captonite

[captonite]

Mini Mayhem 2: Tiny Terror Returns

Supernatural | Babyfication Round Two | Pure Chaos & Fluff

It started with a witch. (Again.)

Except this time, it wasn’t on purpose.

The hunt was straightforward. Salt and burn, a couple Latin incantations — Cas even said, “This should be simple.”

Famous last words.

Because the minute Sachi touched the cursed locket on the altar, there was a flash of light and a pop — and she disappeared.

Sam’s scream echoed through the room. “CHUBS?!”

Dean ran over, eyes wild. “Where’d she go?! Cas—”

“I… I don’t know,” Cas muttered, scanning the room with his grace.

And then—

“Deeeeeee?”

A small voice.

Dean turned around and nearly passed out.

There, sitting in the middle of a pile of salt and ash, wearing her oversized jacket like a dress, was a three-year-old girl with wide brown eyes and pigtails.

She blinked up at them.

“I got zappy again.”

Dean full-on dropped his gun.

Back at the Bunker

Sam was pacing.

“She touched the locket. It reacted to her energy. We’ve seen this before. It’s regression-based, not timeline tampering—”

Dean, holding baby Chubs like a koala on his chest, said flatly, “You’re missing the important part.”

Sam paused. “What’s that?”

Dean turned slowly to look at his brother.

“This time… she remembers.”

Sam blinked. “Wait, what?”

Dean gestured at the tiny girl curled into his flannel. “She looked me dead in the face and said, ‘You made me pancakes last time. I want sprinkles again.’”

Sam turned pale.

“She remembers,” Dean repeated, voice full of doom.

Weaponized Baby Power, Activated

By hour two, Chubs had changed into a tiny hoodie (custom-ordered from last time) and realized three critical things:

The boys were absolutely helpless in the face of her baby voice.

Her big eyes could get her anything.

She was living for it.

Scene: Bunker Kitchen Chubs, in full “smol mode,” blinks up from her spot on the counter.

“Sammy?”

Sam looks up from his laptop, distracted. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

She pouts. “I wants a cookie.”

“You already had two—”

She tilts her head. “Pwease?”

He hesitates. “Chubs—”

She wraps her tiny arms around his neck, presses her face to his shoulder, and whispers:

“I wuv you.”

One minute later: Sam is handing her the whole box.

Dean walks in and freezes. “Dude. She played you.”

“She’s too powerful,” Sam whispers.

Scene: Dean’s Room Dean tries to fold laundry.

Chubs climbs onto the bed, dragging her stuffed bunny.

“Dee?”

He turns. “Yeah, baby?”

“I need snuggles,” she says solemnly.

Dean caves instantly.

Ten minutes later, he’s curled around her like a guard dog, stroking her hair as she naps with her thumb in her mouth.

Sam passes by the door, sees them, and mutters, “We’re not gonna survive this.”

Cas Returns With Hope (and Worry)

Cas appears in the war room in a flutter of wings.

“I believe I’ve located the counter-curse,” he announces.

Chubs pops her head up from behind Sam’s laptop. “Caaaas!”

He immediately melts. “There she is.”

She waddles over, arms raised. “Up.”

Cas picks her up, cradles her gently. “You remember me.”

Chubs rests her head on his shoulder. “You got me a toy moose.”

Sam whispers to Dean, “We are so doomed.”

The Problem: She Doesn’t Want To Go Back

They find the charm. It’s ready.

But when they explain it to Chubs, she looks up at them with wide, teary eyes.

“I don’ wanna,” she whispers.

Dean crouches beside her. “Why, sweetheart?”

She sniffs. “I like bein’ small. You guys… you don’t fight when I’m little. You smile more. You stay close.”

Sam kneels too, heart already breaking. “You know we love you just as much when you’re big, right?”

Chubs frowns. “Sometimes… I don’t feel like it.”

Dean’s voice cracks. “Oh, baby girl…”

The Real Conversation

They pick her up, one brother on each side, and settle into the couch.

Dean kisses the top of her head. “You don’t have to be small for us to stay close. We’re here. Always.”

Sam gently brushes a tear from her cheek. “Even when we’re tired or grumpy or distracted — you’re still the center of this family.”

Chubs clutches her bunny. “Even if I’m not helpful?”

Dean takes her tiny hand. “You’re not here to be helpful.”

“You’re here because we love you,” Sam says softly.

“You’re ours, squirt,” Dean murmurs. “Big or small.”

Her eyes fill again. “’Kay.”

Dean smiles. “Now give us a hug before I cry again.”

Back to Big

The charm works.

There’s light, a hum of power — and just like that, Sachi is her full-sized self again.

She sits on the floor, blinking up at her brothers.

“...Please tell me I didn’t say ‘I wuv you’ out loud.”

Dean’s already reaching for her. “Too late.”

Sam’s grinning. “You also demanded five cookies.”

Chubs groans, but lets them pull her into a hug. “You guys suck.”

Dean presses a kiss to her temple. “You love it.”

Sam adds, “For the record, we’re never surviving that again.”

---

The Aftermath

Sachi wanders into the kitchen later in her usual hoodie.

Dean pauses mid-sip of coffee. “...You’re not small anymore.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she deadpans.

Sam grins. “No more weaponized cuteness?”

She shrugs. “Who said anything about stopping?”

And just like that, she flashes her biggest, sweetest smile.

Dean drops his mug.

Sam mutters, “We are so screwed.”

[captonite]

Mini Mayhem (And the Softest Spiral)

Supernatural | Found Family Fluff | Chaos, Soft Boys, Babyfication |

The witch was laughing. That was their first bad sign.

“Okay,” Dean growled, tightening his grip on the angel blade. “What the hell’s so funny?”

The witch just grinned, all blood and madness. “You’ll see.”

And then she said a word that cracked through the room like thunder, and the air changed.

There was a scream — but it wasn’t the witch.

It was Sachi.

Sam reached her first.

But when he got there, the scream had stopped.

She wasn’t there anymore.

In her place was a tiny child, standing barefoot on the floor, wrapped in an adult-sized flannel.

She blinked up at him. Wide brown eyes. Pouty little mouth. Wispy hair falling into her face.

Three years old. Max.

Sam stared. “Oh no.”

Dean sprinted in behind him, blade still drawn. “Where is she?! Is she—”

He stopped cold.

His face did something Sam had never seen before. “What the hell.”

The toddler blinked at them again. Then she beamed.

“Dee!!”

Dean nearly dropped his blade.

Sam’s mouth fell open.

The baby girl clumsily waddled toward Dean and wrapped her tiny arms around his leg. “DeeDeeDeeDee!”

“Okay,” Dean said weakly. “I’m gonna have a stroke.”

She turned to Sam. “Sammyyyy!”

And then he had a stroke.

Later, at the Bunker

“She’s three. Like—legit, actually three,” Sam said, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Dean was holding her like she was made of crystal, tucked against his chest, tiny fists curled into his shirt. She had finally stopped babbling and was now snoring softly.

“Dude,” he whispered. “Her socks are like the size of Tic Tacs.”

Sam flipped open a lore book. “The witch is dead, which means we’ve got to reverse it ourselves. I think it’s a mind-body curse, tied to regression.”

Dean frowned. “So... she doesn’t remember anything?”

Chubs stirred and mumbled, “Deeeee,” before falling back asleep.

Dean looked like he was about to cry. “I think we’re gonna die.”

Day One

They made her a pillow fort in the library. They fed her mac and cheese and apple slices. Dean tried to teach her how to say “Chevy,” and Sam read her lore books like fairy tales.

And when she fell asleep in Sam’s lap, Dean pulled out his phone and whispered, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sam smiled gently. “She’s so small, Dean.”

Dean was silent.

Then: “I forgot how much I missed this.”

Sam glanced up.

Dean wasn’t looking at the baby. He was looking somewhere else — past her. Maybe into the past.

“I mean,” Dean said quickly, like he was covering something, “it’s just... she deserves to have been a kid, y’know? Not just... thrown into our mess.”

Sam nodded slowly.

And they both looked down at the tiny thing asleep in their arms, wearing a sweater Dean had cut and hemmed from one of his old band shirts.

She sucked her thumb in her sleep and whispered, “Sammy.”

Sam's breath hitched.

Dean whispered, “We’re screwed.”

Day Two: Baby Chaos

“You let her eat glitter glue?!” “It said ‘non-toxic!’ She looked hungry!”

“Dean, she just cut her own bangs!” “Technically, you left the scissors on the table, Einstein!”

“Why is there pancake batter on the wall—”

“DEEEEEE,” came the shout from the kitchen.

“...Never mind.”

They’d gone full spiral.

Dean was on Etsy looking at tiny flannel jackets and custom kid-sized boots. Sam had ordered three sets of baby-safe lore books and was halfway through a paper titled “The Psychological Development of Toddlers with Supernatural Memory Regression.”

At one point, Chubs waddled up in a unicorn onesie and showed Dean a scribbled drawing labeled “ME + DEE + SAMMY = HAPPY.”

Dean clutched his chest.

Sam almost choked on his coffee.

They hung it up on the fridge with a pie magnet.

Dean whispered later, “I think this is what retirement is supposed to feel like.”

Day Three: The Spiral Deepens

Cas popped in, saw Baby Chubs wearing one of his trench coats like a blanket, and simply whispered, “...I would burn the world for her.”

She squealed, “CAAAAS!!” and showed him her toy moose.

Cas deadass knelt down, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “I have witnessed celestial miracles. None as pure as this.”

Dean was like, “Okay, we need to do a cleansing or something, because the angel’s crying now.”

Sam sniffled too. “Shut up. So are you.”

That night, Dean carried her to bed, tucked in with a stuffed bunny and a nightlight shaped like a star.

She mumbled sleepily, “Dee?”

He brushed her hair back gently. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

Her little fingers curled around his.

“Stay.”

Dean sat beside the bed and cupped her cheek with his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby girl.”

Day Four: The Return

They found the reversal charm.

Sam was nervous. “What if it hurts her?”

Dean looked down at her — still in his arms, half-asleep and drooling on his hoodie.

“We’d never let it,” he said.

Cas performed the chant. A soft light filled the room.

And then...

She was there.

Older. Herself. Back in her body.

Curled up on the floor in a pile of blankets and Dean’s hoodie.

She blinked up at them. “...Why do I smell glitter?”

Dean didn’t answer.

He just dropped to his knees and yanked her into the tightest hug in human history.

“You said my name,” he whispered into her hair. “You said Dee first.”

Sam hugged her from the other side. “You tackled Dean and drooled on his face.”

Sachi blinked. “Sounds about right.”

Dean was definitely crying. “You wore a unicorn onesie.”

“And you looked adorable,” Sam added.

Sachi smiled slowly. “You guys really missed me, huh?”

Dean pulled back just to look at her face, eyes red. “You have no idea.”

---

Baby Drawings and Flannels

Later that week, they found one of her baby scribbles still taped to the fridge.

