask, and splashed holy water straight across Dean’s face.

Dean sputtered, blinking through the drops. 

Bobby lowered the gun with a sigh that shook in his throat. “Idjit.”

Dean’s grin was faint, shaky. “Yeah. Missed you too.”

She didn’t wait.

She crashed into him, fists twisting into his jacket, clinging.

He folded around her without hesitation, arms strong, shaking, face buried in her hair.

She choked into his chest, the smell of dirt and blood and him flooding her head. His hands trembled as they spanned her back, holding on just a bit too tight.

“I’m here,” Dean whispered, voice broken against her hair. “I’m here.”

For the first time in one hundred and twenty-one days, she let herself believe it.

Dean sat at Bobby’s kitchen table, shoulders hunched. 

She wasn’t letting him out of reach.

She had climbed into his lap the moment Bobby finally lowered the shotgun, and she’d stayed there.

She sat sideways across his lap, her weight leaning into him, one arm looped around his shoulders while the other stayed pressed to his chest.

Her legs draped over his, steadying herself against the edge of the chair.

Every few minutes her hand shifted, brushing over his arm, tracing the line of his shoulder, pressing lightly against his sternum, as if she needed constant proof that he was solid. Flesh and bone. Warm under her touch.

His chest rose and fell against her palm, heartbeat steady, alive.

Dean didn’t complain. His grip circled her waist, firm and steady, holding her close like he needed it just as badly.

Every time her lids dragged too long, panic jolted her awake again, and she reached for him.

He didn’t flinch. His hand found hers every time, rough and steady, like he was afraid she’d fade just as much as she was afraid he would.

Bobby busied himself with pouring whiskey, but his hands weren’t as steady as his voice. “So. You wanna tell me how in the hell you’re sittin’ at my table when I buried you myself?”

Dean rubbed grit from his face, leaning back until the chair creaked. “I was kinda hoping you’d explain that to me.”

“Don’t get smart,” Bobby snapped, though it came out more cracked than sharp. “You remember anything?”

Dean’s mouth twisted, his thumb tapping against the glass. “Last thing I’ve got is hellhounds. Pain. Then nothing. Next thing I know, I’m choking on six feet of dirt. Spent the day walking back here.”

Her throat closed, but she forced the words out anyway. “Do you remember… Hell?”

Dean froze, eyes flicking to her.

His chest rose once, shallow, before he looked away. “Not clear. Just pieces.” His smile was weak, hollow. “Nothin’ scrapbook worthy.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Bobby downed his glass in one go, muttering something about Hiroshima and angel-sized headaches, but she barely heard him.

All she could do was hold on tighter to Dean’s sleeve, terrified he’d vanish if she blinked too long.

The door banged open.

“Bobby?” The voice cracked through the house like a warning.

Sam.

Her pulse stuttered. Dean’s grip on the table edge tightened. He pushed to his feet before Bobby could say a word.

Sam stopped cold in the doorway. His eyes swept the room, skittish, sharp, until they landed on Dean.

He froze.

For a moment, he wasn’t the man who had screamed at her, who had been so angry. He was just Sam Winchester, staring at his big brother.

“Dean?” The word broke out of him, cracked down the middle.

Dean’s grin was lopsided, shaky. “Heya, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t move. His jaw locked. His fists curled.

“No. This isn’t real.” His eyes darted between Bobby and her. “It’s a trick. A demon. A shifter. Something wearing his face.”

Dean flinched like he’d been hit. “Sammy. It’s me.”

Her chest ached at the sound of it. “Sam. It’s him.”

Sam’s stare snapped to hers, wild. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Her voice shook but held.

Dean’s breath hitched. “Test me. Holy water, Latin, the works. Go on.”

Sam’s jaw flexed. He yanked a flask out of his jacket and flicked it open, splashing water straight across Dean’s face.

Dean sputtered, wiping at his eyes. “Lovely. That good enough for you?”

His shoulders dropped, trembling. His voice was barely a whisper. “Dean?”

Dean stepped closer, slow and steady, and dropped a hand heavy on Sam’s shoulder. “Yeah. It’s me, little brother.”

Sam didn’t hold back after that.

He surged forward, gripping Dean in a hug that looked more like it hurt than comforted, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Dean laughed once, the sound breaking, but he held on tight.

Her hand pressed to her mouth. Dean’s eyes found hers over Sam’s shoulder.

Later, after the storm had settled into uneasy quiet, Bobby disappeared into his books, muttering about “signs” and “unnatural resurrections.”

Sam sat hunched at the desk, laptop open but untouched, his eyes glassy and distant.

Dean sat outside on the porch steps, beer in hand, cicadas buzzing in the trees.

She followed him out, the screen door squeaking shut behind her.

“Hell of a reunion,” Dean rasped, trying for humor but landing closer to exhausted.

She lowered herself beside him, knees pulled up to her chest. “Better than your funeral.”

His laugh cracked, quiet and broken. “Yeah. I’ll give you that.”

The night hummed around them. She could feel the heat of his thigh pressed against hers, could feel the weight of his eyes when he glanced sideways.

He let out a slow breath. “You and Sam. You fought, didn't you?”

Her fingers twisted in the cuff of his flannel. She didn’t answer right away.

The memory of Sam’s words still sat lodged like glass in her ribs.

She finally nodded, her throat tight. “We weren’t seeing eye to eye.”

Dean leaned back, staring out into the dark yard. “Yeah, well. Me and him… we’ve been butting heads since diapers. Don’t let it eat you alive.”

Her laugh was faint, hollow. “It was bad, Dean.”

He didn’t joke after that. He didn’t press either.

He shifted closer until his hand found hers, rough fingers curling around hers with a grip that trembled faintly.

“I’m here now,” he murmured.

She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

His arm closed around her, steady and warm, chin brushing the top of her head.

“For how long?” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Dean didn’t answer. His arms tightened, pulling her into his lap until her cheek pressed against his chest, the thud of his heart knocking against her ear.

Inside, Sam shut his laptop with a sharp snap that echoed through the house. He didn’t look up when Bobby called his name.

His mind was a storm, Ruby’s promises, his own guilt, the cruel words he’d thrown at her, Dean’s sudden impossible return. None of it made sense.

Dean was back. Alive. Somehow.

But the fractures between all of them lingered.

For now, she buried her face against Dean’s chest, fingers twisted into his shirt, listening to the rough cadence of his breathing.

She didn’t know how long she had before the world tried to take him again.

She only knew that tonight, he was here.

And for the first time in one hundred and twenty-one days, she was at peace.

Chapter Text

The Impala’s headlights cut across the gravel drive, crunching over the stones as Dean eased her to a stop.

The engine rumbled low, familiar and steady, but inside the car the air carried a tension that hadn’t let up since Dean clawed his way out of the grave.

He sat behind the wheel, his fingers tapping the leather impatiently. Sam had called shotgun the second they’d left Bobby’s, stiff-backed and silent, and she was in the backseat, folded against the door with Dean’s flannel swallowed around her.

She hadn’t stopped looking at him when she thought no one was paying attention, half-afraid he might blink out of existence.

Dean glanced at the porch light flickering against the Colorado twilight. “So, Pamela Barnes. Psychic extraordinaire. What’s the word? She hot?”

Bobby shifted in the back beside her, his voice cutting sharp. “She’s a psychic, not a damn pin-up.”

Dean smirked, leaning forward a little on the wheel. “That’s not a no.”

She leaned between the seats, her voice sharp but laced with exasperated fondness. “You’ve been topside for what, twenty-four hours, and you’re already trolling for phone numbers?”

Dean cut her a grin, softer than his usual bravado, one corner of his mouth tugging higher. “Old habits. Doesn’t mean I’m looking to cash in on ‘em.”

His gaze flicked to hers in the rearview, just for a moment. “Not anymore.”

Her chest warmed despite herself, and she ducked back against the seat before Bobby could notice.

Sam didn’t comment. He was staring hard out the window, jaw clenched, knuckles pressed white against his knee.

The tension between him and her hadn’t cracked since their fight weeks ago.

Every time his eyes slid toward her, there was something sharp in them, anger, guilt, maybe both. She gave him nothing back.

Dean noticed, of course. His eyes lingered too long on Sam, then darted back to her in the mirror, worry tightening the line of his jaw. 

The porch light clicked off just as Dean killed the engine.

He arched a brow, muttering, “That’s inviting.”

Pamela’s door opened before they hit the steps. She leaned against the frame like she’d been expecting them all night, grinning wide.

The smell of sage drifted out, threaded with wood polish and candle wax.

Pamela sized him up with a knowing look. “So you’re the one everyone’s been talking about.”

Dean gave a short huff, scratching the back of his neck. “Guess that depends on what they’ve been saying.”

Pamela’s grin was quick, wry. “Trouble follows you. Don’t need to be psychic to see that.”

Bobby rolled his eyes on his way up the porch. “This ain’t a mixer. We’re here for work.”

Inside, Pamela’s place was warm, dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the walls. Candles flickered in every corner, the air heavy with incense and something metallic underneath. A velvet cloth draped across the table, polished stones scattered like markers waiting for a game to start.

“Sit yourselves down,” she said, voice firm but not unkind.

Her eyes flicked to Dean, then Bobby. “Let’s see who had the juice to pull your boy out of the pit.”

Dean dropped into the chair beside her, flashing that lazy grin he always wore when he wanted to look unbothered.

His hand found her knee under the table, a quick squeeze before resting along the back of her chair. She exhaled slowly and let herself lean into it.

Pamela circled the table, eyes on Dean with open curiosity. “All right, sweetheart. Shirt off.”

Dean’s grin faltered. “Uh… come again?”

Pamela arched a brow like she was explaining something obvious. “Need skin-to-skin for the ritual. You want answers, I need contact.”

Dean shot her a look, then flicked his gaze to the woman at his side, a spark of humor there like he was silently saying, See? Not me starting this one.

“You want a clear read on your little resurrection miracle, big guy, it’s shirt or nothing.”

Dean huffed, peeling his shirt off slowly, clearly playing to the room.

He tossed it to the couch. “Don’t all faint at once.”

Sam coughed under his breath.

She tried to keep her eyes level, but her gaze snagged on the scar etched into Dean’s shoulder, one he hadn’t had before.

Dean caught her looking.

Their eyes met, holding there. He smirked faintly, softer this time, and let it drop.

Pamela laid her hands against Dean’s bare chest, closing her eyes.

Her breath caught. “Oh, wow.”

Dean’s smirk faltered. “That a good ‘wow’ or a bad ‘wow’?”

Pamela’s fingers twitched slightly, as if she were holding back more than she wanted to say. “Something’s here. Watching. Strong.”

Sam leaned forward, tense. “Can you tell who?”

Pamela’s mouth curved. “Not unless I look.”

She felt her stomach twist. “Look how?”

Pamela opened her eyes, staring into the empty corner of the room like she saw someone standing there. “Straight on. Whoever this is, they don’t want me seeing them...but I can.”

Dean’s voice cut in fast. “Maybe this isn't a good idea.”

Sam hesitated, but desperation cracked through his tone. “If that’s the only way to know…”

Bobby swore under his breath. "You’re playin’ with fire.”

Pamela only smirked, eyes fixed on the unseen presence. “You hear me in there? Quit hiding. Let me see you.”

The room seemed to tighten, air pressing against their chests.

Her gaze locked, body stiffening like she’d grabbed a live wire.

The scream tore out of her throat. She clutched her face, nails raking skin as blood poured from her eyes.

“Pamela!” Sam caught her before she collapsed, horrified.

Pamela gasped, clawing suddenly at her face. “Too bright...oh god...”

Sam shot forward, but she screamed, blood streaming from her eyes as she collapsed back into the chair.

Her own stomach turned cold. She staggered up, Dean’s hand instinctively snapping to her hip to steady her before he turned back to the psychic, pale under the candlelight.

Pamela’s hands dropped away, blood slick on her face.

Her eyes were burned.

Back at Bobby’s, the air was heavy enough to choke on.

Books, salt, half-burnt candles, and the thick weight of Pamela’s screams still echoing in their ears.

Sam planted himself at the desk, flipping pages so fast he barely seemed to register the words.

Dean couldn’t keep still. He stalked the kitchen, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw working.

“Someone yanks me out of Hell, fries a psychic who catches a freakin' glimpse, and we’re just supposed to sit around waiting for it to send us a fruit basket?”

Sam snapped his book shut. “We don’t know what it is yet. Could be a demon, could be—”

He hesitated, eyes flicking up. “Could be an angel.”

Dean barked a sharp laugh. “Angel? Yeah, sure. Because Heaven’s always been real invested in helping the likes of me.”

He dragged a hand over his face, muttering. “If it’s upstairs, it’s not rescue. It’s a damn mistake.”

Her chest tightened at his words.

She fiddled with the chain of Dean’s amulet resting against his sternum, thumb tracing the grooves.

“If it wasn’t a demon,” she said quietly, “then what else could it be?”

No one answered.

Bobby slammed a book shut with enough force to rattle the table. “Arguin’ about it ain’t gonna change squat. We set the trap, we haul the bastard in, and we make it talk.”

Hours later, the house reeked of chalk, sulfur, and tension. Salt lines cut across the floor in careful circles, sigils painted sharp into the wood.

Bobby double-checked each one, muttering curses under his breath. Sam lit the last of the candles, his shoulders stiff as boards.

She stood near the doorway, palms damp, heart beating slightly too fast.

Dean rolled his shoulders, the weight of his shotgun slung across his back.

“All right. Let’s get this over with.”

The ritual began. Words carved the air, the smoke thickening.

The temperature dropped so sharply her breath came in fog. The candles sputtered, then blew out all at once.

“Dean?” she called, voice breaking sharp through the dark.

The windows rattled. Glass cracked in the walls.

The blast of pressure knocked her hard into the frame, breath catching sharp in her chest.

Then...footsteps. The air itself vibrated, pressure rolling over them like an invisible tide.

From the smoke stepped a figure.

A...trench coat? And a suspiciously pretty face.

“I am Castiel,” the voice intoned, deep and resonant. “I am an angel of the Lord."

Everyone's jaws collectively unhinged.

"I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Dean's scoff was sharp, too loud, covering the shakiness in his voice. “You’re kidding. Angel of the Lord? That’s the story you’re going with?”

Castiel’s gaze was steady, unsettling. “Yes.”

Dean laughed again, bitter, hollow. “Yeah, right. And I’m the Easter Bunny.”

Castiel didn’t blink.

The light in his eyes cut sharper when they landed on her. She froze under it. It wasn’t like Dean’s gaze, warm even when sharp.

It felt like he was looking straight through her. She dropped her eyes, heart pounding.

“You doubt me,” Castiel said evenly, not accusing, just certain.

Dean stepped forward, jaw tight. “Damn right I doubt you. Angels don’t exactly waste their time dragging nobodies like me out of Hell. You got the wrong guy.”

“You were chosen,” Castiel replied. “By God Himself.”

Dean’s laugh cracked, teeth bared. “That’s rich. God’s got the whole planet, and He decides to haul my ass out of the fire? For what? To polish His halo?”

Bobby muttered a curse under his breath, edging closer, but Castiel’s attention never wavered from Dean.

“You were saved for a reason,” the angel said, his voice even, unshakable. “There is work for you.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “Figures. Drag me out of the fire just to hand me a nine-to-five.”

Castiel didn’t blink. “It was commanded. You were chosen.”

Dean’s laugh came sharp, bitter. “Yeah, that's not me. Try again.”

The silence that followed pressed hard against the room, every eye fixed on him, but Castiel didn’t flinch. 

He turned, the light in his eyes dimming as he stepped back into the shadows.

His voice carried even as the smoke swallowed him whole.

“When the time comes, you will understand.”

And then he was gone.

Dean scrubbed his face, leaning against the wall. “Well. That was freakin’ weird.”

Sam’s voice cut sharp through the quiet. “Weird? Dean, that was an angel. That was proof. Everything we’ve been fighting, it’s bigger than we thought. Heaven, Hell—”

Dean shot him a glare. “Don’t start with me, Sammy. Heaven doesn’t give a damn about us. Never has.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you do?” Dean snapped.

The argument was spiraling fast, voices sharp and close to breaking.

She cut in before it hit the point of no return, her hand closing around Dean's arm. “Enough. Both of you. We’ve got bigger problems than each other right now.”

Dean’s eyes landed on her, steady and unflinching. Maybe he was trying to figure her out.

She held his gaze as long as she could, then looked away.

Bobby retreated into his stacks of lore books, muttering about “damn fool angels,” and Sam was now at the desk again, pages spread out in front of him.

She moved toward the kitchen, the amulet hanging heavy at her collarbone.

Dean sat at the table, hunched over his whiskey.

She lowered herself into his lap without a word. He didn’t flinch or ask, just looped an arm around her middle, holding her there like it was the most natural thing.

She rested against his shoulder, her hand pressed flat to his chest. The steady beat under her palm was enough.

They didn’t talk for a long time. The clock ticked on the counter. Sam’s pages turned in the other room. Bobby’s footsteps creaked overhead.

Dean drained the last of his whiskey, set the glass down, and jerked his chin toward the door. “C’mon. Too stuffy in here.”

She followed him out onto the porch.

The night air was cooler than inside, crickets filling the silence where words didn’t.

Dean dropped onto the steps, stretching his legs out, and patted the space beside him. She sank down, pulling his flannel tighter around her shoulders.

His hand found hers, thumb brushing across her knuckles.

Her foot bounced against the wooden step, quick and jittery.

“You never used to do that,” he said, his eyes dropping to her leg before flicking back to her face.

She stilled instantly, almost embarrassed that he’d caught her.

Her arms folded tighter across her chest as she looked away toward the gravel drive. “Yeah. Guess I started.”

Dean frowned, tipping his chin toward her. “When?”

Her jaw flexed. “After.”

He didn’t miss the way her voice caught on the word, or the way her shoulders tensed like she’d said too much already.

He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees.

“What else?” he asked, quieter now, more serious.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “What?”

Dean didn’t back off. He held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “What else happened while I was gone?”

Her breath hitched. She shook her head. “Dean, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” His tone wasn’t sharp, just firm. “Don’t ask?”

He pulled back enough to look at her, green eyes cutting through the dark. “I need to know. Not for me. For you.”

Her stomach twisted. Shame burned hot across her chest, but his gaze didn’t waver, steady and patient in a way that hurt more than if he’d yelled.

She stayed quiet for a long time, her fingers worrying at the hem of her sleeve.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely there. “I drank.”

Dean didn’t move, didn’t push.

Her throat worked, the words heavy. “Too much. More than I should’ve. Some nights until I couldn’t walk. Other nights until I didn’t remember how I got home.” She blinked hard, eyes fixed on the dark yard, ashamed to even look at him.

He remained silent.

“I went out,” she whispered. “Bars. Places where nobody asked questions. I thought… maybe if I found someone, if I didn’t have to feel so empty for one night, it would help.”

Her breath hitched. “But I couldn’t. Every time I tried I saw you instead. Couldn’t even go through with it.”

Her hands shook as she gripped the porch rail. “I tried everything. Books. Circles. Crossroads. I begged. I screamed until my throat bled. And nothing worked.”

Her voice cracked. “You were gone. And I couldn’t bring you back.”

For a moment Dean didn’t move. His chest rose and fell hard beneath her palm, his breath uneven.

His hand slid to the back of her head, pulling her in closer until her forehead pressed against his.

“Hey,” he said quietly, steady. “Look at me.”

Her eyes lifted, wet and unfocused.

He held her there, his face tight, voice rough. “You didn’t fail me. Don’t tell yourself that. You kept moving. You stayed alive. That’s what matters.”

Her voice cracked, barely a whisper. “I didn’t-I don't know how to live without you.”

His thumb brushed along her jaw, catching the wet track of a tear. “You don’t have to. I’m right here.”

She swallowed hard. “For how long?”

He didn’t flinch, but the question hit. His grip tightened on her. “Long enough. And we’re not gonna waste it.”

She let the silence stretch, their breaths uneven in the quiet night.

Dean was the first to break it. His voice came low, almost careful. “Back there. At the house.”

She took in a deep breath.

“You said something,” he whispered, thumb still drawing slow lines along her jaw. “Before...before it all went to hell.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “So did you.”

Dean’s eyes searched hers, sharp even through the weariness. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

The words hung there between them, but neither of them flinched away from it this time.

“Did you mean it?”

“Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t.” His mouth curved into the faintest grin, lopsided and unsteady, but honest. “You?”

Her throat worked, but she didn’t look away. “Yeah. I meant it.”

He gave a small nod, like that was enough.

His hand traced the curve of her side before settling at her waist, fingers pressing in just enough to hold her there. “Good.”

Chapter Text

The motel was the kind you stayed in only because every other place had a “No Vacancy” sign. The carpet was the color of wet cardboard, the AC wheezed like a dying animal, and the coffee in the little pot by the door tasted like it had been filtered through cigarette ash.

Sam had gone out an hour ago for “supplies”, but she knew better. He’d needed space. Sam’s silence had gotten louder every day since Dean came back, and tonight it had been deafening.

That left her and Dean.

She sat perched on the edge of the nearest bed, a paperback cracked open in her hands. The words swam across the page, her eyes darting back and forth without catching any meaning. She kept telling herself she was reading, but her thumb never seemed to move the corner to turn the page. Every little sound in the motel made her head snap up. The groan of the ice machine down the hall. The heavy step of someone’s boots on the cracked walkway outside. Even the hum of the old neon sign.

Dean noticed. Of course he did.

He was sprawled in the chair by the door, one leg stretched long, the other bent so his boot propped against the table. Some dusty black-and-white war movie flickered on the TV, filling the room with gunfire and shouts, painting his face in hard shadows. His arms crossed over his chest like he was half-asleep, but his eyes never fully shut.

Every time her gaze flicked up from the book, she caught his.

Not openly. He’d pretend to be watching the screen, or shift like he was adjusting for comfort, but she knew he was clocking her every move. He’d been doing it since the second he walked out of the grave.

The silence between them was comfortable in theory, but tonight it was brittle. She felt like if she breathed wrong, it would shatter.

She pressed the paperback tighter in her hands. “You know,” she muttered finally, “if you’re gonna stare, you could at least try not to be obvious about it.”

Dean cracked one eye open, his mouth tugging into a faint grin. “What, a guy can’t look around a room without gettin’ accused? Maybe I was checking out the decor.”

He waved a hand lazily toward the peeling wallpaper, the crooked lamp. “Real five-star joint we’ve got here.”

Despite herself, she huffed. “Sure. You’ve been giving the wallpaper bedroom eyes for the last hour.”

He chuckled, leaning further back into the chair. “Don’t flatter yourself. Maybe I just like knowing you’re not gonna bolt the second I blink.”

She ducked her head, pretending to read again.

The quiet didn’t last.

She snapped her head up. The book slid from her lap, forgotten.

Dean was already moving. Boots hit the ground, chair legs scraping. His hand slid under his jacket, fingers curling around the pistol he’d stashed.

His voice came sharp, low. “Great. Freakin’ wonderful.”

She followed his gaze and froze.

Trench coat. Dark suit. Blue eyes that looked too old to belong in a human face.

Castiel.

Her stomach lurched. She still remembered the way Pamela had screamed, clutching her face, blood spilling between her fingers after she tried to see him.

The sound of it had stuck in her ears for days.

Dean let out a short, bitter laugh, raising the pistol but not pointing it directly. “You ever think about using the door, Cas? It’s right there. Knob and everything.”

The angel’s gaze swept over the room, steady, unbothered. “Time is short.”

His voice was low, calm, and it made the hairs on her arms stand on end, like it was coming from someplace deeper than his chest.

His eyes flicked to her for half a heartbeat. Not long enough to read him, not long enough to say what he saw. Then he turned fully to Dean.

“Your brother is in grave danger.”

Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

Dean straightened, the pistol sliding back into its holster. His face hardened, every ounce of humor gone. “Sam? What about him?”

Castiel’s head tilted, that strange birdlike motion she’d noticed before. “He has strayed onto a path he does not fully understand. He seeks to fight evil with evil. That way leads only to ruin.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “You wanna cut the fortune cookie crap and just say it plain?”

Castiel didn’t blink. “Sam is not alone. He is with the demon, Ruby.”

She felt the burn of guilt in her chest instantly. She’d known Sam was working with Ruby. Not the full picture, but enough. Enough to have said something to Dean before now.

"Dean—"

Dean’s head snapped toward her, suspicion flashing in his eyes. “You knew about this?”

The words hit like a slap. She swallowed hard, heat rising in her face. “I thought it was just—”

Her voice caught, stammering. “Intel. Information. I didn’t know it went this far. I didn’t know.”

Dean’s stare lingered, sharp and heavy, before he turned back to Castiel.

His voice was clipped. “Where?”

“An abandoned house. Four miles east,” Castiel answered.

He stepped forward, the weight of his presence pressing the room tighter. “If you go now, you will see for yourself.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket, voice sharp as glass. “Then let’s go.”

Castiel added, “Dean. When you see what he’s become, remember that he is still your brother. Do not let your anger blind you.”

Dean’s laugh was humorless. “Little late for that pep talk.”

Her pulse spiked as she pushed herself off the bed. Sam was her family too. She’d already been fighting with him about Ruby for months, and now this?

Dean’s silence in the car was worse than any yelling would’ve been.

His hands strangled the wheel, knuckles pale in the glow from the dash. His eyes stayed on the dark strip of road ahead.

She sat angled toward the window in the passenger seat. Her arms folded across her chest, palms damp where they pressed into her sleeves. Every few seconds her eyes slid to him, wanting to say something, anything, but the words shriveled in her throat.

Finally Dean broke the silence, his voice rough. “You really didn’t know?”

She closed her eyes briefly, then forced herself to look at him. “I knew they were talking. I thought it was just—” She swallowed hard.

“Strategy. Tips. I didn’t think he was…” Her voice trailed off. “Not this.”

Dean’s grip flexed on the wheel. “Ruby doesn’t hand out tips unless it’s for her own damn playbook.”

She couldn't argue with that.

When Dean finally cut the headlights and killed the engine, the house came into view like something out of a nightmare. Its roof sagged, shingles curling at the edges. The porch was nothing but splinters and broken steps. The windows were dark, their glass jagged like teeth.

No lights. No movement. 

Dean shut the car door softly, shotgun in hand before she’d even crossed the front bumper. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, trying to focus, trying to swallow the panic clawing at her throat.

They crept through the brush, boots sinking into soft earth. Dean motioned her low, crouching near a broken slat in the siding.

She eased down beside him, careful not to make the boards creak.

Voices drifted out through the gap.

A man’s voice, strained, but familiar. Another voice, smooth, coaxing.

Ruby.

Her stomach twisted.

Dean’s jaw clenched hard enough she could see it in the shadows.

He leaned close, whispered rough in her ear. “Stay low.”

She nodded, heart pounding.

They edged closer to the jagged opening, and what she saw made her blood run cold.

Sam stood in the center of the living room. His hand raised, fingers spread, his whole body taut with effort. His face was locked in concentration, sweat beading at his temple.

On the floor, a man writhed, back arching, mouth wide as black smoke clawed its way out. The sound wasn’t human. like metal grinding against bone.

Ruby hovered just behind Sam, her eyes locked on him, watching with that strange mix of pride and hunger.

And then Sam’s hand clenched.

His eyes darkened with strain, and the smoke tore free, shrieking, spiraling into the air before vanishing in a single violent shudder.

The body hit the ground, limp but alive.

Sam sagged, panting, his shoulders heaving.

Ruby stepped closer, smiling like she’d just watched him win a prize fight. “See? You’re stronger every time.”

Dean’s breath hitched beside her.

His whisper wasn’t really a whisper at all. “Son of a bitch.”

Knowing about Ruby had been one thing. Watching Sam wield something that dark, that unnatural, right in front of her...it was something else entirely.

Dean didn’t wait.

He surged forward, boots crunching glass, the door slamming back against the wall.

She followed, adrenaline burning hot, pulse hammering in her throat.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice was a whipcrack. “What the hell was that?!”

Sam spun around, eyes wide, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

Ruby didn’t flinch. Her smirk only sharpened.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sam started, voice shaky, defensive.

Dean barked out a bitter laugh. “Really? Because it looked like you were just sucking demon fumes outta this poor bastard.”

Ruby’s voice was calm. “He’s saving people, Dean. That man’s alive because of him. Maybe try saying thank you.”

Dean spun on her, his voice dropping low. “Shut your mouth.”

Then he jabbed a finger toward Sam. “And you...how long?”

Sam’s jaw worked.

He looked between them, then finally back at Dean. “A while.”

Her heart sank.

She found her voice, even though it came out thin. “Sam… what did you do?”

Sam’s shoulders squared, his eyes locking on hers. “I sent it back. The host lives. No Latin, no blood on the floor. Don’t you see? This is better.”

Dean’s laugh was sharp. “Better? That’s your argument? You play exorcist with brain voodoo and you call it better?”

Sam’s eyes hardened, defiance flashing. “It’s working, Dean. People are alive because of me.”

Dean shoved closer, chest to chest. “People are alive because of us. You don’t get to play God.”

She froze, torn between them.

Her voice cracked out before she could stop it. “Sam, this isn’t you. And it's starting to scare the hell out of me.”

Sam flinched like she’d hit him. His eyes softened, just for a second, before he turned back to Dean.

Ruby stepped into the silence. “He’s stronger than both of you put together. You can’t stop him.”

Dean’s fists curled at his sides. His reply came like a growl. “Try me.”

The man on the floor groaned, faint but alive. Ruby brushed a hand through the man’s hair, her voice almost tender. “I’ll get him out. He’ll be fine.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t touch him.”

Ruby’s smirk didn’t falter. She looked at Sam instead, ignoring Dean completely. “I’ll get him to a hospital. You stay. Deal with Bonnie and Clyde.”

Sam’s lips pressed into a tight line, but he didn’t argue.

Dean’s laugh came sharp, hollow. “Yeah, that’s real sweet. Playing Florence Nightingale after you use my brother like a damn battery.”

He shook his head, voice biting. “Why don’t you run along, Ruby. Before I forget I’m supposed to let you keep breathing.”

Ruby’s gaze flicked from Dean to her. Then she leaned close to Sam and whispered something too quiet to catch.

She grabbed the man under the arms and half-dragged him toward the door.

The second it slammed shut, the house went dead quiet.

Just the three of them now.

Dust hung in the air. Floorboards creaked under the weight of all that silence.

Dean turned, eyes blazing, his voice low but sharp as a blade. “So. You wanna tell me what the hell that was?”

Sam squared his shoulders, already bracing for the fight. “It worked.”

“Sam…” Her voice trembled, but she forced it steady. “You should’ve told us. You should’ve told me.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to hers. For a second, something cracked, the guilt, the shame.

Then it snapped shut, replaced with stubborn fire. “I didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t understand.”

Dean barked a laugh, bitter and humorless. “Try me. Come on, Sammy, explain how cozying up to Ruby makes sense in any universe. I’ll wait.”

Sam’s voice rose, sharp, desperate. “Because I don’t want to lose you again!”

The words ripped out of him, echoing in the house.

Dean froze. For a heartbeat, his anger faltered.

Then it came back, harder. “You think this is how you save me? You think Mom and Dad would be proud, watching you turn into…”

He trailed off, disgust twisting his mouth. “…whatever the hell that was?”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “At least I’m doing something. While you were rotting in Hell, I was out here fighting.”

Dean didn’t take his eyes off him. “Whatever Ruby’s selling you, it’s poison. And you’re drinking it like water.”

Sam’s voice dropped, low and hard. “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it.”

Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket, slicing through the silence.

He ripped it out, glanced at the screen, and answered like the phone itself had insulted him. “Yeah?” His expression darkened as he listened. “When? Where?”

When Dean hung up, he looked between them, jaw tight. “That was Bobby. Hunters are turning up dead.”

Sam’s anger faded immediately, his shoulders sinking. “Dead?”

Dean gave a short nod, his voice flat. “Yeah. More than a few. And it’s spreading.”

The room went still.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady her breathing.

Dean’s eyes locked on both of them, voice steady but sharp.

“So whatever the hell this is—” his finger jabbed between the three of them “—table it. Because if Bobby’s right, we’ve got bigger problems than Ruby’s pet project.”

Chapter Text

The Impala rolled to a stop in Bobby Singer’s gravel drive.

The old house sat hunched against the mist, its weathered siding carved up with sigils that never faded, no matter how many seasons beat down on them.

Dean cut the engine. Nobody moved.

Sam leaned back in the rear seat, staring at his boots like they’d start offering excuses on his behalf. His posture was rigid, braced for another hit, even though none had come yet. The silence was worse than yelling, and every second stretched until her chest ached.

She sat in the passenger seat, pressed close to the door, Dean’s flannel still wrapped around her. The stink of smoke and sulfur clung to her skin. The memory of Sam’s hand raised, of the smoke ripping out of a man’s mouth, wouldn’t leave her. Every time she blinked, she saw it.

Dean’s grip on the wheel hadn’t loosened since the drive started. His knuckles were pale, the leather under his palms creaking like it might give way.

He hadn’t looked at Sam once. He hadn’t looked at her much, either.

Finally, his voice came low, flat, scraped out from somewhere deep. “Let’s get this over with.”

They filed out into the cold morning air. Gravel bit under their boots. Nobody said a word as Bobby’s front door opened before they even reached the porch.

“’Bout damn time,” Bobby grumbled, but his eyes betrayed relief when he saw them. He stepped back, letting them in. The familiar smell hit instantly, coffee, dust, old books, and faint gun oil. Normally it felt steadying. Today it just pressed down heavier.

The war room table was buried in folders, stacks of lore, and Bobby’s scrawl.

He slid a folder across to them. “Take a look.”

Dean flipped it open. Faces stared back. Names he knew. Hunters. Dead ones.

Her stomach dropped as her eyes fell on the photographs, some smiling, some stern, but all familiar in the way anyone in their world became familiar.

The community was somewhat small, tight-knit even when they didn’t see each other often. These weren’t just names. They were allies. Friends. People who’d taken the same oaths, paid the same costs.

“They’re coming back,” Bobby said grimly. “And they’re pissed. Not your usual spirits, either. They’re organized. Meaner. They’re comin’ for us. And it's not just them, it's everybody we couldn't save.”

Dean leaned over the photos, jaw working. “So it’s a damn hit list. And we’re on it.”

“Near the top,” Bobby confirmed, voice clipped.

Sam finally spoke, his voice low. “Why now?”

Before Bobby could answer, another voice cut through the room, deep and even.

“Because the seals are breaking.”

All three spun.

Dean’s hand went to the pistol at his belt automatically, but his face said he already knew who it was.

Castiel stood in the doorway like the air had let him through. No sound, no flash. Just there. His trench coat caught the dim light, his expression grim.

Dean scowled. “You again.”

Castiel’s eyes swept the room. “The first seal has been broken. More will follow. These Witnesses are not random spirits. They are punishment.”

Her voice came out sharper than she meant. “Punishment for what?”

“For the choices you’ve made. The deals. The lives taken. The debts Heaven no longer tolerates.”

The words hung heavy.

Dean didn’t move, but she caught the flicker in his jaw, the way his eyes darted down for half a second before locking back on Castiel.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably, muttering something under his breath.

Castiel’s gaze moved to Sam. “And for the path you walk now. You are being judged.”

Sam stiffened, bracing for the blow. Dean cut in before he could fire back.

His voice was tight, sharp. “Judged by who?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence was enough.

Dean’s composure cracked. He stepped closer, fists curling, voice rising. “So what, we’re Heaven’s chew toys now? Get yanked around, get punished, no say in it?”

Castiel’s expression didn’t change. “You wanted the truth. Now you have it. Stop the Witnesses, or more will fall.”

And then he was gone.

The only sound left was the tick of Bobby’s clock and the distant hum of the fridge.

Dean’s hand dragged down his face, rough. “We stop it. Tonight.”

Bobby gave a nod, already rifling through lore. Sam joined him quickly, eager for something, anything, to focus on.

She stayed where she was, staring at the folder of faces, each one now a ghost with a grudge. Her chest felt hollow.

Dean caught her expression.

For a second, his eyes softened, all his walls stripped bare.

Like he wanted to tell her something, anything, that would make it easier. But the moment passed. The wall slammed back in place.

“All right,” he said, voice sharp again. “Lock and load.”

By nightfall, Bobby’s house looked less like a home and more like a bunker.

Salt burned in lines across every windowsill, fresh chalk sigils scrawled on doors and thresholds. Buckets of iron nails, holy water, and spare weapons were stacked within arm’s reach. The air smelled of sulfur and sweat, the tang of adrenaline already seeping into the walls.

Dean moved through the house like a man possessed, checking and re-checking every line, every mark. His shotgun rested in his hands like an extra limb, the weight of it a comfort. Sam had his nose buried in lore, Latin phrases muttered under his breath.

She hovered near the living room window, arms wrapped around herself, staring into the night beyond the glass. It was too quiet. Not peaceful quiet, waiting quiet. Apprehensive. The kind that made your skin crawl.

“Anything?” Dean’s voice cut through.

“Nothing yet,” Bobby answered, flipping through another brittle-paged tome.

His tone was clipped. “But they’ll come. Count on it.”

Dean’s eyes flicked toward her. He caught the tension in her shoulders, the way her teeth worried her bottom lip raw. He wanted to say something, but the words died on his tongue.

Instead, he adjusted his grip on the shotgun, standing closer to her than necessary, like his presence alone might do the talking.

The silence stretched. Even the TV was off. No distraction, no background noise. Just waiting.

The first sign came subtle.

The lights flickered once, then again. The hum of the lamp buzzed and cut out.

Her breath caught.

Then the temperature dropped. Sharp and sudden, like stepping into a freezer. Frost spidered across the corners of the glass. Her exhale puffed white.

“Here we go,” Dean muttered, jaw tight.

Whispers curled through the house. Soft at first, like conversation leaking through the walls. Then louder, layered, overlapping, dozens of voices speaking at once.

Bobby’s head snapped up. “They’re here.”

The salt lines hissed as if something pressed against them, invisible but violent. Shadows shifted, moving against the grain of the lamplight.

And then the first one appeared.

A man stood in the kitchen doorway, flickering like a bad film reel. His eyes were hollow, voice a low groan that made her blood run cold. “Why didn’t you save me?”

Sam jumped to his feet, Latin spilling sharp and fast from his mouth. The spirit shrieked, bursting into smoke that slammed back against the walls before dissipating.

But more came.

They clawed at the windows, pressed at the doors, faces slamming into the glass with horrifying wails. The house shook under the weight of them.

Dean braced at the front, shotgun raised, eyes sharp. “Showtime.”

She forced herself to move closer to him, to stay inside the circle of salt and sigils, even as her skin prickled with the sense of more voices, more ghosts pressing just out of sight.

Then she saw them.

They didn’t crash against the house like the others. They materialized slow, deliberate, at the far corner of the room.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Her mother.

Hair streaked with ash, eyes soft, familiar. Her father, broad-shouldered, face smeared with soot. And her brother. So small. No older than seven. His eyes were hers.

Her body locked.

“Mom?” The word ripped out of her, and she was surprised she had any voice at all.

Dean’s head snapped around.

His face drained when he saw them. “Oh, no. Sweetheart, don’t—”

Her brother’s voice cut him off, sharp as glass. “Why didn’t you save us?”

Dean moved instantly, hand clamping around her arm, pulling her back against him.

“They’re not real,” he said firmly, his voice pitched low. “You hear me? That’s not them. That’s this thing screwing with you.”

But her mother tilted her head, lips curling in something almost kind. Just as she remembered. “We screamed for you. You didn’t come. Why didn't you come for us?”

“I—” Her voice broke, tears spilling hot and fast. “I was just a kid. I couldn’t—”

Dean pulled her in tighter, green eyes fierce as they locked onto hers. “Listen to me. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t do this.”

Her brother’s face twisted. Smoke poured from his eyes as his small voice sharpened to a growl. “You should’ve burned with us.”

She couldn't breathe any longer, and she suddenly felt as if she was out of her body. This couldn't be real.

Dean’s grip didn’t falter. He spun, firing a round of rock salt at the advancing shapes, then shoved her behind him as the house erupted into chaos. Sam shouting exorcisms, Bobby blasting spirits that broke through the windows, and the air filled with shrieks and shattering glass.

Her chest heaved, her hands clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

One by one, the spirits flickered out under the assault of salt and Latin.

But her family lingered, staring, faces caught between sorrow and fury.

Dean fired again, shouting through gritted teeth. “You’re not real!”

And then, with a final screech, they vanished.

She slid to the floor, back against the wall, burying her face in her hands. Every breath scraped her lungs raw.

Dean dropped to his knees in front of her, shotgun abandoned on the floorboards. His hands hovered before he finally rested one firm against her knee.

“You okay?”

Her head shook violently. “No.”

Dean swallowed hard, thumb brushing over her jeans in a motion steadier than he felt. He didn’t know how to fix this. But he could stay. And that’s what he did.

Bobby shuffled around, crouching at the baseboards with a flashlight, checking salt lines with gruff mutters under his breath. Sam slumped at the table, shoulders heavy, rubbing at his temples.

“Lines held,” Bobby said, voice carrying just enough to be heard. “Barely.”

Sam let out a sound, not quite agreement, not quite protest. “They shouldn’t have been that strong,” he said after a beat, his tone worn. “Not all of them.”

“Yeah, well, they were,” Bobby shot back, more tired than sharp. “Ain’t no use wishin’ otherwise.”

Their words faded into a steady rhythm behind her.

But Dean didn’t look away from her. Not once.

Her eyes burned, swollen, her chest raw. She couldn’t seem to unclench her fists.

The image of her brother’s smoke-choked face wouldn’t leave, his words still echoing.

Dean’s thumb brushed her knee again. “C’mon.” He pushed himself up, then reached down, offering his hand.

She hesitated, but took it.

He pulled her up with a strength that felt more like insistence than effort. He didn’t let go. Not as he guided her past the wreckage of the living room, not as Bobby muttered about needing stronger sigils, not even when Sam glanced at them with something unreadable in his eyes.

Dean just steered her down the hallway, wordless, until they reached the spare room Bobby had cleared out for them.

He didn’t make her talk. He didn’t ask. He just sat her down on the edge of the bed, then dropped onto the mattress beside her, shoulders brushing. He was still breathing somewhat heavily, his shirt damp with sweat and streaked with salt.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Dean muttered, “You’re shaking.”

She pressed her palms together, useless against the tremor in her hands. “I know.”

His arm came around her then, solid and warm, tugging her against his side. “It wasn’t them.”

Her throat locked. “It looked like them. It sounded—”

“I know.” His voice cut sharp, then softened. “But it wasn’t. You get that, right? Just another trick.”

Her head tipped against his shoulder, eyes shut tight. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. He didn’t argue again, didn’t push.

He just held her tighter, his hand rubbing slow across her arm until her breathing evened out.

Chapter Text

The motel room smelled faintly of mildew and stale chips, the kind of cheap roadside place Dean favored when the three of them were running too hard to care.

The neon from the gas station across the street pulsed through the blinds, painting the room in sickly red and green stripes.

Dean was out cold on the bed closest to the door, boots kicked off, one arm slung over his eyes.

She sat at the small table by the window, knees pulled up, staring out the window. Sleep hadn’t come. 

The chair beside her creaked. Sam eased down into it, hair still damp from a shower, dark circles carved deep under his eyes.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asked. His voice was soft, cautious, like testing thin ice.

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the table. “Not really.”

For a while, no one said anything. Dean’s breathing was the only sound in the room, steady like nothing had happened.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You want to get some air? There’s a place down the block...Tony’s. Open all night.”

She hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to open old wounds.

But the look in Sam’s eyes, earnest and pleading, made her set the mug down.

“Fine. Coffee can’t be worse than this.”

Outside, the night air was sharp with exhaust and the faint tang of rain on asphalt. They walked in silence, her arms crossed tight over Dean’s flannel draped across her shoulders.

Tony’s Diner sat hunched on the corner. Flickering sign, cracked windows, a door that stuck before it gave. Inside smelled like burnt coffee and fryer grease. The only waitress gave them a nod without bothering to hide her boredom.

They slid into a booth, vinyl sticky under her palms.

Sam ordered two black coffees before she could argue.

She kept her eyes on the scratched tabletop. “So. What’s this? Guilt trip? Intervention?”

Sam’s jaw worked. He wrapped his hands around the chipped mug when it arrived, staring down into the steam.

“It’s… me trying to make things right.”

Her laugh was short, humorless. “That’s a tall order.”

“I know.” He met her eyes finally, and she saw it, the raw, uncomfortable sincerity that made him impossible to completely hate.

“I screwed up. The last time… with Lilith, with Ruby, with you. I pushed too hard. Said things I can’t take back.”

Her stomach knotted. She remembered every word, the sting of his accusations, the fear of losing him to choices that didn’t feel like his.

She stirred her coffee with a plastic stick just to keep her hands busy.

“You wanted to save Dean,” she said quietly. “I get that. I wanted it too. But you scared me, Sam. The things you were willing to do…” She trailed off, throat tight.

Sam’s expression cracked, regret heavy in every line of his face.

“I know. And I hate that I put you in that position. You and Dean both. I’m not asking you to forget it. I just…I don’t want us to stay stuck there.”

She studied him for a long moment. He looked tired. Older than he had any right to.

And underneath it, still the same guy who used to leave her notes in motel rooms when he thought she wasn’t eating enough, still the same brother she’d lost and missed even when he was right in front of her.

Finally, she said, “I don’t trust easy, Sam. Not after everything. But…you’re family. That doesn’t go away.”

Relief flickered across his face, softening the lines of guilt. “So…friends again?”

She huffed, blowing on her coffee. “Let’s start with ‘not enemies.’ Work our way up.”

Sam’s laugh was low, almost surprised. “I’ll take it.”

The conversation shifted, easier after that. They circled around Dean, because they always did, Sam pushing gently, her deflecting, until finally she admitted, “Dean drives me crazy. Half the time I want to wring his neck. But I—”

Her throat caught. “He’s Dean. I care. More than I should.”

Sam didn’t tease, didn’t smirk.

He just gave her that small, knowing look, like he’d already seen it written on her face a hundred times over.

By the time they left Tony’s, the sky was paling at the edges.

They carried paper cups back to the room, the air damp and cool. Walking side by side, she felt the old rhythm return.

Sam glanced at her, hesitant. “Thanks. For giving me another chance.”

She looked to the side, the motel sign glowing faint in the distance. “Please don't make me regret it, Sammy.”

His smile was small but real. “I won’t.”

They walked into the lot, coffees half-empty, the weight between them a little lighter than before.

The motel door stuck on the frame before it gave with a groan.

Dean was awake.

Propped against the headboard, covers pushed down, hair a mess, a bottle of water on the nightstand beside him.

He looked at them as they came in, paper cups in hand, his eyes narrowing instantly.

“Morning stroll?” His voice was rough, suspicious.

She set her coffee on the table, meeting his gaze evenly. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for coffee.”

Dean’s eyes lingered on her a second before flicking to Sam.

He didn’t say anything, but his jaw was tight.

Sam moved past him, dropping into the chair with his own cup.

“We’ve got a lead.” He opened his laptop, flipping it around so Dean could see the file. “Victims all had the same symptoms...paranoia, hallucinations, chest pain. Died of heart failure. It’s gotta be connected.”

Dean leaned forward, rubbing a hand over his face. “Connected to what? Being scared shitless?”

“Ghost sickness.”

The case brought them to Rock Ridge, Colorado. 

Dean cracked jokes as they drove from each station, tossing out lines about Scooby-Doo and ghost-of-the-week melodrama, but there was an edge to him she couldn’t ignore.

Every time Sam laid out another victim report, Dean’s jaw ticked tighter.

They interviewed witnesses, pieced together the pattern, and it didn’t take long before Dean was sweating more than usual, his movements jumpier.

She noticed it first, the way his eyes darted, the tremor in his hand when he lifted his coffee cup.

“Dean,” she said under her breath as they left another interview. “You good?”

“I’m great,” he shot back, forcing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Never better.”

Sam wasn’t convinced either. “You sure about that?”

Dean waved him off. “What, a guy can’t have an off day without the peanut gallery getting involved?”

But by the time they hit the motel that night, there was no denying it.

Dean was pacing like a caged animal, muttering about how his heart was racing, how he couldn’t shake the feeling something was behind him.

Sam pieced it together. 

Dean scoffed when they explained it, but the tightness in his eyes betrayed the fear curling under his skin.

“So what, I’m doomed to be the world’s biggest scaredy-cat until I keel over? Fantastic.”

She touched his arm, attempting to steady him. “We’ll fix it. We always do.”

By the next morning, the symptoms were impossible to deny.

He flinched at shadows, avoided mirrors, and jumped when the motel ice machine clunked.

They piled into the Impala, Sam riding shotgun while she sat in the back, her gaze fixed on the taut line of Dean’s shoulders as he drove.

He was sweating through his flannel, fingers white-knuckled on the wheel.

“Dean, you’re infected,” Sam said finally, tone sharp.

Dean shot him a glare. “I’m not infected, okay? I’m just...cautious.”

“Cautious?” Sam repeated. “You screamed at the mouse in the alley.”

“It came outta nowhere!” Dean barked, his voice cracking just enough to betray him.

She bit back a laugh, but the moment was too tense to hold it in.

“Dean, it was gray. And fat. Pretty sure Jerry isn’t plotting your murder.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know that. Mice are evil. And so are cats. Tom is probably lingering around somewhere, too...”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, this is serious. If we don’t find the ghost that started this—”

“I’m fine,” Dean snapped, then immediately flinched when the Impala’s horn honked at a passing truck.

“Totally fine.”

At the sheriff’s office, they traced the outbreak back through reports of other sudden, fear-based deaths.

The trail led them to a man named Luther Garland, a factory worker who’d been brutally killed by an angry mob years ago. 

“Luther was chained, dragged behind a truck,” Sam said grimly, flipping through the case file.

Dean paled, lips thinning. “Lovely. So we’ve got one pissed-off ghost who knows what it’s like to be scared out of his mind.”

She leaned over his shoulder, her voice low but steady. “Then we burn the remains. End this.”

By the time they tracked Luther’s body, Dean’s paranoia was spiraling out of control.

His hands shook as he loaded rock salt rounds. Sweat slicked his temples, and he kept glancing at the shadows.

She stayed close to him, moving in sync, but every step felt like sand slipping through an hourglass.

His breaths came faster, ragged, and when a rustle echoed through the trees, he spun, gun raised, panic in his eyes.

“It’s just the wind,” she murmured, stepping into his line of sight, gently lowering the barrel.

“Easy for you to say,” Dean shot back, voice trembling. “You’re not dying of...of scaredy-cat-itis!”

Sam grabbed the can of gasoline. “We don’t have time for this. Burn the remains before it kills you.”

Dean staggered back, clutching his chest.

His breaths turned shallow, his eyes wide with sheer terror. “It’s...it’s happening...”

She caught his arm, forcing his gaze to hers. “Hey! Look at me. You’re not dying here.”

For a moment, the panic slipped, and he just looked at her, hanging onto her words like they were the only thing keeping him steady.

Sam scattered salt, doused the bones, and struck the match.

The flames caught, roaring to life.

Dean collapsed against her shoulder, trembling.

Back at the motel, Dean’s color slowly returned as the sickness left his body.

He sat on the bed, head in his hands.

Sam sighed, grabbing his laptop. “Dean, it wasn’t your fault.”

Dean groaned. “Tell that to my macho card. Pretty sure it got revoked.”

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and smirked. “Relax. You’ll always be macho to me.”

Dean glanced up at her. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

When Sam finally knocked out, Dean stayed put in the half-light, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him something back.

She slid onto the bed beside him until their shoulders pressed. Neither moved away.

“Was it really that bad?” Her voice was quiet, almost careful.

After a long pause, he said, barely above a whisper, “It wasn’t just fear.”

She reached for him, and instead of pulling away, he leaned in.

His hand caught her wrist, dragging it against his chest, holding her there like he needed the contact as much as air.

The Impala hummed steady down the two-lane, the horizon melting into a bruised mix of orange and fading violet.

Sam had his nose buried in the case notes again, papers balanced against his thigh, eyes scanning like he could will new information out of them.

She sat stretched across the backseat, knees drawn up, head tipped against the cool glass.

Every bump in the road rattled through her spine, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the sight of Dean’s hands gripping the wheel up front, still steady, but not as steady as he wanted anyone to believe. 

He wasn’t going to admit it. He never did. Instead, he started filling the car with noise.

“You know,” he announced, tone pitched casual, cocky even, “if anyone asks, I was totally cool through the whole thing. James Bond cool. No shaking, no stirred martinis. Just pure class.”

Sam snorted without looking up. “Right. Cool. Real smooth.”

He flicked his eyes over the notes. “Especially when you screamed bloody murder over a Yorkie.”

Dean’s head snapped around just long enough to glare at his brother before whipping back to the road.

“That dog came outta nowhere. You weren’t there. It was feral. Foaming at the mouth.”

“On a pink rhinestone leash?” Sam deadpanned.

Her laugh broke through the cabin before she could stop it.

“Ah yes, the mighty Yorkie. Known for striking fear into the hearts of grown men everywhere. Truly the apex predator of suburban America.”

Dean caught her eye in the mirror, scandalized. “Et tu, Brute?”

The way he said it, mock betrayal, hand theatrically thumping his chest, sent her into another quiet fit of laughter.

Sam smirked down at his notes like he didn’t want to encourage it, but his mouth betrayed him.

Dean grumbled under his breath, “Unbelievable. Saved both your asses more times than I can count, and the thanks I get is being roasted over a purse dog.”

She leaned forward slightly, elbows propped on the back of his seat. “Come on, James Bond. I thought you could take a little heat.”

Dean’s mouth twitched at that, fighting a smile. “I can take plenty. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Her grin softened as their eyes caught again in the mirror.

She sank back into her seat, hiding her softer smile against her coffee cup.

If he needed the distraction, she’d give it to him. If he needed someone to laugh at his dumb Bond jokes or side with him against Sam’s raised eyebrow, she’d do it.

And if he needed someone to look at him and see past the act, she already did.

By the time they rolled back into the motel lot, the adrenaline of the day had burned off, leaving only the drag of exhaustion.

Sam didn’t last long, he dropped his bag by the door, mumbled something about research in the morning, and was out cold before the covers even settled over him.

That left her and Dean in the quiet.

The only sound was the low buzz of the lamp in the corner and the occasional creak of the pipes in the wall.

Dean sat at the table, hunched forward, turning a small handheld camera over in his hands. He wasn’t recording, just fidgeting.

She shifted on the edge of her bed, watching him. “What're you doing?”

He shrugged, still avoiding her eyes. “Dunno. Thought maybe… insurance.”

