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aylacavebear · 2 months ago

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2/1 With A Twist Pt. 1

It was bad enough being on the run—worse when you didn’t even know what you were running from. Shadows moved wrong around you. Eyes lingered too long. You��d always been different, but never understood how or why. The only thing that made sense was the way your blood could help people. Heal them. Quietly slipping into hospitals, leaving behind recovering patients and no trace of yourself—that had become routine. You didn’t know it was also how they were finding you. And now, your life was about to change in ways you couldn’t begin to understand

Pairing: Eventually Dean x You/Reader

Word Count: 7361

Warning: Show level violence, Season 2 episode 1 rewrite, Past trauma, Soulmates, Mention of Angels, Bastet, Chuck, John being John, Angst, Tension, Mentions of Demons, Mentions of Death.

A/N: I honestly don't know if this will be more than three parts. No matter how much I try to "wrap it up," it just keeps flowing out of me. I also am not sure exactly where this one is headed.

----------------------------------------- You’d been driving for a week—no real destination, just away. Running on caffeine, gas station food, and whatever was loud enough to keep your eyes open. Classic rock trickled through the speakers, but you weren’t listening. Your mind hummed with fatigue, vision fraying at the edges.

I need to stop.

You knew better than to push yourself like this. But ever since the thing with the black eyes—since it had slammed you into a wall without laying a hand on you, whispered about your blood like it was gold—you hadn’t felt safe. You were still trying to piece together how you’d escaped that one.

The last sign you remembered said “Welcome to Missouri.” After that, everything blurred until the empty stress of some no-name town rose out of the early morning haze. The glowing Vacancy sign outside a squat little motel felt like salvation.

Check-in was blessedly uneventful. The man behind the counter barely looked up. You paid in cash, took the key, and disappeared behind the door of Room 6. You didn’t bother unpacking. Just locked the door, dropped your bag, and collapsed onto the bed.

—---------------

You woke to sunlight cutting through faded blinds. Your body ached from the drive—shoulders tight, back stiff. The streets outside buzzed with activity as you took in the room. Typical low-class motel, you thought to yourself, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.

The motel room looked like it hadn’t changed since the seventies. Faux-wood paneling lined the walls, chipped and faded in places where time had peeled back the varnish. A dull floral-print carpet, worn thin by countless boots and suitcases, muffled every step with the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke and motel-grade disinfectant.

One bed, full-sized, topped with a faded breadspread that looked like it had seen better decades. The nightstand between the bed and wall held a cracked plastic lamp with a yellowing shade and a crusted-over ashtray that hadn’t been emptied since the Clinton administration. A Gideon Bible, missing half its cover, lay half-tucked in the drawer.

Near the window, an old box TV sat on a laminate dresser, the kind with push-button knobs and rabbit-ear antennas wrapped in aluminum foil. A lone wooden chair rested in the corner under a framed print of a duck-filled marsh—generic, impersonal, and hung slightly crooked.

The bathroom was tiny, tiled in avocado green with a rusty shower rod and thin white towels that felt more like sandpaper. The sink had a slow drip, and the mirror over it was cracked in the top corner, warping reflections just enough to be unsettling.

It was cheap, anonymous, and quiet. A perfect place to lay low from whatever had been chasing you relentlessly.

Your stomach growled, loud enough to echo off the walls. You hadn’t eaten anything that wasn’t packaged or preserved in days. Across the street, a diner sign flickered in the almost afternoon sun, and the scent of frying bacon, coffee, and something sweet—pie maybe—floated in through the cracks.

You didn’t bother changing. Just threw your hair up in a messy ponytail, grabbed your keys, and stepped out into the almost afternoon.

The town was a little larger than it had looked last night. A few shops, a hardware store, one of those gas stations with half the sign burned out. You kept your head down, instincts sharp, senses on edge despite the normality of it all. Licking your lips, you made a beeline for breakfast and the only beverage that could pull the nails from your temples.

Inside the diner, it was warm. The kind of place that hadn’t changed its menu in twenty years. You slid into a booth and ordered the first thing on the list with the largest amount of food—something called a Big Breakfast.

As you enjoyed the warmth of eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and sausage, you perused the newspaper you’d picked up on your way inside. The comics and horoscopes always helped take your mind off the reality that was now your life.

The food and black coffee had helped, but it didn’t ground you—not really. You still felt like you were drifting, untethered in a world that kept twisting just out of reach. After breakfast, you crossed back to the motel, pushing the door open with your shoulder and tossing your keys onto the nightstand.

The room was stuffy, despite the weak hum of the AC unit. You peeled off your clothes as you walked toward the bathroom, kicking your boots into a corner. The shower tiles were the same sickly avocado green as the rest of the bathroom—faded, cracked in a few places. One tile was missing completely, a jagged rectangle of concrete peeking through.