It was a stick figure drawing of three people — big heads, smiling faces, labeled “DEEE,” “SAMMY,” and “MEEEEE.”

Dean took a picture of it.

Printed it.

And framed it in the war room.

Sam pretended to protest.

Dean just shrugged. “She made it when she was three. And she still remembered us. That’s gotta mean something.”

Sachi walked in with toast in her mouth and said, “Still remember you now, dorks.”

Dean grinned. “You still call me Dee.”

“Wanna make something of it?”

He held up a tiny flannel shirt from the shopping bag. “Only if you wear this again.”

Sam groaned. “Here we go.”

[captonite]

Whose. Coat. Is That?

Supernatural | Humor + Fluff | Chaos Ensues

It started off like any normal Tuesday.

Rain outside. Old rock on the radio. Sam elbows-deep in lore. Dean threatening to throw the coffee machine out the window because it dared to beep twice.

Then the bunker door creaked open.

“Hey, I’m back!” came Chubs’s voice, casual as anything.

Both brothers turned around.

And froze.

Because there she was — Sachi “Chubs” Winchester — standing in the entryway in a full-length tan trench coat.

Not just any trench coat.

Cas’s trench coat.

Sam blinked. “Is that—?”

Dean stepped forward, brows low, voice flat. “You wanna tell me why you’re wearing Castiel’s signature wardrobe item like you’re about to go fight the Leviathan army?”

Chubs blinked at them like they were insane.

“It was cold,” she said simply, shrugging the coat tighter around her shoulders. “Cas said I could borrow it.”

Dean made a noise. A strange, mangled noise that might’ve been jealousy or rage or maybe the last breath of a man watching his little sister commit heaven-level blasphemy.

“Cas gave it to you?”

“Not gave,” she said. “Lent. Relax.”

Sam’s voice pitched up a whole octave. “You’re wearing Cas’s trench coat. On your body. That’s like—like—holy relic behavior.”

Chubs squinted. “You guys are being weird. It’s just a coat.”

Dean sputtered. “It is not just a coat! It’s Cas’s coat! The one he never takes off! The one that smells like ozone and beeswax and inexplicable guilt!”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Did he put it on you himself?!”

“Not everything is sacred, boys,” she said dryly.

“Oh my God, he did.”

Dean pointed an accusatory finger. “Did he do the shoulder thing? The protective drape thing? Cas loves the protective drape!”

Chubs bit her lip.

That was answer enough.

Dean made the noise again. Louder.

“You’re being dramatic,” she said, brushing past them. “He literally said, and I quote, ‘You are cold. Take this. I don’t require warmth.’ And then he gave me the coat. Like a normal person.”

“He is an angel of the Lord,” Dean hissed.

Sam was frozen in place. “Does that make her—are they bonded now? Is that how this works? Is she his trench coat wife??”

“STOP.”

Cut to ten minutes later.

Dean was pacing the hallway, muttering to himself.

“Coat. Gave her the coat. Just handed it over like it was no big deal. Next thing you know he’s giving her his blade and a holy tablet and a key to Heaven.”

Sam was sitting on the couch, notebook in his lap, but he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

“She smiled when she put it on, man. And she looked all cozy. Like a divine librarian.”

Dean groaned. “She looked small, Sam. Small and precious and—Cas knows that.”

Sam dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Me neither.”

“I’m having an actual crisis.”

“Should we call a meeting?”

“With who?! Cas is the enemy now!”

That’s when Cas popped into the bunker.

“Hello,” he said. “I sensed some distress.”

Sam and Dean both pointed at him like dramatic courtroom lawyers.

“YOU.”

Cas blinked. “What did I do?”

Dean was already up in his face. “You draped her.”

Cas tilted his head. “She was cold.”

“You lent her your trench coat!”

“Yes.”

“That’s basically angel marriage!”

Cas blinked. “It is not.”

Sam squawked from the couch, “Is she bonded now? Do we have to ask her to smite things? Is she gonna start glowing?!”

“She’s not bonded,” Cas said slowly. “She was shivering. I gave her warmth. It’s a basic act of compassion.”

“Compassion is a gateway drug!” Dean shouted.

Cas blinked. “You two are unusually emotional today.”

“You let her wear the trench coat,” Sam said, eyes wild. “It’s like watching her put on Dad’s jacket.”

“She is not John Winchester.”

“She’s our baby, Cas!” Dean shouted.

At that moment, Chubs wandered back into the room — still in the coat, eating cereal.

Everyone stopped.

Dean pointed again. “LOOK AT HER.”

Cas tilted his head, eyes softening slightly. “She looks… safe.”

“NO SHE LOOKS LIKE A TINY WAR GENERAL,” Dean barked.

Sam nearly sobbed. “Why does it look good on her?!”

Chubs just blinked at them all. “I’m never giving it back now.”

Dean groaned and faceplanted into the arm of the couch.

Sam muttered something about trench coat custody agreements.

Cas sighed. “I’ll just get another one.”

---

Two days later, Sam walked into the war room wearing one of Chubs’s oversized hoodies.

Dean was already there — in her pink fuzzy socks.

Chubs walked in wearing Dean’s flannel and Sam’s beanie and Cas’s new trench coat.

They all froze.

Then sat down like nothing happened.

Dean handed her the syrup.

Sam asked her about the hunt.

Cas, sitting across the table, said softly, “You can keep the coat, Sachi.”

She smiled.

And somehow, everything was okay.

Even if the Winchesters were still secretly spiraling.

[captonite]

Our Clothes Look Better on You Anyway

Supernatural | Fluff | Pancake Mornings & Soft!Winchester Siblings

The next morning in the bunker smelled like syrup and cinnamon.

Sam shuffled down the hallway, bleary-eyed, rubbing the sleep from his face. His hair was a mess. His flannel was unbuttoned. And somehow, despite being six-foot-four and built like a gentle tree, he still nearly tripped over his own socks.

He heard humming.

Happy humming.

From the kitchen.

That’s when it hit him — Chubs was up before him.

That never happened.

He followed the sound, blinking in the golden light spilling from the kitchen.

There she was.

Flipping pancakes with a spatula and wearing Dean’s Henley.

Dean’s old, too-big, threadbare black Henley that she’d “borrowed” two years ago and somehow kept finding in her laundry pile. It practically swallowed her. The sleeves hung past her wrists, the neckline was stretched wide — and she looked like home.

“Morning, Sammy,” she said brightly, not looking up from the pan.

Sam blinked at her.

“Is that…?”

She turned, giving him a grin so cheeky and sunshine-warm it physically knocked the breath out of him. “What?”

He pointed. “Dean’s shirt.”

She blinked innocently. “This old thing?”

He narrowed his eyes, but it was so hard to look threatening when your little sister was making pancakes and looked like a cozy cryptid.

Before he could comment, Dean stumbled in behind him, hair a mess, wearing boxers and a threadbare tee. He yawned loudly. “What’s all the noise? Smells like—”

He stopped cold.

Then narrowed his eyes, very slowly, at the shirt.

“That’s mine.”

Chubs turned with a flourish. “It’s mine now.”

Dean blinked. “That’s the Henley I wore the day we got back from that Oklahoma ghost hunt. I bled in that shirt.”

“I washed it.”

“Barely!”

“I Febreezed it,” she singsonged.

Sam made a sound dangerously close to a snort.

Dean looked to him for backup. “You’re just gonna let her walk around looking like a walking laundry basket of my stuff?”

Sam folded his arms and smirked. “She’s also wearing my socks.”

Dean looked down. Yep. His sister, in one of his oldest Henleys and Sam’s moose socks.

She looked like the best parts of them stitched together.

“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Not my fault your clothes are comfy,” she said sweetly. “And huge.”

Dean gave her the look.

The one that was half I’m going to throw you into a dumpster and half if anyone else ever looks at you sideways I’ll end the world.

She flipped a pancake directly onto his plate and winked.

He melted.

---

They sat at the table not long after, pancakes piled high, bacon crispy, and orange juice in mismatched mugs.

Chubs kept humming.

Sam blinked across the table. “You okay?”

She nodded, cheeks full of food. “Just happy.”

Dean raised a brow. “Happy’s good.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It is.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

They hadn’t heard her say that — not like that — in a long time.

It made something tight in their chests loosen. Like watching a storm finally pass.

After breakfast, they all collapsed on the couch.

Dean tried to change the channel to Die Hard, but Chubs stole the remote and put on a Disney movie instead.

“Absolutely not,” Dean grunted.

“It’s Tangled,” she said firmly. “You like Tangled.”

“I like the frying pan part.”

“Liar,” Sam added. “He cried when the horse licked the frog guy.”

“I did not.”

“You made me rewind it.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Chubs giggled and tucked herself into the couch cushions — still in Dean’s Henley, still wearing Sam’s socks, a blanket pulled over her knees.

Sam glanced down at her, eyes soft. “You want anything else? More tea?”

She shook her head, nestling deeper. “M’good. Just… stay?”

Dean looked over from where he was fake-pretending to hate the movie. “Yeah, we can do that.”

Sam smiled. “Always.”

Halfway through the movie, Dean muttered under his breath:

“You remember the first time she wore one of our shirts?”

Sam huffed a small laugh. “Yeah.”

Chubs was already dozing, face smushed against the pillow.

“She was, what? Seventeen?” Dean asked, voice quieter now. “It was after that hunt with the wraith nest.”

“She’d gotten blood on her hoodie,” Sam said. “Didn’t want to go to the laundromat that late. So you gave her that flannel.”

“Didn’t think she’d actually keep it.”

“She fell asleep in it that night,” Sam said. “Curled up on the couch.”

Dean’s throat worked. “Looked like a damn kid.”

Sam nodded. “She was.”

Dean glanced over at her now, a little older, still tiny, still buried in their clothes like they were armor.

“Would’ve burned the whole world down if she’d asked me to that night,” Dean muttered.

“Same.”

“Still would.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

She snored gently.

Dean smiled.

Sam leaned back, arms behind his head.

“She’s our baby,” Sam said simply.

Dean nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “And she makes our clothes look better anyway.”

[captonite]

Did You Even Want Me?

Supernatural | Sachi “Chubs” Winchester | Angst & Comfort CW: self-worth issues, emotional neglect themes, crying Winchester boys, soft!brothers, chosen family feels, healing

It came out so quietly they almost didn’t hear it.

They were sitting in the library — Sam with a laptop, Dean nursing a beer, Chubs curled up in her favorite armchair pretending to read. The hunt had been brutal, the aftermath worse. But the bunker was calm now, lights dimmed, only the sound of rustling paper and soft breathing between them.

And then Chubs asked:

"Did you even want me?"

Dean froze mid-sip.

Sam blinked, slowly lowering his laptop.

“I mean—” she rushed, eyes wide, voice stumbling over itself. “Not like that. Not to make it weird. I just…” She shrugged, suddenly very interested in a fraying thread on her sleeve. “It’s just, sometimes I wonder if you ever chose me. Or if I was just… a responsibility you couldn’t shake.”

Silence.

