cherry-holmes

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

PART 13: Sweet Child o' Mine

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Dean and you are finally together! What could possibly go wrong?

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +6.2K

Warnings: Fluff with a bit of angst, tbh. Domestic!Dean if you squint🙈 Sex. Unprotected PiV (be safe, sin globito no hay fiesta!). Oral sex (both receive).

A/N: sorry it take me so long😭 I promise next chapter won’t take too long to come!

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Light. Wind. Pressure like thunder beneath his ribs.

When Dean opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the silence—thick and unfamiliar. No hum of electricity, no distant highway or birdsong. Just the quiet crackle of a dying hearth and the faint scent of woodsmoke and ink.

He stood in a study. Heavy curtains blocked most of the light, casting the room in shadow. A writing desk sat near the window, papers neatly stacked beside an inkwell. There were books—hundreds of them, and silk gowns hanging carefully on a screen near the wardrobe. A lady's room. And not just any woman's.

Castiel's vessel. The female version Dean had his angel friend talking about: «This house belongs to the vessel I used in this time. I won't be there. But it's a safe place to land.»

No angelic flare. No welcome. Just the dull thud of Dean's boots as he stepped further into the room.

A change of clothes waited for him, neatly laid out. Dean eyed the outfit warily.

Black wool trousers, a pressed linen shirt with a high collar, a dark cravat, and a long frock coat that fell to his knees. He ran his fingers across the cloth. No zippers. No elastic. Boots that buckled instead of laced. It felt like dressing for a wake.

He muttered under his breath. "I look like I'm about to sell snake oil."

Still, he dressed. Every piece he pulled on brought him closer—to you. To your soft skin, your warm eyes, and that sweet voice that had his knees went weak. He hadn't forgot anything about you.

You lived – and hunted – every cell of what he was.

Once dressed, Dean glanced at himself in the mirror. The coat was snug across the shoulders, slightly worn at the cuffs. The cravat made him feel like he was being strangled, so he loosened it just enough to breathe. He left the top button of the shirt undone. Not exactly proper, but screw proper. The man in the mirror didn't look like a hunter. But the steel in his eyes? That hadn't changed.

"Alright," he said to himself. "Let's find my deer."

Outside, the sky was washed in pale gray, and the air carried a crisp bite of early spring. The countryside rolled out in misty fields and low stone walls, dotted with hawthorn and elder trees. Dean had never been to England before. And certainly not like this.

He mounted the stallion waiting for him—sleek black, its mane wild and eyes sharp. The animal huffed and shifted beneath him, impatient.

"Yeah, I get it," Dean said, patting its neck. "You're the muscle, I'm the brains. Let's keep it that way."

He couldn't help it—he smirked. Riding the dark horse reminded him of Baby. Solid. Fast. Stubborn. Beautiful. "Good boy," he muttered as they kicked into a gallop.

Dean spent hours riding the main roads, listening. He stopped at an inn near a post road, ordered a pint, and asked casual questions about local families. He overheard two gossips discussing the Sinclair daughters while haggling for lace at a market cart. One old man, hunched over a basket of radishes, pointed with his cane toward the forested edge of a distant estate.

"Big house, high iron gate. You'll know it when you see it," the old man rasped, leaning heavier on his cane. His cloudy eyes narrowed as he studied Dean's unfamiliar face, the way his coat didn't quite sit like a gentleman's. "You courting one o' them, son?"

Dean grunted, noncommittal. "Something like that."

The man chuckled, a dry sound like wind rustling old paper. "Ah, then it's got to be Miss Beatrice—the youngest. Pretty as a painted porcelain doll and sweet on attention, that one. But if it's the middle daughter—well, you're too late, I'd wager. She's about to be married to one o' them Bridgerton boys. Lord Benedict, I heard."

Dean's spine went stiff.

"Perfect match, they say," the man went on, unaware of the sudden silence hanging off Dean's shoulders like a noose. "Sinclair's done well for himself. Old hawk of a father, but he's got a head for placing his girls like chess pieces. First one married a Duke. This one'll get herself a title too, mark my words. All very... respectable."

Dean's jaw clenched. Something twisted sharp in his gut—tight, hot, territorial. A name. A title. A future. All with someone else?

He forced a breath through his teeth. "You said the road forks after the orchard?"

The old man blinked, then nodded. Dean didn't thank him.

He was already spurring the stallion forward, heart pounding harder than the hooves beneath him, mind racing with the idea of you in another man's arms—your smile tucked away behind cold formality, your freedom signed over like a contract.

He'd crossed oceans of time to find you.

No way in hell he was going to lose you now.

Dean reached the edge of Sinclair land by midday, heart heavy with anticipation. He kept to the tree line, hidden among branches and budding leaves.

And then—he saw her.

A blur of motion on the open hill. A woman on horseback, riding fast. Too fast.

Her gown whipped like banners in the wind, loose hair catching in the breeze. No servant followed. No chaperone. Just her, fleeing something invisible.

Dean's breath caught.

Even from a distance, he knew.

You.

He pressed his knees to the horse's sides. "Go. Now."

The stallion surged forward beneath him, hooves thundering over earth and stone, Dean's eyes locked on the silhouette ahead, heading toward the lake.

The closer he got, the louder the wind and the pounding of hooves—but none of it drowned the scream in his bones: Not again. Not like this.

He reached the clearing just as you climbed the rock.

Then he saw the rope.

"No..."

And you jumped.

Dean launched from the saddle before it had even stopped moving. He was up the rock in seconds, hands slashing at the rope with the knife he'd kept hidden in his boot.

The body dropped—he caught you before you hit the ground.

Your skin was cold. Lips blue. Eyes barely open.

"Deer," he breathed. "No. No, no, no. I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you. I swear."

You choked on your own breath, lightheaded, not believing in what you were seeing.

"Dean...?"

He nodded quickly, holding you tighter. "It's me. I came back for you."

And then the blackness took you again. You fell like a broken marionette—silent, weightless.

Dean caught you in a tangle of limbs and panic. You were so still. Too still. And it brought a torrent of his worst memories.

"No...no, no, no..." he gasped, his arms locking around you, pulling the rope from your neck with shaking fingers. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't do this..."

Your head lolled back. The purpling mark around your throat made bile rise in his gut.

He laid you down in the grass, hands trembling as they searched for any sign, any spark of life.

"Please," he whispered, voice cracking. "Don't leave me again."

Dean pressed his ear to your chest, breath stalling until... there, a heartbeat.

Faint. Fragile. But there.

"Thank you," he choked out, eyes burning, one hand closing over your ribcage like he could keep that fragile rhythm going just by holding on. "Thank you, deer. Oh, I love you so fuckin' much..."

He bowed his head over you for one second—just one—before pure instinct snapped back into motion.

Your skin was ice against his palm. He couldn't let you stay here. He couldn't risk you slipping away again.

"I've got you," he muttered as he scooped you back into his arms. "You're not going anywhere."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Dean kicked the door open with his boot, carried you inside, and laid you gently on the small bed in the back room.

He stoked the fire. Pulled every blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed. Removed your wet shoes, then his own, and slipped under the covers behind you, pulling you against him with the same desperate care he had when he'd first caught you. He tucked your chilled fingers beneath his shirt and pressed his lips to your forehead.

"I'm here," he whispered. "You're safe. I swear."

Your breathing had evened out, but you hadn't woken.

So he stayed. Held you like he might never get the chance again.

Hours passed, the light in the room shifted to gold, and then—finally—your lashes fluttered. Your fingers twitched against his chest.

You opened your eyes. Dean felt it before he saw it. That flicker of life, returning to you.

"Dean?" You blinked slowly, as if unsure whether he was real.

He smiled, pain and relief crashing together in his eyes. "Hey," he said softly. "Yeah. It's me."

"How...?" You touched his face, like you still didn't believe it.

"Cas," he breathed. "He sent me. Said he'd follow when he can. But I couldn't wait anymore. I had to find you."

Tears welled in your eyes. You tried to speak, but your throat was still too raw.

"You don't have to say anything," Dean whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just stay. Just... don't leave me again."

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, you let yourself believe you were safe. That you were no longer alone.

You looked up, forehead resting against his. "I love you, Dean."

His lips brushed yours, gently, tenderly. "I love you too, baby," he promised.

And when he kissed you fully, it was the kind of kiss that rewrote time.

It was deep, intense, longing. His mouth moving over yours like a man starved, his hand sliding reverently over the soft fabric of your dress along your waist, your ribs, the soft curve of your hip... as if re-memorizing what he thought he'd lost. His body pressed closer, heat and breath and need tangling in a rhythm that felt holy.

Then his fingers grazed your throat, instinctively—possessive, gentle, worshipful.

But you flinched. The pain flared, sharp and immediate, and the moment cracked.

Dean pulled back instantly, eyes wide. "Shit. I'm sorry... your neck..."

You shook your head, even as tears welled again. "It's okay. I'm sorry... I..."

His jaw clenched, grief flickering in his expression as he looked at the faint mark the rope had left on your skin.

"No, baby. I'm sorry," he murmured, voice low but firm. "You need to rest. We'll have time. As much as we want. But now you are priority, okay?"

You nodded, and he place a soft peck on your lips. The ache in your chest didn't ease, but his arms and his lips did. Wrapping around you like armor, sweet like home.

After another moment of comfortable silence, you spoke again, voice cracking as you looked at him, touched his jaw like it might vanish.

"I thought I'd never see you again."

His hand closed over yours and held it tight. "I thought the same, sweetheart. I've been losing my damn mind without you." He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. "I looked for you everywhere. Dreams, omens, books... hell, I even asked Jack for help... I don't think I've gone more than a day without praying to whoever could listen to me, yelling at them, begging to just give me something."

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye. "And now you're here. Just... here."

Dean nodded, brushing his thumb over your cheek. "We're together. That's all that matters."

A moment passed, during which his chest fluttered just from seeing that familiar expression on your face—the one you always made when trying to piece together something new.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Who the heck is Jack?"

His chest vibrated with the warmth of his laugh, making your heart flutter in return. "You'll love him," he said. "There's so much you've missed... so many things I want to tell you. About me, Bobby, Charlie, Sammy, Cas..."

He trailed off for a beat, a pang tightening in his chest at the thought of how his own brother and best friend had kept such a secret from him. But now that you were here, with him, he didn't want to worry about any of that—not yet.

He'd deal with them later.

"I missed you so much, too," you whispered. "Every night, I dreamed of you, Dean. I started to think maybe I'd made it all up. Maybe none of it was real."

Dean let out a shaky, broken laugh. "I'm real. Everything I am, and everything I'll ever be for you, is real."

That pulled a shy, flustered laugh from you, cheeks blushing, the kind that escaped when you were overwhelmed with feeling and didn't know where to put it. Small, hoarse, a little bashful... but real.

"Damn, I missed your laugh," he said, grinning, eyes still damp with relief.

You reached for him and he pulled you in, wrapping you tightly against him. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—leather, wind, something wild and real that had no place in this prim world.

"By the way," he said after a moment, sounding more animated. "You should see the getup I landed in when I got here. Cas left me the world's stiffest coat and boots that look like they were made for a pirate."

You looked up at him, your eyes soft. "You actually pull it off."

He gave a half-smile. "Yeah, well. I tried to keep it a little Winchester—left the cravat on the floor. Tight-ass society rules ain't really my thing."

"You... rode a horse."

Dean raised a brow. "Black stallion. Fast as hell. Pretty sure the damn thing's possessed—bit me twice and kicked a fence. But I called him Baby, so we're square now."

You laughed—really laughed this time—even as tears still clung to your lashes. "Your real Baby's gonna be so jealous if she finds out."

"Good thing it's a secret just between you and me, right?" he said, lifting one eyebrow.

You bit your lower lip, playful and warm. "That sounds rebellious."

"You like it rebellious, babe," he murmured, then leaned in and kissed you—soft, humid, unhurried. Not pressing for more. Just anchoring you there, with him.

Dean softened, brushing your hair away from your face. "This place, though... it's beautiful. Old. Like stepping into one of your Jane Austen novels, but with way more judgmental stares and way less plumbing."

You curled your fingers into his shirt. "It's suffocating."

He nodded, gaze serious again. "Yeah. I could see it. The second I heard about your father, about this house they kept you locked in... I knew. I knew you'd be fading here."

"I was," you admitted. "I thought maybe if I just... ended it, I'd wake up back where I belonged. With you."

Dean's voice broke, low and raw. "Don't say that. Please. You belong with me—alive. Anywhere, anytime. Just alive."

Silence fell for a beat, thick with emotion.

Then you asked quietly, "So... what now?"

Dean leaned back just enough to meet your eyes. "Cas said he'd follow when he could. He didn't have enough juice to bring us both through, so he sent me first. Told me to find you. Keep you safe."

You nodded.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "So I figure... we stay here for now. Lay low. Keep close to town, resting a bit after all the shit we've been through. You don't leave my sight."

You raised an eyebrow. "Bossy."

"Damn right," he said, but his smile was gentle. "I already lost you once. That's not happening again."

You leaned in, forehead to his, breath mingling. "Promise?"

"I swear, sweetheart. We wait for Cas. And when he shows up—we go home."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

But then it passed one, two, three complete days. And Castiel didn't appear.

You tried not to show your worry, but Dean could see it in your silences, in the way your fingers curled tighter into his shirt when you thought he wasn't paying attention. He didn't say it out loud, but he was worried too.

Each morning, the two of you stood at the edge of the clearing behind the house, gazing up into the sky like maybe he'd come down in a flash of grace and fix it all. But each morning, the sky stayed quiet. At night you prayed for Castiel, calling his name at the empty air. But there wasn't an answer.

The cottage became a kind of home in the meantime.

You cooked with ingredients you and Dean bartered for in town, always careful to keep your face hidden beneath the edge of your cloak. He made a game of it—slipping in and out of old-fashioned speech to blend in, charming the baker into giving him an extra roll or two, muttering that he missed gas stations and coffee that didn't taste like burnt hay.

You laughed more than you had in your entire existence in that epoch of time.

You washed dishes together, read from dusty books, wrapped yourselves in blankets as the spring rains came tapping against the windows. At night, you fell asleep curled against his chest, and in the mornings, he kissed your forehead like he couldn't quite believe you were real.

But still... Castiel didn't come.

On the fourth afternoon, when Dean returned from town with a basket tucked under his arm, he set it down a little too fast on the table.

You turned. "Something wrong?"

Dean exhaled, jaw tightening. "Your name came up. In the square. Some merchant said your horse turned up near the river last this morning. Your father's been asking questions. Loud ones."

Your heart stuttered. "They're looking for me?"

"Yeah. So no more going to town yourself. Not until I know it's safe. I'll go. I'll keep low."

You nodded, throat dry. "What if they find us? My father... if he finds us together he's capable of..."

Dean stepped close, tilting your chin until you met his eyes. "He won't found us. I'll keep you safe. I swear."

The wind moved through the cracks of the old windowpanes. Outside, the sky hung low and pale. It was quiet. But a different kind of quiet now. Waiting had become its own kind of ache.

That evening, Dean lit a fire while you brewed tea with dried herbs. He sat behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist as you leaned into him on the floor, warm and still and careful.

"You think he's okay?" you asked softly. "Cas?"

Dean didn't answer right away. "He's strong. He's done worse with less. But yeah... I think something's holding him back. I just don't know what."

You closed your eyes, listening to his heartbeat against your back.

And then you whispered the question you hadn't dared until now: "What if he doesn't come?"

Dean's arms tightened just a little. "Then I'll find another way. I'll fight my way through time if I have to."

You turned your head, met his gaze. "You always say that like you mean it."

He smiled, quiet and certain. "I do. For you, I'll do anything."

The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting flickers of gold across the old wooden floor. Outside, the rain had eased to a soft patter against the cottage roof. Inside, time felt suspended — as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

Dean shifted slightly behind you, arms still around your waist. "You cold?"

You shook your head. "Not with you."

There was a pause, weighted, tender.

You turned in his arms, facing him, your legs folding beneath you as he looked down at you like you were made of something holy—and almost too fragile to touch. Almost.

You studied his gaze: the way it flicked down to your lips, the way his breath hitched as you leaned in closer. The way his chest seemed to pause in anticipation of your next move...

You and Dean hadn't been intimate yet since your reunion. It wasn't because either of you hadn't thought about it—or because Dean hadn't shown signs of wanting you. God knows how much he longed for this moment to come.

And as your fingers curled against his chest and your breath ghosted against his lips, he had to close his eyes just to steady himself.

Your lips brushed the line of his throat, soft and lingering, just beneath his jaw. You felt the pulse there—sharp, fast, unsteady—and the way Dean tensed under your touch, as if caught between wanting to surrender and needing to stop himself.

You felt him stifle a groan, his grip tightening at your waist like a warning. Or maybe a plea.

Dean's breath was shallow, chest rising against yours, jaw clenched as if restraint alone could hold him back. But your hands had already found their way under his shirt, palms mapping over warm, familiar skin. You kissed a little lower, letting your teeth graze the strong curve of his throat.

His head fell back against the headboard, eyes fluttering shut. "Jesus..."

His body betrayed him. Hips shifting, back arching—drawn to you.

"Sweetheart..." he rasped, voice wrecked and low, "I don't want to hurt you—"

"You could never hurt me, Dean," you whispered into his lips, already climbing into his lap, and that was enough.

Dean's self-control splintered.

One hand slid up your spine, pulling you flush against him. The other cradled the back of your head like he was still afraid you might vanish if he held you too tightly. Your thighs straddled him, your dress hitched up, and all you could feel was his body under yours—solid, warm, needing you.

Dean was kissing you, deeper and hungry. Suddenly, there was a flicker of hesitation in the way his hands slowed, stilling at your hips. You felt it in the way his breath caught.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His voice was quiet, rough with restraint. "I don't... we don't have anything, sweetheart. There's no condoms here..."

Dean always had been careful with you. Thoughtful, gentle, protective. That part of him had never changed.

You cupped his face, brushing your thumb along the stubble of his jaw. "I know," you whispered. "It's alright."

He searched your face for a long second, like he was looking for any trace of doubt.

There wasn't.

Dean kissed you then like he finally let go. And you held him as if you'd never let him go again.

When he lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bed, your heart beat with a kind of aching softness. There was nothing rushed, only reverence in the way he laid you down, in the way his hands found yours, fingers threading together as he hovered above you.

Like he needed to memorize every breath, every inch, every sound you made.

And then there was only warmth—his weight pressing into you, his lips at your throat, your bodies finding each other again like a song long-forgotten but suddenly remembered.

His breath caught against your skin when you opened to him—your body trusting him before your words ever could. His hands mapped over your body with quiet wonder, slipping beneath your dress, ghosting along the inside of your thigh.

Your dress was thin, almost translucent in the candlelight. It clung in places where your body was already flushed, already trembling beneath his mouth. His hands, rough from years of work but now impossibly gentle, gathered the hem and drew it slowly up your thighs.

Dean paused, eyes dark and reverent, dragging the fabric higher with aching care over your hips, your stomach, until the worn linen pooled just below your ribs. There was nothing beneath it. No corset, no lace, no petticoats. Just skin. Just you.

His breath caught.

"Jesus, sweetheart..." he murmured, half to himself, half to the sight of you laid bare. One of his hands smoothed over your hip, thumb brushing that hollow just below your navel, as though memorizing you all over again.

And then he was lowering himself again, this time slower, deliberate, like every inch of you deserved worship. He kissed the soft skin of your stomach, trailing lower, his mouth tracing the places that made you sigh and arch and gasp his name.

Your legs parted for him before you could think, and his hands slipped beneath your thighs, grounding you as his mouth found you—bare, aching for him.

Dean groaned low in his throat at the taste of you. His mouth was slow at first, tender, like he was relearning what made you melt. But soon he grew more confident, more greedy—his tongue working in lazy, perfect circles on your clit while his stubble scratched deliciously at your thighs. One of his hands crept up, settling on your stomach to keep you from rising off the bed completely. The other cradled your hip, possessive.

"Oh... that's so good, Dean..." you mumbled, gasping in between, your fingers tangled in his hair, your whole body trembling at the slow, sure, devastating rhythm of his mouth on your pussy.

And when your hips stuttered, breath caught in your throat, Dean didn't let up. He only pressed deeper, holding you together while you fell apart in his mouth.

He stayed there for a long moment after, pressing soft kisses against the inside of your thigh, breathing hard, his hand still stroking slow, grounding lines down your side.

He looked up at you, eyes heavy and full of something that looked a lot like love.

You were still breathless, your body limp and humming with aftershocks, but when Dean moved up to kiss you again, to keep giving, you stopped him softly with a hand on his chest.

He blinked down at you, surprised.

You leaned up, your mouth grazing his jaw. "Let me," you whispered, your voice quiet but sure. "I want to make you feel good, too."

"Sweetheart..." Dean's brow furrowed, eyes searching yours. "You don't have to prove anything to me," he said gently.

"I know," you said, and meant it, hushing him with a finger to his lips, cheeks warm with a mix of shyness and anticipation.

It was your first time trying this, because Dean had never asked for anything he thought might make you uncomfortable. Yes, he liked sex in very... particular ways, but with you, he had always been patient, gentle. He took his time teaching you, learning what you liked and what you didn't. You'd often felt he focused so much on your pleasure that he set aside his own desires.

«Your pleasure is my pleasure, sweetheart,» he would always say.

But not tonight, Mr. Winchester. Tonight, it was your turn to take the lead, to give him back a piece of that devotion. To show him just how much you wanted to give. To let him feel what it meant to be cared for in return. And because he deserved it.

Dean's breath hitched. He looked stunned and undone for a moment. He watched you like you were something holy. He laid back as you kissed your way down his chest, slow and nervous and determined, guided by the sound of his breath catching and the way his hands trembled slightly in your hair. You looked up once—just once—and the look in his eyes nearly undid you. Wonder, heat, devotion.

Your fingers fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers—different, unfamiliar from your time—but he helped, guiding your hands, until you freed him.

You paused, your heart pounding, and pressed a kiss just above the place where he was already hard. Dean hissed softly, his fingers flexing on the sheet.

"Was that okay?" you asked, your mouth so close he could feel the vibration of your voice on his tip.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "Yeah. Just—fuck, yeah."

And then you leaned down.

The moment was awkward and overwhelming, but it felt good. You were unsure at first, trying to remember what felt right, what he liked. But every sound he made—every stuttered breath, every low groan, every whispered "baby, that feels so good"—helped you find a rhythm.

Dean was trying not to move, one hand clenched in the bedsheet, the other resting against your head. His voice was low, broken at the edges. "You don't know what you're doing to me."

You smiled softly against his skin, feeling him twitch in response. Your own body was already aching again, just from the sound of his pleasure. He was always so strong, so in control, but right now, he was shaking, purely and completely yours. And that shook something loose in you too.

Dean let out a guttural breath. "You need to stop, sweetheart, or this is gonna be over too soon."

You looked up, flushed, lips parted. His pupils were blown wide, sweat gathering at his brow, chest heaving.

But it wasn't just lust in his eyes. It was love. Raw and real and right there for you to take.

Dean pulled you up gently, cupping your face in both hands like you were something priceless. His kiss was deep and slow, no longer restrained, but not hurried either.

"Come here," he murmured, voice husky, guiding you into his lap again, arms wrapping around you like he couldn't bear to let go.

Your knees bracketed his hips, and your fingers trembled just a little as you steadied yourself against his shoulders. He looked up at you, green eyes darker than you'd ever seen them, and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

You reached between your bodies and guided him to your entrance, both of you gasping when he brushed against your center— bare, hot, ready, aching. He gritted his teeth, eyes fluttering shut, but his hands never stopped touching you, grounding you.