You turned the knob and waited as the pipes groaned to life, spitting brown for a moment before the water cleared. It never got hot—just lukewarm, enough to be tolerable. You scrubbed fast, avoiding the edges of the curtain, which clung to your skin like cold, wet plastic. The mirror fogged quickly, but you didn’t linger.

Ten minutes later, you stepped out, towleing your hair and pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a fitted tank top. You hesitated at the door, then grabbed your flannel from the duffel bag. Hospitals were always cold, and you’d rather not stand out more than necessary. Phone, wallet, keycard, car keys—check. You locked the motel door behind you, hoping this town wouldn’t give you a reason to run again.

—-----------------

St. Mary’s Hospital was tucked between a row of brick buildings that looked like they belonged to a different decade. The automatic doors hissed as you stepped inside, greeted by the sterile chill of recycled air and the faint scent of antiseptic. Nurses moved like clockwork behind the counter, their voices low, clipped, efficient.

You kept your head down, slipping past without drawing attention. You didn’t always know how your ability worked—there was no ritual or magic word—but you could feel when someone needed you. Like gravity pulling at something inside you. A hum beneath your skin.

The pull led you to the ICU.

Second floor. Room 237.

You didn’t know how you knew. You just did.

You moved like a shadow, hugging the walls as you navigated the hallways. When you reached the door, your fingers hovered over the handle, hesitating. The only sound on the other side was the steady cadence of machines—keeping someone alive.

Inside, the man lay pale and unmoving, a tangle of wires and tubing trailing from him to machines on either side of his bed. The monitors beeped in time with a heart that was struggling to hold on. He looked younger than you expected. Strong jaw, scruffy chin, faint bruising across his cheekbone. Even unconscious, his brow was furrowed like he was mid-argument.

You stepped closer, the tug in your chest deepening into something near magnetic. Not words. Not thoughts. Just need.

The room felt colder now, enough that the hair on your arms stood on end.

You sat on the edge of the bed, brushing your fingers over his wrist. His skin was cool under your touch.

“I don’t know who you are,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath, “but you’re not supposed to die.” Normally, you’d find a wound—drip your blood into it, let it do its job. But with him, that wasn’t an option.

You moved to the door, quietly closing it, then searched through the drawers and cabinets until you found what you needed. A syringe.

You drew the blood from your own arm, halfway filling the barrel before returning to his side. You found the IV line and injected it directly, your hands steady despite the weight of what you were doing.

Your blood would work slowly—mending what was fractured, coaxing life back into places it had started to slip from. Just as you withdrew the syringe, the overhead lights in the room flickered. The air went frigid. You held your breath.

Something felt it.

Quickly, you discarded the syringe into the waste bin and slipped out of his room before the flicker became more than coincidence. You couldn’t risk being caught, asking questions you had no way of answering.

—----------------- Dean’s POV…

The room flickers—once, then again, the overhead lights humming like they’re caught in a tug-of-war between this world and something just outside it.

Dean watches from the corner, weightless and invisible, tethered to his own damn body like a ghost.

He doesn’t feel pain. Doesn’t feel much of anything except that low, vibrating tension—like adrenaline with nowhere to go.

Then she walks in.

Not a nurse. Not a doctor.

Just a woman. Slipping through the door like she doesn’t belong there.

He watcher move—quiet, cautious, too damn smooth.

Hunter instincts flare.

She closes the door, searches the room, finding a syringe like she knows exactly what she’s doing. His stomach twists, even though his body doesn’t react.

Then she jabs herself. Draws her own blood.

What the hell?

Dean tries to shout, standing right behind her. She can’t hear him, no matter how loud he gets. He’s stuck, watching helplessly as she injects her blood straight into his IV line.

Poison? Spell? Trying to turn me into a monster? What the hell is she doing?

The lights surge again, brighter, harsher with his anger.

She freezes like she feels it—feels him.

Their eyes don’t meet. But she glances toward his body, toward him, like something brushed across her skin.

And then she’s slipping out of his room.

Dean stares at the door long after it clicks shut, mind racing.

Later that night…

Dean leans against the wall of his room, replaying every second of what happened earlier. The flickering lights. The syringe. Her face.

The door opens, and Sam walks in—carrying something tucked under his arm.

Dean trails him as Sam sits on the floor, just past the foot of the bed. He pulls out a wooden Ouija board.

Dean smirks. Smart, Sam. Then, he drops to the other side of the board as Sam rests his fingers over the planchette.

“Come on, man. Just… give me something.”

The lights don’t flicker this time, but the planchette jerks.

“Holy—okay. Okay. Dean?”

The planchet slides across the board

YES

“Thank God. Okay. Okay. Are you in pain?”

“Are you scared?”

A pause.