Their little sister had always been a force of warmth, light, stubbornness. The kind of girl who burned herself out taking care of others. Who joked through pain. Who called herself “a background character” in her own life and laughed it off like it didn’t matter.

But now she sat small and quiet, shrinking like she was afraid of the answer.

Dean set his beer down with a quiet clink.

Sam closed his laptop.

Neither of them spoke right away.

She didn’t look up.

“I know it’s dumb,” she said, too quickly. “I know you guys care, I just… I guess I don’t know why. Or when. Or if you would’ve picked me if you had a choice.”

Sam’s voice broke the silence first. Soft, low.

“You don’t think we wanted you?”

Her jaw clenched. She didn’t answer.

Dean stood up.

Crossed the room.

Knelt in front of her and gently touched her wrist.

“Chubs,” he said, “you were the choice.”

She looked up at him then. And god — the pain in her eyes damn near crushed him.

“I know it didn’t feel like it,” Sam added, his voice hoarse. “I know we didn’t show it the way we should’ve. But we never got stuck with you. We found you. You were the best goddamn thing we ever found.”

Chubs blinked rapidly.

Dean reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. “You remember when we first brought you to the bunker?”

She nodded slowly.

“You were sixteen and pissed off and stole my keys just to prove a point.”

“You taught me how to hotwire a car,” she whispered.

“I regret that decision deeply,” Dean said, mock-stern, but his hand squeezed hers. “But you know what else I remember? I remember you standing in that kitchen, trying to make dinner your first week here. Burned half the damn pot. Sam was gagging.”

“I was not—”

“You were,” Dean said. “And you know what I thought? I thought, ‘This is what it’s supposed to be like.’ A mess. Loud. Home.”

Her eyes shimmered.

“I didn’t want you because you were useful. I wanted you because for the first time in a long time, I remembered what it felt like to be someone’s big brother.”

Chubs looked down again. Her throat worked around a swallow.

“I thought I annoyed you.”

“You did,” Dean said gently. “So does Sam. Doesn’t mean I’d ever trade either of you for the world.”

Her breath hitched.

Sam stood up, walking over slowly.

“You changed everything,” he said. “We were lost before you. I mean that. Me and Dean? We were drowning. Always chasing something, always broken.”

“And then you came along,” Dean said. “And you gave us a reason to come back. To stay grounded. To laugh again.”

“You gave us a reason to be better,” Sam added, eyes wet. “Not just hunters. Brothers.”

“You pulled us out of the fire, baby girl,” Dean whispered. “And you didn’t even know you were doing it.”

She covered her mouth with her hands.

“I don’t know who told you that you had to earn our love,” Sam said, kneeling beside her, “but they were wrong. You already had it. You always did.”

Chubs choked out a tiny sob.

Dean wrapped his arms around her first, tugging her into his chest like she was made of paper and gold.

Sam followed, folding into the other side, their little trio curled together like a living heartbeat.

“You’re not a side character,” Dean said into her hair. “You’re the whole damn plot.”

“You’re not just someone we take care of,” Sam said. “You’re someone we need.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, voice wet.

“For what?” Dean whispered.

“For not asking sooner.”

Sam kissed the side of her head. “You don’t have to ask, baby.”

“We chose you,” Dean said. “Every time. Every day. We’ll keep choosing you.”

Chubs cried then. Soft and unfiltered and safe.

Because for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

---

They stayed like that until the lights dimmed even further and the night stretched long and quiet around them.

Dean eventually muttered something about his legs falling asleep and Sam groaned about “emotional whiplash,” but Chubs just laughed — that light, real kind of laugh they’d missed.

And when she fell asleep between them on the couch, both boys leaned back, letting the weight of their sister resting against them settle something deep in their chests.

Home wasn’t just four walls and a bunker.

It was her.

And they’d never stop choosing her.

[captonite]

You’re Not Here To Be Useful

Supernatural | Sachi Winchester | Angst/Comfort CW: emotional neglect, burnout, anxiety, breakdown, hurt/comfort, big brother softness

The bunker had never been cleaner.

The kitchen gleamed, the library smelled like lemon polish, and every book was shelved alphabetically by topic and subtopic.

It was quiet, too. No music playing, no humming, no arguments.

Just the soft, relentless shuffle of feet from room to room. Cleaning. Organizing. Scrubbing.

Sachi.

She hadn’t stopped in days.

Dean noticed it first when he woke up to the smell of bacon, eggs, and hash browns for the third morning in a row — at 5 a.m. He stumbled to the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and found her already dressed, already moving. Hair in a tight braid, sleeves rolled up.

“Chubs,” he grunted. “The hell are you doing awake?”

“Figured you’d want breakfast before the hunt,” she said, too brightly. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Sam saw it later — when she snapped at a book falling out of place on the shelf like it had insulted her mother. He watched her pick it up and shove it back in, then move on like nothing had happened.

She skipped meals.

Stayed up late doing research no one asked for.

Washed their laundry even though she hated folding.

They figured she was just trying to stay busy.

Until the crash.

Dean tried to stop her first.

“Okay, that’s enough. Take a break, Chubs. Seriously.” He caught her reaching for the vacuum again, eyes wild, arms shaking. “Go lie down. You look like hell.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, snatching it up.

“You’re not. You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Chubs—”

“I said I’m fine!”

Then Sam tried.

“Hey,” he said softly, when she spilled coffee across a stack of lore books and immediately burst into angry tears, scrubbing furiously. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal. You’re exhausted, you need to sit down—”

“No!” she barked. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk to me like I’m broken!”

Sam backed off, hands raised. “I’m not. I just… I want to help.”

“I don’t need help!” Her voice cracked. “I need to be useful!”

And that’s when it happened.

She shoved the rag onto the table, breathing hard, shoulders trembling. Her voice came out hoarse and desperate:

“Because if I’m not useful, you’ll leave!”

The silence afterward was deafening.

Dean froze in the doorway.

Sam stared at her like she’d just gutted him.

She blinked rapidly, like she hadn’t meant to say it. But it was out now. Hanging in the air like a thunderclap.

Dean’s voice was quiet. Too quiet. “What?”

“If I don’t help… if I mess up… if I slow you down… you’ll get tired of me. Just like he did.”

Sam’s face paled. “Who?”

She laughed, wet and sharp. “Who do you think? Dad. He didn’t want me around unless I was cleaning guns or reciting lore or patching someone up. That’s all I was good for.”

Dean took a step closer. “Chubs—”

“And you guys—you’re just like him!”

That broke something in both of them.

“I wash your laundry and I cook and I bleed for this family and you never say anything. You just let me do it. Because if I stop, what am I? What am I to you if I’m not helping?”

She was shaking. Spiraling. Her voice was a crescendo of panic and fury and pain.

“I’m not smart like Sam. I’m not strong like Dean. I’m just here. And the second I stop being useful, you’ll decide I’m not worth it. So let me clean. Let me work. Let me matter.”

That’s when Dean crossed the room and grabbed her shoulders.

And this time, she didn’t pull away.

His voice cracked:

“You’re not here to be useful. You’re here because you’re our baby.”

Sachi’s whole body stilled.

Dean’s hands slid from her shoulders to her back, pulling her in. Holding her tight.

“You don’t have to earn your place here. You already have it.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just a choked sob.

Sam stepped forward too, gently wrapping his arms around her from the side. One of his hands cradled the back of her head.

“You don’t have to keep proving yourself, Chubs. We love you. We want you here. You’re ours.”

“I’m so tired,” she whispered, finally cracking. “I don’t wanna be scared all the time.”

“Then stop,” Dean said into her hair. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

---

They didn’t let her go for a long time.

At some point, Cas showed up. Saw them all on the floor of the war room, curled around her like she was made of glass. He knelt beside her and placed two fingers to her temple. “Sleep,” he whispered. She sagged instantly into Sam’s arms.

Dean carried her to bed. Sam stayed beside her all night.

In the morning, there was no breakfast waiting.

So Dean made pancakes himself.

Sam cleaned the dishes.

And when she finally padded into the kitchen, looking sheepish and wrung-out, Dean ruffled her hair and said:

“No chores today, baby girl. That’s an order.”

She blinked.

Sam tugged her into a seat and placed a plate in front of her. “Your only job is eating. You do that, you get a gold star.”

She sniffled. “You guys suck at flipping pancakes.”

“We’re learning,” Dean said. “Turns out we’re not just muscle and research.”

She smiled, small and real.

[captonite]

Didn’t Think I Mattered

Supernatural | Sachi Winchester | Angst & Comfort CW: trauma, past child abuse, memory projection, verbal/emotional abuse from John Winchester, guilt, comfort, hurt/comfort, siblings

The sigils glow gold.

Latin hums in the air. The circle of salt and blood at the center of the war room is pulsing faintly, flickering like a heartbeat. It was supposed to be a memory revelation ritual — one Castiel swore was stable. They needed the truth about a rogue angel’s last moments, and this was the only spell that could do it.

Cas had drawn the lines carefully. Sachi had only been there to help.

But something had gone wrong.

Because when the light flares — it isn’t the angel’s memory that floods into the bunker.

It’s hers.

It starts with static.

Then cold concrete. A motel hallway, dimly lit by a flickering bulb. The air smells like mildew and gasoline. And down the hall— A small girl, barefoot, hugging her knees. Her lip is split.

Dean’s breath catches.

He knows this place. He remembers it. But not like this. Not this angle. Not this tiny, crumpled figure trying to disappear against the wallpaper.

It’s Sachi. Maybe ten years old. Hiding outside the motel room door.

Then—his voice.

John Winchester.

“You think I’m doing this for fun?” The sound of a fist hitting something — maybe a wall, maybe the dresser. Sachi flinches, curls smaller.

“You think I want to be dragging around three kids when I should be out there killing things that matter?”

Inside, someone whimpers. It’s her.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to? You ever stop to think I don’t care what you mean?”

“Dad—”

“Don’t you dare call me that right now. You’re not a soldier. You’re a burden.”

The bunker is silent. Even Cas stops breathing. Sam’s hands curl into fists, white-knuckled.

Dean’s voice is barely audible. “This—this wasn’t supposed to be hers.”

“She was just helping with the spell,” Cas whispers. “It must’ve latched onto an unresolved pain. Something buried.”

They watch, helpless, as John stomps into view and yanks the door open. The little girl doesn’t even scream when he grabs her arm.

“You don’t follow orders. You don’t listen. You think your brothers didn’t pay for that?”

“I’m sorry,” Sachi whispers, trembling.

“You’re not sorry. You’re useless. You weren’t even supposed to be here.”

He shoves her against the wall. The sound of her head hitting it is soft, but sickening.

“You ruined everything the second you were born.”

And then—

Silence. The memory snaps like glass.

---

The spell ends. But it leaves something jagged behind.

No one speaks.

Sachi’s standing off to the side, eyes wide, skin pale. She’s not crying — not really — but her whole body is trembling like a deer in headlights.

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Sam looks sick.