You moved slowly, lowering yourself over him inch by inch, and the stretch stole your breath. He filled you so completely it almost hurt—but it was a good kind of pain, the kind that blurred with pleasure. The kind that reminded you how alive you were. How real this was.

Dean's head fell forward against your chest. He was breathing like he'd just run miles, voice ragged against your skin. "You feel so damn good," he groaned.

You rocked your hips slightly, and his grip on your waist tightened. He let you find the rhythm, let you take your time until the ache turned molten and your body found the rhythm it had always been meant for.

"Dean..." you moan against his hair, your hands exploring the soft skin of his broad shoulders.

He laid you back gently on the bed, covering you with his body as he started to move with you, deeper. The bed creaked softly beneath you, the fire in the hearth casting golden light across your bare skin.

"I missed this," he whispered with that tone you knew it was pure trouble and list. "I missed your sweet, tight pussy..."

He kissed your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.

"Did you miss me too, baby?" He asked, pounding deeper and steadier into you.

You nodded, whimpers stealing your breath.

"Say it, babygirl," he demanded. "I want to hear you, sweetheart."

"I mi–missed you, Dean," you managed to said between moans and cries as his tip hit the right spot inside of you. "Oh! I missed how you fuck me, Dean..."

"That's my good girl," he smiled against the soft skin of your neck.

Dean whispered your name like a prayer, like he was stitching it into himself. Your fingers dug into his back, breath catching with every thrust, every brush of his lips over your pulse point.

There was nothing but you and him... no past, no time, no fear. Just the two of you rediscovering each other in the quiet dark.

"Dean," you gasped, your voice high and near breaking.

"I got you," he whispered, lips at your ear.

Your bodies moved as one. It was no longer careful, no longer slow, but still with that same care, that same awe. Like neither of you could believe this was real. That after everything, after loss and time and heartbreak... you had found each other again.

Finally, Dean held you through the aftershocks, face pressed to your shoulder, heart pounding against yours. You ran your fingers through his hair, whispering his name like a secret.

You didn't have to say I love you.

It was everywhere. In every touch. Every breath. Every time your bodies came back together like they'd never been apart.

And even though your promised angel hadn't come yet, both of you felt already at home.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The morning light was soft and golden when you stirred, tangled in linen sheets and the warmth of Dean’s body. His arm was still wrapped around your waist, your cheek tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. Everything felt safe, steady, like the storm had passed and left only calm in its wake.

You smiled sleepily, pressing a kiss to his chest, and he shifted just enough to murmur something unintelligible against your hair.

Then came the sound.

BANG!

The front door exploded open.

You barely had time to react before bootsteps thundered down the hallway and the bedroom door flew open with a crash.

Your father stood in the doorway: coat unbuttoned, face flushed with rage, a flintlock pistol already raised in his hand. Behind him were two of his men, grim-faced and armed.

Dean sat up fast, yanking the sheets up to shield you. You gasped and clutched the blanket to your chest, frozen with shock.

“What the hell…?” Dean barked, instinctively moving in front of you.

“You bastard,” your father growled, stepping into the room. “You think you can soil my daughter’s name and hide like a dog in a shack?”

“Papa, no!” you cried, scrambling to pull the blankets with you as you tried to climb over Dean to reach him. “Please, he didn’t…”

“Get away from him!” your father snapped, cocking the pistol. “This man seduced you, kidnapped you…”

“He didn’t kidnap me!” you screamed. “I left!”

But he wasn’t listening.

One of the men grabbed Dean’s arm, wrenching it behind his back. Dean resisted, but the second man stepped in, pinning him roughly against the wall, one arm across his chest, one holding his shoulder. Dean struggled, jaw tight, muscles coiled like a live wire.

You threw yourself between your father and Dean, your hands raised. “Stop it—please!”

“Get back, girl!” your father shouted, shoving you aside with enough force to send you stumbling against the bedpost. Pain shot through your arm, but you didn’t care, you lunged forward again, grabbing at his sleeve.

“He didn’t force me! I love him!” you cried.

“SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH, GIRL!” your father roared, his hand flying up, so close to your face you flinched, eyes wide, bracing for the blow that never came.

Dean roared from behind the men holding him. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”

The pistol was still aimed at his chest.

Your knees hit the floor. “Father, please! Please don’t hurt him… please…”

The world shrank to the pounding of your heart in your ears, the wild panic clawing at your lungs. You couldn’t breathe. You knew your father: Dean was going to die because of you. He was going to die right in front of you and there was nothing you could do about it.

Then, your father spat the words: “If he’s still alive in the next five minutes, it’s because he either faces me at dawn… or marries you by noon.”

Everything stopped.

Dean froze. His head snapped toward your father. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me,” your father snarled. “Either I kill you now, or you marry the woman you’ve ruined.”

You turned to Dean, tears streaking down your face, voice shaking. “You don’t have to… I know this is insane… I’ll fix it, I’ll talk to him…”

But Dean was already stepping forward, dragging his arms free with brute force. His chest rose and fell with rage, but his voice was steady.

“You think I’d run from her? From this?” He looked at you then. “I love her. I’m not letting anyone take her away from me again.”

Your father scoffed, but Dean didn’t blink. “We’ll marry,” he said. “And if you ever raise your hand to her again, I’ll be the one calling you out at dawn.”

The room was silent.

You were shaking as Dean stepped to your side, drawing you into his arms—sheets and all—protecting you even now.

The man who’d tried to kill him had just forced him into a wedding. And Dean had said yes.

A shotgun wedding, indeed.

Only this time, the man holding the gun had no idea just how much Dean Winchester would come to mean to his daughter—or what hell he’d unleash if anyone ever tried to take you away from him again.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

PART 12: A Ghost Dammed to Live

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Some tragedies aren't written in blood, they're etched in time.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +5.8K

Warnings: The image above is Fem!Castiel, not Reader. Angst. Suicide. Mentions of arranged marriage. Family physical violence. Beliefs of the epoch (1815).

A/N: This episode is a direct continuation of Part 10, read it again if necessary.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The maze was quiet now.

Cold dew clung to your skirts. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the echoes of music had faded—swallowed by distance and darkness. You knelt in the grass, breath still uneven, one hand clutching the sleeve of the stranger who wasn't a stranger.

She looked at you like someone who had waited centuries. Who had seen too much and carried it all in silence.

You had seen her before. Outside the modiste's. And—no, it was impossible.

"Wait..." you murmured. "I know you... from my dreams. But... no, that can't be possible, because you're a woman and he—"

Your voice cracked. The name trembled on your tongue.

"...Castiel?"

She didn't deny it.

The woman nodded slowly.

"Hello, Claire."

The name anchored you. It pulled you back to yourself, away from the edge. You stared at her—at him, or whoever she was now—your mind scrambling for understanding. For sanity.

"You can't be real," you whispered. "I must be hallucinating. What's happening to me?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes—reddened now, glassy—were locked on you like you might break apart if she looked away.

And you? Your head was spinning so fast it felt like there were only two possibilities: you would faint, or you would finally fall, completely and permanently, into madness.

Something in her eyes told you she had the answers to your prayers. That she, alone, could bring you peace. But she, in turn, looked somewhere between sorrow and regret.

"Who are you?" Your voice cracked. "Why do you know me? And why do I know you? Why did you call me Claire?"

Still, she said nothing.

Desperation ignited in your chest. It burned up your throat, flushed your cheeks, twisted your stomach, and tightened your lungs.

"Say something," you begged, the words shivering in your mouth. "Please—I'm not well. I'm remembering things that don't exist. I know your name. I know your voice. I see people in my dreams who don't belong in this world. And every time I wake up, I feel like I've left something behind. Someone. I think—I think I'm losing my mind..."

"You're not mad." Her voice was gentle, but wary. It cut softly through your panic. "But if I tell you more, I might make you mad."

You blinked. "I don't care."

"I shouldn't have come so close," she murmured.

Your father, calling your name from somewhere beyond the hedges, sharp and furious.

Then your sisters, Lottie and Bea, their cries pitched between concern and exasperation.

"Answer us this instant!" your father shouted, nearer now. They were already entering the maze.

Your heart jolted violently. You turned to run toward Castiel, to reach for her hand, but she caught your wrist first.

"Listen to me," she said urgently. "You must pull yourself together. Now. You must act as if everything is fine. You must not let them see that anything is wrong."

"But—"

"I will come to your room tonight," she whispered. "When it's safe."

You stared at her, trembling. "How do I know you'll come?"

Her eyes—too ancient for such a youthful face—softened.

"Because I love you."

And then she was gone. Simply... gone. As if the shadows of the maze had swallowed her whole.

You were alone.

Footsteps pounded around the corner. A lantern's glow bobbed against the hedges.

You wiped your face with trembling hands, forced yourself to stand, and stepped out of the shadows just as your sisters rounded the bend.

"There you are!" Lottie snapped. "Honestly, what sort of spectacle are you trying to make?"

You opened your mouth, but your voice emerged raw. "I needed air."

Your father arrived a breath later, his face thunderous.

"What in God's name are you doing out here?" he snapped, seizing you by the arm. "Do you have any idea how this looks?"

"I—" The words lodged in your throat. There was no excuse he'd accept, not one that wouldn't unravel everything.

"You disappear in the middle of your introduction to the Queen," he hissed. "Do you think this family can afford your dramatics? You shame your sister on her first ball, you humiliate Mr. Bridgerton and his family—"

"I needed air," you repeated, you sound like a frightened little child. "I just—couldn't breathe."

He scoffed. "Then control your nerves. You will return to the ballroom. Now."

His grip tightened. You didn't protest. There was no use. You were already being marched back through the garden path, your slippers half-lost in the dew-soaked grass, your gown dragging behind you like a bloodstained banner.

Charlotte walked ahead without looking back. Beatrice followed closely, glancing over her shoulder once with something between concern and contempt.

You caught your reflection in the ballroom windows as you approached—hair mussed, cheeks pale, eyes too wide.

A ghost who was dammed to live.

The music swelled again as the doors opened before you, and a new dance began. Heads turned, fans fluttered.

You knew what they were thinking: A young woman, newly betrothed, fleeing her own celebration? What nonsense. What scandal.

Benedict waited just inside, brows knit with worry. He stepped forward, reaching for you, and your father's hand on your back pushed you toward him.

"Smile," he growled in your ear. "Or I swear, you'll regret it."

You obeyed.

"Are you all right?" Benedict asked quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "You disappeared so suddenly... I was worried."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The ache in your chest was too heavy, the air too thin.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "If something's wrong, you can tell me. Please."

"Don't you worry, Mr. Bridgeton," you managed to say, finally. "I'm fine."

Benedict hesitated, clearly not satisfied, but said nothing more. He offered his arm.

You danced at melodies you couldn't recall. You curtsied, you nodded, you laughed at jokes you didn't hear. You played your part so well, it was easy to forget there had ever been a woman in the maze. Or a name. Or a memory.

But even as your lips moved and your limbs obeyed, something inside you had fractured. Not broken, not yet—but cracked and invisible to everyone except you.

It pulsed beneath your ribs. It whispered when the violins played. It reminded you that someone was coming. That you were not, in fact, alone.

And so when the last dance ended, and the carriages began to roll away beneath a pale moon, you endured the goodbyes, the congratulations, the rigid kiss your father placed on your forehead before dismissing you like a well-groomed ornament.

Benedict and his family were among the last to take their leave.

His mother clasped your hands in hers, her face unguarded for once. "You gave us quite a fright, miss. You looked so pale. I do hope it wasn't the corset—those things are barbaric."

You tried to smile, but it faltered, tired.

"If you need anything," she added more quietly, "even just air, please don't hesitate to send word. We're not strangers. We're about to become family, after all."

Benedict stepped closer, offering a gentler farewell than your father had allowed.

"I'll come tomorrow," he said, his voice low. "Just to check in. If you'd rather I didn't, say so, and I won't—but if you want to talk... or just not feel alone..."

He trailed off, searching your eyes for something he couldn't name.

You nodded faintly. You couldn't give him more than that. Not tonight.

He pressed a brief kiss to your gloved hand, then turned to join his mother, his gaze lingering on you as he stepped into the night.

Your sisters were too tired to chatter. You overheard Lottie discussing the rather scandalous scene you had caused with her husband, the Duke of Lawrence.

When they passed you in the corridor, you could tell they were beyond angry.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Not even the maids spoke to you as they unpinned your hair, unlaced your gown, and left you alone in one of chambers reserved for honored guests.

It wasn't until the fire burned low and the house went still that you finally moved.

You sat at the edge of your bed, your hands trembling in your lap. The ribbon at your throat itched like a memory. You had no idea what time it was—but somehow, you knew.

She would come. You weren't sure whether you were terrified or desperate. But you thrust her, completely and blindly.

The clock ticked. The wind pressed soft fingers against the glass.

And then... A whisper in the air. A pressure, subtle but definite. The kind of silence that fills the room just before a storm.

And she was there.

Not with a flash. Not with a sound. Just... there. Standing at the foot of your bed, as if she had stepped out of the shadows themselves.

You didn't scream. You simply looked at her. The governess dress. The dark hair. The bright, too-knowing eyes.

"Is this real?" you asked immediately, softly.

She nodded. "Yes."

You swallowed hard. "Then tell me the truth."

Castiel stepped forward, slowly. "You're not ready for all of it."

Her gaze flickered—not away from you, but inward, like she was searching for something far deeper than this room.

Then, instead of answering, she leaned closer. One hand rose—steady, pale, sure—and she touched two fingers gently to your forehead.

"What are you doing?" you asked softly. You weren't afraid. Just curious.

"You trust me?" she asked, carefully.

"I do," you answered without hesitation. Because you did. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu. Like both of you had done this before.

And then—your world fell away.

There was no sound. No warning. Just a sudden rush of everything—memories exploding through you like starlight through a shattered sky.

A man with a patient smile sliding books across the war room table. Sam. Your big brother.

Then, a pair of quiet, loyal blue eyes, always on the edge of the room, watching you like he already knew this moment would come. Your guardian. Castiel.

And in the center of it all—of everything—was him.

A voice, low and teasing, calling you by that soft and warm nickname: deer. Green eyes lighting up every time they found you. A smile that made your heart skip. Freckles scattered over life-hardened features. Calloused hands that became the safest place you'd ever known.

Dean.

The bunker. The scent of gun oil and old paper. The scrape of his boots across the floor.

Dean was everywhere.

The way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching. The way he leaned just a little closer when he made you laugh. His voice, rough with sleep, whispering your name on warm, quiet nights.

The heat of his body beside yours when you both pretended the bed was too small to sleep apart.

His hands in your hair, steadying, grounding.

His mouth on yours, exploring, worshipping, discovering parts of you you hadn't known could be kissed. His hands roaming your body, squeezing, holding, reclaiming. Loving.

You remembered every night you gave yourself to him. How gently he held you, how reverently he whispered your name, how his touch erased every doubt and every fear.

You remembered touching his face, brushing the worry from his brow. You were his. And Dean Winchester had been yours.

Another name appeared in your mind. This time it was feminine: Claire. And you immediately knew it was yours. You choose it. It represented the woman you wanted to be. A warrior, a free woman, a hunter.

Then the memory twisted—his hands pressed to your body, screaming your name. His voice cracking in the dark, begging you to stay. The way he held you when the light in your eyes had already gone. The way he wept into your hair, long after your breathing stopped.

You gasped, falling back onto the mattress.

The pain wasn't physical—it was loss in its purest form. It hollowed you. It shattered you.

You weren't breathing. You were remembering.

You had loved him. Body and soul. And you had left him.

Castiel knelt beside you in silence. Her hand rested lightly on your shoulder. She didn't try to comfort you. She simply stayed.

You didn't move for a while, staring up at the marble ceiling as you tried to process the weight of it all.

Every heartbeat. Every goodbye that had gone unspoken.

And the love that had never been given enough time.

A sob tore from your chest.

"I loved him," you whispered. "God help me—I still do... my Dean," you breathed.

The name came too easily now. It didn't just tremble on your tongue—it belonged. To your heart. To your soul.

Castiel's expression softened. "I know."

You clutched the blanket beneath your hands, shaking.

"This place—this life—it's mine. Isn't it? It can't be."

"It is," Castiel said gently. "You must be careful, Claire. You must not let this go further than a dream..."

"But it wasn't a dream. Castiel, that was my life. The one I chose to live," you said, blinking tears from your lashes.

Castiel hesitated, regret washing over her features.

"I should've never done this," she whispered, panic beginning to creep into her voice. "I should've never come..."

"Then why?" you sobbed. "If not—why did you?"

"Because I missed you."

The room was quiet for a long moment. Just the sound of your breath, your heartbeat, and the crackle of the dying fire.

Then: "Does he miss me?"

Castiel closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "More than he lets anyone know."

"How long have I been gone from there?" you asked softly.

She looked away, uncertain whether she should say more.

"Castiel," you said, your voice firm despite the tears.

Finally, she answered, "A year and a half."

You stared up at the canopy above you, warm tears spilling freely down your cheeks.

"Oh, God," you mumbled.

You shut your eyes. You could only think of Dean, on how much your loss might been hurting him. Loving you in silence. Carrying grief like it was just another scar.

"I have to go back," you said suddenly, sitting up, breath catching. "Castiel—I have to."

She didn't answer. Her face was unreadable, gaze turned toward the dying fire.

"I have to go back," you repeated, more urgently now. "If he's still there, if he's still waiting—if there's even the smallest chance—I can't just stay here and pretend I'm whole."

Castiel reached out, her hand covering yours. Her touch was steady and calm. But her voice... was sorrowful.

"There is no going back."

The words hit like ice water.

"What?" you whispered.

She looked at you then, truly looked—like she was memorizing you one last time. "Your soul must follow its path. And fate... fate has not changed her course."

"But I remember now," you said, heart pounding. "That was my life. Dean, Sam... you. That was real. This isn't just a dream. That was love, family. I belonged there."

"You did," she said, and her voice broke a little. "But not anymore."

You shook your head, breath shuddering. "Then why you came all this far, if not for me to take me back?"

"Because I wanted to know you were fine," she said.

"If you care so much about me, then help me," you implored.

"There are things you must still do here, Claire," she answered.

Tears blurred your vision. "So that's it? I just... stay here and suffer while he forgets me?"

"Dean will never forget you," she said gently. "But he must survive without you. Just as you must survive without him."

You looked away, heart splintering. "This feels like a punishment."

"It's a mercy," she said, rising to her feet. "One I wish I didn't have to give."

You stood too, desperate. "Castiel, please—don't leave me here. Don't leave me like this."

She stepped back. Her wings unfolded faintly in the candlelight, a shadow of something divine and far away. "I'll always be watching," she said, softly. "And when the time comes, I'll be the first to find you."

"What does that mean?" you cried. "When will that be?"

She didn't answer.

And then—she was gone.

The room fell still. Cold.

And you were alone with the silence, and the terrible, beautiful weight of remembering.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

You didn't sleep that night. Not really.

The hours crawled by in fragments, tears soaking into your pillow, thoughts splintered by grief so dense it felt like drowning. You couldn't stop seeing him—Dean. His hands all over you, his voice calling your chosen name: Claire, his eyes when he smiled at you, like the world made sense.

Sometimes, your body gave out, and you drifted into uneasy dreams. But sleep didn't soothe you. It only dragged you deeper into memories.

The road. Cold and empty, dust curling behind tires you'd never seen before. The low growl of the Impala pulling up beside you. Sam's cautious voice. Castiel's silence. The way Dean's eyes landed on you like you were the most precious, pure thing he had ever known.

You remembered that the first word that came out of your mouth back there was his name. "Dean," you had said, voice hoarse, barely a whisper—and yet full of conviction. And everything changed after that.

You dreamed of the first time he took your hand and guided it around the grip of a gun, standing behind you, his breath at your ear, teasing you for flinching at the sound.

Of the way he used to kiss you—abrupt, laughing, sweet—and how your hands would curl into his jacket, terrified by how much you wanted him.

You dreamed of movie nights in the bunker, curled under his arm while he explained every detail with such ridiculous passion it made your stomach ache with laughter.

Of how he drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your knee.

You dreamed of love. Of living.

And then you woke again. Crying. Empty. Remembering.

But as the sun began to rise and the room turned gold with morning, something inside you steadied. The pain was still there—raw and sharp—but a strange clarity settled over you.

If Castiel wouldn't let you go back... if this time was truly yours to live... then you would live it.

Not like your father wanted. Not as some girl married off like fine china to the most agreeable bidder. And not as Benedict Bridgerton's polite, dutiful wife.

No. If Dean had taught you anything, it was that love was meant to be chosen. And life was meant to be yours.

You couldn't have him. But you could honor what you had by becoming someone worthy of the love he gave you.

So you made a quiet promise to yourself as you sat up from bed, wiping tears from your cheeks:

You would not marry Mr. Bridgerton. You would carve out a life of your own choosing—whatever the cost.

You weren't whole. Not yet. But maybe... maybe this was how you'd begin.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Your maids woke you at first light, their hands gentle as they coaxed you from the bed and into a pale daydress of dove-gray silk. They said little, sensing something had changed in you overnight. Perhaps they mistook your silence for grief, or melancholy, or simply the burden of being a daughter of the house. They were wrong. Something inside you had realigned—fragile but resolute.

You descended the stairs slowly, only to hear your father's voice echoing from the drawing room.

"She is indisposed this morning," he was saying sharply. "You may send a letter another day."

"I should like to hear that from her," Benedict replied, more firm than you expected.

You stepped into the room before either man could speak again. "I am not indisposed," you said calmly. "And I would be glad to speak with Mr. Bridgerton."

Both men turned toward you, your father frowning, Benedict stiff with surprise. You lifted your chin.

"In the garden, perhaps," you added, glancing toward the doors that led to the manicured lawn. "We shall be accompanied, of course." You nodded at the waiting maid.

The moment you were outside, the silence stretched taut between you. Benedict walked beside you with quiet grace, hands clasped behind his back, but he looked... worn. Not from pride or frustration. From worry.

"I was afraid for you last night," he said after a moment. "You looked as if you might disappear entirely."

You smiled faintly. "I nearly did."

He glanced at you then, and you caught the flicker of sincerity in his eyes. "Are you unwell?"

"No," you said softly. "Not unwell. Only... awake."

He waited. You stopped beside a hedge blooming with early roses.

"I must speak plainly, Benedict," you said, folding your hands in front of you. "I cannot marry you."

He blinked. "I see."

"I think perhaps you do," you continued. "You are kind. And you've always tried to be decent to me. But this has never been about love. Not on either side."

He didn't deny it.

You looked at him gently, kindly. "May I offer you some advice, Mr. Bridgerton?"

A pause. "Of course."

"I know about Sophie."

His eyes widened—but not with shame. With fear. With hope.

"I know you love her. And I believe she loves you." You drew a breath, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "Life is shorter than we imagine it to be, Mr. Bridgerton. It is fleeting and rare and never promised. If you love her... then choose her. Marry her. Do not let this... performance of society steal what might be the truest thing in your life."

He looked at you then—truly looked. "How do you know that?" he asked quietly.

You smiled, tears pressing at the back of your eyes. "Because I loved someone once. And I lost him. And I would give anything to have chosen him, every single day, without hesitation."

Benedict bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," you replied. "Not for the love. Only for the time I let it be hidden."

He reached for your hand and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles. Not out of passion, or possession—but gratitude. Respect.

"I will never speak ill of you," he said. "And I hope... truly... that your life becomes your own."

You gave him a small nod, and the faintest smile. "And yours, Mr. Bridgerton."

Then you turned back toward the house, the morning sun on your face, and your footsteps lighter than they had been in a long, long time.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

You waited until your return to London to speak with your father. It had to be here—on your terms. The house was quiet that morning. Rain tapped gently against the windows as you crossed the marble-floored corridor toward his study, heart thudding like a drumbeat inside your ribs.