Then, a beat later:

GIRL

Sam’s brow furrows as he keeps track of the letters the planchette moves over. “Girl. What girl?”

CAME TONIGHT BLOOD IV

His brow furrowed further, and if this wasn’t so serious, Dean probably would have laughed at how hard Sam was thinking. Sam glanced over at Dean’s body, then back at the board. “You saw someone come in? Who was she?”

DO NOT KNOW MONSTER MAYBE

“You’re not sure?”

HUNTER SENSES SAID NOT SUPPOSED TO DIE

“Dean…” Sam leans in. “Are you saying she helped you?”

YEAH CHECK ME

“What do you mean, check—?”

VITALS TESTS

Sam grabs the board and stashes it fast before moving to Dean’s side. He hits the call button, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the monitors.

Dean watches him, the answers still echoing between them like static.

The nurse arrives within seconds, clipboard in hand and smile already fading as she glances at the monitors.

“Uh… his heart rate just stabilized,” she murmurs, eyes narrowing. “Blood pressure’s improved too. That doesn’t make sense—” Sam stepped outside the room, leaning against the doorframe, watching every move she made.

“Is that good?” he asked, aiming for normal—just a concerned brother, not one taking medical advice from his comatose sibling via Ouija board.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she adjusts one of the IVs and presses the call button again. “I need a doctor in here,” she says quickly. “Now.”

Dean stands near the monitors, arms crossed, invisible and irritated. “Hey, doc, welcome to the Twilight Zone,” he mutters, watching as more staff stream into the room.

A young resident rushes in first, followed by a silver-haired attending who gives off “I’m in charge” vibes and barks orders like she’s in the ER.

They crowd around Dean’s body. Blood is drawn. His chart reviewed. Flashlights in the eyes, tapping reflexes, scanning vitals.

The murmurs start.

“The bruising around his ribs—it’s fading.”

“His heart rate is steady.” “So’s his blood pressure and oxygen.”

Sam stands off to the side, arms folded, jaw tight.

Dean watches him, pride flickering even now. Kid’s holding it together. Barely.

“Could this be a charting error?” one nurse asks.

“No,” the attending doctor snaps. “I did those scans myself last night.” “Is it a reaction to the medication?”

“He’s barely been on anything—just fluids and monitoring. We were watching the head trauma, worried about the early signs of cerebral edema.”

Another doctor leans in, staring at the chart like it might change if she just looks hard enough. “He shouldn’t be improving like this.” “Then maybe you missed something,” Sam cuts in, tone calm but sharp. “Maybe you’re not looking in the right place.” They all glance at him—briefly. No one answers.

Finally, the attending doctor sighs. “We’ll run everything again. Full panel. Imaging. I want to see every inch of him inside and out.” She turns, already speaking into her recorder as she walks out. The others follow, leaving one nurse behind to monitor the machines.

Sam exhales, but doesn’t move, knowing he had to be the one to tell their father. Dean moves to stand right in front of him, willing himself to be seen, knowing he won’t be. “You’re doing good, Sammy.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair before pushing off the wall. Their father’s room was only a few doors down the hall. Bruises, cuts, a broken arm—but John would make a full recovery.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the wall-mounted light. John lies back in the bed, arm in a sling, bandages peeking from beneath his gown. He looks like hell—just awake enough to be dangerous.

Sam steps in, shoulders tense, expression unreadable.

John glances up. “How’s your brother?” Sam stares at him a second too long before answering. “Better.” John sits up straighter. “What do you mean?” “I mean the doctors don’t know what’s going on,” Sam says, stepping closer, voice sharpening. “His vitals stabilized. Oxygen’s good. Blood pressure’s normal. Bruising is fading.” John’s brow furrows slightly, but no real reaction.

Sam lets out a short breath. “They were watching him for cerebral edema. Remember? Head trauma? That doesn’t just… reverse.” John stays quiet, eyes on the blanket.

“And you’re just sitting here like that’s normal,” Sam snaps.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t say anything. That’s the problem.” Sam paces to the foot of the bed, jaw clenched. “You didn’t even ask how. You just accept it. Like you knew it would happen.” Dean’s spirit stands near the far wall, arms folded. Watching. The tension between them tightens the air. He knows where this is headed.

Sam looks up at John again, eyes narrowing. “Dean said something. Back when we were using the board.” John frowns. “What?” “He said… someone came into his room. A woman. Put something in his IV. Blood, he thought.” That gets a twitch from John’s face—but it’s too fast, too faint. Gone in a second.

“You know something,” Sam accuses, stepping closer. “You know something. Don’t you?” “I don’t know anything, Sam,” and for once, John wasn’t lying about that.