Cas reaches for her first. “Sachi—”

“I’m fine,” she says, too quickly. Her voice is thin. Raw. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I shouldn’t have—”

“Chubs.” Dean takes a step forward.

She flinches.

And Dean breaks. Just a little.

“We didn’t know,” Sam says, voice cracked and hollow. “We didn’t know he ever—”

“Of course you didn’t. Why would you?” Her laugh is sharp and painful. “You guys always thought I had it easy. Thought he spoiled me like Adam. That’s why you hated me for a while, right?”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “We didn’t hate you.”

“You just… ignored me. Treated me like I was nothing. Like I didn’t belong.”

Sam’s eyes sting. “We were angry at Dad.”

“You took it out on me.”

Another beat.

Then she looks up, tears finally falling, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t think I mattered enough to tell you.”

That’s when Dean moves.

He doesn’t even think — just crosses the space between them and pulls her into his arms, clutching the back of her head like she’s bleeding out.

“Don’t you ever say that again.” His voice is wrecked. “You mattered. You’ve always mattered.”

Sachi doesn’t answer. Just collapses against him and sobs, fingers curling in the back of his jacket like she’s five years old again and afraid of thunder.

Sam’s hand lands gently on her back. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry we didn’t see it. I swear to God, if I’d known—”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should’ve known.”

Dean presses his lips to her hair. “He never touched you again, right? After that night?”

“No.” Her voice breaks. “Just that once. But that was enough.”

They stay like that for a long time.

---

Later, the three of them sit in the library — curled up on the couch, a blanket over Sachi’s legs. Dean’s got a beer, untouched. Sam’s rubbing her knuckles absentmindedly like he’s still grounding himself.

She speaks first.

“You know what’s messed up?”

Dean raises a brow.

“I thought maybe he didn’t love me because I wasn’t tough enough. So I tried to be. I learned how to shoot, I cleaned weapons, I memorized lore like my life depended on it.”

Sam’s face twists.

“But it didn’t matter. Because he didn’t want a daughter. He wanted a soldier. And I wasn’t one.”

“You are now,” Dean says.

“That’s not a good thing.”

They fall silent.

Until Sam says, softly: “We can’t fix the past. But we can show you now. You matter, Chubs. You’re not some mistake. You’re our sister.”

Dean clinks his beer against Sam’s. “Our baby sister.”

She snorts, tearfully. “Even now?”

“Especially now.”

Dean smirks. “Now more than ever. We’re gonna smother you with so much love it’ll be disgusting.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too bad. You unlocked it. You’re screwed now.”

She laughs — soft and broken and real.

And for the first time in hours, the bunker feels warm again.

Later that night, after she falls asleep between them on the couch, Dean whispers:

“She really thought she didn’t matter.”

Sam doesn’t look up. “That’s on us.”

“She deserved better.”

“She still does.”

Dean’s voice cracks. “We give it to her now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, placing a hand over hers. “Every damn day.”

[captonite]

Already Enough

Supernatural | Sachi Winchester | Angst + Comfort Warnings: injury, fainting, guilt, sibling angst, soft!Dean and soft!Sam, protective big brother energy, crying

It starts with a limp. Barely noticeable at first — just a slight hitch in Sachi’s step, the way her right foot doesn’t quite land right. She waves it off when Dean asks. Says she “twisted it jumping down the stairs” and “it’s no big deal.”

It feels like a big deal. But Sam’s dealing with visions again. Dean’s barely sleeping. Cas hasn’t checked in for days. And the bunker’s power just flickered for the fourth time that morning.

So Sachi tells herself it’s fine. Wraps her thigh tighter. Grits her teeth. Walks it off.

By the next day, the limp is worse. Her whole side is stiff. The bandage she keeps rewrapping is soaked red by midday, but she changes it without a word.

They’re all tired. And she’s just a shadow behind them, isn’t she? Not the chosen one. Not the soldier. Just the kid who tags along, takes care of the aftermath. Makes coffee. Patches wounds. Keeps the bunker warm.

She doesn't want to be the problem.

“Hey, you okay?” Dean asks offhandedly as she brings Sam another book.

She smiles, too wide. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He squints at her. “You sure? You’re lookin’ kinda pale.”

“Dean,” she says, teasing, “I’m always pale.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

She turns, fast, before the pain shows on her face. The wound on her side burns now. Like fire. Like something’s tearing. She bites her lip so hard it splits.

She collapses in the library.

One second she’s walking back with her laptop, and the next, the world spins. Her knees buckle. Books scatter as she goes down, hard.

“Sachi!” Sam’s voice cracks. Dean’s is right behind. “Chubs?”

By the time they reach her, she’s on her side, breathing fast and shallow, sweat plastered to her forehead. Her lips are trembling.

Dean’s hands are on her face, trying to tilt her up. “Hey—hey, baby girl, what happened? What’s wrong?”

She whimpers when he touches her side.

Sam pulls back her jacket and freezes.

Blood. Thick, seeping through fresh bandages. Soaked clean through her shirt.

His voice is razor sharp. “What the hell is this?”

Dean stares. Then looks at her face — flushed, damp with pain.

“You’re bleeding,” he growls. “Jesus, Chubs—how long?!”

She barely gets the words out.

“Didn’t wanna… make it worse.”

Dean goes still. Sam’s eyes flash.

“What?” Sam breathes.

“You guys… already have enough.”

Dean jerks away like he’s been shot. “Enough? You’ve been bleeding out for days, and you didn’t tell us because—what—because we were stressed?”

She tries to sit up. She groans.

Dean grabs her shoulder. “No. No. Stay down. Don’t move.”

“Didn’t want to… be the problem.”

That’s what finally shatters the fury. Because Sam’s gone white. And Dean’s expression breaks — from anger to panic to something so fragile it almost looks like grief.

Dean presses a hand to her cheek. “Chubs. Sweetheart. Look at me. You’re never the problem.”

Her eyes flutter, unfocused. “But you’ve been—tired. And Sam—he had that nightmare last night. You haven’t slept. I just… I thought I could handle it.”

Sam drops to his knees beside her. “You don’t have to handle anything alone.”

“I didn’t wanna… make it worse,” she repeats, voice barely a whisper.

Dean lets out a raw, broken breath. “Baby girl, you’re the reason we keep going. You can’t hide this stuff. Not from us.”

“I’m sorry,” she slurs, and her head lolls.

Sam’s already pulling out his phone. “We need to clean this and stitch it—now.”

Dean nods. “Bedroom. Easier to keep her flat.”

They carry her, gently. Carefully.

Like she’s something precious.

---

It takes hours. Cleaning the wound. Closing it. Fever reducers. Pain meds. Water. Cool cloth on her forehead.

Dean won’t leave her side. Sam’s pacing in and out of the room like he’s afraid to stay still.

She wakes up in the middle of the night, blinking.

Dean’s asleep in the chair, head on her bed. Sam’s on the floor beside her, legs curled under him like a watchdog.

“…hey,” she whispers.

Dean’s head snaps up. “You okay?”

She nods slowly. Then frowns. “Why are you crying?”

He doesn’t even realize he is until he touches his cheek. “Jesus. Didn’t even feel it.”

Sam stirs. Blinks. Then his eyes land on her, and he scoots closer.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Stop that,” Dean says immediately.

“But—”

“No buts. You don’t get to apologize for being in pain.” He swallows thickly. “I do. For not seeing it.”

Sam takes her hand. “You’ve been limping for days.”

“I thought I was hiding it,” she murmurs.

“You were. But we should’ve looked closer.” His jaw clenches. “You never want to be a burden. And we took that for granted.”

“I’m not mad,” she says.

Dean scoffs softly. “Well, we are. Mad at ourselves.”

“You shouldn’t be. I—”

“Chubs,” Sam says gently, “we’d take a thousand bad days if it meant we could stop you from hiding something like this again.”

“I didn’t want to slow you down.”

Dean wipes at his eyes. “Then slow us down. You get hurt? You say something. You need rest? You take it. You’re our little sister. You matter.”

She blinks at him. Her voice cracks.

“You promise you’re not mad?”

He leans in and kisses her forehead.

“Sweetheart, we’re scared. Not mad. Never at you.”

Sam lays a hand on her knee. “You never have to pretend with us. Got it?”

She nods.

Then her voice trembles. “Can you stay?”

Dean’s already pulling a blanket over himself on the floor.

Sam rests his head on the mattress.

“Try and stop us.”

They take turns watching over her for the next three days. Dean cooks. Sam reads to her. They don’t let her lift a finger.

And when she tries to apologize again?

Dean cuts her off with: “You’re not allowed to be sorry for being loved, Chubs. Not in this family.”

[captonite]

Stay With Me

(Supernatural | Hurt!Chubs | Angry!Sam | Guilty!Dean | Angst & Comfort) Warnings: blood/injury, shouting/family fighting, guilt, soft!comfort after the pain

It should’ve been a simple hunt. A straightforward salt-and-burn. One pissed-off spirit haunting a rundown town hall. Easy. Routine. Almost boring.

And then the fire started. And then the floor gave out. And then Chubs jumped to push a kid out of the way — and vanished into the smoke and flame.

When Sam drags her limp body out, her back is scorched, and she isn’t breathing. Dean kneels beside her, hands shaking, muttering “Come on, come on,” like it’s a prayer. When she finally chokes out a breath, blood on her teeth, he almost collapses with her.

The motel room is dead silent.

Except for the clock. And the shallow rise and fall of Chubs’ chest.

She’s tucked into bed — wrapped in gauze and ointment and Sam’s old hoodie, because hers had to be cut off. Her face is pale. Her lips cracked. But she’s alive.

Sam and Dean haven’t said a word in two hours.

Sam’s seated at the table, fingers laced together so tight his knuckles are white. Dean’s by the window, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He hasn’t looked at Sam since they got back.

Then Dean finally says, low and rough, “She almost died, Sam.”

Sam’s chair scrapes back. “Don’t.”

“No,” Dean snaps. “You hesitated. You froze.”

Sam shoots to his feet. “And you told her to go alone. Don’t pin this on me.”

“She went to save that damn kid—”

“She went because you said it was clear!” Sam barks, voice cracking. “You called it in too early, Dean! You told her to go and the floor wasn’t stable—!”

“Don’t tell me what I did wrong!” Dean shouts, his voice shaking with rage — and something underneath it that sounds like guilt.

They’re nose to nose now. Breathing heavy. Hands curled into fists.

And behind them, barely audible, comes a whisper:

“…stop…”

They both go still.

Dean turns first. Sam follows.

Chubs is awake.

Barely. Her voice is hoarse, and her eyes are glassy with pain and medication. But she’s watching them.

“Don’t… fight,” she mumbles.

Sam takes a step toward her, but Dean beats him there. He drops to his knees by the bed.

“Hey, hey — you okay? You with me?”

She nods weakly. “Hurts.”

“I know, baby. I know. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Sam hangs back, guilt etched deep in every line of his face.

“You’re not mad?” Dean whispers, brushing a hand through her hair.