He was alone when you entered, seated behind his mahogany desk, pen poised over a letter. He didn't look up.

"I wish to speak with you," you said, steady.

His eyes lifted, cool and unreadable. "Make it quick."

You stepped forward. "I will not marry Mr. Bridgerton."

He blinked once. Then, slowly, set down his pen, and spoke your name tirelessly. "I do not have time for your little games, child. I'm busy right here."

"I'm serious, father," you insist. "I already talk about this to Mr. Bridgeton when he visited me in Lottie's residence. I've canceled my engagement with him."

You could perfectly see your father's face going turning from confusion, to realization, to anger.

"You did what?" he muttered, rage contained in every word.

"What you heard," you replied calmly. "I won't marry him. Because I don't love him. And he doesn't love me."

"Have you lost your mind?" Your father rose to his full height. "Do not be foolish. Do not throw away this family's future because of some childish whim—"

"It isn't a whim," you said, voice sharpening. "It's a decision. Mine."

"Don't be absurd," your father snapped. "This family has sacrificed too much for you to ruin everything out of—out of some foolish romantic, feminine notion—"

"Romantic?" Your laugh was sharp. Cold. "There's no romance in this arrangement. No affection. No truth. Just survival. Just ambition."

He stepped forward. "You're being selfish. Think about your little sister. About how this scandal will affect her reputation."

"Bea is perfect and beautiful, she's already a daughter of Society. And she has Lottie to "protect" her status. I don't have to sacrifice my own life for them," you said, firm on your decision for the first time in a long, long time. "Selfish would be marrying a man who doesn't love me just to secure your own standing in society. Selfish would be trapping him in a life neither of us want."

His jaw tensed, clearly losing his patience with you.

He rounded the desk in two strides, his anger sharp and tightly leashed. "Don't you understand, silly girl? I am trying to protecting you. Giving you a future."

"No. You're giving yourself a future. Using us as a pawn to reclaim what we've lost. Lottie and Bea might be satisfied with that, which I respect, but it is not the life I want for me."

The tension snapped like a string pulled too tight. The room seemed to darken around the edges as your father's voice rose, sharp and cutting.

"You have no idea the damage you've done! You think this is about love? About choice?" he barked. "This is about legacy. About ensuring this family doesn't fade into irrelevance!"

You stood your ground. "I don't care."

That's when the door swung open behind you.

Bea stood at the threshold, her expression caught between confusion and rising fury.

"What's going on?" she demanded, stepping into the room. Her gaze snapped to your father. "Why are you shouting?"

"She's refused the engagement," your father growled. "She's decided to disgrace this family—"

"You what?" Bea snapped, turning toward you as though you were something vile and unrecognizable.

"This matter does not concern you, sister," you warned, your voice tight.

But Bea ignored you, stepping forward with venom in her voice. "She should be grateful. Lord Benedict could've chosen anyone."

"Who? You?" you shot back. Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line as she gave you her most lethal glare. You knew her well enough to recognize the poorly hidden envy that had simmered ever since your father first spoke of marrying you into the Bridgerton family.

Your father launched into a tirade—ranting about how deeply you had disgraced the family, about the sacrifices he had made for your future, about how he hoped Benedict might still accept you after such a display of disrespect.

Bea trailed behind him, echoing his anger, throwing cruel barbs, feeding the fire.

Their voices grew louder, sharper—clashing and rising until they filled the room, until they made your heart race and your head spin.

And then, searching for something—anything—to silence them, to end this once and for all, you said it. Without hesitation. Without fear.

"I can't marry him," you said. Not yelling. Just... honest. "Because I've already been with someone."

The silence that followed was instant. Solid. Crushing.

Bea blinked, mouth parting. "What—?"

Your father stared at you like you'd struck him. His face drained of color—then flushed dark with rage.

"You what?" he whispered, stepping forward. "You dare stand there in this house—my house—and speak such filth?"

"I'm telling you the truth," you said, chin high even as your breath caught in your chest. "You want honesty? Here it is. I've lain with a man. And I loved him. Truly."

"Who?" your father snarled, advancing. "Who was it? Who?"

You didn't answer. You wouldn't. You couldn't give them Dean—not his name, not his memory, not his truth. That was yours.

And in that silence—your refusal, your quiet defiance—he struck you.

His hand flew with the force of years of control finally breaking, landing hard across your cheek. The sound cracked through the study like thunder.

Bea gasped, stepping back as though she'd been hit too.

You stumbled, your hand flying to your cheek, the sting of it blooming hot across your skin. But you didn't cry. You didn't fall.

Your father's voice dropped to a low, livid growl.

"If anyone hears of this, it will not be your future ruined—it will be your sisters'. The Duke of Lawrence could think wrongly about Lottie. No one will marry Bea. No respectable family will look twice at us. Your disgrace is contagious."

He stepped closer, demanding. "Tell me who it was. Now."

But still, you were silent.

Because what could you say?

That you had loved a man who would never exist in this world? A man with green eyes and a motorized car and a broken soul? That his name had been Dean, and that he'd made you feel whole, even when you were shattered? No, that was the only thing your father wouldn't take away from you.

You swallowed back the sob rising in your throat and said nothing.

Your father's hands clenched at his sides. "Ungrateful girl."

Then he turned his back on you.

"Leave my sight," he spat. "And pray that no one ever finds out what you've done."

You stood there for a moment, heart pounding, cheek burning, vision blurred—not from tears, but fury. And then you walked out. Past Bea, who looked too stunned to move. Past the echoing halls that had once held your childhood.

This house was no longer yours.

But your life, the chosen one, it was yours.

That was something you would claim, piece by piece, even if you had to burn every illusion down to do it.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The days that followed your confession blurred together like a fever dream. The slap your father gave you had left more than a mark on your cheek—it had shaken something loose in you. Something final.

He was furious. Not only at you, but at Mr. Bridgerton as well, who, with more grace than you expected, had told your father that he would not force a woman into marriage who did not love him. That he would not dishonor himself or you.

Your father had barely concealed his outrage. "You've humiliated me," he spat. "You've shattered everything I built."

Again and again, he demanded to know the name of the man you'd laid with.

You gave him nothing but silence.

Eventually, you told him only what he would believe: "He is American. He's long gone."

"An American businessman?" he hissed. "A merchant? A traveler?"

You didn't answer. What could you say? That he hunted monsters? That he kissed your scars and carried your soul in the glove compartment of a black 1967 Impala?

So he locked you away.

Your bedroom became a prison. The windows were barred from the outside. The door locked each night. No letters. No books. Not even your sisters were allowed inside. Meals arrived silently on a tray and were taken away untouched.

You stopped speaking.

Each night, as the candlelight flickered against the high, suffocating ceilings, you cried until your voice cracked. And always, always, you whispered the names you clung to like broken prayers:

"Castiel... please. Come take me back."

"Sam..."

"Dean."

You scratched their names onto parchment scraps, into the soft wood of the vanity, into your own skin if you had to. You screamed into your pillow. You begged the stars. You cursed the sky.

You waited for Castiel.

But she did not come.

And slowly, the silence began to eat away at you.

Madness isn't loud. It's slow. It's quiet. A creeping rot that starts in the heart and curls into the brain. You stopped sleeping. Or maybe you only dreamed with your eyes open. You saw Dean's jacket in the shape of your blanket. Heard Sam's voice in the rain. Smelled gunpowder in your chamber fire.

You realized, one night, that you could not keep waiting.

You would not survive this place.

Not like this.

And so, just before sunrise, as the world turned pale with morning fog, you slipped out. You had studied the locks. Watched the maids. Counted the hours. You knew the guards changed shifts just before dawn.

You escaped to the barn and took your mare, Grace.

And you ran away with her.

Not to London. Not to anywhere known. To the forest. The edge of the lake.

You told yourself you were going to start anew. Become a hunter in your own time. Find what little monsters lurked in the shadows of your world.

But you hadn't brought weapons.

You'd only brought a rope.

The trees were still. The lake, silent. A faint breeze stirred the reeds, whispering like ghosts.

You found a strong branch. Tied the rope. But before you climbed the rock, you took one last moment for something that felt... sacred.

Your mare had followed you through the woods, her hooves silent on the damp earth. You had raised her yourself—gentle, strong, loyal. She nuzzled your shoulder as you led her to the edge of the clearing by the lake, where the trees opened wide like arms.

You pressed your forehead to hers, fingers curled into the soft hairs of her mane.

"You've done enough," you whispered, voice raw. "You've carried me far enough."

She blinked slowly, nudging you with her nose. You could've sworn she knew.

You reached up, pulled the bridle from her head, and undid the bit. Your hands shook. You dropped the leather onto the ground and whispered:

"Be free."

Then, with one final pat, you stepped back and slapped her flank gently.

She hesitated for a second—just long enough to make your heart ache.

Then she turned and galloped into the trees.

You watched her disappear into the mist. And with her went the last tether you had to this world.

Then you climbed the rock, barefoot, with your palms scraped, your breath unsteady, and your heart full of ghosts. Mud between your toes. Wind cold on your arms.

You looked up to the dawn sky and whispered one last time:

"Please, Dean. Let me find you."

And then, you stepped off the rock. The rope bit into your throat. The world darkened. Your body jerked once. Twice.

Then...

SNAP

Not the rope. The sound of a blade slicing clean through it.

You fell hard, the air knocking from your lungs. Your vision flickered. Your hands scraped against moss and roots.

You gasped.

And someone was kneeling beside you.

Strong arms lifted you. Familiar hands. And then you saw him.

Green eyes full of panic, of fury, of grief—and something close to worship.

"Deer," he breathed. "No. No, no, no. I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you. I swear."

You choked on your own breath, lightheaded, barely believing.

"Dean...?"

He nodded quickly, holding you tighter. "It's me. I came back for you."

And then the blackness took you again—but this time, you didn't feel lost.

You were in his arms.

You were going home.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

[cherry-holmes]

Will dean and Claire have their happy ending with each other cause I believe dean and Claire are true loves so please tell theirs a second chance with their love story like what if chuck or amara brought her back?

one thing at a time🤷🏻‍♀️

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 11: The Prophecy

Please I've been on my knees, change the prophecy, let it once be me. Who do I have to speak to about if they can redo the prophecy?

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: A year and a half ago Dean lost the only girl he had ever truly loved: you.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: ANGTS. Allusion to depression. Mentions of alcoholism, suicide thoughts, GRIEF. Dean is having a really tough time.

A/N: I’d like to apologize for take me longer than usual to bring this chapter🥲 I’ve been very busy with the finals in college, I barely have time for SLEEP… Thank u all for your patience and your support! but here it is! I hope you enjoy it🙂

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Six months after you, Dean still couldn't get himself to spoke your name again.

It hurt too much to say it aloud, or just to hear it.

Because that night, not only had your body turned to ashes — so had his life, and his will.

Dean Winchester had lost more people than most men ever knew. Friends. Family. His mother. His father. His brother, more times than he could count.

But nothing had ever come close to you.

Losing you tore through him with the same violence as losing Sam had — that same unbearable sensation, like his heart had been ripped out of his chest while he was still breathing.

You weren't just another loss. You were the kind of love that made the world worth saving. And when you died, the world didn't just feel darker, it felt meaningless.

The world kept turning. The sun and the moon still rose. Monsters and spirits still crept from every rotten corner of the planet. There was always another hunt, always a new mission, a new threat to chase.

But Dean was still trapped in the morning he lost you.

He spent endless nights awake, turning over every detail, wondering what he could've done differently. The possibilities added up to a million—most ending in failure, some offering fragile hope. And he regretted not trying harder any of them.

Life moved forward, but Dean stayed stuck in that moment, the world spinning on without him.

The first months were the worst.

He stopped shaving regularly. Started forgetting meals, or skipping them on purpose. Beer replaced water. Whiskey replaced sleep. Some nights he didn't even make it to his bed — just passed out in the Impala, or on the couch with the TV flickering nothing at 3 a.m.

Because Dean wasn't just drinking to forget.

He was drinking to disappear.

He didn't hunt smart anymore. Took risks he had no business taking, walked into nests alone, taunted demons like he had nothing left to lose.

Sam noticed first, of course. Tried to pull him back. Talked to him, pleaded, even yelled. But Dean just shrugged him off. "I'm fine," he'd say. Always fine, even when his knuckles were bloodied and he hadn't slept in days.

Because his bed was a grave he couldn't bring himself to lie in.

He'd taken to the couch where he used to play movies for you; to the Impala where he made love to you so many times; the library where he could find you curled in a couch, reading a book from your time, sometimes a modern one; or any other empty, cold bedroom in the bunker — anywhere but his or yours.

The sheets still smelled like you. The pillow still held the shape of your head. It was intoxicating and physically painful.

Dean had held your motionless body, shaken you, screamed your name into the hollow stillness. But you was already gone. There was nothing he or anyone—not even Cas—could do.

It wasn't just where you died. It was the last place where both of you were a whole. And Dean couldn't touch it without falling apart.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

On the first anniversary, Dean finally brought himself to visit your grave for the first time since he buried you. Or at least your physical being.

Because your memory and your soul wasn't something he could lay to rest. It was a weight he was cursed to carry for the rest of his days.

He stood there for what felt like hours, his gaze as empty as his heart.

Dean didn't care about the scattered raindrops falling on his cheeks—he believed they were your kisses. And he didn't flinch at the gusts of winter air, because to him, they were your hands, still reaching for him.

He didn't bring flowers. He didn't believe in that kind of gesture anymore.

What good were flowers, when all the prayers he'd ever said had gone unanswered?

For the first time in a long time, Dean whispered, "I'm sorry."

Not for what he did — or couldn't do. But for what he hoped for.

Because that was the thing. He'd started to believe.

For once in his cursed life, he had let himself want more.

More than blood and monsters. More than motel rooms and goodbyes. More than curses and fatal prophecies.

He'd looked at you and thought: Maybe this could be it. Maybe she's the end of the road.

What an idiot he'd been. A pathetic son of a bitch who believed in happy-ever-afters, like his life was a fucking fairy tale.

He should've known better by now — that kind of peace was never written in his stars.

Because everyone Dean had ever loved either died or left him. And now you weren't the exception. Just another cruel reminder.

He carried that guilt like a second skin.

How dare he think he deserved peace? A home?

How stupid he'd been to believe that love could be enough to change his fate.

He had spent nearly thirty years of his miserable life watching the prophecy of his existence play out — and it was never about love. It was always about loss.

And still, he had begged — in silence, on his knees, to whatever force ruled the universe: "Change it. I can't do this anymore."

But there was no answer. Only silence, and a headstone with your name carved into it.

He left Lisa and Ben, wiping out their memories, because they were safer without him. That had always been the deal, to protect the ones he loved by walking away.

But now how was he supposed to save you from your own prophecy? You, who seemed just as cursed as he was.

Maybe that was the cruelest joke destiny ever played: Letting two damned souls cross paths... only to tear them apart.

He used to think he could outrun fate and death, beat it back with grit and bullets and sheer stubbornness.

But loving you had taught him something new: some tragedies aren't written in blood, they're etched in time.

You weren't just collateral damage. You were the reason Dean Winchester almost believed he could rewrite the story.

And now, he was left with nothing but the punchline of a cosmic joke... one that ended with you gone, and him still breathing.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Dean stopped crying a long time ago. The sobs had dried up soon after his visit to your tombstone, that only one time, five months ago.

The bottle still lived on his nightstand—though the nightstand had changed rooms twice since then. He still didn't sleep in his bed. He hadn't even touched the doorknob in weeks.

But he was quieter now. Not better, just quieter. Like the grief had burned itself down to embers, smoldering in the corners of his soul where no one could see.

Dean got up every morning, worked as usual, he hunted. He didn't take unnecessary risks anymore—but not because he valued his life... he was just too tired to be reckless.

One evening, back after a routine salt-and-burn in Ohio, Dean sat on the table, already looking for the next hunt. Sam joined him in silence, cracking open two beers and offering one over without a word.

Dean accepted it with a small nod, took a sip, and stared into his laptop, tired eyes .

"You look better," Sam said after a moment. His voice was cautious, like he didn't want to scare the moment away.

Dean snorted lightly, without taking his eyes off the screen, even though her words had suddenly thrown him off balance. "Don't lie to me, Sammy," he replied, anyway.

"I'm not," Sam insisted. "You do. I mean...you seem to be taking care of yourself. You're even shaving."

Dean shrugged. "Don't want you walking in and mistaking me for Bobby."

Sam chuckled, but then his tone softened. "I mean it, man. I'm proud of you. You've come a long way."

Dean looked down at the bottle in his hands, twisted it slowly, then said, "Yeah. I guess I'm healing."

It was a lie. A polished, practiced lie. One of the thousand he kept locked behind his teeth.

Because in his head, that night flashed: A lonely motel room in Nebraska, a couple months ago.

It had been during his last solo hunt. Nothing dramatic. But afterward, the silence in the room had felt like a scream. He remembered sitting on the floor by the bed with a bottle of whiskey, and a half-loaded gun. He remembered himself staring at the barrel for hours.

Not because he wanted to die, but because he didn't want to wake up another morning feeling like this. Alone and pathetic.

He didn't pull the trigger. He didn't even take off the safety.

But he'd thought about it. And he hadn't told anyone.

Especially not Sam.

"You really doing okay?" Sam asked, turning to look at him.

Dean met his eyes and smiled, soft and crooked. "I'm breathing. That's gotta count for something."

Sam nodded, but the way his eyes lingered told Dean he didn't quite believe him.

Dean was quiet for a long time.

Then, as if Sam could read his thoughts, said: "You're not cursed, Dean."

Dean huffed a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Aren't I?"

"You're not," Sam repeated, more firmly. "You loved her. That's not a curse."

Dean didn't respond to that. Just drained the last of his beer and stared at the keyboard like they held the answer to a question he hadn't figured out how to ask.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

A month later, the war room buzzed low with the familiar hum of fluorescent lights. Bunker silence, the kind that made the echoes of old grief feel louder.

Dean stood at the table, flipping through a worn folder filled with photos and newspaper clippings. Across from him, Castiel leaned forward, trench coat flaring behind him like it always did, eyes scanning a centuries-old engraving of a farmhouse orchard in rural Oregon.

"They've reported cold spots, livestock dying, people going missing," Dean said, tapping a photo of a blackened tree. "Locals think it's the orchard itself. Cursed or haunted."

Castiel's brow furrowed. "It could be a wrath spirit. If the orchard was once a burial site, or if violence occurred there..."

Dean exhaled slowly. "Alright. Salt rounds, iron blades, silver for good measure."

Castiel didn't respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, like he was hearing something only he could. His gaze drifted to the hallway.

"Cas?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes.

"There's movement in Idaho. A demon nest may be converging. I'll investigate. I'll meet you in Oregon."

Before Dean could respond, wings thundered through the room in a gust of wind and grace. Just like that, Castiel was gone.

Dean blinked against the shift in air pressure. The silence that followed was sharp. Then something fluttered to the ground.

A single sheet of paper, slipped out like an afterthought.

Dean stooped to grab it, expecting an old case file or maybe a lost lore page.

But the texture gave him pause: parchment, thick and aged. The edges were scorched, browned like it had been near flame.

He turned it over.At the top, in ornate cursive, it read:

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

He stared at it for a long moment, brows knitting. A pit opened in his gut, slow and sure.

He scanned the page. The paper trembled slightly in his hand as he read:

"It is with breathless anticipation that society awaits the union of Miss Sinclair and Mr. Bridgerton, whose wedding is to be held..."

His stomach dropped. The silence in the war room grew unbearable.

Dean didn't breathe. His eyes zeroed in on the date.

June 11th, 1815.

The exact date burned into the back of his mind.

One week before you disappeared, back on your day.

He remembered well, that book with your family symbol. The one you dream about, the one made you asked Castiel for his help to remember something about your past...

...House of Sinclair. Nobility of Essex, England. Early 19th century.

...The middle daughter was marked with a suddenly absence.

...Vanished in her early twenties. No recorded marriage. No burial site listed. The only information about her was the date of her disappearance: June 18th, 1815.

And now... now this. A paper dated a week before you disappeared.

The paper trembled between his fingers. And then fury began to creep up his system.

All the late nights scouring grimoires, the weeks of denial, the theories that made his head spin—none of it had given him an answer.

And yet here it was. Truth.

Not delivered in thunder or fire.

But slipped, silently, from Castiel's coat.

Dean stared at the paper as if it might burst into flame. His heart pounded in his chest, with rage and something colder.

The slow realization that someone had known. Castiel had known. And hadn't told him.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was casual. "I—hey. You okay?"

Dean didn't answer. His hand slowly lowered, the paper still clutched in his fingers.

"Where did you get that?" Sam asked, sensing the shift.

Dean turned toward his brother with haunted eyes. "It fell outta Cas' coat."

Sam stopped mid-step. His face froze, just for a second.

And that was all Dean needed. Treason.

His voice dropped, hoarse and razor-sharp. "You knew."

Sam didn't deny it. Didn't even blink.

Dean's heart cracked like ice underfoot.

Dean's breath caught—then exploded out of him like a shotgun blast. "Son of a bitch."

He stormed out, boots slamming down the hall. The second he reached the war room, his fury detonated.

"CAS!" he bellowed, voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Get your feathery ass down here. Now!"

The air tensed, crackled. A gust of wings stirred the papers on the table.

Castiel appeared a moment later, as solemn and expressionless as ever.

Dean threw the paper at his chest. "You drop something?"

Castiel caught it mid-air. When he looked at it, there was no confusion in his eyes. No denial.

"You knew. Both of you, motherfuckers," Dean said, voice low and lethal. "You've known this whole time. "You knew," Dean snarled. "You fucking knew. And you let me rot."

"Dean—" Sam entered behind him.

"Don't." Dean's voice was pure venom. "You let me bury her. You let me pour whiskey over her goddamn grave and scream her name into the air for a whole year and a half. While she was alive. While she was..." his voice cracked. "While she was still out there."

Castiel's eyes flickered, the paper crinkling in his hand. "I didn't intend for you to find that."

"No shit," Dean laughed—a bitter, unhinged sound, fists clenched. "You don't get to play God and decide what I can or can't handle. You don't get to take her from me twice."

Dean turned on Sam, wild-eyed. "And you—you stood there every damn day while I broke apart. You knew, Sammy. You knew and you just watched me fall."

"We thought—"

"I don't give a damn what you thought!" Dean roared. "I don't care if it would've broken me. It did anyway!"

His voice echoed. The room vibrated with the weight of it.

"How long?" Dean demanded, stepping into Castiel's space. "How long have you been lying to me?"

Castiel's voice was barely audible. "I found where—when she was a month after she died here. It was a hunch. I went to her time and she was there."

"And how is that you have this precisely now?" Dean shook his head, like trying to knock the words loose. "Have you been following her?"

"I kept my distance," Castiel confessed. "She had no memory of us. I only wanted to make sure she was safe."

"Bullshit," Dean spat. "You watched her. You knew where she was. And you never thought to tell me? I wanna know everything, Castiel. Everything."

Cas hesitated, his eyes found Sam's, and they silently agreed that there was no point in continuing to hiding the truth at anymore. "She went back to two months before her death in her time. I found her a week after she arrived. Her soul... it was displaced, but intact. She had no memory. Not of you. Not of any of us."

Dean's breath caught.

"I visited the town," Castiel continued. "Stayed out of sight. At first, I only meant to check. To make sure she was safe." His voice dropped. "But I missed her."

"And what gives you more right to see her than me, huh?" Castiel looked away. "She was my girlfriend. She was..." Dean swallowed hard. His chest hurt, her throat was sore from emotions and anger.

"I couldn't interfere, Dean" he continued. "Time had corrected itself. That version of her... she was never meant to live beyond June 18th, 1815. The day she hanged herself. The day she was pulled to 2013. It was always going to end like this."