“Bullshit,” Sam fires back. “Dean could’ve died, and you’re just sitting here like we’re not standing in the middle of something bigger again. Maybe she did something to him. Maybe it wasn’t healing—maybe it was a curse or possession or—” “Enough.” John’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “He’s alive.” “And that’s all that matters to you?” Sam says, voice rising. “What if there’s a price? What if whatever she did comes back?”

Dean moves forward instinctively, wanting to yell, to shut them up. The tension burns in his chest. They’re wasting time, tearing into each other when all he wants is answers and peace.

“You’re not even curious, are you?” Sam growls. “Just another day. Another hunt. Another secret. God forbid you ever tell us anything.” “I didn’t make a deal, Sam.” Sam freezes. “What?” John holds his ground. “Whatever you think—I didn’t make a deal. I don’t know what healed Dean.” Dean stares, jaw clenched. His fists curl uselessly.

Silence. Thick. Ugly.

Then—CRASH.

The glass of water on John’s tray table flies off and shatters on the linoleum floor. Both men jump.

Sam whirls to the spot. His eyes flicker to the still-air, the tray, the empty space.

John’s voice is quiet. “What the hell was that?” Sam’s pulse spikes. “Dean.” “What?” Sam doesn’t elaborate. He just walks over to the small cabinet, grabs a towel, crouches to pick up the glass shards. His hands shake slightly. “He’s… he’s been trying to communicate. It’s not the first time.” John just stares.

Dean’s spirit stands beside the broken glass, jaw locked tight, voice low and sharp—heard only by no one. “Stop fighting. Please.” Sam tosses the towel on the counter, then looks back at his father.

“I don’t know what she did to him,” he says, “but I’m gonna find out. And if there’s any fallout from it, it won’t be on Dean.” He walks out before John can answer.

John looked down at the broken glass, then out into the hall. His jaw clenched—guilt pressing deep behind the stoicism, but never surfacing. He’d seen her. The girl Sam mentioned. His hunter instincts had flared the second she had appeared in the hall, too sudden, too quiet. He hadn’t realized she’d come from Dean’s room. But he’d seen her—and that was enough.

In the corner, Dean’s spirit lingered, eyes fixed on his father, tension vibrating through him like a struck chord. “What the hell do you know?” he muttered to himself.

—-------------------------

The walls seem to breathe in this part of the hospital—quiet, sterile, and humming with faint energy. You move like a shadow, tucked into your flannel, slipping through the halls unnoticed. You’ve always been good at that. It’s part instinct, part necessity. No one can see what you do. Not really.

You’d barely stepped out of the man’s room—the one that wasn’t supposed to die—before the pull started again. Low and insistent in your chest, like a thread tugging at your ribcage.

Room 208.

You waited until the nurse disappeared down the hall, clipboard in hand. Then you moved. Quiet. Measured.

The man in the bed was in his eighties, lungs giving out, skin papery and gray. The pain is all but visible on him, clinging like a fog.

You close the door. Draw the curtains.

It takes a moment to find the right vein.

You’ve done this enough times to be quick, careful. Your blood—only a small vial, enough to tip the balance—flows silently through the syringe and into his IV line. You clean up just as fast, no evidence left behind.

By the time you pull the curtain back, he’s breathing easier. Still pale. Still dying. But now there’s time.

You slip out before the monitors catch up.

Room 214 is next. A young woman. Too young. Post-op, in critical condition. Her chart says she’s not expected to last the night.

You wait until her family leaves. Two minutes. That’s all you need.

Same process. Precision. One vial. Mixed into her IV.

You whisper a quiet apology, you know she’ll never hear. You hate using your blood like this—it takes more than you like to admit. But the alternative is worse.

When you leave, no one sees you.

But something is watching.

That familiar cold creeps along your spine—the hairs on your body standing on end, then the shiver.

You never knew what that feeling came from, but it always creeped you out. Like the weight of invisible eyes just watching you. It wasn’t the same feeling that you got from the things chasing you. But you felt it in every hospital, near every person you helped. You pulled your flannel tighter around yourself and kept walking.

—----------

The cafeteria hummed with voices, chairs scraping linoleum, machines whirring behind the counter. You kept your head down and stayed near the far wall, away from the foot traffic. The soup before you is lukewarm, but it’s something. After everything you’ve given today, you needed something.

You lifted the spoon halfway to your mouth when you thought about him—the first one you helped. You never felt them after they woke up, the people you healed, but you often thought of how their lives were after that. The time you’d given them.

Just as a smile found your lips at the thought, the cafeteria doors swung open.

You barely glance up—but recognize him. The tall one. The man who lingered outside the room of the one you’d saved first. You’d had to wait, time your steps carefully, slip past when he wasn’t looking.

He headed for the coffee, not even glancing your way. His mind was clearly elsewhere, but you didn’t bother speculating where.

He poured two cups, then turned.

Your eyes dropped quickly, pretending to study the soup like it was fascinating.