“Don’t be mad at each other,” she murmurs. “Please…”

That’s what breaks Sam. He sinks into the armchair at her side and scrubs both hands over his face.

Dean notices.

He doesn’t say anything — not yet. Not until Chubs starts drifting off again, breathing shallow but even.

Only when she’s under does Dean speak.

“…I thought she was dead,” he says quietly, like he’s confessing to something sacred. “I pulled you out, and I thought she was gone. And the only thing I could think about was how I let her go in there.”

Sam swallows. His voice comes out wrecked. “You didn’t. It was a call. A bad one. But you didn’t want this.”

“She listens to me.” Dean’s eyes are bloodshot. “I told her it was clear.”

“And I hesitated when I saw the beam crack. If I’d pulled her back a second earlier…”

They sit in silence. Their baby sister’s breathing between them.

Then Sam says: “…We did this.”

Dean doesn’t argue. He just stares at her.

---

The next morning, when she wakes again, she finds both her brothers half-asleep on either side of the bed.

She tries to sit up. Pain lances through her back and she whimpers.

Dean’s up in a second. “Whoa, whoa — easy, Chubs, don’t move.”

“I need water.”

Sam’s already up with a bottle, unscrewing the cap like it’s made of glass.

She sips. Then sighs. “You two make good pillows.”

Sam huffs a broken laugh. Dean rolls his eyes, but his hand is still on her arm.

Then she says it.

“Why were you fighting?”

They freeze.

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it.

Sam says, “Because we were scared.”

“…Of what?”

“Of losing you,” Dean croaks.

Silence again.

Chubs looks at both of them. Then she says, very softly, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean looks away. Sam shakes his head. “You can’t know that.”

“I can.” Her voice is hoarse, but steady. “We’ve all made calls before. We’ve all hesitated. We’ve all run in too fast. It’s what we do.”

“You got burned trying to save a stranger,” Dean mutters.

“And I’d do it again,” she snaps. Then softer: “That’s the job.”

“That’s not your job, Chubs,” Sam says. “You’re not supposed to be the one getting hurt.”

She blinks. “So you’re allowed to die for people, but I’m not?”

Silence.

“You both do this every damn day,” she continues, voice shaking now. “You throw yourselves in front of knives, bullets, monsters — and you think I don’t notice? And the one time I get hurt doing the same thing, you act like the world’s ending.”

“Because you’re our little sister,” Dean says, brokenly.

She sighs. “Exactly. So stop making me feel like I’m a mistake.”

Dean flinches. Sam looks like he’s been slapped.

Chubs leans back, exhausted. “I don’t want to be your guilt trip. I don’t want to be the reason you two hate yourselves.”

“We don’t,” Sam whispers.

“We hate that you almost died,” Dean adds.

“I hate that you’re fighting because of me,” she murmurs.

There’s a long silence.

Then Dean says, quietly, “We were just scared, Chubs.”

“And when Winchester men get scared,” Sam adds, “we get stupid.”

She looks at both of them. Then opens her arms, shakily.

They don’t hesitate.

They both lean in, folding around her carefully, like she’s made of glass. Dean’s hand comes up to cradle her head. Sam buries his face in her shoulder.

“I’m okay,” she whispers.

Dean’s voice is rough. “Don’t do that again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Sam’s voice cracks. “We love you.”

“I know.”

Dean presses a kiss to her hair. “You scared the hell out of us, baby.”

She exhales.

Then — muffled — she says, “You guys are lucky I love you, too.”

---

Later that night, she wakes up to Dean quietly crying in the hallway. She’s the one who holds him.

The next night, it’s Sam — curled in on himself in the library. She wraps herself around him, shushing him gently.

Because that’s the thing about love in the Winchester family.

Sometimes, the one bleeding is the one who holds everyone together.

[captonite]

OPERATION PROM: SECURE THE CHUBS

Genre: Fluff | Humor | Full CIA-Level Big Brother Energy™ Summary: Chubs is going to prom. Sam and Dean? They’re going to war. Because their baby sister is in a dress, going to a dance, with a boy, and apparently that’s all it takes for them to lose every last brain cell.

“So I got asked to prom.”

The bunker goes silent.

Dean: “Prom?”

Sam: “Like, high school prom?”

Cas: “Is that the human mating ritual involving overpriced flowers and loud music?”

Chubs: “…I mean, yes, technically.”

Dean drops his burger. Sam chokes on his drink. Cas looks like he’s preparing to smite someone.

Dean: “By who?”

Chubs shrugs. “Just some guy. Mason. He’s nice. We’re in chem together.”

Sam: “Do we have a last name?”

Dean: “Do we have his address?”

Chubs: “Do you have any chill?”

48 HOURS LATER:

Operation Prom is in full swing.

Dean is in the war room. A whiteboard reads:

TARGET: MASON J. THOMPSON AGE: 17 CRIMINAL RECORD: Clean FAVORITE SONG: Mr. Brightside THREAT LEVEL: ORANGE

Sam has the Promposal video queued up. “He used a pun. With a beaker. It was clever. Still suspicious.”

Dean is sharpening his knife. “A clever witch is still a witch, Sam.”

Cas is… already in the boy’s backyard.

PROM NIGHT: 5:03 PM

Dean stands by the bunker door, arms crossed. “You sure you want to do this?”

Chubs twirls in her dress. It’s soft pink, with tiny stars along the hem. “You mean prom? Yes.”

Dean scowls. “You look… like you’re about to break some poor dude’s heart.”

Chubs grins. “That’s the plan.”

Sam walks in, armed with a mini tracking device. “Put this in your corsage. Just in case.”

Chubs: “Are you seriously tracking me?”

Sam: “We’re not not tracking you.”

PROM NIGHT: 6:12 PM The boy—Mason—arrives.

Dean opens the door. Slowly. With the intensity of a man who’s interrogated demons.

Mason: “Uh… hi. I’m here to pick up—”

Dean: “I know who you’re here for.”

Sam: “We ran a background check.”

Mason: “Oh. Cool.”

Dean: “It’s not cool, Mason.”

Cas materializes behind him. “I will be watching.”

Mason visibly swallows. “Is that—an angel?”

Dean: “Yup.”

Sam: “Smile for the photo!”

Flash.

PROM NIGHT: 8:24 PM Dean and Sam are in a surveillance van.

Yes, a literal black van. With binoculars. And snacks.

Dean: “I can’t see her.”

Sam: “She’s dancing. With Mason.”

Dean zooms in. “He better keep those hands at shoulder level.”

Cas is perched on the roof in full angel trenchcoat mode. “They are consuming neon-colored beverages.”

Sam: “Punch.”

Cas: “It does not smell like fruit.”

Dean: “I KNEW IT.”

PROM NIGHT: 9:46 PM

Disaster.

The lights dim. A slow song comes on. Chubs and Mason are swaying. Close.

Dean: “Sam. We need a distraction.”

Sam: “We are not pulling the fire alarm—"

Cas: “I have a smoke bomb.”

Dean: “I love you.”

Sam: “Absolutely not.”

PROM NIGHT: 10:03 PM

Mason kisses her cheek.

Dean throws the headset. “THAT’S IT. WE’RE GOING IN.”

Sam sighs and grabs his coat. “Can’t believe we’re about to crash a prom.”

Cas spreads his wings. “Shall I rain down judgment?”

Sam: “NO, CAS.”

PROM NIGHT: 10:20 PM They storm the building.

Dean walks in like a man on a mission. Sam is behind him, looking vaguely FBI. Cas glows ominously.

They spot Chubs laughing by the snack table.

Dean: “TIME TO GO.”

Chubs jumps. “What are you doing here?!”

Sam: “It’s late.”

Dean: “You’ve had enough teenage freedom for one night.”

Mason: “She was just having fun, sir—”

Cas steps forward. “Did you harm her?”

Mason: “WHAT? NO?! I COMPLIMENTED HER SHOES.”

Cas: “...I believe him.”

Chubs glares. “You guys are so embarrassing.”

Dean: “You’re our baby. It’s our job.”

Sam: “Please don’t be mad.”

Chubs groans. “You owe me waffles.”

LATER: DINER, 12:03 AM Chubs has glitter in her hair and whipped cream on her nose.

Dean sips his coffee. “...So was he nice?”

Chubs shrugs. “Yeah. But prom was kind of overrated.”

Sam: “Sorry we went full MI6.”

Chubs: “Thanks for caring. Even if you're psychos.”

Dean smirks. “Next time you wanna wear a dress, we’ll take you somewhere better.”

Cas: “May I pick the music next time?”

Chubs smiles. “Only if it’s not murder hymns.”

Dean: “No promises.”

---

Dean has a photo on his dashboard. Chubs in her prom dress. Laughing. A sticky note on it reads: "Too pretty for dumb boys."

Sam keeps her corsage in a book.

Cas memorized Mason’s soul signature. “Just in case.”

And Chubs?

She keeps the glittery heels in her closet. But next time?

She’s dragging them to the dance floor.

[captonite]

Operation Razor: Extraction Protocol

Genre: Fluff / Humor / Brotherly Unhinged Overprotection™ Summary: To teach Sam and Dean a lesson about trusting her, Chubs invents a fake bad boyfriend named Razor. She expected confusion. What she gets is: background checks, an FBI file, and the boys planning a full-on military-grade rescue. She didn’t think they'd take it this seriously.

It started with a joke. One little joke.

“You’re not seriously leaving the bunker in that, are you?” Dean asked, horrified, as Chubs adjusted her leather jacket.

Chubs: “Why not? Razor says I look hot.”

Dean blinked. “What.”

Chubs, sipping her iced coffee: “My boyfriend. Razor.”

Sam looked up from his laptop like he just had a vision. “You’re dating a guy named Razor?”

Chubs shrugged. “What, you wanted me to go for a Brad?”

“BRAD WOULD BE SAFER.” Dean screamed.

She thought they’d forget about it.

Spoiler: they did not.

By the time she came back from her solo Target run (Razor may or may not have paid for the Starbucks), she was greeted with an interrogation board.

Sam had red strings pinned between photos of motorcycles and tattoo parlors.

Dean was on the phone.

“I don’t care if it’s illegal, Frank. I need a trace on the name Razor. Description? I dunno—leather-wearing heartbreak with too much eyeliner and maybe a switchblade?!”

Chubs stood in the doorway, frozen. “Are you guys… okay?”

Dean hung up. “WE’RE FINE. YOU’RE THE ONE DATING AN ANARCHIST.”

---

The next day?

Sam showed her a slideshow.

“Now, I know you think you like Razor, but here are the stats. According to the FBI, 62% of people named Razor are statistically linked to felony charges—”

Chubs: “SAMUEL, HIS NAME ISN’T EVEN REAL.”

Sam: “So he’s lying about his identity too?!”

Day 3 of The Razor Saga:

They staged an intervention.

Dean held a bat.

Cas had holy water and a knife.

Sam brought popcorn.

Dean: “If you bring him home, we’re exorcising him just in case.”

Chubs: “HE’S NOT A DEMON.”