She frowned. “Insurance for what?”

Dean smirked like it was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t land. “In case I check out early.”

The words made her stomach clench. “Don’t talk like that.”

He finally looked at her. Not cocky, not hiding. Just tired.

“I’m not planning on it. But you saw what happened. I was this close...” He held up two fingers, barely apart.

“Feels like maybe I should’ve left something behind. Y’know. Just in case.”

She stood and crossed the room before she could think better of it, plucking the camera out of his hand and setting it aside on the table.

“You don’t need that. You’re still here.”

For a second, he just stared at her, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the fight left.

Then he leaned back in the chair, running a hand over his face. “Yeah, for now.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, steady. “You’re not going anywhere tonight. And tomorrow...we deal with tomorrow when it shows up.”

His eyes lifted, catching hers.

There was something softer there, something he rarely let slip. “You really believe that?”

She nodded. “I have to.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward.

It felt like the kind of quiet they only ever got in rare moments like this, no case, no chaos, just the two of them.

Dean’s hand slid up, covering hers where it rested on his shoulder.

His thumb brushed against her skin, slow, like he didn’t want to admit how much he needed the touch.

She leaned in without overthinking it, and he met her halfway.

The kiss started tentative, almost testing, then deepened fast, his other hand coming up to cradle her jaw.

Her knees hit the edge of his chair, and he tugged her closer until she was straddling him, their mouths moving together like they’d been here before, like it was inevitable.

His fingers pressed into her hips, while hers curled tight in his hair.

For once, there was no joke, no shield.

Just Dean, warm and solid, holding onto her like he needed to make sure she was real.

Chapter Text

The motel was caught in that liminal hour where the sun hadn’t made up its mind. Thin gray light leaked through the curtains, making the cheap wallpaper look like it had given up.

The hum of the refrigerator was the only steady sound.

Dean had crashed hard, sprawled across the mattress like gravity had knocked him flat.

At some point in the night, he’d shifted into her space until their legs were tangled, his arm heavy across her waist.

He radiated heat, the kind of warmth that seeped in and made it impossible to move even when she wanted to.

Eventually, she eased herself free, careful not to wake him.

He muttered something in his sleep but didn’t stir, just rolled onto his side and buried his face against the pillow. His t-shirt had ridden up, baring a strip of skin at his hip, the faint line of a scar cutting through it.

She stayed there beside him, knees drawn up, watching his chest rise and fall with slow, steady breaths.

Her coffee had long since gone cold in her hands, but she held onto the mug anyway, more for the weight than the caffeine.

At the table, Sam kept his head down, pen scratching steadily across the notepad, laptop glow reflecting off his tired face.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel the tension in the room, all of them running on fumes in their own way.

Dean stirred with a low groan, like the mattress had betrayed him.

He dragged his arm away from his face, hair sticking up in every direction. His t-shirt had ridden up again, showing a sliver of skin and the edge of a scar.

She caught herself staring before she could stop, heat creeping up her neck.

His mouth curved into a lazy grin, still rough with sleep. “Enjoyin’ the view, sweetheart?”

She rolled her eyes, lifting her coffee to cover the smirk tugging at her lips. “You wish.”

“Pretty sure I don’t have to,” he shot back, stretching like a cat just to make her look again.

Sam didn’t even bother hiding his sigh as he closed his notebook. His raised eyebrow was judgment enough.

Dean ignored Sam, rubbing a hand over his face and blinking like he’d lost a fight with the pillow.

“Morning. Or whatever the hell time it is. You two ready to go trick-or-treating?”

She sipped her coffee. “Only if they’ve got Twix.”

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin tugging across his mouth. “Fun-size or king-size?”

She arched a brow over her coffee. “Does it matter?”

Dean smirked. “Yeah, sweetheart, one’ll leave you satisfied, the other’s just a tease.”

The coffee nearly went down the wrong pipe. Her eyes shot up, heat blooming in her cheeks. “Dean!”

He just grinned wider, completely unrepentant. “What? Candy bars. Get your head outta the gutter.”

Sam dropped his pen and glared. “You’re unbelievable.”

Dean smirked, not missing a beat. “Unbelievably right.”

She shook her head, muttering into her cup. “You’re gonna get yourself smacked one of these days.”

Dean’s grin softened just a hair as his eyes met hers. “Yeah, but worth it.”

Sam shoved a folder across the table, tone clipped. “We’ve got omens, witches, demons, take your pick. Can we focus before someone else dies?”

Dean sighed, flopping back like a martyr. “Fine, buzzkill. Coven it is.”

By afternoon, the Impala rolled into the little town.

Halloween decorations hung heavy on every porch. Orange lights draped along banisters, paper skeletons fluttered in the wind, and jack-o’-lanterns sagged on stoops, their grins hollowed by rot.

From the passenger seat, she leaned against the window, watching kids in costumes dart past, laughing as if the world wasn’t cracking underneath them.

Parents waved, carrying cider cups, chatting casually about parties and candy routes.

It made her stomach twist. “Creepy how normal it looks.”

Their first stop was Tracy’s place, a small house dressed in tasteful autumn clutter. Pumpkins, mums, wind chimes. Inside, the air smelled of wax and lavender.

Shelves lined with jars of herbs, bundles of dried plants tied with twine, books stacked precariously on every surface.

Dean whistled low, sweeping his flashlight across the shelves. “Yeah, totally innocent.”

She elbowed him lightly. “Not everyone with candles is raising hell, Dean.”

His smirk deepened. “So you’re into crystals and dream journals now? Should I be worried?”

“Worry I’ll hex you into silence if you keep talking.”

Sam groaned. “You two done? Or should I wait for you to cast matching love spells before we check the hex bags?”

Dean smirked wider. “Don’t tempt her, Sammy.”

The motel room looked like it had been ransacked by a college occult club.

Sigils sketched across paper towels, open lore books sprawled on the bed, Latin scrawled on a napkin in Dean’s chicken-scratch handwriting. Salt lines at the door and window just in case.

Sam sat at the table, shoulders hunched, glasses slipping down his nose as he parsed through his laptop notes.

His voice had gone full Stanford lecture mode.

“Samhain isn’t just a festival, it’s the name of a demon. Ancient, first generation. Summoned on Halloween night, it can raise anything it wants from the dead, spirits, corpses, witches. If these covens succeed, they won’t just cause chaos. They’ll jump-start the apocalypse.”

Her stomach turned at the word.

Apocalypse. Too big, too heavy, too close.

“So what, we salt and burn?” she asked finally, stopping mid-stride. “Or do we just crash a coven and pray it’s the right one?”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that simple. The ritual needs a final blood sacrifice. If we can find out who they’re targeting—”

Dean cut in, flipping the knife shut with a snap. “We cut off the head of the snake, the body dies. Take out the witches before they finish the chant. No blood, no demon.”

She leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. “Easy for you to say. Last witch nearly had you flat on your back.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

By nightfall, they were creeping through the second coven house. The air reeked of sulfur and burnt herbs.

Candles guttered in half-circles on the floor, wax hardened like scar tissue. A makeshift altar sat at the center, bones piled carelessly, symbols scrawled in red across the walls.

Dean’s flashlight swept the mess, his jaw tightening. “Well, this is cozy.”

Sam crouched by the altar, fingers brushing over the sigils. His voice was tight. “This wasn’t for protection. This was summoning. They were close.”

Dean swore under his breath. “Which means we’re already behind.”

Something shifted in the corner.

A low groan rattled from the dark.

She lifted her weapon instinctively, eyes narrowing as a corpse lurched into view, half-rotted, eyes glowing faintly, pulled back into motion by power it didn’t understand.

“Zombie?” she asked, stepping back.

Dean fired a salt round, sending it staggering. “Yep. Happy freakin’ Halloween.”

More of them emerged from the shadows, groaning, their movements stiff but determined.

Sam’s Latin cut sharp through the air. “Vade retro!”

Dean slammed a door shut with his boot, back braced against it. “Sammy, hurry up!”

She swung her machete, slicing through one as it lunged. “This is not how I pictured Halloween night!”

Sam finished the exorcism, the last corpse collapsing to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut.

Silence crashed down, thick and ringing.

She wiped blood and gore off her face with the back of her sleeve, heart hammering.

Dean’s eyes landed on her immediately, scanning for injuries.

His hand lingered at her elbow, then her shoulder. “You good?”

Her breath caught, but she nodded. “Yeah.”

Sam cleared his throat. “We need to move. The ritual’s not done. That means they’re still out there.”

Dean nodded, but his gaze stayed on her another long beat.

Back at the motel, Sam sat heavily in the chair, the springs creaking under his weight. He dragged a lore book across the table and flipped it open, his fingers unsteady on the worn pages.

His eyes tracked the lines fast, his jaw tightening the further he read.

“It’s all here. They’re not trying to summon just any demon.” He hesitated, closing the book with a dull thud. “They’re raising him.”

She frowned. “Him who?”

Dean’s expression darkened. “Samhain. Big bad pumpkin king himself.”

Sam shot Dean a look. “Not funny.”

Dean shrugged. “Didn’t say it was.”

Her throat tightened. “So if they succeed…”

“Then,” Sam said grimly, “the seal breaks. Another step toward freeing Lucifer.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to choke on.

Dean finally broke it with a humorless smirk. “Great. Apocalypse on speed-dial.”

Sam glared at him, but she caught it. He wasn’t unbothered. He was terrified.

The school gym smelled like melted wax and popcorn, the remnants of a Halloween carnival now twisted into something darker.

Paper bats dangled from the ceiling, orange streamers fluttering in the draft. What should’ve been a place for bobbing apples and candy corn now carried the weight of ancient blood magic.

They reached the auditorium doors just as chanting rose from inside, like the sound of stone grinding against stone.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “That’s our cue.”

He shoved the door open, and the scene inside was something out of every nightmare: three witches circled the gym floor, symbols carved into the linoleum glowing blood-red.

At the center, a body bled out across the chalk lines, the air warping above it as something clawed its way through.

Samhain.

The chanting stopped. The witches’ eyes flared black.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered.

The first witch flung a hand toward them, sending Dean and Sam flying into a row of overturned chairs.

She braced, teeth gritted, raising her machete just in time to block a strike that should’ve split her chest open.

“Go!” Sam barked, scrambling back to his feet. “Stop the ritual!”

Dean was already moving, shotgun roaring as rock salt blasted across the circle.

The witches staggered but didn’t fall.

Her heartbeat was a drum in her ears. She rushed forward, hacking through the painted sigils, disrupting the lines even as blood spattered across her boots.

But it wasn’t enough.

The floor split open.

Heat and stench burst upward as Samhain rose, towering, his form shifting like smoke given flesh.

His voice was a growl that scraped the inside of her skull. “Hunters.”

Samhain’s power swept outward. Corpses clawed their way through the linoleum like it was loose soil.

Teachers, janitors, students in masks, all dead, all puppets now. They lurched forward with hollow eyes and grasping hands.

Dean fired until his shotgun clicked empty, then swung it like a bat, splintering skulls.

She ducked and slashed, steel biting through rotted flesh. Sam shouted an exorcism, his voice cracking as Samhain’s laughter drowned it out.

“Sam!” Dean bellowed. “Knife! Now!”

The demon blade slid across the floor, skidding toward her instead. She snatched it up without hesitation.

With a scream, she drove the blade into Samhain’s chest.

The thing convulsed, shrieked, then burst into ash and smoke, sucked back into the pit below.

The corpses collapsed instantly, lifeless once more.

The silence afterward was brutal. The gym smelled of rot and burned wax. Her chest heaved, hands shaking around the knife still lodged in the floor.

Dean staggered toward her, eyes wide. 

She looked up, drenched in sweat, her throat raw. “Still standing.”

His hand cupped her face before she even realized he’d reached for her, thumb brushing dirt and blood from her cheek. “Barely.”

Sam’s voice broke the moment, hoarse but steady. “It’s done. Seal’s safe...for now.”

Dean didn’t move his hand, didn’t look away from her.

His chest rose and fell, relief written in every line of him.

The school gym still reeked of rot. Corpses lay scattered like broken toys across the linoleum, streamers and paper bats trampled underfoot.

Dean lowered his shotgun slowly, shoulders sagging. “Jesus Christ.”

Sam wiped blood from his mouth, still panting. “That was close. Too close.”

Dean shot him a look, equal parts weary and defensive. “Close only counts in horseshoes, Sammy. We won.”

“Barely.” Sam’s voice cut sharp through the hollow space.

His hands clenched around the demon blade until his knuckles whitened.

“Dean, Samhain got free,” Sam said, still catching his breath. His hands gestured sharp, like he had to get it out.

“If we hadn’t stopped him, the seal would’ve been gone. Lilith would be one step closer to breaking them all.”

Dean glanced toward the wreck of the circle, smoke still curling from the burned symbols, then back to Sam.

“But we did stop it,” he said, voice low, final.

She stood just off to the side, knife slack in her grip, every muscle trembling now that the fight was over.

Her voice cracked quieter than she meant it to. “Then it’s one less step.”

Dean looked at her, gaze fierce, like he needed her to believe it too. “Yeah. Exactly. We held the line.”

They didn’t linger. Hunters knew better.

By the time the sheriff’s cruisers screamed up to the scene, they were already gone, slipping into the Impala and disappearing into the night.

Halloween decorations blurred past the windows, plastic skeletons swaying in the wind, jack-o’-lanterns guttering low, candy wrappers skittering across sidewalks.

Sam had his notebook out again, the corner bent from how hard his grip was.

Dean’s hands stayed tight on the wheel, his split lip pulled every time he flexed his jaw.

He didn’t say a word, just drove, the low growl of the engine blending with the crackle of classic rock from the tape deck.

She sat in the passenger seat, forehead leaning against the glass.

“There’s a cluster,” he said, breaking the quiet. “Northwest.”

“Concrete,” he said, tapping the page. “Population two thousand. Old factory town. The omens line up around there.”

Her chest tightened at the name. She shifted in her seat. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know it.”

Sam turned slightly, brows raised. “Right. You’re from Washington.”

She nodded once, keeping her eyes on the blur of trees rushing past outside the window.

Sam frowned. “But I don’t remember you ever saying you’d been to Concrete.”

 She hesitated, then said quietly, “I was there… after Dean.”

Her throat closed up around the rest, but she forced it out. “While he was gone.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, confusion written plain on his face. “I don’t—” He stopped, searching. “I don’t remember that.”

Her voice sharpened, not out of anger, just from the effort of holding herself steady. “That’s because we weren’t talking, Sam. You wouldn’t have known.”

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it again, guilt flickering across his features.

He dropped his eyes back to the notes, but his grip on the papers had gone tight. Dean's eyes flicked her way once, then back to the road.

A moment later, his hand left the wheel just long enough to settle on her knee. No words, no pressure, just there.

He reached forward with his other hand, turning the dial until the tape clicked over and guitar notes hummed through the speakers, low and steady.

“You always won every time you placed a bet.
You’re still damn good, no one’s gotten to you yet…”

The gravel in Seger’s voice filled the space between them. She shifted, just enough that her eyes left the window and drifted toward him.

Dean didn’t look back, didn’t need to. His thumb tapped once against her jeans in rhythm, then stilled.

“You were on your own?” Dean asked finally, voice rougher than before. She gave a small shrug, like it didn’t matter. “Yeah. For a while.”

“Shouldn’t have been.”

She didn’t answer, turning back to the window instead, letting the dark swallow her reflection.

Chapter Text

The Impala ate up the miles in silence.

Headlights caught the pale edges of fog curling low across the highway, the kind that clung to the tree line and blurred the black silhouettes of the evergreens.

Sam was in the back seat with his laptop balanced on his knees, glow washing the fatigue deeper into his face.

His fingers tapped too fast, too anxious, scrolling through county records and news clippings that all said the same thing: nobody in Concrete was dying.

Dean drove like he was punishing the road.

Hands tight on the wheel, thumb tapping the beat of “Ramble On” against the cracked leather, tape deck turned low. His gaze never left the lines stretching ahead.

She sat in the passenger seat with her cheek pressed against the cold glass, watching neon motel signs blur past.

Dean broke the quiet first. His voice was rough, sharp at the edges.

“So, Concrete. Whole town’s gone a month without losing anyone. No funerals, no obits, nothing. You’d think people would be thrilled.”

Sam’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Natural order’s broken. That’s never good.”

Dean huffed, smirk thin. “Natural order’s overrated.”

Her voice came steady, though her chest felt tight. “If death stops, something worse starts.”

Dean’s head shifted just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye.

For a beat, he looked like he might say something sharp, but he just turned the volume up a notch.

The fog thickened the closer they got.

The evergreens loomed tall, shadows lining the road, and then a flicker of neon broke through the dark.

A Coors sign buzzed red through the mist, reflecting off a small gravel lot.

Dean slowed, tires crunching as he pulled in.

The Quarry Tap sat squat against the trees, siding weathered, one window glowing dim.

Music leaked through the open door, bass muffled but steady. Cigarette smoke curled into the night air.

Dean killed the engine. “Motel can wait. I need a drink.”

Sam frowned, snapping the laptop shut. “Dean—”

Dean clapped his shoulder, already out of the car. “Research goes down smoother with whiskey, Sammy.”

The bar stank of stale beer soaked into wood, fryer grease hanging heavy in the air, and a sour-sweet mix of perfume and smoke that clung to every surface. 

Dean shouldered through like he owned the joint, that cocky swagger in every step.

He leaned his elbows against the bar, posture lazy but claiming the space, flashing the kind of grin that always worked too damn well.

The bartender, thin tank top, heavy eyeliner, gum snapping between her teeth, lit up like a Christmas tree the second his eyes hit hers.

She leaned in, cleavage pressed against the counter as she laughed too loud at whatever he muttered low across the bar.

His hand brushed the wood near hers, deliberate, easy.

Her jaw locked. She slid onto a stool two seats down, the cracked vinyl squeaking under her weight.

The red neon reflected in her glass when she picked it up, and she could feel the heat burning across her chest that had nothing to do with the liquor.

Sam sat at the far end, already asking for coffee like a man allergic to fun.

His notebook flipped open on the counter, pen tapping as he scribbled. When he looked up, his eyes snagged on a brunette near the jukebox.

She smiled at him. He smiled back, soft and awkward, but it worked anyway and she walked over.

Her stomach knotted hard, anger flaring quick behind it.

Dean could toss a grin at every waitress from here to Spokane and somehow no one ever blinked, that’s just Dean, like it was written in the damn handbook.

But now? Now he was leaning in, laughing low, that rough, warm sound that usually found its way under her skin because it was for her.

Except it wasn’t.

It was for the blonde sliding him another beer, her manicured hand brushing his arm like she’d been invited. Nails clicking against the bar right next to his fingers.

She blinked, disbelief cutting hotter than the jealousy. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. Not one bit.

Dean’s smirk widened, smooth, unbothered. He liked being watched, liked being wanted.

Fine.

A thump of bass kicked in from the dance floor, heavier, dirtier.

Colored lights spilled over a mess of bodies grinding close, sweat slicking shirts to skin. She let her gaze roam the crowd until it caught on a tall guy with dark hair plastered to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his chest, damp with sweat.

He caught her looking, grinned wide, and tipped his head toward the floor.

Her pulse jumped, sharp and mean. She didn’t look at Dean. Not yet.

She slid off her stool slow, deliberate, letting her hand trail the bar before she pushed off.

The wood was sticky under her fingertips, the floor sticky under her boots as she walked toward the stranger.

His hands clamped down on her waist like he’d been waiting all night for her to walk his way.

Calloused palms hot even through the thin fabric of her shirt, thumbs pressing into the curve of her hips as he pulled her closer.

The bass rattled the floorboards, pounded through her chest, but all she heard was the blood rushing in her ears.

She moved with him, deliberate, hips rolling, back arching until her body fit tight against his.

His breath ghosted the side of her neck, rough and eager, and still, she tilted her head just enough to catch Dean in the corner of her vision.

He was staring.

Beer frozen halfway to his mouth, that easy grin he’d been throwing around like candy now gone.

His eyes were locked on her, dark, unblinking, and that muscle in his jaw ticked sharp with every grind of her hips against the stranger’s.

The satisfaction burned hot in her chest.

She let it show, slow and sweet, curving her mouth into a smile that was meant for Dean and Dean only.

Then, with her gaze never leaving his, she pushed herself back harder against the stranger, felt his grip tighten, let him drag her lower.

Dean’s stare didn’t break.

And that was the point.

The crack of glass on wood carried over the music when he slammed his bottle down, hard enough to make the bartender flinch.

She let the stranger catch her wrist, spin her quick, her back slamming into his chest.

He was all heat and sweat, his hands bold as hell, sliding low over the curve of her hips like he had a right.

Fingers dug in, thumbs brushing the waistband of her jeans, pulling her closer until she could feel just how much he was enjoying himself.

Her pulse thudded hot under her skin, but it wasn’t for him.

It was for the fury searing her from across the room. Dean’s stare dragged over every inch of her body, every place that stranger’s hands touched.

She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips as she rolled her hips back against the guy, grinding slow and filthy.

His grip tightened, mouth dipping toward her neck.

He groaned, pulling her closer, and Dean’s chair screeched across the floor loud enough to cut over the music.

Dean stalked across the bar, cutting through the crowd like the sea was parting for him, leather jacket brushing shoulders, eyes locked on her and nothing else.

Her pulse spiked.

Dean didn’t ask. He yanked her wrist hard enough to spin her out of the stranger’s arms, his grip almost bruising.

“Party’s over,” he growled, voice low in her ear.

The stranger stepped forward, hands raised. “Hey, man, she was—”

Dean didn’t even look at him. His stare stayed pinned to her.

“Walk away,” Dean muttered.

The guy stiffened behind her, his grip loosening.

He glanced over her shoulder at Dean, annoyance flashing across his face like he was weighing whether to push it.

His jaw flexed, a muttered, “Relax, man,” slipping out as he lifted his hands and stepped back.

She ripped her wrist free, chest heaving, but Dean was already dragging her through the press of people, out the side door into the cold night air.

Fog rolled low across the gravel lot, neon from the beer signs buzzing red against it.

The sudden quiet after the pounding bass made her ears ring.

She yanked her arm out of his grip, glaring. “What the hell is your problem?”

Dean’s face was flushed, eyes burning.

He stepped closer, voice rough. “My problem? You grinding on some jackass like—”

“Oh, like what?” Her laugh was sharp, brittle. “Like you weren’t eye-fucking the waitress the second we walked in?”

“That’s different,” he snapped, jaw working.

Her chest tightened, heat crawling up her throat. “Different how, Dean? Because it’s you? Because you get to do whatever you want while I’m supposed to sit there and smile?”

Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides. When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped of the usual bravado.

“Because I can’t stand watching you with someone else.”

Her breath caught, sharp.

She wanted to scream at him, shove him, kiss him until he broke apart in her hands.

She chose the first.

She shoved his chest, hard. “That’s rich. You can’t stand it? After the way you eye every waitress that so much as breathes in your direction? You don’t get to lose your mind the second I give you a taste of your own medicine.”

Dean stumbled back a step, then surged forward again, crowding her against the Impala, hands slamming the hood on either side of her hips.

His breath was hot, whiskey-sweet, eyes wild.

“You think I don’t see you?” His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against steel.

“Every damn guy who looks at you. And you—” his eyes dragged over her, “you let them. You let them just to twist the knife.”

Her pulse hammered. Her fingers knotted in his jacket, not shoving now but fisting the fabric to keep him close. “Maybe I needed to know if you even gave a damn.”

He laughed. “Gave a damn? Sweetheart, it’s been eating me alive.”

She yanked him down by the collar of his jacket, mouth crashing into his.

The kiss was hard, teeth and heat. He groaned against her mouth, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping her hip tight enough to bruise.

She gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound, biting at her lower lip, pulling it into his mouth until she whimpered.

His hips pressed into hers, pinning her against the cold metal of the car.

Her fingers clawed at the leather of his jacket, sliding underneath to grip the cotton stretched across his back.

His body was hot, solid, shaking with anger and want tangled so tight they were the same thing.

He broke from her mouth to drag his lips down her jaw, biting at the curve of her throat, leaving marks sharp enough she’d see them later.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against her skin, voice rough, like it hurt to say.

She tilted her head back, breath ragged. “Good.”

Dean froze, just for a second. Then he slammed his mouth back on hers.

He didn’t stop until her back hit the car door.

The handle dug into her hip, but she didn’t care.

His hand fumbled behind her, yanking the door open, and then they were stumbling inside, mouths never parting.

The leather seats creaked under their weight, her legs tangled with his as he braced himself over her, one knee on the seat, one hand gripping her thigh, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

Her hands buried in his hair, tugging hard, making him groan into her mouth.

His stubble scraped her skin raw, his teeth scraping her collarbone before he dragged his lips back up to kiss her again, rough and consuming.

The world outside blurred, fog, neon, evergreen silhouettes swallowed by the windows. Inside the Impala, it was heat and breath and the taste of whiskey.

Dean’s forehead pressed against hers, both of them breathing hard, lips swollen, hearts racing too fast.

The rest blurred, heat and touch and the sound of his voice rasping in her ear until the night dissolved into black.

The world outside was gray when she blinked awake, breath fogging the passenger window.

Evergreen branches swayed in the early light, their shadows long against the cracked asphalt of the empty lot where they’d parked.

The air smelled damp, heavy with rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

The Impala was fogged faintly from the night before, the windows smudged with condensation.

The leather seats were stiff beneath her, but the warmth pressed against her side was unmistakable.

Dean’s arm was draped heavy across her waist, his body curved around hers in the cramped backseat. His jacket was thrown over both of them, smelling like whiskey, leather, and him.

Her flannel had ridden halfway down her arms, bunched around her elbows.

She tugged at it absently, careful not to jostle him. His breath was warm against the back of her neck, steady now, though she remembered the ragged edge of it hours earlier.

She shifted, stretching sore muscles, and his hand twitched at her hip, gripping without waking, like his body wasn’t ready to let her go.

Dean groaned, voice rough with sleep. “Jesus… car sex and car sleep. My back’s filing a complaint.”

She smirked, stretching until her shoulders popped. “What, thirty-something and already breaking down? You’re practically elderly.”

Dean cracked an eye at her, mock-offended. “Elderly? Please. You and I are, what, only a year or two apart?”

Her brows lifted, slow. “You really don’t know?”

He blinked. “Know what?” “July, '86,” she said simply, watching his face.

Dean’s eyes widened. “You’re shittin’ me. You’re ’86?”

“Mm-hm.” She sat back against the seat, arms crossed.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his jaw, muttering. “Son of a bitch. I’m ’79. That’s… that’s seven years. Seven.”

He looked at her again, half-appalled. “You never thought to mention that?”

She shrugged, lips twitching. “Didn’t exactly come up between salt rounds and demon guts.”

“Seven years,” he repeated, staring like the math itself insulted him.

She poked his chest, grinning. “Relax, old man. You’re still holding up okay. For now.”

Dean shook his head, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. “Unbelievable. I’ve been robbing the cradle this whole time.”

She smirked. “Guess that makes me your midlife crisis.”

“Unbelievable. I haul your ass through hunts, keep you breathing, and this is what I get? Age jokes?”

She tilted her head toward him, smirk lazy. “Hey, you’re the one who brought up your debilitating arthritis.”

His jaw worked, trying to hold onto the glare, but the corner of his mouth tugged into a crooked grin anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

From the front, a groan cut through.

Sam sat up from where he’d slumped against the steering wheel, hair sticking up in every direction.

He blinked at them in the rearview, face somewhere between tired and annoyed. “God. You two were out cold when I got the car. Like, dead to the world. Had to climb in without waking you.”

Her cheeks burned, but Dean just smirked wider, leaning back in the seat like he’d won something. “That’s because some of us had a busy night, Sammy.”

Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. “Spare me. Seriously.”

Dean chuckled, shoving the keys into the ignition.

The Impala rumbled to life, engine growling. “Concrete, Washington. Population: depressing. We’ll grab food before the hospital run.”

Sam shook his head, already pulling out the laptop. “Food, yeah. Then work.”

Dean’s smirk tilted toward her as he threw the car into gear. “Coffee counts as food, right?”

Her stomach growled at the thought. “Not when it’s the gas station kind.”

Dean chuckled, gravel low in his chest. “Guess that means you’re stuck slumming it with us.”

Fog clung low, blurring the outlines of old storefronts and sagging houses. Dean pulled into the lot, his knuckles flexing on the wheel.

“Come on,” she muttered, pushing the door open. “Before Sam starves to death.”

The diner’s neon sign buzzed faint behind them as the Impala rolled deeper into Concrete.

By the time they reached the hospital, daylight was dull and flat, more gray than gold.

Dean swung the car into a space near the ER entrance, killing the engine with a sigh.

Inside, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, too sterile. The place smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Nurses hurried past with clipboards, their shoes squeaking on linoleum.

Sam approached the front desk, flashing their fake FBI badges. “We’re looking into recent medical anomalies. Records on cardiac arrests, strokes, anything fatal in the last two weeks.”

The nurse frowned, tapping keys. “Fatal? There haven’t been any. Not since… a while now.”

Sam leaned in, his voice even. “Not a single death?”

She shook her head. “Plenty of close calls. Heart attacks, car wrecks, tumors that should’ve been terminal. But every one of them pulled through.”

She lowered her voice. “Doctors are calling it a miracle. Frankly, it’s weird.”

Dean gave a low whistle. “Weird’s what we do best.”

The nurse blinked at him, confused, but Sam cut in before she could press. “Could we take a look at the patient files?”

Minutes later, the three of them were crammed into an office lined with metal cabinets. Sam dug through folders while Dean leaned against the door, arms crossed, eyes scanning the hall.

She sat at the edge of the desk, flipping through a thin stack of reports Sam handed her.

She tapped one page. “Massive stroke. Should’ve killed him instantly. But… no damage on the follow-up scans.”

Sam nodded. “And this one...triple bypass patient, heart stopped twice on the table. Woke up like nothing happened.”

Dean finally pushed off the wall, moving closer. “So no one dies. But if reapers aren’t punching their cards…”

She finished for him. “Spirits are left hanging.”

The weight of it settled over them. Sam closed the file, his mouth tight. “We need to check the cemetery.”

Concrete’s cemetery sat at the edge of town, tucked against the tree line where evergreens pressed close, damp and heavy.

Moss clung to the headstones, and the air was sharp with the smell of wet earth.

Sam crouched at a freshly turned grave, brushing dirt from the marker. His breath fogged in the cold.

“This guy died last week. Records say heart failure. But…” He pulled back the soil with his hand. “The body’s gone.”

Dean swore under his breath. “Grave robbing, just what I needed today.”

She swung her EMF reader over the grass. The needle spiked sharp, then flatlined.

Her stomach turned. “Spirits are restless. We’re standing on borrowed time.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker, an old man, transparent, hovering near a row of stones.

His mouth opened like he was trying to speak, but no sound came. Then he blinked out, gone.

Her grip on the reader tightened. “They’re stuck here.”

Dean stepped closer, the crunch of his boots steady on gravel. “Then let’s find what’s jamming the system.”

Later, back at the motel, Bobby’s voice crackled through the speakerphone.

“You’re looking at someone binding death itself. Reaper by the name of Tessa used to cover that territory. She’s not answering anymore.”

Dean’s face shifted, tension sharp at the name. He paced the cramped room, whiskey in hand, shoulders tight.

Sam frowned. “You know her?”

Dean didn’t answer right away.

His jaw flexed, eyes on the floor. “We’ve crossed paths.”

Bobby’s voice cut through. “Point is, you’re not just dealing with ghosts. You’re dealing with the balance of the whole damn world tipping sideways.”

The line went dead with a click. Silence pressed in, broken only by the rattle of the old heater.

Dean dropped into the rickety chair across from Sam, flask in one hand, lighter in the other.

She took the lighter, steadying herself, and leaned forward to trace the last sigil on the cloth. 

Sam opened a thick leather-bound text, his voice low and measured. “This should call the reaper tied to Concrete. If she’s bound, she might not appear in person, but we’ll hear her.”

Dean snorted, though the sound was humorless. “Great. Love a ghost call with the Grim Reaper.”

No one answered.

The chant began. Sam’s Latin rolled through the stale air, precise and heavy. The candles guttered, shadows swelling until the walls seemed closer, the ceiling lower.

The temperature dropped.

A voice rippled through the room, soft but cutting. “Dean Winchester.”

Dean stiffened like he’d been doused in ice water. 

The voice came again, closer this time, feminine, cool as glass. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Dean’s throat bobbed, but his reply came out rough. “Yeah, well, good to see you too, Tessa.”

Sam’s eyes flicked between them. “You know her?”

Dean ignored the question, his gaze locked on the empty space between flickering candlelight. “You’re stuck. Who’s holding you?”

A faint laugh, brittle. “You know who.”

The candles blew out in unison. Darkness swallowed the room.

Dean’s flashlight snapped on, the beam slicing across the room. 

She forced her voice steady. “She’s trapped. Which means souls are trapped. No wonder the spirits are breaking loose.”

Sam shoved the book closed, the sound loud in the dark. “We need to know who bound her.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, but his voice was flat, edged with something bitter. “We already do. Only one son of a bitch plays games this big.”

Alastair.

Sam retreated to the table with his notes, scribbling symbols until the page blurred. His brow furrowed deeper with every line.

Dean stalked the room like a caged dog, restless energy spilling into every sharp movement.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, blade across her knees, cloth running slow over the steel. The sound was steady, sharp. It settled her in a way Dean’s pacing couldn’t.

By morning, Concrete was drowned in fog, and it was oddly comforting. It reminded her of home, her old home.

Sam sat at the tiny table, maps and lore spread wide, pen tapping against his mug. “We can’t just exorcise him. Whoever bound Tessa has layers of protection. Breaking it will take a summoning ritual.”

Dean zipped his jacket with more force than necessary, shoving his pistol into its holster. “Then we break it. Whatever it takes.”

Her gaze flicked between them. “If Alastair’s the one holding her, it’s not just another fight. He won’t run easy.”

Dean’s smirk was bitter. “Good. Been wanting a rematch.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. “Cemetery. Midnight. We’ll need every ward we’ve got.”

Cold rushed through the cemetery, sharper than any autumn night. She smelled sulfur, acrid and biting.

“Dean Winchester and co.”

Dean froze, shoulders tight. His voice came back low, gravelled. “Alastair.”

The demon stepped into view like he owned the place, suit pressed, shoes gleaming despite the mud. His face was calm, almost genial, but his eyes burned black.

Dean raised the shotgun. “Let her go.”

Alastair’s smile curved wider. “Why would I? Tessa’s my prize. With her chained, the world stalls. Death’s doors stay shut. And oh, how chaos thrives.”

Sam moved closer to the mausoleum. “Then we unchain her.”

Alastair’s gaze flicked to Sam, dismissive, before settling on her.

His smile sharpened. “And look at you. Still clinging to Dean like he’s salvation instead of damnation.”

Her stomach twisted, but she held her ground. Knife steady. 

Dean stepped half a pace in front of her, shotgun rising higher. His voice was all venom. “You end this. Now."

It broke fast. Dean fired first, the blast cutting through the fog. Alastair barely flinched, body jerking but recovering, black smoke hissing around the wound.

Sam shouted Latin, voice strong over the chaos. The words tore the air, sharp and hot, the ground vibrating under their feet.

Alastair flicked his wrist, and Sam flew back into a headstone, stone cracking under the impact. Sam groaned, dazed, but alive.

She lunged in with her knife, slashing across Alastair’s side. The blade cut, black smoke bleeding from the wound. Alastair snarled, catching her wrist and twisting until bone screamed. Her knife slipped.

Dean charged, slamming into the demon, breaking his grip off her.

They hit the dirt hard, fists and blades flying. Dean grunted with every hit, breath ragged, but his strikes didn’t falter.

Alastair laughed, blood at his lip. “Still the same in a fight. Swinging like a dog with no chain. You learned that from me.”

Dean’s face twisted, fury sharp as steel. He drove the blade into Alastair’s shoulder. Smoke hissed, shrieks piercing the fog.

She scrambled back for her knife, hands shaking, lungs burning from sulfur in the air.

When she rose, Dean was on the ground again, Alastair’s boot pressing into his chest.

“Do you ever tell her what you were down there?” Alastair taunted, leaning close, voice like poison. “How much you enjoyed it?”

Dean’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.

She threw herself forward, blade in both hands, stabbing deep into Alastair’s ribs. He roared, the sound splitting the night, smoke billowing black.

Dean shoved up, seizing the opening. His knife slashed across Alastair’s throat.

Sam’s Latin rose to a crescendo, words boiling out until they burned.

Alastair staggered, body jerking, smoke pouring from every wound. His face twisted, laughter and rage tangled into one sound.

Then, with a final shriek, his vessel collapsed into ash and black mist that dissolved into the fog.

The cemetery went still.

Sam pushed himself upright, blood streaking his temple, chest heaving. “The mausoleum.”

They ran. Dean shoved the heavy stone door aside, the groan echoing off cold walls.

Inside, the air smelled like rust and blood. Chains clattered faintly, carved through with glowing sigils.

Tessa sat bound at the center, her face pale but her eyes sharp. She lifted her head as they entered. “You came.”

Dean crouched instantly, blade already working at the chains.

His voice was hoarse. “Yeah. We’re not big on leaving people in cages.”

Sam traced the sigils, muttering quick Latin under his breath. She dropped beside Tessa, fingers brushing one of the glowing links.

Heat seared her skin, but she held on. “We’ll break it.”

Dean’s knife sliced through one chain, sparks hissing. Sam scrawled counter-sigils across the stone, chanting until another binding snapped with a metallic crack.

Finally, the last chain fell.

Tessa stood, the glow of freedom sparking across her like wildfire. Her presence filled the mausoleum, colder than death but steadier, almost merciful.

Her gaze swept the three of them, lingering on Dean. “You can’t stop what’s coming.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, but his voice was flat. "I know.”

Light surged around her, too bright to hold.

When the light dimmed, she was gone.

The silence afterward was stark. Only their breathing filled the space.

Sam wiped blood from his forehead, sinking against the wall, notebook clutched tight. “She’s free. Balance is back… for now.”

Dean holstered his blade, shoulders rigid. His face was pale, but his eyes burned, locked on the empty space where Tessa had stood.

She touched his arm lightly. “It’s over.”

Dean shook his head, lips twisting. “No. It’s never over.”

Outside, the fog was already lifting, revealing rows of gravestones washed in moonlight.

They walked back toward the Impala in silence, Sam a step ahead, already muttering theories about what came next.

Dean’s knuckles grazed hers once, like an accident, but then his fingers closed around her hand. He kept walking, eyes straight ahead, not a word leaving his mouth.

The motel curtains barely kept the fog out. The room smelled like old smoke and pine needles dragged in on their boots, damp from the cemetery. Sam passed out first, half-slumped at the table with a pile of notes he’d sworn he’d finish. His pen rolled to the floor and stayed there.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, staring at nothing.

His jacket was still on, his hands stained with dirt and ash, knuckles scraped raw.

She couldn’t take the quiet anymore. 

She pushed off the wall and crossed the room. Her fingers found the little plastic knob on the radio perched crooked on the nightstand.

The first twist filled the room with static, sharp and thin, before it settled on a station buried in fuzz. A soft guitar slipped through, warm and crackling like it had been waiting decades to be heard.

Blind Faith, “Can’t Find My Way Home.”

Dean’s head turned, slow, a crease between his brows. “Seriously?”

“Better than listening to you grind your teeth all night.”

He huffed a laugh without humor, rubbing a hand down his face.

She just held out her hand.

Dean stared at it, at her, then at the floor. “You’re nuts.”

“Maybe.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like he wanted to argue and couldn’t find the strength.

After a beat, he shoved up to his feet and took her hand.

The floor creaked under their weight as she pulled him into the narrow space between the beds. The radio hummed, Clapton’s voice scratchy through the static.

His palm settled against her hip, hesitant at first, then firmer when she didn’t pull away. His other hand tangled with hers, rough and warm. They swayed slow.

For the first time since the fight, his shoulders loosened.

“Don’t tell Sammy,” he muttered, voice low, almost shy.

She smirked faint. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The song carried them through, the scratch of vinyl filling the silence they couldn’t put words to. When the last note faded back into static, Dean pulled back, clearing his throat.

He didn’t let go of her hand right away.

Chapter Text

Bobby’s house wasn’t quiet. Not usually.

Even in the dead of night, it carried a pulse like a body that refused to rest.

But tonight, none of that stirred.

The silence pressed in, heavy enough to feel against her chest, crawling up the back of her neck before the knock even came.

Three sharp blows.

Not hesitant. Not cautious. Each one landed with the authority of someone who didn’t expect to be turned away, rattling the doorframe so hard it seemed to reverberate through the bones of the house itself.

Dean moved first.

His boots struck the floorboards in a heavy rhythm, gun in his hand before she had managed to push her chair back. 

She followed, the faint smell of stale coffee still clinging to her sleeve as her heart pounded fast enough to make her vision sharpen.

Behind them, the kitchen light caught on Sam as he came into view. His weapon was already raised, his face sharp and tight, eyes scanning corners before he even reached the hallway.

Dean yanked the door open.

Rain hammered down outside, sheets of it slanting in the wind, cold air rushing in to bite at her arms.

Castiel stood in the frame, trench coat soaked through, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His expression was stone, as unshaken as ever, but his eyes betrayed him.

Uriel filled the other half of the doorway, a wall of muscle and scorn. His scowl was cut deep into his face, like it had been carved there and hardened into permanence.

Dean’s voice cut sharp. “Oh, look. Statler and Waldorf. What now?”

The jab bounced off. Uriel didn’t so much as twitch. His gaze stayed locked on Dean, unwavering. “We need you. Now.”

Dean’s fingers flexed white against the grip of his gun. He didn’t lower it. “Yeah? That’s funny. ’Cause last I checked, I was already busy. Trying not to get gutted by your demon pals. So why don’t you pick somebody else for whatever suicide mission you have on the docket today?”

Castiel’s gaze shifted, past Dean, past Sam, landing on her. It wasn’t the blank, unreadable stare she had come to expect. This time it carried weight. Concern. Guilt. 

Her eyes shifted back to Dean in time to hear Cas's next words. “It has to be you, Dean.”

He grabbed his jacket from the chair without breaking stride, shouldered past the angels, and stepped into the storm. Was it really that easy?

She followed without thinking. Sam close at her side. Neither of them spoke.

The door swung shut behind them, the groan of its hinges dragging out like a warning, echoing too loud in the hollow silence Bobby’s house left behind.

Rain hammered down steady as the Impala ate up the miles.

Sam had taken the wheel, shoulders tense, jaw rigid, knuckles white against the leather wrap. 

The backseat smelled like damp leather and gun oil, heavy with the wet denim clinging to their legs. She sat pressed against Dean, his thigh warm where it leaned into hers.

His body was turned slightly toward the window, the shadows cutting his face in sharp lines, stubble catching the glow from the dash.

He hadn’t spoken once since leaving Bobby’s.

His arms were crossed over his chest, rigid, but his hand had found hers somewhere between the first mile and the tenth. Not a squeeze. Not even a real hold.

Just his palm lying heavy in her lap, fingers curled loosely around hers.

The rain pounded harder, drumming on the roof.

Sam broke first. His voice was tight, brittle. “You know this is wrong. This feels wrong. More wrong than other shit they've pulled.”

Dean didn’t move. His reflection in the window stayed fixed, hollow-eyed and stiff.

Sam’s hands tightened on the wheel. “They’re using you, Dean. They’re not asking. They’re forcing you back into—” He cut himself off, shaking his head hard. “You don’t have to play their game.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He spoke low, rough. “Don’t have a choice.”

“The hell you don’t.” Sam’s voice rose, sharp against the drone of rain. “They think they own you, that you’re just some soldier they can shove in front of the firing squad—”

Dean snapped his head toward him, eyes burning. “Sam. Drop it.”

The words cracked out, sharp and final. Sam flinched, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Her throat worked. The words scraped out soft. “He’s right, you know.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to her, just for a second. There was no grin, no smartass remark.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Dean—”

He cut her off, his voice sharp. “It’s me they want. Always has been. Always will be.”

Sam’s hands tightened on the wheel again, but he didn’t argue this time.

Dean's gaze stayed locked on the blur of trees outside, jaw set, every muscle in his arm taut under her touch.

By the time Sam eased the Impala off the road, the storm had slowed to a heavy drizzle.

The world outside was dark, pine trees looming tall and wet, their silhouettes jagged against the black sky. Fog curled low over the asphalt, catching in the headlights.

The lot they rolled into looked abandoned. Concrete cracked with weeds, puddles reflecting the faint glow of broken lamps. A warehouse squatted at the far end, steel siding streaked with rust, windows dark and jagged like broken teeth.

Castiel and Uriel were already there, waiting.

They didn’t arrive in cars. Didn’t need to. They stood at the mouth of the building like sentinels, rain dripping down the collars of their coats.

Dean moved first, shoving open the back door. His boots splashed into a puddle, jacket collar pulled up against the drizzle. He didn’t look back at her, didn’t wait for Sam.

She followed fast, boots crunching over gravel slick with rain.

Dean’s voice carried across the lot, sharp and deliberate. “So this is it? Drag me out in the middle of the night because Heaven’s too squeamish to do its own dirty work?”

Uriel’s scowl deepened. “Spare me. You’re going in.”

Dean tilted his chin, defiance radiating in every tense line of his body. “Yeah? You gonna make me?”

Uriel’s vessel’s eyes glowed faintly in the dark. Her stomach tightened.

Castiel stepped forward, breaking the current.

His voice was calm, but the weight in it pressed the air down. “Dean. We need you.”

Dean’s jaw locked. He looked at her then, just for a moment. Something desperate flickered behind, something she hadn't seen in a long time. 

She whispered, steady despite the ache in her chest. “You don’t have to do this.”

He didn’t answer. He just squared his shoulders, turned, and walked toward the warehouse.

The rest of them followed.

Water dripped somewhere high in the rafters, each drop echoing sharp.

And in the center of the floor, carved deep into the cracked concrete, was a devil’s trap. Fresh.

Her stomach turned to stone.

Alastair was waiting.

His vessel looked worn, collar torn, a smear of blood at his temple, but he stood tall within the bindings. His lips curved slow when his eyes found Dean.

“Well.” His voice slithered through the silence, warm and cruel. “If it isn’t my best student.”

Dean stopped dead in the doorway.

The tremor that shot down his arm was small but visible as he gripped the knife up his sleeve.

She felt it in the air, the shift, like static rolling off him. His eyes stayed locked on Alastair.

“Shut your mouth,” Dean bit out, low and jagged.

Alastair’s grin widened. His teeth gleamed under the flickering light. “Always so fiery. Still pretending you’re not trembling?”

His gaze dropped to Dean’s hand, lingering on the shake he couldn’t hide. “It feels like coming home, doesn’t it?”

Dean took another step forward.

Uriel’s arm shot out, blocking her chest before she could follow. His stare was sharp, unflinching. “Not you.”

Her breath came fast, her fists curling. She shoved against his arm, teeth grit. “If he’s so damn ready, why are you afraid of me being at his side?”

Uriel didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He might as well have been a wall.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at her. “I got it, sweetheart. Just… hang tight.”

Sam surged forward, fury flashing. “What the hell are you doing? He’s in there alone.”

Uriel didn’t even glance at him. “It is not your concern.”

Her pulse spiked, but Castiel stepped into her path before she could hurl herself at the angel. His hand settled lightly on her shoulder, steady but immovable.

His voice was low, calm, like a man explaining the inevitable to a condemned prisoner. “Dean must do this.”

She ripped her shoulder out of his grasp. “The hell he does!”

Dean's shoulders squared, jaw clenched, every line of his body rigid. He moved like a man circling a cage he’d never really left.

Alastair smiled through the weight of his chains, his vessel’s lips splitting with delight.

“There you are. Took your time, boy. Thought maybe they’d sent me an angel. But no.” His grin widened, bloody teeth catching in the flicker of the bulb. “They sent me my favorite.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just circled, knuckles bone-white around the hilt of the knife.

She and Sam were dragged down the hall to a rusted storage cage.

The angel shoved them inside like luggage. The clang of the lock echoed like a gunshot in the hollow space.

Sam instantly went for the bars, both hands rattling the steel until it shrieked. His face was white-hot with fury.

“This is wrong,” he spat. His voice cracked, and the sound cut sharp. “They can’t just—” He slammed his fist into the lock. “Damn it!”

She pressed her face against the bars, straining for any sound from down the hall. Nothing. Only the storm outside. Not Dean’s voice. Not Alastair’s. Just silence that clawed at her skin.

Her chest burned, her stomach twisted. “They shut us out.”

Sam turned, jaw tight, eyes wild. “Which means they don’t want us seeing what’s happening.”

Castiel appeared outside the cage, his trench coat dark with rain.

His voice was steady, almost soft. “Dean is strong enough. Stronger than you know. He must face this.”

Her hands balled into fists around the bars. “You think that’s comfort? That’s torture. And you’re letting it happen.”

His gaze flickered, just for a moment, and guilt cracked through the blankness. But he didn’t deny it.

He only said, “It is necessary.”

Sam’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Necessary? Watching my brother get ripped apart by that son of a bitch is necessary?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

Sam dragged both hands through his hair, pacing hard, boots pounding the floor.

His voice cracked again, lower this time. “He won’t make it. Not like this.”

She pressed her forehead to the bars. “And he’s letting it happen.”

Dean’s knife slashed the first time across Alastair’s cheek, tearing flesh clean open.

Black smoke hissed through the wound, acrid and thick, but the demon only groaned, smiling through the blood.

“There’s the touch,” Alastair whispered, voice rich with pleasure. “Still steady. Still beautiful.”

Dean’s face twisted, fury and revulsion carved in deep. He slashed again, across the chest this time. The blade bit deep. Smoke poured out with a wet hiss, and the smell of sulfur and blood thickened the air until it stung Dean’s nose.

Alastair’s head lolled back. His chains rattled as he laughed. "You hear it, don’t you? Every scream you carved down there. They’re still ringing, Dean. Still singing. You made an orchestra of agony.”

“Shut your damn mouth!” Dean roared, voice shredded. He plunged the knife into Alastair’s thigh, twisted hard. Blood and smoke gushed, spattering across the concrete. The sound was wet, nauseating.

Alastair only shuddered, groaning low, almost in ecstasy. “My dear boy. The artist.”

Dean yanked the knife free and drove it again, this time into the demon’s shoulder. The chains bit into Alastair’s vessel as he arched against the steel, laughing through the howl of pain.

Blood dripped thick down his shirt, pooling on the floor.

Dean’s chest heaved, sweat and rain mingling, his knuckles raw where the knife dug into his palm. He pressed closer, eyes blazing, and slashed again. The blade carved down Alastair’s arm, slicing tendon.

The demon’s laughter stuttered but didn’t stop.

“You feel it,” Alastair rasped, choking on blood. His grin split wider, grotesque. “That rush. That fire in your veins. You’re home again. Your real home.”

Dean’s face crumpled, fury crashing against horror. He lashed out, the knife carving across Alastair’s ribs with a sound like tearing meat.

Smoke filled the trap. Blood slicked Dean’s hands, hot, sticky, soaking into his cuffs.

And still Alastair laughed.

His voice dropped lower. “And now the truth. Didn’t they tell you, Dean? You broke the first seal.”

Dean froze. The knife trembled in his grip.

Alastair leaned forward, chains rattling. “Of all the damned souls in Hell, you. Thirty years of saying no. But the day you picked up the blade? You opened the door. You started it all.”

His smile gleamed crimson. “The apocalypse.”

Dean staggered back, chest heaving. His eyes went wide, horror cutting deep. The knife slipped from his hand. It clattered on the concrete.

Alastair’s grin widened. “You started the end of days, Dean. The boy who lasted thirty years, only to crumble on the thirty-first.”

Dean dragged both hands over his face, trembling violently. His breath hitched, fractured. His entire body shook.

She felt it before she heard it. The air shifted, heavy and sick. Her stomach dropped.

She gripped the bars until her palms throbbed. “Something’s wrong.”

Sam’s head snapped up, eyes wild. He kicked at the lock, metal screeching. “We have to get out. Now.”

She turned, slamming her shoulder into the bars. Pain shot through bone, but she didn’t care. “Move, damn it!”

Castiel stepped forward, voice sharp. “You cannot.”

Her vision blurred hot. “He’s my—” Her throat closed around the word. She pounded her fist against the steel. “Please, Castiel, let him go.”

Sam’s voice was strained. “You’re letting him die in there.”

Castiel’s eyes flickered, jaw tightening. “He is stronger than you know.”

Her laugh cracked, jagged. “You're as good as Alistair.”

The silence after was worse than anything.

Dean didn’t pick the knife back up. His hand hovered near it, shaking hard enough that it scraped against the concrete.

His chest heaved, sweat streaking down his temples, dripping into the blood already smeared across his shirt.

Alastair leaned forward, the chains biting into his vessel’s arms as he grinned. “Look at you. Not the righteous man anymore. Just a butcher who ran out of excuses.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, but his lips trembled. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Alastair tilted his head, the motion animal-like, eyes glinting.

“You remember the first one, don’t you? That pitiful bastard on the rack. You said no for so long, but when you cut him, when you heard that scream…”

He chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. “You liked it. Admit it.”

Dean’s face crumpled. He lunged, not for the knife but with his bare fists. His knuckles slammed into Alastair’s face once, twice, again. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic. Vessel flesh split under the impact, cartilage snapping.

Alastair laughed through it, teeth flashing crimson. “Yes. That’s it! You can’t deny it, Dean. You carved out their hope, slice by slice, and every time, you came back for more.”

Dean’s fist cracked against his jaw so hard the vessel’s head whipped sideways, chains straining to hold.

But the laughter didn’t stop.

Dean stumbled back, chest heaving, blood smeared across his knuckles. His breath came ragged, broken. He looked at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

He was on his knees now, blood dripping off his chin, soaking into his collar.

Alastair leaned down, chains rattling, voice dropping to a whisper that cut sharper than a scream. “You opened the cage, Dean. You let the first seal break. And now? Every soul damned, every angel fallen...it’s on you.”

Dean’s breath hitched, jagged. His eyes went wide, horror cracking every line of his face. “No…”

“Yes.” Alastair’s grin was sharp as glass. “You are the reason the world ends.”

Dean’s hands dragged up over his face, trembling so hard it looked like they might tear his own skin. The knife still lay abandoned on the floor, gleaming in the flickering light, but he didn’t reach for it. He didn’t move at all.

For the first time, Alastair’s smile softened into something worse. Pity. “You always were mine.”

Maybe it was true.