He doesn’t recognize you. Not yet.

But he’s seen you before. Briefly. Just outside radiology. A flash of red flannel. A scent he couldn’t quite place. A gut feeling.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. A warning. You needed to leave. Your instincts were never wrong, and these meant danger. The man walked past you, out the doors.

You let out a slow breath, letting your body relax, just a little.

—----------------------

The light above Dean’s bed buzzed faintly—too soft to bother him, but enough to remind him he was still in a hospital. He blinked against the pale ceiling, shifting slightly. Ache radiated in a dull echo through his ribs, but it was nothing compared to before.

His dad sat in the corner, one arm in a cast and sling, the other resting in his lap, looking like he hadn’t slept. Which, knowing him, was probably true.

Dean’s voice was a rasp. “You look worse than me.” John gave a faint snort. “Not a chance.” The door opened, and Sam stepped in, two paper cups in hand. His gaze flicked to Dean and froze. “You’re awake.” Dean offered a weak smirk. “What gave it away? My sparkling personality?”

Sam was already moving toward the bed, relief plain on his face. “You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.” “Yeah, well… guess I’m a dam overachiever.” The doctor entered behind Sam, middle-aged and tired-looking, his coat wrinkled, eyes sharp behind thin frames. He gave a quick nod to both men before turning his attention to Dean. “You’re healing faster than expected,” he said, flipping through the chart. “Ruptured spleen’s sealed, fractured ribs are knitting. The internal damage is… mostly gone.” “Mostly?” John’s voice cut in, low and edged.

The doctor didn’t flinch. “There’s residual inflammation, but nothing life-threatening. He still needs rest. The body needs time to adjust, even if the trauma’s been—” he paused, choosing his words because not even he knew what the hell had changed, “—healed.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t sound convinced.” “I’ve worked trauma for fifteen years. I’ve never seen healing like this. Not without… intervention.” He looked at the chart one last time, then nodded once and left without another word.

Silence settled for a beat too long.

Dean shifted against the pillows. “So. We’re all just gonna ignore the obvious?” John’s jaw ticked. Sam leaned forward. “You remember something?” “I remember her.” Dean’s voice was sure. “The woman—or monster. She was standing over me… warm hands, soft voice. Like she knew exactly what to do.”

Sam straightened. “What did she look like?”

Dean closed his eyes for a second, calling it back. “Dark hair. Flannel pulled over a shirt. Eyes like… like she saw right through me. Not scared. Just calm. Like she’d done this before.”

Sam’s expression changed. “Wait—flannel?” He turned toward John. “I saw her. Near radiology. And again just now, in the cafeteria—same woman. She was just… sitting there like she was trying to blend in.” John sat forward, his mind already working out some sort of plan on how to deal with her. “I saw her in the hall before Dean’s monitors went off. Must’ve been right after.” For a beat, none of them spoke—each caught in his own thoughts. Then John was moving, out of his seat and toward the door.

“Dad,” Dean barked, and the man paused, hand on the handle. “She saved my life. Whatever she is… she’s not evil.” John’s jaw tightened, expression unreadable. “Maybe. But I’ve got questions for her.” Then he was gone.

“Fuck,” Dean growled under his breath. This was nothing new—John didn’t keep them in the loop about whatever his plans were. Sam sighed, caught between wanting to follow his father and stay there with his brother.

“Sam,” Dean met his brother’s gaze, pleading silently. “Don’t let him hurt her.”

The line—the one between human and monsters—used to be simple. Monsters were evil. They killed monsters. Whatever she was, she wasn’t human. But she hadn’t hurt anyone. She’d healed Dean, and now that line that had always been easy, was gone.

Sam took off out of Dean’s room, following where he knew his father had gone— back to the cafeteria. The last place she’d been seen.

Dean slumped back, into the pillows, unable to follow. He closed his eyes, the memory of her sitting on his bed replayed in his mind. Her eyes. Her voice. The way she was so calm. Like she cared, even though he was some stranger.

“Please don’t let my dad hurt her,” he whispered, opening his eyes as his gaze lifted to the ceiling, but he was looking beyond it. He wasn’t sure who he was asking. He just hoped someone—anyone—would hear him and answer this one prayer.

—----------------------

You stood, setting your empty bowl on the tray with a soft clink. The soup had helped, but only just. Your limbs still ached, that deep kind of weariness that always followed after giving too much. Too many people today. Too much blood.

You adjusted the sleeves of your flannel, pulling it tighter across your body. I need sleep. With that thought, you turned toward the exit.

You were three steps from the door when it opened in front of you.

John stepped through like he’d been yanked forward on instinct, and the moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped cold. The shape of your face. The color of your eyes. That same calm stare Dean had described.

It was you.