"Screw the timeline!" Dean exploded, slamming his hand against the table. "Screw fate, and screw your rules. You think I give a damn what Heaven or Death thinks anymore?"

Sam and Castiel looked away, regret etched deep in their faces.

Dean's voice cracked. "Is she... is she dead? Back in there."

"No," Castiel said. "That day hasn't come for her yet. Last time I saw her, was in the garden maze the night of the announcement of her engagement. She looked at me. I think... some part of her just – knew. She remembered me. She called me by my name."

Dean closed his eyes. "You let her remember you, and still didn't tell me? You didn't think maybe she'd want to remember me, too?"

Sam stepped in, voice careful. "Dean, listen—"

"No." Dean's voice dropped, deadly and cold. "I'm done listening."

Silence settled over the room again. Only the low hum of the bunker's lights filled the air. Dean stood frozen, the edges of the parchment still trembling in his hand.

"How do you know she hasn't..." He stopped himself, unable to say it aloud. Even the thought of her body under a tree made his stomach turn violently. "What do you mean, that day hasn't come for her yet?"

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. "In these cases, time moves at its own pace. It doesn't always unfold linearly. History hasn't changed yet—but it will, once she fulfills her fate. Then the timeline will settle into what it was always meant to be."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Which means...?"

"She vanished from time when she hanged herself because, somehow, her soul evaded Death," Castiel said softly. "That's why her family never found her. But now... she will meet her destiny. She'll rest in peace. And her family will finally be able to bury her."

"And how the hell am I supposed to know when she..." A sharp pain crossed Dean's chest, stealing the rest of the sentence. This—all of this—was too much. "Fuck. How do I know when that day comes for her?"

"Dean..." Sam stepped in gently, trying to steady him, to stop the inevitable reckless move Dean was about to make.

But Dean didn't even glance at him. His eyes locked on Castiel—sharp, furious, demanding.

Without a word, Castiel disappeared. And before Dean could take a breath, he reappeared.

"With this," Castiel said, placing a worn book on the table. Dean recognized it instantly—it was the one about English noble families. The one that had first led them to her name. To her.

"It will update," Castiel continued. "When the day arrives—when her death is sealed—it will no longer list her as 'missing'. It'll change to the date of her death. That's how you'll know."

Dean's hands moved fast, flipping through the pages with a practiced urgency until he found it: House of Sinclair.

He scanned the entry.

"It hasn't changed," he said, breath catching. "Not yet."

A flicker of relief crossed his face. And behind it, something fragile. Hope.

Dean's gaze didn't leave the page. His fingers clenched the edge of the book, knuckles white.

"She's still alive," he said, like he needed to hear it aloud. "She's still alive in that time."

Sam exhaled slowly.

Dean finally looked up. "Take me there."

Castiel tilted his head. "Dean—"

"Take me to her," Dean repeated, voice low, rough, a threat and a plea tangled together. "You can do it. I know you can."

"Dean," Castiel said carefully, "you don't understand what you're asking."

Dean stepped forward, the weight of months—grief, fury, guilt—boiling over beneath his skin. "No, Cas. You don't understand. I buried her. I mourned her. I've been walking around like a damn ghost, thinking I lost the only good thing I've had in years. And all this time—you knew. You both knew."

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off. "Shut up. Don't tell me you did it to protect me. Don't say it was for my own good. I decide what I can handle."

"You weren't in any place to handle it," Sam said quietly. "You still aren't."

Dean barked a humorless laugh. "I don't need your permission. Or your approval. If Cas won't take me, I'll find a way myself. There's always a way."

"Dean, please—"

"No," Dean snapped. "You owe me this. You both do."

A silence fell over the room like a storm about to break.

Sam looked between them, jaw tight. "And what happens when you get there? You pull her out of the noose again? You bring her here? What then? What if she dies anyway, Dean? What if you just... hurt her all over again?"

Dean turned to him, eyes bloodshot but unwavering. "Then at least I'll know. I'll try. Because I'd rather die with her than keep living with this damn silence."

Castiel lowered his eyes. And after a long pause, he said, "I'll need time to prepare myself."

Dean nodded once. "Then do it."

And just like that, the decision was made.

Fate had been warned.

Dean Winchester was coming to you.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

Let me know if you want to be added in the Tag list!

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 10: Wayward Daughter

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: A glimpse of your life before Dean, and how even then it didn’t feel quite right for you.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +6.1K

Warnings: THE GIF IS MERELY ILLUSTRATIVE, Reader has NOT physical description. Violence typical of the series. Family issues. Allusion to depression and anxiety. Crossover.

A/N: Hello Hunters! I hope this chapter finds you well😁 How do we feel about the last one?🫣

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

THEN

You were the middle daughter—always in between.

Not the graceful hope of your father’s legacy like Lottie, nor the charming jewel he paraded at dinners like Bea.

You were simply you: a little too quiet for your father’s liking, a little too strange for your sisters, always caught somewhere in the middle of things you were supposed to be.

There was a time when your mother would tuck wildflowers into your hair and call you her “moon child,” saying your mind was always wandering to places she couldn’t see. But then she died giving birth to the son your father had waited for all his life: a boy who lasted only three days. You were only eight. After that, no one in the house really looked at you the same.

You remember standing outside your father’s study, hands curled into fists in the folds of your dress, listening through the door.

“She’s not like the other two,” your father said. “She’s… unsettled. Wayward, even.” Then a sigh. “Margaret indulged her too much.”

After that, it felt like you learned to fold in on yourself. You’d sit through breakfast and forget to eat. You’d press your fingernails into your palms just to feel something that didn’t ache in your chest. Lottie rolled her eyes when you brought poetry to the table. Bea laughed when you misstepped during dance practice.

“You’ll never find a husband with your head in the clouds,” Lottie said once, her voice sweet but sharp.

And you had smiled. You always smiled. Even when your heart felt like it was sinking in cold water.

Sometimes you’d sneak into the library at night, barefoot on the marble floor, just to feel close to the books your father kept locked away. Latin, History, Astronomy... Things meant for men. You’d whisper their content under your breath like spells.

You liked pretty things: dresses and the flowers in the garden. You liked pearls, and the soft brush of silk over your delicate, always perfumed skin. But you also liked the weight of a book in your lap, or the idea that you could learn the names of stars like men charted ships. Your sisters didn’t understand that you could be both. Even you didn’t always know how to explain it.

You never told anyone about the nights you couldn’t sleep. The hours you spent staring at the ceiling, heart racing for no reason. Or the mornings you woke up already tired, pressing your fingertips to your temples to stop the thoughts from spinning.

Sometimes, you thought you were broken. Sometimes, you wondered if anyone would notice if you weren’t there at all.

Your father wasn’t cruel, but he was made of stone and ambition.

“I expect you to behave with dignity,” he once told you, after you’d laughed too loudly at a garden party.

“Yes, Papa.”

He gave you everything you needed: dresses, tutors, a roof over your head… but never softness. Never warmth. Never a hand through your hair, or a quiet “I’m proud of you.”

You think he loved you, in his way. But it was a love measured in obedience and silence.

Still, you tried. You really did. You smiled in portraits, curtsied in gowns, practiced your piano and answered politely when suitors came to call.

But deep down, you always felt like a stranger in your own life. Like there was something else out there, calling you.

Something you missed without even knowing.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

NOW

Sunlight spilled softly through the high windows, casting warm stripes across the pale blue wallpaper. The scent of lavender drifted faintly from the linens, and a breeze fluttered the curtains. Everything was quiet. Peaceful.

A soft knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a maid, broke the silence.

"Good morning, Miss Sinclair," she said cheerfully, carrying a tray with your usual morning tea. "You're up early."

You blinked, trying to give her your best fake smile.

"I... I had a strange dream," you said, more to yourself than to her.

The maid poured your tea with a practiced hand. "Oh? One of those restless ones again?"

You nodded faintly. "Maybe. I cannot remember it now."

That was a lie. You did remember, though not fully. Only fragments remained, like scattered pieces of a puzzle or the faint sketch of a painting. No color, no detail, no clear form. But there was something: the suggestion of a face, and the aching sense that you had lost something important.

You didn't tell her (nor anyone) that most mornings began like this since you can remember—wrapped in a thick kind of stillness, as though the world woke up around you, but you stayed behind. You used to think it was just fatigue. Or melancholy. But lately, it felt heavier than that. Like your soul forgot how to move.

She smiled. "Well, dreams are like that. Gone the moment you try to hold them."

You took the cup from her and stared into the rising steam. "I thought I smelled smoke."

She paused and sniffed the air. "Strange... the fireplace hasn't been lit since yesterday afternoon. Maybe it's lingering in the fabric." She waved it off with a small laugh. "I'll air the room while you dress."

You nodded absently, watching her move about the space. Everything felt so normal. Familiar.

And yet, something tugged at the back of your mind. A shadow of something lost. Something warm. Something... important.

You couldn't remember what.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Downstairs, the silverware clinked softly against porcelain as you stirred your tea, pretending to be more focused on your toast than the tightening in your chest.

"Remember," your father said, setting down the morning paper with a decisive thud, "you and Bea will be leaving tomorrow morning. Lottie expects you to assist with the final arrangements."

You nodded, though you hadn't forgotten. He had reminded you three times already.

Across the table, Bea, the youngest member of your family, beamed. "It's going to be perfect, Papa. Lottie's first ball as a duchess... Imagine the guest list!"

"I'm sure she'll make quite the impression," you said quietly, sipping your tea.

"She must," your father added, glancing at you now. "Our family's standing is secured through such opportunities. And your presence, both of you, must reflect that."

Bea continued talking about her own preparations for next year's debut into society. She was only seventeen, but already far more enthusiastic about society than you had ever been.

"I've heard Lady Wycliffe's daughter is already working with a dance instructor," Bea said, twirling a spoon in her untouched tea. "And I want the same modiste she used for her Paris gowns. The ones with the real Belgian lace."

"Paris is expensive," your father said, though he didn't sound entirely disapproving. "But the right marriage will justify the cost."

You forced a smile, eyes fixed on the steam curling from your cup.

Across from you, Bea's voice began to fade into the background. Names, silks, titles... it all blurred. You caught snatches of Lottie's schedule for fittings, of a new waltz being all the rage, of Lord Something's new estate in Bath. But it all felt so distant. Meaningless for you. As if the conversation were happening in another room.

You looked down at your hands. They didn't tremble. They were steady, composed. Like they belonged to someone else.

After a while, Bea tilted her head with practiced innocence. "Are you feeling well enough for it, sister? You've looked a bit... ghostly since waking."

You forced a smile. "Just a strange dream, nothing more."

"Dreams won't keep you from your responsibilities," your father said, dismissive. "Make yourself useful. Lottie will need all hands for the final preparations."

You looked down at your hands, the teacup trembling ever so slightly.

Useful. How many times had you heard that word?

It wasn't praise. It was a condition. Your worth, your presence, always weighed against how much easier you made someone else's life.

Bea giggled softly and buttered her roll. "Well, I do hope your mood improves by the weekend. There's no point in looking so tragic when you're about to be the next bride in the family."

Your stomach turned slightly, but you said nothing. The tea had gone cold in your hands.

You spent the rest of the morning locked in your room. Thankfully, your father had gone to his usual meetings with society men, and your sister had a tea appointment with her friends. So now that you were alone, no one could force you to go out and exchange false smiles and hollow laughter with every person you crossed paths with in the park.

You could finally sit in the quiet corner of your room and try to dig into your mind, to make sense of whatever was happening to you.

You reached for the chest beneath your bed. Inside, hidden under a pile of books and old gowns was your most important secret: the memories of every dream you had ever had for the past couple of months.

Two months to be exact... two months of strange dreams that felt too vivid to be just dreams at all. They felt more like memories... Waking each morning with the taste of road-dust and smoke on your tongue.

Men's voices echoed in your head. You never understood what they told you, and sometimes they sounded happy, other times angry, and sometimes even scared. One was gruff, tender when it was toward you. The other warm, intelligent. And then another, quieter. All American.

You couldn't recall their names, but the sound of them, those voices, their faded faces, lingered like a melody half-forgotten.

You wrote it down without thinking.

Just fragments: a hand reaching for mine. Smoke. A building that reminded you strangely of a roadside inn. Salt. His voice calling me back.

Your breath caught. Calling me back. Who? From where?

You sat motionless for what felt like hours, pen dangling from your fingers. The light shifted across the floor. You didn't move. Not because you were tired. But because, sometimes, it felt like if you stopped moving... you might disappear. And no one would notice. Not right away. Not ever. And the only thing that kept you grounded now was the memories you wrote in those papers.

You stared at the words, they didn't make sense, but they were inside of you. You set the pen down and closed your eyes, letting the hush of the room settle over you.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

By afternoon, you were seated in a polished black carriage beside your younger sister

chattering about floral patterns and ribbon choices with breathless enthusiasm. Across from you, your maid sat quietly, her eyes flicking between you and the window with practiced attentiveness.

The dressmaker's shop was busy, brimming with titled daughters and their mothers, dress forms draped in taffeta, and swatches of silk in every color imaginable. While Beatrice darted off to consult with the modiste about the lilac gown she insisted would "dazzle the room," you remained closer to the window, unable to shake the uneasy feeling crawling along your spine.

Then you felt it. A chill.

Not in the air, but beneath your skin. Like being watched. You turned your head subtly, scanning the street beyond the open door.

There, across the street, half-hidden beneath the awning of a bookshop, stood a woman. Pale skin, dark hair twisted elegantly. Eyes a striking, unnatural blue. Her gaze was fixed on you. Not the shop, not the crowd, you.

Your breath hitched. It felt like... No, impossible...

"Miss Sinclair?" your maid's voice cut in. She'd followed your gaze, her brow furrowing. "It's everything fine?"

You blinked. "I... no," you murmured, shaking your head. "Could you—please...?"

But you didn't even finish your sentence.

You stepped out of the dress shop, your gloves clutched tightly in one hand, the air hit you like a wave, brisk and bright, full of the murmurs and movement of the afternoon crowd.

You barely heard Beatrice's voice calling after you or your maid's worried footsteps behind. Because someone was watching you.

You scanned the street, heartbeat rising.

The breeze pulled at the hem of your coat. The sounds of the street faded. For a moment, there was only her, and the impossible pull in your chest. Like you knew her. Like you'd met before, somewhere far from here. Or into your own subconscious.

You stepped forward, weaving through the passersby. The crowd thickened. A group of boys darted across your path. A cart rolled by. Someone brushed your shoulder, murmuring an apology.

You pushed through, eyes fixed on the place where the woman stood...

Gone. She was gone.

You halted, disoriented, twisting to look down the street. Nothing.

And that's when you turned, colliding into someone solid. You gasped as strong hands caught your arms to steady you.

"Forgive me, I wasn't..." you began, but your voice faltered the instant you looked up.

The man before you smiled, soft and familiar in a way that made your stomach dip.

"No harm done," he said, warm and composed.

You stared, heart thudding. Tall. Dark hair. Soft hazel eyes with a faint trace of amusement. Mister Benedict. He knew you. And you knew him.

He smiled gently. "You're not injured, I hope?"

"No," you said, your voice faint. "Only startled."

There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, though carefully tempered. "Miss Sinclair," he said, a subtle bow of his head. "It's everything fine?"

You opened your mouth, words caught behind your teeth. You nodded, unsure of your own voice.

He looked over his shoulder briefly, where three elegantly dressed women stood speaking with a modiste. One of them, the younger, looked over and offered a polite smile, clearly waiting for him. You knew them too: his mother and two of his little sisters.

"Are you sure you are well?" he worried. "You seem a bit pale."

I swear to God, if someone else told me that I look pale one more time...

"Yes," you said. Then, unsure why, you added, "Mostly."

His smile faltered just slightly, something unreadable behind his gaze. "I imagine tomorrow's preparations will be overwhelming. A duchess's ball is no small feat. Believe me, I've heard."

You stared at him, confusion swimming just beneath the surface. "You're attending?"

"Of course," he said lightly. "As your fiancé, it would be improper not to."

"Right," you said, managing a faint smile. "Silly me..."

His brow furrowed again, but instead of pressing, he offered gently, "What are you doing wandering out here, anyway?"

You blinked and looked over your shoulder as if remembering your surroundings. "My sister's inside. We're collecting the dresses for tomorrow."

He nodded with a knowing smile. "Then we're in the same predicament. I'm here with my mother and sisters, enduring fabric swatches and color debates."

You allowed a breath of a smile to form, despite yourself.

He extended his arm, ever the gentleman. "Come. I'll take you back to your sister, Miss Sinclair."

You hesitated, then placed your hand in the crook of his elbow.

And as he guided you back toward the dressmaker's door, someone behind you called out casually, "There you are, Benedict! Mother is asking for you."

You turned to see the girl walking toward you.

"I'm sorry, Hyacinth," he replied softly.

His sister barely glanced at you before looping her arm through Benedict's. "Come now, before she sends Colin to drag you back."

Benedict gave you an apologetic smile, then turned slightly toward the group gathered around his family's carriage. "Mother, Eloise," he greeted politely, then looked back at you. "Miss Sinclair and I happened upon one another."

Lady Bridgerton gave you a warm but measured smile. "Miss Sinclair. So delightful to see you! We look forward to seeing you at the duchess's ball."

"As do I," you replied with a courteous dip of your head. You met each of their eyes as they offered polite nods and warm smiles. To your fortune, at least you were about to marry into one of the few truly happy and sincere families in all of Mayfair.

You exchanged a few words and light comments about the dresses before Lady Bridgerton turned to leave, guiding her daughters with practiced ease. As they began to walk away, Benedict let out a quiet breath through his nose and gave you a sheepish look.

"You have a lively family," you remarked, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He chuckled. "That's one way to put it."

With that, he gave you a small bow. "Until Saturday, Miss Sinclair."

"Until Saturday, Mr. Bridgerton."

You watched him follow after his family, and only then did you turn back to the shop, your sister waving you in from the doorway.

"There you are!" she huffed. "Honestly, if you wander off like that this weekend, I'll never hear the end of it."

Your maid glanced at you curiously but said nothing.

You said nothing either. Your gaze lingered once more toward the crowd, where just moments ago that strange woman had stood. She was gone now. As if she'd never been there.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The sun was low by the time you and Bea arrived at the grand estate. The sprawling house stood as proud and elegant as ever, its white facade glowing in the golden light. Lottie, your older sister, was already directing footmen and servants with the confidence of a duchess well accustomed to being obeyed.

"Finally," she sighed as the two of you stepped down from the carriage. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost in the modiste's ribbons."

Bea giggled and looped her arm through yours. "You know how she gets when the silk is the wrong shade of blue." There was a sarcastic tone lingering in her voice.

You smiled faintly, still distracted. Something about the air felt... heavy.

Inside, the drawing rooms were buzzing with motion. Dresses being pressed, silver polished, seating charts redrafted by candlelight. Lottie walked briskly between rooms, issuing commands, and you tried to ignore the way your skin prickled the deeper into the house you went.

Finally, Lottie stood at the center of the grand salon like a general surveying a battlefield, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Sunlight glinted off the sapphire brooch pinned to her high collar, and her expression was as crisp as the pleats on the drapes.

"Beatrice, you'll be stationed by the entrance to greet the guests as they arrive. Smile, curtsy, and please don't speak too much unless someone speaks first. We don't need another incident like the garden luncheon."

Bea raised an eyebrow. "He asked if I liked poetry, I didn't know he wrote it."

Lottie gave her a thin smile and turned. "And you..." she fixed her gaze on you, lips tightening slightly. "You will remain by my side until the dancing begins. If I'm called away, I expect you to step in and keep the conversation flowing. No sulking in corners, no disappearing for air, and please refrain from quoting anything peculiar. I want no talk of Greek myths or battle strategies at my ball. You will be dismissed of your charge once Mister Bridgeton arrives. Then, he will be your priority."

You blinked. "Do I really talk about battle strategies that often?"

Bea nodded behind Lottie's back. "You do. It's actually impressive."

Lottie exhaled sharply. "This is not the time for antics. This is the first ball I host as Duchess of Lawrence. It also happens to be the announcement of your marriage to The Queen. Consequently, everything has to be perfect. Understood?"

You both nodded.

Lottie opened her mouth to say something more, when she was interrupted by a scream.

It echoed from the upper floor, piercing, desperate, raw. All three of you froze.

"Oh! What now?" Lottie complained.

Without a thought, your legs moved first.

"Upstairs!" you shouted, lifting your skirts as you bolted up the grand staircase, your heart hammering so violently it might have cracked your ribs.

Your older sister shouted your name, but you didn't even hesitate. You reached the corridor just as a maid burst from the nursery, sobbing and bleeding from a long scratch across her neck.

"She was there!" she cried. "The duchess... her grace... the old one... she's come back!" The panic in her eyes was alarming. She was pale, at the edge of unconsciousness.

Lottie appeared behind you, exasperated. "What on earth are you talking about? That's not possible. The Duke's mother died two years ago."

You turned to the maid, gripping her shoulders. "What did you see? Tell me exactly."

The maid gasped, trembling. "A woman. Dressed in a black mourning gown. But she was floating... her eyes... white as snow. And her voice... it was like ice."

You were already scanning the walls, the windows. You weren't even sure what you were looking for, but you were certain that you'll knew it when you found it.

A part of you knew this wasn't shock. It was instinct. Familiar. Like slipping into a role you hadn't played in years, but your body still remembered every move.

"She's a ghost," you said quietly, but confident.

Bea blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Ghosts?" Lottie let out a humorless laugh. "Don't be absurd, sister. This is Hampshire, not a penny dreadful."

"There's something wrong here. Something dangerous." Your voice came out steadier than you expected. "Where was she when you saw her?" you asked the maid.

"In the nursery," she whispered.

Bea frowned. "What are you on about?"

You ignored her. "Did she touch anything? Did anything fall?"

The maid looked confused but nodded. "The mirror cracked."

You didn't hesitate. You turned toward your sisters, her faces looking at you as a third eye had magically appeared on your forehead. "We need salt. Oil. Matches. Iron."

"Have you lost your mind?" Lottie asked, shocked. "Salt and oil? You want to cook a 'ghost'?"

But you were already pulling open drawers, searching. Your hands found a fireplace poker.

Iron. Perfect.

From the back of your mind came the memory of a voice—gruff, American—Always go for the bones, sweetheart. Burn the bones, and they don't come back.

You didn't know how you knew that, only that it was true.

"She's tied to something in this house," you said. "Maybe her remains. Maybe something she loved. We need to find it."

"You've always had... a wild imagination," Lottie muttered, "but this is truly too much."

You stared at her.

"Sister, I adore you, but do you ever wonder if you were dropped on the head as a child?" Bea followed her, looking at you as you were some kind of phenomenon.

Lottie rubbed her temple. "You know what, dear sister?" For some reason, a sudden shiver ran down your spine. "...when you're quite finished with whatever ghost-hunting has seized you, and choose to be of use, I shall be downstairs—preparing the ball. My ball."

She just turned around and disappeared down the hallway.

You turned to the maid, and said, "Come back to your chores. And please, say no word. I'll handle this."

She nodded and disappeared down the service stairs.

However, Bea remained standing beside you, like she was waiting for your next move. You looked to her, but she merely shrugged. "Oh, I rather want to know what all this is about."

"Fine. But you do whatever I say. We clear?" You stated.

"Yes, ma'am." She agreed.

The two of you made your way down the corridor, past the nursery. Coldness seeped through the air like a veil. Your breath fogged. The walls moaned. Then...

Lottie screamed. And she reappeared running toward you, her face pale.

A figure lunged from the dark—tall, swathed in shadowy lace, with eyes like white fire. She grabbed Lottie by the throat and lifted her off the ground.