When the door finally opened, the angels didn’t announce it. They just stepped aside.

Dean stumbled through, blood smeared across his face, his shirt soaked and stiff. His eyes were blank, hollow, fixed on nothing. His steps dragged, boots scraping like he wasn’t fully aware of the floor beneath him.

She lunged forward, catching his arm. “Dean—”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch. His jaw was locked, his lips pressed into a line that trembled faintly but never parted.

Sam’s breath broke out in a ragged gasp. “Oh, God.” He reached for Dean’s other arm, trying to steady him. “What did they—”

Castiel’s voice cut in, quiet. “We must leave.”

Sam rounded on him, fury snapping. “No! You don’t get to stand there and—”

“Sam.” Her voice cracked. She tightened her grip on Dean, felt the tremor running through him, the way his body leaned ever so slightly toward her but refused to collapse.

Her throat ached. “Help me get him to the car.”

The spare room in Bobby's, her room, smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The lamp on the nightstand buzzed low, its yellow light throwing tired shadows against the peeling wallpaper.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, his boots still on, mud streaked up the sides, blood drying into cracks across his shirt. His hands hung heavy between his knees, split knuckles swollen, skin torn and caked.

He stared at the floorboards like they might open up and swallow him.

She crouched in front of him with a wet cloth, the basin of water at her feet rippling with every tremor of the house. The first swipe against his face was tentative, almost asking permission.

She dabbed carefully at the corner of his mouth, wiping away the dried blood that had hardened into the stubble along his jaw.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His chest rose and fell shallow.

She leaned in closer, her own breath catching at the sight of him this way, eyes vacant, jaw locked so tight the muscles quivered.

His silence was worse than rage, worse than pain. He was somewhere deep down inside himself, locked behind walls even she couldn’t climb.

“Dean,” she whispered, pressing the cloth gently under his chin, sweeping upward. “It’s me. You’re home.”

No response. His gaze didn’t flicker, not even once.

She worked slowly, rinsing the cloth, wringing it out, wiping blood from his temple, across his brow, down the side of his throat.

When the cloth came away pink, she set it aside and reached for his hands. His knuckles were a mess, swollen and raw.

She cradled one in both of hers, thumb tracing carefully over the ruined skin. He let her. He didn’t resist, didn’t pull away. But he didn’t close his fingers around hers either.

Her throat ached as she whispered, “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain. Just…stay here with me.”

For a long moment he was immovable, his body rigid, his shoulders hunched.

Then, suddenly, he moved. His hands twitched once, and before she could react, his arms came up fast, wrapping around her with a force that nearly knocked the air from her lungs.

He dragged her against him, burying his face into the curve of her neck, his breath harsh and hot against her skin.

She froze only a second before holding him back, both arms tight across his shoulders, pulling him in.

His whole body shook.

Not violently, not the tremors of rage she knew so well, but the kind that came when someone had nothing left.

Every inhale rattled against her collarbone. Every exhale came jagged, uneven, like he couldn’t quite remember how to breathe steady anymore.

She threaded her fingers through the back of his hair, damp with sweat, and whispered into the dark, “It wasn’t your fault. None of it. You hear me? You’re not what he said you are. You’re not. I swear.”

No words came back.

Minutes stretched. The house creaked. Rain pattered faintly against the roof. Sam’s voice murmured somewhere downstairs with Bobby, too low to catch, the sound of the world still moving while time in this room felt frozen.

And then she felt it.

Warm against her throat, soaking into the collar of her shirt. Tears.

Dean Winchester, the man who never cried, who stitched his wounds in silence, who wore bravado like armor thick enough to stop bullets, was breaking down against her.

She tightened her hold, rocking him gently, whispering anything that came. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Her own eyes blurred, tears slipping hot down her cheeks to mingle with his.

Dean didn’t speak. He didn’t lift his head. He just held on.

And she let him.

Chapter Text

The alarm shrieked at six, same as every weekday, the sound sharp enough to rattle her bones.

She slapped it silent and sat up in a room that smelled faintly of coffee grounds, detergent, and the dry tang of printer paper that clung even outside the office. The walls were beige, the blinds drawn tight.

On the dresser, she had already laid out today’s uniform: a navy silk blouse that buttoned neat to the collar, a black pencil skirt pressed flat, sheer stockings folded just right, and black stilettos polished until they caught the morning light.

The company badge sat on top, her picture frozen in an artificial smile. Miss Wesson.

The shower hissed hot. Makeup was applied with muscle memory, lipstick red enough to draw attention but still corporate-safe. Earrings, subtle. Perfume, barely-there but lingering like smoke.

Coffee brewed bitter and black. Two travel mugs waited on the counter. She poured one for herself, the other for Dean. She didn’t remember when she’d started making his.

Somewhere between noticing he never ate breakfast and realizing he always looked like he hadn’t slept enough.

By the time she reached the glass high-rise, the lobby buzzed with the shuffle of suits and heels. The elevator was packed, fluorescent lights humming overhead.

The smell was cologne, hairspray, damp coats. She stood pressed into the corner, one hand wrapped tight around both mugs.

Dean Smith was already on their floor when the doors opened.

He was everything corporate worshipped, a pressed charcoal suit, pale blue shirt, tie knotted with military precision. His jaw was freshly shaved, his hair tamed just enough, though the cowlick at the back had resisted. His shoulders filled out the suit like it had been tailored to him. And knowing him, it probably was.

She dropped one mug on his desk as she passed, no words, just a glance.

He caught it with one hand, muttered something low, “thanks, sweetheart”, before taking a long sip. His voice rasped from sleep deprivation, not alcohol, but it landed in her gut just the same.

Sam Wesson sat two cubicles down, tie crooked, sleeves rolled. He was already muttering at his monitor, glasses sliding down his nose as he tapped numbers too fast for anyone else to follow. He was the only one in the office who never looked comfortable in his skin, and she knew why.

Sam was her brother, after all.

The morning blurred into phones ringing, keyboards clacking, copiers humming.

She floated through it with practiced ease. Lipstick on paper cups, heels clicking sharp against tile, fingers flying across spreadsheets.

Dean hovered more than usual, brushing past her chair to grab reports, leaning over her shoulder to correct numbers that didn’t need correcting.

She let him, mostly because she didn’t mind. But when their manager leaned too close to her at the copier, breath smelling like stale coffee, hand grazing the back of her chair, Dean noticed.

His voice cut sharp across the room. “Hey, she’s working. You got questions, bring them to me.”

It snapped enough heads around that the manager straightened, mumbled something, and retreated.

Dean didn’t even look at her after, just took the finished copies from her hand and muttered, “You’re welcome.”

Her lips curved as she slid past him, brushing his arm deliberately. “What would I do without you, Mr. Smith?”

He didn’t answer, but his ears burned red as he turned back to his desk.

The second morning felt sharper, like the world was turning up the brightness.

Her heels clicked down the corridor, the sound slicing through the low murmur of phones and printers.

Today’s armor was a fitted black dress that hugged her hips too close for company policy, slit high enough to make her manager swallow twice before looking away. A delicate gold swallow necklace glinted at her collarbone, the smallest rebellion against monotony.

Dean noticed first thing.

He leaned against the edge of her cubicle with a travel mug in hand, tie already loosened, sleeves rolled up like he’d fought the office dress code and won.

He tilted the mug toward her, his grin lazy. “Forgot yours today.”

She narrowed her eyes, though her lips curved. “You stole mine.”

Dean took a slow sip, smirk tugging. “What can I say? Sharing is caring.”

She plucked the mug from his hand and drank, lipstick leaving a red crescent on the rim. His eyes flicked to the stain, lingering.

Before she could answer, Sam’s voice cut across the partition. “You two sound like a married couple.”

Dean’s smirk returned instantly, sharp enough to hide the shift in the air. “Don’t give her ideas, Wesson.”

Her laugh slid out smooth, but her eyes stayed locked on Dean’s. 

By noon, the office hum carried an edge. Phones rang too loud.

The fluorescent lights flickered twice, long enough for people to mutter about the wiring.

The smell of toner hung heavy, paper warm against her fingers as she lingered in the copier room.

Dean came in behind her, close enough that his cologne, sharp spice over soap, pushed against the chemical tang.

“Need help?” His voice was low, right at her ear.

She didn’t turn, didn’t move, just fed another stack of paper into the tray. “With pushing a button? I think I’ll manage.”

His hand brushed hers as he reached past, pressing the reset key. The machine whirred back to life. His chest brushed her shoulder, his voice dropping further. “Guess you needed me after all.”

The copier spat pages, each one catching the overhead light.

She finally turned, face inches from his, the air between them thick with heat and static. “Guess so.”

The door creaked open.

Their manager poked his head in, eyes sweeping the too-close space, the tension vibrating like a live wire. He lingered, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth as he asked about the quarterly report.

His gaze slid down her dress, slow and deliberate.

Dean straightened, stepping in front of her without hesitation, shoulders squared, voice clipped. “She’ll have it on your desk in ten. Anything else?”

The manager’s smirk faltered. He muttered something and left.

Dean didn’t move right away. He kept his body between hers and the door, his jaw tight. His eyes finally dragged down to hers.

“You drive men crazy, you know that?”

Her lips curved, slow. “Good thing you’re not like other men, then.”

Dean’s laugh was rough, bitter at the edges. “Sweetheart, I’m worse.”

That night, the office was almost empty when she found herself at his desk. He leaned back in his chair, tie off, shirt undone two buttons too far, drink in hand like the glass was the only thing keeping him steady.

“You should go home,” he muttered, eyes flicking to her legs before darting back to his computer screen.

“You first,” she shot back, leaning against the edge of his desk. Her skirt rode higher, his eyes catching it before he looked away again.

The silence pressed. Just the hum of the building, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Then the lights flickered again. Longer this time.

The computer screen glitched, static crawling across the monitor before vanishing.

For a split second, black letters glared across the screen in stark white font.

RUN.

Dean froze, knuckles whitening around his glass. She felt her stomach drop, a cold rush sweeping up her spine.

When the letters blinked out, Dean slammed the glass down, liquid sloshing over the edge.

His voice was low, sharp. “You saw that too, right?”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded.

Dean’s gaze burned into hers. The office was too quiet after dark.

Rows of cubicles stood like tombstones, screens black, keyboards abandoned. The hum of the building was steady but not soothing, air vents rattling, fluorescent bulbs buzzing like insects. She hated how loud her heels sounded against the carpet, every step an echo.

Dean followed half a step behind. His jacket was off now, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it all night.

He carried himself with restless energy, like he’d rather be pacing than walking straight.

Sam was back in the conference room, digging through blueprints again, insisting he’d found a pattern.

But Dean hadn’t wanted her alone in the hall, so here he was, stalking the shadows at her side like he belonged there.

The stairwell door groaned open at the far end. Cold air swept through, sharp enough to raise goosebumps along her arms.

Dean caught her wrist instantly. “Stay close.”

The grip was firm, his thumb brushing the pulse in her wrist like he could check if she was still alive.

She nodded, throat tight, and they moved forward together.

The hallway lights flickered once, twice, then cut out entirely.

Darkness pressed in.

The whispers rose again, slick and layered, like a dozen voices bleeding through the walls.

At the far end of the corridor, a shadow darted across the light. The stairwell door slammed shut with a metallic crack that shook the floor.

Her breath caught.

She pressed back against the wall, pulse hammering.

Dean moved fast, stepping directly in front of her, body squared off like a shield.

His head snapped toward the noise, then back to her. “You saw that, right?”

He turned fully, eyes sharp, searching her face for an answer. And in that split second, his body so close, the adrenaline still burning hot in her chest, she didn’t think.

Her back hit the wall when he stepped closer, like he couldn’t help it anymore.

His hand slid up from her wrist to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. His breath hit hers, whiskey and mint and everything she shouldn’t want right now.

“Dean—” she whispered, half warning, half plea.

“We shouldn’t,” he muttered, but his mouth was already brushing hers. “God, we shouldn’t.”

The kiss hit like fire, messy and urgent. His body pressed into hers, pinning her to the wall, his hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her hip.

She gasped against his mouth, nails biting into his shirt, pulling him closer.

The lights above flickered again, buzzing like they were about to blow.

When footsteps echoed down the hall, they broke apart fast, both of them breathing like they’d run miles. Dean stepped back first, jaw tight, raking a hand through his hair.

Sam’s voice carried from the end of the corridor. “Hey! You guys find anything?”

Dean cleared his throat, straightening his sleeves, forcing the mask back on. “Nothing. Just a dead end.”

Sam jogged up, shoving a handful of files at them. “I think I found the burial records. If I’m right, the janitor’s body is somewhere under the north lot.”

She forced her voice steady, ignoring the heat still burning her lips. “Then that’s where we go.”

Dean didn’t look at her again. Not yet.

But when Sam turned to lead the way, his hand brushed hers, quick and subtle, fingers hooking for just a second before letting go.

The north lot stretched out behind the glass tower, a slab of cracked asphalt under the shadow of the building. Sodium lights buzzed overhead, casting sickly orange halos across oil stains and rain puddles.

Beyond the fence, a line of evergreens swayed in the night wind, their branches whispering against each other.

Sam flipped a page in the folder he’d pulled from the county archives, his voice carrying low across the empty lot.

“This place used to be a tenement back in the twenties. Caved in after a boiler explosion...twelve dead. Most of the bodies were recovered, but one was never accounted for.”

He tapped the paper with his finger. “Construction records show they built this office park right on top of it. Didn’t bother moving the foundation, just poured fresh concrete.”

Dean glanced over the chain-link fence toward the far corner, jaw working. “So we’ve got some poor bastard bricked into the basement.”

“Not bricked,” Sam corrected. “Buried. The lot was condemned for years. By the time anyone invested, nobody wanted to admit there was still a body down there.”

Dean gave a low grunt, eyes sweeping the perimeter like he expected the dead man to climb out and meet them halfway.

The whole corporate disguise had unraveled, tie crumpled in his pocket, shirt hanging loose, collar open. His hair was wind-tossed and his expression dark.

She trailed close, eyes flicking between the dark edge of the trees and the tension in Dean’s jaw. 

Sam dropped to one knee near the cracked pavement, brushing dirt off a metal plate half-sunk into the lot. “Maintenance access,” he muttered. “If we’re lucky, this opens up to the crawlspace under the foundation.”

Dean crouched beside him, knuckles rapping against the plate. Hollow.

He smirked, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “What do you know. Guess we're lucky.”

She stood watch. The office windows loomed behind them, dark glass gleaming like watchful eyes. Somewhere in that building, the ghost still lingered, pacing the halls, waiting for them to slip.

Dean’s voice came rough from the ground. “Crowbar?”

Sam fished one out of the duffel bag, passing it over.

The metal groaned as Dean jammed it into the plate, muscles tightening under his shirt. 

The hatch finally gave with a metallic screech, the stench rising hot and wet, rust, mold, and something older. Her stomach turned at the copper tang clinging to the back of her tongue.

Dean muttered, “Smells like home,” and shoved the crowbar aside.

He swung his flashlight down into the hole, the beam cutting through damp concrete and the slosh of standing water. Pipes ran crooked across the crawlspace like ribs.

Sam crouched, flipping through his file one last time. “If he’s still down here—”

“He is.” Dean’s voice was flat, sure. He’d already dropped to one knee, lowering himself into the dark without hesitation.

She bit back the urge to grab his arm. The flashlight beam bounced with his movements, throwing jagged shadows along the walls.

Sam gave her a look, something like warning but softer. “Stay close. Don’t let him run point alone.”

She climbed in after Dean. The concrete floor was slick beneath her palms, grit grinding under her knees. The air closed in tight, every breath damp, tasting of iron and rot.

Dean crawled ahead of her, boots sloshing in shallow water, the beam of his flashlight jerking with each step. His shoulders brushed the pipes overhead, his shirt clinging where it caught the moisture.

Sam dropped in last, the hatch clanging shut above them. His light swept wide, catching movement, or the illusion of it. Shadows darted across walls where there was nothing to cast them.

He muttered, “Yeah, this feels safe,” voice muffled behind his sleeve as he covered his nose.

Dean glanced back, face half-lit in the beam. His grin was sharp, feral. “C’mon. You scared of a little mildew, Sammy?”

She almost laughed, but the sound caught when her hand brushed something half-sunken in the muck. She froze. Cold. Smooth.

She pulled back fast, but the image burned in her mind, finger bones, curled and white, jutting out of the concrete like teeth.

Dean’s light caught it a second later. He stopped dead, crouched low. His hand hovered over the jutting remains.

His jaw ticked. “Well. Guess we found him.”

Cold swept down the corridor, biting sharp against her sweat-damp skin. Breath misted in front of them in thick clouds.

Then the whisper started.

It came from everywhere at once, layered, jagged, too many voices packed into one throat. Words broken apart, indistinguishable, but angry. Furious.

The flashlight beams flickered. The shadows on the wall stretched long, then peeled themselves off the concrete.

The janitor appeared, or what was left of him. His form shimmered half-solid, face twisted, mouth torn into a permanent scream. His eyes glowed red like hot coals in a dying fire.

Instinct shoved her forward before she thought about it. Dean’s arm shot out across her chest, slamming her back into the wall.

His voice rasped, low but sharp. “Stay behind me.”

The ghost lunged, and the lights blew, plunging them into black.

Dean’s flashlight cut through at the last second, beam searing across the thing’s face. The janitor shrieked, sound splitting her eardrums, shaking loose dust from the ceiling.

“Sam!” Dean barked.

Sam was already digging in the bag, fumbling out salt and matches, hands shaking but steady enough to rip open the canister.

He shouted over the shriek, “We burn him now or we don’t walk out!”

The ghost clawed toward Dean. He swung the flashlight like a weapon, its beam slicing through ectoplasm. The thing rippled, staggered, then snapped back with a howl.

Sam scattered a line of salt, yelling, “Here! Here, now!”

Dean grabbed her wrist, yanking her over the barrier just as the ghost slammed against it, sparking, screaming. 

The salt held, but only for a second. The ghost surged again, cracks spidering through the line.

Dean’s jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temple. “We need the bones. Now.”

Sam thrust a matchbook into her hands, eyes wild. “Get ready.”

Dean was already digging into the floor, bare hands clawing through muck and shattered concrete, pulling bones loose with a rage that looked feral. The flashlight beam caught on white knuckles, on fingers curling around rib fragments and the slick curve of a skull.

He tossed them into the pile Sam had scraped together. She struck the match. Her fingers trembled, but the flame flared, sharp and bright. She dropped it.

The bones caught instantly.

The fire roared.

The ghost screamed, form buckling, twisting, unraveling into ash and sparks. It shrieked until the sound split, fractured, then dissolved into silence.

The crawlspace went still. Only the crackle of fire filled the air, the heat sharp against her face, sweat mingling with the cold.

Dean collapsed back against the wall, chest heaving, shirt plastered to him.

His flashlight clattered to the ground, beam rolling wild across the concrete before going dark.

She dropped beside him without thinking, her palm pressed flat to his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart.

He didn’t speak. Just curled his hand over hers, pinning it there.

Sam stood over the smoldering remains, glasses slipping down his nose, chest rising hard. His voice came rough, shaken. “It’s done.”

But none of them moved.

Dean straightened slowly, dragging himself up the wall. His hands were raw, caked with dirt and blood from clawing through the concrete.

He swiped his face with his sleeve, smearing filth across his jaw, and muttered low, voice sandpapered. “Son of a bitch… that was insane.”

Sam was bent over, palms braced on his knees, sweat dripping off his nose. His glasses had slipped so far down he wasn’t even bothering to shove them back. “Tell me that means no more people drop dead at their desks tomorrow.”

Dean let out a laugh. “If they do, I’m filing a complaint with HR.”

She would’ve smiled if her throat wasn’t still so tight.

The three of them crawled back through the low corridor, ducking beneath pipes, boots sliding in muck. Dean’s hand found hers when she tripped on a loose chunk of rebar; he didn’t say a word, just squeezed hard enough to steady her until she got her balance again.

His skin was hot, gritty with dirt, but she held on until the light of the hatch spilled down from above.

When Sam pushed the hatch open, the sudden rush of office air hit her like a slap, recycled, chemical-cleaned, but safer than the stinking dark below.

They climbed up one by one, shoes squeaking on linoleum, until the crawlspace shut tight behind them.

The office was still.

Cubicles lined up like headstones in rows, monitors blank. The hum of the building had gone flat.

Dean’s tie hung half-loose around his neck, shirt smeared with dust and ash, his hair damp with sweat. He looked nothing like Dean Smith, corporate poster boy.

He looked like something else. Someone else.

Sam adjusted his glasses with a shaking hand. “That… that should’ve worked. The ghost’s gone.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice was low. “Then why doesn’t it feel over?”

She was about to answer when the lights snapped on overhead.

Every single cubicle screen flickered to life at once. The company logo bloomed across them in sharp, sterile white. The letters glowed too bright, burning into her eyes until spots danced across her vision.

Then the logo bled.

Pixels warped, twisting into words that sprawled across every monitor in jagged font:

THIS ISN’T REAL.

The air dropped twenty degrees in a blink. Breath misted white again. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.

Dean stepped closer to her, his eyes trailing the identical computer screens. “Oh, that’s not creepy at all.”

The glass wall at the far end of the office shimmered. Then bent.

A man stepped through as though the glass wasn’t there at all.

Middle-aged. Crisp suit, pressed so clean it caught the fluorescent glow. His smile was calm, almost pleasant.

Dean’s hand flexed at his side. “Great. Just what we needed. Another middle manager.”

The man’s eyes flicked to him, then to Sam, then to her.

His smile deepened. “Winchesters, Miss Ford.”

Her brows furrowed. Dean stiffened. “Okay, pal, who the hell are you?”

“Zachariah,” the man said smoothly, hands folded. “And this—” he gestured around them, the cubicles, the walls, the fluorescent glow, “was never real.”

Sam shook his head, brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? We...this is our life. We work here. We’ve always worked here.”

Zachariah’s expression was pity dressed up as patience. “No, Sam. You’ve never belonged here. None of you have.”

Dean’s voice snapped out, sharp. “Then what the hell is this? Some kind of Truman Show nightmare?”

Zachariah’s smile didn’t falter. “A test. A reminder. You’ve forgotten who you are, what you’re meant for. So we stripped you down. Dropped you in this box, surrounded you with lies. And yet, when the time came? You remembered. Instinct. Muscle memory. The three of you hunted.”

Sam’s jaw set. “We’re… hunters?” 

Zachariah’s gaze lingered on Dean, sharp, heavy. “Exactly. There is no escape, no normal life waiting outside these walls. You’re soldiers in a war. You always were.”

Dean bristled, every line of his body tight, but his voice faltered on the retort. “And if we say no?”

Zachariah’s smile dimmed. “Then you let the world burn.”

The cubicle walls shuddered. The screens flickered. The carpet peeled away into black.

The office dissolved.

In an instant, the beige walls, cubicles, and fluorescent buzz snapped out of existence. They were back in a motel room, faded curtains, thin carpet, the sour mix of stale beer and disinfectant clinging to the air.

Her bag sat at the foot of the bed. Dean’s jacket slumped over the chair. Sam’s laptop glowed faintly on the table. Real.

Dean staggered back a step, his voice came out hoarse. “Son of a bitch—”

He paced a short line by the bed, then slammed a fist against the wall hard enough to rattle the headboard. “What the hell was the point? What the hell was that?”

She stood frozen for a moment, her pulse thudding in her ears. The memory still clung like smoke, sharp and cloying.

“I don’t know,” she said, voice low. “But it felt real.”

Dean spun on her, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Did you hear that douchebag? We’re not people to them. We’re just…guns. Loaded up, pointed at whatever target they want.”

His fists clenched hard at his sides, voice rough. “That’s all we are.”

Sam dragged both hands through his hair, elbows pressed to his knees. “He didn’t even try to hide it. No choice, no free will.”

Dean’s chest rose and fell hard, like he was still trying to fight something he couldn’t get his hands on.

He finally looked at her, and for a second the edge in his expression softened, crooked humor slipping through by instinct. “Still,” he muttered, voice rough, “you did look good in those pencil skirts.”

That dragged a nervous laugh out of her, Sam giving a shaky smirk before shaking his head.

The three of them settled into the silence, each turning over the same words in their heads.

Chapter Text

The bell over the shop door gave a weak jingle as they stepped inside. The place smelled like dust, ink, and cardboard, with a sticky undercurrent of candy from the rack near the counter.

Sam led the way, his expression tight.

He’d been the one to dig up the tip, that this hole-in-the-wall comic shop carried small-run folklore collections and zines you couldn’t find in libraries. More often than not, self-published pamphlets turned out to be smoke and wasted cash.

But sometimes, rarely, they had the details hunters needed.

Dean slowed near a rack of glossy issues, eyes narrowing at the wall of spandex and splashy titles. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘occult knowledge’ like tights and laser beams.”

She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Not every hunter scribbles in leather journals, Dean. Some people self-publish. Zines, blogs…”

She gestured toward the shelves. “This kind of place can actually have leads.”

Dean snorted, shaking his head. “Or just a bunch of nerds with too much printer ink.”

Sam ignored both of them, scanning titles in the Regional Interest section. His hand froze halfway down the shelf. He went still, staring at a single spine like it had punched him in the gut.

Dean noticed immediately. “What?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He pulled the book free and turned it over, his fingers gripping it tighter than he meant to.

Then he set it down on the nearest table, careful, like it might burn. A paperback. Glossy cover, bent down the middle, dog-eared from too many reads.

Dean frowned. “The hell is that supposed to be?”

Sam slid it forward. “Just… look.”

She leaned closer with Dean. The three of them stared at the cover.

The cover showed two men in front of a gleaming black Impala, guns drawn, their faces shadowed just enough to be recognizable. She was there too, front and center.

The artist had put her in a too-tight red leather dress, black heels sharp against the pavement, long hair styled in thick curls that brushed her shoulders, and her swallow necklace hanging low against her chest.

Bold red type stamped across the top: Supernatural, by Carver Edlund.

Her stomach dropped, her throat going dry. She almost didn’t want to pick it up, but Dean already had.

He turned it in his hands, flipping it to get a better look, and then stopped cold.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

Dean’s brows shot up. “Wow.” He gave a low whistle before he could help himself. “I mean...they nailed the car, but damn…”

His mouth twitched, caught somewhere between impressed and pissed. “Kinda nailed you too.”

Her face burned. “That's not what I look like.”

Dean smirked, holding the cover up. “Yeah, dress is way off. But the rest?” His grin tugged wider. “Sweetheart, you’re a knockout. Looks like this guy just did the math.”

Sam dragged a hand down his face, grimacing. “Can we focus, please? This isn’t—”

He gestured at the book, frustration edging into disbelief. “This is our lives. Someone’s writing about us.”

Dean flipped it open, scanning a random page. His smirk faded quick, replaced by something sharper. His own name, laid bare in black and white. A case he remembered, every detail on the page.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered again, softer this time. He snapped the book shut, eyes cutting to Sam.

Dean broke it first, still holding the book. “Okay. Who the hell is Carver Edlund?”

The kid behind the counter looked up from his manga, chewing gum loud enough to be obnoxious. “That’s just a pen name, dude.”

Dean turned, narrowing his eyes. “Yeah? And how do you know that?”

The kid shrugged, jerking a thumb toward the back wall where a corkboard sagged under flyers. “He signs here sometimes. Local guy. Lives a couple towns over. Real name’s Chuck Shurley.”

Sam was already moving, long strides carrying him to the board. He scanned the flyers until he found it.

A creased promo sheet with the same lurid Supernatural cover, the pen name bold at the top, and scrawled at the bottom, Chuck Shurley, author signing, Thursday 7PM.

He tore it down, eyes wide as he slapped it on the counter. “That’s him.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, lips tightening around a curse. He slid the paperback under his arm and clapped a hand on her shoulder, steering her toward the door.

“Looks like we’re paying Mr. Shurley a visit.”

The drive to Chuck Shurley’s house dragged in silence.

The neighborhood they pulled into looked ordinary to the point of boring.

White siding, trimmed lawns, a picket fence here and there. A kid’s bike leaned against a porch railing, glitter streamers stirring in the breeze. The air smelled like wet grass and faint barbecue smoke drifting in from somewhere down the block.

Dean stared at the house across the street, sagging porch, paint peeling, mailbox stuffed with weeks of junk mail. “This it?” His voice was low, edged.

Sam checked the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “Yeah. That’s the address.”

Dean snorted. “Figures. Guy writing our lives down like bedtime stories lives in a damn foreclosure.”

She leaned forward from the back seat, resting her arm across the seatback. “You sure about just walking in?”

Dean finally turned his head, the dash light catching the tension in his face. “If this guy’s been writing our lives down to the detail…”

He shook his head once, sharp. “Yeah. We’re not leaving him sitting in there. We need answers.”

He shoved the door open and climbed out, boots crunching on gravel.

She followed, tugging her jacket tighter against the night air. Sam trailed behind, muttering something about not making a scene, which Dean ignored completely.

The walk up the path was quiet but heavy. Porch boards creaked under Dean’s weight as he raised a fist and pounded against the door.

The door swung open on a man in a robe with bloodshot eyes and coffee on his breath. Paperbacks and loose pages crowded the entryway behind him; a TV murmured somewhere inside.

He squinted at them. “Uh…hi. If you’re from the message board, you can’t just show up at my house.”

Dean held up the paperback. “Carver Edlund?”

Chuck winced. “Look, I’m not doing signings. Email my publisher.” 

“We’re not here for a signing,” Sam said, voice flat. “We need to talk about what’s in these books.”

Chuck’s hand tightened on the door. “Right. Super fans. I love the enthusiasm, but this is—”

Dean shoved past him, scanning the mess of the living room with a hard glare. “Yeah, save the speech. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

The air inside smelled of paper, ink, and stale booze. Manuscripts were scattered everywhere, taped to walls, stacked on the coffee table, spilling onto the carpet. 

Her breath hitched when she saw her own name scrawled across one sheet pinned above the desk. Details. Too many details.

She felt Dean’s presence at her back before she even registered him moving closer, his shoulder brushing hers as he followed her gaze.

Chuck’s gaze landed on her and stuck. His brow furrowed, mouth opening before his brain caught up. “I guess they went all out on the cover. In real life you look…different. More serious. Kind of wiped out, to be honest.”

She stiffened, her eyes narrowing.

Dean’s head snapped toward him. “Alright, enough gawking.” His tone was sharp as he jabbed a finger at Chuck. “You wanna explain how the hell you know our life stories?”

Chuck flinched like Dean’s voice had slapped him.

He stumbled back toward the desk, hands twitching as he fumbled for a half-empty bottle of wine. The glug of liquid sloshing inside filled the silence.

Chuck gripped the neck of the wine bottle like it might ward them off, his eyes wild. “You...you can’t be here. You’re fans. That’s all. Look, I’ve had people show up before, okay? Dress the part, quote a few lines, think it’s cute. But this?”

He gestured at all three of them with a shaky sweep. “You all need to get a life. Maybe audition for runway. But not this loser stuff.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “We’re not fans, Chuck.”

Chuck’s hand shook as he clutched the bottle, eyes darting between them. “Look, I don’t...I don’t spy on you, okay? I don’t even leave this house most days. It just…it comes to me. Whole scenes. Whole chapters.”

He fumbled for a stack of pages on the coffee table, waving them in the air. “The hunts, the motels, the Impala, even down to—”

His gaze flicked to Dean, then Sam, then her. “—your dramafests.”

Dean’s shoulders squared, his voice sharp. “Try again. There’s no way you could know half of what’s in there unless you’ve been following us.”

“I haven’t!” Chuck’s voice cracked. He stumbled forward, grabbing at a stack of loose pages like they were proof in a trial. “It’s...look, it’s all here. Jess, Enumclaw, the Impala, the motels, all of it. Every damn detail that just…shows up in my head.”

His eyes flicked downward, and the words caught in his throat. “Oh, wow.”

She shifted, uneasy. “What?”

Chuck pointed, his hand trembling. “Your shoes. Those are the exact Converse I…I saw. The writing on the side...yeah, right there.”

He squinted, muttering half to himself. “That’s Quinn’s handwriting, isn’t it?” He swallowed hard. “But I didn’t put it in the book. I cut it. Thought it was…too much. Too sad. Too… personal.”

Her chest tightened, heat crawling up the back of her neck.

Chuck looked back up at them, his face pale. “But it’s there. On your shoes. Exactly how I saw it.”

His voice faltered, softer now. “Which…shouldn’t be possible. Unless…” He trailed off, staring like the pieces had just slammed into place whether he wanted them to or not.

The room went still, the only sound the wine dripping onto the pages he’d knocked askew.

Dean’s jaw tightened. He shot her a glance, then cut back to Chuck with a glare. “Alright. Enough stammering. You’re gonna start from the top, and you’re gonna tell us exactly how you know every goddamn thing about our lives.”

Chuck’s throat worked, his hand trembling so hard the bottle slipped and clinked against the table. “I…I don’t know.”

Dean took one heavy step forward, the floorboards groaning under his boots.

His voice dropped into something dangerous. “Then figure it out fast.”

She felt the blood drain from her face as she picked up another stack.

Her name jumped out in black ink. Not just surface details. Intimate things. The way she rolled her eyes when Dean called her sweetheart. The scar across her collarbone. The motel night in Duluth when Dean carried her inside after a hunt, her blood soaking his shirt. Her fight with Sam. The witnesses.

Chuck’s hand trembled so badly the wine bottle clinked against the desk. He looked at all three of them like cornered prey.

“I thought it was fiction!” he blurted. “Cheap horror for a niche audience. I didn’t think anyone actually read them, let alone—” His eyes darted between Dean and Sam, then landed on her and stayed there. “Let alone that you were real.”

Dean stepped forward, his boots heavy against the warped floorboards. “Yeah, well, we’re real. And you’ve been writing about our lives down to the last damn detail.” His voice dropped lower, dangerous. “So you’re gonna explain, and you’re gonna do it now.”

Chuck’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He shoved a pile of loose pages toward them. “I don’t know how it works. It just—shows up. Like a movie reel running in my head. Whole scenes, dialogue, stuff I can’t un-see. I write it down before it drives me crazy.”

Sam snatched a page off the pile, scanning it fast. His jaw tightened. “This is last week. St. Mary’s. The haunting.” He flipped another. “And this—this hasn’t even happened yet.”

Dean shot Chuck a hard glare. “You’re saying you’re psychic?”

Chuck flinched. “I wouldn’t call it that. More like… cursed.” He let out a weak laugh, trying to cover his fear. “Lucky me, right?”

Dean didn’t laugh. He grabbed one of the manuscripts off the desk, rifling through until his name appeared again. He read three lines, jaw tightening with every word, then slammed it back down. “This isn’t just creepy—it’s dangerous. You’ve got our lives laid out like a damn soap opera for anyone to read.”

Chuck’s voice wavered. “It’s not like I hand out spoilers at the bar. Nobody believes it’s real!”

Her stomach tightened as she caught sight of her own name again. She pulled a stack closer, flipping through fast. And froze.

Her fight with Sam. The scar across her collarbone. The night in Duluth when Dean had carried her inside, blood soaking his shirt. Details so precise they made her skin crawl.

Her hand shook as she shoved the stack back, muttering under her breath. “This is insane.”

Dean’s eyes snapped to her, then back to Chuck.

His jaw clenched, green eyes flashing dark. “You’re telling me some cosmic force is spoon-feeding you our lives for fun?”

Chuck winced, hugging the wine bottle to his chest like a shield. “I don’t know what it is. I swear, I don’t. But when I don’t write, it gets worse. Headaches, nosebleeds, visions I can’t turn off until I put them down. I don’t have a choice.”

Sam exhaled sharply, dragging both hands through his hair. “So what, you’re a prophet? That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

Dean scoffed. “Prophet? This guy?”

He jabbed a finger at Chuck, who was currently sloshing wine onto his bathrobe. “Come on.”

But Sam didn’t back off. “Dad’s journal mentioned it. People chosen to record God’s word, whether they wanted to or not. If Chuck’s writing down everything we do before we do it…”

“Then we’re screwed,” Dean cut in, sharp.

His eyes burned into Chuck. “Because if you’re the real deal, that means we don’t get a say. And I don’t take orders from Heaven, Hell, or some washed-up writer in a bathrobe.”

Chuck shrank back, mumbling, “I never asked for this.”

Dean’s voice cracked like a whip. “Neither did we.”

She stepped in, voice steady even though her chest felt tight. “Then we use it. If he’s seeing what’s coming, maybe it’s not just a death sentence. Maybe it’s a way to stay ahead.”

Sam nodded, seizing on the logic. “If we know what’s coming, we can change it.”

Dean shook his head, pacing fast, restless energy rolling off him in waves. “You don’t change fate. You don’t change prophecy. Every time we’ve tried, it’s blown up in our faces.”

Her eyes locked on his, sharper now. “So what, we roll over? Let it play out because it’s easier to say we don’t have a choice?”

Then Sam’s voice broke through. “Dean…she’s right. If we don’t try, we’re already dead.”

Dean’s jaw worked, muscle ticking hard. He turned back to Chuck, voice low. “Fine. Then start talking. What’s next?”

Chuck’s face went pale. He reached for a stack of pages with shaking hands, flipping through until he landed on the newest one. His voice cracked as he read aloud.

“There’s going to be…a confrontation. With Lilith.”

The name dropped like lead in the middle of the room.

Dean’s grip tightened on the chair until the wood creaked. Her stomach knotted, the agent's bloodied face flashing in her memory, Bela’s smirk before the end, all the destruction Lilith had orchestrated.

Chuck’s hand fell to his side, the paper crumpling. “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t control it.”

Dean turned away fast, pacing. His voice was raw, snapping against the walls. “So what, we just walk straight into it? March to our deaths because some drunk wannabe Hemingway wrote it down?”

Chuck swallowed, eyes darting to her like she was the only sane one left in the room. “I don’t want you to die. But I write what I see. It’s not a choice.”

She forced her voice steady. “Then change it. If you see it, maybe you can stop it. You’re not just some bystander, you’re part of this now.”

Chuck stared at her like she’d just asked him to move mountains. “I can’t. It doesn’t work like that.”

Dean let out a sharp breath, running a hand down his face. “Great. So we’re supposed to just sit around and wait for the demon bitch to come knocking?”

Sam shook his head, flipping through more of Chuck’s pages. “We don’t have a choice. If this is right, and so far it’s been right, she’s already coming.”

“Then we get ready.” Dean’s voice was clipped, all business now.

He grabbed the book from Chuck’s hands, snapped it shut, and shoved it into Sam’s chest. “Bring it. We’re not giving her a damn inch.”

Chuck raised both hands, backing toward his desk. “I don’t know what she wants with me.”

Dean cut him off, stepping in close. “Yeah, well, if Lilith lays one finger on you, the archangels will drop in. And trust me, you don’t wanna be in the blast radius when that happens.”

Chuck blinked, confused. “Archangels?”

Dean’s mouth twisted into something grim. “Heaven’s nuke button.”

---

Dean had his shotgun braced at the window, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the street every other second.

Sam hovered at the desk with the demon-killing knife, flipping through Chuck’s pages like he could find a way out between the lines. She sat on the edge of the couch, her body wired and still, every sense pulled tight.

Chuck’s muttering hadn’t stopped in ten minutes. “She’s coming, she’s coming, she’s—”

Dean spun on him, snapping. “Yeah, we got that. That’s the damn point. You’re bait.”

Chuck froze, white as the walls. “You can’t use me like this. You don’t get it. If she shows—”

The lights flickered before he could finish. The curtains stirred even though the window was shut.

Then, a knock. Delicate. Like a neighbor dropping by for sugar.

Dean raised the shotgun, Sam tightened his grip on the knife, and she rose to her feet, every muscle screaming to move and stay still at the same time.

The door opened on its own.

A girl stepped inside, blond curls, white lace, wide eyes, all innocence, well, until her eyes flashed black.

Lilith.

“Sammy.” Her voice was high, sweet, sing-song.

“I was wondering when you’d stop hiding.” Her gaze slid over him like a touch, lingering.

“Still pretending? Still fighting me? All that lovely demon blood swimming around inside you…and you act like you’re clean.”

Sam’s jaw locked. “Shut up.”

Lilith giggled. “Oh, don’t be shy. I can smell it. It’s in you. Always has been. That itch under your skin? That’s me.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t have to keep fighting. You were mine before you were even born.”

Dean moved forward, putting himself between them, shotgun leveled. “Back the hell off.”

Lilith’s smile stretched, amused. “Dean Winchester. Still playing the guard dog. You’ve got such a big bark for someone who’s already on a leash.”

Her eyes flicked down, mocking. “You keeping up proper vessel maintenance?”

Dean’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t flinch. “You take one more step and I put a hole in you.”

She ignored him, eyes sliding back to Sam. “You know what you could be, Sam? Stronger than any of them. Me and you, we’d burn this world clean.”

Sam’s voice came out low, even, but his hand trembled on the knife. “Not happening.”

Lilith pouted like a child. “Still clinging to Daddy’s playbook. Still letting big brother tell you what to be. You’re wasting what’s in you. Wasting me.”

Her gaze shifted, pinning the reader. “And look at you.” Her smile curved, false-sweet. “Doesn’t she know she’s just background in your little tragedy? Page filler until the ending.”

Heat climbed her throat, but she held her ground. “Funny. From where I’m standing, you look more scared of a paperback prophet than us.”

Lilith’s smile faltered, just for a flicker. Her eyes cut to Chuck.

Chuck’s breath hitched, his hands flapping like he wanted to shield himself. “Don’t! Don’t touch me! If you do—” He cut himself off, eyes darting upward, panicked.

Dean stepped in before he could lose it completely. “Yeah, go ahead, tell her.”

His voice was low, dangerous. “You lay one finger on him and the archangels drop in. You don’t wanna see what happens then.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Dean nodded once, hard. “That’s right. Heaven’s nuke squad. You so much as sneeze in his direction, they’ll turn this block into glass.”

Her eyes darted to the ceiling, then back to Sam, lingering.

Dean leaned in, steady. “So what’s it gonna be? Stick around and get smoked? Or crawl back to whatever hole you came from?”

Her smile fell flat, her eyes sharp.

“This isn’t over,” she said. Her voice was harder now, aimed at Sam.

And then she was gone.

Dean holstered the shotgun slow, deliberate, but his jaw was locked.

“Alright,” he said, voice flat. “Somebody tell me what the hell that was. She knew archangels were in play. She knew one wrong move and she’d be ash. So why show up at all?”

Sam wiped a hand over his mouth, eyes still fixed on the door. “She wanted to spook us.”

Dean turned on him, sharp. “Spook us? She risked getting nuked just to drop by and sing a few lines? That doesn’t track, Sammy. What did she really want?”

Dean’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Sam. “And I’m not buying that it was just a scare tactic.”

Chuck cleared his throat from the corner. “She...uh...she was mostly looking at him.”

He jerked his chin toward Sam, shrinking back immediately when both brothers’ eyes snapped his way.

Sam bristled, defensive. “So what? She’s been after me since Cold Oak. That’s nothing new.”

“She wasn’t just after you,” she cut in, her voice steady even as her chest tightened. “She said something about the blood. That it’s still in you.”

Sam’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look up. “She’s screwing with us. That’s what she does.”

Dean stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Yeah? Then why’d you look like she just read your diary out loud?”

Sam’s head snapped up, anger sparking. “Because she’s in my head, Dean! She killed people I cared about, she used me, she’s been circling us for years. Of course it gets to me.”

But even as he spoke, his voice cracked just slightly, and his eyes flicked away too fast.

Dean saw it. She saw it.

Dean let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You’re lyin'. Christ, Sammy. You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me by now?”

Sam pushed off the desk, shoulders squared, but the color in his face betrayed him. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change what we’re doing. We kill her. That’s the plan.”

Dean took another step, closing the space between them, his voice low. “It does matter. Because if she’s right, if there’s still demon crap in your veins, then she’s not just taunting you. She’s calling her shot.”

Sam’s fists clenched. “Drop it, Dean.”

“Like hell I will.” Dean’s eyes burned, sharp and unrelenting.

“If Lilith shows up on our doorstep knowing the angels could fry her, then whatever she wanted from you is big enough to gamble her life on. And you’re standing here telling me it’s nothing?”

Sam didn’t answer.

Dean swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair before turning toward her.

His voice came rough, but not aimed at her. “Tell me you’re not buying this crap.”

Her chest tightened, but she held Dean’s stare. “I don’t know what I believe. But I know she didn’t risk archangels just to throw out empty threats. She wanted you rattled, Sam. And she got it.”

The argument burned itself down to embers, but the heat still clung to the room. Nobody said another word.

Chuck lingered by the desk, wringing his hands, mumbling about archangels and destiny, but none of them cared to listen anymore.

Dean finally pushed up from the chair, shotgun slung back into place with a sharp motion.

“We’re done here.” His tone brooked no argument.

Sam didn’t protest. He just grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, movements stiff, the demon knife slipping back into his duffel. He wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

She stood last, her gaze sweeping over the scattered pages, the half-empty wine bottles, the cramped little house.

Every instinct screamed to torch the place and walk away. But Chuck wasn’t lying. And that made it worse.

Dean was already at the door, holding it open.

The Impala sat at the curb, dark paint gleaming faintly under the streetlight.

Dean stalked toward the driver’s side without a glance back.

Sam muttered something under his breath, too low to catch, and slid into the backseat.

She hesitated by the porch, casting one last look at Chuck framed in the doorway, robe hanging off his shoulders, eyes wide and haunted.

He raised a trembling hand, like he wanted to call them back, say something more. But he didn’t.

She followed Dean, climbing into the passenger seat.

The doors slammed and the engine turned over with a low growl.

They pulled away from the curb in silence.

Chapter Text

The motel phone shattered the quiet at 2:13 a.m., its ring sharp enough to cut through the steady drone of the air conditioner.

Dean stirred against her, his arm tightening reflexively around her waist before slipping off as he grunted.

His breath had been warm against the back of her neck, the familiar scratch of stubble brushing her skin when he shifted.

She blinked, disoriented, hair in her face, the blanket sliding to her hips.

Neon light from the gas station next door bled through the curtains, sickly pink and green pooling across the threadbare carpet.

Sam sat up fast from the other bed, muttering under his breath as he grabbed the receiver.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, dragged out of sleep.

She squinted at the clock, then at Sam. “Who the hell’s calling this late?”

Dean rolled onto his back beside her, one eye cracked open.

His voice was gravel, thick with sleep. “Better be room service with some pie.”

The joke hung flat. Sam’s tone sharpened mid-sentence, cutting clean. “Who is this?”

She pushed herself upright, tension crawling up her spine. “Sam?”

Sam went still. The receiver was clamped so tight in his hand his knuckles blanched.

His throat worked before he got the word out, “…Adam?”

Dean's eyes open wider, the mattress dipping as he sat halfway upright. “Who?”

Sam didn’t answer right away, listening hard, his face shifting. He finally lowered the receiver, the click of it hitting the cradle too loud in the small room.

“That was a kid named Adam Milligan,” Sam said, voice flat. “He says John Winchester was his father.”

She felt Dean’s stare before she looked at him. His laugh was sharp, humorless, like broken glass.

“Yeah, right. That’s cute.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Guess next we’ll get a call from Santa. Maybe the Easter Bunny.”

Sam didn’t laugh.

Neither did she.

“Dean—” she started.

“No.” He cut her off, shaking his head hard, jaw set tight. “Dad never said a damn word. Not once. And now some kid calls out of nowhere? Screw that.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Dean. “You don’t know that for sure.”

Dean swung on him. “Yeah, I do. Dad wasn’t perfect, but if he had another kid out there, you really think he’d keep that from us?” His voice cracked sharper than he meant.

“Yes,” Sam said, flat and steady. “I do.”

Dean glared, chest heaving.

She let out a slow breath, tried to break the line between them. “Dean—”

His head snapped toward her. “Don’t tell me you’re buying this.”

“I’m saying it’s not impossible,” she shot back. “How many nights was he gone with no word? How many phone calls you weren’t supposed to overhear? If this kid’s telling the truth, then he’s just nineteen and stuck in the middle of something he didn’t choose. Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

Dean’s jaw worked, but his eyes slid away. 

Sam leaned back, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We won’t know unless we see him.”

The Impala’s headlights carved a path through endless farmland. The engine hummed steady under Dean’s hands, his knuckles drumming against the wheel in restless rhythm.

Sam sat stiff in the passenger seat, face turned to the fields flashing past.

She sat in the back, Dean’s flannel around her shoulders, knees drawn up. 

Dean broke the silence first. “You know what this feels like? Some corny TV movie. Small-town setup, surprise family twist. Like Gilmore Girls.”

Sam huffed a laugh through his nose. “Pretty sure you’ve never watched Gilmore Girls.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered. “I’ve seen commercials.”

She leaned forward between the seats, eyebrow raised. “Wasn’t exactly wholesome. Dean Forester was cute, though.”

Dean's head jerked a little, his eyes cutting to her in the rearview. “Seriously? You’re bringing up some other Dean right now?”

His mouth twisted into a playful frown. “Guess I’ll have to outdo TV Boy just to keep my name clean.”

Sam smirked, shaking his head. “Different Dean, same attitude.”

“Bite me, Sammy,” Dean shot back, but his glare softened as it flicked to her again.

Sam finally spoke, voice low. “You know, it’s real, if Adam’s our brother, we can’t just ignore it.”

Dean scoffed. “Don’t. Don’t call him that. He’s not our anything until we know for sure.”

“You heard his voice,” Sam shot back. “He sounded—”

“He sounded like a scam artist who knows how to play the game.” Dean’s voice cut sharp. “Dad’s name gets you plenty of mileage in the wrong circles.”

“Or he sounded like a kid who’s scared,” Sam said.

Dean snorted, bitter. “Scared’s not my problem. Last time I checked, the world doesn’t stop spinning every time somebody gets scared.”

“Dean—”

He cut her off, tone clipped. “Don’t start.”

She let the silence stretch, watching the back of his head, the way his shoulders tensed every time Sam breathed too loud. Even the possibility of John giving his time to another son was enough to gut him.

The diner’s neon sign buzzed in the dark, casting a pale flicker across the Impala’s hood when Dean finally killed the engine.

He stayed behind the wheel, jaw locked, eyes forward.

Sam shifted. “We should at least hear him out.”

Dean’s head whipped toward him. “Hear him out...what a joke.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean turned in his seat, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “What’s your endgame here? We grab some burgers, swap family stories, maybe hug it out?”

Sam didn’t blink. “Maybe we find out if there’s a kid out there who needs help.”

Dean looked at her then, through the rearview, eyes demanding backup.

She met his stare, steady. “If he's telling the truth, he’s a target. Just like we’ve been.”

Dean’s throat worked. He didn’t answer, just shoved his door open.

Adam stood when they walked in, lanky frame awkward, hair falling into his eyes. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

“You’re Sam and Dean, right?” His voice cracked with nerves.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “That’s us. And you’re the kid calling yourself our brother.”

Adam flinched but didn’t back down. “I’m not calling myself anything. My mom, Kate Milligan, she told me. Said John Winchester was my dad.”

Up close, his eyes were the same green as John’s, softened at the edges.

Dean must’ve seen it too, because recognition flickered across his face before he buried it.

Dean slid into the booth opposite, arms folded. “Dad wasn’t Father of the Year. Forgive me if I don’t buy into this.”

Adam’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want a reunion. I think something’s after me. After my mom. Weird things keep happening.”

The three hunters exchanged a look, wordless. Threats were threats, no matter what blood they claimed.

Dean leaned back. “Alright, kid. We’ll hear you out. But if you’re screwing with us—”

Adam met his eyes, steady. “I’m not.”

The motel room door slammed shut behind them. Dean didn’t wait for Adam to cross the threshold before he started.

“This is crap.” His voice cracked sharp through the air. He paced in front of the beds, bottle of whiskey already in his hand like he’d been holding onto it since the diner.

“Dad never mentioned a word. Not once. Not ever. And now suddenly, surprise! Half-brother in Minnesota? Minnesota? No way.”

Adam stood near the dresser, shoulders hunched but not caving. His eyes flicked between them, trying to read the room.

She sat on the edge of the bed, watching the storm brew. Her eyes landed on Adam. Innocent Adam. Quinn. He looked so much like her Quinn.

Older. Sharper around the edges.

But that same way of standing, like he hadn’t figured out how to fill his frame yet. She couldn't bring herself to look away.

Dean’s gaze snapped to her. “Don’t tell me you’re on Sam’s side.”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m saying he’s just a kid, Dean. He didn’t ask for any of this.”

“That’s your defense?” Dean shot back. “How many kids have we seen dragged into this life? You wanna save them all? Open a damn daycare?”

“Dean—” Sam started, but she cut him off.

“Look at him.” Her voice sharpened. “He’s nineteen. He’s not a hunter, he’s not a liar, he’s not some grifter. He’s—” She stopped herself, swallowed the name that rose unbidden.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “He’s what?”

She shook her head. “He’s out of his depth.”

Dean sighed. “So what? We babysit now? Is that it?”

Sam stood, voice tight but level. “If he’s really Dad’s kid, then it’s on us to protect him. That’s what Dad would’ve wanted.”

Dean turned on him like a whip. “Don’t you dare tell me what Dad would’ve wanted. You don’t know.”

Sam didn’t flinch. “Neither do you.”

Adam shifted uneasily by the dresser, his eyes darting to her like she might give him some kind of relief.

She offered him a small nod and a smile. Dean's eye narrowed.

Later, Adam sat cross-legged on the motel carpet, a shotgun laid awkwardly across his lap.

His hands shook enough to betray him. Dean stood over him, arms crossed, green eyes hard and critical.

“Rule one.” Dean’s voice was sharp, clipped. “Don’t shoot yourself. Rule two, don’t shoot me.”

Adam gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

“Not kidding, kid.” Dean crouched, reaching down to adjust his grip. Their hands brushed and Adam flinched.

From the bed, she watched, elbows on her knees.

Adam’s movements were clumsy but earnest. She saw Quinn again, younger, but just as eager to do things right, even when his hands shook.

Sam crouched nearby, softer in his instruction. “Steady grip. You’ll get the hang of it. Just breathe out when you pull the trigger.”

“He’s not half-bad,” she said, watching Adam adjust his grip. “Better than I expected, anyway.”

Dean’s head snapped toward her, glare sharp. “Excuse me?”

She smirked faintly, tilting her chin at Adam. “Relax, Winchester. I’m saying he’s not a complete disaster.”

Adam cracked a grin, shoulders easing a little.

Dean didn’t. His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed locked on Adam. “Yeah, well, beginner’s luck doesn’t mean good.”

Sam straightened from where he’d been crouched. “If what you said about your mom checks out, the cemetery’s the first place to start. It’s where the signs point.”