Cas: “Unclear. The name suggests dark omens.”

Chubs: “IT WAS A JOKE!”

Dean, turning slowly: “…A what.”

Chubs: “I made him up. You guys were annoying. I needed a break.”

Sam: “…So there’s no Razor?”

Chubs: “No Razor.”

Dean lowered his bat. “So… we don’t have to hunt him down.”

Cas poured the holy water back into his flask. “Pity. I was prepared to neutralize.”

But it didn’t stop there.

Oh no.

Now that they knew Razor was fake, they still didn’t calm down.

In fact?

They made a new rule: Razor Protocol.

Rule #1: If she leaves the bunker, they get live updates.

Rule #2: Any new man she talks to must be vetted via FBI-lite checklist (Sam wrote it).

Rule #3: Cas is allowed to read the aura of anyone who gets too close.

---

So Chubs did what any chaotic baby sister would do:

She made Razor real.

Okay, not real real. She paid Jack twenty bucks and a Monster energy drink to play the part.

Jack wore sunglasses inside, slicked his hair back, and said things like “I don’t believe in government ID” and “I prefer the term ‘emotional outlaw.’”

Dean passed out.

Sam ran a background check on Jack even though he LIVES WITH THEM.

Cas called this "the darkest timeline."

Chubs? She laughed so hard she almost cried.

Eventually, she came clean. Again.

“Guys. Seriously. Razor’s not real. Jack isn’t Razor. I’m single. I’m fine. You need to relax.”

Dean sulked for a full day.

Sam sighed and said, “Sorry for assuming you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

Dean: “Yeah. I guess if some loser named Razor ever tried anything, you’d kill him before we even showed up.”

Chubs smiled. “Exactly.”

Cas nodded solemnly. “But if Razor ever does appear, I’m smiting him first.”

---

A Month Later

Dean’s phone buzzed.

Text from Chubs: “Hey, grabbing dinner with a guy I met at the bookstore. Be home by 9 <3”

Dean’s eyes widened. He immediately typed back:

“IS HIS NAME RAZOR.”

Chubs replied:

“Worse. His name is Topher.”

Dean had to sit down.

Sam: “You okay?”

Dean, quietly: “Razor would’ve been better.”

[captonite]

The Teenage Rebellion Arc: Winchester Edition"

Genre: Fluff / Humor / Soft Brother Chaos Summary: Chubs starts dipping her toes into harmless rebellion: staying out late, minor wardrobe changes, eyeliner so sharp it could kill a demon. Sam and Dean? They LOSE IT™. In the most over-the-top, overprotective, absolutely ridiculous way possible.

It started with lip gloss.

Not even the fancy kind. Just a clear, sparkly tube she found at the pharmacy next to the gum aisle. Chubs dabbed it on one morning before a research day and walked into the war room like nothing happened.

Dean looked up. Froze. Squinted.

“…What’s on your mouth?”

Chubs blinked. “Chapstick.”

Dean frowned. “That’s glitter.”

Sam turned from his laptop. “Is that flavored?!”

“…Vanilla mint?”

Dean put his coffee down like it betrayed him. “She’s changing.”

“I literally put on lip gloss.” Sachi muters

Dean beamed, "That’s how it starts.”

A week later.

She wore ripped jeans to a hunt.

Dean slammed the brakes halfway to the site. “What the hell happened to your pants?”

“I made them cool.”

Sam said “She’s sixteen, not eighty.”

Dean was deadass serious, “She’s sixteen and about to be grounded.”

Sam jokes, “We don’t even have grounding rules

“I’LL MAKE SOME.”

---

Then came the music.

It started with some angsty Noah Kahan.

Progressed to Taylor Swift’s Reputation.

And by the time they heard her blasting My Chemical Romance from the library while doing research, the intervention was staged.

Dean stood with arms crossed. Sam held an unplugged speaker. Cas was on standby with calming tea.

Dean: “Chubs. Sit.”

“…I’m not in trouble, am I?”

Sam: “We just wanna talk.”

Dean: “Your eyeliner has gotten aggressive.”

Chubs blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sam: “You haven’t worn color in three weeks.”

Dean: “And yesterday you called me ‘bro.’”

Chubs, deadpan: “So?”

Cas, gently: “You used to call him ‘Deanie.’”

Dean flinched. “I miss Deanie.”

Chubs rolled her eyes. “You guys are being so dramatic.”

Dean pointed at her ears. “And when the hell did that happen?!”

Chubs: “You literally said yes to my nose piercing.”

Sam: “You tricked us into saying yes.”

Chubs: “I asked nicely when you were in a good mood!”

Dean: “Exactly! You weaponized our happiness!”

It got worse.

She bought combat boots.

She went on a walk alone to “clear her head.”

She left a sticky note on the fridge that said “don’t wait up <3” and came back at 9:30 PM.

She started saying “I’m fine” in that I’m fine but actually will cry in the shower later tone.

---

Cue full-blown Winchester panic.

Sam: “She’s distancing emotionally.”

Dean: “Is this about boys? Or girls? Or both? We need to have a Talk.”

Cas: “She may be processing internalized emotions she cannot verbalize. I brought mood crystals.”

Dean: “This is a Code Red.”

The next day.

Chubs walked in with a small, delicate heart tattoo on her wrist.

Sam dropped his coffee.

Dean made a noise only dogs could hear.

Chubs, grinning: “Matching with Jody and Donna. Chill.”

Dean, not chill: “YOU WENT TO ANOTHER STATE WITHOUT TELLING ME?!”

Sam: “Oh my god.”

Chubs: “I texted you.”

Dean: “You said ‘running errands’ not ‘committing lifetime ink bonding with federal agents!’”

Chubs: “You’re being dramatic.”

Dean: “YOU GOT PERMANENT ART.”

Sam: “Let me see—oh my god, wait, it’s cute.”

Dean: “YOU’RE ENABLING HER.”

That night.

They stormed into her room with a pizza, weighted blanket, and two pints of ice cream.

Dean shoved it into her hands. “You wanna rebel, that’s fine. But you tell us next time. I thought you were kidnapped.”

Sam handed over the Netflix remote. “And if you ever wanna talk… you can. Like, even if it’s about… Taylor Swift or nose piercings or teen existential dread.”

Chubs looked up, confused. “Wait, are you guys… having a breakdown?”

Dean sat down and hugged her tight. “We just love you, Chubs. You’re growing up. It’s terrifying.”

Chubs, melting: “I just got a tattoo and some boots—”

Sam, tearful: “YOU’RE OUR BABY.”

Cas walked in with cucumber eye patches. “Would anyone like a restorative facial?”

Chubs started laughing.

Then crying.

Then let her brothers hold her while Reputation (Taylor’s Version) played softly in the background.

---

Dean walked into the war room and froze.

“IS THAT A HAIR STRAND. THAT’S NOT YOUR NATURAL COLOR.”

Chubs: “Dean. It’s temporary dye.”

Dean: “That’s what you want me to think!”

Sam: “It’s pink.”

Dean: “IT’S REBELLION PINK.”

Chubs: “IT’S COTTON CANDY.”

Cas: “It’s lovely.”

Dean: “OH GREAT. NOW YOU’RE ON HER SIDE TOO?!”

Chubs just winked and walked out.

Dean’s muttering: “Next thing you know she’s gonna get a motorcycle and a bad boyfriend named Razor.”

Sam: “...Razor?”

Dean: “IT’S ALWAYS RAZOR.”

[captonite]

Pamper Day: Winchester Edition

Genre: Fluff / Sibling Bonding / Humor Summary: After seeing how radiant Chubs was post-‘me time,’ Sam and Dean secretly plan a surprise pamper day for her — and end up being dragged along. Cue: facials, tea scrubs, foot masks, tattoos, and a “how did this happen” nose piercing. It’s cute, it’s chaotic, it’s found family fluff at its best.

It started with Dean dropping a sentence he never thought he’d say in his lifetime.

“Alright. Let’s go get facials.”

Sam nearly dropped his protein shake.

Chubs blinked. “Wait. What?”

Dean cleared his throat. “You looked so happy after your little solo adventure the other day. Cas said it was good for your... y’know. ‘Aura.’ So we thought — maybe it’s time we took you out.”

Sam nodded, though his face was slightly pained. “We found a place that does mani-pedis and massages. No demons involved. We figured you’d... enjoy it.”

Chubs stared at them like they were pod people.

“You’re... serious?”

“Dead serious,” Dean said, tossing her a mini duffel bag. “We even booked appointments. Full package. You, me, and Sparkles over here.”

Sam gave him a look. “You picked the place.”

Dean scowled. “They had beer in the lobby, Sam.”

Chubs squealed and hugged them so tightly they made pained big brother noises.

---

An hour later.

Dean Winchester was wearing a robe.

Sam had a cucumber slice fall off his eye.

Chubs had never looked more smug.

“You guys doing okay?” she asked sweetly from her massage chair, legs soaking in pink bubbles.

Dean grumbled. “This robe’s indecent.”

“You’re wearing shorts under it.”

“I don’t trust robes.”

Sam, currently mid-foot-scrub, looked dazed. “I’m not sure if I feel violated or relaxed.”

Chubs grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

They got facials. Sam asked what hyaluronic acid was. Dean tried to eat the sugar scrub. Chubs threatened to get them banned from the spa.

By the end of the treatments, Dean looked like a glazed donut, Sam had fallen asleep in a reclining chair, and Chubs had a glittery strawberry mani that made her feel like a goddess.

---

And then — they saw it.

Across the street. A small neon sign.

"Lucy's Ink & Metal"

Chubs' eyes lit up.

Sam caught the spark too late. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Dean followed her line of sight. “Oh no, no. We just got our skin cleaned—”

“Let’s get matching tattoos!” she said, bouncing on her toes. “Something small. Like a sigil. Or initials! Or a tiny star!”

Dean and Sam both opened their mouths to protest.

Then they saw her smile.

And suddenly they were nodding like bobbleheads.

“...Yeah. Alright.”

“Sure. Let’s do it.”

---

Inside the tattoo parlor.

It smelled like antiseptic and metal and bad decisions. In other words: perfect.

They each chose a tiny, matching design — a little protection rune on their upper shoulders. The kind you wouldn’t see unless you were shirtless or dead (Dean’s criteria).

Chubs went first.

Dean held her hand like she was getting open heart surgery.

Sam took pictures. “You look terrified.”

Dean glared. “She flinched!”

“I flinched because you were squeezing my hand like a damn vise, Dean!”

Sam got his next. He didn’t flinch.

Dean told the artist to “shut up and don’t tell anyone he cried.”

Chubs was already snapping selfies with all three of them grinning like idiots.

---

And then. It happened.

They walked past a display wall inside the shop. Rows of earrings. Nose studs. Septum rings.

Chubs stopped.

Sam was half-distracted, still admiring his fresh tattoo. “You want another piercing?”

“Just... curious,” she said.

Dean, scrolling through Yelp reviews for tacos, barely looked up. “Yeah, sure, whatever, baby.”