"No!" you shouted. "Let her go, you bloody son of a—" You ran, swinging the fireplace poker with everything you had. It passed through the figure once... but on the second strike, the spirit screamed and flared backward.

Lottie fell into your arms, coughing. "You—how did you—?"

Her eyes were wide and red with fear. Bea was already crying.

"Help me find her grave," you said breathlessly. "Now."

Lottie coughed in your arms, her usually poised face now contorted in panic. "There's a family crypt," she rasped. "On the grounds, beyond the orchard."

You turned to Beatrice, whose eyes were wide but steady. "Get the salt. Candles. Whatever oil you can find. And bring the poker."

"You're not seriously going out there now," Lottie said, her voice trembling.

"Yes," you said. "Before she comes back... and before anyone else gets hurt."

"But my ball..." she mumbled like a little girl.

You rolled your eyes and gripped her by the shoulders.

"There won't be any ball if we all are dead, you hear me? I must hunt down this thing."

She hesitated, then nodded. "You'll need the keys."

Minutes later, cloaked in shawls and coats, the three of you crossed the damp, shadowed garden. The air was colder than it should have been for spring.

Lottie unlocked the iron gate with trembling fingers. The door groaned open, revealing the narrow stone steps leading underground. Candles flickered wildly in the wind as you descended, your hand tight around the poker.

Inside, the air was still. Too still.

You led the way into the crypt. Rows of stone coffins lined the walls, each carved with the names of the Duke's ancestors. The far end was darker, untouched by light.

Then you saw it: Isabella Abbot, the Duchess of Lawrence's tomb. Fresh cracks split the stone at the base. The metal nameplate had fallen, as if pushed from the inside.

"She's angry," you whispered. "Something kept her soul here."

"Why?" Bea asked, holding the oil lamp high. "She wasn't... evil, was she?"

Lottie shook her head. "She was harsh. Controlling. But no. Just proud."

You stepped forward. "There's something in here that's binding her. We need to open the coffin."

"Have you lost your mind, sister!?" Bea cried.

"Absolutely not!" Lottie hissed. "You can't just—"

But the air shifted. The temperature dropped in an instant, and your breath misted.

Then came the shriek.

The ghost appeared behind you, hurtling toward Lottie again, her mouth open in an inhuman howl.

"DEAR LORD," your sister cried out.

You didn't think. You swung the iron poker again and shouted, "Bea, the salt!"

Beatrice scattered it in a wide arc, just as the ghost lunged. The spirit hit the invisible line and screamed, repelled, flickering violently before disappearing again.

"Now!" you barked. "Open it!"

Lottie and Bea helped you push the stone lid. It groaned open. Inside lay the decaying body of Duchess Isabella, wrapped in elegant silks and jewels.

"Oh my goodness!" Bea stepped back.

Lottie disappeared in a corner to empty the content of her stomach.

Your eyes scanned the corpse, and then you saw it. At her neck, glinting like a flame, was a locket.

You reached in and pulled it free. Inside, a lock of hair and a faded portrait of a young man: her first son, who had died at sea decades ago.

"She never let him go," you whispered. "She tied herself to him."

And then, behind you, she returned... screaming, enraged, her ghostly hand reaching for your throat.

You struck a match. Poured the oil.

"Go back," you whispered, not even knowing why the words felt right. "You're free now."

And you dropped the flame.

The locket caught instantly. The fire blazed white-hot. The spirit shrieked, the sound deafening, until it faded into silence, carried on smoke that disappeared like mist in the candlelight.

You stood, shaking, soot on your hands. The crypt was still.

Your sisters stared at you.

Lottie finally found her voice. "What... in God's name just happened? How did you know all that?"

"My books," you whispered, shrugging. But it was a lie. You felt like you had done it before. Which, of course, was completely absurd.

Bea blinked, looking at you unconvinced. "That's not reassuring."

You laughed softly, tired, but certain now that whatever haunted your dreams... it was real.

What was even more remarkable was that, for the first time in what felt like your entire life, you felt good. The rush of adrenaline coursed through your veins like warm blood—not like the cold that had been keeping you company for so long.

That night, you barely slept. Not because you feared the shadows in your room, or the ghost of the duchess reaching for you from the dark.

No... it was the emptiness that came after. The cruel crash after the highest fly. The silence inside your chest once the adrenaline was gone, once the fear had passed and nothing was left but the hollow ache you couldn't explain.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The gown clung at your body like a secret—deep crimson, richer than wine, scandalously vivid against the pale silks your sisters chose. The empire waist hugs just beneath your ribs, gold embroidery catching the lamplight as you move. The sleeves were short, brushing your shoulders like a hesitant touch, and the silk fell around you in quiet waves, flowing like blood over marble.

At your throat, a thin ribbon of red lace, rested against your skin. It felt too intimate, too knowing, as if it remembered something you've forgotten. You did not know where it came from.

You looked like a woman in mourning. Or a ghost who's decided to live anyway.

You barely hear the knock before the door opens.

"Is she ready yet?" your youngest sister's voice cuts through the silence. "We're going to be late, and Charlotte is already downstairs."

She stopped when she saw you. For a moment, even she is silent.

Your father appeared behind her, his gaze sweeping over you with a cold sort of satisfaction. "At last," he said. "You almost look like a Sinclair tonight."

You didn't answer. You weren't sure which part of you he's referring to—the gown, the posture, or the carefully hidden ache behind your eyes.

Your other sister, already laced into pale blue satin, leaned closer with a whisper meant only for you. "Try not to outshine the hostess. She's the duchess, after all. And you're... well, you're just the guest of honor."

You murmured something polite, something forgettable, and follow them down the corridor.

Each step felt like stepping deeper into a life that doesn't quite fit.

The light of a thousand candles danced across the golden walls of your sister's ballroom, refracting through the crystal chandeliers in glittering shards. Violins wept soft notes as lords and ladies murmured behind painted fans and lifted crystal flutes to their lips. You stood at the top of the marble staircase beside Benedict, your hand resting on his arm, your body corseted into perfection, and your face sculpted into the smile your father had taught you.

You had become a portrait, not a person.

"Your Majesty," Charlotte announced with regal grace, "may I present Miss Sinclair, my beloved sister... and her betrothed, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton."

You felt every eye in the room shift toward you. The Queen's gaze, heavy and jeweled, fell upon you with the weight of expectation. She offered a thin smile.

Applause broke out, polite, pleasant, poisoned. You could feel the eyes of every unmarried woman, and their mothers, piercing your back. Murmurs of envy and jealousy rose from every corner. After all, you were marrying a Bridgerton.

It was unbearable. You couldn't breathe.

The walls seemed too close. The scent of perfume cloyed in your nose—jasmine and lavender, gardenia and rose, all pressing in like hands on your throat. Your heartbeat fluttered madly, your chest rising and falling beneath the cruel pressure of your corset. Still, you smiled. You always smiled.

Benedict leaned toward you, whispering, "It will be over before you know it."

But that was the problem. It wouldn't be over. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

You were about to become Mrs. Bridgerton.

The orchestra began the waltz, and the crowd parted like silk. As the betrothed couple, you were expected to open the floor.

Your steps were automatic as Benedict guided you to the center. His hand slipped to your back, the other clasped your fingers gently. He was ever the gentleman. You hated him for it.

The music swelled.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

You moved together as if the world wasn't collapsing beneath your satin slippers. The room spun. The chandeliers bled into stars above. The heat rose behind your eyes. You couldn't focus. You couldn't breathe.

Then—softly, like a thread pulled taut—Benedict spoke.

"Are you fine, my dear?"

You faltered. Missed a step.

The world stilled, as though everything hinged on that single word.

"What... what did you just call me?"

He blinked at you, unsure. "Dear?"

You stopped. He meant it kindly. Tenderly, even. But the syllable echoed in your head like a bullet.

Deer.

You gasped, chest seizing. Memory cracked through the fog of your mind.

Rain. Blood. Gunpowder.

A hand clutching yours.

A voice calling you back—"Stay with me."

Green eyes. Rough hands. A flannel shirt soaked in red. A smile that made your knees went weak.

And a name. A single name that could send you to madness just to think about it.

Dean.

"No," you whispered, stepping back. "No, no, no, no—"

Benedict called your name, reaching for you. "What's wrong?"

But you couldn't answer. You couldn't stay there. You turned and fled.

Gasps rose from the crowd as you bolted from the ballroom, skirts gathered in your fists. Voices called after you—Charlotte, Beatrice, your father, Benedict—but you didn't look back. Couldn't.

Your slippers pounded against the marble floor as you darted down the corridor, out the French doors, into the cold night air. The garden awaited, tall hedges stretching like arms, the entrance to the labyrinth yawning before you.

You slipped inside.

Branches clawed at your sleeves as you ran blindly through the twists and turns. The music behind you faded into ghostly echoes. Your breath came in ragged sobs, your corset cutting deeper with every gasp. You didn't care.

Now it was impossible for you to breathe.

The maze spun around you like a tornado. Your thoughts screamed over each other—memories that weren't memories, names you didn't know but somehow loved, and a voice. His voice. Dean.

Your knees buckled.

Before you could fall, strong arms caught you—cool and sure, like marble warmed by candlelight.

"Breathe," she said, soft but firm.

You didn't understand how she'd crossed the distance, but suddenly she was there, kneeling with you in the damp grass. Her hand pressed lightly between your shoulder blades, the other at your wrist, counting the frantic pulse there.

"I need you to listen to me," she said gentle, but with the authority of someone who had spoken to storms and been heard. "You are safe. Right now, in this moment."

You gasped again. The world narrowed. Your corset felt like a noose.

Her forehead touched yours, barely.

"Breathe in," she whispered, matching your rhythm. "Like this. Good. Now again."

You followed her voice. You followed her breath.

Slowly, the edges of the world softened. Your heart, though wild, no longer beat like it meant to escape your chest. You clutched her sleeve as if it were the only solid thing in a world unraveling.

"I think I'm going mad," you whispered.

She looked at you, not with pity, but something far older. Sadness, and infinite patience.

"You are remembering," she said, like suddenly she was realizing something was wrong. "You shouldn't remember."

And then—through the blur of tears—you saw her.

The woman was not dressed for a ball. No lace, no powder, no sparkle. Hair, dark as ink, parted cleanly and pinned back without ornament. Her gown was simple, high-necked and dark, the fabric plain but immaculately clean. A practical pelisse clung to her shoulders, buttoned to the throat, the muted color blending into the night. She looked like a governess, almost, or perhaps as someone meant to go unnoticed. And yet you couldn't look away.

But it was the eyes that undid you. Not their shape or their color, though they were a striking blue, oddly bright in the dark.

It was the weight in them. The stillness. The knowing.

She looked at you like someone who'd waited centuries. Who had seen too much, and carried it all in silence.

You had seen her before. Outside the modiste's.

"Wait..." you murmured. "I know you... From my dreams. But... no, that's impossible, because you're a woman and he—"

You stopped short, your words catching on the thorns in your throat.

A name trembled on the edge of your tongue.

"...Castiel?"

The woman looked at you with eyes too ancient for her face. She nodded slowly, giving up.

"Hello, Claire."

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

Let me know if you want to be added in the Tag list!

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 9: Never Mine to Lose

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: You can write your own destiny, choose your path and be happy… or can’t you?

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +4.7K

Warnings: A HUGE amount of angst. Brief oral sex (F!receiving).

A/N: 🫣

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Dean hadn't ask you formally to be his girlfriend, but you definitely were a couple. You two had been having dates, romantic road trips—and a lot of the best sex any of you would ever had—for the past two months already.

There was an undeniable and pure connection between you. It was there in the way he reached for your hand without thinking, lacing his fingers through yours when you walked into a diner or sat beside him on the motel bed. In the way he always ordered your coffee just right, remembered your favorite songs, how he tucked your coat around your shoulders when you forgot it.

It was the way he looked at you.

He didn't say it, not outright, but his eyes always did. That quiet reverence when you smiled. That low, hungry gaze that made your knees weak when you were alone. And when you were curled up together in the Impala or tangled under the sheets, he'd hold you close like he was afraid the world might steal you away if he let go.

Out in the field, Dean was all instinct and precision, always a step ahead, but he never treated you like porcelain. He'd glance your way before a shot, let you take the lead when you had the plan. He didn't smother you. He trusted you, and so did Sam. And that trust made you fiercer, braver.

Still, you could always feel him nearby, like a second shadow, ready to put himself between you and danger without hesitation. And after every hunt, like it was second nature, he'd tug you gently toward him, eyes skimming over you like he needed to see that you were whole.

It was protection without possession. And it made you feel safe and confident in a way you never had before.

Furthermore, Dean was tender in ways you don't think he actually realized. Like brushing your hair behind your ear, pressing his lips to your forehead when he thought you were asleep, and whispering your name into the hollow of your neck like a secret.

And when it came to sex... God, there was that, and it was everything. Dean taught you everything he had to offer about passion and lust, tangled with the endearing love you both had for each other.

"Dean..." you whimpered, out of breath, as his tongue moved slowly up and down your core.

Your fingers tangled in the strands of his soft hair, while his broad, calloused hands held you firmly in place, right where he wanted you.

He glanced up at you, eyes dark with devotion, like he was worshipping you with every movement of his mouth. And when you gasped his name again, a little broken this time, he grinned against your skin like it was the only sound he ever wanted to hear.

"That's it," he murmured, a couple of his fingers replacing his tongue to guide you down the edge, voice low and rough, almost proud. "Let go, sweetheart. I've got you."

And he did. Not just now, not just like this, but in the weight of his gaze, in the way he held you like you were the one thing in this world he didn't want to lose.

When it was over, and your body had finally stilled beneath his, Dean didn't say much. He just kissed the inside of your thigh, then crawled up to you and gathered you into his arms. You curled against his chest, your heartbeat slowly syncing with his.

There were also the lazy mornings. The way he never turned away when you reached for him.

Whatever it was between you two, it was real.

And in those following weeks, life had a rhythm. A rough, imperfect rhythm that still somehow felt like home.

One night, Dean asked you if you were hungry. No hunt, no ghosts, no monsters. Just hunger. The real kind.

He didn't tell you where he was taking you. Just held the door open with that easy, habitual care, then turned the Impala onto the open road, classic rock low on the radio and one hand resting lightly on your thigh.

You ended up at a burger shack just off the highway, an old place with peeling paint and blinking neon, the kind that still served everything wrapped in wax paper and too much grease. He parked the Impala facing the woods and passed you a wrapped burger.

"You eat like a proper American now," he joked.

You unwrapped it with a grin. "You corrupted me."

You sat in silence for a while, the radio humming low.

Fries passed back and forth, your feet propped on the dashboard, his arm draped along the back of your seat, conversation floating with jokes and soft laughter. It felt like the kind of date you'd seen in movies, but never lived. Warm, unhurried. Real.

At some point, Dean grew quiet, and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, like he was nervous.

"You ever think about... getting out?" he asked.

You looked over. "Out of what?"

"This life. Hunting, motels, ghosts..." His fingers tapped the steering wheel. "All of it. Have you ever regret joining us on this?"

You tilted your head. "When I first got here, I thought maybe I'd find a way back. To my time. But now..." You looked out the windshield. "Now it just feels like this is where I'm supposed to be. So no, I'm not feel any regret. I would never regret following you, Dean."

Your hand reached for his cheek, fingers tracing the rugged texture of his two-day beard. "Why you ask? Have you?" your voice was soft, attentive.

Dean shrugged, thoughtful. "I used to want to be a firefighter as a kid, you know?"

You blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said with a sheepish grin. "Big boots. Red truck. That kind of thing. Saving people... without all the blood rituals and beheadings."

"That's pretty cute, Dean," you laughed softly, leaning your head back against the seat. "You'd have been good at it."

He glanced at you then, soft, serious. "I still think about it sometimes. Not the job, exactly. Just... a different kind of life. Sammy almost got it once. And sometimes I regret having dragged him back to this."

You swallowed, sensing something deeper beneath his words.

"If you ever wanted out," he said quietly after a while, "I'd go with you."

Your eyes flicked to him. "Dean..."

"I mean it." His voice was low, rough with something raw. "We could just disappear. Find a house somewhere off the grid. You could have a garden or whatever people do when they're not hunting monsters. I'd... learn to fix normal things. Maybe start a garage."

You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes.

You stared at him, taking in the weight of his words and the meaning layered beneath them. There was a promise—an unspoken desire to be bound to each other—in the sincerity of his green gaze, and it melted your heart.

He shrugged, like it wasn't earth-shattering. "Not saying tomorrow or anything. Just... if that's something you wanted. I'd want that too."

You reached for his hand, laced your fingers through his, and held on.

"Yes," you whispered, voice soft as a vow. "That sounds rather lovely, my dear."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Sam and Castiel became a constant part of that rhythm too.

Mornings often started with Sam already at the table, buried in lore with three half-empty mugs of coffee beside him. He never commented when you walked in wearing Dean's shirt, hair a mess, cheeks still warm from the night before, but the twitch of a smirk on his face gave him away. He was happy to see his brother having the love the deserved. And it made him think that maybe he could find his own soon.

Castiel, on the other hand, was as baffled by human affection as ever. He watched you and Dean with that tilted-head curiosity, trying to understand things like handholding and inside jokes. But he grew fond of you quickly. Protective, in his own quiet way.

You grew close to both of them in different ways. Sam felt like the big brother you never had. And Castiel  felt like an ancient, tired guardian who saw the cracks in your soul and chose to protect them anyway.

And in between the hunts, the motel rooms, the late-night drives and diner stops, there were stolen kisses, soft laughter, touches beneath the table, and Dean always finding ways to remind you, without words, that you belonged.

Right here. With them. With him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you belonged, like you had a place, a purpose, and people who loved you. Dean didn't say the words often, but he didn't have to. You felt it in the way he looked at you when you laughed at one of his dumb jokes, in the way his hand always found yours under the table, in the way he whispered your name when he thought you were asleep.

You weren't just surviving anymore. You were living.

Everything seemed to settle, to fit perfectly into your new life. So perfect, so easy, that it made you forget you had come from another time. That somewhere in the past, you were a different woman; quiet, and too sad to go on. A woman who had once believed the only way out was the 'easy' way.

And now, it seemed you'd forgotten her... until, seven months after your arrival, everything began to fall apart.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

During the couple of weeks before everything changed, life was normal. A couple of days at Bobby's, supply run with the brothers, movie nights with Dean, hunting trips (one of which turned out to be just a rat infestation), morning runnings with Sam, and went out to dinner with the boys and Charlie.

And then came the hunt.

It had started like any other. A nest of vengeful spirits terrorizing an abandoned farmhouse on the edge of town. Sam had tracked the source to an old family tragedy, while Dean salted and burned the remains they'd found buried beneath a collapsed shed. You were on lookout, shotgun in hand, standing watch by the broken staircase.

It should've been over.

But something had gone wrong.

One of the spirits hadn't been tied to the bones. It was bound to something else still hidden. And when it appeared out of nowhere, lashing out with a furious shriek, Dean didn't have time to react.

But you did.

"Dean!" you screamed, sprinting toward him.

Your body slammed into his with full force, knocking him out of the ghost's path just in time, but it hit you instead. Not physically, but with a psychic blow that sent you flying back, straight into the darkness of a crumbling third floor.

Dean watched you fall, helpless. The silence that followed felt like an eternity... until it was broken by the sickening sound of your body slamming violently against the floor below.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Everything around you was silent. Weightless. The pain in your head, the panic in your chest... it was all gone. In its place, a cold stillness.

You stood barefoot in what looked like a vast, gray field. No wind, no sound. Just mist curling around your ankles like smoke.

"Am I dead?" you whispered, your voice swallowed by the fog.

"No," said a voice behind you. "You've been gone for quite some time. But not dead."

You turned.

A woman stood there: tall, pale, dressed in black. Her eyes were impossibly old. You didn't need her to say it to know what she was.

A Reaper.

"I don't understand..." you murmured, panic creeping through your veins.

Calmly, she stepped closer, "You died almost two hundred years ago. By your own hand. What's walking around now is a soul caught between Heaven and Earth. Your soul is old, and tired. "

You shook your head, backing away. "That's not true. I'm real."

"You're temporary," she said, tilting her head. "You've been on borrowed time, slipping through cracks. You have to rest."

You started to cry. "No. No, there has to be a way. I'm not ready. I have a life now. I have... Dean. I love him. I have Sam, and Castiel. I have..."

"You were never meant to stay," the Reaper said gently. "Your place is no longer among the living."

"I won't go," you said, your voice trembling. "You'll have to drag me."

The Reaper sighed, almost with pity. "Don't fight it, or your soul will get lost in the emptiness."

You blinked.

A faint voice broke through the fog, distant, but growing louder. "CLAIRE!"

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Suddenly your chest exploded with pain, like fire and lightning. Your knees buckled and you woke up.

"I got you, babygirl, I got you," Dean whispered, cradling you tightly in his arms as your eyelids fluttered open. His voice cracked with the weight of emotions he didn't know how to name—relief, fear, disbelief.

Your vision was blurry, the world around you a swirl of dim light and muffled sounds. You blinked, slowly adjusting. Sam was crouched nearby, eyes wide and wet, his face pale with shock.

"Hey," he said softly, managing a small, shaken smile. "You're awake."

You opened your mouth to speak, but your throat burned. All you could manage was a whisper. "What...?"

"Don't try to talk," Dean murmured quickly, brushing the hair from your face. His hands were trembling. "You're safe now. Cas healed you."

It was then you noticed Castiel standing just behind them, his expression unreadable, but his eyes heavy.

There was dried blood on your skin, on the back of your head, in your hair, the thick metallic scent of it clinging to you.

Your head throbbed dully. Your body ached everywhere, like you'd been crushed and sewn back together.

Dean looked at Cas. "You got her in time?"

Cas didn't answer immediately. His gaze stayed on you.

"I did what I could," he finally said. "She was... far. But I reached her."

You frowned, he wasn't supposed to be there. Did the boys prayed to him? What they were talking about?

They didn't tell you the truth, not then. Not that your heart had stopped. Not that Castiel had pulled you back from the veil when your soul had already started to slip away. You had died, if only for a minute. But no one dared speak it aloud.

Castiel had placed a glowing hand on your forehead, and the bones in your body mended themselves in a rush of white-hot pain. Your skull, cracked from the fall, sealed under his grace... but the blood remained. None of them had dared to wipe it away.

Dean wouldn't let you walk. He carried you to the car. You barely remembered the ride back to the bunker.

The next days were a fog.

You couldn't stay awake for long. Your body refused to cooperate, as if gravity had turned on you. There was a heat in your skin—feverish, bone-deep. Sometimes you'd drift off mid-sentence, waking again in a cold sweat.

Dean never left your side. He sat at the edge of your bed, watching over you through sleepless nights, gently coaxing you to eat, holding a damp cloth to your forehead when the fever spiked.

Sam paced the halls, researching anything he could. Some lore, some answer. Something to explain why you weren't getting better. But there was nothing. Not even Bobby could help.

And Castiel... he was quiet. Confused.

"I healed her wounds," he said quietly one evening, standing just outside your room with the brothers. "But something's... wrong. It's not physical."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. "Then what the hell is it?"

"I don't know," Cas admitted, which scared them more than anything. "It's like her soul is... exhausted. Fractured."

Dean stared through the doorway at you, curled up under the blanket, your face pale and damp with sweat.

"She's not going to die again," he said. "She's not."

So he took you to a hospital. A real one. He was desperate enough to believe science could explain what Heaven and Hell could not.

The doctors ran every test imaginable: blood panels, brain scans, heart monitors. They checked for diabetes, thyroid issues, autoimmune disorders. They even ran a pregnancy test, just in case. Dean stood outside the room with his arms crossed and a hole opening in his chest, waiting for someone to come out and say they'd found it, whatever it was.