Adam shifted uncomfortably, shotgun still awkward in his hands. “That’s where I found her car. Door left open, keys still in the ignition.”

Dean’s eyes flicked sharp to Sam, then to her. His jaw tightened. “Convenient.”

She stood, sliding her knife back into its sheath. “Convenient or not, if the trail leads to the Milligan crypt, that’s where we’re going. If something’s nesting there, we need to know.”

Sam nodded, already pulling on his jacket. “Then it’s settled.”

Dean let out a humorless snort, grabbing the duffel and slinging it over his shoulder. “Fine. Family field trip to the damn crypt. Can’t wait.”

The air in the Milligan family crypt was damp and thick, carrying the stink of wet stone and mildew. Their flashlights cut jagged paths across cracked walls and broken coffins.

Dean led with his shotgun raised, steps sharp and heavy. She followed close, hand wrapped around her knife, the leather grip biting into her palm.

Behind them, Sam and Adam trailed, Sam whispering instructions Adam nodded along to, his breaths coming fast.

“This is a bad idea,” Dean muttered low.

She smirked without looking away from the shadows. “When isn’t it?”

Dean gave her a side-eye, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the tension. The chamber opened wider, lined with coffins and scattered bones. Too quiet.

Dean raised a hand. A shuffle echoed, low and wet. Then another.

The ghouls emerged from the dark, pale, twisted things with teeth too jagged to belong in human mouths. Their eyes glowed faint in the beam of Adam’s shaky flashlight.

Adam gasped, stumbling back.

Dean barked, “Stay behind me!” He shoved Adam toward Sam without looking away from the things circling them.

She slid in beside Dean, knife drawn, shoulders brushing his.

The first ghoul lunged. Dean’s shotgun blasted, the echo hammering off the stone walls. Salt scattered, the creature shrieking but not gone.

Another came at her side. She ducked, blade slicing across its leg. It snarled, claws raking her arm.

Pain seared through her jacket, sharp and hot, but she pushed forward, knife sinking into its chest.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, yanking free.

Dean was suddenly there, one hand on her arm, yanking her back just as another ghoul barreled at her. They slammed against the wall, his breath harsh in her ear.

“You good?” he barked, wrestling the thing back.

“Peachy,” she shot back, blood warm against her shoulder.

Across the chamber, Sam pinned a ghoul, jaw clenched tight. His eyes flashed dark for a second, that edge none of them liked to see. Black smoke poured from the thing’s mouth as he forced it down with sheer will.

Dean saw it. Even in chaos, his eyes cut sharp to Sam, fury flaring hotter than the gunpowder smoke.

But there wasn’t time to argue.

From the far end of the chamber, a voice slithered through the dark. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Adam’s flashlight shook, his wide eyes frosting over.

Dean’s voice dropped. “Son of a bitch.”

The ghoul wearing Adam’s face smiled, cruel and sharp. “This wasn’t a rescue,” it hissed. “It was bait.”

Dean’s rage ripped through the chamber. “You bastards used him.”

Sam’s voice cracked, disbelieving. “He’s…he’s dead, isn’t he?”

The ghoul’s grin stretched. “Oh, very.”

Her chest tightened, grief and fury clashing so hard she could barely hold the knife steady.

Dean stepped forward, shotgun trembling with rage. “You should’ve stayed the hell away from my family.”

The first ghoul lunged, shrieking, and Dean’s shotgun roared again. Rock salt blasted its face, chunks of skin flying wet against the stone. It staggered but didn’t drop.

She pivoted, knife flashing. The grip bit into her palm, slick now with blood, hers or theirs, she couldn’t tell. Another ghoul lunged low, teeth snapping at her thigh. She drove her boot into its jaw, the crack of bone sharp under her heel.

“Behind you!” Sam’s voice cut through the chaos.

She spun, blade catching the next one across the chest. The stench hit, rotten meat, copper blood, mildew heavy in the damp air.

Dean slammed a ghoul into the wall, shotgun jammed under its chin. He pulled the trigger, the spray lighting the chamber white for a blink. His teeth were bared in something between a snarl and a grin, his shoulders straining with the force.

Another ghoul broke for Adam, or what looked like him.

Sam tackled it, both of them crashing into a coffin. Splintered wood rained down. The thing’s claws raked Sam’s arm, deep enough to slice through flannel and flesh.

Sam grunted, jaw clenched.

The ghoul wearing his face straightened, calm where the others tore and clawed. 

“You thought you could save him,” it said, voice warped, a low echo threading under Adam’s tone. “Thought you could keep him from us. But he was always ours.”

Dean froze mid-step, shotgun barrel trembling.

She felt her stomach twist. The same green eyes, John’s eyes, staring back from that thing’s face.

The ghoul’s gaze slid past Dean and landed on her. It lingered, smile widening. “And you...you’re soft on him. Just like you were with the other one.”

Her knife faltered in her grip.

Dean’s chest heaved, finger tight on the trigger.

She shoved past him, blade raised, voice sharp as steel. “Shut your mouth.”

She met it head-on, knife sinking deep into its side. Its claws raked her arm, tearing through cloth, flesh burning where blood spilled hot. She grit her teeth, drove the blade deeper until it shrieked.

Dean yanked her back hard, arm clamped around her waist, dragging her against him as he fired point-blank into its chest. The blast rocked them both, his breath hot against her ear.

“You trying to get yourself killed?” he barked.

She twisted free, knife dripping, eyes locked on the ghoul as it stumbled back. “I’m trying to end this.”

Sam staggered up from the coffin wreckage, blood down his arm. “Dean, look out!”

Another ghoul barreled in from the left. He slammed the stock of the shotgun into its skull, bone cracking under the blow.

She darted forward, driving her knife into its throat. It collapsed in a wet heap at their feet.

Sam hit the floor, a ghoul pinning him hard, teeth snapping inches from his face. “Dean!” he shouted.

Dean spun, shotgun raised, but the Adam-ghoul stepped into his path, wearing that too-familiar face. “Not fast enough. Just like your daddy.”

Dean’s blast tore a crater in the wall, salt and rock raining down. He cursed, fury breaking across his face.

She lunged for Sam, knife slamming deep into the ghoul’s spine. It convulsed and collapsed into ash at Sam’s side. Sam shoved it off, blood streaking his face. “I’m good,” he gritted, staggering up.

Her knife slashed wide, driving deep into the ghoul’s side.

Dean was at her back in an instant, yanking her out of reach as he fired. Both barrels lit the crypt, salt and smoke exploding through the chamber. The ghoul screamed, Adam’s face flickering and twisting, before it collapsed into ash on the stone floor.

Silence dropped like a weight.

Her chest heaved, blood running warm down her arm, knife still clenched in her hand.

Sam leaned against the wall, breath ragged. Dean stood close, his arm brushing hers, eyes still locked on where the ghoul had stood.

Dean’s jaw was tight, his gaze flicking to her for half a beat.

He looked away first, reloading the shotgun with quick, harsh clicks.

She wiped her blade on her ruined jacket, throat tight. The air stank of ash and mildew, but all she could taste was copper.

Sam pushed off the wall, voice low. “We should move. In case there are more.”

Dean gave a curt nod, eyes still storm-dark. “Let’s get outta here.”

They left the crypt together.

The Impala’s engine clicked as it cooled in Bobby’s yard, the headlights dying out against rows of rusted cars. None of them spoke on the drive in, and the silence followed them inside.

Bobby was waiting in the living room, glasses perched low on his nose. One look at them, Sam with blood on his sleeve, her jacket torn, Dean's expression, and Bobby closed the lore book with a surprised slam.

“What happened?” His voice was rougher than usual.

Sam dropped into the chair at the table, every line of him tired. “It wasn’t Adam. Not really. Ghouls had him. He’s gone.”

The words settled heavy.

Bobby’s mouth tightened, but he only nodded. “I’m sorry, boy.”

She leaned against the couch, the fabric scratchy under her palm. Adam’s face kept flashing in her head, the way he’d stood there awkward with a shotgun, trying too hard.

She swallowed, voice low. “He..uh...he reminded me of Quinn.”

The room stilled for a second. Sam’s eyes flicked toward her, sympathy there but quiet.

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He just turned away and poured whiskey into a glass, sliding it across the table for her before downing his own straight from the bottle.

Bobby sighed, rubbing at his beard. “World don’t care about who you lose. Only that you keep on swinging anyway.”

No one argued.

Later, when Sam finally crashed on the couch and Bobby retreated to his study, she stood out on the porch.

The cold cut through her jacket, sharp enough to sting the claw marks on her arm.

Dean came out a minute later, two beers in hand. He passed one over, leaned against the railing beside her.

For a while, they said nothing. The yard was quiet except for the wind threading through the trees.

“Feels like every time we get close to holding onto family, it slips away.”

She took a long pull from the beer, staring out at the salvage yard. 

He looked at her for a long beat, then back out into the dark.

Chapter Text

She hadn’t been looking for it. She’d only gone upstairs to grab her jacket when the low scrape of glass against wood stopped her cold.

Sam was at the desk, shoulders hunched, head bowed over his hands. The lamplight caught the dark liquid swirling inside a vial pinched between his fingers.

Her breath caught. “Sam?”

His head jerked up. The look in his eyes wasn’t surprise, it was panic. He shoved the vial down against his thigh, too late.

Her chest lurched, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He pushed up from the chair, hand out like he could calm her. “Wait—”

But she was already backing toward the door, shaking her head hard. “Don’t touch me.”

Her boots hit the hallway floor fast, the air rushing colder as she bolted down the stairs.

She could hear him behind her, his voice strained. “It’s not what you think!”

By the time she hit the kitchen, Dean and Bobby were already there, bent over a stack of lore books.

Her hands were trembling as she grabbed Dean’s arm. “He’s—” She couldn’t even get the words out.

Dean’s brow furrowed, concern flashing sharp. “What?”

Sam barreled in a second later, breathless, face tight. “Don’t listen to her—”

Her voice cracked with fury. “He’s drinking it. Demon blood. He’s still doing it.”

The words landed like a slap. Dean froze, then turned slow toward Sam.

His expression curdled into something dangerous, all the color draining from his face. “Tell me she’s lying.”

Sam’s throat worked, but no words came out.

That was enough. Dean shoved back his chair, boots scraping loud against the floor. His body snapped taut like a wire about to break.

“You son of a bitch.”

Sam’s own anger surged back fast, defensive. “You don’t get it! I can stop her. I can end this.” His hands cut through the air as his voice rose, filling the house.

Dean squared up across from him in the living room, unshakable, every line of him rigid. “The hell you can.”

“Dean—” she started, trying to steady her voice.

Dean didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed locked on Sam, jaw clenched hard. “Don’t even try it. He knows damn well what he’s doing.”

Sam’s gaze snapped to her anyway, desperate, almost wild. “You get it. You’ve seen what I can do. You know this is the only way.”

She hesitated, but the tremor in his hands and the sharp gleam in his eyes twisted her stomach.

“What I know,” she said carefully, “is this isn’t you talking. Not the Sam I remember.”

Sam’s face hardened, hurt flashing quick before the anger shoved it down. “You sound just like him,” he muttered, voice tight.

Dean stepped forward, fists curling, voice low but scalding. “Damn right she does. Because she’s not blind, Sam. You are.”

Sam's face twisted, anger bleeding into hurt, then back again. “That’s bullshit.”

Bobby’s voice came from the corner, steady as stone. “They're not wrong, boy.” He stepped forward, arms crossed tight over his chest. “You’re too far gone. You need to dry out.”

Sam’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide, bloodshot. “Dry out?” His laugh was short, ugly. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. “Means we put you somewhere you can’t get more of that poison in your veins. Somewhere safe.”

Sam’s face fell into something darker. “You’re talking about the cage.”

“Damn right I am.”

Sam’s whole body tensed, fury sparking hot. “You can’t just lock me up.”

Bobby’s stance didn’t shift. “Don’t see another way.”

Dean’s voice cut in, lower now. “We don’t have a choice, Sam.”

Sam fought them every step toward the basement.

Dean grabbed his arm first, yanking hard enough to drag him back from the door. Sam shoved him off, throwing his shoulder into Dean’s chest. The sound of impact echoed through the house, a dull thud against old plaster.

She darted in, catching Sam’s other arm, but he ripped free with a snarl, his height towering over both of them.

“You’re making a mistake!” Sam shouted, voice hoarse. “Lilith is out there, and you’re wasting time—”

Dean slammed him back into the wall, the picture frames rattling.

“You’re done,” Dean growled, his face inches from Sam’s.

Sam shoved him off, teeth gritted. “You don’t get it.”

“I get it just fine,” Dean snapped back. His voice was sharp, but the tremor under it betrayed him.

Bobby blocked the hallway, shotgun hanging easy in his hands, but his stance meant business. “Don’t make me use this, Sam.”

Sam froze, chest heaving.

He stared at Bobby like the sight of him there, ready to pull the trigger if he had to, was worse than the chains waiting in the basement.

His voice cracked. “You too?”

Bobby’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’ll do what I have to.”

For a second, nobody moved. The only sound was Sam’s breathing, fast and uneven. Then Dean lunged again. She followed, all three of them forcing Sam down the creaking basement stairs, their grunts and curses bouncing off the walls until Bobby hauled the panic room door wide.

The smell of iron and burnt salt rushed out, sharp enough to sting the back of her throat. The sigils painted into the walls glowed faint in the lamplight. The chains on the cot gleamed cold.

Sam fought harder at the threshold. His boots scuffed against the concrete.

“No! Don’t do this! You need me!” His eyes snapped to her, wide and desperate. “You know I can do this. Don’t let them—”

Her chest clenched, but Dean’s grip only tightened. His voice came through gritted teeth. “We’re not doing this your way.”

It took everything to shove Sam across the floor and pin him to the cot. Chains clanged as Dean snapped them into place. Sam thrashed, his breath tearing out of him in harsh gasps, sweat dripping down his face.

“You think this fixes me?” Sam spat, straining against the restraints.

His wrists twisted until the iron bit deep. “You think a cage is gonna make me better?”

Dean leaned over him, close enough to see the whites of his brother’s eyes. “I think it’s the only thing that’s left.”

Sam’s head jerked back against the wall with a dull thud. “You’re killing me.”

Dean didn’t blink. “No. I’m trying to keep you alive.”

Hours stretched like years.

Sam screamed until his voice shredded. He cursed them, begged them, promised things he couldn’t deliver. He slammed his fists against the wall until blood streaked the sigils. Sweat soaked through his shirt, his body jerking with tremors.

Sometimes he whispered. “Please. Just open the door. Please.”

Other times he spat venom. “You’re weak. All of you. You’d rather chain me up than let me win this war.”

The sound carried up the stairs. She sat halfway down, her back against the cold wall, listening to the chains rattle with every movement.

Dean stood across from her, leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded but tight. He didn’t move, didn’t sit, just stared through the bars like he could keep Sam alive by force of will.

Sam’s voice rasped out from the cot. “Dean? You there?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

“I can hear you breathing,” Sam snapped. His tone pitched higher, somewhere between taunt and plea. “C’mon. You really think this is the way? You think locking me up makes you the good guy?”

Dean shifted just enough that the leather of his jacket creaked. “I don’t care about being the good guy.”

Sam’s chains rattled. “Then what? You want to be my executioner?”

Dean stepped closer to the bars, his shadow falling long across the floor. “Better that than watch you burn yourself out.”

Sam let out a ragged laugh. “You’re pathetic. You’d rather let her win than let me do what needs to be done.”

Dean’s voice snapped back. “What needs to be done doesn’t come out of a vein, Sam.”

Sam lunged against the chains, metal scraping loud against concrete.

She stood then, moving to Dean’s side. “Dean,” she murmured, quiet, meant only for him. “He’s not hearing you.”

Dean swallowed, throat bobbing. “Then he’s gonna keep hearing it until it sticks.”

By the time Bobby herded them into the kitchen, Sam’s voice was already breaking. The muffled echoes of his shouting climbed the stairs, carrying through the floor like a low vibration.

The table was a mess of open books and half-empty mugs. The lamp in the corner buzzed faintly, its shade tilting just enough to cast everything in uneven light. The smell of whiskey hung heavy, sharp and sour, though Bobby’s glass sat untouched by his elbow.

Dean didn’t sit. He paced, boots grinding against the scuffed linoleum. His arms folded tight across his chest, then unfolded, then folded again. He looked like he’d worn the same groove in the floor all night.

Bobby adjusted his cap, eyes tracking Dean for a beat before flicking down to the book in front of him. “Feels like I locked up one of my own boys,” he muttered.

She leaned back against the counter, arms folded.

Her throat was dry, her head pounding. “You didn’t have a choice.”

Bobby looked up, eyes tired under the brim. “Doesn’t make it sit right.”

Dean stopped pacing long enough to turn on them both. “What choice? Let him keep chugging demon blood until there’s nothing left? That’s not Sam anymore. That’s something wearin’ his face.”

She pushed off the counter, stepped closer to him. “Doesn’t make it hurt less.”

Dean’s mouth opened, then shut.

His eyes dropped to the floor. “No,” he said finally, voice rough. “It doesn’t.”

Sam’s voice shifted with each hour. Sometimes he screamed until his throat broke. Sometimes he whispered, hoarse and ragged, begging.

“Please. Just let me out. I can’t—” His voice cracked. A chain clinked. “I can’t do this. Just open the door. Please.”

The chains rattled with every jerk of his body, metal scraping concrete. The sound carried through the whole house.

Her head rested in her hands, exhaustion clawing at her, but she couldn’t pull herself away.

Dean stayed opposite her, leaned against the wall at the base of the stairs, his body shadowed by the dim lamplight. His eyes stayed fixed on Sam through the bars, unblinking. 

Dean never left the basement. She drifted between the kitchen and the stairs, her body too restless for sleep, her mind too loud for silence.

Sam’s voice came again, quieter now, shredded from overuse. “Please. Just you. You trust me. Help me.”

Her throat tightened. She shook her head, whispering back through the bars. “Not like this, Sam.”

He turned his face to the wall, shoulders curling inward. For a long time, he didn’t speak again.

She sat against the wall just outside the bars, knees pulled up, her hand resting on the cold concrete. Dean was across from her, closer to the cot, his arms folded tight. His shadow stretched long in the lamplight, cast sharp against the sigil-marked walls.

Sam’s voice cracked. “Dean…please.” He coughed, swallowed. “I can do this. I can take her down. You just…you gotta let me.”

Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on him. He didn’t blink. “Not gonna happen.”

Sam’s head tipped back against the wall with a dull thud. “You’d rather see me chained up than see me win. That’s you in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

Dean shifted his weight, jaw tightening, but didn’t bite.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Sam, nobody’s saying you can’t fight. But this isn’t fighting. It’s eating you alive.”

Sam’s eyes snapped to hers. “Don’t...don’t you start. I thought you were with me. You get it.” His voice trembled.

Her chest ached, but she shook her head. “I used to, but not now.”

Sam turned away, his jaw clenched, shoulders shaking.

Cold washed through the room, sharp enough to raise the hair on her arms. The light flickered. The iron tang in the air deepened. She felt it before she saw him, the weight of another presence pressing in.

Castiel stood in the doorway, trench coat brushing against the floor, blue eyes fixed steady on Sam.

Dean straightened, his voice snapping out hard. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Cas’s voice was flat, unyielding. “I have orders.”

Dean’s lip curled. “Orders? From who?”

Cas didn’t blink. “From Heaven.”

Dean stepped forward, blocking the narrow path into the room. “Yeah, well, tell Heaven to shove it. You’re not takin’ him.”

Cas’s eyes flicked once to Sam, then back to Dean. “It’s not your decision.”

Dean’s hands curled into fists. “The hell it isn’t.”

She rose, moving closer to Dean. Her voice came low, edged with steel. “Cas, you don’t get to walk in here and steal him. We're in the middle of something.”

Cas’s expression didn’t change. “Sam is too dangerous to leave here. If he breaks free—”

“He’s not breakin’ free,” Dean cut in, voice sharp. “We’ve got him locked down.”

Cas’s gaze lingered on Sam for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. But his hand lifted.

Dean moved first, shoving forward, voice breaking into a shout. “You’re not takin’ my brother!”

Cas didn’t argue.

His hand came down on Sam’s shoulder, grip iron-tight. Light flared, blinding for a beat, and then the chains clattered empty against the cot.

Sam was gone.

The silence afterward was suffocating.

Dean’s fists slammed the bars hard enough to send a shock up her spine.

“Son of a bitch!” His voice cracked, fury tearing loose. He turned, stalking the length of the room, boots pounding against the concrete.

Bobby’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “Dean—”

“Don’t.” Dean’s hand tore through his hair, his eyes burning. “Don’t tell me this is how it has to be.”

She stepped closer, reaching for him. Her hand found his arm, his muscles twitching under her touch, coiled so tight it was like holding live wire. He didn’t shake her off.

“Dean,” she said softly, steady. “We’ll get him back.”

Dean’s chest heaved, his eyes locking on hers for just a second. His grip caught her wrist. Then he let go.

The sound of the chains clinking against the empty cot filled the room.

Chapter Text

Bobby’s house wasn’t quiet so much as it was suffocating.

Every board creaked under weight it couldn’t hold, the pipes clanged when they shouldn’t, the air sat thick in the lungs. The usual sounds, the shuffle of a dog outside, the old clock ticking, were there, but drowned out by something heavier.

Dean had been pacing since sundown.

His boots carved restless arcs across the kitchen floor, heels scuffing hard against linoleum worn down by years of hunters dragging their feet. His jaw flexed, shoulders rigid enough they looked ready to snap.

She sat at the table, both hands wrapped tight around her owl mug, coffee long cold. The bitter smell clung stubborn at the rim. She didn’t drink it. Her fingers tapped against ceramic, an anxious beat that lined up with Dean’s boots without either of them acknowledging it.

Bobby hunched over lore, the lamplight casting deep trenches into his face. His limp dragged louder every time he shifted to grab another book. He muttered curses at ink that wouldn’t give him answers until finally, patience gave out.

The slam of the book echoed like a gunshot. “World’s endin’, and all we got is three idjits and a library.”

Dean stopped pacing. His head snapped up, green eyes burning under the lamp’s glow. “And Sammy’s out there with the angels, or who knows who, lettin’ 'em steer the damn bus straight into Hell.” His voice cracked at the edges.

Her chest pinched tight.

Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Sam’s face, pale, trembling, pupils blown wide with something not his.

She shoved the mug aside. “Then we find him.” She stood before she could second-guess herself, voice steady.

“We find Ruby, and we stop this before it burns everything down.”

Dean’s eyes locked on hers. The silence stretched heavy, his jaw tightening as if the words cost him something just to hold back. Fear burned behind the green.

Bobby pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet. “Then we’d better move. Every second we wait, that seal gets closer to breaking.”

Dean didn’t argue. He just grabbed his jacket from the chair, the motion sharp, final.

“Let’s go.”

The convent reeked of blood.

The smell hit first, sour and metallic, before the sight of it. The walls sweated with candle wax, long trails running down to the stone like veins. Heat radiated faint from glowing sigils etched deep into the rock, pulsing as if the whole building had a heartbeat.

Sam stood at the altar. His shirt clung with sweat, chest heaving. The demon-killing knife glinted in his fist, trembling, not from weakness, but from the weight of the power bleeding through him.

His eyes burned too bright, wild and fevered.

Lilith stood opposite him, pale as porcelain, a grotesque doll wound up too tight.

Her white eyes glowed, vacant and endless, her grin curling slow across her face.

“You were always meant to be this,” Lilith said softly, almost like a lullaby. “The boy king. My executioner. Daddy’s perfect little vessel.”

Sam’s throat worked. His hand shook. Blood, rage, and need.

Dean hit the heavy wood door shoulder-first, the slam rattling the frame but not giving an inch. He backed up and threw himself into it again, the hinges groaning, but the lock held.

“Son of a bitch,” he spat, rearing back and kicking hard at the base. The wood shuddered under the impact, splinters snapping loose, but it stayed shut.

His fists came next, pounding against the solid panels until skin split across his knuckles.

Blood smeared into the grain. “Sammy!” His voice tore. “Open the damn door! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

She crowded in beside him, yanking hard on the handle, shoulder braced as she shoved with all her weight. The metal bit into her palm, the lock didn’t even rattle.

Dean slammed it again, chest heaving, sweat beading at his temple. “Come on!” His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. “Open, damn it!”

“Sam!” Her voice cracked as she pounded the locked convent door, the wood biting into her palms. “Don’t do this!"

Inside, Lilith’s laugh rang out, shrill and jagged, bouncing off the stone walls. “Oh, let him. He’s been waiting for this. Every dream, every craving, it all brought him to me.”

Dean threw himself against the door again, shoulder-first, the frame groaning but holding.

Through the crack at the edge of the door, she caught flashes of the altar, the flicker of candlelight, Ruby’s dark figure leaning casually against the stone like she had all the time in the world. Arms crossed, mouth curved, silent.

That silence was the worst of all, because it meant she didn’t need to say anything. Sam was already where she wanted him.

Sam’s gaze flicked toward Ruby, brief, and in that heartbeat, the decision hardened across his face.

His jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened around the knife.

The power ripped out of him.

Lilith’s body seized, white light pouring from her eyes and mouth. Her scream wasn’t human, it was a tearing, guttural wail that clawed at the walls and shook dust loose from the rafters.

The stone itself seemed to recoil, hairline cracks veining outward as the whole convent trembled. Candles flared, sputtered, then died, plunging the altar into a choking dark.

Lilith’s small frame crumpled against the stone floor. What was left of her was barely human, skin brittle, veins scorched black, her body no more than a husk.

Sam staggered back, the knife slipping in his grip. His chest rose and fell like he’d run miles.

The words scraped out of his throat, hoarse and raw. “It’s done. She’s dead.”

The ground rumbled, a deep vibration rolling up through the floorboards into bone. Sigils carved into the convent walls seared bright red, smoking, curling until they collapsed into nothing but ash.

The air thickened, heavy with sulfur.

Her stomach twisted. Something was wrong.

Ruby pushed herself off the altar at last, stretching as though the whole show had been for her amusement.

Her smile spread, slow and triumphant. “Well.” Her voice cut through the tremor in the walls.

“That’s it. Last seal’s broken.” She stepped closer to Sam, her eyes shining. “We did it.”

Dean froze. The blood drained out of his face.

Sam blinked hard, sweat dripping into his eyes. His voice cracked. “What? No. You said—”

Ruby’s grin widened, sharp and triumphant. “You did it, Sam. You killed Lilith. You set him free.”

Sam’s head jerked toward her, his lips trembling. “You...you lied.”

Ruby circled him slowly, savoring every flinch, every crack in his face. “I told you the truth. Just not all of it. And you never asked. Because you didn’t want to.”

She leaned in close, her voice low and venomous. “You wanted the power. You wanted me.”

Her smirk sharpened, her voice laced with mockery. “And you got both.”

The door behind them groaned under another violent blow. Dean’s shoulder smashed into it again, wood splitting at the seams. She threw her weight against it too, shoving hard until the frame shrieked.

With one last slam, the lock gave. The door crashed inward, splinters flying. Dean stormed through first, shotgun raised, fury written across every line of him.

She followed right on his heels, blade drawn, the air inside the convent thick with sulfur and smoke.

Ruby’s head snapped toward them, grin curling wider, as though their arrival was part of her script all along.

Ruby’s hand twitched upward, two fingers twitching.

Pressure hit her chest hard enough to fold her. The air left her lungs in one blunt cough as her back left the floor. For a half-second she was weightless, then the ceiling rushed up and took her. Shoulder first. Spine next.

The back of her skull clipped stone with a dull knock that flashed white across her vision. Sound thinned to a high ring. Heat surged along her ribs.

She tasted metal. Thick. Warm. Blood slicked her tongue and ran from the corner of her mouth toward her ear. 

Somewhere behind the ringing, voices fought to break through. Muffled.

Dean. She couldn’t make out the words, only the shape of his voice tearing at the silence.

Then another, lower, uneven. Sam. A few syllables reached her, thin as if they were coming from the far end of a tunnel.

She didn’t move.

She let her face stay turned to the cold floor, chin angled down so her chest wouldn’t rise much. Jaw loose. Eyes half-lidded, unfocused.

She let the blood pool at her cheekbone and travel into her hairline. She counted slow in her head and made the breaths shallow enough to disappear under the noise in the room.

Dean barreled forward, boots slipping in Lilith’s blood. Ruby stepped into his path, grin cutting sharp across her face.

She shoved a hand to his chest. The force cracked through him, boots dragging loud against the floor until his heel slammed stone.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even blink. He came right back at her, fist snapping up hard into her jaw. The crack of bone rang out, her head whipping sideways.

He hit her again before she could recover. His eyes never left the body on the ground behind her.

Ruby staggered, wiped blood from her mouth, and smiled.

Sam dropped to his knees at her side. His hands spread against the floor, unsteady, knuckles white. He reached for her shoulder, then froze.

His fingers hovered an inch above the fabric, shaking. He couldn’t make contact. The hand fell back, useless at his side.

He lifted his head toward nothing in particular. “She’s—” The word fractured.

He swallowed. Tried again, quieter, because anything louder might change the shape of the world. “She’s gone.”

Dean went still.

His jaw locked, the muscle tight and sharp under his skin. His throat worked once, hard, like he was forcing something down that wouldn’t go. His nostrils flared.

Shoulders rose with a breath he didn’t let out. His fists curled so tight the skin over his knuckles went white, blood from earlier splits welling fresh at the seams.

He didn’t look at Sam. He didn’t look away from her until the last second.

He feinted left, Ruby mirrored, he snapped right and tried to hook an arm around her to spin her out. She caught his wrist, twisted, and shoved him shoulder-first into the altar.

He bounced off, teeth bared, back already braced for the next hit, eyes dragging to the body again like a compass that couldn’t be shaken off its north.

Sam’s gaze fell to her face. His mouth opened and closed twice without sound.

He folded forward at the waist, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his hair. A rough breath tore out of him, half cough, half swallowed sob, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until his knuckles went white.

He didn’t look at Ruby. He didn’t look at Dean. He stared at the floor an inch from her still hand like if he looked any farther he’d come apart.

Dean drove off the altar and into Ruby again. They hit a pew; the wood splintered in a flat crack; he shoved through the break, put a forearm across her collarbones, and tried to pin her to the floor.

She laughed once, rolling her shoulder, and dug bloody nails into the muscle above his ribs.

He flinched, not away, just enough to swing his right hand free and hammer it into her jaw. Bone-on-bone thud. Blood misted his knuckles. He hauled back for another.

Ruby shoved with both hands and a pulse of force that bounced him off her. He skidded, boot heel scraping, breath tearing, then launched again like recoil.

No words now. Just the drag of breath and the heavy, flat sound of impact.

The floor vibrated under her cheek. Low at first, then more insistent.

Dust shook loose from a crack in the archway and sifted down over her temple. Every part of her body wanted to cough. She held the reflex in her throat and let it burn.

Sam drew one breath that sounded like it might be the start of a word and nothing came. He turned his head enough to look at her again, slow, like fast movement might change what he’d see.

His eyes were wet and unfocused. He didn’t wipe his face. He didn’t move his hands. He just watched for the rise and fall that didn’t come.

Dean got a grip on Ruby’s coat and slammed her into the edge of the altar. She grunted, grabbed at his sleeve, and raked four bright lines down his forearm. He hissed, teeth together, and rammed her again. His breath came in harsh pulls; sweat ran from his hairline into the cut on his cheek and stung.

She let her eyes fog over and fixed them on nothing. Kept her jaw slack. Counted the beats between the heavier shakes of the floor.

When her chest insisted on a breath, she let a thin one slide in through the nose and out the corner of her mouth where it hid under the line of her jaw against the stone.

Dean hit Ruby with his full weight, both of them crashing hard to the stone floor.

His fists rained down, skin splitting on impact, blood spattering across her face.

“You used him!” Crack.

“You killed her!” Crack.

“You broke the fucking world!” Crack.

Ruby laughed through the hits, blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth. “And you helped me, Dean. Every step. You were so busy playing soldier, you never saw the knife at your back.”

Dean slammed her head into the ground hard enough the stone split beneath. His hands shook with rage, but he wasn’t done.

Sam staggered to his feet, knife in hand, face white and slick with blood.

His voice cracked with rage. “You lied to me.”

He swung, but Ruby was faster. She lashed out with a blast of force that sent him slamming chest-first into the altar.

His nose crunched wet, blood spraying across the cracked stone. The knife clattered to the floor.

Ruby clawed her way up, hair wild, lip split wide. She spat red onto the ground and smiled, black eyes glimmering. “Pathetic. Both of you. She died for nothing.”

She jerked her chin toward her body, still and pale on the floor.

Sam stumbled toward her again, eyes wild, voice broken. “Why. Why."

Ruby tilted her head, grin stretching wider. “Why not? It’s the truth. She’s gone, and it’s your fault, Sam. You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Dean’s voice tore from his chest. “Shut up!”

He barreled into her again, boot connecting with her shin. She buckled, but not enough. Her clawed hand raked down his arm, burning hot, leaving deep gouges.

Dean grunted through it, slammed her shoulder into the wall, then drove his knee into her gut.

She gagged blood, laughed again. “You’re so much more fun like this. So angry.”

Sam clawed across the floor, found the knife again, his fingers shaking as he wrapped around the hilt.

He staggered up, raised it high, his voice hoarse and cracking. “I’ll kill you!”

Ruby shoved Dean off, whirled on Sam, and threw out a hand. Energy flared.

But before she could strike, movement blurred in the corner of her vision.

It was time. She threw herself from the ground, finding her footing after a second or so. Blood streaked across her face, knife already slick in her palm.

In one hard, brutal thrust, she drove the blade straight into Ruby’s back.

The crunch was sickening.

Ruby gasped, the knife point jutting out through her ribs. Her mouth worked, blood gurgling. She staggered, eyes wide, disbelief cutting through the black. “You—”

She twisted. The blade ground deeper, tearing muscle, scraping bone.

Ruby convulsed. Her laugh finally cut off into a wet, choking gurgle. Her black eyes flickered brown, then dimmed, then went flat.

Her body collapsed hard onto the stone, blood spreading fast, soaking through the cracks like it belonged there.

Dean froze when he saw her standing, bloodied but alive. For a second he just stared, chest heaving, like his brain couldn’t catch up.

Then he closed the distance in one stride.

His hands clamped hard around her back and waist, pulling her tight against him. His mouth crushed against hers urgently, the kiss rough with panic and relief. He broke it just as fast, his forehead pressed to hers, breath shaking against her skin. “God, I thought you were gone.”

Sam staggered forward, the knife slipping from his hand and clattering across the floor. His face was hollow, wrecked.

Dean pulled her in closer, jaw set, eyes burning as he turned on his brother.

His voice came out low and hard. “Sam...”

The floor shook again, harder this time.

A fissure ripped across the room, splitting the altar clean down the middle. Heat blasted upward, thick sulfur choking the air. The sigils on the walls screamed red before bursting into smoke.

Light poured up from below, searing white edged in blood-red. The voices returned, louder, layered, filling the air with screams and chants and whispers.

“I am free.”

The sound pressed into bone, rattled teeth, squeezed lungs tight.

Dean yanked her behind him, his grip iron around her wrist. His chest heaved as he squared his stance between her and the altar.

The fissure erupted, white light swallowing everything.

For a single millisecond, a shadow cut through it. A trench coat, wings vast as smoke, blue eyes burning like lightning.

Then the world went white.

Engines.

That was the first sound Dean registered, not screaming, not stone splitting, not sulfur, but the steady thrum of turbines.

His eyes snapped open.

Cabin lights flickered above. Recycled air stung his nose. Rows of strangers dozed in narrow seats, oblivious.

He jolted upright, hand flying to his side for a weapon that wasn’t there.

She startled awake beside him, fingers twitching for a blade out of habit.

Her eyes darted around, wide. “Dean?”

Across the aisle, Sam stirred, his long frame folded awkward in the cramped space.

His head jerked up, eyes blown wide, darting between them, then the cabin. “What-what the hell—”

“We were in the convent.” His fists clenched tight against his knees.

Sam swallowed hard, voice hollow. “It was Cas. It had to be. He pulled us out.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh, sharp as glass. “Dropped us on a damn airplane?”

He scrubbed his hand down his face, eyes bloodshot. “Son of a bitch.”

The intercom crackled overhead, the captain’s voice calm, announcing descent, the seatbelt sign.

Dean didn’t hear it. His eyes fixed out the window, where dawn painted the horizon in streaks of blood-red.

Sam slumped back, pale. His voice cracked. “He’s really out. Lucifer’s really out.”

Dean didn’t answer. His jaw was locked, eyes burning hard into the sunrise.

Her hand slid across the armrest, unclasping his fist and fitting his fingers with hers.

The plane descended.

The world was ending.

Chapter Text

The plane touched down with a bone-rattling jolt that made the overhead bins shudder.

The smell of burnt rubber from the runway bled faintly through the vents, mingling with too many bodies crammed into too small a space.

Dean had been tense from takeoff to landing.

He pushed up from his seat the moment the wheels screeched, his shoulder brushing hers as he leaned forward like he was ready to bolt. He didn’t wait for the seatbelt sign to go off before muscling into the narrow aisle.

She followed him while Sam trailed behind, his height forcing him to stoop in the low cabin. His face was drawn tight, his eyes locked on the worn carpet instead of the passengers shuffling past.

Dean moved with single-minded force, cutting through the crowd at the gate like the noise and fluorescent light might split open at any second to reveal teeth.

His shoulders brushed strangers without apology, eyes flicking sharp across every corner, every flicker of shadow.

The terminal reeked of old fabric and disinfectant, the sour tang of beer from the bar up ahead bleeding into the scent of burnt pretzels from a nearby kiosk.

Announcements blared overhead, too loud, too garbled, making the speakers crackle with static.

Dean didn’t slow until the glowing neon of the airport bar buzzed into view. Its door was half-open, the hum of a broken sign louder than the voices inside. 

Dean slid into a booth at the far wall, the vinyl seat squeaking under his weight. She didn’t hesitate to drop down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh pressed lightly against his. 

Sam lowered himself across from them, clasping his hands on the table, knuckles straining white.

For a long stretch, none of them spoke.

The clink of a glass from the bar, the hum of the static-filled TV above the counter, the murmur of strangers who didn’t care that the world had just cracked apart, those filled the silence instead.

Dean leaned forward finally, elbows planted, jaw tight. His voice sliced clean through the background noise.

“You happy now, Sammy?” His eyes locked hard on his brother. “Lucifer’s walking free. You broke the last damn seal.”

Sam flinched like the words had been a fist. His throat bobbed as he tried to form an answer. “I didn’t know—”

“You knew enough!” Dean’s voice cracked across the room. A couple of heads at the bar turned. He didn’t care.

She pressed her hand against his thigh under the table. His muscles jumped under her touch, but he didn’t shrug her off.

Sam’s voice came thin, guilt already pulling his shoulders in. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Dean barked out a laugh that was sharp, humorless, every bit of it aimed to cut. “Yeah? Well congrats. You just won us the apocalypse.”

Sam’s gaze dropped to the table, shame pulling him into himself, his voice drying up.

The silence pressed again, heavier now. Dean's breathing was rough, uneven, but the tremor in his thigh eased against hers.

The lights above them buzzed, then cut out all at once.

The entire bar plunged into silence, heavy, unnatural. 

Dean’s head snapped up. His arm shifted automatically, his body angled protectively in front of hers.

Sam stiffened, his jaw tight, his fists uncurling from the tabletop. 

And then the air split open, just slightly, just enough for him to step in.

Zachariah.

Crisp suit, polished smile, the faint ozone bite that lingered around him like cologne.

He looked more like a banker than an angel, smug and sure of himself as he smoothed the cuffs of his shirt like he was preparing for a business pitch.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice smooth and too loud in the stillness. “The Winchester boys. And…” His eyes slid lazily over to her, slow and deliberate. “…their eye candy.”

Dean was on his feet before the words even landed.

His body cut in front of hers fully now, his fist half-clenched like he might swing if Zachariah so much as blinked wrong. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face.”

Zachariah’s smile widened, all false charm. “Nerve? Dean, after everything I’ve done, I’d think a thank-you was in order.”

Dean’s glare burned holes straight through him. “Yeah? Why don’t you spell it out. What the hell am I supposed to be thanking you for?”

“You’re alive,” Zachariah answered smoothly, calm as if the words were self-evident. “All three of you. Do you have any idea what kind of effort it takes to pluck a soul out of Lucifer's fire? That doesn’t come cheap.”

Dean’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “That wasn’t you. That was Cas.”

For just a second, Zachariah’s smirk twitched.

He smoothed it away quick, tilting his head. “Ah, Castiel. Yes, our little rebel. He’s been…unconventional. But Heaven’s work is Heaven’s work.”

Dean’s shoulders squared, his fists curling at his sides. “You don’t get credit for jack.”

She slid out of the booth and stepped up beside Dean, her shoulder brushing his. Her voice cut clean. “Why are you here, really?”

Zachariah’s gaze flicked to her again, smug, dismissive. “She speaks.” His smirk deepened.

“Dean Winchester. Always clinging to his human crutch. You think she makes you strong. Really, she just makes you weak.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, teeth grinding loud enough she could hear it. “Don’t. Talk. To her.”

Zachariah ignored the warning, stepping closer. “Tell me, Dean. How many times have you failed to save the people you swore you would?”

Dean surged forward, fury snapping through him like a live wire.

She grabbed his sleeve, nails digging into the worn fabric of his jacket. Her voice came low, urgent in the crackling silence. “Not here.”

His chest heaved under her hand. His eyes locked on Zachariah.

Zachariah only smirked wider, satisfied. “You’ll play your parts. All three of you. You don’t get a choice.”

The lights snapped back on. The hum of the bar returned. Someone at the counter laughed like nothing had happened.

Zachariah was gone.

Dean exhaled hard, dragging a hand over his face. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam shifted in the booth, his voice unsteady. “He’s right, isn’t he? We don’t get a choice.”

Dean snapped his glare to him. “Don’t you dare say he’s right.”

Sam’s mouth opened, then shut again, his fists pressed hard against his thighs.

Dean dropped back into the booth, his arm brushing hers.

His hand twitched once before sliding under the table to hook around her knee, squeezing just enough to feel the warmth of her through the fabric. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say anything.

The drive back to Sioux Falls stretched quiet.

Rain slicked the road, headlights cutting across blacktop that glistened like oil.

The hum of the Impala’s engine filled the silence, steady but weighted. Sam sat slouched in the back seat, arms crossed, his profile drawn tight as the blur of passing signs streaked across the glass.

Dean’s grip on the wheel was locked so hard the leather creaked. His jaw stayed set, a muscle twitching now and then when the streetlamps hit his face. 

By the time they rolled into Bobby’s yard, the rain had thinned into mist.

Dean killed the engine. “Too quiet,” he muttered, pushing the driver’s door open with a creak. His boots hit gravel, crunching loudly.

The house loomed with its peeling paint, windows lit just faintly by the glow of a lamp inside. Oil, rust, and wet earth carried sharp on the night air.

Sam hauled himself out of the back seat, stretching stiffly.

His voice was low. “Bobby’s probably—”

Dean cut him off, curt. “Let’s not assume anything.”

He adjusted the weight of the knife tucked at the back of his belt, eyes scanning the porch like something might lunge out of the shadows.

Inside, the air smelled of whiskey, dust, and the faint sting of gun oil. Lore books and papers littered the kitchen table, ink scrawled frantic across open pages. A lamp burned low in the corner, the bulb buzzing faintly.

Bobby sat in the chair by the window. His cap shadowed his face, one hand gripping the armrest, the other twitching against his thigh like a spasm he couldn’t shake.

“Bobby?” Sam’s voice carried the smallest crack of relief.

The old hunter didn’t look up. His breathing was uneven, hitching shallow in his chest. His shoulders stiffened, squared too sharply, like something yanked them into place.

Dean’s body went rigid. His voice dropped to a growl. “Son of a bitch.”

Bobby’s head lifted. His eyes flashed black.

The knife came quick, metal glinting under the lamp as he surged up from the chair with speed that wasn’t his.

Dean reacted faster. He shoved her back behind him with one arm, the other snapping up to catch Bobby’s wrist mid-swing.

The blade skimmed close, cutting through the fabric of his shirt and biting shallow into his side.

“Bobby!” her voice cracked, instinct dragging her forward.

Dean blocked her again, shoving her further out of reach even as his teeth clenched against the strain of holding Bobby’s arm. “Stay back!”

Sam lunged, grabbing Bobby’s other arm. “Fight it, Bobby, come on!”

The demon laughed through Bobby’s throat, a warped version of his gravel voice. “He’s not here, boy.”

His strength shoved Sam back hard enough to send him crashing into the edge of the desk, books scattering across the floor.

Dean grunted, blood seeping hot between his fingers where the knife had grazed him. He twisted Bobby’s wrist, forcing the blade back, their forearms locked with bone-grinding force.

“Dammit, Bobby,” Dean hissed, his face a snarl of pain and desperation. “Don’t make me do this.”

Her pulse hammered. She grabbed the nearest thing heavy, an iron poker leaning against the hearth. The metal was cold, slick in her grip.

She darted forward, but Dean’s bark stopped her dead.

“Don’t!” His eyes cut sharp to hers, desperate. “If we hurt him—”

The knife slashed close again, grazing Dean’s ribs. His jaw clenched, sweat and blood streaking together down his side.

Sam scrambled back up, his voice breaking as he shouted Latin. Each word reverberated in the room, heavy, hot, burning the air.

The demon sneered through Bobby’s mouth, teeth flashing black. “Won’t work. He’s mine.”

For a second, just a second, Bobby’s eyes flickered brown. His hand trembled. The knife wavered in Dean’s grip.

“Bobby, it’s me,” Dean snapped, hoarse, urgent. His face twisted, not in fear but in pleading anger. “Fight it! Don’t you quit on me!”

The flicker came again. Bobby’s chest hitched. Then his face contorted, pain and rage colliding.

The blade shifted, not toward Dean, but down.

The sound was sickening: steel tearing through flesh, bone scraping. Bobby gasped as the knife drove into his own gut.

Black smoke ripped out of his mouth, shrieking like a furnace venting. It whipped up through the ceiling and vanished, leaving the smell of sulfur behind.

The knife clattered to the floor.

Bobby sagged back into the chair, pale, lips streaked red. His body was heavy dead weight.

Dean dropped to his knees hard, palms already pressed to the wound, his fingers slick instantly. “No, no, no…” His voice cracked ragged. “Stay with me, dammit.”

She was at his side in a second, both hands braced against Bobby’s shoulders, trying to steady him as he slumped.

Her knees hit the rug, the fibers scratchy through her jeans.

Sam was there too, voice frantic as he fumbled for his phone. “I’ll call—”

“Do it.” Dean barked, teeth bared as he pressed harder into the wound. Blood seeped hot between his fingers, coating his wrists. 

Sam shouted the address into the phone, his voice cracking. His hand shook so hard the phone almost slipped.

Bobby coughed, red bubbling at his lips. His voice rasped out, faint. “Had to. Only way…to get him out.”

Dean’s head jerked, violent denial flashing across his face. “Don’t you pull that martyr crap on me.”

His hands pressed harder, useless against the blood. “You don’t get to decide when you’re done.”

Bobby’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Takes one… to know one.”

Dean’s breath hitched, teeth clenched. He bent closer, pressing down harder.

The sirens wailed faint in the distance.

“Stay with us, Bobby. We’ve got you.”

The old hunter’s eyelids drooped. His body sagged heavier into the chair. Blood soaked the rug beneath them, metallic and hot in the air.

Dean’s shoulders hunched, the weight of his body behind his hands. He didn’t move until she gripped his elbow hard. “Dean...they’re here.”

Paramedics stormed in seconds later, voices sharp, movements efficient.

Dean resisted at first, his blood-soaked hands locked tight on the wound, his jaw trembling. She pressed his arm again, firmer this time, guiding him back. His hands finally dropped, red dripping to the floor.

He staggered upright, breathing like he’d just fought for his own life. His eyes locked on Bobby as the paramedics worked frantically, pressing gauze and calling for stretchers.

When they hauled Bobby out, Dean followed to the door, his shirt sticking wet to his ribs, his hands still shaking.

He didn’t speak until the ambulance pulled away. Then he turned, face pale under the porch light.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, voice breaking.

The night pressed heavy around them, silent but for the fading sirens.

The hospital stank of bleach, old coffee, and bodies waiting too long for news they didn’t want. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing everyone in pale yellow that made even the healthy look half-dead.

Bobby looked worse.

He lay propped against stiff pillows, wires trailing from his chest, a tube strapped against the back of his hand. His skin was gray, sweat damp across his temples, lips pale under the stubble. His cap sat on the side table like a piece of armor he couldn’t wear anymore.

Dean hadn’t moved from the chair at his bedside since they brought him in. His jacket was balled under the seat, blood dried down both sleeves. He hadn’t changed the bandage under his shirt either, every time he shifted, the white peeking through was stained pink.

She hovered close, perched on the armrest of his chair. Her shoulder pressed against his with one hand sat loose across his shoulders.

Sam stayed near the door, pacing in slow circles. His reflection stared back at him in the dark hospital window, shoulders slumped, jaw clenched, eyes hollow.

The doctor’s voice cut flat across the room, practiced calm. “The knife severed his spinal cord. He may never walk again.”

The words landed hard.

Bobby turned his head toward the wall, his jaw clenching so tight his lips barely moved.

Sam’s voice cracked. “Bobby…I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

“Don’t.” Bobby’s tone was faint but edged. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Sam’s throat bobbed, words shriveling before they left his mouth.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice sharp. “Enough. It’s done. We deal with what’s next.”

The lights flickered once, twice.

Dean’s head snapped up, shoulders tensing. “Son of a bitch.”

Zachariah stood at the foot of the bed, suit pressed, smile smug. He didn’t belong in the sterile room, but he filled it anyway, like the place bent to accommodate him.

“Well,” he drawled, sweeping a look around the room. “A family reunion in a trauma ward. Touching.”

Dean was on his feet before the sentence finished. His fists curled, his whole body coiled like he’d swing without warning. “Get. Out.”

Zachariah ignored him, smoothing his cufflinks. “Dean. After everything Heaven’s done for you, is that any way to talk to your benefactor?”

Dean’s laugh was low and sharp. “Benefactor? You mean after everything you screwed up?”

Zachariah smirked, satisfied. “Predictable. And still you fight. That’s what makes you the perfect vessel.” His voice was silk over steel. “Michael’s vessel.”

Sam stiffened. His voice cracked out of him before he could stop it. “Michael. He said—”

Dean cut him off, his glare blazing. “I heard him.”

Zachariah spread his arms. “It’s simple. Say yes. Let Michael wear you. And this, all of this, is over.”

Dean’s laugh was bitter, jagged. “Yeah? Hard pass.”

“You don’t get a pass.”

Dean jabbed a finger forward, voice rough. “Take your destiny and shove it.”

Zachariah’s smile flattened. “If you don’t say yes, the world burns.”

Dean leaned in, his grin dangerous. “Then I’ll grab a marshmallow stick.”

The smirk faltered. The angel’s expression cooled. “You’ll regret this.”

The lights snapped again. The pressure lifted.

Zachariah was gone.

Dean dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. His hands trembled once before he shoved them deep into his pockets.

She stepped closer, brushing his arm. He didn’t look at her, but his hand twitched and stayed close, knuckles brushing hers.

Sam’s voice was tight, words clipped. “Michael. He said Michael.”

Dean shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Yeah. And I said no. End of story.”

Sam’s jaw worked, but he kept quiet.

Bobby let out a bitter sound. “World’s ending. And I’m stuck in bed.”

Her voice cut steady. “You’re not useless. You’re family.”

For a second, Dean’s eyes flicked to her, softer, before locking back on Bobby. “We’ll fix it. Somehow.”

Chuck’s cabin looked like a storm had blown through and nobody bothered to clean up.

Dishes were stacked high in the sink, slick with grease and stained with old coffee grounds. Pizza boxes leaned against the wall like falling dominoes, the cardboard sagging with oil. Every flat surface was buried under pages of frantic handwriting, loose sheets scattered in piles that had no order except whatever chaos lived in Chuck’s head.

Dean pushed the door open without knocking. The hinges squealed, and Chuck jumped so hard his glasses nearly fell off his face.

“Oh God.” His voice cracked, eyes wide behind the frames. “You’re alive. You’re really—” He flailed for words, clutching a half-crumpled manuscript like it might shield him. “That’s… great. Really great.”

Dean shut the door with more force than necessary, his glare cutting sharp across the room. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Chuck shuffled papers with trembling hands until they slipped from his grip and scattered at his feet.

He bent to pick them up, muttering, “I just...I thought...Lucifer, the convent, I didn’t think anyone…”

“Spit it out,” Dean snapped. His voice filled the cramped space, leaving no room for Chuck’s mumbling.

Chuck straightened slowly, his face pale and clammy. He shoved his glasses up his nose, but they slid right back down.

His voice came small, cracking at the edges. “You’re the vessels.”

The room stilled.

Dean’s jaw flexed. “The what now?”

“Michael.” Chuck’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Lucifer. That’s…how it ends. You two. Brothers.” His gaze flicked between Sam and Dean, then darted away like he couldn’t stand to look.

Dean let out a short, sharp laugh, no humor in it at all. “Yeah, got that memo already. Care to tell us something new?”

Sam hadn’t moved from the doorway. His shoulders slumped forward, his hands shoved into his pockets like he could fold himself smaller.

When he spoke, his voice was low. “Lucifer’s me.”

Dean spun on him, teeth bared. “Sam.”

Sam’s eyes stayed on the floor. His voice broke as the words forced their way out. “He wants me, Dean.”

The air in the cabin turned thick. The smell of stale grease and paper ink pressed sharp against her throat.

Dean’s fists curled tight, his knuckles pale. “Over my dead body.”

Chuck stumbled backward until his hip knocked the counter.

He winced, clutching another stack of papers like he wanted to disappear into them. “I’ll, uh, I’ll make coffee.” His voice cracked again. “That seems like the thing to do.”

Dean growled low in his chest, the sound more animal than human. “You do that.”

Sam’s shoulders shook. He didn’t speak again.

The porch sagged under Dean’s boots that night. He sat slouched in a chair that looked ready to collapse, elbows planted on his knees, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand.

The air outside was heavy, buzzing with cicadas, the scent of dust and dry grass clinging in the heat. 

She stepped out quietly, the screen door groaning as it shut behind her. Dean didn’t look up. He twisted the cap off the bottle again, lifted it to his mouth, and swallowed hard. 