“Go for it,” Sam echoed, distractedly.

“Really?” she beamed.

Both nodded. “Yeah.”

Cue sparkle chime sound effect.

Twenty minutes later.

Dean was in the lobby, sipping a free soda.

Sam looked up from his phone, eyes going wide. “Uh… Dean.”

“What?”

“Look.”

Dean turned — just in time to see Chubs bouncing out with a big grin… and a silver nostril piercing glittering under the light.

Dean’s jaw dropped. “What the hell is on your face?”

Chubs blinked. “My new piercing?”

Sam choked. “You got your nose pierced?!”

“You said I could!”

Dean spun to Sam. “You said yes?!”

“You said yes!!”

Chubs was giggling uncontrollably now. “This is your fault, boys.”

Sam rubbed his temples. “How did we miss that?!”

Dean gave a dramatic sigh. “This is her first rebellion. Nose rings and matching tattoos. What’s next? Leather pants?”

“I already have some,” Chubs said sweetly.

Dean actually gagged.

---

Back at the Bunker.

They all slumped onto the couch. Tired. Inked. A little traumatized.

Chubs touched her nose ring gently, watching her brothers with a smile.

“You guys had fun.”

Dean huffed. “Don’t twist this. We were dragged.”

“You booked the whole thing.”

Sam snorted. “Dean asked if he could come back for the foot massage next week.”

Dean glared. “Betrayal.”

Chubs laid back against the couch and yawned. “Thanks for today. I feel... normal.”

Sam reached over, gently tugging one of her curls. “You are normal.”

Dean leaned his head against hers. “Except for the damn nose ring.”

She smirked. “You love it.”

“We regret everything.”

“Liar.”

Cas walked in at that moment, saw the nose ring, and tilted his head. “You’re glowing.”

Dean muttered, “That’s ‘cause she absorbed the soul of every man in that spa.”

Sam smiled softly. “She glows when she’s happy.”

Chubs grinned. “That means I’m always glowing when I’m with you.”

Dean made a strangled noise.

Cas nodded sagely. “I would like a tattoo next time.”

Dean: “NO.”

Sam: “Maybe.”

Chubs: already looking up matching ink for Team Free Will.

[captonite]

Me Time

Genre: Humor / Fluff / Found Family Summary: Chubs asks for a “me day,” and the boys spiral like the dramatic overprotective brothers they are. Cas is the only sane one. When she returns… she’s glowing, pierced, and ready to slay. The boys? Not so ready.

It started with a simple question.

“Can I go out?”

Dean barely looked up from cleaning his gun. “For what? Groceries?”

“No,” she said, standing in front of them like a soldier facing a firing squad. “For me. Like. A ‘me day.’ Just… get out of the bunker. Do something that doesn’t involve blood or Latin.”

Sam frowned. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Walk around town. Buy something dumb. Maybe get a coffee. Maybe get my hair done. Just—me time.”

Dean’s head shot up. “Hair done? What’s wrong with your hair?”

Chubs blinked. “Nothing. I just want to—”

“You’re not cutting it, are you?”

Sam held up a hand. “Wait, wait. Are you planning to dye it?”

“No!” she huffed. “I mean, maybe? I don’t know yet. That’s the point! It’s supposed to be spontaneous and freeing and all that self-care bullshit!”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “So you are getting drunk.”

“What? No!”

Sam crossed his arms. “You’re not gonna randomly marry someone again, right?”

“Again?! I never did that the first time!”

Dean looked to Sam. “She was talking to that one guy in Reno.”

“HE SOLD BOOKS.”

Cas, finally done pretending to read in the corner, stood. “Let her go.”

Both brothers looked at him.

Cas gave them the look. That ancient, deadpan, smiting-is-an-option stare. “She deserves rest. Autonomy. A manicure, perhaps.”

Dean scoffed. “Cas, c’mon, she’s not—”

“She’s earned it,” Cas said, firm. “More than most.”

And with that, Chubs won.

---

She was gone for five hours.

By hour two, Dean was pacing.

“Should’ve bugged her jacket.”

“You’re not tracking her like a damn bloodhound, Dean.”

“She could be in trouble.”

“She texted. She said ‘doing good, love you.’”

“That’s suspicious.”

“She uses ‘love you’ all the time.”

“Exactly.”

Cas just sipped his tea. “She’s enjoying herself.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You seem confident.”

“I am. She sent me a picture of her boba.”

Dean blinked. “She sent you a picture?”

Cas smiled. “With a sparkly heart emoji.”

Dean muttered something about betrayal and tried not to text her again.

---

When the bunker door finally creaked open, Sam and Dean were already standing in the hallway like bodyguards.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean started, before stopping short.

Sam’s mouth dropped open.

Chubs stood in the doorway, glowing.

Her hair was curled and shiny, with soft caramel highlights. Her nails were perfect — deep green, short but elegant. And on each ear… piercings.

Little gold hoops. A tiny moon stud. A helix ring on the left.

She wore a leather jacket — not Dean’s — and a soft grin, like she knew she just broke their brains.

“I got a makeover,” she said, dropping her shopping bags. “Surprise!”

Dean’s voice cracked. “You— what—”

Sam looked betrayed. “You got pierced?”

“Cas said it’d be cute!”

Dean turned to Cas like he’d just learned the angel keyed the Impala.

Cas shrugged. “I stand by it.”

Sam blinked, eyes still locked on the earrings. “Did that—did it hurt?”

“Yeah, like a bitch,” she said, beaming.

Dean sat down on the steps.

“You okay?” she asked, head tilted.

“You look like a damn rockstar,” he muttered. “A sparkly little menace.”

“I like it,” Cas added softly. “You look happy.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you were getting coffee. You got a whole transformation montage.”

Chubs threw herself into a spin. “Me time, baby.”

Dean just stared. “No more piercings, right?”

Chubs gave a look.

Dean groaned. “Oh God, you’re gonna come home with a face tattoo.”

“Maybe I’ll get your name, Dean.”

“I’ll pass out.”

“Exactly.”

---

Later that night, Sam found her lounging in the library, painting her new nails.

He sat beside her, quiet for a long minute.

“I was really worried,” he admitted.

“I know.”

“I guess I just forget you’re not a kid anymore.”

She gave him a soft smile. “I still like it when you worry.”

Dean walked by, took one look at her earrings, and shook his head. “Pierced ears. What’s next? Motorcycles? A boyfriend named Blade?”

Chubs smirked. “Girlfriend. Named Lola.”

Dean choked.

Cas, sipping tea, said serenely, “I approve.”

Sam laughed so hard he cried.

[captonite]

Voicemail

Genre: Angst / Hurt/Comfort / Found Family Setting: Post-canon; set weeks after the boys found the photo album Summary: Dean’s phone dies. Sam finds the old backup. They charge it. A voicemail notification pings. And it’s from her — before the sacrifice. She knew they wouldn’t remember. So she left them one last message.

It started with Dean’s damn phone dying.

They were in some no-name town fixing up the car, and Dean was cursing at the charger like it had personally betrayed him.

“I swear, this thing’s fried.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Just use the backup. It’s in the glove compartment.”

Dean grumbled but popped the glove box. Pulled out the older model, scuffed and worn.

He hadn’t touched it in months.

Maybe longer.

They plugged it in that night.

Sam was halfway through a research spiral when it buzzed.

1 New Voicemail.

No number. Just the name saved in the contact list:

💛 Chubs (Don’t Delete Her)

Dean froze.

Sam slowly stood.

The air felt too still.

Dean’s voice came out gravel-soft. “Should I play it?”

Sam nodded, eyes already wet.

Dean tapped the screen.

“Hey, um…”

“If you’re hearing this, it means you—” “—you don’t remember me anymore.”

Silence. A breath.

“Which means Cas did it. The spell. And I guess I made it.”

A bitter laugh. “Didn’t think I would.”

“Okay. Okay. So. This is for you, Dean. And you, Sam.”

“You probably found this on the backup. Smart. Or maybe Cas gave it to you. Either way…”

“I just needed to say something.”

“I know you’ll be okay. Even without me. You’ve always been okay.”

“But I hope… I hope a part of you misses me. Even if you don’t know why.”

“I hope you still fight over who gets shotgun.”

“I hope you still make fun of me when I snore. I hope Dean still plays music way too loud, and Sam still makes me tea when I have nightmares, even if he doesn’t remember why he started doing it.”

“I hope you still call me ‘Chubs.’ Or ‘baby.’ Or whatever dumb nickname you gave me that I pretended to hate.”

Dean let out a noise — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

Sam wiped his eyes.

The message continued.

“If it helps… I don’t regret it. Not a second.”

“You two gave me more family than I ever thought I’d get. You made me feel safe.”

“And if the price of keeping you alive was losing you—?”

“I’d pay it again.”

“And again. And again.”

“But I want you to know something.”

“You didn’t fail me.”

“You didn’t leave me behind. You didn’t mess up.”

“I chose this.”

“Because I love you.”

“So much.”

“And I hope one day — even if it’s in the middle of some motel or diner or hunt — you look at me and feel something.”

“Because I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll be loving you.”

“Even if you don’t love me back.”

“Yet.”

“Okay. I should probably stop crying before Cas walks in and gets all angel-awkward about it.”

A watery chuckle.

“I love you, Sam. I love you, Dean.”

“Be good. Be safe.”

“Find me again.”

Click.

There was silence.

Sam sat down slowly, head in his hands.

Dean didn’t say anything. Just hit “replay.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

That night, they crawled into her room without knocking.

She was curled under three blankets, reading with her headphones on.

She looked up, startled.

“You okay?” she asked, worried.

Dean didn’t answer. He just climbed into bed beside her and pulled her into his chest.

Sam slid in from the other side and took her hand.

“We found your voicemail,” he said quietly.

Her face crumbled. “Oh…”

“You waited,” Dean whispered, voice cracking.

“You believed in us,” Sam added.

She nodded, tears slipping down.

“I always will.”

They held her tighter.

The three of them, tangled in silence, in old pain, in new love.

Dean pressed a kiss to her temple.

“We’re never letting you go again.”

[captonite]

Too Good for This Life”

Genre: Angst / Hurt/Comfort / Found Family Warnings: Memory loss, emotional whump, sacrificial magic, grief, trauma, soft!Sam, devastated!Dean, pure-hearted!Chubs, comfort, eventual healing. Summary: Chubs is cursed — slowly dying unless someone who loves her most gives up all their memories of her. Sam and Dean make the choice. She survives. But when she wakes up… they don’t know her anymore

Part I: The Curse

“It’s slow,” the witch had whispered. “She’ll forget who she is. Her heart will stop like a tired clock. Unless someone loves her enough to give her away.”

That was the price.

Love traded for life.

Sam and Dean were covered in her blood by the time they reached the bunker. She’d collapsed during the hunt — too quiet, too pale. Cas had tried healing her, but the magic was older than him. Older than anything.

And it was targeted. Personal.