But they didn't.

Every test came back clear. Physically, you were fine.

"But she's not fine," Dean growled when the doctor tried to smile reassuringly. "She's not okay. Look at her."

And still, no one could explain the dark hollowness in your eyes, or the way you flinched from sunlight, or why you barely spoke unless Dean said your name. They couldn't explain the way your soul seemed to be folding in on itself.

Dean didn't want to believe it, but deep down he knew Castiel was right.

It wasn't your body that was broken. It was your soul.

One night, you were just... done. You hadn't said a word all day. You hadn't eaten more than a spoonful of applesauce. A nurse came in to draw more blood, her voice chipper in that professional way, like she could talk away the misery.

She looked at your inner elbow, already bruised and sore, and winced. "She's too tender for another draw here," she said to Dean, as if you weren't in the room. "We'll have to go through the hand or foot."

Dean just nodded, exhausted. His eyes were rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—which he hadn't—and like he didn't know how to fix this, which he didn't.

You opened your eyes slowly. Just a crack.

"Dean..." Your voice was barely a whisper.

His head snapped toward you immediately. In an instant, he was at your side, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand brushed your hair away from your forehead, fingers trembling.

"What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?" he asked, voice tight with worry.

You swallowed. Every part of you ached. Your limbs felt like they were made of stone, too heavy to lift. But your eyes found his, and for a moment, they were clear.

"I wanna go home," you murmured.

He blinked, surprised. "I know, baby, but—"

"No, Dean," you cut him off softly. "Please. I'm not getting better here. The lights... the noise... it's too much. It doesn't feel right. I wanna go home. I think... I think I'll be better there."

He looked at you for a long time. Really looked. Your thin hospital gown, your hollow cheeks, the IV line taped to your wrist. You were slipping away from him, and not in a way a doctor could stop.

He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. We'll go home."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

On the second morning back at the bunker, Dean woke slowly, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the blinds. For the first time in days, he felt rested. Calm.

His first instinct, as always, was to check on you.

You were still curled into him, your body draped across his like always. Your hand rested over his chest, light as a feather. Your face was tucked against his neck, and for a moment, everything seemed normal. Peaceful.

Dean smiled to himself. Today's the day, he thought. She's gonna be better. I'll get some food in her, maybe get her to laugh.

Carefully, he reached down and brushed some hair from your face. "Morning, sunshine," he whispered.

You didn't respond, but you were sleeping, he thought. His hand trembled slightly as he brought it to your cheek.

Your skin felt cold against his palm. Way too cold.

And Dean had a bad feeling.

"Deer?" he called softly at first, not wanting to rip you out of your dream. But you didn't answer. You didn't even move. "Claire." Now his voice was louder, authoritative, scared.

He shifted you away from his chest to get a better look. Your face was alarmingly pale, your features still and peaceful... but something felt wrong.

With a shaky, unsure hand, he pressed his fingers to your neck. His heart dropped violently... there was no pulse.

"What the hell—"

Dean acted fast, flipping you fully onto your back and starting chest compressions.

He didn't understand what was happening. Why now? How?

"SAM!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "SAMMY!"

Sam appeared in a blink, his eyes widening in horror.

"What happened?" he asked, dropping to his knees beside you.

"I don't know... Sammy, help me!" Dean answered, still pressing down on your chest. "Wake up... no, no, no, sweetheart... Please... Don't— Don't leave me..."

Dean didn't stop. He couldn't. His hands kept pressing against your chest, desperate, mechanical, as if the rhythm itself could defy fate. His breathing was ragged, his face tight with panic.

"Come on... don't do this. Claire. Deer, please..."

He tried to call Castiel. On his mind, out loud, but the angel didn't answer. "FUCK."

"Dean," Sam said softly, but his brother didn't listen.

"Stay with me, baby. You hear me?" Dean's voice cracked. "You're gonna be fine. Just wake up. Wake up, sweetheart—"

"Dean," Sam said again, more firmly this time, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Dean. Stop."

"No," Dean growled, still working on you. "She's not gone. She can't be."

Sam gently but firmly pulled him back. Dean resisted, then finally collapsed beside you, hands shaking, eyes wild.

Sam reached out, checking your pulse again. He leaned down, listening—hoping, praying. But nothing.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "She's gone."

Dean's breath hitched. He blinked slowly, unable to accept it. "No. No, no, no..."

Without hesitation, Dean grabbed his phone with trembling fingers. "Cas! CAS, damn it!—pick up, you son of a bitch!"

Still no answer.

Dean held your lifeless body against his chest so tightly it was as if letting go would break him. He cried into your hair, his tears soaking your strands. Your limbs hung limply at your sides—motionless, pale.

Sam couldn't understand what was happening. He sat at the edge of the bed, unable to look at you, he didn't want to. He cried in silence, the sound of his older brother's broken sobs painfully loud in the room.

A few minutes later, Castiel finally appeared. But he wasn't fine either. He looked beaten: his trench coat was torn, and blood stained his clothes.

Sam and Dean looked at him.

"WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?" Dean barked, furiously. "I needed you here!"

"Cas, what–?" Sam asked, but Castiel's eyes were already on you.

"What happened?" he asked, voice low. He stepped forward, trembling.

"She's gone," Sam answered gently. "It just... happened. We don't know how."

Dean stepped forward, wild-eyed, broken. "You have to bring her back."

Castiel looked toward your still body, then back at Dean. "I... I'll try."

He placed two fingers on your forehead and closed his eyes, reaching. Searching. Long seconds passed.

Then his brow furrowed, confused. "She's not in Heaven."

Dean's jaw clenched. "Then check Hell." It wasn't possible, he think, but it definitely would worth the shot.

"I already am," Cas said softly, voice laced with something that frightened them both. "She's not there either."

Dean blinked, stunned. "What the hell does that mean?"

Castiel slowly lowered his hand. "Her soul... it's gone. Not destroyed, not imprisoned. Just... gone." He paused, tracing your face softly with his fingers.  "I can feel– that her heart just stopped beating. She died naturally."

"Naturally?" Dean asked, rage and confusion on his voice. "She's in her early twenties, what do you mean 'naturally'?"

"Dean, she's technically 221 years old," the angel replied.

Then, silence. It was a fact, and it wasn't a surprise.

After a moment, Sam asked gently. "Where have you been, though? Who did this to you?"

"I—" Castiel's voice cracked. "I was intercepted by some kind of entity on my way here... Whatever held me back didn't want me to save her. Like I did when she fell."

Dean stared down at you, motionless on the bed. His voice came out as a whisper. "So that's it? She's just... gone?"

"Not gone," Cas said gently. "Just... not here."

Dean turned away, his hands curling into fists. "I'm gonna find the son of a bitch who did this..."

"Dean," his brother intervened, "we heard Cas, she died in her sleep. Naturally."

"We did. And we also heard that something stopped him from saving her," Dean said, his voice raw, charged with an anger that could tear through Heaven and Hell. "That means something let this happen. Well, I'm gonna hunt this motherfucker down, and I'm gonna rip it apart. Then, I'll bring her back."

But it won't be easy.

Dean spent days searching for something, anything, that could bring you back.

He tried every spell, tried to negotiate with every demon he could encounter, to summon every angel he could possibly find. But they hadn't had answers, no deal to treat because not even they could find you.

It was like you never, ever, existed. And the only person who could recall your soft gaze and warmth was him.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The sky was gray when they burn your body.

Ash clung to the clouds, wind biting against their jackets as the fire roared. The pyre stood tall in the middle of a quiet field, far from town, surrounded by nothing but silence and pain.

Dean stood motionless, staring at the flames like he could will them to stop. Like he wanted to join them.

It had taken days to get him here. Days of silence, of rage, of him locking himself away in the garage or in your room, sitting in the chair you always curled up in. He hadn't said much, barely ate, barely slept. Just kept looking through books, calling contacts, whispering your name when he thought no one was listening.

Dean wouldn’t accept that you didn’t belong there. In his time and space. Because God knows he belonged to you.

So he refused to let go.

"I can bring her back," he had told Castiel through clenched teeth. "There's always a way."

But Cas only shook his head. "Her soul isn't here, Dean. She's gone."

Dean hadn't answered. He'd walked away, slammed the door behind him.

Sam had tried too. Tried to talk to him, reason with him, plead with him. "She wouldn't want this, man. She wouldn't want you like this."

But Dean had stared at him, hollow. "Don't tell me what she'd want."

It was Bobby who finally got through. He came down from Sioux Falls, brought by Castiel and Sam, both at their wit's end.

He didn't yell. Didn't argue. Just sat beside Dean in the dark, room where he'd begged Castiel to preserve your body, sipping from a flask and waiting.

After a while, Bobby said, "I know what it's like to lose someone you love so bad you can't breathe. I know the fight. The clawing, desperate need to undo it. But she's gone, son. And this... this ain't helping her rest."

Dean didn't speak. Your hand felt heavy and cold beneath his.

Bobby's voice softened. "You gave her peace. She died knowing she was loved. Let her go with that."

That night, Dean finally agreed.

But now, standing in front of the fire, he didn't feel peace. He felt nothing but that awful, choking emptiness.

Sam stood beside him, shoulders tense, eyes damp. Castiel watched from a few paces back, his hands folded, gaze fixed on the flames with reverence.

No one spoke. No one could.

Dean's jaw was tight, his eyes red but dry. He didn't cry. Not yet. His grief came in silence, deep, vast, and unmovable. He hadn't said goodbye. He couldn't.

The crackling of the fire filled the space between them. Somewhere in the wind, a bird cried out.

Dean took a shaky breath.

"I want her here," he said, barely audible.

Sam looked down. Castiel closed his eyes.

"I want her here with me," Dean repeated, louder this time, his voice breaking. "It's not fair..."

And then finally, he cried, not loud, not dramatic. Just tears carving quiet tracks down his cheeks as he stood rooted in place, watching the last of you disappear into smoke.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

Let me know if you want to be added in the Tag list!

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 8: Heat of the Moment

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: If the Impala could talk…

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +7.1K

Warnings: I prefer to not give details to prevent spoilers. You’re on your own, kids.😉

A/N:🫣

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«

For the next three months, your life with the Winchesters and Castiel had settled into something that felt truly belonging.

And the family just kept growing around, when you finally met Bobby. He welcomed you into his house and the family business. He gave advices, lectured you on everything he knew, and gave you the confidence to reach for him whenever you need something.

Sammy was patient, endlessly. He would sit with you at the library for hours, explaining how the world had changed since your time: technology, laws, gender roles and equality, and modern slang. He was the one who taught you how to use a laptop, though he sometimes had to hide his laughter when you got frustrated and poked the screen like it might obey you faster.

Castiel, though, became something else entirely. A best friend. Maybe because, in his own way, he was just as out of place as you were. He didn't judge when you marveled at microwaves or stared too long at the flashing lights of a city skyline. He answered every one of your endless questions without growing tired, or if he did, he never showed it.

Sometimes, you and Cas would just sit together in silence, sharing a kind of wordless understanding that didn't need to be explained. He was your anchor on the days when the world felt too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar.

And Dean... he was something different.

He took it upon himself to introduce you to 'the important stuff.' Rock music: Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Metallica, Bon Jovi. Movies: Star Wars, Die Hard, Back to the Future. You name it. He was there, more than excited and willing to show the new world to you.

Late nights would find you both sprawled on the worn motel beds or the bunker couch, Dean grinning like a kid as he watched your reactions.

"You've never seen this? Oh, sweetheart, we're fixing that right now," he'd say, popping in a VHS tape or queuing up something on an DVD player.

And you soon discovered that you also had your own stuff to share.

One day, Sam found you curled into the far corner of the bunker's library sofa, knees drawn up beneath you, entirely absorbed in the worn pages of Pride and Prejudice. The copy had a cracked spine and yellowing edges, but you cradled it like treasure.

Sam's voice interrupted the silence, warm with surprise. "Didn't know we had that one in here."

You looked up, startled, but smiled. "I used to read this by candlelight... I never thought I'd hold it again."

Sam's brow quirked. "You know it's a movie now, right?"

Your eyes widened. "A movie?"

He chuckled. "Several, actually. There's the BBC miniseries and the 2005 version."

You blinked. "People still know this story? They watch it?"

"Yeah," Sam said, amused. "It's kind of a big deal."

And it was the end of Dean Winchester's movies era.

That night, Dean was sprawled across the bunker couch, TV remote in one hand, a beer in the other, deciding if he wanted you to see Lethal Weapon or Terminator when you bounced into the room, clutching the DVD case Sam had handed you.

"Dean," you said brightly, "we're watching Pride and Prejudice tonight."

Dean froze. "We're what now?"

You held up the case with the same reverence he reserved for classic rock vinyl. "It's a book I love. Sam told me it's a film now. Will you watch it with me?"

He looked at you, hopeful, radiant, practically glowing with excitement.

Dean groaned dramatically. "Fine. But unless there's a car chase, I'm gonna need extra pie for this."

You sat beside him, barely breathing as the film unfolded. His initial jokes dissolved somewhere around the proposal scene, and he started commenting about the movie like he was getting really interested in the story.

You glanced at him with a triumphant grin.

Later, as the credits rolled, he leaned back with a long exhale. "So... when Darcy said, 'You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you'—that was smooth. I might use that."

You laughed, giving him a playful shove.

Dean nudged you with his shoulder. "Hey, don't look at me like that. If I'm gonna suffer through 19th-century foreplay, it might as well be with you."

Your laughter softened into something warmer as you rested your head on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you liked it."

He tilted his head, voice low. "Yeah... me too."

He was close. Always close: an arm thrown casually around the back of the couch, a shoulder brushing yours when you laughed too hard, a hand steadying you when the crowd of a new town felt overwhelming.

You didn't stay behind, either. After the incident with the creature by the motel pool, you had insisted on joining them on more hunts as an active member, and to your surprise, they had agreed.

Maybe it was your bravery. Maybe it was the fact that you refused to be treated like something fragile.

But little by little, you became part of the team.

You trained harder with Sam and Dean, practiced with Castiel, learned everything you could about the monsters that haunted the modern world.

At first they gave you easier tasks: research, backup, lookout. But it wasn't long before you were right there in the thick of it: salt rounds loaded, blade steady in your hand, heart pounding in rhythm with theirs.

The adrenaline, the fear, the victories—saving people and hunting things... it bonded you even tighter to them.

Especially to Dean.

You didn't sleep together at the bunker, it would have been too much, maybe, to cross that invisible line there. But during hunting trips, as the motels usually had only two beds, it became natural for you to share one of them.

At first, Sam felt like the most awkward third wheel, and insisted on take his own room. But neither you or Dean seemed to make it look like a serious thing. So you both will just justify it saying there was no need to waste money resources on a second room, and Sam wouldn't push anymore.

Dean would kick off his boots and fall onto the mattress with a groan, then look over at you with a smirk and say, "C'mon, deer, I don't bite."

The first few times you stayed stiff and awkward on the edge of the bed, afraid of getting too close. But Dean never pressed, never teased, he just offered his quiet presence, and somehow that was enough.

As time passed, you grew comfortable. You stopped worrying about the way your arm brushed his when you shifted at night. Stopped pulling away when you woke up with your legs tangled loosely under the covers. Stopped pretending you didn't notice the way your heart sped up when he was near.

There was tension, of course. But Dean never pushed. Never crossed a line. And somehow, that made it worse: made you ache for him even more.

You didn't know exactly when it happened, maybe it was one night when he stayed up until dawn patching up a cut on your forehead, hands trembling slightly; maybe it was the way he remembered you liked your coffee sweet and loaded with cream in the morning.

But somewhere between the laughter, the long looks, the soft silences... You realized you were falling for Dean Winchester.

Or maybe it was there from the beginning. Even before that very first kiss.

And even though the thought scared you, it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

"Oh my goodness," you laughed, your face lighting up with amusement as you clicked through your own laptop.

Of course, you had your own now. The Winchesters had bought it for you after you accidentally stumbled upon downloaded porn on Dean's. Sam was really pissed at him.

"Dean, you've got to see this!"

He looked up from where he was cleaning one of his knives, arching a brow. "What now? Another animal video you think might change my life?"

You turned the screen toward him with a grin. "Nope. Almost better. A pie convention two towns over this weekend. Apparently it's like, the 'pie event of the year'? There's a cherry pie competition, a blindfold taste test... It's like Disneyland made of pies."

Dean stood up so fast he nearly knocked over the salt canister on the table. "You're not messing with me?"

"Would I lie about pie?" you teased, and his grin stretched wide, boyish and awed.

"We're going. You and me. Sam can handle things here, he won't appreciate it."

Right on cue, Sam strolled into the room, coffee in hand, and Dean spun toward him. "Hey, Sammy. Claire and I are taking a little road trip. Couple days. Important business."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, pie?"

Dean didn't even bother denying it. He just smiled and shrugged in a funny way.

Sam rolled his eyes, but there was something fond in the way he glanced between the two of you. "Fine. I was planning on heading out with Charlie and Cas anyway. They roped me into some kind of lore convention... don't ask. Just don't die in a pie-eating accident."

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "No promises."

You caught Sam's gaze as he turned to leave, and he gave you the tiniest smirk and wink before disappearing down the hall.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Next weekend, the pie convention turned out to be everything Dean dreamed of and more. Booths stretched for blocks, each one offering free samples, contests, and flavors that had Dean acting like a kid at Christmas. You trailed behind him, your fingers sticky with berry filling, laughing as he tried (and failed) to talk a judge into giving him an extra slice of bourbon pecan. So he stole it from him, anyway.

By the end of the day, you both collapsed into the Impala parked just off a quiet country road. The sun was setting behind the trees, golden light spilling through the windshield, painting the car in a soft, amber glow. Dean handed you a beer, and you took a sip, still not convinced of the taste.

"I'm not sayin' it was the best day of my life," he said, eyes closed. "But if I die tomorrow, I'll go with a smile."

You laughed, turning in your seat to face him. "You really love pie that much, didn't you?"

He cracked one eye open and smiled at you. "I love anything that makes me forget the crap for a while."

There was a long pause then, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that let you feel things you didn't know how to name yet.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly more serious. "Y'know... back there. All those people. Families, couples, kids..." He glanced at you. "Sometimes I wonder what it would've been like them. Normal. If I hadn't grown up the way I did."

You tilted your head slightly, sensing the heaviness behind his words.

"My dad... he trained us to hunt before we even knew how to live. And I... I did things. Made choices that stick with me." He let out a shaky breath. "It's hard not to think I've screwed everything up."

You didn't say anything, just let your fingers gently brush the back of his hand resting between you. He didn't pull away.

You knew some things about their past: their family, the hell they'd been through. Dean was the one who told you, bit by bit. Glimpses of what they had done, what they had survived. The people that had lost. It was hard not to cry when you saw the hurt, the pain, and sometimes even fear in his eyes.

It made you want to free him from all of it... to lift the weight off his shoulders and make him feel safe. Cared for. Loved.

After a while, he looked down at your touch, then back up, his voice quieter. "Don't you ever want to know more about where you come from? About who you were before all this?"

You hesitated, eyes flicking to the windshield, watching the fading light turn to dusk.

"I used to," you said softly, that British accent sending shivers down his spine. "But it frightens me. What if I find out I was someone I wouldn't even like? What if I came from a world that wouldn't let me return here?"

Dean looked at you, listening intently, his breath caught in his throat.

"If I'm here now, it's for a reason," you continued. "And I don't want to waste time chasing shadows when I have a real life now. With Sam, with Castiel, and..." your voice faltered for a second, but you met his gaze steadily, "with you."

Dean didn't say anything at first, just stared, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he let out a quiet, breathless laugh; not mocking, just overwhelmed.

"You're something else, deer," he murmured.

And maybe it were the stars beginning to blink into the night sky above, or just the mere heat of the moment, but you felt the urgent desire to kiss him.

Dean's eyes were still on you, something soft and stunned flickering behind the green of them. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the low hum of cicadas around you, the distant rustle of trees in the night.

You swallowed hard.

"I mean it," you said, voice quiet but certain. "This... all of this. It matters to me."

Dean gave a small nod, but his expression was unreadable. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Maybe he didn't believe it, not really. That someone like you could want someone like him.

So you kissed him. To proof that for you he was worth of love as much as anyone else.

You weren't even sure what possessed you. Maybe it was the moonlight, or the pie, or just the way he looked at you like you were the one thing he didn't want to break. Your lips brushed his, tentative at first, barely more than a breath. But he didn't pull away.

He stilled.

And then he kissed you back.

Slow, warm, reverent... not like the rushed, careless kisses you'd seen in films. Not like the ones full of teeth and tongue that made you hide your face behind a pillow when they played on motel televisions. This was just different.

But still, your thoughts wandered to those scenes. The ones where the characters ended up tangled in bedsheets, breathless. You remembered the way Dean's jaw would tense slightly when those parts came on, how he'd glance over at you to see if you were watching. You always were.

So am I doing this right? Was it supposed to feel like this... like my whole body was trembling, but not out of fear, but something raw and primitive?

You didn't know, but you wanted to.

You pulled back slightly, breath hitching, your hand resting against his chest. "Dean..." you whispered, nerves tightening your throat. "I... I don't really know how this works. I've never..."

Dean's eyes widened a fraction, and you felt him tense beneath your hand. But not in a bad way, more like he was trying very hard to stay still. Just like you.

You cleared your throat. "But I... I want to."

He blinked at you, processing that. "You mean...?" His voice cracked just a little, and for the first time, Dean Winchester looked genuinely nervous.

You nodded, cheeks flushed. "I trust you."

Dean exhaled, slow and careful, and then gently squeezed your hand. "Okay. Then we're gonna take it slow. Real slow, alright?"

You nodded again, heart pounding.

He looked around, then jerked a thumb toward the back seat. "Gimme a sec."

You watched as Dean opened the back door, and started rearranging the Impala's interior with almost military precision. He took off his jacket, folded it into a pillow, pulled a blanket from the trunk, then ducked back inside to make sure the door locks were set.

When he was done, he opened the door for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. No pressure, just patience. Just Dean.

And before he could say more, you reached for him. Your hand curled into the collar of his flannel, tugging gently, and then your mouth found his.

It was clumsy at first, more instinct than anything, but it was yours. Hungry in a way that surprised even you.

Dean froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, then responded with a low sound in his throat that sent a rush through your body. His hands came to your waist, steadying, anchoring.

You broke the kiss just enough to whisper, "I want this, Dean. I want it with you."

That was all it took.

He helped you into the backseat carefully, never taking his eyes off yours, and shut the door behind him. You settled back against the makeshift bedding, nerves fluttering wildly in your belly. He joined you, hovering above, and you welcomed him between your thighs.

It was overwhelming in the best of the ways: his breath against your face, his fingers brushing your temple like a question. And you answered by reaching up to guide him down to you.

Dean kissed you again, slower this time. His lips moved gently against yours, coaxing rather than taking, and the warmth of him poured over you like sunlight after a long storm. His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek in a touch so tender it made your chest ache.

You clung to him, not just from inexperience or nerves, but because it felt like the only place you wanted to be. His weight above you was grounding, protective, and arousing.

"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper against your skin. "We stop the second you want to, I swear."

You nodded, your breath shaky, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "I trust you, Dean."

Dean lowered his head to kiss your neck, his pelvis already pressing yours into the seat. Your hand slipped inside his shirt, caressing the warm skin underneath.

He groaned softly against your skin, the sound rumbling through your chest as his lips traced a slow path along your throat. Your fingers explored the curve of his ribs, the rise and fall of his breath under your touch grounding you more than anything else ever had.

Then he straightened up, managing to pull off his shirt.