Recognition hit him like a hammer, and without hesitation, his hand shot out, catching you by the arm.

Your body tensed. Breath caught. You knew the look—militant. Decisive. Dangerous. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up again, instincts warning of impending threat. You didn’t fight, but you did take a subtle step back, testing his grip. Firm. Controlled. Not cruel, but far from gentle.

“You’re her,” he said, voice low and certain. “Don’t run.” “I wasn’t going to,” you answered quietly, eyes meeting his. Not defiant. Just honest. “But if I did, you wouldn’t catch me.” His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing slightly. You didn’t look like much—average build, calm demeanor, not even armed. But that only made you more dangerous. More unknown. Dean’s life had been hanging by a thread, and now it wasn’t. And here you were, standing in front of him like some ghost made real.

“I’ve got questions,” he said, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his intent.

You tilted your head slightly, catlike. You’d made sure no one had seen you. Before you could say anything, footsteps pounded in the hallway.

Sam rounded the corner and skidded to a stop a few feet away, eyes locking on the scene. The tension between you, John, and the air itself stretched taut like a wire ready to snap.

“Dad,” Sam warned, moving closer. “This isn’t the place.” John didn’t look at him. “She’s not running,” he said, still focused on you. “She knows something. Maybe she is something.” “I don’t doubt that,” Sam replied carefully as he scanned the cafeteria. Heads were already turning. Conversations were quieting. “But unless you want a bunch of security guards asking questions or people filming this, we need to take it somewhere else.” You finally turned your gaze toward Sam, studying his face. Recognition stirred. You’d seen him. Near the ICU, maybe. But you still didn’t know who he was. Who either of them were.

John hesitated, grip unrelenting.

“Let’s take her to Dean’s room,” Sam said quickly, cutting the tension. “We only know about her because of him.” John clenched his jaw, his mind ticking through options. He would’ve preferred an empty hallway. A storage room. Somewhere he could demand answers without interference. But too many eyes were on you now. Too many witnesses.

“Fine,” he growled, dragging you forward to keep pace just ahead of him.

You didn’t resist—not even against the bruising grip that might’ve left marks on someone else. But you weren’t someone else. And you didn’t want to hurt them. Not yet. Not unless you had to.

So you bided your time.

You cycled through everyone you’d helped, matching faces to memory, looking for the missing piece. Still, nothing fit—until you passed the ICU wing and saw room 237.

Something clicked.

The taller one—you’d slipped past him. Just for a moment. Just long enough. But the man in the bed… Had the unconscious man somehow seen me?

The hospital door swung open hard, rattling on its hinges as John pushed you through with a hand still wrapped tight around your arm. The light inside was muted, casting long shadows across the room’s sterile walls. You barely had time to register the shape in the bed before it hit you.

There he was.

Dean. You’d learned that earlier.

His body was still bandaged in places, a little bruised, but his breathing was steady, and only one monitor was now attached to him. His eyes were open. Sharp. Searching.

And locked on you the instant you stepped inside.

The grip on your arm loosened, gone as everything else blurred at the edges.

Dean didn’t just see you—he felt you. A magnetic tug in his chest, like some invisible threat that had been waiting to go taut. Like gravity itself had been off until this moment, and now you were the thing holding him to the ground.

Your breath caught. That pull—you remembered it. The same pull that had drawn you to the hospital. The reason you’d slipped past nurses, past security. The reason you’d thought he was the one you were meant to save.

Maybe he was.

But something shifted behind your ribs, a soft echo of knowing.

No. It wasn’t him.

You didn’t understand why, not fully. But some part of you—instinctual, bone-deep—realized the truth you weren’t ready to say aloud.

He was never going to die.

It was the man who dragged you in here that mattered.

Dean’s lips parted like he meant to speak, but no sound came out. Just that stare. That pull. He didn’t even know your name. Didn’t know your story. But his soul recognized you. Like you were tied to something ancient. Fated.

And for a moment, the air was thick with it—like the whole world had narrowed to this room and the silent electricity between you.

Then John cut through it like a blade.

“Start talking,” he snapped, voice gruff, grounding, already moving to stand between you and the bed.

You blinked, the moment fractured, scattered into the corners.

Sam slipped in behind him, shutting the door with a quiet click, his presence more cautious, more watchful.

John stood like a soldier, feet planted, the kind of man who never wasted a movement unless he meant it. His eyes raked over you again—measuring, calculating.

“What are you?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.

Not who. What.

He didn’t believe in accidents or coincidences. He believed in monsters, curses, fate. You didn’t know that yet, not fully. But you could feel the suspicion rolling off him like a heat wave. He was already fitting you into the puzzle—already imagining worst-case scenarios.

You stayed quiet, unable to tell him what you didn’t know. It wasn’t like you’d been born with some sort of handbook that explained the things you could do, how you were different.