She eased into the chair beside him. Neither spoke at first.

The silence stretched with the sound of cicadas, the thrum of crickets, the occasional clink of the bottle when Dean tipped it back.

Finally, his voice cut hoarse through the dark. “You know what the worst part is?”

She waited.

Dean rubbed at the bandage under his shirt, his knuckles brushing the damp patch where blood had seeped through. He lifted the bottle again, but his hand shook faintly.

“It’s not the angels. Not even the Devil. It’s that no matter what I do, people get hurt. Bobby’s in that bed because of me. Sammy’s Lucifer’s damn prom date. And me?” He let out a sharp, humorless huff.

“I’m Heaven’s little dress-up doll. Everybody’s got a claim. I don’t belong to me anymore.”

The whiskey smell burned sharp from his breath. His hand gripped the bottle’s neck like he wanted to snap it.

She reached across, laying her fingers lightly against his.

Her voice stayed even. “You belong to you. Always have.”

For a second he almost pulled away, but he didn’t. His hand stayed under hers, warm but rigid.

Her throat felt tight, but she managed to get the words out evenly. “You don’t get to let other people tell you who you are, Dean. You choose that. Same as you choose who you let close.”

That finally made him look at her. His brows drew in, green eyes shadowed, like he was trying to figure out if she was serious.

She held his gaze. “I’m here because I want to be. Not because of some end-of-the-world crap. Just because it’s you.”

Dean let out a rough laugh and dragged a hand down his face. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

Her mouth twitched. “Probably.”

He shook his head, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m terrible at this. People…caring about me. I don’t know what to do with it.”

His voice dropped lower. “Feels like I don’t deserve it.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “You don’t get to decide that. You’ve got me.”

For a long beat, he just stared at her. 

Then the bottle slipped from his hand and hit the boards with a dull thud.

He reached for her and pulled her in, rough but not careless, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. His breath came uneven, warm against her skin.

“Can’t stand the thought of losing you,” he muttered. “Not to angels. Not to demons. Not to anything.”

She wrapped her arms around him, holding on tight. “You won’t.”

He didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The salvage yard was quiet. Too quiet. The usual clatter of tools, the metallic groan of shifting junk, even the dogs, gone. The early light sat heavy over the rusting skeletons of cars, each one lined up like bodies left too long in the sun.

Inside the house, it was worse.

Bobby was at the kitchen table, his wheelchair pulled tight to the edge. A lore book lay open in front of him, the pages thick with notes and symbols, but his eyes weren’t on it.

He turned a page without looking, his hand working the motion out of habit, not purpose.

Dean leaned against the counter, arms crossed, boots planted. His stare fixed on Bobby, sharp, watchful, but beneath it was tension that hadn’t let up since they’d hauled Sam back here.

His jaw worked, the kind of tight clench that meant he wanted to say something and wasn’t going to.

Sam stood near the doorway, not entirely sure he belonged in the room at all. Shoulders hunched, hands fidgeting, eyes darting from Bobby to the floor.

She sat at the table across from Bobby, her mug untouched, coffee long cold. Her eyes flicked between the three of them, waiting for someone to break the silence.

When it finally came, Bobby’s voice was sandpaper.

“You should be out there. Not sittin’ here watchin’ an old cripple rot.”

Dean pushed off the counter, straightening.

His voice cut sharp. “You’re not a cripple. You’re Bobby Singer. Don’t start with that crap.”

Bobby’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t look up. “Can’t hunt. Can’t even walk to the damn porch. What good am I?”

She leaned forward. “Don’t talk like you’re dead weight. You’ve saved us more times than I can count. That doesn’t change.”

Bobby’s eyes lifted to hers, a flicker of softness there before it hardened again. “Appreciate the pep talk, sweetheart. But I ain’t what I was. And we all know why.”

The words hung.

Sam’s face flinched, throat working. “Bobby, I never meant—”

“I know.” Bobby cut him off, tired, not cruel. “Doesn’t make it hurt less.”

Dean’s eyes cut to Sam, sharp, then back to Bobby. “Alright. Enough.”

His voice was steel, final. “We’ve got bigger problems. World’s ending, remember? Lucifer’s topside. Ringin’ any bells?”

Silence slammed down again. The only sound was the clock on the wall, ticking too loud.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose before she heard anything.

“Dean.”

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, low and gravelly.

Dean’s head snapped up. His body stiffened. “Cas?”

Castiel appeared in the doorway, trench coat brushing the floor, face shadowed, eyes hollow with something darker than fatigue. The room dropped ten degrees with him in it.

Dean stepped forward, a strange blend of relief and irritation cutting across his face. “About damn time. You know your timing sucks, right?”

Cas didn’t blink. “I had to be cautious. Angels are watching me.”

Dean barked a short, humorless laugh. “Join the club. Heaven, Hell, the freakin’ Girl Scouts, everybody’s watching us.”

Cas’s eyes flicked briefly to her, then back to Dean. He stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Have you considered the offer?”

Dean’s jaw went hard. “You mean the part where I roll over and say yes to Michael? Yeah, still a no.”

Sam shifted at the doorway, guilt stamped plain on his face. “Dean—”

Dean didn’t look at him. “I’m not a vessel. Not for Michael. Not for anybody.”

Cas’s voice stayed flat, but his words carried weight. “Without Michael, Lucifer will win.”

“Don’t care. Find another option.”

Cas tilted his head, a crease forming between his brows. “That’s not how this works.”

Dean’s lip curled. “Then maybe the universe should’ve given me a damn manual.”

The tension held.

Bobby snatched up the phone as it began to ring, his voice rough. “Yeah? Rufus. Slow down. What...what’s happenin’?”

His face drained. He swallowed hard. “War zone. River Pass, Colorado. Demons everywhere.”

Dean was already reaching for his jacket. “Then let’s go.”

The drive into Colorado stretched long, a run of silent miles and wet asphalt.

No music, no chatter. The Impala’s hum filled the space like white noise.

She sat in the passenger seat, hand resting on her thigh, her gaze flicking between the empty highway and Dean’s profile. His jaw was clenched, the line of his knuckles tight on the wheel. He hadn’t spoken since Bobby’s call.

Sam sat in the back, folded into himself, his eyes fixed out the window.

The reflection in the glass made him look even paler, the shadows under his eyes deepening with every mile.

The closer they got, the worse it looked. The air grew heavier, sky pressing down, clouds thick like the weight of a storm that wouldn’t break. When they finally rolled into River Pass, silence met them.

Storefronts gaped empty, their windows cracked or blown out. Glass littered the sidewalks, catching the dull light. A stoplight dangled at the intersection, swinging gently though no wind touched it.

Dean slowed the car to a crawl. His eyes swept the street, sharp, hunting for movement. “Looks like a ghost town,” he muttered.

Sam leaned forward, voice low. “Or worse.”

Dean cut the engine dead center on Main. The quiet that followed pressed in too close, too heavy.

He shoved his door open. The sound echoed sharp. “Lock and load.”

The trunk groaned open. Guns, blades, salt. Each of them reached without hesitation. She strapped her knife sheath tight against her thigh, the weight familiar.

Dean handed Sam a shotgun, then grabbed one for himself, loading rounds with a snap. His eyes brushed hers briefly, before turning back to the street.

They moved in formation, Dean ahead, shotgun ready. She held her blade angled low, close at his left. Sam covered their rear. Boots scraped across broken glass, every step too loud in the emptiness.

A sign creaked in the wind above them. That was the only sound until movement broke at the edge of her vision.

“Left,” she hissed.

Dean already had his aim. The shadow bolted across a storefront, too fast. They followed, steps sharp, weapons tight, until it led them to a boarded-up church. Candlelight flickered through cracks.

Dean banged his fist on the wood. “Open up! Hunters!”

Silence stretched. Then a voice cut sharp from inside.

“Back off or I’ll put a hole through the door!”

Dean froze. Recognition hit hard. “Ellen?”

Bolts rattled. The door cracked open. Ellen Harvelle stood with a shotgun leveled, her eyes fierce, exhaustion stamped deep into her face. Relief flickered quick when she saw them, but the barrel didn’t drop right away.

“Dean Winchester,” she said flatly, then her gaze shifted, landing on Sam, then her.

Dean smirked faintly, easing his shotgun down. “Good to see you too.”

“Hell of a time for a reunion.” Ellen finally lowered the weapon. “Get in. Before you bring the whole damn town down on us.”

Inside, the air was thick. Wood, sweat, fear. Survivors filled the pews, men, women, a few kids. Pale faces, wild eyes. Some gripped makeshift weapons, others just shook, staring at the floor.

Her stomach twisted at the sight.

Ellen slammed the door behind them. She reloaded with steady hands. “Demons came fast. Took half the town before anyone knew what hit ‘em. We’ve been holed up since.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s Rufus?”

“Other side of town,” Ellen answered grimly. “Barricaded himself in a grocery store. Still breathing, last I heard. But it’s bad.”

Dean nodded once. “Then we go get him.”

They left the church with Ellen at point. Her shotgun never dipped, her steps sure even though fatigue pulled at her shoulders.

Dean matched her stride, keeping his own weapon angled toward the shadows. She stayed at his flank, blade loose in her hand. Sam kept scanning their backs, sweat already beading along his hairline.

The streets weren’t empty anymore. Shapes moved behind glass, too quick, too sharp. Faces flickered in broken windows, neighbors, shopkeepers, all with eyes too dark.

The first attack came fast. Two men burst from a doorway, snarls ripping through human throats. Dean’s shotgun roared. The salt round caught one in the chest, blowing him back into the storefront. The other lunged. She caught his arm with her blade, the steel biting through fabric and skin. Smoke curled black where the cut burned. He shrieked, stumbling back into Sam’s line.

Sam’s Latin cracked out rough, his voice breaking but steady enough to send the body convulsing to the pavement.

The air reeked of sulfur and blood.

Dean swung his shotgun back into place. “Welcome committee.”

More came.

Every block was another fight, men, women, even teenagers, all black-eyed, rushing them in waves. Salt rounds split the silence. Latin echoed off stone. Her blade cut through arms, necks, ribs, each strike sharp and unflinching.

Dean fought like a storm, every movement brutal and efficient.

By the time they reached the grocery store, their weapons were slick, clothes spattered. The front doors were chained from the inside. Dean kicked hard. The metal rattled.

“Rufus!” he barked.

No answer. Then a voice, ragged, panicked. “Stay back! Don’t you come in here!”

They forced the door.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed weakly. Cans and boxes were scattered across the floor. And Rufus Turner stood near the registers, wild-eyed, holding a knife to a woman’s throat.

“She’s one of ‘em,” he spat, eyes black with paranoia, not possession. “They all are.”

Dean froze, his shotgun raised but not steady. “Rufus. She’s not possessed.”

“Yes she is!” Rufus shouted. His hand shook, blade biting into the woman’s skin. “Look at her!”

The woman sobbed, hands clawing at his arm.

Her chest tightened. Something was wrong.

The paranoia spread like gas. Survivors inside turned on each other, screaming. One man swung a pipe at another’s head. A woman clutched her child tighter, eyes darting like cornered prey.

Sam shoved forward, hands raised. “Stop! None of you are possessed. It’s not real, listen to me!” His voice cracked, desperate. “It’s in your heads.”

No one listened.

Dean’s voice boomed, sharp enough to cut the chaos. “Enough!”

The word cracked through the room. Everyone froze, panting, weapons half-raised.

Dean’s eyes swept the crowd, steady, furious. “You think demons decided to possess the whole damn zip code? Use your brains.”

Her gaze caught a flicker through the glass, a polished cherry-red car, gleaming in the dust.

A man leaned against it, suit sharp, smile sharper. Too calm for the wreckage.

She nudged Dean, her voice low. “There.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He turned, shotgun steady, lip curling. “Figures.”

They stepped outside.

The man straightened, brushing an imaginary speck from his cuff.

His voice was smooth, casual. “Dean Winchester. Always a pleasure.”

Dean sneered. “War. Like, actual War. One of the Horsemen. Cute ride.”

War smirked, glancing at the car. “Thank you. It’s new.”

Dean’s grip tightened. “What the hell did you do?”

War’s smile widened. “Me? Nothing much. I turn the dial. Humans…you all do the rest. A whisper here, a suggestion there. You kill each other just fine.”

Her stomach turned. The illusions pressed harder, her vision blurring. Black eyes flashed where there were none. Screams echoed in her head. Her blade trembled in her grip.

Dean’s hand shot to her elbow, steadying her. His thumb pressed once against her wrist, solid.

Sam staggered, sweat dripping. “It’s not real,” he rasped. “It’s not real.”

Dean’s teeth grit. “Tell that to the gun in my face.”

War laughed, smooth and cruel. “See? I barely lift a finger. You all destroy yourselves.”

Dean lunged first.

He tackled War, fists slamming. His hand closed on the silver ring gleaming red against War’s hand. With a wrench, he ripped it free.

The world snapped.

The illusions shattered. No demons. No black eyes. Just people. Terrified, broken, pointing weapons at neighbors.

Silence dropped hard.

War straightened his jacket, smirking. “One down, three to go.” He vanished with the car, leaving blood in the dust.

The survivors collapsed into sobs. Rufus dropped his knife, muttering broken prayers. Ellen slumped against a wall, her shotgun loose across her knees.

Sam stood apart, hands bloodied, eyes hollow.

Dean’s voice cut sharp. “This is what happens when you let demons in your head.”

Her chest tightened. She shot him a warning look. “Dean.”

But he didn’t stop. His voice was steel. “He’s not ready. Can’t even trust himself.”

Sam flinched, eyes flicking up. “Then maybe I don’t belong here.”

Dean didn’t answer.

They stayed long enough to make sure the survivors could stand. Ellen barked orders, forcing them into some kind of order. Rufus kept muttering, his voice fractured, still shaken by the visions.

Dean stood back, shotgun slung over one shoulder. His eyes tracked every move Sam made.

She cleaned her blade with a torn strip of cloth, the metallic tang of blood thick in her nose. Her gaze flicked between them, between Ellen’s steady control and Dean’s restless silence, and Sam’s eyes stuck to the floor, shoulders curled inward.

When Ellen finally waved them off, Dean didn’t waste words. He just turned for the Impala. She followed. Sam trailed, heavy steps dragging on the pavement.

The drive out was silent for miles. No music, no chatter. Only the engine’s hum, steady as a heartbeat.

Dean’s hands gripped the wheel like it might slip away. His eyes never left the road.

Sam sat in the back, pressed to the window, reflection hollow in the glass. He hadn’t spoken since War vanished.

“You see what happened back there, Sam?”

Sam didn’t answer.

Dean’s eyes cut to the mirror. “I asked you a question.”

Sam’s throat worked. “Yeah. I saw.”

Dean’s laugh was humorless. “Good. Just makin’ sure. Because all I saw was a town torn apart, neighbors pointing guns at each other, and you standing there like you didn’t know which side you were on.”

Her stomach twisted. “Dean—”

He kept going. “You let Ruby inside your head. You let her twist you. And now what?”

Sam leaned forward, voice breaking. “What else do you want from me?”

Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel. “What do I want? I want my brother back. The guy who didn’t need demon blood to do his job. The guy who didn’t lie every damn step of the way.”

Sam’s eyes burned. “I’m trying—”

“Try harder,” Dean snapped, his voice booming through the car, rattling the windows.

The words hung sharp.

She forced her voice in, steady. “Enough.”

Dean’s head snapped toward her, but the fire dimmed just a fraction when their eyes met. His grip loosened slightly on the wheel.

She turned back to Sam. “You screwed up. Big. But you’re here. You’re still fighting. That has to count for something.”

Sam’s eyes glistened in the passing lights. “Does it? Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

Her throat tightened. “It can. If you make it.”

Dean shook his head. “You don’t just shake off being Lucifer’s number one draft pick.”

“No. But you don’t cut your brother loose either. Not when it gets hard.” Dean’s knuckles flexed, his jaw working, but he said nothing.

Sam’s voice was quiet. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t belong here.” Dean’s grip tightened again, his breath harsh through his nose. He didn’t answer.

She reached across the seat, laying her hand lightly on his arm. His body stilled under her touch, words caught in his throat.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Not now. Don’t push him further when he’s already breaking.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to her, softer for a breath. He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.

Sam spoke again, voice low. “I thought I was saving people. I thought if I had the power, I could stop something for once. But all I did was break it worse.”

“You did. And I don’t know if we can fix it this time.”

Sam’s breath stuttered.

“But you’re still my brother. Doesn’t mean I trust you. Doesn’t mean we’re good. But you’re blood. That’s the only reason you’re still in this car.”

Sam nodded faintly, his voice hollow. “That’s more than I deserve.”

“No argument there,” Dean muttered.

Dean’s arm shifted under her hand, leaning just slightly into the touch. 

The highway stretched on, blacktop slick under the wheels. No one spoke again. 

Sam’s eyes stayed fixed on the glass, his reflection ghosted in the window. Dean’s grip stayed locked, the wheel pulling tight under his hands.

She kept her hand on his arm until the sky began to pale, dawn spilling thin light across the horizon.

The Impala hummed on, steady as always, carrying them forward whether they wanted to go or not.

The road didn’t end.

Only the silence.

Chapter Text

The motel room was quiet except for the buzz of the neon outside. The hum slipped through the thin curtains, red light cutting across the walls in stripes. The fridge clicked on and off in the corner, too loud in the silence.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door, elbows on his knees, his shoulders tense and rounded forward like he couldn’t shake the weight off them. His boots dug into the carpet, planted hard, every muscle pulled tight.

She sat across from him on the bed, knees pulled up close, her hands pressed against the blanket as if bracing herself. Sam had the chair at the small table, his long frame hunched, his head bent toward the floor.

His laptop was closed, papers stacked but untouched. Nobody was pretending to work anymore.

It was Dean who broke the silence first. “We should be hunting. Not sitting in here. Not pretending like any of this is normal.”

Sam lifted his head slowly. His voice was hoarse from exhaustion. “And where do you want to start, Dean? You want to take a swing at Lucifer with rock salt? That the plan?”

Dean shot him a look. “Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not—” Sam sat forward suddenly, his hands gripping his knees hard enough that the knuckles showed white. “I’m telling you the truth. You think I don’t want to do something? I can’t even breathe without remembering what I did back there.”

For the past day they'd been at each other's throats, and every argument was the same.

Her chest tightened at the crack in his voice. She opened her mouth, but Dean cut across before she could speak.

“Yeah, well, remembering doesn’t change the fact you did it.” Dean’s tone wasn’t shouting, but it hit like it was. “You pulled the trigger, Sammy. You broke the damn seal. And now Lucifer’s topside.”

Sam’s head snapped up. His face flushed hot with frustration. “I made the call, yeah. And you’ve been looking at me like I’m poison ever since.”

Dean pushed to his feet, pacing once across the short strip of carpet, then back.

He jabbed a hand toward Sam. “Because you are! You listened to Ruby. You followed her around like she knew better than me, better than any of us. And look where that got us.”

Sam stood up too, chest heaving. “You think I trusted her more than you? You think I wanted to?” His throat worked, the words almost breaking.

“I was drowning, Dean. And every time I reached out, you pushed me under.”

Dean’s eyes went wide, fury flashing bright. “Bullshit.” He stepped closer, almost nose to nose now.

“I was there every damn time, pulling your ass out of the fire. You wanted Ruby because she gave you the fix you thought you needed. Don’t you dare blame me for that.”

Her voice cut in, sharp. “Stop it. Both of you.”

Neither moved. Their eyes were locked, too far gone to hear her.

Sam’s hands clenched at his sides. “You never believed in me. Not once. You still don’t.”

Dean’s laugh was short, jagged. “You’re damn right I don’t. You’re a walking time bomb, Sam, and you don’t even see it.”

Sam’s chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes glassy now. “Then maybe I shouldn’t be here.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Dean’s jaw locked, his face twisting like he wanted to take the words back but couldn’t. His voice came rough. “If that’s how you feel, then go.”

Sam stared at him for a long beat, then looked at her. His face broke at the sight of her tears threatening, his mouth parting like he wanted to say something, but nothing came. 

He grabbed his jacket off the chair, shoved it on, and headed for the door.

“Sam, wait,” she said, her voice sharp with panic.

He froze at the handle, back to them. His shoulders shook once, barely. “I can’t. I'm sorry.”

The door opened, slammed shut behind him.

The echo carried through the thin walls until it faded into nothing.

Dean stood rigid in the middle of the room, fists tight, breathing hard like he’d just gone a round in the ring.

She sat down hard on the bed, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook despite how hard she tried to keep them steady.

Dean dragged a hand down his face, his other hand pressed against the wall like it was the only thing holding him up. He looked at her finally, his eyes red-rimmed and burning.

“Dammit,” he muttered, voice angry and wrecked all at once.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. 

Dean’s fists unclenched and tightened again at his sides. He dragged in a breath, but before he could let it go, the air shifted. The temperature dropped. The buzz of the neon outside cut sharper against the windowpane.

He reacted instantly. One step forward, one arm sweeping her back. His palm pressed flat to her stomach, his body a barrier between her and the sudden pressure filling the room.

She could feel the heat radiating off him, his stance rigid, braced for a fight.

“Cas?” His voice was clipped, sharp, ready for the angel to appear.

But it wasn’t Castiel.

The figure in the doorway wasn’t trench coat and shadows, it was Zachariah, suit neat and spotless, expression set in that smug half-smile that had made her skin crawl.

“Dean,” Zachariah said smoothly, voice dripping with condescension. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s jaw flexed hard enough that she could see the muscle twitch in his cheek. His arm tightened against her as he squared his shoulders, his voice flat.

“Figures. What is it this time? Another pep talk about how I should bend over and let Michael use me like a rental car?”

Zachariah’s smile widened a fraction, the kind that never touched his eyes. “Not quite. You’re not much for listening, so I thought…maybe a demonstration.”

Dean’s lip curled. “Yeah? You got a slideshow for me, Zach?” His voice was hard, but the grip he still had on her was telling. His fingers had pressed firmer against her stomach.

Zachariah’s expression didn’t falter. He stepped into the room, his polished shoes silent against the thin carpet.

“You’ve got a remarkable talent for mockery, Dean. But it’s wasted here. You think you can outrun what’s coming? You think you can argue your way out of destiny?” His gaze flicked toward her then, sharp enough to raise the hair on her arms. “You’re not the only one who’ll suffer for your stubbornness.”

Dean took a half-step forward, shielding her fully now, his voice dropping low. “Leave her out of this.”

Zachariah’s brows lifted, feigning innocence. “Oh, Dean. You really don’t get it, do you? Everyone’s in this. Everyone. Your brother, her, Bobby…there’s no safe distance.”

Dean spat the words like venom. “You’re not here to talk. You’re here to screw with me.”

Zachariah’s smile turned cold. “To show you.”

Before Dean could move again, before she could pull in another breath, the floor tilted. The light in the room warped, buzzing fluorescent tubes bending into streaks of white. Her knees buckled, her hand clutching at Dean’s sleeve instinctively.

His other arm hooked around her waist on instinct, but even he couldn’t hold them steady.

And then everything went black.

Dean came to with the taste of iron in his mouth and the bite of gravel in his palms. His head throbbed like he’d been slammed into the hood of a car. Again.

The sky above him was the color of ash, no sun, no stars, just a suffocating gray stretching endless in every direction. He groaned, pushing himself upright, but the first thing his eyes landed on wasn’t the broken skyline.

It was her.

She lay a few feet away, hair splayed across the cracked asphalt, chest rising and falling too slow. His heart dropped into his gut.

“Hey,” he rasped, dragging himself to her. His hands slid under her arms, pulling her upright until she was pressed against his chest. “C’mon, sweetheart. Up you go.”

Her lashes fluttered, dazed. “Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice was sharp, but his hand cupped the back of her head, checking for blood, anything. She leaned into his touch, and some of the pressure in his chest eased.

The street around them was unrecognizable. Burned-out cars littered the road, their glass blown out, steel frames eaten with rust. Windows in the buildings on either side were smashed, walls spray-painted with warnings.

CROATOAN ZONE. STAY OUT.

The air smelled acrid, chemical, tinged with copper.

Dean stood, hauling her up with him, his arm firm around her shoulders. He scanned the street, every muscle coiled.

“Where are we?” she whispered.

Dean’s jaw flexed. “Not where.” He pulled in a sharp breath. “When.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh God…”

“Yeah.” His grip tightened on her, pulling her in closer. “Welcome to five years later.”

They walked for what felt like hours, weaving through streets that looked more like war zones. Every corner reeked of smoke, every shadow threatened teeth. Twice they stumbled across bodies piled like trash, their skin blistered, veins black with infection.

Dean pulled her close each time, tucking her against his side so she didn’t have to see all of it.

By the time night fell, the city burned on the horizon, flames licking the sky.

A rusted sign creaked in the wind. KANSAS CITY.

Dean swore under his breath.

“Croatoan, like the virus? I remember reading about it in one of my classes.” she whispered.

“Spread like wildfire,” Dean muttered, his hand tightening on her arm. His eyes scanned the horizon. “This ain’t just a bad dream, sweetheart. This is the end of the line.”

They didn’t stop until the sound of boots and shouted orders cut through the silence. A barricade of sandbags stretched across the street ahead, soldiers pacing with rifles slung low. Torches flickered, casting the shadows of their movements onto the ruined walls.

Before she could process what was happening, one of the soldiers spotted them. Guns came up.

“Don’t move!”

Dean raised his hands, his jaw set, his stance wide to keep her hidden behind his frame. “Easy there, G.I. Joe. Just a couple of civilians here.”

The soldier frowned, stepping closer. His eyes raked over Dean, then widened.

“…You gotta be kidding me.”

They were ushered past the barricade and into what passed for civilization.

The camp was a gutted high school, chain-link fences coiled in barbed wire around the perimeter. Soldiers moved like shadows through the courtyard. Inside, classrooms had been gutted and replaced with cots. The gym stank of sweat, gun oil, and fear.

Dean’s hand stayed on her back the entire time, his body taut and ready to snap.

And then he saw him.

Or rather, himself.

Future Dean leaned over a map spread across a table in what had once been the principal’s office. His hair was longer, stubble grown out into a semi-beard, jaw harder, clothes military-issue. A pistol sat on the desk, a machete strapped to his back like it lived there.

Dean froze in the doorway, the sight knocking the breath out of him.

Future Dean looked up. His face didn’t move, didn’t flicker with recognition. His eyes, green like Dean’s, were flat. Cold.

Until they landed on her.

And then everything shattered.

The chair scraped back violently as future Dean crossed the room in a blur.

She flinched at the sudden movement, but before she could step back he was on her. His hands caught her shoulders, rough and urgent, then dragged her in until her chest hit his.

His lips crashed against hers in a hard, uneven kiss. It was desperate, rough, like he needed proof she was real.

She froze, stunned. Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, fingers twitching but never finding him. The shock locked her in place, every nerve firing but refusing to move.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath tearing ragged from his chest. His voice came low, broken. “I thought you were gone.”

Present Dean stood stunned, at a loss for words.

Future Dean ignored him, his entire frame trembling as he held her. When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered on her face, thumb brushing her cheek like he was memorizing her.

His voice broke again. “God, baby. I...I missed you.”

Present Dean stepped forward fast, grabbing future Dean’s wrist and yanking him away from her. “Alright, that’s enough.” His voice was low. “Back off.”

The two Deans stared at each other, mirror images warped by time.

She stayed rooted to the spot, her chest tight, pulse hammering against her ribs. The room felt crowded, air too thin, every sound blurred.

When present Dean started talking, his voice low and steady as he laid out their situation to the older version of himself, she felt the walls closing in.

Their words tangled into noise she couldn’t focus on. Her legs carried her before she’d fully decided to move, pushing her toward the door and out into the courtyard.

That’s when she saw him.

Castiel.

Or…what was left of him.

He leaned against the wall near the gate, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his posture loose in a way she’d never seen before. His trench coat was gone, replaced by a faded shirt and jeans. His eyes were rimmed red, unfocused, as though he hadn’t slept in years.

When his gaze lifted and landed on her, the cigarette dropped from his lips.

“You’re…” His voice broke, and for a second he looked like a man seeing a ghost.

His hands shook at his sides. “You’re here.”

“Cas,” she whispered, stepping toward him.

He laughed, short and broken, shaking his head. “No. No, this isn’t…you died. You died, and I—” His chest heaved, eyes glassy.

Her throat tightened.

Before she could speak, he staggered forward and pulled her into his arms.

His embrace was desperate, clinging, his body trembling against hers. She felt the hot press of his breath against her shoulder, the way his fingers curled into her back like he was afraid she’d vanish.

Her arms wrapped around him without thought, holding him steady.

At the edge of the yard, present Dean stood in the shadows, fists locked at his sides, eyes burning with something that wasn’t jealousy. It was fear.

By the time she’d steadied herself enough to rejoin them, both Deans were waiting near the fire in the gutted gym, its glow painting the cracked walls in restless light.

Future Dean’s voice was blunt, stripped down to bone. “Sam said yes.” He didn’t look at them when he said it. His eyes stayed on the fire, flames carving hard shadows across his face.

She let out a breath. “No. He wouldn’t. He...he couldn’t.”

Future Dean’s jaw flexed, the muscle jumping as he forced the words out. “He thought he could win. Thought he could choke down the devil and keep driving the bus. Said it was the only way. But Lucifer doesn’t play passenger.”

Present Dean snapped, voice rough, disbelieving. “Bullshit. Sammy’s not that stupid.”

Future Dean turned then, his eyes dead, hollowed out by years. “You think I don’t wish that was true? He lasted a week, maybe. Then he basically killed Cas. And me…”

His gaze cut to present Dean. “He gutted me too. Broke everything we had left.”

The fire popped, sharp, and the silence that followed chewed the air thin.

Her stomach twisted. “And me?” 

Future Dean’s eyes locked on hers, hard and unblinking. “You tried to stop him. You always did. Lucifer liked that. He—”

His mouth tightened, the words catching like glass in his throat. For a second he looked like he might not say it at all. 

“He…he wanted to see what would snap first.” He dragged in a breath, clenched his jaw hard, tried again.

“So he...he took you. Used you. And then he killed you.” His eyes flickered, wet in the firelight, but his tone stayed flat, brutal. “And Sam…Sam was smiling when he did it.”

The words landed like knives. The room went still, except for the crackle of burning wood.

Present Dean’s hand clamped down on hers so hard it hurt, his body rigid, eyes burning at his older self. “He wouldn't.” His voice cracked into a snarl.

Future Dean didn’t flinch. “I watched it happen. You think I want those pictures stuck in my head for the rest of my life? I’d carve ‘em out with a spoon if I could.”

His stare didn’t break, drilling into both of them. “But that’s the truth. Sam’s not your brother in that timeline. He’s a meat suit for the devil. And you—”

He jerked his chin at present Dean. “You weren’t strong enough to stop him.”

Her breath shook, but she forced her chin up, forcing steel into her voice even though her chest felt caved in. “Then that’s not Sam. Not mine. Not really.”

Future Dean’s face twisted in something like pity, but colder. “You say that now.”

Present Dean’s grip on her hand tightened, his chest heaving.

The camp quieted eventually, soldiers drifting into uneasy sleep. But present Dean stayed awake, his shotgun across his lap, sitting on the crumbling steps of the church outside.

She found him there, staring at the dark horizon like it owed him answers.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked softly.

He scoffed, humorless. “Yeah, because this is the kind of place you just curl up and nap.”

She sat beside him, close enough their knees brushed. The silence stretched.

Finally, Dean muttered, “I just saw myself. Cold. Empty. Like everything I hate about me cranked up to eleven. And I saw what happens if I screw this up. If I let Sammy go too far. If I let you—” He broke off, his jaw flexing hard.

Her hand slid over his, fingers threading through. He gripped back instantly, desperate.

“I won't let this happen,” he whispered.

Before she could answer, he cupped her face with a trembling hand and kissed her.

She kissed him back, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His arms wrapped around her, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him steady in this crazy world.

When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers, breath ragged. “I don't care what happens to me. As long as I have you. I want...I need you.”

Her chest ached, but she whispered back, steady. “Always.”

The camp had gone quiet except for the occasional crack of a gunshot somewhere in the ruins. Fires burned low in barrels, their smoke curling toward the ash-colored sky.

She and Dean lingered near the steps of the gutted church, the taste of their kiss still hanging between them. He hadn’t let go of her hand, his thumb tracing over her knuckles like he couldn’t stop touching her if he tried.

And that was when future Dean found them.

He looked like hell in the flickering firelight, shadows carved deep into his face, the scar at his jaw catching the glow. His eyes didn’t soften when they landed on Dean. They didn’t harden, either. They were flat, the eyes of a man who had seen too much and lost more.

“You got a minute?” Future Dean’s voice was low, gravel rough. “Alone.”

Present Dean’s jaw tightened. He gave her hand one last squeeze before letting go. She hesitated, her chest aching with the sudden absence of his warmth.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean muttered to her, though his eyes didn’t quite sell it.

She watched them step aside, pacing into the shadows near the barricade. The night carried their voices back to her in fragments.

Future Dean didn’t waste time. “She’s the balance. You realize that, right?”

Present Dean frowned, his voice sharp. “The hell are you talking about?”

“She matters. Just as much as you and Sam. You’re Michael’s vessel, Sam’s Lucifer’s. She’s something else. Someone else. The angels and demons don’t have her on their radar yet, not really, but they will.” Future Dean’s eyes flicked toward her, distant.

“And when they do, they’ll come for her.”

Dean’s chest tightened. “Balance of what?”

Future Dean stepped closer, his voice jagged with urgency. “Supposedly she's the one who'll make the final choice. She says yes to whoever wants her? It decides which way the scale falls. Could be Heaven. Could be Hell. Could be worse. I never figured out who. But I know this—” His voice cracked.

“I couldn’t save her. I let her die. And everything after…it just broke.”

“You telling me all this just to scare me off?”

Future Dean’s hand gripped his shoulder, hard, his eyes burning now with something desperate.

“I’m telling you not to be me. Don’t let her slip through your fingers. Don’t put her on the altar for the angels, and don’t let her bleed out for your brother’s mistakes. Protect her. No matter what.”

Dean swallowed hard, his throat working. "I already made that promise years ago,” he muttered.

Future Dean’s gaze softened for the first time all night. “Then don’t break it.”

The next morning, the camp hummed with nervous energy. Soldiers checked weapons, loading rounds with mechanical precision.

She and Dean followed future Dean into the ruined gymnasium, where a half-dozen men bent over maps and stockpiles of weapons.

Future Dean jabbed a finger against the map. “The Croats are nesting near the old pharmaceutical plant. That’s where Lucifer’s hold is strongest.”

Present Dean leaned on the table, eyebrows raised. “You’re seriously planning a suicide mission with half a dozen grunts and some rusty machetes? What, no big finale speech? No ‘this is how we take back America’?”

Future Dean didn’t flinch. “You’d understand if you’d been here long enough. It’s not about taking back anything. It’s about hitting Lucifer where it hurts before he destroys what little’s left.”

She stepped forward, her voice sharp. “And your grand plan is to use Sam as bait?”

Future Dean’s gaze flicked to her, unreadable. “Lucifer’s already inside him. That ship sailed a long time ago.”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes.

The garden had once been lush, now it was a graveyard of twisted vines and broken statues, the moonlight spilling cold across cracked marble. Lucifer’s nest.

The soldiers fanned out, blades ready. Future Dean led the charge, his face carved from stone.

Present Dean stayed close to her side, his hand ghosting at her back, steadying every time her boots scraped against uneven stone.

The Croats came fast. Shadows breaking from the trees, snarling, their faces twisted and veined black. The air filled with gunfire and the wet crunch of machetes hitting bone.

Dean's shotgun sounded, the blast lighting his face in flashes of fire.

She ducked low, blade in hand, slashing at the Croat that lunged too close. Blood sprayed across the marble, hot and metallic.

The garden went still.

The Croats melted into the shadows, leaving behind only silence and the echo of dripping blood.

And then he appeared.

Sam...or what was left of him.

His body was the same, but the way he carried himself was wrong. Too calm. Too steady. Peaceful.

His eyes glowed faint in the moonlight, the smile on his lips soft and terrifying.

Lucifer.

“Dean.” The voice was Sam’s. “You brought her.”

Her chest tightened, breath caught like a hook in her throat.

Dean moved in fast, shotgun leveled, eyes locked on the thing wearing his brother’s face. “Stay the hell away from her.”

Lucifer’s head tilted, his gaze dragging over her slowly, like he was memorizing every inch. Sam's mouth curved, but the expression behind it didn’t belong to him.

“Incredible,” he murmured. “You kept her alive this long. In my world, I didn’t bother. I broke her early.”

The blood in her ears roared, every word slicing through her. Dean’s finger curled tighter on the trigger. “You’re not Sam.”

Lucifer’s smile sharpened. “Oh, but I am. His skin. His voice. His hands.” He held them out, flexing them like he was appreciating the shape.

His eyes landed back on her. “These hands ruined you.”

Her pulse rattled in her throat. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Lucifer’s tone didn’t waver. “You begged. You cried. You told me to stop. I didn’t. I didn't even stop when you screamed, and then I killed you.”

He smiled thinly, almost clinical. “And Sam was smiling when I did it.”

Dean’s voice scraped out, a snarl. “Go to hell.”

Lucifer didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on her, his voice dropping, smooth and cruel.

“You carried, you know. My child. Sam’s child. Ours. I made sure of it. And when I tortured you, when I kept at it day after day, the baby couldn’t take it.” His lip curled faintly. “Pathetic little thing. Couldn’t even survive long enough for me to see it. My son.”

Her knees threatened to give. The floor felt unstable, like it was caving beneath her.

Lucifer leaned forward slightly, Sam’s face inches from the firelight, his voice aimed only at her.

“The best part? The moment you realized you couldn’t protect it. That’s when you broke. Not when I had you on the floor, not when you begged, when you felt it die. That’s when I watched the fight leave your eyes.”

Her vision blurred, throat tight. Shock pinned her still.

Dean’s grip on the shotgun shook, his breath tearing ragged through his chest. He said nothing. Not a word.

His silence was violence, all the rage and grief locked in his eyes, burning at the man who wasn’t his brother anymore.

Lucifer’s smile widened. “Oh, Dean. You still don’t see it, do you? She’s the balance. She’s the one thing that could change the ending. Heaven, Hell…neither side knows what she’ll choose yet. That’s why they’re all so desperate.”

Her heart hammered.

Dean’s jaw flexed, his voice a growl. “She’s not saying yes to anybody.”

Lucifer only tilted his head.

“We’ll see.”

It ended in firelight. A flash, a crack, the world tearing apart.

They were in the motel room again. The neon buzz bled faint through the curtains, the hum of the fridge filling the silence like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

She was shaking, her chest hitching, the tears coming hot and sudden down her cheeks. The sound of Lucifer’s voice, Sam’s voice, was still there, echoing, replaying every filthy word until her ribs hurt from holding herself together.

Dean didn’t let her go. His arms were locked around her, his face pressed hard against her hair. He kissed her temple once, twice, like if he kept his lips on her he could erase it.

Her fingers twisted in his shirt, knuckles white while her body trembled.

A rustle of air broke the fragile silence. The shift was sharp, invasive.

Dean stiffened immediately. His hand slid to the back of her head, pressing her against his chest as he turned.

“Cas?” he called, voice already edged with warning.

It wasn’t Castiel.

Zachariah stood in the middle of the room. He spread his hands, condescending warmth dripping from every syllable.

“Well,” he drawled, “that was illuminating, wasn’t it?”

Dean’s jaw clenched. His hand curled tighter at her waist. “You son of a bitch.”

“Now, now.” Zachariah’s voice was smooth, almost playful. “Temper, temper. You think I enjoyed showing you that little highlight reel? Not exactly my idea of fun either. But you needed to see it.”

Dean moved, putting her behind him. His shoulders squared, rage sparking hot in his eyes. “We didn’t need a goddamn horror show starring my brother possessed by Satan. What the hell was the point?”

Zachariah stepped closer, ignoring Dean’s growl like it was nothing.

“The point, Dean, is that this is where it’s headed. Your brother says yes, Lucifer walks the earth, and everything burns. That’s not speculation, it’s inevitability.”

His smile sharpened. “Unless, of course, you play your part.”

Dean’s fists flexed. “You mean saying yes to Michael.”

“Exactly.” Zachariah’s tone was light, patronizing. “You see now, don’t you? Without Michael, Lucifer wins. And believe me, he’s got…creative plans for both of you. What you saw tonight was merciful compared to the reality waiting for you.”

She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her throat closed on the words.

All she could manage was a broken sound, her hand clutching the back of Dean’s flannel like it was the only solid thing left in the room.

Zachariah’s gaze flicked to her, sharp and dismissive, then back to Dean. “You think you can fight this war your way, but you can’t. You needed the lesson. You needed the fear. Consider this a wake-up call.”

Dean’s teeth grit, his voice a rasp. “You call that a wake-up call? You put her through that? You made her see—”

Zachariah cut him off with a shrug. “Spare me the righteous outrage. She’s alive. For now. That’s more than I can say in most timelines.”

Dean’s fury spiked. He took a step forward, only her grip on his arm stopping him.

Zachariah smirked, satisfied. “Think on it, Dean. You can keep fighting, keep bleeding, keep watching everyone you love torn apart. Or you can stop it before it starts. You know the answer. Deep down, you’ve always known.”

And with that, the air shifted again. He was gone.

The room sagged into silence, heavy, suffocating.

Dean’s chest heaved, his fists trembling at his sides. He turned back to her, his expression cracking at the sight of her tears.

He reached out, his hand cupping her face, rough but steady.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, voice breaking. “Don’t listen to a damn word he said. I’ve got you.”

The worst part was that Lucifer’s words had sounded like Sam’s.

Was demon blood really all it took to confuse the two?

Chapter Text

She sat on the edge of the mattress, phone clutched in both hands. Her thumb hovered over the call button longer than she’d admit. She hated begging. Hated feeling like she was twisting someone’s arm.

But the silence since Sam had walked out was worse than swallowing her pride.

Dean was stretched out on the other bed, boots still on, staring up at the water-stained ceiling with a jaw so tight she swore she could hear his molars grind. He hadn’t said much since they got back. Just poured whiskey, lit up the occasional grumble, and kept his distance from the phone in her hand like it might burn him.

Finally, she hit “dial.”

The ring dragged. Once. Twice. Then the line clicked alive.

“Hello?” Sam’s voice was low, guarded.

Her throat closed for a beat. Then she forced the words out. “Sam. It’s me.”

A pause, heavy with static. “…How’s Dean?”

She swallowed, fingers pressing into the cheap plastic of the phone. “Angry. But he’s here. We both are. And we need you back.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

She glanced at Dean. His head turned sharply, green eyes pinning her.

“Sam,” she pressed, voice steady, “you can’t do this alone. I don’t care what you think you’re protecting us from, you’re not protecting anyone by running.”

On the line, Sam’s breath hitched faintly. “You didn’t see—” He cut himself off. “I make things worse.”

Dean sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. His boots hit the carpet heavy.

“Then let us deal with worse together,” she said firmly. “That’s what we do. Always.”

Silence stretched again. “…Where are you?”

Dean scrubbed both hands down his face, muttering under his breath, but when she held his gaze, his shoulders dropped just a fraction.

The door opened twenty minutes later.

Sam filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and uncertain. His eyes swept the room, Dean first, then her. He looked wrecked. Like he hadn’t slept since he left.

“Sam,” she breathed. Relief and worry tangled in her chest.

Dean stood instantly, the tension in him wound like barbed wire. “You decided to show.”

Sam’s gaze flicked to her. “You called.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he bit back whatever sharp words wanted out. She exhaled quietly in relief.

Sam stepped farther inside, closing the door behind him. For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the hum of the fridge and the buzz of the neon sign outside.

Finally, Sam’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry,” he spoke. “For everything.”

She moved first, crossing the space and pulling him into a hug. His arms wrapped around her hard, like he didn’t trust she was real. His breath shuddered against her shoulder.

Dean’s eyes burned into the back of Sam’s head, his fists tight at his sides.

When she pulled back, Sam’s face was lined with exhaustion, guilt plain in his eyes.

He glanced at Dean, bracing. “If you want me gone again, just say it.”

Dean’s voice was rough, clipped. “I want you useful. So sit down, shut up, and maybe we’ll see.”

Sam exhaled shakily, but he obeyed.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed now, unlacing his boots with jerky pulls, while Sam leaned against the wall, arms folded like he was bracing for another round.

She wanted to say something, anything, to cut the silence before it swallowed them all again.

Her gaze drifted past the open curtains, catching on the glow of the vending machines outside. Between the soda and snack dispensers sat a toy capsule machine, its plastic dome scuffed and cloudy, colors of cheap trinkets glinting under the buzzing neon light.

“Alright,” she said suddenly, rising to her feet. “Who’s man enough to win me the world’s dumbest toy?”

Dean’s head snapped up, suspicion narrowing his eyes. “What kind of dumb toy we talkin’ about?”

She grinned, already digging in her pocket for change. “Only one way to find out.”

The capsule clattered as she fed in the coins and twisted the knob. With a thunk, a little plastic ball rolled into the tray. She popped it open, revealing a neon-green sticky hand.

Dean’s eyes lit up. “Gimme.”

“Uh-uh.” She snapped it onto her palm, the thing smacking the wall with a loud slap. “Winner’s rights.”

Dean took a step closer, hand outstretched. “You’re not even using it right. Hand it over before you hurt yourself.”

“Before I hurt myself?” She flicked the hand again, and it bounced off his boot, leaving a faint smudge. 

Dean scoffed and lunged for the machine. He jammed a quarter in so hard the whole thing rattled. Another capsule thunked down. He cracked it open, and scowled. “A…plastic dinosaur?”

Sam’s brow arched. “Triceratops. Classic.”

Dean held it up between two fingers. “Yeah, well, it ain’t a sticky hand.”

Sam had drifted over, curiosity finally tugging him away from his brooding. “You guys are ridiculous.” But he was already fishing change from his pocket. He dropped it in with a sigh and twisted.

The capsule popped out, and when he opened it, both Dean and she groaned at the same time.

A miniature slingshot. Perfectly intact, with a couple of paper pellets already packed inside.

Dean pointed an accusing finger. “No. No way. You weren’t even trying.”

Sam smirked faintly, the first real smirk she’d seen on him in days. He pulled the band back and snapped a pellet at Dean’s shoulder.

Dean flinched, scowling. “Son of a—” He grabbed his dinosaur and hurled it weakly across the room. It bounced pathetically off the bedframe.

She leaned against the dresser, sticky hand dangling from her fingers, laughter bubbling up. “Face it, Winchester. Sam’s the reigning champ of motel arcade toys.”

Dean shot her a betrayed look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Hey,” she said, flicking the sticky hand so it clung to the TV screen. “I never back a loser.”

Sam chuckled under his breath, loading another pellet into the slingshot. Dean groaned and collapsed back onto the bed, muttering about how the universe hated him.

The next morning, the diner coffee tasted like burnt tar. Dean didn’t care. He flipped the newspaper flat on the table, jabbing a finger at the page.

“Guy’s face freezes mid-sneeze. Girl coughs up needles. Kid zaps his buddy with a joy buzzer...fried him like a toaster strudel.”

She leaned over, eyes narrowing on the column inches. “All in the same town?”

“Lincoln, Nebraska.” Dean drained his mug, slapped it down. “Sounds like a freakin’ joke book, except with corpses.”

Sam frowned. “Trickster?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t know, this feels off. Trickster’s got a sense of humor. This is just ugly.”

Her fingers traced the headline. “What if it isn’t a trickster? What if it’s someone’s belief making it real?”

Dean looked at her, brow cocked. “Like a kid who thinks gum stays in your stomach for seven years and boom, kid’s in the ER?”

She nodded.

Sam leaned forward. “That would explain the randomness. Urban legends made literal.”

The town looked normal. Too normal.

Sprinklers arced across lawns, hissing in steady rhythm, the spray catching light in the late afternoon sun. A group of kids pedaled their bikes in a slow loop around the cul-de-sac.

Dean rolled the Impala to a crawl, eyes scanning the houses, knuckles tightening on the wheel. He didn’t like it when small towns looked postcard-perfect. It always meant something ugly was waiting underneath.

“Alright,” he muttered, leaning forward a fraction. “Sprinklers are on, lawns are mowed, bikes are shiny, must be the end of times.”

Beside him, she shifted in her seat, eyes narrowing as she watched one of the kids ride by.

He pulled the car to the curb in front of a hardware store, its “Open” sign buzzing faintly in the window. 

They sat for a beat, all three of them staring out at the street. 

Her hand brushed the door handle, steadying herself before she pushed it open. The heat hit immediately, the air sticky and heavy with the smell of freshly cut grass and damp concrete.

Dean circled to the trunk, popping it open with the familiar groan of hinges. The sight of the weapons, shotguns, pistols, blades lined up, felt out of place against the cheerful painted shops. She strapped her blade across her back, adjusted the weight until it sat right against her shoulder. Dean loaded his shotgun with practiced efficiency, the shells clicking into place with a rhythm she knew by heart.

Sam took a pistol but lingered, his movements slower, distracted. His eyes kept flicking toward the street, his frown deepening with every glance at the kids riding past.

“They don’t look right,” he said finally.

Dean snapped the trunk shut, the sound making two of the kids glance over at once. Their heads turned in perfect unison. Their eyes lingered a second too long before they went back to pedaling.

Dean’s hand flexed against the shotgun. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s comforting.”

They moved down the street in a loose line, Dean a step ahead, her to his left, and Sam bringing up the rear, scanning the windows and rooftops like he expected something to drop out of the sky.

Dean’s voice was low. “Keep sharp. Feels like this whole damn town’s watching us.”

She didn’t disagree. The sensation of eyes pressed at her back, crawling up her skin. But every window they passed was empty. Curtains hung perfectly straight, blinds tilted at identical angles. Not a single face peered out.

The first house belonged to the boy whose joy buzzer prank ended in electrocution. His mother answered the door, face pale, hands wringing the dish towel she still held.

Dean did most of the talking, his badge flashing FBI. He asked sharp, direct questions, where the buzzer came from, if her son had ever talked about strange things happening before. She answered quick, nervous, her voice cracking as she swore her boy never meant to hurt anyone.

The boy sat on the couch, head ducked, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. His eyes flicked up once, locking on hers. Wide. Scared. She crouched near him, softening her tone.

“You didn’t want that to happen, did you?”

He shook his head so fast it looked painful. “It just…it just worked too good. I didn’t think—” His voice cracked.

Dean watched from the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed but not unkind. When the kid’s mom ushered them out, Dean muttered under his breath, “Not a trickster. Too small. Too sloppy.”

Sam frowned. “Not sloppy if it’s not on purpose.”

She glanced at him. “Then what’s doing it?”

Dean locked the Impala, scanning the street again. “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

The man who woke up glued to his bed after chewing gum. The girl whose teeth had been replaced by candy. A dog that barked until its jaw snapped. The pattern was clear. Childish, almost cartoonish ideas of what should happen, but real, violent, and irreversible.

By the time they spread the case files across the motel table, Sam’s expression was grim. “These aren’t pranks. It’s wish-fulfillment. Someone thinks it, it happens.”

Dean leaned over the table, palms braced, shoulders tight. “So we’re dealing with…what? Some kind of wannabe God?”

Sam shook his head. “Not God. Not even close. But powerful.” His voice dropped. “And young.”

She looked between them, the conclusion heavy before it was spoken. “A kid.”

Dean sat back, exhaling hard, rubbing a hand down his face. “Great. So our big bad is a ten-year-old with the power to nuke the planet.”

“Look at the timing,” she said finally, pushing the papers toward Sam. “Every report’s in the last month. Before that, nothing. No unexplained deaths, no weird injuries. It just starts.”

Sam leaned over the pages, eyes narrowing. “Something triggered it.”

Dean tilted his chair back, scowling. “Yeah, like puberty..”

Her glare cut sideways. “Dean.”

“What?” He shrugged. “Kid hits ten, gets moody, discovers he can turn gum into super glue. Next thing you know, he’s some freak-God-creature.”

Sam’s voice was sharp. “This isn’t funny.”

Dean’s smirk flattened. His chair dropped back to all fours with a solid thud. “Wasn’t joking.”

“There’s a name. Jesse Turner. His birth records match the foster family here in town. Both parents are normal...on paper.”

Dean frowned. “On paper doesn’t mean squat.”

She closed the file, the finality in the sound making both brothers glance her way. “Then we go talk to him.”

The Turner house sat at the end of a quiet street. White siding, trimmed hedges, bikes left in the yard. It looked like every other house in town, which only made Dean’s stomach twist harder.

He holstered his pistol under his jacket, knocked on the door with the easy confidence of a fake FBI agent. A moment later, a woman opened it. She looked mid-thirties, tired, her face lined in ways that didn’t match her age.

“Mrs. Turner?” Sam asked, his badge flashing.

She nodded, wary. “Can I help you?”

Dean offered his most disarming half-smile. “Just a few questions. Mind if we come in?”

Inside, the house smelled like Pine-Sol and spaghetti sauce. Kids’ drawings covered the fridge.

And there he was.

Jesse sat on the couch, knees drawn up, eyes locked on the TV. A cartoon played, loud and colorful, but he didn’t seem to be watching. His gaze flicked to them once, quick, wary, sharp for a ten-year-old.

Dean crouched down in front of him, softening his usual edge. “Hey, buddy. Jesse, right?”

The boy’s voice was small. “Yeah.”

Dean tilted his head. “Heard some weird stuff’s been going on in town. Any chance you’ve seen it?”

Jesse shrugged, not looking up. “Weird stuff always happens. People say things. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

She crouched beside Dean, her voice gentler. “But sometimes it does mean something.”

Jesse’s eyes flicked to hers, quick, almost searching. “You think I’m weird too.”

Her throat tightened. “I think you’re special.”

Dean glanced at her, something flickering across his face, then turned back to Jesse. “Kid, trust me. We’ve seen weird. You don’t even make the top ten.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile before Jesse looked down again.

They regrouped in the motel after the visit, the air tight with tension.

Castiel appeared without sound, trench coat brushing the carpet. His presence filled the room, the faint pressure of wings brushing against bone.

Dean bristled immediately. “Don’t sneak up on us like that, Cas.”

Cas ignored him, his gaze steady, unflinching. “The boy is half-human, half-demon. Conceived during one of the demon breeding experiments we believed ended years ago.”

Her chest went tight. “Half-demon?”

“His mother was possessed. His father was human. The child was born of both. That makes him—”

Dean cut in, jaw hard. “The Antichrist.”

Cas inclined his head. “He will grow into his power. And when he does, Heaven will fall. Humanity with it.”