You sat up slightly, breath catching in your throat as your eyes traced the lines of his body: the muscles beneath his skin, the constellation of old scars scattered across his arms and torso. Each mark told a story, and though you didn't know them all, you wanted to.

Your gaze lingered on the tattoo over his chest, the black anti-possession symbol, bold against his skin. Your fingers brushed it gently, the warmth of his slightly tanned skin beneath your touch. A few freckles dusted his shoulders, unexpected and endearing.

Dean leaned in and started with your boots, crouching low in the cramped space of the Impala's backseat. He unlaced them slowly, then slid them off one by one, his touch warm and steady.

Next, his fingers moved to the hem of your shirt, peeling it up gently, lifting it over your head, careful not to startle or rush you. When your skin met the cool air, you shivered, and he immediately reached your arms, caressing. His hands paused, reverent, before moving to the button of your pants.

He undid the button, then the zipper, moving slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn't. The fabric slid down your hips, tugging carefully until the pants pooled at your ankles, then helped you shift to pull them free.

And there you were, semi-naked beneath Dean Winchester. Trapped in his car while he just looked at you with a quiet awe in his expression that made you feel more beautiful than you ever had before.

He guided you onto your back again with a soft kiss. His hands didn't waste time, caressing your exposed skin, tracing a delicate path along your shoulders, down your breasts, your ribcage, and over your hips.

"Tell me something, baby," his voice was a soft, warm whisper. "Have you ever touched yourself?"

"Touch myself?" you asked shyly, like you weren't sure what he meant—but deep down you had an idea. You flushed, like you'd just been caught in the act.

"Yeah," he purred. "You know, when you're in your room, alone, and you get that feeling right here." One of his hands caressed the soft flesh of your tummy, just above the hem of your panties. "Like you're feeling now. Have you ever tried to ease it, baby?"

"I might have," you confess in a whisper. You had, maybe. In your bed, when the thought of Dean was too loud, too overwhelming to ignore. You'd tried to soothe the instinct.

"Then show me."

Dean took your hand in his, guiding both into your cotton panties. You let out a gasp, a sound of surprise and pleasure, as he pressed your whole palm against your core.

"Move your fingers, sweetheart. Show me what feels good."

Your breath caught in your throat as you began to move, slow and uncertain at first. Dean stayed close, his palm pressed against the back of your hand, mirroring every motion, feeling every hesitant stroke.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice low and full of heat. "Nice and slow. Let me feel you, baby."

Your fingers explored with timid curiosity, guided by instinct and the memory of lonely nights. But this time, it felt different. This time, Dean was watching. Feeling you. Breathing with you. Encouraging you.

His hand never left yours, he followed each movement, memorizing the rhythm of your touch, the little shifts that made your breath catch.

"You like it right there," he said, more statement than question. He could feel it in the way your hand paused, circled, lingered. "Show me everything, sweetheart. I wanna learn what gets you off."

He tightened his fingers just slightly, applying the gentlest pressure behind yours, enough to remind you he was right there.

"Feels better when I'm here, doesn't it?" he whispered.

You nodded, barely able to form words. "Y-Yeah..."

Dean's smile was slow, wicked, and full of adoration. "Then take more. Go deeper. You know what your body wants, baby. Don't be shy."

You obeyed, breath hitching again as the sensation intensified. Dean kissed your shoulder, his touch reverent, worshipful.

"That's my girl," he murmured. "So damn beautiful when you're like this."

You moved with a little more confidence now, spurred by his praise and presence. The heat between your legs was pulsing, building, and the knowledge that Dean could feel every tremor, every stutter in your motion, only made it burn hotter.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" he whispered. "Wanna feel you fall apart in my hands."

You felt his fingers taking the lead, thicker and rougher, parting your wet folds with ease, quickly finding al the perfect spots that he just learned, making your whole body tremble under his touch, utterly at his mercy. Your sticky fingers clenched into the muscles of his arm, seeking for relief.

Soft circles, and up and down, teasing your entrance like a menace. But he didn't push farther yet. No, he wanted you dripping, begging, ready for him first.

After a few more movements, you finally came undone with a soft cry. You felt your honey dripping thick out of you, and your whole body trembling beneath his.

He kissed your neck and collarbone, his fingers still working you—softer now, but still making you squirm beneath him, your hips shifting, chasing his touch.

"...Dean... more..." you moaned right into his ear, and you felt his still-clothed pelvis brush against the bare skin of your thigh, seeking friction, seeking release.

So your hands moved downward, searching for the buckle of his belt. Your fingers worked quickly, and you felt his body shift, helping you along, letting you work him open.

Dean's breath catched the moment he felt your delicate, tentative hand find him inside his boxers. He never left his place there, though.

You were amused by the expression on his face: his eyes fluttering shut, jaw tensing, and body surrendering over you.

He hardened in your hand, thick and warm, and the reaction made you even wetter around his fingers.

"Holy shit... deer," he groaned, low and rough under his breath.

Your hand started moving on his length— clumsy, inexperienced — but he seemed to like it. A lot. He started moving his fingers again, sinking both of you into a mess of hands, moans, and whispered names.

After a few minutes, he looked up at you, breathless. "Wait..." he growled. "If you keep going, I'm..." He couldn't even finish the sentence, the mere thought made him shudder.

"You what?" you asked, the almost innocent tone in your voice making him twitch in your palm.

"Oh, sweetheart," he groaned, "you're gonna be the death of me."

A shaky breath escaped your lips at the unexpected sight of Dean bringing his slick-coated fingers to his mouth, savoring your taste.

"You taste so sweet, baby," he whispered. "If I had more space, I swear I'd eat your pussy out right here."

You didn't quite understand what he meant, but God, you wanted to find out right now.

He made room to work on his own jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. And once he was completely naked in front of you, the sight made your face flush an impossible shade of red.

You couldn't help but look away. You thought about his size... which definitely left your mouth dry.

For the first time that night, real nervousness settled in. Reality hit you, mixing with anticipation and desire. You wanted to feel him, but the thought of what it might be like to have him inside you made your stomach twist with nerves.

He noticed your wide eyes and gave you a soft, crooked grin. One hand reached up to gently brush your hair behind your ear. "You okay?" he asked, voice low and tender.

You nodded, even though your heart was pounding. "I just... I've never done this before."

His expression softened even more. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of you," he promised.

Then he leaned down and kissed you gently, while his hands slid under your back to work the clasp of your bra.

His green eyes darkened the moment he saw your breasts for the first time. One of his broad hands cupped one, squeezing gently, his thumb tracing slow circles over your delicate nipple. You moaned, feeling heat pool between your legs, your thighs instinctively pressing together.

"You're so damn beautiful, deer," he whispered, warm and sincere. "Fuck, you're more perfect than I imagined..."

Then his hands moved to the last piece of clothing still on you. You lifted your hips, letting him slip your panties down and off, leaving you completely bare beneath him.

Dean sat back for a moment, just looking at you, jaw slightly clenched like he was trying to hold himself together. Then he reached over to the glove box, flipped it open, and pulled out a small foil packet.

You blinked. "What's that?"

He paused, smirking a little. "A condom."

"...A what?"

Dean's brows shot up, amused. "You've never seen one of these?"

You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on the tiny package like it might bite.

His grin widened as he tore it open. "Damn, sweetheart, you really are from another time."

You flushed, but the way he looked at you, warm and patient, made it hard to feel embarrassed. He held it up like he was giving a lesson. "This goes on me. It, uh... keeps things safe. And clean. You know, in case of babies, diseases, apocalypse-related mishaps..."

Your eyes widened even more. "Oh. That's... practical."

Dean laughed softly, low in his throat. "Very."

You watched, curious and fascinated, as he rolled the condom on. Once he was done, he looked at you again, his smile softer now.

"I didn't know there were tools involved," you breathed, heart pounding.

He kissed your temple, chuckling. "There's a lot I want to teach you. But tonight? Just this. Just us."

Your nod was soft but sure. Dean leaned over you, supporting his weight on one forearm as his other hand slid carefully down your side.

His lips found yours, slow and deep, and he whispered against them, "Listen, this might hurt just a little. I can't help it, but I promise it'll feel good soon after. Just tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"

You whispered a shaky "Okay," and wrapped your arms around him, grounding yourself in the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

Then, with a patience you hadn't expected, and a tenderness that nearly broke you, he began to guide himself against you.

You felt his tip brushing against your core, drawing soft whimpers from your lips, especially when he took his time to caress your most sensitive spot.

Your body responded instinctively, already stretching around him, a reaction born purely from need.

"Dean..." you breathed, almost desperately. You didn't even know exactly what you were asking for, just that you needed something, anything, to ease the ache burning inside you.

"I know, babygirl," he murmured gently. "I'm just making sure you're ready for me."

And then, after a few more heartbeats, you felt him shift, lining himself up at your entrance, and slowly begin to push into you. You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders as a deep stretch filled you, unfamiliar and overwhelming. It didn't exactly hurt, but it wasn't easy, either. Your body trembled beneath his, adjusting to him inch by inch.

Dean kissed your jaw, your cheek, your lips, whispering praises in between: "You're doing so good... I've got you... just a little more..."

Finally, he was fully inside, still and patient, his forehead resting gently against yours.

"You okay?" he asked again, his voice strained now, clearly holding back for your sake.

You nodded, breath shaky. "Yeah. Just... don't move yet."

He smiled faintly, brushing your hair back. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."

It didn't take long for him to start feeling you moving your hips. Timidly at first, just a small shift, testing how your body responded to the fullness.

Dean froze, groaning softly into the crook of your neck. "Fuck, sweetheart..."

The sound of his voice sent a spark straight through your spine. Encouraged, you shifted again, a little more this time, and his hands immediately found your waist, steadying you with a reverence that made your chest tighten.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled back just slightly and eased forward again, watching your face the entire time.

"God, you feel incredible," he whispered, kissing your temple. "So damn perfect around me..."

His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm, matching your pace with slow, deliberate thrusts. It was overwhelming: his body, his heat, the way his mouth found yours between soft curses and whispered praises. The way he held you, like you were something precious.

"Dean... Dean..." You couldn't do anything else but say his name like a prayer, especially as he teased your limits, pushing harder, deeper into you.

The sound of skin against skin, moans, and whimpers from both of you soon hushed even the rain tapping on the roof of the Impala. Every improper, filthy sound you made only encouraged him to take you rougher... yet he still held back, still careful, still trying not to hurt or scare you.

Dean was also trying to keep himself from finishing too soon. You didn't know it, but he hadn't been with anyone in months. Sure, the need had been there, but his mind always betrayed him, because if it wasn't you, he didn't want it. It wouldn't make sense to be with someone else while thinking of you.

And now that he had you, it only confirmed that he didn't need anyone else.

"It feels so good," you breathed out, voice trembling. "Dean... please! Don't stop..."

Dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His movements grew more intense, more desperate, until you could feel every tremble in his body.

His mouth traveled to your breasts, taking one of your nipples, his tongue tracing soft circles around it, his mouth leaving sucking marks on your soft flesh. Marking you as his. Your own breath hitched, the pleasure building to a crescendo that made your fingers dig into his back.

"C'mon, deer, cum for me," he groaned, feeling your pussy clench harder around his cock. "Feels so good, baby..."

You clung to him as the waves crested, your body tensed, then unraveled all at once, a soft cry escaping your lips as your world seemed to splinter in the most beautiful way.

Dean wasn't far behind. You felt him still, groaning your name like it was the only word he knew, holding you so close it was hard to tell where he ended and you began. His whole body shuddered against yours before he finally collapsed, breathing hard, his forehead pressing gently to yours.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant patter of rain against the Impala's roof.

Then, softly, he smiled. "You okay?"

You nodded, still dazed, your voice a whisper. "I've never felt anything like that."

"Me neither, baby." Dean kissed you slowly, tenderly, like a promise. "You did amazing."

For a long, long time, he had wanted you. You were the one who lived in his deepest dreams, the one he whispered about in the solitude of his bedroom. Having you beneath him felt like the most natural, meant-to-be, thing in the universe.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he realized he might actually be feeling something.

Not a whim, not just a fleeting attraction, or a desperate lifeboat he clung to just to keep from drowning in his own misery.

No, this was real, and raw, and pure.

For the first time in his life, he knew that if you asked him to, he'd leave everything behind just to be with you.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet. "I'm not letting you go, deer."

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," you promised back.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The sun was already high when you stirred, warm light pouring in through the fogged-up windows of the Impala. The air around you was heavy with the scent of wet earth, leather, and lingering sex. You couldn't tell where you ended and he began, limbs tangled in the sweetest kind of chaos.

You blinked, the world slowly coming into focus, and that's when you realized three things in quick succession:

1. You were still naked.

2. Dean was still naked.

3. Someone was knocking on the window.

A loud, authoritative knock.

Dean groaned, half-asleep, and shifted against you under the thin blanket. "Five more minutes," he muttered against the top of your head.

"Dean," you hissed, your heart sprinting, trapped between the seat and his body, "Someone's at the window!"

"What!?" he sat up too fast, the blanket slipping off his shoulder.

Then came the knock again, louder this time, followed by a voice: "Sir? Ma'am? Step out of the vehicle. Now."

Dean swore under his breath. "Oh, son of a bitch."

You scrambled to clutch the blanket around you, and Dean fumbled to cover both of you with the rest of it, twisting around to squint through the window. Sure enough: a very unimpressed-looking sheriff, mirrored sunglasses and all, stood outside with a notepad in one hand and what looked like a ticket book in the other.

"Oh God," you whispered. "Dean... what do we do?"

"I got it. I got this," he said, trying (and failing) to sound confident. He rolled the window down two centimeters. "Morning, officer."

The man stared, jaw tight. "Morning. We got a call from the farm owner. Said he found your car fogged up and occupied. You do realize you're trespassing, right?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Right. Yeah. Look, uh... there's a very romantic explanation for this."

The officer looked pointedly at the crumpled clothes in the front seat and your sock stuck to the gearshift.

Dean winced. "Okay. Not a great explanation. But I swear, we're consenting adults. Nobody's in danger here."

"You're also naked in public," the officer said flatly. "Which puts us in indecent exposure territory."

"Okay, okay... technically, we're in a car..."

"You're not helping," you whispered.

Eventually, the officer gave five awkward minutes to "dress and compose yourselves" standing with his back turned. Dean struggled to get his jeans on while still inside the cramped backseat. You accidentally elbowed him in the ribs trying to find your bra. And your dignity.

"Romantic night under the stars, huh?" he muttered, wincing.

"Romantic until the part where we get arrested."

Once (mostly) clothed, you were herded into the back of a patrol car like a couple of teenagers caught skipping curfew. You just wanted to cry, humiliation creeping up your whole being.

At the station, Dean was allowed one call. Of course, he dialed Sam.

"Yeah?" Sam answered, groggy.

"I need you to come to the county sheriff's office."

Pause. "What did you do?"

"It's not... okay, yes, technically it's public indecency, but..."

"Oh my God," Sam groaned.

"Also, bring bail money. And pants. Mine have a strange stain on it."

"Dean, I don't wanna know..."

By the time Sam arrived, looking smug and far too well-rested, you and Dean were sitting in plastic chairs, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

"So," Sam said, barely suppressing a grin, "Romantic getaway, huh?"

Dean glared at him. "Shut up and pay the damn fine."

Sam turned to you. "You okay?"

You buried your face in your hands. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair."

As Sam paid the bail and the receptionist handed over a brown paper bag with your boots inside, Dean leaned toward you with a sheepish smile.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The door to the bunker groaned open as you and Dean stepped in, both red-faced, tired, and still vaguely humiliated from the morning's events. Sam followed behind, biting his tongue to keep from laughing out loud for the hundredth time.

Castiel looked up from the map table as you entered. He tilted his head, his brows furrowing at the sight of you two slinking in like teenagers caught sneaking in after curfew.

You passed him by, unable to even look him –or Sam, or Dean– to the face, and go sit down in a chair. Castiel sat across from you, watching you with intense curiosity as you shifted on the hard wooden chair, trying not to wince. "Claire, are you injured?"

Instinctively, your eyes turned to Dean, who somehow seemed to read your mind: you were sore. His gaze softened, a silent apology in his eyes. Cheeks burning, you quickly shifted your gaze to the table.

"No, Cas. Just my dignity."

"What happened?" Castiel asked, his voice low and steady, like the head of a household demanding the truth from his daughter.

Sam, already sipping coffee and waiting for the explosion, said casually, "They were caught... romancing in the back of the Impala. By the police."

Castiel's gaze snapped to you. "You were compromised in a vehicle?"

You sank lower into your chair. "It's not..."

"I trusted him," Castiel said solemnly, pointing a very slow, accusatory finger at Dean. "I left you alone for one evening and this is the result?"

Dean held up both hands. "Whoa, okay. Let's not go full Puritan ghost here."

"She's from 1815, Dean. That is practically the Regency era. Have you any idea what this would do to her dowry?"

You choked. "I don't even have a bank account, Cas."

"And now your reputation is in ruins," he added gravely, looking mildly offended on your behalf.

Dean, trying not to lost control of the situation, ran a hand down his face. "Cas, I didn't seduce a nun. I took Claire stargazing and then... things happened."

Castiel turned to you, eyes softened but authority still on them. "Did he declare his intentions? Did he offer marriage, or at the very least a respectful courtship letter?"

Dean choked on his own saliva the moment the word "marriage" reached his ears.

"I don't think people write letters anymore," you mumbled.

Castiel's jaw tightened. "They should."

"Cas," Sam said, nearly wheezing, "You're reacting like she was ruined in the middle of a ball."

"She was ruined in a Chevrolet, Sam!"

"Okay, that's it. It's enough, dude," Dean replied.

But Castiel wasn't done. He stepped in front of you and placed a hand on your shoulder. "If you are with child..."

"CASTIEL!" The three of you shouted at unison.

He blinked. "Then I shall smite him accordingly."

"No one is smiting anyone, Castiel," you intervened, somewhere between a nervous laughter and wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

Dean stood up. "Listen, Cas, I really appreciate your concern about my girl, believe me, I do."

Your cheeks burned and your heart flipped at the expression he used to refer to you: my girl.

"But this is the 21st century, and she's a grown, consenting woman. We don't need divine supervision every time we get a little close. So, now I'm going to take a shower, and when I come back, everyone's going to pretend this never happened."

Castiel tilted his head, visibly processing the statement.

Sam cleared his throat and stood as well. "Alright, I think that's our cue. C'mon, Cas. Let's give them a little privacy."

Reluctantly, Castiel nodded. "Very well. But if she is harmed..."

"She won't be," Dean cut in gently, but firmly. "Ever."

The angel gave Dean one last glare before walking out of the room in a swirl of dramatic disapproval. Sam snorted, giving the both of you a knowing smile before following Cas to the kitchen.

Dean turned back to you, that cocky little smirk softening as he approached.

"Except you, sweetheart," he murmured low, only for you to hear. "I want you to remember everything."

Dean brushed his knuckles gently along your arm. "So... shower?" he offered, a glint in his eye that made your stomach flutter.

You nodded, smiling, heart thudding when his fingers laced with yours. He led you to the bathroom, and the door clicked shut behind you.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

Let me know if you want to be added in the Tag list!

[cherry-holmes]

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 7: The Sin of the Innocent

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Dean didn’t know how to handle things with you. Not until he was forced to face the truth: he didn’t want to lose you.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3.6K

Warnings: Typical violence of the serie. Angst and a lot of feelings.

A/N: Hello! I hope you enjoy this chapter!😁

I’m currently working on Part 10 (yes, 10!) I’m struggling to fit all my ideas into the story… and oh boy, I really hope you like what’s coming🥺 I’m so excited, tbh!

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

A soft knock sounded on the door, followed by the creak of the handle turning.

Dean stepped into the room, holding a tray of breakfast with three cups of coffee. His eyes scanned the room quickly, his gaze landing on Sam, who was sitting at the small desk, typing on his laptop.

Dean hesitated, then set the tray down on the table. "Where's Claire?" His voice was almost gentle, trying to act as normal as possible.

Truth was, he had barely slept last night.

The memory of your lips on his, the hurt in your eyes, the pain he had caused you... it all burned deep inside his chest, a mix of guilt, shame, and desire.

Damn it.

He hated himself the second that words left his mouth back on the gas station. Every one of them had been a lie. Meant to hurt. Meant to push you away. And God, did it work.

Deeply, he knew he wasn't the kind of guy who got to have things like that. Real, soft things. People who looked at him like you did. He just ruined everything he touched.

Better she hates me now than dies later loving me, he thought all night.

So he tried to burned the bridge before it could be built. But as the saying went: where there's been fire, ashes always remain. And his refuse to settle down.

No with the way you moved his world. How he couldn't bear the thought of making you cry. Not when you were too soft, too sweet, too beautiful for someone too cursed like him. And yet, he still kissed you. Again. 

And now he was wondering if it was a mistake. Not because he didn't like it or wanted, but because he couldn't get enough.

Sam didn't look up from his laptop but answered in a calm voice, "I saw her by the pool this morning, feet in the water. She was still there when I returned from my morning run."

Dean's brow furrowed. "You sure?"

Sam nodded, finally looking up at his brother. "Yeah, man. I'm telling you."

Dean's heart sank. "I went for breakfast, and I didn't see her. When I came back, she wasn't there either."

His first instinct was to go after you, but he didn't want to sound too worried, even though he felt it gnawing at him. "You think she's just... walking around?" His voice sounded less convincing.

"Maybe," Sam said, his tone turning more serious. "I mean, she seems to run away every time she interacts with you. Seriously, what's up with you guys?"

Dean looked at him, jaw tight, clearly debating whether to say anything. Finally, he let out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"I kissed her," he muttered.

Sam blinked. "You what?"

Dean shifted his weight like he wanted to be anywhere but here. "Twice," he admitted, voice low. "First time... she kissed me. Last night was me."

Sam leaned back against the motel table, arms crossed. "Okay. So why's she running from you like you're the damn plague?"

Dean shook his head, the guilt plain on his face. "Because I keep screwing it up. I kissed her, and then I freaked out. Said a bunch of crap I didn't mean, tried to act like it didn't matter."

"Why?"

Dean hesitated, then said, almost in a whisper, "Because it matters too much."

The words hung there between them, heavier than either of them expected.

Sam sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Dean, you seriously couldn't have picked a worse time to have a crisis."

Dean nodded grimly. "I'm not gonna lose her, Sam."

"Don't worry," Sam tried to reassure him, closing his laptop and heading to the door. "Let's check around the pool."

The quiet atmosphere of the motel only added to the unease gnawing at Dean's gut. He kept his eyes scanning the grounds, hoping to see you somewhere, anywhere. When they reached the pool area, Dean's breath caught in his throat.

There, by the side of the pool, were your boots, abandoned in the grass. Floating in the water, a pair of yellow socks.

"She wouldn't just leave these here," Dean muttered, crouching down to examine them.

Sam's face darkened. "No, she wouldn't."

Dean stood up quickly, his hands clenching into fists. "This doesn't feel right."

"I don't think it's a coincidence," Sam said, locking eyes with Dean. "Bobby called this morning. Apparently the thing we're hunting... it's targeting virgins."

Dean stared at him for a moment, the news settling like a stone in his stomach. "You think Claire...?"

"I'm not sure," Sam interrupted, his voice strained. "But, think about it: she's from 1815. Women were expected to remain pure until marriage. It makes sense if she..."

Dean cut him off. "Son of a bitch." His heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn't afford to think anything else.

Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice calm but firm. "We need to find her. Now."

Dean nodded, a tight breath escaping his lungs. The clock was ticking, and he didn't want to think about what could happen if they were too late.

"Let's go," Dean muttered, already turning on his heel. He needed to find you before it was too late.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

You woke with a jolt, your head pounding. You tried to sit up, but your limbs felt like lead. Your fingers scraped the rough stone beneath you, and a wave of panic swept over you as you blinked into the dim, stifling darkness.