The witch hadn’t aimed at them. She’d aimed at the girl with the soft smile and open heart. Chubs. Their baby sister.

The spell was carved into her spine — seeping like poison through her veins. Cas said it would take days to finish her. Maybe less.

Dean wanted to kill something. Sam wanted to undo time.

But there was only one way.

Someone who loved her — truly, deeply, bone-deep — had to give up every memory of her.

Not just forget. But erase.

Like she never existed.

They didn’t tell her.

She was in too much pain already, barely conscious.

They sat at her bedside.

Her lips cracked.

Her voice hoarse.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get hurt. I just— I was trying to help.”

Sam cried in silence. Dean held her hand like it was a lifeline.

“You’re not going anywhere, baby,” Dean whispered, brushing hair from her face. “We’re gonna fix this.”

“How?” she breathed.

Sam stood. Quiet. Shaking.

“We’ll give you everything,” he said. “Even if we forget you. We’ll give you life.”

Her eyes fluttered open.

“No,” she said, suddenly afraid. “No, please. Don’t— I don’t want to lose you.”

Dean kissed her knuckles.

“You won’t,” he said. “We’ll just find you again.”

---

Part II: The Price

It took both of them.

Cas warned them — the spell needed a heart-breaking sacrifice. A single person wouldn’t have been enough.

So they sat together. On either side of her bed.

And said goodbye.

Without saying goodbye.

Dean went first.

He looked at her like it was the last sunset he’d ever see.

“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to us,” he choked out. “You saved us, Chubs. Every day.”

She reached for him, but her fingers trembled.

“Don’t go,” she begged. “Please don’t forget me.”

He leaned down, pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ll find you again,” he whispered. “Even if I don’t know why.”

Sam was already crying.

“I can’t— I can’t lose her,” he said, shaking. “Not like this. Not when we finally— when we finally got it right.”

“Then don’t,” she said, sobbing now. “Don’t do this. I’d rather die than lose you.”

“No,” Sam said softly. “You’re too good for this life.”

He kissed her forehead. One last time.

Then let go.

Cas did the spell.

And when it was over…

She lived.

But Sam and Dean stood above her, confused.

Dean blinked.

“Who… who is she?”

Cas’s jaw clenched.

“She’s your sister.”

Dean laughed.

“Funny, Cas.”

Sam tilted his head. “She’s not— I’ve never seen her before.”

“You loved her,” Cas said, voice shaking. “You still do. You just don’t remember.”

They looked down at the girl they had died for. The girl who had given them everything. And now had nothing but them.

---

Part III: The Stranger in the Bunker

She didn’t leave.

Cas wouldn’t let her.

He helped her recover. Read to her. Made her tea. Let her cry into his coat when the boys brushed past her in the hallway.

Dean was cold. Quiet. Confused. He didn’t like the ache in his chest every time he saw her sad.

Sam avoided her. It hurt too much — the strange familiarity, the flicker of a memory that wasn’t there.

Then the dreams started.

Dean woke up one night calling her name.

Chubs.

Then: baby.

Then: I’m sorry.

He didn’t understand.

Sam started finding sticky notes in his own handwriting — reminders she’d left behind.

“Don’t forget the cereal she likes.” “Chubs gets cold easily — keep an extra blanket in the car.” “Tell her you’re proud of her.”

He’d written them.

He didn’t remember why.

But he started doing those things again.

Even if she flinched.

Even if she looked surprised.

Eventually…

She stopped trying to get their attention.

Stopped sitting at the table.

Stopped showing up in the war room.

She lived in the shadows of their lives, even though she was the one who had given them back theirs.

---

Part IV: Memory by Memory

Sam found the photo album by accident.

Buried in her room, tucked in a box labeled “please don’t look unless you love me.”

He opened it anyway.

Polaroids. Post-hunt selfies. Movie nights. Chubs in Dean’s jacket, asleep on Sam’s shoulder. Cas with birthday hats. Laughter. Blood. Love.

He dropped to his knees.

Dean found him there.

“What the hell is—” he stopped. Saw the pictures. Saw her.

And something broke.

They ran to her room.

She was curled in bed, headphones in.

Dean ripped them off.

“You’re our sister.”

She looked up, startled. Tears already in her eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to find that yet,” she whispered.

“How could we forget you?” Sam asked, voice cracking.

“Because you had to,” she said. “I would’ve died. And I knew — I knew — you’d love me enough to let me go.”

Dean sank to his knees beside her.

“You didn’t even try to stop us.”

“I couldn’t,” she sobbed. “You always give everything. I just wanted to give something back.”

Sam sat on the other side of her.

“You did,” he whispered. “You gave us you. And we’re getting you back.”

---

Part V: Finding Her Again

They didn’t get their memories back.

Not exactly.

But they built new ones.

Dean taught her how to clean guns again. Sam re-read all their favorite books with her. Cas helped them all grieve the versions of themselves they lost.

She smiled again.

It wasn’t the same.

But it was real.

One night, Dean walked into the kitchen and found her dancing — barefoot, humming, hoodie too big.

He stared.

“What?” she asked, laughing softly.

He shook his head.

“You just… you feel like home.”

She blinked. Teared up.

“You used to say that,” she whispered.

He smiled. Stepped forward. Pulled her into his arms.

“Then I must’ve meant it.”

Sam joined them minutes later.

“Group hug?” he asked, tired.

She wrapped her arms around both of them.

Tight.

Forever.

They never got their memories back.

But they didn’t need them.

Because they still called her Chubs.

They still made her tea.

They still watched over her when she had nightmares.

They still chose her.

Again and again and again.

[captonite]

Should’ve Noticed Genre: Angst + Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Illness (fever, fainting), emotional whiplash, Dean being loud, guilt, caretaking fluff, forehead kisses, “hovering idiot brothers” trope.

The pounding behind her eyes had started hours ago.

At first, Sachi chalked it up to dehydration. A skipped meal. A long day. The usual.

But as night fell and the research session in the war room dragged on, it grew unbearable. A deep, throbbing pressure that made the light too bright, the voices too loud, and her whole body ache like she’d been hit by a truck.

She didn’t say anything, though.

Because they were already stressed.

And it wasn’t like anyone had really looked her in the eye all day anyway.

Sam was hunched over a lore book, muttering Latin under his breath.

Dean paced behind him, snapping half-formed ideas. Cas stood nearby, face tight with angelic concentration.

Chubs sat at the edge of the table, hands folded in her lap, eyes dull.

Her head swam. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Her skin felt too tight. Her limbs were trembling. She blinked slowly, trying to stay grounded.

“Okay,” Dean barked, slamming a book shut. “If the ritual needs sacred soil then why the hell does it mention celestial fire in the second stanza?”

“I told you,” Sam said irritably, “it’s not literal fire, it’s—”

“You don’t know that,” Dean snapped. “God, are you even listening?!”

“I think it means the original site—” Chubs started softly.

Dean rounded on her.

“Jesus, Chubs, could you maybe stop zoning out for five seconds and actually contribute?!”

The words hit like a slap.

She flinched. Swallowed thickly. Her mouth opened—

—and then the floor swayed beneath her feet.

Her knees buckled.

The room tilted.

“Whoa—Chubs?!”

Sam’s voice.

A crash. The chair toppled. Her body hit the ground with a sick thud.

“CHUBS!”

---

Everything went silent.

Dean was the first to drop to his knees beside her.

She was pale. Too pale. Her skin was clammy, her breathing shallow.

“Shit. Shit, no—Chubs?!”

He cupped her cheek.

She was burning up.

“She’s got a fever,” Sam said, voice shaking. “She’s sick.”

Dean’s eyes went wide.

“I yelled at her.”

“We all missed it.”

Cas knelt beside them and pressed two fingers to her forehead.

“She’s been unwell for at least 24 hours. Possibly longer. She didn’t say anything.”

Sam looked gutted. Dean looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

“I thought she was just quiet,” Dean whispered. “Didn’t even—God, I yelled at her.”

“We were too focused on the hunt,” Cas said gently.

They carried her to her room.

Wrapped her in blankets.

Put cold compresses on her head.

She didn’t wake up for two hours.

---

When she finally stirred, the first thing she saw was Dean, sitting on the floor by her bed, forehead resting on the mattress.

His eyes snapped open when she moved.

“Chubs,” he breathed, like a prayer. “Hey. Hey, baby girl.”

She blinked slowly. Her head was still pounding. She felt like her bones had melted.

Sam appeared on her other side with a water bottle and shaking hands.

“You passed out,” he said softly. “Scared the hell out of us.”

Cas sat by the lamp, a book open in his lap.

“You have the flu. Possibly strep. Your fever reached 103.”

She tried to sit up. Dean gently pressed her back down.

“Nope. Uh-uh. You’re not moving.”

“M’sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t wanna bother—”

“Stop,” Sam said, voice cracking.

“You could never bother us,” Dean added. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I was an asshole.”

She blinked at him. His face was red, jaw clenched. Guilt radiated off him like heat.

“You said I was zoning out.”

“You were dying on your feet,” he whispered. “And I was too busy barking orders to see you.”

He gripped her hand.

“You take care of us all the damn time, Chubs. And when you needed it… we failed you.”

She didn’t answer.

Just squeezed his hand back.

---

And then the hovering began.

Dean refused to leave the room. He moved the TV into her bedroom, streamed her favorite shows, fed her spoonfuls of soup like a dramatic mother hen.

Sam read to her when the fever made her dizzy, used that soft, low voice that soothed her right to sleep.

Cas monitored her vitals like a professional nurse. He brushed her hair back with gentle hands and whispered grace when her headaches got too bad.

She tried to get up on day three.

Dean blocked the door with a chair.

“Nope. Go lay down.”

“I have to pee, Dean.”

“Cas will carry you.”

“I can walk.”

“Barely. You almost face-planted into the kitchen counter yesterday.”

Sam made her tea just how she liked it — three sugars, one squeeze of lemon — and even tucked a soft cloth around her mug so it wouldn’t burn her fingers.

Cas sat with her when she cried from fever dreams.

They held her. Quietly. Without needing to say anything.

One night, as her fever finally broke and her body calmed, Dean stayed up beside her bed with a beer he never drank.

She looked over at him, voice raspy.

“You still mad I zoned out?”

Dean looked up sharply.

Eyes glossy. Jaw clenched.

“I’m mad at myself,” he said. “For not seeing it. For making you feel like you had to hide how sick you were.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He blinked. Like the words stabbed him.

Then leaned over and kissed her burning forehead.

“You are never a burden, baby. Never.”

Sam came in not long after.

Sat on the other side of the bed.

“We’ll do better,” he promised.

She looked between them.

Their eyes were tired. But open. Soft.

“You’re so annoying,” she mumbled sleepily.

“Takes one to know one,” Dean smirked.

---

The next morning, she woke up surrounded by pillows, tissues, tea, medicine bottles, and three grown men snoring in awkward positions around her bed.

She smiled.

Weakly. But real.

Maybe being sick sucked. But being loved like this? Made it easier to heal.