Dean stirred behind him. “Dad—”

John didn’t look back. “She’s not just some girl. She’s something, Dean.” “I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Dean rasped, his eyes never leaving you.

But that edge was missing. No fear. No mistrust. Just curiosity… and something else, something he refused to consider.

John’s eyes never left you, but the flicker of something passed through them—something barely-there and buried deep. His son was alive. That should’ve been impossible. He’d been considering going dark for just that. Doing something unforgivable so his son could live. Something permanent. Daming.

But Dean was alive, healing at this very moment due to what you’d done. And even if John didn’t trust you, didn’t like this—you were a variable he couldn’t afford to ignore.

Sam stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“No,” John snapped, but still hadn’t moved. “I don’t give a damn about her name. I want the truth,” he growled, every word laced with threat. “All of it.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because what were you supposed to say? That your blood does things it shouldn’t? That it can pull people back from the brink, like some kind of twisted miracle? That you’d been running from things with black eyes and impossible strength—things that burned when they touched you, screamed like they were dying when your blood hit them? You didn’t even know what they were. You just knew they wanted you dead. Or captured. Or worse.

“I’m waiting,” John barked, snapping you back.

You flinched, jaw tight.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice low. “I don’t know what I am.” “That’s not good enough,” he growled.

“Dad,” Dean warned, pushing himself a little higher on the bed, wincing but not stopping. “Back off.” John didn’t look away. “She walks into a secure hospital, injects her blood into you, and you start healing faster than should be possible. And now she’s saying she doesn’t know how?”

“I didn’t lie,” you snapped, your voice cracking before you steadied it. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want it. I just—feel it. Something pulls me to people. And when I get there, someone’s always dying or really sick.”

Silence.

You swallowed hard, pulse thudding behind your ribs. You could still feel the echoes of it—Dean’s soul calling out to you. It was different than the pull of people. But he wasn’t the one. You knew that now. The pull had been real, but it was only to bring you here. To the room. To the moment. To John.

Your stomach twisted.

It was never about saving Dean. It was about saving his father.

John stared at you like he was trying to burn the truth out of your skull.

Sam took a step forward. “You said people are dying—what do you mean? You get a feeling and then just… show up?” You nodded, but that was only part of it all. God, there was so much more than just that. “I try to ignore it, but it gets louder. Like a pressure in my chest. Like something’s breaking apart inside me if I don’t go.” “And your blood?” Sam asked, softer now. “You said you heal people?” “I didn’t say I did,” you replied. “It just… happens. A cut heals. Someone coded once, and I didn’t think—I just bit my lip and pressed it to their mouth, and the monitor beeped again after a few seconds. The nurses thought it was adrenaline. I ran before they could ask questions. My blood heals. Not me.” Dean let out a low whistle. “Well, damn.” Sam, always the researcher, always needed the why, looked like he was already writing theories in his head. “Are there others like you?” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I haven’t met anyone. Only… things chasing me.” “What kind of things?” John demanded, his voice low but sharp.

Your breath hitched. “Black eyes. Not human. They can do things—make people freeze, make them bleed without touching them. They hate me, I think.”

“Demons,” Sam muttered, brows furrowing. “That sounds like demons.” John’s head snapped to him. “Don’t start, Sam.” “Why? Because I know what I’m talking about? She’s describing a possession, Dad!”

“You don’t know anything,” John fired back.

“Neither do you!” Sam shot back, eyes flashing. “But you’re already treating her like she’s the threat, not the victim!” “Because she’s not a victim,” John growled. “She’s the reason Dean is alive. That doesn’t come without consequences.” “I didn’t ask for this,” you said, quieter this time. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just… I go where I’m needed. And try to get away before it all goes to hell.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “Okay, enough. Both of you—just shut up for a second.” Neither John nor Sam spoke, but the tension hummed like a live wire between them.

Dean looked at you again, something unreadable in his eyes. “You saved my life. That counts for something.” John’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t say it didn’t.” “But you’re acting like it,” Dean bit back. “She’s not the enemy.” “Not yet,” John muttered.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Not yet.

Because even now, you didn’t know how this all ended. You didn’t know what you were. You didn’t know what you were capable of.

The room dropped into silence—not tension, not dread. A silence, capital-S, like the kind that comes before lightning splits the sky. One heartbeat passed. Then another.

Then—

“Damn it,” someone muttered behind you.

The voice didn’t belong. It wasn’t John, Dean, or Sam. It wasn’t the hospital. It wasn’t anything you’d heard before.

You spun on instinct, stepping back until your shoulder brushed John’s arm. He tensed beside you, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from the man who hadn’t been there a second ago.