Sam’s voice was sharp. “He’s just a kid.”

Cas’s tone was flat. “And his potential is catastrophic.”

She shook her head, standing. “No. We’re not killing a child.”

His voice was steel. “Not happening, Cas. Not on my watch.”

Cas’s eyes stayed on them, unreadable. “Then you are dooming yourselves.”

And with a flap of wings, he was gone.

Back at the Turners’, the air felt charged, humming with something unseen. Jesse stood in his room, clutching his backpack. His foster parents hovered, frantic.

Sam tried reason, his voice low and urgent. “Jesse, listen. You don’t have to run. We can help you.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his shotgun held low at his side. “Or you can blow us all to kingdom come. That’s the part Cas forgot to mention.”

Her eyes locked on Jesse’s, steady. “You don’t have to be what they say you are. You get to choose. And right now, I need you to choose to trust us.”

Jesse’s hands shook. His eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Dean stepped forward, crouched low, his voice gruff but quieter than usual. “Then don’t. But you gotta understand, running away doesn’t fix it. You’re gonna have to face it sooner or later.”

For a long moment, Jesse stared at him, then at her. His lips trembled.

And then he was gone. Just gone.

The air cracked with the snap of power, and where Jesse had stood, there was nothing.

The Turners sobbed in the living room, clutching each other. Dean stood in the kitchen, arms braced on the counter, head bowed. Sam leaned against the wall, guilt plain across his face.

She sat at the table, staring at the empty chair Jesse had occupied earlier, her hands gripping the wood until her knuckles ached.

“Kid’s out there alone. With that kind of power. We should’ve done something.”

Sam’s voice cracked. “What? Kill him?”

Dean didn’t answer.

She looked up at both of them, her voice quiet but sure. “We gave him a choice. That matters. Even if he’s gone, he knows he doesn’t have to be what they want him to be.”

Dean pushed off the counter, pacing. “Hope doesn’t keep you safe.”

She stood, crossing the space to him. Her hand rested on his chest, firm. “Maybe not. But it’s better than nothing.”

Dean’s eyes met hers. His hand came up, covering hers, pressing it tighter against his chest. He exhaled slowly, the fight bleeding out of his shoulders.

Sam turned away, staring at the empty night through the window. His reflection was pale, hollow. “I just hope it’s enough.”

The room fell silent.

Chapter Text

The day started normal enough, if “normal” could even exist in the shadow of the apocalypse.

The diner smelled of grease and burnt coffee, the linoleum floor curling at the edges, the fluorescents buzzing overhead like dying flies. The three of them had wedged into a booth at the back, bone-tired from the road, caffeine holding their nerves together with chewing-gum adhesive.

Sam had three different local newspapers spread across the table, his long fingers leaving ink smudges along the margins as his brow furrowed deeper with every line he read. His coffee sat untouched, already cold.

Dean, on the other hand, was making love to a slice of apple pie like it was the last food on earth.

Fork scraping against the plate, eyes sharp but distant, he shoveled bite after bite with a single-minded intensity that was equal parts comforting and horrifying. 

She raised her cup to her lips, hiding the twitch of a smirk. “You realize you’re scaring the waitress, right? That’s not eating, Dean. That’s…performance art. Might as well drop to one knee and propose before you lick the plate clean.”

Dean smirked around a mouthful of crust, swallowed hard, and leaned back with mock pride. “What can I say? A man’s gotta commit to something.”

She rolled her eyes, stabbing at her eggs. “You’re impossible.”

Sam sighed like the long-suffering third wheel he was.

“While you two are flirting with diabetes, here’s something worth looking at.” He shoved a clipping across the table, his finger stabbing the headline.

“Three deaths. Same building, same week. Doctors can’t explain it. No cause of death, no physical trauma. People just… dropped.”

Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin, the edge of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Doctors scratching their heads? Sounds like our kind of case.”

Dean leaned back in the booth, easy and unhurried. His arm came down over her shoulder, pulling her in against his side.

Sam gave him a look. “Dean, this isn’t funny. If people are dying without reason, that means—”

“It means something nasty’s setting up camp.” Dean’s tone was flat. He crumpled the napkin in his fist. “So we pack up and check it out. Same as always.”

By the time they reached the building, the feeling in the air was staticky, like someone had scrubbed the place of normal life and left a stage behind.

Dean’s shoulders squared, his hunter’s instincts prickling. “This smells like a setup.”

And then it hit.

One blink, and the hallway tilted.

The warehouse blinked out like someone had yanked a plug, and in its place came bleach-bright light and the oppressive hum of machines.

The floor gleamed too much, so polished she could see her own shocked reflection staring back up at her. Antiseptic stung her nose.

Her head snapped around. Sam stood to her left in pale blue scrubs, a stethoscope draped around his neck, a clipboard in hand.

He looked down at himself, blinking like an owl, and groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean wasn’t any better off. He glanced down and froze. The hospital gown he wore hung loose, pale green with little faded patterns, open in the back. His expression was murderous.

“You have got to be friggin’ kidding me.” He yanked at the fabric. “It’s drafty. I can feel air on places nobody should be feeling air.”

She looked down next, a white coat, a badge clipped at the breast that read in neat black letters: Dr. Ford, Attending Physician. Her stomach sank.

“Oh, hell no.”

Overhead, a PA system clicked on with a too-chipper female voice. “Paging Dr. Ford to Trauma Three. Stat. Code Blue.”

Before she could argue, two nurses materialized out of nowhere, young and wide-eyed, the kind of extras straight out of Grey’s Anatomy.

They grabbed the handles of Dean’s wheelchair (where the hell had that come from?) and started wheeling him down the hall at a sprint.

Dean’s protests echoed loud and sharp. “Let me out of this damn chair! I can walk! I’ve been shot, stabbed, strangled, you name it, and you’re pushing me like a geriatric—”

Doors slammed open. The three of them were shoved into a trauma bay. Sam was flung onto a gurney, monitors blaring. He gasped and convulsed like he was really dying, sweat streaking his brow. He was now wearing the same patient uniform that Dean was wearing.

“Doctor!” one nurse shrieked, shoving paddles into her hands. “Your patient’s crashing!”

Her throat closed up. “Sam!?”

Dean staggered off his chair, ripping at the wires plastered to Sam’s chest. “It’s fake. All of it. It’s—”

Sam screamed, his body jerking as though every ripped lead electrocuted him. Dean froze, his hands shaking midair. His jaw clenched hard, helplessness written all over him.

“Cut him open,” the nurse demanded, thrusting a scalpel into her hand. “Save him, Doctor.”

The PA buzzed again, now a male voice. “Oh, this is my favorite part. Triage. Who do you save when you can’t save them both?”

She stared at the scalpel. The room tilted.

Sam’s monitor flatlined, shrill and endless. Dean’s monitor, when had that appeared?, lit up behind him with words, not numbers.

MARTYR SYNDROME: TERMINAL. PROGNOSIS: DEATH.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean hissed, glaring at the monitor.

Sam gasped, writhing on the bed. “Do it, do it, you have to—”

Her knees locked. “No. I’m not cutting you open.”

Dean’s hand closed over hers, shoving the scalpel away. His voice shook but stayed firm. “Don’t play his game.”

The lights flickered, dimming. More monitors sparked to life across the walls, each flashing grotesque messages in block letters.

PATIENT WINCHESTER: NONCOMPLIANCE. PROTECTIVE TENDENCIES: SELF-DESTRUCTIVE. BALANCE: UNSTABLE.

Dean spat toward the ceiling. “Get down here, you coward!”

And Gabriel did, materializing in a lab coat, clipboard in hand, lollipop tucked in his cheek. He grinned like a man watching his favorite soap twist into sweeps-week chaos.

“Welcome to All My Aneurysms.” He twirled the pen in his fingers. “Today’s drama, which Winchester gets saved, and which one dies horribly while you weep over their tragically beautiful face?”

“Bite me,” Dean snapped.

“Tempting.” Gabriel smirked, then turned to her. “Come on, sweetheart. Pick one. You’re our special little balance, aren’t you? Make the call.”

Her hand trembled around the scalpel. Sam’s eyes rolled back, his body going slack. Dean staggered against the bed, wires strapped to his arms and chest, the monitor above him blaring CRITICAL.

The pressure was unbearable.

She threw the scalpel across the room. It clattered against tile. “Screw you. I’m not choosing.”

The walls shuddered. Gabriel’s grin faltered.

Dean ripped his wires free, teeth bared. “You hear that, doc? We don’t need your cheap TV morality.”

The monitors glitched, screens flickering with static.

Gabriel snapped his fingers. The room jolted like an earthquake, ceiling tiles crashing down, sparks spitting from the lights.

“All right, all right.” His smirk returned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Point made. You pass.”

And with a clap of his hands, the hospital dissolved in a flash of blinding light.

It spiraled fast. Too fast.

The blink hit like whiplash. One moment, she was bracing herself for another wave of Gabriel’s cosmic nonsense, and the next, she was standing in the middle of Stars Hollow.

Stars Hollow.

The air was crisp, buzzing faintly with small-town charm. There was the gazebo in the town square, the knitwear-draped locals milling around, Miss Patty’s dance studio across the street.

It was all so absurdly wholesome it made her teeth ache.

She blinked down at herself. A soft cable-knit sweater, paired with a pleated skirt, tights, simple flats, and a stack of books clutched to her chest like it was fused there.

Rory. Gabriel had made her Rory Gilmore.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, tugging at the hem of the skirt.

“Hey, Rory,” came a voice. She spun.

Sam stood there, tall and gawky, wearing flannel that somehow looked even more earnest than usual, with an apron slung over his shoulders and the Doose’s Market logo emblazoned on it. A stack of grocery bags hung from his arms.

Dean Forester. Sam Winchester was Dean Forester.

She nearly choked on a laugh.

He blinked at her, all awkward sincerity. “I… uh…got you some sodas? And maybe we could… I don’t know…go to the Winter Carnival together?”

Before she could even form words, another voice cut in. Smooth, sharp, and lazy all at once.

She turned again, and there he was, Dean Winchester leaning against a lamppost, wearing a leather jacket over a hoodie, a beat-up paperback shoved in his back pocket.

Jess Mariano incarnate.

The smirk on his face was so perfectly Dean-as-Jess it was almost unnerving.

“Nice sweater, sweetheart. Real bookworm chic. You auditioning for the library mascot, or what?”

Her mouth fell open. “Jess.”

Dean pushed off the lamppost, sauntering closer, his smirk deepening.

“What can I say? Fits me better than Richie Cunningham back there.” He jerked his chin toward Sam, who bristled, clutching his grocery bags tighter.

Sam glared. “At least I’m dependable. Not some punk who reads Kerouac and pretends it means anything.”

Dean laughed, sharp and delighted. “Oh, that’s rich. You gonna fix her car next, Forester? Or just bore her to death with small-town charm?”

“Dean.” Her voice cracked, trying to keep the absurdity from spiraling. “This isn’t real. This is—”

The Stars Hollow church bells clanged overhead, cutting her off. Townies turned, gasping like they were the studio audience waiting for drama to break.

Gabriel’s voice floated down from nowhere, smug and amused. “Oh, this is very real, cupcake. You’re Rory. Lover boy over there is Dean. And bad attitude leaning on the gazebo? Jess. Everybody plays their role. That’s the rule.”

Dean, her Dean, Jess Dean, slung an arm around her shoulders without hesitation, pulling her close, glaring daggers at Sam. “Guess that makes this simple, doesn’t it?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath. “This is so stupid.”

But Gabriel’s laughter rang out again, smug and all too satisfied. “Stupid or not, doll, you know the rules. Everyone’s got a role. You don’t get to just stand there. Pick a boy, Rory. Forester or Mariano. Safe or dangerous. Everybody plays the game.”

Dean’s hand pressed firmer against her back, warm and steady. Sam’s gaze flicked to hers, all earnest brown doe eyes and unshakable loyalty.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

And all she could think was that Gabriel was having the time of his life.

And again it happened.

They were blasted with stage lights, shoved into seats while a roar of applause thundered all around.

A set materialized, tacky and glittering flashing bulbs, spinning hearts, a banner that read Couple's Feud.

Gabriel stood center stage in a sequin blazer, holding a microphone like a king’s scepter.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he crooned, voice booming through hidden speakers.

“Welcome to the hottest show in Heaven, Hell, and everything in between. Tonight’s featured couple...America’s favorite apocalypse duo...Dean Winchester and his lovely Miss Ford!”

The crowd went wild. Or maybe it was canned laughter, but it rattled her bones all the same.

Dean’s hand shot to the small of her back, pulling her half behind him. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Gabriel winked at her, ignoring Dean’s glare entirely. “Aw, don’t be shy, sweetheart. The camera loves you.” 

The spotlight seared across her face, hot enough to burn. They were shoved into chairs side by side, the lights blinding.

Sam stood on the sidelines, dressed like a stagehand with a headset, looking about as comfortable as a cat in a bathtub.

Gabriel twirled his mic, beaming.

“Let’s start simple, shall we? What’s Dean’s favorite pie?” She rolled her eyes despite the terror clawing at her chest.

“A-Apple. Warm. Ice cream on the side, not on top. He says it gets soggy.” Dean’s head whipped toward her with a cocky grin, eyebrows raised.

“Well, damn. Look at you.” Gabriel clutched his chest like a soap-opera star. “Oh, swoon. They know each other’s dessert preferences. How romantic!”

Dean rolled his eyes.

The game escalated from there, each question cutting deeper, each answer dragging secrets and scars into the open.

The room spun with laughter, canned applause, and Dean’s frown deepened every time Gabriel's smirk curled wider.

“What’s Dean’s guilty-pleasure TV show?” Her grin was sharp this time.

“Dr. Sexy, M.D.” Dean’s head snapped around. “Are you serious right now?” The crowd erupted. Sam even smirked.

Dean groaned, “I’m never living this down.” Gabriel's grin turned shark-like.

“Cute. Now let’s crank the dial. Question three: Tell the audience…how did the fire start? You know the one!”

Her world dropped out from under her.

She felt every eye in the phantom crowd drilling into her skin, a thousand invisible stares peeling her apart.

Her palms went clammy, the plastic seat beneath her suddenly too slick to grip. Dean snapped his head toward Gabriel, rage blazing hot and sharp.

“Oh, come on,” Gabriel crooned. “Every relationship has its skeletons. Let’s air one out.” His grin sharpened, teeth too white.

“Tell them, darling. The people at home love a tragic origin story.” Her throat worked, dry.

The words clawed up before she could stop them, jagged glass cutting on the way out. “It was me.”

Her voice sounded foreign, hollow. “I knocked the grate down in the fireplace. I didn’t notice. By the time I smelled the smoke, it was too late. My parents. My little brother. It was my fault.”

The lights seemed to sear hotter, the crowd hushed, silence thick enough to choke on.

Dean's voice dropped. “You were just a kid. That’s not on you.” Gabriel clapped, mockingly slow, the sound echoing like gunfire.

“Oh, folks, don’t you just love a tearjerker? Ten points for raw honesty.” Dean’s glare could have burned holes through concrete.

“You’re a real son of a bitch.”

“Guilty,” Gabriel said lightly, twirling his mic.

“But let’s not leave you out, Dean-o. Fair’s fair.” His gaze slid slyly to Dean.

“What’s the one thing you’ve never told her?”

Dean froze. He turned toward her, the stage lights carving hard shadows across his face.

For once, there was no smirk, no mask.

Just Dean, unguarded, every word dragged out of him like it burned. His voice came low, gravelly, almost a whisper, but it had the weight of something pried from his throat against his will.

“I never told her the truth about Hell. The only thing that kept me from breaking down there…was her. Not Sam. Not Dad. Not even the thought of getting out. It was her face. I carved it into my head every damn day so I didn’t lose myself. And when I finally crawled out…I was terrified she’d look at me different. That she’d see what I’d done, what I’d become…and leave.” His jaw worked, a muscle twitching.

He glanced at her then, green eyes raw and unflinching. “So yeah. That’s the thing. The secret. She was the only thing I had left to hang onto. And I’ve been scared every day since that if she knew how bad it got…I’d lose her anyway.” The crowd gasped theatrically.

He let out a huff, returning his gaze back to Gabriel, pointing a finger at him. "Fuck you."

Gabriel spread his arms wide, basking in it. “Oh, don’t we just love confessions of the heart?”

“Alright, lovebirds. Time's up.” The stage exploded into light.

“This isn’t just entertainment,” Gabriel said, and the showman’s lilt slipped from his voice like a mask dropping.

“It’s a test.”

The spotlights flickered out, leaving only the three of them in the center of the stage, haloed in the faint afterglow.

Gabriel’s eyes moved over them one by one.

First Sam, jaw tight, defiance carved into every line of his face. Then Dean, rigid and coiled like he was ready to throw a punch. And finally her, with her breath sharp, gaze steady despite the tremor in her hands.

“You three,” Gabriel said, his voice echoing through the empty set. “You’re not just players. You’re the pieces of the puzzle. The linchpins."

"Michael.” His gaze lingered on Dean, sharp and pitying all at once. “Lucifer.” He turned to Sam, and there was something sad in his smile. “And the balance.” His eyes landed on her, softer than before.

“The one that tips the scales.”

He took a slow step closer, his tone sharpening.

“Don’t you get it yet? The whole story, the big celestial soap opera, it isn’t about armies or seals or even free will. It’s about which way the damn scale tips when it finally falls. You three. That’s it. That’s the show. And I needed to see…”

His mouth curved faintly, but it wasn’t smug this time. It was tired.

The silence that followed was thick.

Gabriel tilted his head, voice quieter now. “Because when the end comes, it won’t be demons or angels that decide which way this world goes. It’ll be you three. And I had to know…which way you’d break.”

The world cracked like glass. The stage fell away.

And when the motel room slammed back into focus, the neon sign flickering red across the curtains, everything was different.

Chapter Text

The kitchen at Bobby’s felt too full. Not in a bad way, but in the way that made the air heavy with voices, overlapping laughter, and the clatter of plates.

It was the kind of crowded warmth the old house hadn’t seen in a long time.

The reason was clear enough. Ellen and Jo Harvelle had shown up two days earlier, packing light but carrying the weight of knowing exactly what they were walking into.

Word about Lucifer had spread fast through the hunting community, and Ellen wasn’t the type to sit back and watch from the sidelines. She and Jo had been tracking demonic movements, intercepting omens, same as everyone else.

Bobby’s salvage yard was safer than most hideouts, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before a real plan came together.

So now here they all were, Bobby in his chair at the head of the table, Sam taking up one end, Ellen sitting across from Dean, Jo settled at her side.

The table itself bowed under the food. Jo’s greens, Bobby’s stew, fried chicken Dean insisted on, a couple pies. Beer bottles stood at attention down the middle, half-empty already.

Dean shoveled fried chicken onto his plate like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Ellen broke through the noise with a dry drawl. “Tell me, which one of you thought fried chicken and pie counted as a food pyramid?”

Dean smirked, fork stabbing the air. “It’s all the essentials. Protein, carbs, happiness.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “You forgot grease.”

“That’s the best part.”

She bit back a laugh, shaking her head. “Your arteries don’t stand a chance.”

Dean clutched his chest theatrically. “This body runs on pie, sweetheart. You take that away, I’m useless.”

Bobby muttered into his glass. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Sam explained the latest omens he’d pieced together, Ellen added sharp commentary about demonic movements she and Jo had tracked in the South.

She joined in when she could, catching Jo’s eye across the table more than once. There was an ease to Jo, young, but stubborn, fierce, with a streak of humor that matched Dean’s. By the time dessert hit the table, she knew Jo wasn’t just tolerating her. She liked her.

After dinner, Bobby tried to wave everyone out so he could handle the dishes himself. Ellen ignored him. “You cooked, we’ll clean.”

That left the rest of them sprawled in the living room. Beer bottles got refilled, cards hit the coffee table, and suddenly it wasn’t apocalypse strategy but poker and pool cues, laughter cutting through the heavy walls.

She ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with Jo, the two of them swapping bad jokes and sneaking shots of whiskey while Dean grumbled about losing a hand.

When Jo cracked something sharp about Sam’s poker face, she nearly spit her drink out laughing.

Dean caught them both mid-laugh, his brows raising. “What is this, some kind of chick-flick moment? You two holding hands under the table now?”

Jo leaned back with a grin. “Relax, Dean. Nobody’s moving in on your turf. If anything, I’m more her type than you are.”

She clinked her drink against Jo’s, smirking. “Guess you’re out of luck, Winchester.”

Dean sputtered, pointing at them with his beer. “What, what are you saying? She’s got a type and it’s not me? Bull—”

Jo cut him off smoothly. “Relax. I'm not gonna steal your girlfriend.”

Ellen’s laugh barked from across the room. Bobby rolled his eyes. Sam muttered something about children.

“Alright. Too much doom and gloom. We’re playing a game.”

Dean eyed the bottle warily from where he lounged in the recliner, a beer dangling from his fingers. “What kind of game are we talking? Because if it’s charades, I’m out.”

“Truth or dare,” Jo declared.

Dean snorted. “What are we, twelve?”

Jo shot him a glare, then looked at her. “You in?”

She smirked, dropping to the floor beside Jo, their shoulders bumping. “Absolutely.”

Dean muttered into his beer, “Should’ve known.”

Sam closed his notebook, pushing it aside. “Why not? Been a long week.”

Bobby grunted from his chair, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fine. But don’t go spillin’ liquor on my rug, or you’re cleaning it.”

Jo pointed at her first. “Truth or dare?”

She arched a brow. “Dare.”

Jo’s grin widened. “I dare you to take this shot without wincing.”

She laughed, grabbed the glass, and downed it. The burn seared down her throat, her eyes watering, but she swallowed hard and slammed the empty glass down. “Not even a flinch.”

Jo whistled. “Damn. Alright, respect.”

Dean groaned. “You two are gonna kill each other with liquor before the Devil even gets a shot.”

Jo smirked, pouring another. “Better us than him.” She tipped her chin toward Dean. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

Dean leaned back, smug. “Truth.”

Jo’s grin turned wicked. “Okay. Out of every girl you’ve hooked up with—”

“Pass,” Dean cut in instantly.

“No passes!” Jo fired back.

He scowled, then shot a glance at her, who was already laughing into her hand. Dean’s jaw ticked. “Fine. Out of every girl? Still her.” He jerked his thumb at her without hesitation.

The room fell quiet for a second before Jo let out a bark of laughter. “God, you’re predictable.”

Dean smirked, leaning forward. “Predictable but right.”

She rolled her eyes and poured herself another shot. “You’re insufferable.”

Jo raised her glass with a grin. “To being insufferable.”

They clinked again, both laughing, leaving Dean shaking his head in defeat.

Sam leaned forward, trying not to smile. “Alright, my turn.”

The game rolled on, truths and dares flying, Bobby grudgingly admitting the first time he ever kissed someone was behind a barn, Sam dared into eating a spoonful of Bobby’s moonshine (circa 1984), Jo confessing she once hot-wired a sheriff’s car just to prove she could.

Every round, Jo and she leaned closer together, laughing louder, trading sharp little side comments like they’d been friends for years instead of hours.

By the time the bottle was nearly drained, Jo collapsed sideways against her shoulder, both of them laughing too hard to breathe after Dean had been dared to sing two lines of “Eye of the Tiger” with all the drama of a karaoke star.

Dean pointed at them with his beer bottle, glaring. “You two better not be plotting.”

Jo smirked, head still against her. “Relax, Winchester. Too late.” She snorted, patting Jo’s knee.

Dean groaned into his hand while Sam fought back a smile, and Bobby muttered something about “children in my house” before retreating to bed.

The game dissolved slowly, laughter fading into quieter conversation.

Dean had claimed the armchair, beer bottle balanced on his knee, his shoulders sunk deep.

She sat on the armrest beside him, one leg hooked over his, her hand draped lazily across his shoulder. He hadn’t moved much since Bobby laid out the plan for Carthage.

His eyes stayed on the floor, jaw flexing, beer barely touched.

Ellen broke the quiet first, her voice low. “Carthage isn’t a hunt. It’s a suicide mission.”

Dean’s eyes snapped up, sharp. “No one asked for your optimism.”

Ellen met his glare. “Somebody’s got to say it.”

Jo leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “She’s right. Lucifer’s not just another monster in the dark. You go in without an edge, you’re not walking out.”

Sam rubbed a hand across his face, finally shutting his book. “Crowley.”

Dean turned his head. “What?”

“Crowley,” Sam repeated. “He’s been feeding us scraps through the grapevine for weeks now. He’s not exactly trustworthy, but…” He hesitated. “He wants Lucifer gone as much as we do. And he has the Colt.”

The silence was instant.

Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the demon who collects souls like poker chips?”

Sam nodded grimly. “That’s the one.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, because making deals with demons always works out so well for us.” His hand shifted against her thigh, restless. “What’s your brilliant plan, Sammy? We just knock on his door and say please?”

Sam’s tone was steady, but his shoulders were tense. “We don’t have another choice. The Colt is the only weapon we know of that might even stand a chance against Lucifer.”

Jo looked between them, her brow furrowed. “And you think Crowley’s just going to hand it over?”

Dean scoffed. “Not a chance in hell.”

“But he will make a deal,” Sam said. “He always does.”

Dean’s glare didn’t ease. “I don’t like it.”

Ellen downed the last of her drink, setting the glass down hard. “I don’t either. But Sam’s right. If there’s even a sliver of a chance that gun works, we need it.”

Dean let out a harsh breath, shaking his head. He looked at her, his eyes locking with hers. Her throat tightened, but she nodded.

“Tomorrow,” she said quietly. “We go to him.”

Dean muttered something under his breath, a curse that didn’t carry, and stood. “Fine. But if Crowley so much as blinks wrong, I’ll put him in the ground myself.”

They left before dawn.

The Impala ate miles in near silence. Radio off, tires rolling over wet pavement. Sam rode in the back with a folder of notes in his lap. Fog pooled in low places, clinging to fields and the edges of the highway.

By the time they turned off the road and started up the long, tree-lined drive, the sun was only a faint line on the horizon.

The mansion looked entirely out of place in Missouri.

It rose out of the fog on a hilltop, stone walls crawling with ivy, windows glowing gold behind heavy curtains.

A wrought-iron fence encircled the property, its gate yawning wide like it had been expecting them.

Dean killed the Impala’s engine at the base of the driveway. Ellen's truck rolled up alongside, Jo in the passenger's seat, her shotgun propped against the door.

“Alright,” Dean said, glancing across the seats. “We'll head inside. You two wait out here. Keep the doors locked.”

Ellen’s mouth opened in protest, but Jo cut her off with a sigh. “We’ll cover you from here.”

“Good,” Dean muttered. “If you see anyone with glowing red eyes and a bad attitude, shoot first.”

Jo smirked faintly, though her eyes were sharp. “You mean like half the people you’ve dated?”

Dean ignored her.

The air was colder near the house. Gravel crunched loud under their boots as they made their way up the drive.

Every step felt like a bad dare.

Dean shouldered the door open without knocking.

Inside, the contrast was jarring. Heat, polished marble, bookshelves stacked floor-to-ceiling, the scent of cigar smoke and aged whiskey. A chandelier gleamed overhead.

And there he was.

Crowley leaned against the fireplace, glass of scotch in hand. His grin spread the second his eyes landed on them.

“Winchesters,” he drawled, his accent smooth. “And company.” His gaze slid to her, lingering just long enough to notice.

“Even prettier than the rumors said. No wonder you’re the one they never shut up about.”

Dean stepped forward instantly, his voice clipped. “Quit the googly eyes. We're here on business.”

Crowley’s brows arched, amused. “Protective, aren’t we? Adorable.” His eyes flicked past Dean to her again. “But really, lovely to finally meet you, darling.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer.

Sam cut in, voice rough. “Crowley. You wanted a deal.”

“Always so serious,” Crowley sighed, swirling his drink. “Fine. Straight to it, then. You want the Devil dead. I happen to share that charming little goal.”

Dean snorted. “Because you care about us? Don’t make me laugh.”

Crowley grinned. “Please. Lucifer sees demons as cockroaches. His plan doesn’t leave me standing. And as much as I love the smell of brimstone in the morning, I’d rather not end up a pile of ashes.”

Dean’s jaw worked. “So you hand us the Colt, just like that?”

Crowley’s eyes glinted. “Not charity. Call it…mutual interest. You put a bullet in Lucifer’s skull, I get to keep enjoying my whiskey. Everyone wins.”

Sam’s expression stayed guarded. “And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you’re dead,” Crowley said, matter-of-fact. “But at least I can say I tried. And really, who doesn’t love a Hail Mary?”

Dean’s voice hardened. “If this is a setup, if you so much as twitch wrong, I’ll end you.”

Crowley smirked, lifting his glass in a lazy toast. “You and me both know you can’t bluff worth a damn, Dean. But that fire in your eyes? Delightful.”

Dean’s glare sharpened.

Crowley’s eyes drifted back to her, softer now, though no less unsettling. “You, on the other hand…you’ve got sense. Steadier than the rest of this lot. If I were you, I’d keep a tighter leash on them. Might save you trouble in the long run.”

She stayed quiet for a beat. “Then stop giving me a reason to.”

Crowley’s mouth curved, amused. “Fair enough, darling. I do love a woman with teeth.”

He set the glass down on the mantel and reached into his jacket. When his hand came back out, it held the Colt.

The room seemed to shift with the weight of it.

Crowley tossed it casually to Dean, who caught it with both hands, checking it instantly. The gun was cold and heavy. Dean’s eyes narrowed, testing the cylinder.

“It’s loaded,” Crowley said. “Five bullets. Make ’em count. Lucifer’s in Carthage, Missouri. Cemetery at the edge of town. He’s gathering his flock.”

Dean’s voice was flat. “And you’re just giving this to us. Out of the goodness of your heart.”

Crowley smiled, sharp as glass. “Darling, I don’t have a heart. Just taste. And Lucifer has terrible taste.”

Dean shoved the Colt into his jacket, eyes still burning. “If you’re screwing us—”

“Yes, yes, you’ll kill me,” Crowley interrupted, waving a hand. “Noted. Now go. Devil’s not going to shoot himself.”

Dean turned, hand at her back as he guided her toward the door.

As they reached it, Crowley called after them, voice smooth as ever. “Do be careful. I’d hate to hear she didn’t make it.”

Dean’s shoulders went rigid. He didn’t look back.

Outside, the cold air bit sharp after the heat of the mansion. Ellen leaned out the truck window, her eyes narrowing. “Well?”

Dean stalked past, jaw clenched. “We got it.”

Jo let out a slow breath. “So…Carthage?”

Dean’s hand settled heavy against her back as they walked toward the Impala. His voice was low, flat, but edged.

“Yeah. Carthage.”

The Missouri night felt wrong before the Impala even hit city limits.

The cemetery sat at the end of a narrow road, iron gates sagging open just enough to look like a welcome. Fog clung thick against the ground, curling up the wrought iron like pale fingers.

Dean killed the engine. The Impala’s rumble died, and silence took its place, heavy and absolute.

Sam’s hand clenched white around Ruby’s knife in his lap. Jo checked her shotgun, snapping the chamber closed with a click that carried sharp in the still air. Ellen’s jaw was set so tight her cheekbones stood out.

Beside Dean, her breath trembled. His hand landed heavy on her thigh, squeezing once before he let go. His voice was low, steady.

“All right. Masks on. No screwups.”

They pushed through the gates shoulder to shoulder.

The iron groaned on its hinges, swallowed by fog so thick it crawled into their lungs. The air was rotten, sulfur and copper, the stink of old blood clinging to the mist until every breath felt like choking.

Headstones leaned like broken teeth, some cracked clean down the middle, others sinking into wet earth. 

A scream ripped through the night.

High. Human.

Dean’s shotgun was up before the echo died. “Move!”

They ran. Through the fog, boots slipping in mud, down a path that should’ve been nothing but graves, until the ground buckled. Asphalt tore open, gravel exploded, dirt sprayed high.

Then came the growl, so deep it rattled their spines.

Hellhounds.

“Circle!” Ellen barked, already out of breath.

The first hit came from the left, fast and brutal. The hound tore through fog, invisible but for the streak of grit it kicked up. Dean’s shotgun boomed, salt round blasting air, the recoil slamming his shoulder. A yelp cut through, followed by a heavy body hitting dirt.

Another crashed in head-on. She swung wide, the blade heavy and slick in her grip. When it connected, the resistance jolted up her arm, metal tearing across flesh she couldn’t see.

A wet shriek filled the air, black blood spattering across her cheek, hot and burning.

Then Jo screamed.

It was different. Not fear. Pain.

She went down hard, claws raking across her stomach, tearing deep. The sound of it. fabric ripping, skin tearing, was worse than the blood soaking her jacket in seconds.

“Jo!” Ellen was on her knees, hauling her daughter back with both arms, shotgun still firing wild into fog. “Stay with me, baby!”

She dropped beside Jo, hands pressing into the wound, blood slicking her palms instantly. “You’re fine, you’re fine—”

Jo’s face was white, her jaw clenched. Her lips pressed together until they trembled. "…I’m not.”

“Shut up!” she snapped, her voice breaking. “Just hold on.”

The fog split again, another hound lunging. Dean’s arm locked around her waist, dragging her backward, his shotgun blasting point-blank. The boom was deafening. The spray of blood, hot and rancid, hit the side of her face.

“Don’t freeze!” Dean barked, his voice strained.

“I’m not!” she shouted back, though her hands were slick, slipping, trying to hold Jo’s life in place.

The hardware store became their coffin.

They kicked the door shut behind them, shoving heavy shelves across it. The outside world thundered with growls and claws scraping wood. Inside, Ellen collapsed to the floor, pressing down on Jo’s wound with both hands. Blood pulsed hot between her fingers, too much, too fast.

Sam slid across the linoleum with the med kit, ripping it open, his breath jagged. One look at the wound was enough, his face went slack, horror cutting deeper than any blade.

Jo coughed, blood spattering her lips. She tried for a laugh, but it broke apart. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“No!” Ellen’s voice cracked wide open. “Don’t you say that, Jo.”

She cradled Jo’s head, brushing blood-damp hair from her face, her chest heaving like it might collapse. “We’re getting you out, you hear me? You’re not—”

Jo’s eyes locked on hers. Gentle. Too calm. “Don’t cry.”

Her throat burned raw. “Please, Jo. Just hold on. Please.” Tears streaked down her cheeks, blurring everything into red and white.

Dean stood behind them, pacing tight circles, shotgun gripped so hard his knuckles cracked. His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath. 

Ellen finally lifted her head. Her eyes were steel through the tears. “We make it count. That’s what we do. We take as many of those sons of bitches as we can.”

Jo gave the smallest nod, breath rattling. “Boom goes the dynamite.”

Dean dropped to a crouch beside her, one hand gripping Jo’s shoulder, shaking. His voice was hoarse, near-begging. “Don’t do this. We’ll find another way.”

Jo’s lips twitched. “Still bossy.”

Dean’s eyes burned, red-rimmed. He swallowed hard, then shot to his feet and stalked toward the counter, shoving shells into his shotgun one after the other. Each click was violent, angry.

When it was time, Ellen pressed her forehead to Jo’s, whispering things no one else could hear.

She clung to Jo’s hand, refusing to let go, her nails digging into pale skin.

“I cant-” she sobbed, her voice raw, shaking.

Sam grabbed her arm, yanking hard. “We have to go!”

“No!” she screamed, nails clawing at the doorway. Blood smeared across wood where she tried to hold herself. “No, I’m not leaving her, I’m not—”

Dean's arms locked around her waist, hauling her back as the Hellhounds roared louder outside.

The last thing she saw was Jo’s face, pale, steady, eyes unflinching. 

Then the explosion came.

Fire ripped the store apart. The shockwave knocked them flat, glass and wood tearing through the air.

Dean’s body slammed over hers, arms wrapped around her head, covering her as flames swallowed everything behind them.

When silence finally fell, the street reeked of smoke and scorched flesh.

Her throat opened, but no words came. Just a broken, wordless sound that ripped up and out.

Dean pinned her down, arms locked around her as she fought against him, nails scraping at his jacket, her breath ragged.

Sam dropped beside them, his hand clamping hard on her shoulder. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, just the shudder of his chest, the tremor in his grip. 

The cemetery waited, silent and patient.

At the center, Lucifer stood calm and pristine, like none of it had happened.

Dean’s hand clamped hers tight as he raised the Colt, voice ragged but steady. “Go to hell.”

The gun fired. The bullet hit.

Lucifer smiled faintly as he glanced down at the new hole in his shirt. “That won’t work on me.”

And with that, the earth split wide. Corpses clawed their way out, demons filled vessels, screams tore through the night.

The battle erupted in a blur of bodies and sound.

Claws raked through the fog, teeth snapped against flesh, fists cracked bone, blades cut deep. Black smoke burst into the air with every demon that dropped, choking the lungs. She drove her blade through a chest, twisted, yanked free, blood slicked the hilt, spraying hot across her face.

Another came at her from the side, snarling, nails carving down her arm before she spun and split its throat.

Dean’s shotgun tore holes into the dark, each blast shaking the ground under her boots. Sam’s knife flashed again and again, his face streaked in blood that wasn’t all his.

They couldn’t keep up. For every body that fell, more surged out of the earth.

Hands clawed up from graves, snapping bones as they pulled themselves free. A corpse barreled into her, rotted fingers crushing her shoulder. She slammed her blade through its mouth and kicked it back into the dirt.

Without warning, light split the sky. Angels thundered down, wings tearing fog, their voices a deafening chorus. Demons shrieked, vessels burning out, collapsing dead into dirt.

Lucifer watched, calm cracking for the first time.

“Another time.” He vanished into the mist.

The graveyard went silent but for their ragged breathing.

Dean dropped his shotgun, spun to her, and gripped her shoulders so hard it hurt. His eyes searched hers, frantic. “You okay?”

She stared at him, her lips trembling, but only one word forced its way out. “No.”

Dean’s face crumpled. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him as Sam stood behind, pale and hollow, blood streaked across his shirt.

The Impala’s engine hummed steady, the only thing keeping the night from caving in. Inside, the silence was heavier than anything hellhounds could muster.

Sam sat pressed against the window in the back, his face shadowed, hands clamped together so tight they trembled. His jaw never unclenched. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t speak.

She sat close against Dean in the front, her side leaning into him, but she might as well have been a thousand miles away. Her hands were numb in her lap.

Dean’s grip on the wheel was brutal. Knuckles split, skin raw, veins raised. His eyes never left the road, not once. 

The motel they finally stopped at was the kind of place hunters knew well. A sign buzzing half-dead neon, doors peeling paint, curtains stiff with dust. Dean shoved the key into the lock harder than he needed to, shoulders hunched.

Inside, the air stank of mildew and cheap cleaner. Two beds, one table, a bathroom door that didn’t shut right.

Sam dropped onto the farthest mattress without a word, his head in his hands. 

Dean stood frozen in the middle of the room, his back to her, fists loose at his sides, shoulders trembling. He finally turned, his eyes bloodshot, face pale.

“You need a shower,” he rasped. His voice cracked like he hadn’t used it in years.

She swallowed, throat still raw, and nodded. Her limbs didn’t want to work, but she moved anyway. Past him. Toward the bathroom.

The mirror over the sink stopped her cold.

Jo’s blood was dried across her cheek. Her shirt stiff with it, soaked through the seams. Her hands were red, lines of it caked into her skin, under her nails. She tried to breathe, but the air felt too heavy. 

Dean was suddenly behind her, his reflection close.

His jacket was already gone, shirt unbuttoned halfway, bruises blooming across his arms.

He didn’t say anything, just reached past her and turned the water on. The pipes screamed before steaming spray filled the stall.

He didn’t wait for her to undress herself.

His hands were steady, peeling the shirt over her head, tugging at stiff fabric until it gave. Her jeans followed. Boots. Socks. Every piece dropped heavy on the tile.

She stood there, bare, goosebumps crawling across her skin under the cold air, but Dean didn’t look at her like that. He didn’t linger. Didn’t let himself.

His jaw was clenched too tight, his eyes glassed with something sharp, and his hands shook as he undressed himself just as quickly.

When he nudged her into the shower, the first blast of water hit like fire.

She gasped, jerking, but his hands were there instantly, gripping her arms, stilling her against the tile.

The heat seared Jo’s blood off her skin in streaks. It swirled red into the drain. She stared down at it, her stomach twisting like she might vomit.

Dean’s palms moved over her arms, working grime away. He didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Just moved slow, careful, like she’d shatter if he went too fast.

His breath came harsh, ragged, as though the silence pressed just as hard on him.

She turned and pressed her forehead against his chest. The water poured down her back. His arms came around her instantly, wrapping her in tight.

His chin pressed to the top of her head, lips ghosting through wet strands of hair.

They stayed like that for long minutes, steam choking the air.

When she finally shifted, her fingers curled into his ribs, holding tightly enough to bruise.

Dean held tighter. His hands pressed flat against her spine, one sliding into her hair.

He bent, his voice rough against her ear. “Don’t hold it in.”

Her chest hitched. Water masked the tears, but he felt it in her grip, in the way she clawed closer, burying herself in him like he was the only thing left to cling to.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to her wet cheek, then her jaw.

They weren’t desperate kisses, they were broken. He needed to feel she was alive. Needed to remind himself.

When her knees buckled, he caught her, lowering both of them onto the tile.

He sat with her in his lap under the spray, water pouring over both of them, his arms iron around her waist. Her forehead pressed into the curve of his neck, his stubble scraping her skin as he whispered nothing but her name. Over and over.

Her body gave out eventually, going slack against him. Exhaustion. Shock. He tucked her tighter against his chest, his breath shaking into her hair.

Sam knocked once from the other side of the door, voice cracked and hoarse. “You two okay?”

Dean pressed his face into her shoulder, eyes shut. “We’re fine.” His tone said otherwise, but Sam didn’t push.

When the water finally ran cold, Dean shut it off. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her, then himself.

He carried her out, even though her legs would’ve worked, because he wasn’t letting go.

Back in the room, Sam was lying stiff on the bed, his eyes rimmed red. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t speak. Just curled tighter on his side.

Dean lowered her onto the mattress, sliding in beside her before she could protest.

His arm hooked tight across her waist, his chest pressed to her back, his breath rough against her shoulder.

Neither of them spoke. Not about Jo. Not about Ellen. Not about Lucifer waiting in the wings.

The room stayed silent except for the sound of Dean’s heartbeat against her spine.

And for that night, silence was all they had.

Chapter Text

The motel room was too quiet.

No TV buzz, no music, not even one of Dean’s half-sarcastic classic rock hums. Just the hum of the heater and the faint whistle of wind against the thin windows.

She sat at the table, staring at the cup of coffee cooling in her hands, steam long since gone.

The dark liquid rippled with each faint tremor of her fingers, tiny ripples that felt too loud in the silence.

Sam sat across from her, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles blanched. He hadn’t said more than two words since they’d checked in the night before. Every so often, his gaze flickered toward her, like he wanted to ask if she was okay, but the question stuck in his throat.

He looked as wrung out as she felt.

Dean stood at the window. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes, just leaned there with one hand on the frame, eyes fixed on the parking lot below. His reflection in the glass looked worn, pale in the weak morning light.

She finally broke the silence. Her voice cracked from disuse. “They should still be here.”

Sam swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah.”

Dean’s hand tightened on the frame until it creaked.  

She set the cup down carefully, like it might shatter, and stood. Her bare feet padded against the worn carpet as she crossed the room. She didn’t say anything, just slipped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against the back of his flannel.

Dean’s body went rigid, but after a long moment he let his shoulders drop. His hand came up to cover hers, pressing her hand flat against his chest. His heart hammered hard and fast beneath her palm.

Sam looked away, jaw tight. He was giving them space, but she could see the tears gathering in his eyes before he blinked them back.

Dean finally turned in her arms. He didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. He just held her, burying his face against her hair. His breath was warm and uneven against her temple.

For a few moments, they stood there, a fragile trio in a cheap motel room.

When Dean finally pulled back, his hands lingered on her arms, his eyes red-rimmed but steady.

“We keep going,” he said. It was quiet, but it was final. “For them.”

Sam nodded once, his throat working. “For them.”

She tightened her grip on Dean’s flannel and whispered, “For them.”

The next morning the motel room was steeped in half-dark, curtains tugged shut to keep out the early winter sun. The heater rattled against the wall like it was fighting for its life, doing a half-assed job of keeping the chill out.

She sat on the edge of the bed with a towel around her shoulders, hair dripping into damp patches on her flannel.

Dean was sprawled back against the headboard beside her, boots still on, balancing a cup of gas station brew on his chest. His free hand flipped through a battered file of police reports.

Every so often, he muttered something under his breath, words halfway between sarcasm and disgust.

At the table, Sam was bent over his laptop, the screen glow throwing shadows across his sharp features. His shoulders were tight, brows furrowed, like he’d been staring at bad news for too long. The steady click of his fingers on the keys was the only sound in the room until it stopped.

The snap of the laptop closing made her look up. Dean did too, instantly on alert.

“What?” Dean asked, suspicion sharp in his tone.

Sam rubbed a hand across his face like he was trying to wipe the expression off. “I got a call. From Martin.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Martin? As in Martin Creaser? As in the guy who thought vampires were brainwashing the staff at his Dairy Queen?”

Sam gave him a flat look. “Yeah. That Martin. He’s in Glenwood Springs Psychiatric.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Great. A psych ward. Just where I wanna spend my week.”

Sam leaned forward. “He says something’s killing patients there. Not suicides. Not natural. Something’s feeding on them.”

Dean scoffed, tossing the folder onto the nightstand. “Oh, sure. Let’s take monster-hunting advice from a guy whose last mental breakdown involved seeing fairies in his soup.”

She frowned, her gaze moving between the brothers. “Martin might be unstable, but he’s a hunter. He knows the difference between shadows and monsters.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to her. “Sweetheart, you’re giving crazy way too much credit.”

Her towel slipped off her shoulders and she tugged it back up, giving him a look. “And you’re giving cynicism too much airtime.”

Sam smirked. “She’s got a point.”

Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect. Now I’ve got both of you ganging up on me.”

“You’re just mad because we’re right,” she shot back, a little smile tugging at her lips.

Dean side-eyed her, muttering, “Yeah, keep smiling. See what happens.” 

“You two done making goo-goo eyes? We’ve got work.”

Dean sat bolt uprigh. “Goo-goo eyes? Seriously, Sam? What are you, twelve?”

Sam shrugged, standing to grab his jacket. “Call it like I see it.”

Dean muttered under his breath, “I’ll show you goo-goo eyes,” and she bit her lip to keep from laughing.

Finally, Dean huffed and grabbed his boots off the floor. “Fine. Psych ward it is. But if I end up in a straitjacket, I’m blaming both of you.”

The psychiatric hospital loomed on the outskirts of town, a massive concrete building squatting against the grey sky.

The windows were narrow and barred, the parking lot empty except for a handful of staff cars. Dean sighed as they walked up the steps. “Tell me this doesn’t look like the set from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

“Feels about right,” Sam replied.

Inside, the lobby smelled of disinfectant and overbrewed coffee. A receptionist behind thick glass directed them to the admissions wing, where a doctor with wire-rim glasses and a too-perfect tie was waiting.

His badge read Dr. Fuller.

Dr. Fuller flipped through the intake forms they’d filled out. He raised his eyebrows slowly. “So… brothers... and...?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Brothers and girlfriend. Complicated family. You know how it is.” 

The doctor scanned the paperwork. “Sure. So, Sam, you reported Dean's symptoms as aggression, antisocial tendencies, inflated ego, authority issues—”

Dean leaned back in the chair, smirking. “Sounds about right.”

“Sam,” the doctor continued, “paranoia, insomnia, feelings of persecution.”

Sam crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Yeah, well, you try being hunted by demons your whole life. See how much sleep you get.”

The doctor gave a nervous chuckle, scribbling something down. Then his gaze shifted to her file. “And you, Miss Ford…anxiety, unresolved trauma, survivor's guilt. That’s quite a list.”

“It’s honest.”

Dean glanced at her, his jaw tightening. He covered it with a smirk. “Don’t let the doc psych you out, sweetheart. They always make it sound worse than it is.”

Sam cut in dryly, “Not sure it can sound worse than it is.” Dean shot him a glare. “Careful, Sammy.”

Dr. Fuller leaned back in his chair, tapping the pen against the clipboard. “So let me get this straight. The three of you believe that there are—” he glanced at his notes “—demons, vampires, ghosts, and a literal Devil pursuing you?”

Dean sat forward, smirk widening. “Give the man a gold star.” The doctor blinked at him, unamused. “That’s…quite a delusion.”

Sam exchanged a look with her. He shrugged faintly, a silent told you so.

Dean leaned back again, spreading his arms wide. “Doc, just be glad we didn’t tell you about the angels.”

The doctor scribbled more notes, then looked up, forcing a polite smile. “Well, I think it’s best we get you all settled in. This environment can help you…process your... perceived circumstances.”

As they walked, Sam leaned toward her and Dean, keeping his voice low. “You know, if we’re pretending to be crazy, maybe you two should cool it with the whole touchy-feely thing. You’re gonna blow our cover.”

She blinked, taken off guard. “What?”

Dean shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Sam smirked faintly, enjoying himself for once. “Come on. The hand holding, the looks, the constant whispering. You two scream codependent.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again, jaw tightening. “Better than screaming ‘giant, and I mean that literally, pain in the ass,’ which is your role.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

The hallway reeked of bleach and stale air, the kind of sterile cleanliness that still felt dirty somehow. Their shoes squeaked faintly against the linoleum, echoing under the fluorescent lights. The orderlies handed each of them a thin stack of folded scrubs and pointed toward their assigned rooms.

Dean took his packet, holding it like it was toxic. “What, no dinner and a show? Just straight to the jammies?”

The orderly didn’t flinch. “Policy.”

When the doors closed behind them, she found herself in a narrow room with one window barred across the glass. The paint on the walls was peeling in strips, the mattress thin and uneven. She sat on the edge of the bed, scrubs folded in her lap, staring at the ceiling.

Across the hall, Dean slammed his locker shut, the sound carrying. A minute later, there was a soft knock on her door.

She looked up. “Yeah?”

Dean slipped inside, already in his scrubs, the ugly pale green fabric doing him no favors. He grinned faintly. “So. How do I look? Ready for General Hospital or more like Nightcrawler extra number three?”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Somewhere between Lou Bloom and a janitor.”

He smirked. “Hot.” Then his gaze softened as he leaned against the doorframe. “You okay?”

She nodded, though her grip tightened on the fabric in her lap.

Dean noticed, of course.

He crossed the small room in a few strides and sat beside her on the bed, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. He draped an arm across the back of her shoulders, pulling her gently against his side. 

The door banged open again. Sam stepped in, his own scrubs making him look even taller than usual. His mouth curved in a humorless half-smile. “Well, don’t you two look cozy.”

Dean didn’t even flinch. “Jealous?”

“Hard pass.” Sam leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “We’ve got group therapy in twenty minutes. Martin’s probably already there. We should—”

His gaze flicked between them, and his smirk sharpened. “Actually, maybe you two should try sitting separately. Might sell the crazy more if you don’t look like you’re practically conjoined.”

Dean’s head snapped toward him. “Sam—”

She touched his arm lightly before he could launch into a full defense, her fingers pressing just enough to quiet him.

She gave Sam a tired look. “We’ll be fine.”

Sam raised his brows like he didn’t buy it, but he let it go. “Fine. Just…keep it subtle.” He left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Dean huffed. “Subtle. Like he knows the first thing about subtle.”

She leaned into his side, letting the rhythm of his breathing calm her. “He just doesn’t get it.”

Dean’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “Yeah. He doesn’t.” His voice was softer now.

The therapy room was a bland rectangle of beige walls and folding chairs. Patients sat in a loose circle, some staring at the floor, others whispering to themselves. A nurse perched by the door with a clipboard, her eyes darting between them all like a hawk.

Dean dropped into a chair with a loud sigh, leaning back with his arms crossed. Sam took the seat beside him, posture perfect, already looking like he hated every second of it. She sat on Dean’s other side, feeling the weight of too many eyes.

The doctor leading the group, tall, thin, smile too wide, clapped his hands. “Okay, everyone. Let’s start with introductions.” His gaze fell on Sam first.

“Why don’t you begin?”

Sam hesitated. Then, in the flattest voice imaginable, he said, “Sam. I think demons are trying to kill me.”

The doctor’s smile didn’t waver, though the nurse scribbled furiously.

“Thank you, Sam. And you?” His eyes shifted to Dean.

Dean smirked. “Dean. Same demons. Probably trying harder.”

The doctor chuckled awkwardly. “And you?” he asked, turning to her.

She folded her hands in her lap. “I think demons are hot.” Dean let out a laugh, covering it with a cough.

The doctor nodded, jotting it down. “All right. Why don’t we talk about what that means for you?”

Dean shifted, his eyes, though, were sharp, scanning the room, watching the patients more than he was listening.

That was when she noticed a man across the circle, gaunt face, eyes wide and frantic, muttering to himself. He glanced up suddenly, locking eyes with her. His lips moved soundlessly, forming words she couldn’t quite catch. Her pulse skipped, unease prickling at her skin.

When the circle broke and the patients shuffled out, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Sam. Dean.”

They turned. Martin Creaser stood near the door, hair thinner, eyes bright. “Knew you’d come.”

Dean muttered, “Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed today.”

Martin’s grin widened. “I wasn’t wrong, was I? Something’s feeding in here.”

Dean shot a look at Sam. “Well, Sammy, congrats. Your crazy friend might actually be onto something.”

Sam sighed. “Told you.”

The ward ran on routine. Breakfast trays at seven-thirty. Group therapy at nine. Medications at noon. Activities at two. Dinner at five. Lights out at nine.

And yet every second inside those walls felt bent in a way that couldn’t be blamed entirely on hospital policy.

She sat in the common room, the plastic chair creaking under her as she picked half-heartedly at a puzzle missing three corner pieces. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everyone in a colorless pallor. Patients wandered aimlessly, some muttering to themselves, some sitting perfectly still, staring at nothing.

Across the room, Dean lounged in another chair, legs sprawled, flipping through a dog-eared copy of People magazine like he couldn’t care less.

Every so often, though, his gaze flicked up, tracking her movements.

Sam was standing near Martin, their heads bent together as they spoke in low, clipped tones. Martin gestured wildly, whispering about patterns, about staff who weren’t what they seemed. Sam listened with patient focus, though she could see the skepticism flickering in his eyes.

“Hey,” Dean called softly.

She looked up. He tilted his head, motioning for her to come over. She abandoned the puzzle and crossed the room, sliding into the seat beside him. His hand brushed her back, casual enough to pass as nothing, but the heat of it steadied her racing pulse.

Dean leaned in, voice low. “You notice the nurse?”

She frowned. “Which one?”

“The redhead by the desk. Keeps looking at the patients like they’re appetizers.”

Her gaze darted across the room. The nurse in question smiled too brightly at a patient, touching his shoulder just a little too long, eyes glittering unnaturally in the light. A chill crawled down her spine.

Dean’s hand flexed against her back. “Yeah. You saw it too.”

Before she could reply, the orderly called her name. “You’ve got one-on-one in fifteen.”

Dean stiffened beside her. “With who?”

The orderly glanced at his clipboard. “Dr. Fuller.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath. “Of course.”

She stood, smoothing her scrubs, heart thudding. Dean rose with her, bristling.

The orderly gave him a pointed look. “Just her.”

Dean smirked, sharp and unamused. “Yeah, not happening.”

The orderly squared his shoulders. “Sir, you need to—”

“Relax,” she cut in quickly, laying a hand on Dean’s arm. His muscles jumped under her touch. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move as she followed the orderly down the hall. Still, she felt his eyes on her back the entire way.

The office was neat in that calculated, sterile way. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with titles on psychology and behavior. A framed diploma hung behind the desk. The blinds were half-closed, filtering the light into pale stripes across the carpet.

Dr. Fuller gestured for her to sit. She obeyed, sinking into the stiff chair across from him. 

“So,” he began, flipping open her file. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?”

Her stomach tightened. “You could say that.”

His pen hovered over the page. “Tell me about your friends, Sam and Dean.”

She hesitated. “They’re…complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“They fight a lot. But they’d do anything for each other.” She swallowed, eyes flicking to the blinds. “Anything.”

He nodded slowly, jotting something down. “And Dean?”

Her pulse jumped. “What about him?”

“You seem close.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Codependent, perhaps. Sometimes intense bonds can mask dysfunction.”

Her chest tightened. “It's not dysfunction. He’s—” She cut herself off, realizing how defensive she sounded.

The doctor tilted his head, gaze too sharp. “You rely on him. Maybe more than you realize.”

She shifted in her seat, suddenly too warm under his gaze. Her nails bit into her palms.

Dean sat rigid in his chair, the magazine forgotten in his lap. He’d tried to play it cool, but his eyes kept darting toward the hallway where she’d disappeared. Every second she was gone scraped against his nerves like broken glass.

Sam returned, sitting beside him. “She’s fine, Dean.”

Dean shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “You don’t know that.”

Sam sighed, glancing around the room. “We need to focus. Martin thinks the staff—”

Dean interrupted. “I don’t give a damn what Martin thinks. If that quack tries anything with her—” He snapped the magazine closed so hard the staples popped. “I’ll end him.”

Sam shook his head. “You’re gonna blow our cover.”

Dean’s gaze returned to the hallway, hard and unyielding. “Don’t care.”

Back in the office, Dr. Fuller leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Tell me something. Do you ever feel like Dean doesn’t really see you? That he’d drop you if it meant saving Sam?”

Her throat tightened, breath shallow. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Dr. Fuller’s smile sharpened. “That’s the truth you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”

Her hands shook. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought, This isn’t therapy. This isn’t right.

Her reflection in the darkened window shifted, just for a heartbeat, into something gaunt, skeletal, eyes glowing with hunger. Her pulse spiked.

She blinked hard, and it was gone.

But the unease clung to her, cold and suffocating.

Her fingernails dug crescents into her palms as Dr. Fuller leaned closer, his pen scratching across the page like nails on a chalkboard.

“You think Dean loves you the same way you love him,” he said softly, like he was whispering a truth meant to shatter her. “But he doesn’t. He never will. He’ll always pick Sam. And when that happens, you’ll see—”

The words blurred in her ears, static rushing through her head. Her breath hitched, heart hammering.

This isn’t right. This isn’t real.

Her gaze darted to the blinds again. For a heartbeat, she swore the slats bent outward, the shadows beyond reaching toward her like hands.

She shot to her feet, chair scraping against the floor. “We’re done.”

Dr. Fuller didn’t flinch. He only smiled that too-smooth smile. “You’ll see, eventually. You all will.”

Her hands trembled as she reached for the door. She didn’t wait for him to dismiss her, just yanked it open and stepped out into the hallway.

And there he was.

Dean leaned against the wall across from the office, arms crossed, posture casual but eyes sharp, coiled tight like a spring. His gaze swept her instantly, cataloging every twitch in her hands, every flicker in her expression.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I just...yeah.”

Dean pushed off the wall, stepping into her space without hesitation. “He say something?”

Her lips parted, but the words stuck in her throat. Dean’s eyes narrowed. “He did. Son of a bitch.”

She caught his wrist before he could storm past her. “Dean, no. It’s not worth it.”

His jaw flexed, but he froze, letting her hold him back. 

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, muttering, “Fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

Later, the three of them sat at a plastic table in the cafeteria, trays of bland hospital food between them.

Sam pushed his peas around with the plastic fork, frowning. “Martin says there’s been a pattern. Patients showing signs of deterioration, sudden exhaustion.”

Dean stabbed a forkful of mashed potatoes, glaring across the room at Dr. Fuller. “Yeah, well, our good doctor’s got bedside manner like Lecter.”

She sipped the watery juice. Her mind replayed his words in an endless loop. He’ll always pick Sam. He doesn’t really love you.

Dean noticed her silence. His knee brushed hers under the table. “Eat something,” he murmured.

She shook her head faintly.

Dean sighed, softer this time. He slid his tray toward her, the fork still stuck in the potatoes. “Fine. Steal mine. You always do anyway.”

She blinked at him, startled. His lips curved into the faintest smirk.

Across the table, Sam watched them, brow furrowing. He hesitated, then said, “You know they could use us against each other.”

Dean leaned forward again, dropping his voice. “Look, whatever that thing is, it feeds on crazy, right? Fine. But we keep our heads straight, we keep our eyes open, and we put it down before it screws with us any worse.”

Sam nodded reluctantly. “Right.”

Dean glanced at her again, softer now. “You hear me?” She exhaled slowly and nodded.

The ward at night was worse. The fluorescent lights dimmed, the halls echoing with distant mutters and the occasional scream. She lay on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, unable to close her eyes.

Across the hall, Dean shifted in his own bed. The faint squeak of springs gave him away.

Finally, she whispered, “Dean?”

There was a pause. Then, soft. “Yeah?”

“Are you awake?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “No. Talking in my sleep.”

She rolled onto her side, facing the barred window. “Do you think what Fuller said was true? That we’re...too close. That it’s a weakness.”

Dean was silent for a long moment. The quiet stretched until she thought maybe he wouldn’t answer.

 “Not a weakness. Never that.”

The springs creaked again, footsteps padded across the hall. A moment later, her door opened, and Dean slipped inside, bare feet silent against the floor. He closed it behind him and crossed the room in two strides.

He sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping. His hand brushed her hair back from her face, lingering against her cheek. 

“You’re the only thing in this whole screwed-up mess that makes me feel sane.”

She reached for his hand, holding it tight against her cheek.

Dean stayed like that, leaning over her, their breaths mingling in the dim light. For a moment, the ward and the wraith and the peeling paint didn’t exist. Just his touch, his warmth, the steady thud of his pulse under her fingers.

Then, down the hall, someone screamed.

Dean swore under his breath, standing. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

Her fingers tightened around his hand. “Be careful.”

He squeezed back, firm. “Always.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her heart racing in the dark.

Dean padded down the hallway, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly, buzzing overhead like angry hornets. The air smelled sharper at night, bleach mixed with something coppery.

He moved past open doorways, glimpsing shapes in the dim. A patient rocking back and forth on his bed, muttering under his breath. Another pressed against the window, forehead against the bars, whispering to something only he could see.

Then he found the source.

An orderly stood at the end of the hall, bent over a collapsed patient on the floor. The patient’s eyes rolled back, his skin clammy and pale. The orderly pressed two fingers to his neck, shaking his head slowly.

Dean’s chest tightened. He knew that look. Knew the way the body sagged, the life already gone.

“Heart attack,” the orderly said flatly, glancing up. His tone was casual.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? He look like he had heart problems to you?”

The orderly’s gaze lingered a second too long. Then he shrugged. “These things happen.”

Dean’s fists clenched, itching to grab the guy and slam him against the wall until he confessed. But he forced himself to back off, jaw tight. “Yeah. Sure they do.”

When he returned to her room, she was sitting up on the bed, knees pulled to her chest. Relief washed across her face when she saw him.

“Dead,” Dean muttered, shutting the door behind him. “Orderly didn’t even blink.”

She swallowed hard, pulling the thin blanket tighter around herself. “So Martin was right. It’s feeding.”

Dean dropped onto the edge of her bed again, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. And it’s wearing a damn uniform.”

“We’ll stop it,” she said.

Dean looked at her, eyes burning in the dim. “Damn right we will.”

The next morning, Sam gathered them and Martin in a corner of the common room.

“I've asked around. Five deaths in the last three weeks,” Sam said, voice low. “All marked as heart failure. Average age? Forty. None had prior conditions. That’s not coincidence.”

Martin’s eyes gleamed, fever-bright. “I told you. It’s here. Walking among us.”

Dean leaned over Sam’s shoulder, scanning the files. “So what? We check every staff member for freaky brain tentacles?”

Martin hissed, “It hides in plain sight. Could be anyone.”

Dean snorted. “Great. Nothing says fun like demon roulette.”

Her chest tightened. He doesn’t love you. He’ll pick Sam. 

Dean's hand brushed the small of her back. “Hey. Eyes on me.”

She blinked, focusing on him. His gaze was sharp. “Don’t let it get in your head,” he murmured.

Martin’s gaze flicked between them, lips thinning. “It’ll pick at your weak spots. That’s what it does. Your fears, your insecurities. You’ll start seeing things.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Then we kill it before it gets the chance.”

Too late.

Later that day, she stood at the sink in the bathroom, splashing water on her face. Her reflection in the mirror stared back, pale and tired. She leaned closer, hands gripping the porcelain.

Then her reflection moved.

Not her. Not exactly. The figure in the mirror smirked faintly, eyes glinting with malice.

“You know they don’t need you, right? You’re just extra weight. A liability.”

Her stomach dropped. The reflection leaned closer. “Dean doesn’t love you. He pities you. That’s worse.”

She stumbled back, breath shallow. When she looked again, it was only her reflection, wide-eyed and shaken.

The bathroom door creaked open. Dean stepped inside, frowning. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly, too quickly. “Uh huh.”

Dean’s gaze sharpened, reading her like a book. He crossed the space between them and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly under her eye.

“Talk to me.”

Her lips parted, but the words stuck in her throat.

Dean sighed softly, leaning his forehead against hers. His touch was steady. “Whatever it’s showing you, it’s lies. You hear me? Lies.”

Her chest ached. She nodded, pressing closer.

Dean’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her against his chest. His warmth seeped into her bones, steadying the tremor in her hands. 

Then the loudspeaker crackled. “Group therapy in five minutes.”

Dean muttered against her hair, “Perfect timing.” She laughed weakly, muffled against his chest.

Group therapy that afternoon was suffocating.

The circle of patients seemed tighter, their mutters sharper, more frantic. The walls felt like they were closing in. Dean sat slouched in his chair, eyes sharp beneath his lazy exterior. She sat beside him, shoulders stiff, hands clenched in her lap.

Sam’s voice cut through the tension. “People are dying in here. You all know it. Something’s feeding on us.”

Patients shifted, some muttering agreement, others staring blankly.

Dr. Fuller’s smile stretched wider. “That’s quite a delusion, Sam.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “It’s not a delusion. It’s the truth.”

Dr. Fuller turned to her. “And what about you, Miss Ford? Do you share this…perspective?”

Her throat tightened. She felt all eyes on her. The room swam for a second, reflections of Fuller’s smile warping into something skeletal, hungry. She blinked hard, forcing her voice out steady.

“We’ve seen worse.” Dean’s lips twitched upward.

But Sam’s expression darkened. He was pale, sweat beading at his temple. His hands trembled.

“You okay?” she whispered, leaning toward him.

Sam flinched, eyes darting like he was seeing something she couldn’t. His breath came too fast.

Dean sat up straighter, tension radiating off him. “Sammy. Look at me.”

But Sam’s gaze slid past them, haunted. “He’s here,” he whispered. “Lucifer. He’s...he’s right there.”

The room erupted. Patients shouted, some screaming, others laughing hysterically. Nurses surged in, pinning Sam down as he thrashed.

Dean lunged forward, but an orderly shoved him back.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean snarled, shoving the man off. He tried to reach his brother, but Sam was already being dragged out of the room, fighting against the restraints.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice cracked, raw with panic.

Dean surged after him, but another pair of orderlies blocked the door. “Get the hell out of my way!”

She grabbed his arm, stopping him. They would never solve this if they both got taken. “Dean.”

His chest heaved, fury radiating off him, but he froze. Finally, the orderlies disappeared with Sam, and the room fell back into tense silence.

Dean turned to her, eyes blazing. “We’re running out of time.”

That night, Dean paced their shared room like a caged animal. His fists clenched, his jaw tight. She sat on the bed, knees drawn up, watching him wear a path into the thin carpet.

“He’s slipping,” Dean muttered. “That thing’s getting to him. And it’s getting to you.”

She flinched. “Dean—”

“I saw your face today,” he pressed, stopping short in front of her. 

Her throat tightened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” Dean snapped. He crouched in front of her, his hands braced on her knees. “We do this together, yeah?”

She swallowed hard, her vision blurring, but his grip was steady.

Then his gaze flicked to the mirror above the sink, and his blood ran cold.

Her reflection smirked back at him, eyes glinting unnaturally. Dean froze, breath hitching. “No.”

She frowned, following his gaze. “What?”

Dean shot to his feet, backing toward the door, eyes locked on her like she was a ticking bomb. His chest heaved, his face pale. “Stay back.”

Her stomach dropped. “Dean, it’s me.”

But his hand hovered near the nightstand, where he’d hidden a sharpened piece of metal. His eyes were wild, fear and fury clashing.

She stepped closer, slowly, holding her hands out. “Dean. Look at me. That's not me. It’s in your head.”

His grip tightened on the makeshift blade. Sweat beaded at his temple. His breath came fast and shallow.

She took another step, her voice breaking. “I’m not the monster. You know me. You know me.”

Dean’s hand shook. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Finally, his eyes softened. The blade clattered to the floor.

And then she was in his arms, his chest heaving against hers as he buried his face in her hair.

“I almost—” His voice cracked. “God, I almost—”

“Shh.” She held him tight, her own tears spilling hot. “You didn’t. You wouldn't've.”

Dean’s grip only tightened, his whole body trembling. “I can’t...I don't know what's real anymore.”

The next morning, Martin cornered them in the hallway, eyes wild.

“It’s one of the staff. I know it. We have to cut their heads open, check for the spike.”

Dean groaned. “Oh yeah, that’ll go over great. ‘Excuse me, Doc, mind if I take an axe to your skull real quick?’”

Martin glared. “You don’t get it. This thing feeds until there’s nothing left. It’s already inside your heads.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “We know.”

Martin’s gaze flicked to her. “It’s been whispering to you, hasn’t it? Telling you you're not good enough, that you're not loved?"

She stiffened, blood running cold.

Dean’s expression darkened into a storm. He stepped forward, his voice low. “Watch your mouth.”

Martin’s lips curled. “It’ll use her to break you. Just like it’s breaking Sam.”

Dean moved forward, but she caught his arm again, holding him back. His muscles quivered under her grip, fury radiating off him. “We’re gonna find it and put it down. You hear me?”

Dean’s arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close against his side. “And we’re gonna do it together. No more splitting up.”

The treatment room was quiet.

Dean slipped through the doorway first, shoulders tight, jaw set. She followed at his side, the sharp scent of antiseptic stinging her nose. Sam trailed behind, tense, eyes darting, looking every bit like he was walking into a nightmare.

“Why is it always the creepy, fluorescent-lit rooms?” Dean muttered under his breath.

Her lips twitched despite herself, but her grip on the sharpened piece of metal Dean had pressed into her palm earlier tightened.

Sam scanned the room, his voice unsteady. “It’s here. I can feel it.”

Dean’s hand brushed her back, the touch grounding her. “Stay close.”

Then, the voice cut through the quiet. “Clever little rats.”

They turned.

Dr. Fuller stepped out from the shadows, his smile wide and wrong, teeth glinting under the sickly light.

“Oh, come on,” Dean groaned. “Figures it’d be the doc.”

Fuller’s smile stretched wider, his face twitching with something inhuman beneath the skin.

His gaze flicked over them one by one, lingering on her. “You’ve been so fun to watch. So full of fear. Especially you, sweetheart. Pretending you're so strong for your boys.”

Her chest tightened, breath catching.

Dean stepped in front of her so fast it was a blur. “We know what you are.”

Fuller chuckled, low and mocking. “You love her. That much is obvious. But even love can rot, Dean. Even love can be twisted. How long before she realizes she’s just another weakness you can’t afford?”

Dean’s jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

Fuller’s skin rippled, face distorting as bone cracked and lengthened, a jagged spike protruding from the top of his skull.

His eyes went black, his grin stretching too wide.

The wraith revealed itself fully, grotesque and monstrous.

Sam swore under his breath. “Knew it.”

Dean shifted, shoving her back gently toward the wall. 

“No,” she hissed. “I’m fighting too.”

But the wraith didn’t give her time to argue. It lunged.

The room exploded into chaos.

Dean swung first, the length of metal he carried slicing through the air. The wraith ducked, its speed inhuman, its hand lashing out. Dean caught the blow against his forearm, teeth gritted as claws raked skin.

“Son of a—” Dean hissed, shoving back hard.

Sam came at it from the side, aiming low. The wraith twisted, the spike on its skull gleaming, and slammed him into the wall. Sam hit with a grunt, the plaster cracking.

Her heart lurched. “Sam!”

Dean turned his head for half a second at her voice, and that was all it took. The wraith lashed out, claws catching his shoulder, ripping fabric and skin. Dean staggered, biting back a cry, blood blooming bright against his white shirt.

“No!” she shouted, rushing forward. She slammed the sharpened metal into the creature’s side. It screeched, black blood spraying.

Dean’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist, yanking her back before the wraith could retaliate. “Go!” His voice was sharp, but his eyes burned with fear.

“I’m not leaving you!” she snapped back, chest heaving.

The wraith grinned through its pain, eyes glittering. “Oh, I like you. So much fight. So much guilt. He'll just leave you behind like everyone else.”

Dean’s face twisted into fury. “That’s it.”

He lunged, tackling the wraith with all his weight. They hit the floor hard, metal clattering across the tiles. The wraith snarled, twisting, its claws slicing across Dean’s cheek.

Sam staggered up, grabbing the fallen weapon. “Dean! Move!”

Dean rolled, and Sam drove the sharpened metal down into the wraith’s chest. It shrieked, thrashing violently, the sound high and piercing. Black blood gushed as the spike cracked deeper, shuddering through its body.

Finally, it went still.

Dean lay on the floor, chest heaving, face and shoulder bleeding. Sam knelt, panting, bloodied but standing. She dropped to her knees beside Dean, hands trembling as she reached for him.

“Dean,” she whispered, voice breaking.

He grabbed her hand immediately, clutching it tight. His eyes met hers, his breath ragged. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

She could see it in the blood streaking down his face, the way his arm shook when he tried to push himself upright.

She slid an arm under his, helping him sit. He leaned heavily against her, his forehead brushing her temple for the briefest second.

Sam’s voice cracked through the quiet. “It’s dead.”

They stumbled back to their room together, bloody, bruised, and shaken. Dean didn’t let go of her hand the entire walk, his thumb rubbing against her skin.

Sam collapsed onto the bed the second they got inside. Dean sat down hard on the mattress beside her, running his free hand through his hair.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes tired, jaw tight. Then he shook his head with a bitter half-smile.

“Ask me that again after I stop seeing your reflection with a friggin’ spike through your skull.”

Her stomach flipped. “Dean—”

He cut her off by squeezing her hand tighter. “It wasn’t you. I know that. But for a second, I thought…” His voice cracked, and he looked away, swallowing hard.

“I can’t do that again.” A pause. "I'm sorry for ever doubting you, sweetheart."

She leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to his, her free hand brushing his cheek, ignoring the blood. “You didn’t doubt me. Not really. You fought it off. That’s what matters.”

His breath shuddered, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck.

By morning, the hospital staff was shaken but efficient. News of Dr. Fuller’s death spread quickly, dressed up in official terms like “complications” and “accident.”

Nobody asked questions. Nobody wanted to.

A nurse signed their discharge papers with quick, clinical precision. “You’re free to go.”

Dean smirked faintly, adjusting the bandage under his shirt. “Guess that makes us cured.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but his voice was hoarse. “Yeah, cured. Sure.”

She fell into step between them, her shoulder brushing Dean’s.

His hand brushed her lower back as they left the hospital behind, like he needed to guide her out.

The cold air outside hit like a wave, clean after the stifling halls inside. She sucked in a breath, relief sharp in her chest.

“Never thought I’d be this glad to see the outside world once again.”

Sam gave a weak smile. “Bet the staff didn’t think they’d miss us either.”

The Impala wasn’t waiting for them.

Instead, the familiar flutter of wings broke the silence, and Castiel appeared a few feet away, trench coat flaring slightly in the cold wind.

Dean groaned. “You ever heard of knocking?”

Cas tilted his head. “You were not in a room.”

Dean sighed, rubbing his face. “Point stands.”

Sam managed a tired smile. “Guess you heard about Fuller.”

“I did,” Cas replied simply. His gaze flicked over each of them, lingering on the cuts, the bruises, and the exhaustion clinging to their eyes. “You survived.”

Dean snorted. “Barely.”

Cas’s eyes lingered on her a fraction longer, his expression unreadable. “What you faced in there was not just a monster. It was a mirror. The fears it fed on were real. Do not forget that.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, thanks for the pep talk, Obi-Wan.”

Cas’s gaze flicked to their joined hands, then back to Dean. “Guard her well.”

Dean stiffened, his expression flickering, but he didn’t let go.

Sam shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Lovely. So, what now?”

“Now, you keep moving. Because what’s coming next will be worse.”

And then he was gone, the flap of wings leaving only silence in his wake.

Dean exhaled slowly, turning to look at her. His hand squeezed hers, steady and firm. “Turtles all the way down, baby.”

She nodded, her chest aching, but when she leaned into him, his arm came around her shoulders immediately, pulling her close.

Together, the three of them walked away from the hospital.

Chapter Text

The night was quiet. Too quiet.

The three of them had been running hard for weeks, the air thick with exhaustion and old grief, the weight of Ellen and Jo never far behind them.

Tonight was supposed to be a reprieve, a dusty little house off the highway, empty but serviceable.

Dean sat on the edge of the couch, whiskey glass balanced in one hand, shotgun leaning against the wall. She curled against his side, her head tucked against his shoulder.

He had one arm around her, fingers idly brushing along her arm in absent patterns he probably didn’t even realize he was tracing.

Sam hovered by the window, restless, eyes flicking toward the dark outside like he could feel something moving in it.

“Relax, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his voice tired. “If anything was out there, we’d know by now.”

She tilted her head, watching him. “You actually believe that?”

Dean gave her a half-smile. “Hell no. But it sounded nice for, like, two seconds.”

Sam turned, jaw tight. “Dean—”

The door exploded inward with a crash that rattled the thin walls, the chain lock snapping like it was made of plastic.

Two hunters stormed inside, shotguns up, eyes burning with cold fury.

“Winchesters,” one spat, voice sharp.

Dean froze halfway out of his chair, his hand instinctively shooting out in front of her. Sam stood tense across the room, his hands slowly lifting, eyes locked on the muzzles pointed straight at their chests.

“Easy,” Sam said low, calm but taut. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”

The taller hunter scoffed. “That’s rich, comin’ from you. How many bodies in your rearview, Winchester?” His eyes cut to Dean, then to her.

“And you...standing right there with them. You think you’re any better?”

Her throat went dry, but she didn’t flinch. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

The shorter one, jittery with nerves and anger, tightened his grip on the shotgun.

“We know enough. Demons, angels, seals breakin’...world’s fallin’ apart everywhere you go. Common denominator’s always the same: you three.”

Dean’s jaw locked. “Put the guns down before you do somethin’ you can’t take back.”

The taller hunter sneered. “What, you gonna talk us to death?”

Her pulse hammered in her ears. Dean’s body was rigid at her side, like a live wire ready to snap. Sam shifted just enough to put himself between the hunters and his brother, his eyes flicking for any kind of opening.

The standoff shattered in a blink.

A shot cracked like thunder. Sam jerked, the force slamming him back into the wall. Blood bloomed across his chest as he slid down, gasping, his legs buckling under him.

“Sammy!” Dean’s voice tore ragged from his throat. He started forward, but the second hunter pivoted, gun trained on him.

She threw herself between them, hand outstretched like she could stop a bullet.

The blast hit her square in the chest. Air ripped out of her lungs in a sharp cry as she fell back into Dean’s arms.

“Sweetheart, no, no, no, stay with me, come on—” His hands pressed desperately against the wound, but blood spilled hot and fast through his fingers.

Her eyes fluttered, searching for him.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispered fiercely, voice breaking apart. “I’ve got you, dammit, don’t...don’t do this to me.”

Her lips parted slightly, her voice barely above a whisper as she gave it all her remaining strenght. "I lov-" Her body went slack in his arms.

He stared at her face, at Sam’s body crumpled on the floor, and then his chest cracked open with grief so violent it hollowed him out.

His voice dropped to a ragged sound.

“Do it.” His glare shot back up at them, feral. “Put me down. You wanted me...then finish the job. Kill me.” 

A pause.

"Please."

He barely felt the third shot when it came, slamming into his chest. The world lurched, his knees buckled, and he collapsed sideways across the carpet.

His forehead pressed clumsily against hers, his hand tangled in hers even as the blood ran cold.

And then Dean Winchester’s world went black.

Her last thought was of Dean.

Dean's last thought was of her.

Silence.

She blinked, expecting to see the peeling ceiling of that rundown safehouse, or Dean’s face hovering over her, frantic and bloody.

Instead, she was standing.

The air was cool, crisp, the sky above painted in soft purples and golds. It was twilight, the kind that felt eternal, neither day nor night.

She was in the middle of a gravel road.

And she knew this place.

The road stretched out past fields of tall grass filled with lupine, bunchberry, yarrow, and black-eyed susans. Above the flowers flew dots of light, fireflies.

A lodge-like house sat at the end of the lane, light spilling from the windows. The air smelled of woodsmoke and mountain breeze.

Her chest tightened, this was Washington. Her Washington.

A voice broke through her daze.

“Sweetheart?”

She spun, and there he was.

Dean.

He moved fast, closing the space between them, his hands gripping her shoulders before pulling her into a crushing embrace.

His chest heaved against hers, his face buried in her hair.

“I love you,” he rasped, his voice breaking in a way she’d never heard before.

Her arms wrapped around him, holding him just as tightly. She could feel his heart hammering against her. “And I love you,” she whispered back.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands still cupping her arms. “Where the hell are we?”

She looked around again, the lodge glowing warm in the distance, the fireflies blinking lazily in the twilight.

“Dean…” Her voice trembled. “I think we’re in Heaven.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, well, I’m not buying it. Heaven doesn’t look like a Norman Rockwell painting.”

She scoffed. “Still cynical. Guess some things never change.”

He smirked faintly, slipping an arm around her waist, pulling her close again, his hand resting at the small of her back. “Whatever this is, you stay with me. Got it?”

Her chest ached, but she nodded. “Always.”

Dean’s eyes softened at the word, his thumb brushing lightly against her hip. He didn’t let go as they started down the gravel road together.

And in the distance, the lodge's lights glowed brighter, beckoning them forward.

The lodge door creaked open as they approached, though no one stood there.

Dean stepped inside first, his arm still around her like he could shield her from whatever waited.

The smell hit her immediately.

Pinewood burning in the fireplace. Coffee. Something sweet, like pie cooling on the counter.

She froze.

It was her childhood kitchen.

The delicate curtains her mom had sewn by hand. The hockey sticks leaning against the back door. The family's vinyl record player with a Crooked Still record spinning slowly. And beyond the kitchen window, the frozen pond where she’d spent winters skating with Quinn.

Her knees went weak, but Dean’s arm held her steady.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down slightly. “You okay?”

Tears blurred her vision. “This is…it’s one of my memories.”

Dean frowned, scanning the room. “We’re just walking through greatest hits now?”

She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “It’s my childhood home, and our pond. That’s…that’s Quinn.”

Dean turned to the window.

Out on the frozen pond, two kids laughed and skated clumsily across the ice. A younger version of her, bundled in a too-big coat, was holding her little brother’s mittened hands, guiding him across the slick surface.

Dean went quiet.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling hot down her cheeks.

On the pond, Quinn fell, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Young her laughed too, tugging him back to his feet. The sound of their joy echoed faintly through the air.

Dean’s hand tightened at her waist. “You loved him,” he said softly.

Her voice cracked. “More than anything. He was just a kid. He didn’t deserve—” Her breath hitched.

Dean turned her to face him, his hands firm on her arms, his eyes burning. “You know it wasn't your fault.”

Her lips trembled. “Yeah, I know.”

The sound of laughter from the pond filled the kitchen, like a ghost of joy that would never fade.

The lodge faded slowly, like smoke curling off dying wood.

She blinked, clutching Dean’s sleeve as colors swirled and reformed. When her eyes adjusted, she was standing beside him on cracked asphalt beneath a dark, endless sky.

It was a familiar road. Empty, stretching out into nowhere. And parked a few feet away, gleaming under a wash of starlight, was the Impala.

Dean stiffened beside her, his arm brushing hers.

His eyes widened, then narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. “This…this is my memory.”

But as she looked closer, she knew he was wrong.

The trunk of the Impala was open, loaded with weapons and salt. A blanket lay spread across the hood, and a thermos sat balanced near the windshield.

She remembered this night.

It had been one of those rare evenings between hunts, when exhaustion pressed down so hard that even Dean admitted they needed to stop.

They’d found this empty stretch of road in the middle of nowhere, killed the engine, and sprawled across the hood together.

She’d teased him about his taste in music. He’d told her she was wrong and then played Zeppelin on repeat anyway.

She didn't care. She loved Zeppelin. But he would never know that.

It wasn’t spectacular. It wasn’t loud or wild. It was quiet. Easy. The closest thing to peace she’d known in years.

 “Dean…this is mine too.”

Dean turned, staring at her. “What?”

“This night. Out here. With you. It’s my Heaven too.”

For a long moment, he just looked at her, his expression torn between disbelief and something softer. 

Finally, he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Figures. Out of all the crap we’ve been through, your Heaven is hanging out with me on the hood of the car.”

She smiled faintly. “It wasn’t just hanging out, Dean. It was…feeling safe. With you. Like nothing else mattered for a little while.”

His jaw worked, his throat tight. He looked away, running a hand over his mouth.

She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm gently. “This memory…it’s where I realized I loved you.”

Dean froze, his hand falling to his side.

Slowly, he turned back to her, his eyes wide.

“You…” His voice cracked. “That night?”

She nodded, her lips trembling. “Yeah. You were half-asleep, and you had your arm around me, and I remember thinking…I could stay here forever. That was it. That was the moment.”

He just stared at her, every wall he had flickering in his eyes. “Guess we’re really screwed, huh?”

She laughed weakly, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Completely.”

His thumb brushed her cheekbone. His eyes searched hers like he was memorizing every detail.

“If this is Heaven…then I could live with it. Just you and me. Sammy too. That’s all I’d ever need.”

The moment stretched, suspended, until the air shifted again. The stars flickered, the Impala blurred at the edges.

Dean’s grip on her tightened. “Oh, come on. Not again.”

The road dissolved.

Sam stood a few feet away in the yard, framed by the glow of the porch light of the house in front of them. His hair fell into his face, his shoulders heavy.

He looked at them like he wasn’t sure they were real, like any second the world would blink him back to the safehouse floor.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Sammy…”

Sam’s chest rose sharp, his voice breaking when he finally managed, “Dean?” His gaze cut to her, his throat working. “You...both of you...”

Sam crossed the distance in three strides. His arms went around both of them, pulling them in like he was terrified they’d vanish if he didn’t hold on.

Dean’s free hand clapped onto Sam’s back, gripping tight, his forehead pressed to his brother’s shoulder.

Sam pulled back just enough to look at them, his eyes wet. “We’re…we’re really here?”

Dean swallowed hard, his arm still around her, his other hand gripping Sam’s shoulder like a lifeline.

“Yeah, Sammy. We’re here.”

She leaned into Dean’s side, her hand brushing over Sam’s arm. “Together again.”

Their gazes went to the house.

It wasn’t the Winchesters’ house. Not Lawrence. Not Bobby’s. And definitely not her's.

A different home stood under the wash of false starlight, warm yellow siding, Christmas lights sagging along the gutters, half burned out but stubbornly glowing in places. In the front window, a tree glimmered faintly, wrapped in cheap tinsel, the silhouette of presents stacked underneath.

Sam stood a few feet ahead, stiff and uneasy, his face tight. His voice was low, almost ashamed. “This was…my Heaven.”

Dean scanned the house like it had personally offended him, then let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Figures.”

She stepped closer, pressing her hand flat against Dean’s back, his heartbeat thundered beneath her palm. “Dean—”

But he shook his head sharply, eyes locked on Sam.

“Your Heaven’s without me. Without us. That’s what you wanted? That’s what you dream about?”

Sam’s throat worked, his shoulders hunching like the weight of it pressed him down. “It’s not like that.” His voice cracked, breaking around the edges.

Dean’s laugh came again, jagged and hollow. “Sure as hell looks like it.” He gestured at the glowing windows, the flickering lights.

“You’re in here playin’ happy family while me and her are, what? Just background noise? Dead weight you cut out?”

Sam’s face twisted, guilt flooding his eyes. “Dean, no. It wasn’t about you. It wasn’t, God, you think I don’t want you here?” He stepped closer, his voice breaking.

“This was the only time I didn’t feel like the world was on my shoulders. No blood. No demons. No fighting. Just…peace. I didn’t know I was allowed to want that.”

Dean flinched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice sharp but unsteady. “Peace without me. Without us. Hell of a way to say you missed me, Sammy.”

She pressed harder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. “Dean.”

Her voice was soft, steady, cutting through the static between them. “Come on. We've been through enough today.”

Sam’s gaze flicked to her, shame etched deep in the lines of his face. “I’m sorry. I never meant for it to look like...like you weren’t part of it. You’re my family. Both of you. Always.” His voice thinned, cracking.

“But Heaven…it pulled this. I didn’t choose to shut you out.”

His eyes darted back to the house, then to Sam, then down to her hand now resting on his arm.

The Christmas lights flickered once, twice, then the whole scene bent like warped glass.

The Winchesters, and her with them, were pulled through darkness and dropped into something else entirely.

The stale smell of beer, wood polish, and cigarette smoke clung to the air.

Dean froze mid-step, his arm still wrapped around her waist. His gaze darted around the room, and his breath caught audibly in his chest.

She knew the place even before she saw the neon sign above the bar.

The Roadhouse.

The familiar wooden walls stretched around them, the pool table scarred with years of use, bottles lined neatly on shelves behind the bar. It looked alive, untouched, as though time hadn’t burned it to the ground years ago.

Dean’s lips parted. “No way.”

Sam frowned, confused. “How—”

“Boys!”

The voice was warm, boisterous, familiar. Ash popped his head up from behind the bar, blond mullet slightly disheveled, grin wide. He leaned casually against the counter, like he’d just been waiting for them.

Dean’s jaw dropped. “Ash?”

Ash’s grin widened. “In the flesh! Well. You know. Not exactly flesh anymore. But you get the picture.”

Dean let out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course. Heaven’s got a mullet.”

Ash hopped over the bar, striding toward them with open arms. He clapped Dean on the shoulder, then Sam, then turned to her with a mock bow. “And the infamous lady of the hour. Gotta say, Heaven hasn’t shut up about you three.”

Dean’s arm tightened around her, his face hardening again. “What the hell’s going on, Ash?”

Ash raised a brow. “What, no ‘good to see you’? No ‘thanks for holding down the fort up here’?” He gestured grandly at the Roadhouse. “Welcome to your Heaven, boys and girl. Free beer, free wings, no last call.”

Dean didn’t smile. His jaw worked as his grip on her tightened like a vice. “Cut the crap. Why're we here?”

Ash’s grin faltered, his eyes darting between them. He sighed, running a hand through his mullet.

“You always were buzzkills. Fine. You’re dead. Again. But you know that. So Heaven gives you the greatest hits, puts you in your own little box of happy memories. Personalized eternity. Not so bad, right?”

Dean stepped forward. “We saw her memories. Quinn. The pond. Then…ours. They overlapped.”

Ash whistled low. “Now that’s rare. Two souls getting joint custody of a Heaven. You must’ve really tied the knot without tying the knot, if you know what I mean.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut it.”

Ash didn’t push, though his smirk softened into something gentler. “Point is, Heaven isn’t what you thought it was. It’s not one big cloud party. It’s fragments. Loops. That’s what you get.”

“So it’s fake.”

Ash shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. Memory. Real enough once. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth something now.”

Dean looked away, his hand rubbing along her back absently, his jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

Ash led them deeper into the Roadhouse, gesturing wildly like some kind of deranged tour guide. “I’ve been keeping tabs on folks. Y’all aren’t the first to crash Heaven’s party. Anna, Pamela, a few others. Word gets around.”

Ash glanced at her, his expression softening briefly before he went back to business. “You three showing up together? That’s no accident. Heaven’s got eyes everywhere. You should be careful.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Careful of what?”

Ash leaned in, his grin gone now, his voice dropping low. “The angels.”

Dean snorted bitterly. “Figures.”

Ash spread his hands. “They’ve got their hands all over this place. Highways connecting Heavens, a whole map of it. You think you’re free up here? You’re not. They’re steering.”

Dean's voice was tight. “So we’re just rats in a maze.”

Ash smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Pretty maze, though.”

Sam looked haunted. “If the angels are steering, then…what are they steering us toward?”

The air in the Roadhouse shifted.

One moment, it was stale with smoke and beer; the next, it hummed with a low, electric charge, like the seconds before a thunderstorm breaks. The neon buzz above the bar flickered once, twice, then guttered out completely.

Her skin prickled. Every instinct screamed danger.

Dean felt it too. His hand shifted slightly to press her behind him in one smooth motion. “Something’s wrong.”

Ash looked up from the bar, where he’d been nursing a beer that wasn’t even real, his expression falling into dread. “Aw, hell.”

Light bloomed across the far side of the room, blinding and cold. And there he was.

Zachariah.

The angel stepped into the Roadhouse like he owned it, crisp suit flawless, expression smug as ever. His eyes swept the room lazily, lingering on the brothers, then her. His smile widened.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” His voice was silk over steel. “Winchester family reunion.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his voice biting. “What do you want?”

Zachariah spread his arms. “Oh, come now, Dean. You know what I want. You know what we all want. Just say yes.” His gaze flicked between Dean and Sam, eyes gleaming. “Michael. Lucifer. It’s what you were built for.”

“Yeah?” Dean snapped. “Then maybe you should get a refund on the parts, because I’m not interested.”

Sam’s voice was tight. “Neither am I.”

Zachariah sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Children. Always so defiant. You’d think, after everything, you’d finally learn your place. But no. Here we are. Still pretending you have a choice.”

Dean shifted his stance, keeping her tucked behind him. “Last I checked, free will’s kinda our thing.”

She wanted to scream at him, to fight, but Dean’s hand pressed against her hip. Not yet.

Zachariah’s smile faltered. “Do you even understand what you’re throwing away? What’s coming?” His gaze flicked back to her, and his tone sharpened.

“And what about her? You think she gets out of this clean? Please. She’s tied into it just as much as you are. Do you want to know her role, Dean? Or shall I ruin the surprise?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You stay the hell away from her.”

Zachariah chuckled, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher.

“Protective as always. But tell me, Dean, how long before your precious girl realizes what you won’t admit? That she’s not just decoration in this story. She has a part to play. Bigger than she knows.”

She could feel Dean’s muscles tense in front of her, could feel the anger radiating off him.

Dean took a step forward, teeth bared. “I’ll find a way to gank you, wings or no wings.”

For the first time, Zachariah’s smile cracked, face hardening. “You don’t get to make threats here, Dean. This is my world. My rules.”

The walls of the Roadhouse shuddered violently, bottles clattering off shelves.

The ceiling lights blew out, glass raining down.

But when his eyes landed on her, that smugness sharpened into something more vicious.

“I could break you,” Zachariah said smoothly, his gaze cutting past Sam, past Dean, and pinning her like a bug under glass. 

“You. Fragile. Human. The weak link.”

Dean stepped up, broad shoulders tense, jaw tight. “You leave us alone or I swear—”

“You’ll what?” Zachariah sneered. “You can’t even stand upright in my presence.”

And then it started.

The pressure slammed into her chest like a sledgehammer.

She gasped, stumbling as her knees buckled. Invisible fingers wrapped around her ribcage and squeezed. Her scream ripped through the Roadhouse, raw and jagged, before it choked off into gasping silence.

“Stop!” Dean roared, surging forward, only to be yanked back, forced to his knees. His eyes went wide when he saw her hit the floor.

“Zachariah, stop it! This is between us!”

But Zachariah wasn’t listening.

Her spine arched violently as her body lifted off the ground, suspended in the air.

Her head snapped back, her throat bared, mouth open in a soundless cry. Blood welled at the corner of her lips where the force inside her chest squeezed harder and harder, ribs groaning under the pressure.

Dean’s voice cracked with panic. “Don’t do this! Let her go!”

Sam tried to crawl toward her, face red with strain, but Zachariah flung him into the bar like he weighed nothing.

Bottles shattered over him, glass cutting into his skin.

“Say yes,” Zachariah said calmly, watching her writhe in the air, her fingers clawing at her chest like she could pry the invisible grip away.

“One little word, Dean, and I let her go. Michael saves her. Otherwise—” His fingers twitched.

A sickening snap.

Her body jerked violently as a rib cracked. Her scream tore free this time, echoing through the Roadhouse.

Dean’s entire body shook with fury. His eyes burned as he thrashed against the invisible hold. “Stop! You’re killing her!”

Zachariah smiled coldly. “Exactly. And it’s your fault.”

Dean’s breath came in frantic gasps, his voice breaking. “Take me. Do it to me. Not her.”

But Zachariah only tilted his head. “Not good enough. Michael doesn’t want a battered, broken mess. He wants his vessel willing. Say yes, Dean. Save her.”

Her vision blurred as blood filled her mouth, spilling hot down her chin. Her body convulsed against the unseen force, every nerve screaming with pain.

Dean’s voice reached her through the haze, shouting her name like it could hold her here.

His eyes locked on hers, wild with terror. He could see the life draining out of her, her chest hitching with shallow, rattling breaths.

“Please,” Dean begged, voice hoarse. “Stop. Please.”

Zachariah smiled faintly. “Then say it.”

Dean’s jaw trembled. His whole body shook with the weight of the choice. For one terrible second, he almost said it, Sam saw it, she saw it, but then Dean’s face hardened through the tears burning in his eyes.

“No. You want me to give up? To hand her over to this nightmare? Screw you. You don’t get her. You don’t get me.”

Zachariah’s calm mask shattered. Rage twisted his features. “Then she dies.”

Her body dropped suddenly, slamming onto the floor with a brutal thud. Her chest heaved once, twice, shallow and rattling. Her eyes fluttered, barely conscious, blood smeared across her lips and chin.

Dean screamed her name, his voice ragged with grief. He crawled toward her on shaking arms, only to be yanked back again. 

Zachariah sneered, hand raised for the killing blow.

And that was when the light split the room.

It wasn’t just a flash, it was an explosion of grace that tore through the Roadhouse like a supernova. The air itself seemed to scream as the invisible weight vanished.

She collapsed against the floor, limp, coughing violently as air rushed back into her lungs.

Dean was at her side instantly, arms scooping her up, pulling her into his lap. His hands were frantic, skimming over her ribs, her face, her bloodied lips. His chest heaved with sobs he tried to choke down, his forehead pressed against her temple.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me.”

Zachariah’s snarl echoed through the smoke. “Castiel.”

The angel stood in the chaos, trench coat snapping in the aftershock of his arrival, eyes lit with fury. His voice was thunder.

“Leave them.”

Zachariah sneered, but there was fear now, laced through his fury. “You think you can protect them forever?”

Castiel raised two fingers. “Yes.”

And with a blast of light that rattled the walls, Zachariah was gone.

Dean’s hands trembled as he cradled her closer, his thumb smearing blood away from her cheek. His face was pale, eyes red and wet, his whole body shaking.

“Cas,” Dean rasped, voice breaking. “She’s hurt.”

Castiel stepped forward, kneeling beside them. His gaze flicked to her battered body, then to Dean’s desperate expression.

For once, the angel’s face softened with something almost like sorrow.

His hands shook as he brushed hair from her bloodied lips, the pads of his fingers gentle but trembling.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice breaking, “look at me. Come on, sweetheart, open those pretty eyes.”

Her lashes fluttered weakly.

She coughed, crimson streaking her lips, and her throat made a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan.

“Cas!” he barked, panic ripping through every word. 

Castiel crouched beside them, calm in a way that felt jarring against Dean’s shaking desperation. He extended two fingers, hovering above her ribs.

Dean’s arm tightened around her instinctively, like he wasn’t sure if even Cas could be trusted with her.

“Dean,” Castiel said quietly, “I need space.”

Dean glared up, his jaw tight, teeth bared. “God, Cas. Just fix this.”

Castiel inclined his head slightly, then pressed two fingers against her temple and her side.

Grace flared, burning gold. She gasped violently as light surged into her, squirming against Dean’s chest. Her body seized once, then relaxed, the rattling in her lungs easing as bone knit and ruptured vessels closed.

Dean held her tighter, murmuring hoarsely against her temple, words tumbling out. “That’s it. Breathe.”

Her eyes finally opened, bleary but clearer, finding Dean’s face hovering above her, streaked with sweat.

He let out a shaky laugh. “That was the worst thing I've ever had to go through.”

Her lips curved faintly, voice ragged but teasing. “Not exactly my idea of fun either.”

He laughed, then pulled her in, his lips brushing her hairline as his arm crushed her against him.

Sam staggered over from the bar, clutching his ribs, glass crunching under his boots.

His face was pale, but his voice was steady. “You okay?”

She gave him a tiny nod. “She will be.”

He looked up at Cas, eyes blazing. “If you hadn’t shown up when you did…” His throat closed, words failing.

Castiel simply lowered his hand. “That was Zachariah’s intent.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping. “I almost said it, Cas.”

He shut his eyes, pressing his forehead harder against hers. “I almost gave in.”

Her hand found his wrist, squeezing weakly. “But you didn’t.”

Sam crouched nearby, catching her gaze. His voice was quiet, laced with guilt. “He went after you because of us. Because of what Dean and I are. And you…” His jaw flexed, eyes hardening.

“You paid the price for it.”

Dean snapped his head around, eyes blazing. “This is on Zachariah. On Heaven. On all those winged bastards pulling the strings.”

The silence hung heavy until Castiel finally straightened. “We have to move. There is one more who can help you. Joshua.”

Dean looked up, still holding her close, suspicion lacing his expression. “And what makes flower-boy different from the rest of you?”

Castiel’s voice was calm, steady.

“Joshua talks to God.”

Sam’s breath caught. Dean’s face twisted, hope and bitterness warring in his expression. Her heart lurched in her chest, weak but steady, as she clung to Dean’s shirt.

Dean adjusted his grip, sliding his arm beneath her legs, and before she could protest he lifted her off the floor, holding her tight against him.

She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling the rapid hammer of his heartbeat.

“Then take us,” Dean said flatly, no room for argument.

And with another flash of blinding light, the Roadhouse was gone.

The world around them shifted, the ruins of the Roadhouse melting away into something achingly familiar.

They stood in the middle of a sprawling garden, sunlight spilling warm and golden across endless flowers. The air smelled of lilacs and honeysuckle, the kind of sweetness that belonged to summer mornings and childhood memories. 

Dean still held her in his arms. His boots crunched on pebble path as he slowly set her down, his hands steadying her until he was sure she could stand.

He hovered, close enough that his arm brushed hers, his gaze flicking constantly to her face like he was terrified she’d collapse again.

She reached for his hand, squeezing it. “Dean. I’m okay.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his thumb stroked along her knuckles betrayed him.

Sam’s lips parted, but he stayed quiet, watching them both.

Dean’s hand found the small of her back again, his fingers warm against her spine as he looked around the garden. His voice dropped, quieter now.

“If this is what’s waiting for us…hell, I could get used to it.”

An older man approached along the path, his gait unhurried, his expression calm.

He wore worn overalls and a sun-faded plaid shirt, a pair of garden gloves sticking out of his back pocket. In his hand was a pair of shears, and as he passed, he snipped a rose from a nearby bush, twirling it absently in his fingers.

Dean’s body stiffened immediately.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” hw demanded, voice sharp and wary.

The man smiled faintly, his gaze moving between them all with something that wasn’t quite amusement. “I’m Joshua.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Joshua?”

Castiel straightened, his usual flatness laced with something new, respect. “The gardener.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “The gardener?” He looked around at the expanse of flowers and hedges. “That’s your big title? Heaven’s landscaper?”

Joshua chuckled softly. “You could say that. I talk to God. He talks back.”

Sam took a half-step forward. “Wait, you talk to Him? You can tell Him to help us, to stop this—”

Dean cut in, his voice rough. “Where the hell’s He been? We’ve been tearing ourselves apart, fighting Heaven, Hell, destiny, whatever the hell this Apocalypse is, and He’s just…what? MIA?”

His tone cracked with anger. “You tell Him He’s got some explaining to do.”

Joshua’s expression softened, almost apologetic. “He already knows what you’d say, Dean. He knows what all of you would say.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Then what’s His excuse?”

Joshua sighed. “He’s not giving one.”

Sam’s face fell, hope draining from him like blood from a wound. “What do you mean?”

Joshua looked at them each in turn, his gaze gentle but heavy. “God isn’t going to intervene. Not this time. Not in the Apocalypse, not in stopping Lucifer, not in saving your brother, Dean…or her.”

Her stomach dropped, cold and sick. Dean stiffened beside her like he’d been punched.

“What?” 

Joshua spoke quietly. “He knows what’s happening. He’s aware of your suffering. But He’s decided…it’s not His place to step in.”

Sam shook his head. “No. That doesn’t make sense. He created all this. How can He just...just walk away?”

Joshua met his gaze, sorrow in his eyes. “Sometimes parents have to let their children grow up. Make their own choices. Fight their own battles.”

Dean barked out a harsh laugh. “Grow up? That’s His excuse? We’re drowning here. We’re bleeding, losing everyone we love, and He’s just…what? Sitting back, watching the show?”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I truly am. But He wants you to know you’re not alone. You’re never alone.”

Sam’s voice cracked. “So what? That’s it? No rescue, no miracle? Nothing?”

Joshua nodded once, the faintest dip of his head. “You’ll be returned to your bodies now. I wish I could give you more.”

Dean scoffed, crossing his arms. "You tell Him, tell Him He’s a son of a bitch. That’s my message.”

Joshua’s eyes softened. “He already knows.”

Before any of them could speak, before Dean could hurl another curse, the garden dissolved into light.

Then, suddenly, she was gasping awake.

The air was heavy, thick with the musty scent of old carpet and dust.

She blinked hard, disoriented, until she saw Dean above her, alive, awake, breathing just as hard as she was.

Dean pushed up on shaky arms, eyes darting around the motel room like he half-expected Zachariah to come crashing through the door.

Then his gaze snapped back to her. “You with me?” 

She nodded, throat tight.

Sam stirred on the other side of the room, groaning as he sat up against the nightstand. His face was pale, hollow, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was still trying to process what they’d been told.

No one spoke for a long moment. The silence pressed in, thick, broken only by the sound of three sets of uneven breathing.

Dean broke it first.

He shoved himself to his feet, pacing across the faded carpet, hands on his hips.

“That’s it? That’s all we get?” He let out a bitter laugh. “God’s not gonna lift a damn finger. Just leaves us in the dirt to figure it out ourselves.”

He kicked the side of the rickety dresser hard enough that it rattled against the wall. She flinched at the sound, but her eyes stayed on him.

Dean raked both hands over his face, then stopped, palms braced against his knees as he bent forward.

His voice cracked when he spoke again, softer now. “What the hell are we supposed to do with that?”

Sam’s voice was low. “Keep fighting.”

Dean spun on him, eyes wild.

“Fighting what, Sam? Fighting who? We’re supposed to kill the Devil with what? The Colt’s useless, the angels are screwing us over every chance they get, and God’s…He’s out.” 

Sam lowered his gaze, jaw tight, and didn’t answer.

“Tomorrow, we figure it out. We find another way. Screw God, screw the angels. We’ll do it ourselves.”

And she believed him.

Chapter Text

The motel room was heavy with silence. Outside, rain tapped against the window in thin, uneven lines, like fingers drumming on glass. The storm rolled low over the town, thunder growling far away, but inside the air felt even darker.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees. His shoulders sagged under the weight of something unspoken. In the dim yellow light from the bedside lamp, his face looked older, harder, lines carved deeper by grief and exhaustion.

She watched him from the doorway, arms folded tight across her chest. The ache in her ribs from the last hunt still throbbed, but it wasn’t half as sharp as the pain of watching him unravel like this.

Sam lingered near the table, flipping an old motel notepad between his fingers.

He wasn’t speaking either. The tension was too thick.

It wasn’t just another night. It wasn’t just another bad day. Something had shifted in Dean, like the final straw had snapped, and the room reeked of it.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, careful. But speculative.

“You’re going to say yes.”

Dean didn’t look up, but the slight flinch in his shoulders gave him away.

Sam’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing at his brother. “Dean—”

“Don’t,” Dean cut him off, voice raw, sharp. He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing at stubble like he could wipe away the guilt carved into his skin.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sammy. You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t been carrying this around since day one?”

She stepped into the room, crossing to him with measured steps.

Her boots clicked softly against the warped wood floor. “Carrying what around?”

Dean finally lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, burning green fire dulled by defeat.

“That I’m the one who’s supposed to fix this mess. That I’m the gun, the blade, the freakin’ vessel. Michael’s ace in the hole.” His laugh was hollow, bitter. “It’s what I’m here for. So why the hell am I still fighting it?”

Sam exhaled sharply, voice full of frustration. “Because you’re not a weapon, Dean. You’re my brother. You’re not just some...some meat suit for Heaven’s golden boy.”