He stood near the far corner of the room, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose like he had a migraine. Messy brown hair. Scruffy beard. Flannel shirt half-buttoned over a faded tee and jeans that had seen better years. He looked like he belonged in a used bookstore, not standing in a hospital room with fury flickering beneath his human disguise.

The Winchesters could only stare, until his eyes landed on Dean. “You were supposed to be mourning, not bonding,” he sneered before glaring at John. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

But there was nothing human in his eyes.

He didn’t introduce himself, not to you, not to them. Chuck let his hand drop, exhaling sharply. “You were supposed to go to Topeka. Not this no-name town in Missouri. That hospital had a drunk driver and a kid with a tumor—not Winchesters.” His eyes locked on yours, suddenly cold, suddenly ancient. “You’re screwing everything up.” You blinked. “Who the hell are you?” “Oh, right. You wouldn’t know.” He gestured vaguely, mock-introducing himself. “Hi. God. Capital G. Author of… well, everything. Call me Chuck. And you, my dear, are a problem.” Your mouth went dry. First demons were what had been chasing you, and now this was supposed to be God? “What?”

“I gave you free will,” Chuck went on, pacing now. “I left some ambiguity, sure. A little mystery, a little magic. But this? This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were never meant to cross paths with them.”

He jabbed a finger toward the Winchesters.

“They’ve already had their arcs. More to come. I wrapped things up with a bow. Neat-ish. You? You were supposed to go quietly, anonymously, fade into myth. Not… this.” He snapped his fingers in frustration, but nothing happened—just a faint crackle in the air.

John had his gun out before anyone could blink.

“Put that away,” Chuck sighed, annoyed. “Bullets won’t help when you’re standing in the middle of a rewrite.”

He turned back to you, eyes narrowing. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to go away. Quietly. Painfully, maybe. But gone. So I can fix this and the story can go back to what it was supposed to be.” He raised his hand.

Your body moved on its own—heart slamming, lungs locking, a scream pressing against your throat. You didn’t know why, but every cell screamed danger.

Chuck’s fingers curled, ready to snap.

And then—

A gust of wind. A shimmer of light. The smell of sun-warmed fur and frankincense.

She appeared like moonlight through smoke—silent and regal and terrifying. And you could breathe again, coughing to get air back where it’d been stolen from, bones no longer hurting.

The woman who stepped between you and Chuck wore midnight and gold. Her skin shimmered bronze, her eyes slitted like a feline’s, ancient and unreadable. Her hair was long, black as obsidian, spilling over bare shoulders and down a gown that moved like liquid shadow. Bangles coiled up both arms like serpents, and each step she took echoed like temple bells.

Chuck’s hand froze mid-air.

“Bastet,” he said, voice dripping with annoyance. “Seriously?”

She tilted her head slowly, eyes locking on his raised fingers.

“I don’t smite your angels,” she said, voice smooth and rich with ancient power. “You do not touch Touched.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Especially not mine.” “She’s a glitch,” Chuck said, gesturing at you. “A ripple. This story has nothing to do with her.” Bastet smiled—and it was not a kind smile. “Perhaps that’s because you don’t want it to. I thought you gave them free will?” she mused, riling him on purpose.

Chuck’s eyes flickered, something older rising behind them. “She wasn’t supposed to meet them. This was never part of the design.” Bastet stepped closer, and you could feel her power like velvet smoke wrapping around your shoulders. Protective. Possessive. Dangerous in the way only something immortal could be.

“You made the world,” she said. “And left it. I made mine, and stayed.”

Chuck’s expression tightened.

Bastet hummed, relishing in making this God squirm. “Souls are drawn to each other. You aren’t the only keeper of them,” she mused smugly, like she had him right where she wanted him, but she wasn’t done. “Just because your angels don’t have souls doesn’t mean Touched don’t.”

Chuck’s jaw clenched. She was giving away far more than he ever wanted the Winchesters to know about, and now, he couldn’t even get rid of you without starting a war he wasn’t prepared to fight, not yet. “If you touch her,” Bastet continued, now barely a breath away from him, “or them… I will answer in kind. And unlike you, I do not erase. I hunt.” For a second, the universe seemed to hold its breath.

Then Chuck stepped back, slowly lowering his hand. “Fine,” he said, and it sounded more like not yet. “But don’t come crying to me when it falls apart.” With a blink, he was gone.

The tension broke like a snapped chord.

Bastet exhaled quietly, the room warming in her presence. She turned to you now, and something in you… recognized her. Not by memory, but by instinct. Like a sound your blood had always heard in the dark.

“You aren’t alone anymore,” she said gently. “John will warm up to you. I can’t guide you, but I will be watching. Bobby Singer has a book. It has the answers you seek.”

And then she was gone too, leaving the four of you staring blankly and attempting to figure out what exactly had happened. The scent of frankincense lingered, and the light seemed to bend around the space where she’d stood only a moment ago.

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