Dean’s mouth twisted into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace. “Maybe that’s all I am, Sammy. Maybe that’s all I’ve ever been.”

She couldn’t stay silent anymore. She moved closer, kneeling in front of him so he couldn’t avoid her eyes. Her hands found his knees, firm. “No. Don’t do this.”

Dean looked down at her, jaw tightening, and for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.

The storm outside filled the silence, rain pelting harder against the glass.

She took a shaky breath, words spilling out faster, sharper. “You’re not a grunt, Dean. You’re not some good little soldier who just rolls over when someone tells him to. You’ve fought tooth and nail against every single thing that’s tried to break you. Hell, you’ve fought Heaven and Hell at the same damn time. And you’re still here. That means something.”

His eyes flickered, but he didn’t answer.

Her voice cracked, tears threatening to rise.

“Do you think Michael loves you? Do you think he’ll hold you when you can’t sleep, or sit in some crappy diner with you at three in the morning, or fight like hell to keep you alive even when you won’t do it for yourself? That’s not what he wants. He doesn’t give a damn about you. He just wants your body. But I love you. Sam loves you. Bobby loves you. We need you. You, Dean. Not Michael.”

Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for her, but instead, he pressed his fists against his thighs, white-knuckled.

Sam’s voice was softer now, almost pleading. “She’s right, Dean. You can’t do this. Not to yourself. Not to us.”

Dean let out a long, shuddering exhale, eyes darting between them both like he was standing on a cliff edge, torn between jumping and holding on.

Then she reached up, her hands cupping his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her thumbs brushed gently against the stubble on his jaw. Her tears shone in the dim light, but her voice was steady.

“Look at me. You’re not broken. You’re not useless. You’re the best man I’ve ever known. You’re the man I—” She faltered, breath hitching, then pushed through. “You’re the man I love. And I am not going to watch you throw yourself away for them.”

His eyes searched hers like he was trying to find a reason to argue, but all he found was truth.

For the first time in hours, his hand moved.

He covered hers against his cheek, rough palm pressing into her smaller one. His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with emotion. “Sweetheart…”

Sam turned away again, giving them the space they needed, his own grief heavy but patient.

Dean leaned forward then, pressing his forehead to hers. His voice cracked like it had in the motel after Heaven, raw and uneven.

“I don’t know if I can keep this up.”

She whispered back, just for him. “Then let me help you. Don’t give up. Not when we still have each other to lose.”

Dean’s hands slid down to hers, gripping them tight. He let out another shaky exhale, pulling her against his chest, burying his face in her hair as thunder rolled outside.

And for just a moment, the choice didn’t matter. The world could wait.

The storm broke overnight, leaving the world outside washed clean. Puddles reflected the gray morning sky, cars hissed over wet asphalt, and the motel’s neon vacancy sign buzzed faintly against the silence.

Inside, Dean was moving with quiet purpose.

She woke to the sound of the Impala’s keys jingling, the soft scrape of leather against denim. Blinking, she found Dean at the foot of the bed, stuffing his duffel bag with jerky, ammo, and whatever he’d scavenged from the trunk. His jaw was set tight, his movements sharp.

Her chest clenched. She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Dean.”

He froze, only for a second, before zipping the bag shut. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

She swung her legs over the bed, ignoring the ache in her side. “You’re leaving.”

Dean avoided her eyes.

He slung the strap over his shoulder and reached for his jacket. “I gotta do this. Don’t make it harder.”

Sam’s voice came from the couch, low but firm. He’d clearly been awake, watching. “You’re not doing this alone.”

Dean gave a bitter laugh, shrugging into his jacket. “Sammy, this is the definition of alone. Nobody else can do it for me. Michael wants me, and I’m done playing games.”

She was on her feet now, heart hammering, crossing the room in three strides. She grabbed his arm, yanking him back before he could touch the door. Her voice cracked under the weight of fury and fear. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna disappear in the middle of the night, let some angel wear you like a suit, and hope we all clap from the nosebleeds?”

Dean turned, eyes flashing. “I don’t have a choice!”

“Yes, you do!” she snapped back, her voice sharp enough to split the air. “Every second you breathe, every time you fight, every time you don’t give in, that’s a choice. And if you walk out that door, you’re not just giving up your life. You’re giving up on us. On me.”

The words seemed to hit him harder than a punch.

For a heartbeat, his face softened, his shoulders slumping. Then the steel came back, hard and bitter. “I can’t let you watch the world burn because I was too scared to do what needed doing.”

Sam stood, slamming his fists against side table. “Open your eyes, Dean! This is insane. This is exactly what we've been fighting against.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort.

The lamps flickered.

The temperature dropped instantly, cold air seeping into the room. The shadows in the corners stretched unnaturally. She reached instinctively for the blade on the nightstand, but Dean was already shoving her behind him, body tense like a coiled spring.

A flash of white light filled the room. When it faded, three angels stood between them and the door. Suited, expressionless, eyes shining faintly with grace.

“Dean Winchester,” the tallest said, voice resonating like an echo through the small space.

“It is time.”

Dean’s fists clenched. “Yeah? Well, I’m not dressed for prom, so maybe you should’ve RSVP’d.”

The angel didn’t flinch. “You will not resist. You are Michael’s vessel. You were born for this.”

Sam stepped forward, voice hard. “He’s not going anywhere.”

The angel’s gaze shifted to Sam, then to her. For the briefest second, their stare lingered on her like she was something fragile, a bargaining chip. Dean noticed. His arm slid back around her, pulling her against his side, his palm warm and steady at her hip.

“Pump the breaks, feather bitch,” Dean said, his voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll send your winged ass back to Heaven in pieces.”

The angel’s expression didn’t change, but something passed between them, something like recognition of the threat’s sincerity.

Still, they stepped forward.

Dean’s hand tightened on her. His jaw clenched. And beneath the fury in his eyes, she saw the truth, he was seconds away from giving in, from saying yes just to stop this from happening here, now.

She reached up and grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. Her voice shook with desperation, but every word was sharp as a blade. “Dean. Don’t. Don’t give them what they want.”

His breath came fast, ragged.

And then, in a rush of wings and fury, Castiel appeared.

The room exploded into chaos.

The angels moved as one, wings flaring like shadows against the peeling wallpaper. The tallest raised his hand, and Dean doubled over, choking on nothing, his duffel sliding from his shoulder and thumping to the ground. Sam lunged forward, fists clenched, but he was slammed back into the wall, pinned as though invisible hands crushed him into plaster.

She barely had time to react before the third angel was on her.

His hand stretched toward her forehead, fingers glowing with searing white grace, the telltale gesture of possession, or erasure. Her back hit the nightstand, pain shooting up her spine. She shoved the blade up between them, nicking his palm. He hissed, but didn’t stop.

“Dean!” she cried.

Dean’s head snapped up, teeth gritted as he strained against the force holding him down. Fury lit his eyes like wildfire, and for a moment she thought he might tear free on willpower alone.

But the angel’s hand only pressed closer to her skin, an inch from her brow, heat radiating.

Then...wings.

The sound cracked through the room like thunder.

Castiel exploded into existence, trench coat whipping behind him, eyes burning with celestial fire. He seized the angel by the wrist, wrenching him back with a strength that was nothing human.

Grace clashed with grace, sparks of light flaring where their hands met.

“Release her,” Cas snarled. His voice was deeper than usual, layered with Heaven’s echo.

The angel faltered, and in that second, Cas jammed an angel blade into his chest. Light seared out of the wound, brilliant and terrible, before the body crumpled to ash at her feet.

Sam fell from the wall with a grunt, Dean staggered forward, and the other two angels wheeled toward Cas.

Castiel fought like a storm unleashed. Each strike of his blade sang, each clash against another angel’s power rattled the walls. She stumbled against the bed, breath ragged, clutching the nightstand for balance.

Dean was there in an instant, his arm hooking around her waist, hauling her behind him. He pushed her into the corner like his body could shield her. His hand pressed briefly to her cheek, checking for blood, before he turned back to the fight.

“Stay down,” he muttered, though his voice shook.

She wanted to argue, but her throat closed on the words. She’d never seen him like this, not just protective, but desperate.

One angel dropped, blade flashing through his chest. The last snarled something in Enochian, wings flaring as he tried to blink away. Cas grabbed him by the coat and drove steel home. The light burst bright and final.

Silence fell.

Cas stood amid the wreckage, chest heaving, blood streaking his coat where it wasn’t even his. His eyes glowed faintly as he looked at Dean.

“You were about to say yes.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. He looked away.

Cas’s fury simmered in the air, an unspoken judgment that weighed on all of them.

But before the angel could say more, Dean turned back to her, hands gripping her shoulders, eyes scanning her like he needed to confirm she was still whole.

“You okay?” His voice cracked, raw.

She nodded faintly, though her legs trembled under his grip. “I'm okay.”

Dean exhaled sharply and pulled her into him, holding her so tightly she could feel the rapid thud of his heart. His lips pressed against her hairline, a quick, desperate touch before he pulled back. His hand stayed on her back as he turned to Cas.

“Next time,” Dean said hoarsely, “don’t cut it so close.”

Cas only stared, unblinking, as though words failed him.

Sam rubbed at his neck where the angel had held him, his gaze flicking between them. “We need to get out of here. Now. Before more show up.”

Dean’s grip on her tightened. He nodded.

They left the motel in silence, their breaths visible in the cold morning air.

The familiar creak of Bobby Singer’s door should have felt like home, like sanctuary. Instead, the place felt smaller, heavier. The walls were weighed down with the burden of too many failed plans, too many deaths.

Bobby sat in his chair when they entered, a blanket thrown over his knees. His sharp eyes swept across the three of them, landing on Dean first.

“Well,” Bobby rasped. “Guess I don’t need to ask if the angels showed up.”

Dean dropped his bag to the floor, his shoulders rigid. “We handled it.”

“Yeah?” Bobby raised a brow. “By the look on Cas’s face, ‘handled’ ain’t the word I’d use.”

She lowered herself onto the couch, still shaky. Dean didn’t sit. He paced instead, hands on his hips, every inch of him wound tight.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, his voice heavy. “They came to take him. He almost…” He trailed off, biting down on the words.

Dean stopped, glaring at Sam.

Sam pushed off the frame. “You almost said yes.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t deny it.

The silence stretched, brittle as glass.

She broke it, her voice soft but steady. “We won't let you do it, Dean. You should know this by now.”

Dean turned to her, and the rawness in his eyes made her chest ache. “What do you want from me? Huh? You want me to sit here and watch the world fall apart while I pretend I’m not the only one who can stop it?”

“You’re not the only one,” she whispered.

“Damn right you’re not,” Bobby said gruffly, wheeling closer. “You’re family, boy. Not cannon fodder.”

Dean looked between them, his expression fractured. Then he shoved a hand through his hair, muttered a curse, and stalked toward the kitchen.

She started to follow, but Bobby shook his head gently. “Give him a minute.”

Sam leaned against the table, his face pale, his eyes shadowed. “We don’t have a minute.”

Bobby sighed, his hand dragging over his beard. “We’re past minutes, Sam. We’re down to seconds.”

Dean stood by the hood of the Impala, staring down at nothing, jaw clenched.

She sat on the steps with Bobby, her knees pulled close, watching him. Every line of his body screamed agitation. He was chewing on himself from the inside out.

Sam had gone quiet too, pacing along the gravel like he was working through a puzzle too big for him to solve.

The creak of the front gate broke the silence.

All three of them turned.

A boy stepped through, young, lanky, maybe twenty. His face was familiar in the way family portraits are, Winchester bone structure, Winchester eyes, but softer, uncertain. He wore a faded jacket, hands shoved in the pockets, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or run.

Dean froze.

Sam blinked, his brow furrowing. “Adam?”

The boy looked up at them, hesitation flashing across his face. “Uh. Yeah.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, suspicion hardening his features. “No. No, that’s not possible. You’re dead.”

Adam gave a half-shrug, his lips quirking like he didn’t quite believe it either. “Yeah, well. So were you once, right?”

She rose slowly to her feet, heart thudding. Dean’s body went taut beside her. He stepped in front of her without even thinking, his hand stretching slightly behind him until his fingers brushed hers.

Sam moved closer, eyes wide. “We burned your body. We saw your grave.”

Adam shifted uncomfortably, glancing between them. “Guess the angels didn’t care. They… pulled me out. Said they needed me.”

Dean’s eyes darkened. “For what?”

Adam swallowed. “Said I was chosen. That I was Michael’s vessel.”

The silence that followed was like a physical blow.

Her stomach dropped, icy. Dean’s grip on her hand tightened so sharply it almost hurt.

Sam shook his head, voice hard. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Dean’s Michael’s vessel.”

Adam shrugged again, but this time there was no humor in it. His voice cracked. “Maybe he wanted a backup plan.”

Dean’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Figures. Heaven’s got a Plan B. And it’s you.”

Adam’s face twisted, frustration and fear mixing. “I didn’t ask for this!”

Dean rounded on him, anger blazing. “Neither did I!”

The words echoed through the salvage yard, leaving only the sound of crickets and the far-off groan of wind against old metal.

She stepped closer, laying a hand on Dean’s arm. “Dean.”

His chest heaved. His jaw worked, muscles jumping, but he didn’t pull away from her touch.

Sam turned to Adam, softer now. “Look, you’re our brother. We’re not gonna let them use you.”

Adam’s gaze flicked between them. “Brother. Right. I didn’t exactly get the warm-and-fuzzy family welcome last time.”

Dean’s face flickered with guilt, but his tone stayed sharp. “You think this is a game? You think being a Winchester’s some prize? This life eats you alive. And now Heaven wants to put you in the ring? Over my dead body.”

The words were harsh, but his hand hadn’t left hers.

Adam’s expression softened a little, but his voice stayed wary. “So what? You’re just gonna fight Heaven? All of it?”

Dean’s laugh was short, humorless. “Damn right I am.”

Sam exhaled, glancing at her, then at Bobby.

The silence said everything, this was going to get worse before it got better.

Sam exhaled, glancing at her, then at Bobby. The silence said everything, this was going to get worse before it got better.

The next morning was gray, the kind of sky that pressed down on everything like a weight. The salvage yard was still, quiet, broken only by the creak of rusted metal shifting in the breeze.

Adam sat at Bobby’s kitchen table, staring at the worn wood surface. His fingers tapped against a chipped coffee mug, restless and sharp, like he was trying to drown out the silence with noise.

Sam leaned against the counter, watching him with the kind of cautious patience he used to use on Dean when Dean was about to blow. She stood at the sink her gaze trailing across the salvage yard outside the window. Dean sat near the window, shoulders hunched.

“You don’t get it,” Adam said suddenly, his voice flat but hard. “The angels promised me something. They promised I’d see Mom again.”

The words landed heavy in the room.

Dean’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing. “They lied.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know that.”

Dean stood, his chair scraping back with a screech.

“Yeah, I do. Because I’ve been dealing with those winged bastards for a year now, and let me tell you something, they’ll say whatever it takes to get what they want. You think they give a damn about your mom? About you?” He jabbed a finger at Adam, his voice harsh, edged with guilt and fury. “You’re just a bargaining chip. Same as the rest of us.”

Adam’s face hardened, but she saw the flicker of pain there too.

Sam spoke quietly, trying to cut through. “Adam, we’re your family. We may not have had the chance to grow up together, but that doesn’t change what you are to us. The angels, Heaven, they don’t care about you. We do.”

Adam let out a bitter laugh. “Funny way of showing it. Last time I met you guys, I ended up dead.”

Dean flinched, the words hitting like a sucker punch. His mouth opened, then closed again, no answer coming. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

She turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel, and stepped closer. “You’re not wrong. You got a raw deal, Adam. But that’s what happens when angels and demons get their hooks in. They use people. And if you go with them, if you say yes, you won’t be Adam anymore. You’ll be gone. And I promise you, that’ll kill your brothers faster than anything else could.”

Adam’s eyes flicked between her, Sam, and Dean.

For a moment, he looked like the kid he was, scared, uncertain, caught in something too big for him.

But before he could respond, the lights flickered.

The temperature dropped.

Dean’s stomach twisted, his hand immediately brushing against her back, pushing her behind him without thought. Sam’s head snapped toward the door, his body tensing.

Then the windows rattled, the room filling with the electric hum of wings.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered.

The angels came fast, blinding light filling the kitchen. Adam cried out, covering his face, but it was no use. One grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him up so violently his chair toppled backward.

“Adam!” Sam shouted, lunging forward, only to be flung into the counter by a sweep of unseen force. The crash echoed, wood splintering.

Dean pulled her close, his body wrapping around hers as light seared through the room.

His voice was a snarl, directed at the angel gripping Adam. “Let him go!”

The angel didn’t even flinch. In a heartbeat, Adam was gone, dragged into the white-hot flash, his voice echoing faintly as it faded.

Silence fell again, suffocating in the aftermath.

Dean stood rigid, his chest heaving, his hand still tight at her back. His face was pale, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might break.

Sam groaned, pushing himself up from the floor, blood trickling from his lip. “They took him. Again.”

Bobby wheeled into the doorway, his expression grim. “Boys, this ain’t just about Adam. This is about pushin’ Dean to the edge.” His gaze flicked to her, then back to Dean.

“And I reckon it’s workin’.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just stood there, trembling, his eyes locked on the spot where Adam had been.

When he turned, his face crumpling for half a second before he masked it with fury.

“They’re not taking him,” Dean said, his voice low and lethal.

“They’re not taking him, they’re not taking me, and they’re sure as hell not touching any of you.” His hand found hers, gripping tight.

“We end this. Now.”

Bobby sat at the head of the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. Sam leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes shadowed with guilt and anger. Castiel stood off to the side, silent and rigid, his gaze fixed on nothing.

Dean sat at the far end of the table, hunched over, elbows braced against the scarred wood. His hands were clenched together, knuckles white. She sat close to him, her thigh against his, her presence the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.

Nobody spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Bobby broke the silence. “So, let me get this straight. The angels snatched up Adam ‘cause they’re tired of waitin’ on Dean to give ‘em the green light?”

Dean’s jaw worked, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t look up.

Sam sighed. “Yeah. They want him as a backup. As leverage. Maybe both.”

Bobby muttered a curse under his breath, dragging a hand down his beard. “Idjits. They’ll burn that kid up faster than a Sunday matchstick.”

Dean’s hands tightened into fists. His voice, when it came, was rough, low. “Not if I get there first.”

She turned to him, her eyes narrowing.

Sam was the first to speak. “Dean—”

Dean snapped his head up, eyes blazing. “Don’t start, Sammy. This is on me. They want me, they get me. But I’ll be damned if they use Adam as bait.”

“You think that’s what Adam would want?” Sam’s voice cracked, harsh with desperation. “For you to throw yourself to Michael just to save him?”

Dean let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. I can’t let him die. Not like this. Not because of me.”

She leaned in closer, her voice soft but steady. “Dean, if you go in there thinking you’re already lost, then you are. But if you fight, really fight, you can save him without giving yourself up.”

Dean’s gaze flicked to her, burning with guilt.

He whispered, so low only she could hear: “How the hell am I supposed to watch Adam go the same way you almost did?”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t look away.

She covered his hands with hers, grounding him. “Because you’re Dean Winchester. You don’t just roll over. You fight for family. And Adam’s family now. We’re not letting the angels decide what happens to him. Or you. Or any of us.”

Dean swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

Castiel finally spoke, his voice deep and steady. “The angels will take Adam to the Green Room. The same place they once kept Dean.” His eyes flicked briefly to her, then back to the group. “I can get us there. But not without difficulty.”

Bobby’s brow furrowed. “What’s the catch?”

Cas tilted his head. “The wards are strong. It will take effort to breach them. Once we’re inside, we’ll have little time.”

Dean pushed back his chair, standing. His hand lingered briefly on the back of hers before he pulled away. “Then we make it quick. We get Adam, we gut Zachariah, and we walk out.”

Sam’s voice sharpened. “And if Michael shows up?”

Dean’s jaw set. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, shoving his arms into it with rough movements.

“Then I tell him to go to hell.”

The words hung heavy in the room.

She rose too, stepping into his space, her hand brushing his chest. His heart hammered beneath her palm, the thrum of it quick and unsteady.

He looked down at her, eyes softer now, but still lined with guilt.

“Just let us help you,” she whispered.

His throat worked as he swallowed, then he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers for a heartbeat, just long enough to breathe her in.

“I will.”

Sam watched from across the room, his expression a mix of frustration and relief. Bobby sighed heavily, muttering something about “damn Winchesters and their savior complexes.”

Dean pulled back, his eyes hard again, resolved. “Cas. Get us in.”

The world twisted.

Light flared, searing and disorienting. The scent of ozone burned her lungs, and for a second she thought her body might be ripped apart by the sheer force of it.

Then they were standing in the Green Room.

It was exactly as Dean had described: pristine, sterile, cold.

The walls glowed faintly with Heaven’s power, every corner humming with energy that made her skin crawl. A long table stretched down the center, its surface polished to a mirror shine, but the reflection staring back felt warped, wrong.

Adam sat at the far end, bound by invisible force. His eyes widened when he saw them. “Dean! Sam! Get out of here!”

Dean stepped forward instantly, his voice sharp. “Not without you.”

But then Zachariah appeared.

He materialized in a wash of light, his smirk already plastered on his face, smug and cruel. “You really can’t help yourselves, can you? Always storming in, guns blazing, like little boys playing war.”

Dean’s hand twitched toward his blade. “You talk too much.”

Zachariah’s eyes slid to her, lingering with a cold amusement that made her blood boil.

“And there she is. The liability. Always bleeding, always breaking. Tell me, Dean, how many times can you watch her almost die before you finally give in?”

Dean’s fury rolled off him like heat. He stepped closer, shielding her with his body, his voice low and dangerous.

“Say one more word about her, and I’ll tear your tongue out before you can blink.”

Zachariah only chuckled, smug. “Oh, Dean. That temper of yours. That’s what makes you so easy to use.”

The angels closed in around them, and the trap snapped shut.

Dean’s boots echoed against the gleaming floor as he stepped forward, blade hidden at his side. Sam flanked him on one side, with her on the other.

Zachariah stood at the far end of the room, smug as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. Storming in here to play rescue again. You really do have a flair for melodrama, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Let Adam go.”

Zachariah smirked. “Or what? You’ll stab me with your little toy? You really think you can stop what’s coming? You, Sam, and—” His eyes flicked to her, cruel and amused. “—your little girlfriend here. I’ve got to hand it to you, Dean. You’ve managed to find someone as breakable as your brother. You do love surrounding yourself with fine china.”

Dean stepped forward so fast she almost grabbed his arm to hold him back.

His voice was low, guttural, dangerous. “Keep their names out of your mouth.”

Zachariah’s smirk only widened. “Why? It gets such a rise out of you. You pretend you’re not predictable, Dean, but you are. Threaten your brother, threaten her, and you fold like paper.”

The air shifted, heavy.

Zachariah lifted his hand.

Agony ripped through her.

She dropped instantly, her knees cracking against the flawless floor.

A scream tore from her throat before she could stop it, white-hot fire searing through her chest. Her vision blurred, blood rushing in her ears.

Dean was there in a second, catching her before she hit the ground fully. His arms locked around her, his body shielding hers as if he could take the pain into himself.

His voice cracked with panic. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Zachariah tilted his head, smug. “Say yes, Dean. One little word, and she walks away. Safe, whole, untouched. Isn’t that what you want?”

Dean’s breath shook, his forehead pressed to hers. His voice broke, trembling. “I can’t...I can’t watch this again.”

Her hand, shaking violently, pressed weakly to his jaw. She forced the words out through the agony. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

His eyes squeezed shut, tears threatening. “I can’t lose you.”

She couldn't respond, her face becoming increasingly pale as the seconds went on.

Dean’s chest heaved. He looked up at Zachariah, his face a mask of raw grief and fury.

Zachariah smirked. “Well, Dean?”

Dean’s jaw clenched. His eyes burned with something fierce, something resolute. He whispered against her hair, his words just for her: “Hang on.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he lunged.

The angel blade gleamed as Dean drove it forward, straight into Zachariah’s chest.

The scream that ripped from Zachariah was inhuman, a howl of rage and agony. Light burst from the wound, blinding, searing through the room.

The angels that had been circling faltered, wings flaring, before vanishing in retreat.

Zachariah’s body convulsed, then crumpled into nothing, leaving only silence in his wake.

Dean dropped to the floor with her still in his arms, his chest heaving, his face buried against her neck. His voice shook as he whispered over and over, “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Sam rushed to Adam, untying him, checking him over.

Adam was pale, dazed, but alive.

Dean’s hands roamed frantically, checking her for injuries, his eyes analyzing her hairline, her temple, her cheek. He was trembling so hard she could feel it through every inch of him.

She was limp, unconscious in his arms.

For a moment, he just looked at her like she was the only real thing left in the world. Then he pulled her into him again, holding her so tightly it almost hurt, his hand grabbing onto fist-fulls of her hair.

Sam’s voice broke through, rough. “We need to move. Before Michael shows.”

Dean stood, still cradling her in his arms. He looked at Sam, then Adam, then back to her. His face hardened, but his arms stayed gentle.

“No more running,” he said. His voice was low, steady, certain. “I’m not saying yes. Not to Michael. Not to anyone.”

The words hung in the sterile air, heavy and final.

The Green Room dissolved in a flash of light as Castiel appeared, blade still slick with angelic ichor.

His face was pale, drawn tight, but steady. “We need to leave. Now.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. He bent, hooking an arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her against his chest. Her head fall against his shoulder, still trembling, her body drained from Zachariah’s torment. His heartbeat thundered against her ear, uneven and frantic, his arms locked.

Sam pulled Adam along, the younger Winchester unsteady on his feet. Adam’s eyes darted wildly around the sterile room, his expression caught somewhere between horror and disbelief.

The walls shuddered, the hum of Heaven’s power intensifying, like the whole place was seconds away from collapsing. Castiel stepped forward, his trench coat flaring as the power around him surged.

“Stay close.”

Dean shot him a glare.

And then the world ripped open again.

Light, heat, the sense of being dragged through something infinite and brutal, then they stumbled back into Bobby’s living room. The familiar clutter hit like a shock. Papers stacked high, the scent of whiskey, the comfort of mess after Heaven’s suffocating order.

Dean set her down carefully on the couch, his hands still lingering as if making sure she wouldn’t vanish the second he let go. He crouched in front of her, his eyes flicking over every scrape, every bruise. 

Dean’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin. "She will wake soon." Spoke Castiel, much to Dean's annoyance. That wasn't good enough.

Behind them, Adam pulled away from Sam, anger written all over his face. “That’s it? You drag me into this mess, angels use me as bait, and I’m just supposed to sit back while you all keep playing soldiers?”

Sam winced. “Adam—”

“No,” Adam snapped, his voice sharp. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be part of your family war. You say I’m your brother, but all that means is I get screwed like the rest of you.”

Dean stood slowly, his jaw tightening. “You’re right.”

The words surprised everyone, even Adam.

Dean’s eyes were dark, guilt written plain. “You didn’t ask for this. None of us did. But family means something. It means you don’t walk away, even when it’s hell. You think I wanted you dragged into this? I didn’t. I wanted you safe. But that ship’s sailed. So you’ve got a choice: you can hate me, or you can stand with us. But if you think I’ll let those winged bastards use you again, you’re wrong.”

Adam’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hard but conflicted. He didn’t answer.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “We’ll figure it out.”

Dean turned back to her, hearing her take in a deep breath. She groaned, her eyes squinting at the change in scenery. “Hey.” He whispered, his voice wavering.

“What happened?” she started, her voice just as uncertain as his. "I didn't say yes." He spoke. She relaxed at that, her eyes closing momentarily. When they opened, they found his worried ones. "I'm fine." She said, her voice's strain betraying the sentiment.

He cut her off, his voice low but firm. “Not fine. Not after what he did to you. You almost—” His throat worked as he swallowed, his grip tightening. “You need rest. End of story.”

She didn’t argue again. Not when he looked at her like that.

The night dragged them back to the road.

Sam drove, his face grim in the glow of the dashboard. Adam sat in the passenger seat, silent, staring out the window. Bobby had stayed behind at the salvage yard, promising research, whiskey, and a few choice curses for any angel dumb enough to show up again.

Dean sat with her in the back of the Impala, the rumble of the engine vibrating through both of them. The silence was thick, filled only by the hum of the tires on asphalt and the low murmur of the radio, some old station flickering in and out of static.

She leaned her head against the window, watching the blur of dark trees. Dean’s hand slid across the seat until his fingers brushed hers. She turned, and his face was in shadow, lit only by the faint glow from the dash. His expression was tight, guilt carved into every line, but his thumb stroked the back of her hand gently, steadying himself as much as her.

Later, in a cheap motel with buzzing neon outside the window, the silence finally broke.

She sat on the bed, tugging her jacket off, the lightning-shot veins on her arms catching the dim light. Dean knelt in front of her, carefully easing her boots off like it was the most important task in the world. His fingers lingered at her ankle, his head bowed.

“You should hate me,” he whispered.

Her chest ached at the sound of it. “Why would I?”

His jaw clenched, his hands tightening briefly before loosening again. “Because every time, you’re the one paying for it. You bleed, you break, you almost die. Because of me. Because of this life.” His eyes flicked up, raw, wet. “Zachariah was right about one thing. You’re the quickest way to break me.”

She reached out, cupping his face in her hands.

His stubble scratched her palms, his skin warm. She leaned down, pressing her forehead to his. “And you didn’t break. You didn’t say yes. You chose us.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. His arms came up around her waist, pulling her against him, holding her like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “I don’t deserve you.”

Her fingers threaded into his hair, grounding him. “Maybe not. But you’ve got me anyway.”

They looked at each other for only a breath, a silent acknowledgment passing between them, before he leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was unlike any they had shared before.

This kiss was new, steeped in the raw tension of the confrontation with Zachariah, and everything that was on the line. It quickly intensified, transforming into a fervent makeout as he pushed her gently back onto the bed, hovering above her, his powerful frame eclipsing the dim light of the room.

He smiled, she could feel it against her lips, before deepening the kiss, pulling her even closer, melding their bodies together in a way that felt impossibly right, a reunion of long-separated halves. She sighed, a sound of utter surrender, as their forms molded together, falling into a rhythm they had unknowingly perfected as the months dragged on.

His right hand, calloused and strong, slid from its position cradling her cheek, tracing a path down her jawline to the sensitive skin of her neck, where it grasped lightly, possessively, pushing me further into the soft mattress. His other hand began a slow, deliberate journey, trailing down her collar bone, brushing against the delicate swell of her breasts. His fingers, still cool, almost cold, and rough with the marks of his blade and his strength, sent shivers and goosebumps erupting across her skin.

She took in a sharp, unsteady breath as he pulled his hips down, pressing them firmly against her's, the friction a molten heat. She reached up, her hand tangling in the silken strands of his brown hair, pulling his head down, capturing his mouth in a needy, desperate kiss.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound, as he began to move his hips rhythmically against her's, a slow, sensual grind that promised oblivion. She followed, arching her back, bucking her hips up to meet his, desperate to create even more friction, more heat. She needed this. He needed this.

"Dean, I need you," she whispered, her voice raw, wavering with desire as his fingers continued. He nodded vigorously, his agreement an almost violent affirmation, his desire mirroring her own. By that point, their clothes had been discarded, a forgotten pile on the floor, and she could feel every inch of him pressed against her, the full, powerful weight of him.

And he, in turn, felt every inch of her. And he consumed it.

In one swift, decisive movement, he grasped both of her wrists, holding them above her head, his grip firm but not painful, a silent assertion of his control as he began to shower her neck in fervent, open-mouthed kisses, trailing a burning path downwards. She moaned, a helpless sound, as he raised his head from her neck, his gaze meeting her's through half-lidded, desire-darkened eyes.

She swallowed, a slow smile blooming on her face as she purposefully shifted against him, a daring invitation. He took in another shaky breath, his hands gripping her wrists even tighter as he thrust himself into her with a force that stole the air from her lungs. She gasped loudly, her toes curling in exquisite pleasure against the soft sheets.

"Fuck. You feel good, princess," he rasped, his voice deep, guttural, thick with unbridled passion. "So much better than I ever imagined."

He paused, holding her gaze once more, his eyes burning with an intense, unspoken question. "Move. Please," She spoke, her voice barely a whisper. He said nothing, the smirk on his face deepening, and then, with a renewed ferocity, he began to move inside of her, rocking them back and forth, building a relentless, consuming rhythm.

She could barely breathe, her mind clouded, consumed by nothing but the overwhelming tide of pleasure.

Pleasure, and him.

His fingers burrowed deeply into the soft flesh of her thighs and forearms, keeping her body tethered beneath his, held firmly in place. Her breath caught in her throat as his own breathing grew heavier, more ragged, and she knew, with a certainty that thrilled through her, that she wouldn't be able to last much longer. And she knew, too, that he wouldn't, either.

With one last, desperate moan, their bodies convulsed, reaching a shared, explosive climax, and then... pure bliss. She was sore, achingly so, but utterly satisfied. He slowly, reluctantly, released her wrists, allowing her arms to fall back to her sides, then gently turned her onto my side, pulling her close, spooning her against his powerful frame.

His lips grazed the sensitive skin of her neck, sending a fresh wave of shivers down her spine.

"You don't know how good that felt. How good you feel," he whispered, his voice hoarse, raw with emotion, "Nothing else could even come close." His words sent a fiery blush spreading across her cheeks. She turned back around to face him, instinctively moving to straddle his hips once more, her hands tangling in the soft, coffee-colored strands of his hair.

He groaned quietly, a low, contented sound, his hand reaching up to cradle the back of her head, pulling her closer, connecting their lips together again in a deep, lingering kiss. He felt right, perfectly right, pressed against her.

Their bodies, scarred and changed, felt made for each other.

Their lips, bruised and swollen, felt made for each other.

They were, in that moment, made for each other.

And they stayed like that for a long time, tangled together on the motel bed, the world outside pressing in with neon glow and endless danger. But in that moment, with her heartbeat against his, Dean let himself believe, just for a little while, that he could fight, that he could hold the line, that he could keep her safe.

"I love you." He whispered, and she wouldn't have heard him if his lips weren't centimeters away from her ear. 

"And I love you." She spoke in return, and was satisfied when she felt his arms tighten around her.

And for the first time in days, he slept through the night.

Chapter Text

The rain had chased them down half of Nebraska, relentless sheets that turned the highways into ribbons of silver. The Impala cut through it all, her engine a steady growl against the downpour. Inside, though, the silence was heavier than the weather.

Sam sat in the back, staring out into the blur of headlights and water, his face caught somewhere between exhaustion and dread. He hadn’t said much since the Green Room. Adam was gone again, Heaven still circling them like vultures, and the guilt pressed on him like chains.

She sat in the passenger seat, her shoulder pressed against the door, head tilted toward the glass. The faint reflection of her bruises lingered in the window, ghosts of Zachariah’s torment. She hadn’t mentioned it once since, but Dean noticed every time she shifted, every time her breath caught, every time her fingers twitched when she thought no one was looking.

Dean’s hand gripped the wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His eyes flicked from the road to her, back again. He couldn’t stop cataloging the little tells, couldn’t stop the gnawing thought. She’s still hurting, because of me.

The radio crackled with static, some old station fighting to break through. A gravelly voice finally cut in, warbling with the strain of distance: a preacher sermon, talking about storms and wrath and gods.

Dean shut it off with a jab of his finger. “Great. Just what I needed. Fire and brimstone radio hour.”

She glanced over at him, her voice soft. “It’s not wrong, though.”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sweetheart, if fire and brimstone were all we had to worry about, I’d be sleeping like a baby.”

Sam leaned forward from the backseat, his voice low. “We’re being herded.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”

The storm swallowed them again, the road stretching endless and uncertain.

By the time they pulled into the parking lot, the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. The neon sign buzzed above the building, its letters half-burned out so that instead of “Elysian Fields,” it flickered “lys an Fie ds.”

Dean shut the engine off, staring up at the sign with a scowl. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Sam huffed, grabbing his duffel. “We’ve stayed in worse.”

Dean shot him a look over the roof of the Impala. “Yeah, and how’d that work out for us?”

She pulled her jacket tighter around herself, shivering in the cool air. Dean’s eyes softened for a beat. He moved closer, draping an arm over her shoulders like it was casual, guiding her toward the entrance. The warmth of him pressed against her side, steady and grounding.

Inside, the lobby was absurdly nice for a roadside stop. Chandeliers gleamed overhead, polished marble stretched across the floor, and the receptionist wore a smile a little too wide to be human.

Dean leaned on the counter, flashing his most practiced grin. “Two rooms. Quiet side, top floor, no neighbors if you can swing it.”

The receptionist’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course. We’ll make sure you’re… comfortable.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion creeping in. But he slid the credit card across anyway.

They climbed the stairs, hallways too empty, too pristine. The air smelled faintly of something sweet, almost cloying.

Once inside their room, Dean locked the door, checked the windows, then the salt lines. He even tapped the walls, listening for hollows.

Sam raised a brow. “Little paranoid, don’t you think?”

Dean shot him a look. “Sammy, when’s the last time anything was what it looked like?”

She sank onto the bed, the comforter too soft, the pillows too perfectly arranged. Her gut twisted. It didn’t feel like a motel. It felt like a trap dressed in silk.

Dean caught her expression. He sat beside her, hand brushing over hers. “You feel it too?”

She nodded. “It’s… wrong.”

Dean’s hand lingered, warm, grounding. He leaned closer, his voice low so only she could hear. “Stay close to me tonight, alright?”

The way he said it wasn’t just about the hunt. It was about everything.

The knock at the door came just as Sam muttered something about finding food.

Dean frowned, motioning them back as he opened it. A man in a crisp suit stood there, smiling far too warmly. “Dinner’s ready.”

Dean blinked. “Uh, room service? We didn’t order.”

The man’s smile widened. “Compliments of the house. The chef insists.”

Sam frowned, exchanging a look with her. “Dean…”

Dean sighed, his hand brushing the small of her back as he stepped out. “Alright, Scooby gang, let’s see what’s behind door number two.”

They followed the man down the hall, through a set of double doors that opened into a dining hall that did not belong in a roadside hotel.

The table stretched on endlessly, covered in silver platters and dishes that steamed with rich, heavy aromas. The chairs were already filled, figures in every seat, their faces lit by the flicker of candles.

Dean’s stomach sank. He recognized some of them.

Gods.

Norse, Hindu, Egyptian, pagan. they sat shoulder to shoulder like executives at a board meeting, their clothes blending modernity with something older, heavier. Their eyes all turned at once, focusing on the Winchesters and her as they entered.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered.

The door clicked shut behind them.

The dining hall smelled of spice and smoke, incense thick in the air, curling around chandeliers that threw fractured light across the table. The spread was obscene, roasted meats, bowls of fruit glistening with syrup, goblets of wine the color of fresh blood.

Every chair at the impossibly long table was filled. Odin leaned back, his beard braided and heavy, eye patch glinting in the flicker of the candles. Ganesh shifted his elephantine head slightly, tusks catching the light. Baldur sat with the air of a charming corporate CEO, smirking at their entrance. Kali’s eyes burned with the fire of a star, her red silks whispering as she moved.

And all of them were watching.

Dean stiffened immediately, his hand brushing the small of her back in a gesture that looked casual but was anything but. He guided her closer to him, his shoulder brushing hers as if to draw a line. Sam’s eyes darted from face to face, wary but calculating.

“Well,” Baldur said, his voice smooth, urbane. “The Winchesters. And…” His eyes lingered on her, a knowing smile curving his lips. “The balance.”

A low murmur rippled around the table.

Dean’s hand flexed against her back. “She's not on the menu.”

The gods chuckled, the sound unsettlingly human and not.

Odin leaned forward, his voice like gravel. “No one’s seen one in centuries. And here she is. Right in the thick of it. Heaven, Hell, and all their children tipping the scales, but you—” His one eye gleamed, sharp as a blade. “—you’re the fulcrum.”

She swallowed, her throat tight. “What does that even mean?”

Ganesh spoke softly, his voice resonant. “Balance is rare. Most mortals are pulled one way or another. Dark or light. Sin or grace. But you, child… you stand between. You anchor. Without even knowing it, you keep the strings taut.”

Dean cut in, his voice sharp, dripping venom. “She’s not an anchor. She’s a person. And she doesn’t owe you jack.”

Kali’s gaze slid to Dean, fire catching in her eyes.

“So protective. You think I don’t see how you hover around her like she’s glass?” Her lips curved into something between a smile and a snarl. “But you’re not wrong to guard her. If either side takes her, Heaven, Hell, even us, the game ends.”

Sam frowned, his voice tight. “Ends how?”

Baldur grinned, raising his goblet. “Chaos. The apocalypse doesn’t need Lucifer or Michael swinging their fists. If the balance is broken, the board flips. Everything tumbles into void.”

The words settled like lead.

Dean’s chest rose and fell faster, fury simmering beneath his skin. He pulled her closer, his hand now firmly gripping her hip, staking his claim with touch as much as tone. “Then you’re not laying a finger on her.”

The gods laughed again, as if his rage were a child throwing a tantrum.

But their eyes, oh, their eyes lingered on her. Curiosity, hunger, reverence, even pity.

Kali’s gaze in particular burned. She leaned forward, her silks cascading around her like liquid fire. “Do you even know what you are, girl?”

Her voice faltered, but she forced it out. “I’m just me.”

Kali smiled, sharp and dangerous. “No. You are the rope in a tug-of-war between gods and monsters. And one day, one of them will pull too hard.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. His hand left her hip only to curl protectively over hers, their fingers locking tight. “Yeah, well. Over my dead body.”

“Easily arranged,” Odin muttered with a dark chuckle.

The table erupted in laughter again, and for the first time in hours, Dean leaned closer to her, lips brushing her temple. His words were for her alone, low and rough. “Don’t listen to ‘em. You’re not their damn puppet.”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t pull away. She squeezed his hand in return, grounding him as much as he grounded her.

Sam cleared his throat, his voice carrying across the table. “So what is this? Some kind of recruitment dinner? You drag us here, talk apocalypse shop, and expect what...cooperation?”

Baldur lifted his glass. “Not cooperation, Samuel. We’re looking for survival.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

Kali’s gaze returned to the reader, the fire in her eyes unblinking. “Survival means choosing sides. And the balance doesn’t get to stay neutral forever.”

The weight of it pressed against the room, thick and suffocating.

Dean shifted closer, his shoulder pressed against hers, his voice a defiant growl. “Yeah? Well, too bad. She already chose.”

The laughter around the table faded into something sharper, more dangerous. The gods’ eyes stayed fixed on her even as the conversation shifted, their curiosity never waning. It felt like being dissected alive under their gaze.

Dean noticed. He leaned forward in his chair, one arm braced across the back of hers, his posture a territorial snarl. His gaze moved from one deity to the next, daring them to look her way again.

“So,” Dean drawled, breaking the tension with his usual brand of reckless sarcasm. “This little shindig...what is it? An end-of-the-world mixer? Meet-and-greet before Lucifer stomps you into the ground?”

Odin’s single eye flashed dangerously. “You mock, Winchester, but we’ve endured since before your Christ drew breath. Lucifer may be mighty, but he is not inevitable.”

Dean smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, tell that to the angels. Pretty sure they’ve got him slotted in as ‘headliner’ for this little apocalypse tour.”

Sam shot Dean a warning look, but Dean ignored it, his focus fixed on keeping the gods’ attention anywhere but her.

Kali leaned back in her chair, swirling wine in her goblet, her gaze never leaving her. “It’s not him I worry for. It’s you.”

The words struck with a sting that lingered.

The tension snapped taut, ready to ignite...until the double doors at the end of the hall burst open.

A familiar figure sauntered in, dressed like he owned the place. A sly grin stretched across his face as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, kiddies,” the Trickster announced. “Daddy’s home.”

The gods murmured, some standing abruptly, others bristling in surprise.

Baldur smirked. “About time you showed up.”

The Trickster strolled past the Winchesters and her, winking at Dean as though this were all one big joke. “Miss me?”

Dean scowled. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Sam’s expression tightened, his voice hard. “Gabriel.”

The Trickster’s grin faltered just slightly. “Yeah, Sammy. You always were the bright one.”

The room rippled with unease at the name. Odin shifted in his chair, Kali’s eyes narrowed, Baldur’s smirk dropped.

Dean shoved back his chair, standing. “So what’s the deal, huh? You’ve been jerking us around, and now you’re what...the prodigal angel?”

Gabriel sighed, rolling his eyes. “See, this is why I ghosted you guys. No appreciation for theatrics. You try keeping yourself entertained for a couple thousand years without messing with a few mortals.”

“Entertained?” Dean barked, fury rising. “You almost got her killed. You nearly got Sammy gutted more times than I can count. And now you wanna play big brother?”

Gabriel’s gaze flicked briefly to the reader, and for a moment his expression softened. “She wasn’t supposed to be caught up in it. None of you were. But Heaven and Hell don’t exactly color inside the lines, if you haven’t noticed.”

Kali stood, her silks whispering. “Enough. You’ve been hiding too long, Gabriel. You’re one of them, whether you like it or not.”

Gabriel’s smirk returned, but his eyes were tired. “Yeah, well, family’s complicated. Trust me, I get it.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. His hand brushed against the reader’s again, a grounding point. His voice was low, but deadly. “You’re damn right family’s complicated. But ours doesn’t end with blood. So if you so much as think about putting her in the crossfire again—”

Gabriel lifted his hands in mock surrender, though the flicker of guilt in his eyes said he’d heard every word.

The room shifted again as the gods began to argue, some demanding they fight, others whispering retreat. But the tension in Gabriel’s shoulders told another story.

Lucifer was coming.

And soon.

The argument among the gods swelled, their voices overlapping, thunderous, furious, desperate. Odin slammed his fist on the table, Ganesh murmured warnings of balance and inevitability, Kali’s silks hissed like flames as she circled the Winchesters and the reader, her eyes sharp and accusing.

But Gabriel was the only one who seemed to feel it. The air shifted, an electric hum that crawled across the skin like static before a storm. His face lost its smirk, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

Dean caught it immediately. “What?”

Gabriel’s eyes flicked to him, then the reader, then Sam. For once, there was no joke in his voice.

“He’s here.”

The lights flickered. The chandeliers overhead swayed. A low groan reverberated through the walls, a sound not of this world.

The double doors at the end of the hall blew open.

Lucifer stepped inside.

His vessel’s body was worn, cracking under the strain, but his presence filled the room like a firestorm contained in human skin. His pale eyes swept across the hall, sharp and merciless, drinking in the gathered gods as though they were little more than cattle.

The room fell silent. Even the gods, the mighty, eternal beings who had laughed at angels, looked small in his shadow.

Lucifer smiled faintly. “Hello.”

Dean and Sam stood rigid. She felt the pull immediately, the sheer gravity of him. It was like standing on the edge of a black hole, something vast and terrible tugging at the marrow of her bones.

Lucifer’s gaze landed on her, lingering. The faintest smile curved his lips. “Ah. The balance. Even here, in the middle of the world’s end. Do you know what it’s like, to see you standing there?”

Her throat closed. She forced herself to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

“It’s… inevitable,” Lucifer said softly, almost reverently. “You’re the knot tying the rope. You break, and the whole tapestry unravels. And Dean—” His eyes shifted, glinting with cruel amusement. “—Dean already knows he can’t protect you forever.”

Dean snarled, his body taut with rage. “Shut your mouth.”

Lucifer tilted his head. “Or what? You’ll stab me with that little toy? You couldn’t stop me in Carthage. You couldn’t stop me in Detroit. You can’t even stop yourself from breaking every time she bleeds.”

Dean’s breath came hard and fast, fury twisting into guilt. His hand on her wrist tightened almost painfully, like he was anchoring both of them.

Before anyone else could speak, Kali struck. Her hand flared with fire, power blazing from her palm as she stepped forward.

“You will not take what is ours.”

Lucifer didn’t even flinch. With a single flick of his hand, her flames died. Her body flew backward, crashing against the far wall with a sickening thud.

Chaos erupted.

The gods lunged, Odin raising a blade, Ganesh moving fast, Baldur calling on ancient strength. But it was like watching moths throw themselves at a bonfire. Lucifer moved with cold precision, every strike brutal, final. Flesh tore, bone snapped, divine ichor spilled across the pristine floor. The gods screamed, their power shredding the air, but it didn’t matter.

Dean yanked her close, pressing her against his chest as he shoved them both toward the nearest corner.

Sam grabbed a blade, trying to hold the line, but Lucifer’s fury swept through the hall like a scythe.

One by one, the gods fell.

And then silence.

Lucifer stood in the center of the carnage, bloodied but untouched, his pale eyes sharp as glass. He looked directly at the reader again, his head tilting. “Soon.”

Dean tightened his grip on her. “Over my dead body.”

Lucifer smiled faintly. “That’s the idea.”

The air thickened, every breath heavy, choking. Lucifer stepped forward, and for a second, Dean thought it was over. He pressed her behind him again, his hand braced at her hip, his other curled around the angel blade. Sam squared his shoulders beside them, ready for a fight they couldn’t win.

Then Gabriel stepped into Lucifer’s path.

“Enough,” Gabriel said, his voice steady.

Lucifer paused, his head tilting like a curious animal. “Little brother.”

Dean blinked.

Sam’s jaw dropped, realization dawning. “That...oh my god,”

Gabriel sighed, throwing up his hands. “Yeah, yeah. Trumpets, wings, the whole nine yards. I’ve got the bloodline to prove it. Happy now?”

Lucifer’s expression shifted, fondness, sadness, cruelty all tangled into one. “I’ve missed you.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “You should’ve stayed missing me.”

Dean stepped forward instinctively, still shielding her with his body. His voice was sharp, ragged. “What the hell is going on here?”

Gabriel shot him a quick glance, his eyes weary. “Family drama. You know how it is.”

Lucifer’s smile widened, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Come home, Gabriel. Stand with me. You’ve always been the misfit, the trickster, the one no one took seriously. But you and I...we’re the same. We can burn them all down, together.”

Gabriel’s eyes flicked to the reader briefly, lingering just long enough for her to feel the weight of it. “No,” he said softly. “We’re not the same.”

Lucifer’s gaze hardened. “Then you die with them.”

Gabriel’s smirk flickered back, though his eyes betrayed the weight of his choice. “Story of my life.”

Dean’s heart pounded, his hand finding hers again, squeezing tight.

The terror in his voice stopped her from making any movements.

Lucifer raised his hand.

And Gabriel struck.

The room reeked of scorched wood and ichor, the air heavy with ozone from the gods’ extinguished power.

Gabriel stood tall in the middle of it, his shoulders squared, his blade gleaming faintly in his grip. He looked smaller somehow in that moment, no longer the smirking trickster who had toyed with them across years and hunts, but a man stripped bare, an archangel standing in his brother’s shadow.

Lucifer’s pale eyes locked on him, gleaming with a mixture of pity and rage. “You can’t win, Gabriel. You never could. I’m stronger. I always was.”

Gabriel’s smirk twitched back into place, though it was weary at the edges. “Stronger? Sure. Smarter? Not so much.”

Lucifer tilted his head, amused. “Still playing the fool, even now?”

Gabriel’s eyes flicked briefly toward the Winchesters and her, huddled against the far wall. Dean’s arm was wrapped tight around her, his body angled in front of hers, the blade gripped in his free hand. Sam was tense beside them, his fists clenched, his jaw tight.

Gabriel sighed softly, shaking his head. “I’m not playing the fool. I just finally picked a side.”

Then he lunged.

The clash was blinding, light against light, blade against blade. The Green Room’s sterile perfection had nothing on the raw fury that ripped through the hall now. Sparks flew with each strike, power lashing out in waves that cracked the marble floors and rattled the chandeliers.

Dean shielded her, one arm locking around her waist as the shockwaves rattled the walls. She clutched his jacket, her heart hammering.

The sheer force of the archangels’ fight shook her bones, rattling her to the core.

Gabriel moved fast, feinting, ducking, striking with desperation and grace. For a moment, just a moment, it looked like he might actually hold his own. His blade grazed Lucifer’s side, leaving a faint streak of blood.

Lucifer’s face hardened.

The counterstrike came swift and brutal. Lucifer’s blade plunged into Gabriel’s chest.

The scream tore from Gabriel’s throat, his grace flaring like a supernova. His body convulsed, light spilling out in jagged, searing lines. He staggered back, eyes wide with shock, then fixed on her, on Dean, on Sam.

“Don’t...let...him—” His words broke apart, but the meaning was clear.

Don’t let Lucifer win.

Then the light went out.

Gabriel collapsed, his vessel crumpling lifeless to the ground.

Lucifer stood over him, his chest rising and falling, pale eyes cold. He wiped the faint streak of blood from his side with a disdainful flick, then turned his gaze on the survivors.

“You see?” His voice was calm, almost gentle, which made it worse. “Even archangels fall. None of you can stop me. Not Heaven. Not Hell. Not the balance.”

His eyes lingered on her again, hungry, reverent.

Dean surged forward a half-step before Sam yanked him back. His grip on her arm tightened painfully. His voice was hoarse, breaking on every word. “Back the fuck up.”

Lucifer only smiled faintly, shaking his head as if at a stubborn child. “Dean. Always so predictable. You’ll see. Sooner or later, you’ll break. And when you do… so will she.”

And then he vanished.

It was not the peaceful kind. It was jagged, suffocating, filled with the echo of screams that had been silenced moments before. The table, once laden with food and wine, was overturned, the silver platters scattered among bodies, godly and human alike.

Dean’s grip on her hadn’t loosened. His hand still clutched her arm, his other braced firm against her hip, holding her close as if she might evaporate. His breathing was ragged, fury and fear battling in his chest.

Sam stared at Gabriel’s body, his voice raw. “He’s gone.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his face twisting. “Yeah. And for what? He stuck his neck out and—” He cut himself off, shaking his head violently, his voice cracking. “Son of a bitch.”

She reached up, her hand brushing lightly over Dean’s chest, feeling the frantic pound of his heart. “He chose,” she whispered.

Dean looked at her then, his eyes bloodshot, wet at the edges. For a moment, all the sharpness, all the anger drained, leaving only the broken man beneath.

He pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “And it’s gonna get us all killed.”

Sam’s voice broke again, quieter now. “But he bought us time. We can’t waste it.”

The room, wrecked and bloodied, felt smaller than ever.

The apocalypse was still coming, Gabriel was gone, and they were left standing in the wreckage of gods.

Dean tightened his arms around her, pressing his lips briefly to her temple.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said finally, voice rough. He glanced at Sam. “Now.”

And for once, Sam didn’t argue.