The last thing you remembered was your reflection in the pool, the morning breeze caressing your hair. You were lost in your own thoughts, everything that had happened in your life over the past weeks: the lack of memory, your fear, your dreams, the Winchesters, Dean. And the next thing you knew, there was only darkness.

Then you woke up here. The air thick with dampness and death. A chilling breeze cut through the open cavern, sending shivers down your spine. But it wasn't the cold that terrified you: it was the sight of the other girls. Huddled in a tight group against the far wall, their eyes wide with fear, their faces pale from exhaustion and terror. You immediately knew that you were another of the missing girls in town.

For God’s sake. This was definitely the worst moment to have your first hangover.

You took in a sharp breath, trying to steady yourself. The throbbing pain in your head made it hard to think clearly. But you couldn't waste any more time. You had to get them out of here.

The dead girl lying motionless beside them caught your eye, her face frozen in an expression of terror that sent a chill through your chest. The thought of what might happen to the others if you didn't act quickly made your stomach churn.

You rose shakily to your feet, pressing a hand against the cool stone wall for support. The room was eerily silent except for the quiet sobs of the remaining girls. Their eyes flicked nervously around the cave, like animals waiting to be hunted.

Focus, you reminded yourself, drawing on everything the Winchesters had taught you. Stay calm.

You took a step toward them, your voice low but firm. "Listen to me," you whispered, British accent cutting the air, doing your best to sound confident despite the fear gnawing at your insides. "My friends are looking for us. They'll be here soon. Meanwhile, we need to stick together. I need you to follow my lead."

One of the girls, a younger one with dirty blonde hair, looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes. "W-what's happening? What's going to happen to us?"

You could feel the weight of her question pressing down on you, but you kept your composure, forcing a reassuring smile. "We're getting out of here. But we need to stay quiet, okay? No matter what, do not make a sound until I say so."

They nodded, their fear mingled with a spark of hope.

Your heart raced, but you kept it under control. You scanned the cave, looking for any kind of weapon, anything to use for protection. It was then that you saw it: a long, jagged branch lying a few feet away from you. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

You grabbed it, your fingers trembling as you tightened your grip. Your mind raced, knowing the creature wasn't far, and you didn't have much time. If you couldn't get them out of here, they would all die, including you.

The ground trembled slightly, and your breath hitched as a sound echoed from deeper within the cave. The thing was coming back. It was closer than you thought. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up.

"Get ready," you murmured to the girls, urging them to move closer to the wall. They huddled together, trembling. You glanced back once more before turning to face the dark, gaping opening of the cave.

A slow, menacing sound echoed from the shadows, like a distant growl, low and guttural, and enough to make your blood freeze. Then, you saw it.

The creature stepped out from the darkness, its long, gnarled limbs scraping against the stone floor. Its grotesque, twisted face was barely human, covered in jagged scars, eyes glowing in a shade of yellow. It moved in jerky motions, as though it didn't belong in this world. It was hungry, its twisted grin spreading as it sniffed the air.

"Bloody hell," you muttered under your breath.

You gripped the branch tighter, your knuckles turning white. You'd never been more terrified in your life, but there was no way you were going down without a fight.

It advanced slowly, deliberately, and you forced yourself to take a step forward, standing between the girls and the creature. The others held their breath, wide-eyed and frozen with fear.

"Stay back!" you shouted, your voice cracking with adrenaline. You knew it wouldn't help, but you had to try. The thing didn't stop, only letting out a slow, mocking growl in response.

Then it lunged, its claws reaching for you with unnatural speed.

You barely had time to react. Instinct kicked in, and you swung the branch with all your strength. The creature howled in pain as the jagged end of the branch sliced into its chest, but it didn't stop. Instead, it swiped at you, its claws raking across your side with a sickening rip of fabric and flesh.

You cried out, stumbling back. The pain was excruciating, but you pushed it down. The girls were counting on you.

You couldn't let them down.

"RUN!" you screamed at the girls. "Go! Get to the exit!"

But they hesitated, still frozen with fear.

"Now!" you barked. "Go!"

They ran, scrambling toward the cave entrance. You stood your ground, knowing that you had to keep the creature distracted for just a little longer. The pain in your side was overwhelming, but you kept fighting, using the branch to fend off its attacks. Every time it lunged, you fought back, forcing it to stay on the defensive.

The creature's growls were deafening now, its hunger palpable. It wasn't just after you, it wanted them too.

But just as you thought you couldn't take another second of the fight, you heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. A shot rang out, followed by another. The creature shrieked in agony, its body jerking as the bullets tore through it.

Dean appeared at the mouth of the cave, his face pale but determined, a shotgun in his hands. Sam was right behind him, aiming his own weapon.

Castiel stepped in beside them, his glowing hand outstretched as he used his grace to blast the creature back. The thing screamed in pain as it staggered backward, its body convulsing before it collapsed in a heap of ash.

"You okay?" Dean asked, rushing to your side.

You blinked, feeling your legs give out as the adrenaline faded, your body now screaming in protest. Dean caught you before you could fall, pulling you into his arms.

"I'm fine," you whispered, barely able to breathe as the exhaustion washed over you.

Sam knelt beside you, checking your injuries, his face soft with concern. Castiel moved toward the other girls, guiding them outside, making sure they were safe.

Dean stayed by your side, his hands resting on your waist, his gaze intense. "I've got you."

You didn't have the strength to respond. You were exhausted, your body aching, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Dean carried you inside, ignoring your weak protests. You tried to insist you could walk, that you were fine, but the second he set you down on the bed, your body betrayed you. You winced, curling slightly at the sharp sting in your side where the creature had clawed you.

Castiel had attempted to heal you, but Heaven had clipped his wings long ago for his betrayal, and what little power remained had burned out fighting the monster.

"I'm so sorry, Claire," he had said, visibly guilty of his impotence.

"Don't you worry, Cas, I'll be fine," you assured him with a little smile. "I just–don't understand... why me? I was in the pool one minute, and the next..."

Castiel looks at you then, head tilting slightly in that way of his when he's deciding how much truth he should say.

"The creature preyed exclusively on virgins," he says softly. "That is how it sensed you."

Your breath catches, and your eyes snap to his, but his expression doesn't waver. He's not mocking or judging. He's just... stating a fact.

The blood in your face rushes up, flooding your ears, your cheeks. You can't tell if it's humiliation or something more fragile, like the sharp sting of having something secret pulled into the light.

"Oh," you say.

Dean freezes mid-step, his jaw tightening. Neither of you dare to look the other in the eye. And you wish he wasn't that close to you checking on your wounds.

"We didn't know," Sam says after a beat. His voice is quieter than usual. "Not until Bobby figured it out. The, uh... pattern. It doesn't mean anything. I mean... It's not like..." he finally perceived the awkwardness in the room, and decides to shut up. "Never mind..."

You give a half-laugh, but it dies almost instantly.

"It's fine," you mumble, even though it isn't. Not really.

It's not the virginity, it's the vulnerability. The idea that something out there saw it in you, like a weakness written on your skin.

Dean looks like he wants to say something, but instead he just stands up and walks towards the bathroom. When he appears again, his holding a first aid kit in his hands.

"You go take the girls back to their families," he said to Sam and Cas. "I'll take care of her."

You were the only one to seem ready to argue, Sam and Cas already heading out the motel room.

Dean crouched in front of you, his brows knitted in stubborn determination. "Don't even think about arguing," he said, his voice low but firm. "You almost got ripped apart back there. Let me help."

You opened your mouth to protest again, but the look in his eyes stopped you. This wasn't just about the scratches. This was about what could have happened. About what he'd almost lost. You swallowed hard and gave a small, reluctant nod.

He sat back on his heels, pulling your torn shirt gently aside to get a better look at your injuries. His hands were surprisingly careful, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin as he cleaned the wounds.

You hissed at the sting of the antiseptic, and Dean immediately paused, his green eyes flickering up to yours. "Sorry," he muttered, softer now. "Almost done."

"You don't have to do this," you said quietly, your voice hoarse.

Dean gave a dry chuckle as he wrapped gauze around your ribs. "Yeah, I do."

You looked away, blinking against the sudden sting of tears. You hated feeling weak. Especially in front of him.

When he finished bandaging you up, he sat back, studying you like he wasn't sure if he should say what he was thinking. Finally, he exhaled a heavy breath and spoke.

"You saved them, Claire," he said. "You kept your head. You fought back. You kept them safe until we got there."

You shook your head, the guilt rising in your throat. "One of them... she didn't make it."

Dean leaned forward, catching your gaze and holding it steady. "That's not on you. You saved three lives tonight. You did everything you could. You were... amazing."

Your lips trembled, and you bit the inside of your cheek to stop the tears that threatened to fall. No one had ever said something like that to you before. Well, it's not that you could remember, but something inside you feel like it was the first time someone really care about your accomplishments. Not like this, not with so much sincerity and pride.

Dean reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before resting gently on your knee. "I'm proud of you, deer," he said, so quietly you almost thought you imagined it.

You let out a shaky breath, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest that had nothing to do with the pain or the exhaustion.

But it didn't last. The weight of the past few days came rushing back. The way he'd been distant, dismissive, cold. Like you hadn't shared anything. Like that kiss meant nothing.

You swallowed hard. "Don't do that, Dean."

He frowned. "Do what?"

"Be sweet. Kind. Like you care. Not when you've been pushing me away since it happened." You met his eyes, steady despite the ache in your body. "That kiss... it was a mistake."

His expression shattered for a second, just enough for you to see the truth beneath it all. "Don't say that."

"What else am I supposed to say? We kissed and then you spent two days pretending I didn't exist."

Dean looked down, guilt etched in every line of his face. "I freak out."

You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

He nodded slowly, running a hand down his face. "Listen, I–I've lost so much... too much. And then you show up. Brave and smart and stubborn... sweet. You remind me there's something good left. And that kiss... it made me feel like I could still want something." He looked back up at you. "But I panicked. So I pushed you away like I always do. Because I always screw things up... Like I already did with you."

Your chest tightened. You reached for his hand without thinking, covering it with your own. "I get it, Dean" you said quietly. "You're scared. So am I. But fear isn't an excuse to treat someone like they don't matter."

Dean flinched, the truth landing hard. You can tell he was truly ashamed.

"You don't get to kiss me like that, treat me like you care, and then act like I imagined it," you went on, not harsh, just honest. "You don't get to look at me like... well, like how you're looking at me right now," both of you flushed. "And then just pretend I'm invisible. I've had enough people in my life make me feel like I was not enough. I won't let you be one of them."

He nodded slowly, the guilt in his eyes deepening. "You're right."

You looked at him, really looked at him. You saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he carried on his shoulders. He looked like someone who hadn't rested in years, not truly.

Your hand reached for his face, hesitant at first, but when your fingers touched his skin, he leaned into it instantly, like he couldn't help himself. He melted into your palm, childlike, as if your touch was the first kindness he'd been offered in ages. There was a rawness in the way he closed his eyes, like he didn't just want it—he needed it in the quietest, most heartbreaking way.

"I'm not asking you to be perfect, Dean. I'm not even asking for anything right now. I just... I need you to stop running. Not toward me. Not away. Just... stand still for once. Let it breathe."

After a moment, he whispered, "So, what then?" he asked, voice rough. "What do we do?"

You gave him a small, tired smile. "We figure it out. Slowly. At our own pace. No pressure. No pretending it didn't happen. But no running from it either."

Dean let out a breath, something like relief softening his features. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. I can try that."

He gave your hand a small squeeze, and this time, he didn't let go.

When Sam came in later, he found you and Dean curled slightly toward each other, still clothed, still battered from the night's ordeal, but breathing slow and even. There was still a small, polite gap between your bodies, enough that you could pretend it wasn't intentional if you needed to. You were under the blanket, Dean sleeping over them.

Sam smiled faintly, shook his head, and quietly pulled the door shut again. Then, he slipped into his own bed.

For the first time in days, sleep came deep and peaceful for the three of you, wrapped not in fear or nightmares, but in the quiet comfort of knowing someone would be there when you opened your eyes.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche

Let me know if you want to be added in the Tag list!

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 6: Wrong Kind of Bravery

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Dean is a son of bitch.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +3.4k

Warnings: Alcohol consumption (reader). Angst.

A/N: Hello! Part 6 is here😁 Hope you like it! What do you think?

aaaand, prepare for what’s next in further episodes👀 it’s gonna be a total rollercoaster🎢

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The morning after the kiss, you found yourself standing in front of the cracked mirror in your bedroom, eyes tracing the curve of your lips.

The imprint of Dean's kiss lingered, but the memory was more than just the softness of his touch. It was the way his hands had brushed against yours, the fleeting hesitation before the kiss, the weight of the air between you both afterward.

The memory of his smile from the night before came back to you: soft, a little nervous. The way his lips had tasted like whiskey and something sweeter....

And then the way he'd pulled back like he wasn't quite sure of himself, the sudden coldness in his eyes. It was like something snapped in him, shutting a door that had just begun to open.

You couldn't stop thinking about it. You shouldn't have kissed him, or he shouldn't have kissed you. Maybe neither of you should have, and yet, there it was.

"Claire?" Sam's voice drifted in from the hallway, breaking your spiraling thoughts. You quickly wiped your lips, as if the lingering traces of the kiss might be visible.

"Yeah?" you called back, pulling yourself from the mirror.

"We're heading out," Sam continued, his footsteps nearing. "Dean's getting the gear ready."

You nodded, though he couldn't see you.

Dean.

You exhaled, trying to shake the thoughts out of your head. Today was supposed to be about your first actual hunt. Not just staying at the motel, but actually getting into the job. There was no time for this. Not when lives were at stake.

You met Sam at the entrance, and as you stepped outside, the weight of the past twelve hours hit you harder. Dean was standing next to the Impala, eyes sharp and distant, like he'd put up some invisible wall.

He didn't even glance your way when you walked up. You tried, gathering every bit of courage you had, to look him in the face. But he acted like you weren't there. Like you were completely invisible.

It hit you hard, because before yesterday, he used to share those quiet, knowing glances with you. The kind that made you feel seen. Safe.

He'd even stayed by your side while you were unconscious for two days. You knew it because Sam had pointed it out every chance he got: the hours Dean didn't leave your bedside, the way he refused to let you move until the fever had broken and your trembling limbs had steadied.

And now, you were sitting in silence in the backseat, awkwardness creeping through your system. Dean hadn't said a single word since you left the bunker. Not to you. Not even to Sam, unless it was about the case.

What were you thinking? And you still dared to dream that he might have feel something too. Stupid, dumb girl.

You should have known better by now, that you meant no more to him than a little sister. Or maybe not even that. Just some poor, lost girl who had stumbled into his life, his job, his family, his routine.

And you should have known that he was the kind of man who doesn't stay. He wiped you from his mind the moment another woman offered him the comfort of her bed. And he likely did the same to her the next morning, returning to business as usual.

It was the kind of behavior you were supposed to run from. The kind your mother, or perhaps a governess long ago, would have warned you about. Because back in the world you came from—where ladies kept their voices soft and their emotions quieter—you were taught not to even know such things existed.

You were aware of all that just for a simple act of disregard towards you. But it surely didn't prepared you for the way Dean decided to handle the issue...

You were lost in thought, staring out the window. All you could see was your reflection in the glass—tired eyes, flushed cheeks, and the weight of too many unspoken words pressing down on your chest.

It wasn't until Dean pulled off the road at a service station to get gas that you were jolted back to the present.

The three of you stepped out of the car. While Sam headed toward the restroom and went inside to grab a few things for the rest of the trip, you got what felt like the greatest (or worst) idea: say something to him.

"Dean..." you began, your voice quiet, hesitant.

He didn't look at you at first, but then, slowly, his eyes flickered in your direction. That small shift was enough to send a jolt of hope through you. Maybe he was just as confused as you were. Maybe he wanted to talk about it.

You tried to smile, masking the knot tightening in your stomach. "About last night..."

But before you could say anything more, he cut you off with a sharp, humorless laugh.

"Don't get all worked up, alright?" Dean's tone was clipped, biting. "It was just a kiss. Doesn't mean anything." He shook his head, already turning back to the Impala like he couldn't stand to be near the conversation. "You're not really my type, Claire. And honestly? You're kind of... naive. You've got no idea what you're getting into, so don't start thinking there's something here. 'Cause there isn't."

The words hit like a punch to the chest, sharp and unforgiving. Your breath caught, your eyes stinging with the sudden rush of tears you couldn't blink away.

He wouldn't even look at you. Just stood there, arms crossed, wall built back up like you'd never even been allowed close.

You hadn't expected him to sweep you into his arms or confess he'd spent all night replaying the kiss over and over like you had... but you hadn't expected that either.

To be humiliated for trying to express your feelings. Because you just tried to, not even the chance to say anything more, before being cruelly exposed and humiliated.

You curled your fingers into your sleeves and lowered your gaze. You wouldn't cry in front of him. Not when he'd made it so clear it hadn't meant anything.

He was right: you were naive, and dumb, and stupid, and ingenuous, and, and, and...

The rest of the drive was a blur.

You didn't try to speak again. You kept your head turned toward the window, pretending to be fascinated by the endless line of trees and the darkening sky. You didn't even know what town you were headed to anymore. It didn't really matter.

Dean said nothing either, driving like he was running from something. If Sam noticed the tension in the air, didn't say anything.

By the time the Impala rolled into the small town, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. The streets were nearly empty, the stores closed, and the night carried the sticky promise of rain.

Dean pulled into a gravel lot next to a squat motel, the flickering sign reading 'vacancy'.

Sam leaned forward, peering through the windshield. "We should get some rooms, then maybe grab some dinner. There's a bar open down the street. Or..." His voice trailed off as he glanced sideways at Dean, reading the tension crackling like a live wire inside the car.

Dean killed the engine and shoved open the door. "I'll check us in," he muttered.

You didn't move. You sat frozen in the backseat until Sam twisted around, giving you a look that was gentle, patient.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

You forced a smile and nodded. "Just a little tired," you said.

He didn't look convinced, but didn't push. Whatever it was, he knew it was between you and Dean. He'd have a chance to find out later.

Dean came back a few minutes later, tossing two sets of keys toward Sam. "Two rooms. You and Claire in one. Me in the other. I'm tired of the damn couch."

Sam caught the keys and nodded. You were grateful for his silence, for the way he didn't push or pry. Dean was definitely taking distance with you, and probably it was best. You should run away from him, too.

"Let's eat," Dean said, already starting the Impala again without waiting for an answer.

The diner was just a few blocks away. As you stepped out of the Impala, the cool night air brushing against your skin, a familiar flutter of wings stirred the silence. You turned just in time to see Castiel materialize a few meters away, his trench coat flaring slightly with the suddenness of his arrival. You swore you would never get used to it.

"Hey, Cas," Sam greeted him. "What are you doing here?"

He looked around at the dim lights and peeling neon signs, brow furrowed in that usual, confused way of his. "I was... bored," Castiel said simply, as if it explained everything.

Dean chuckled slightly, patting him on the shoulder before heading to the bar.

Inside, the ambiance was a vivid party, a stark contrast to the empty, quiet streets outside. A jukebox played something lively and rough in the corner, while a few people in country hats danced clumsily in the middle.

You slid into a booth next to Sam. Dean and Castiel took the other side. A waitress with tired eyes handed out menus and brought waters without asking.

All you ordered your usuals. Except Castiel, of course, he went with nothing.

"Alright," Sam started, opening his laptop, his voice shifting into business mode. "Victims were all last seen near the edge of town. No obvious connection between them: different ages, race, religion. Except their gender. All women. And there's been reports of weird sightings out by the woods."

You listened, or tried to. But it was hard to focus when you could feel Dean's presence across from you like a physical thing. Heavy. Sharp. Hurting.

You reached for your glass of water, but another waitress—younger and prettier—appeared just then with a tray: this time not just with food but also a small round of beers and a couple of shot glasses. Compliments of the house, she said.

"Long drive?" she guessed, smiling at Dean.

Dean gave her a half-smile, all charm. "Something like that." He didn't even try to hide his gaze from her rear end as she walked away, deliberately swaying her hips in a teasing way.

You felt it then... that stupid pang of jealousy. Hot and miserable and completely irrational.

Before you could stop yourself, you grabbed one of the beers and pulled it toward you.

Dean's hand shot out, covering the glass before you could lift it.

"Bad idea, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and gruff. His green eyes pinned you there for a moment, serious. "You don't know your limit. And this case it's not exactly a party."

You snatched your hand back, stung more by the condescending tone than the words themselves. "Dean, if you can have a few, so can I," you said, trying to sound confident even though your voice wobbled slightly.

Dean sat back in the booth, beer in hand, watching you with an unreadable expression. "It's different," he muttered before taking a slow pull from his bottle.

He'd better not have said that, because now it was a challenge. You ignored the twist in your gut, and grabbed the shot anyway, throwing it back in one go. It burned like hell, but you refused to cough or wince.

Sam and Castiel gave both of you a side-eye, half worried, half wondering if they'd walked into something they didn't want to understand. Sam gave a small, awkward cough and, wisely, decided to stick to the case notes.

You listened... sort of. One drink turned into two, then a beer. Two beers. And before you knew it, you were laughing too loudly at something Castiel said that probably wasn't even funny.

"You need to lighten up," you told Cas, bumping your shoulder into his. "Come on. Dance with me."

"I am not familiar with this kind of music," Castiel said, looking around at the people moving to the beat.

"Neither do I! That's the point!" you laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the dance floor.

Dean watched from the booth, jaw tight, beer bottle forgotten in his hand.

"What's up with you two?" Sam asked him, but when Dean shot him a sharp look and took a big sip of his beer, Sam decided not to push it.

The dance floor was sticky and cramped, the music loud and pulsing. You swayed to the rhythm, trying to get Castiel to loosen up. He moved stiffly, like he was calculating each step. You were drunk enough not to care about the weird looks.

You spun around, trying to get Castiel to follow your lead. He stumbled after you awkwardly, stiff as a board but trying. You were laughing, breathless, the alcohol making you brave and stupid. You felt happy. Truly happy.

And suddenly, you felt a hand close around your wrist.

"Hey, baby," a rough voice slurred into your ear. You stumbled, turning to find a man standing way too close, reeking of alcohol and smoke. "Your boyfriend here don't look like he knows what to do with you. How 'bout you come dance with me instead?"

You pulled your hand back, frowning. "No, thanks."

But he reached for you again, and you stepped back out of his reach, your head turning to Castiel for help.

Castiel stepped in, his expression unshaken. "She is not interested. Please leave."

The man sneered, looking Cas up and down with a smirk. "What you gonna do about it, pretty boy?"

The man grabbed your arm hard, yanking you off balance before Castiel could even move. You let out a cry, twisting and shoving at him, panic flaring sharp in your chest as Castiel tried to reach for you.

Before anything else could happen, a blur of motion crossed your vision.

Dean shoved past Castiel, fist flying with a brutal precision that sent the guy flat on the floor. The crack of knuckles meeting jaw echoed loud over the music.

"She's not yours to touch," Dean growled, standing over him, his chest heaving.

"Dean..." you tried to say something, anything, but he didn't even glance at you.

"DEAN!" Sam, who was approaching the scene, shouted behind you.

Another man, bigger and heavier, was about to punch Dean, but Castiel intervened, pushing him away. The fat guy threw a punch straight at the angel's face. You cried out for him, but you saw the attacker clutch his hand to his chest, his face contorted in pain. Cas didn't even blink.

"I'll distract them. Go!" he shouted.

"Let's go," Dean snapped, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward the exit. Sam scrambled to catch up with both of you.

The cold night air hit you like a slap when Dean shoved the door open. He didn't stop walking until you were halfway across the parking lot, his grip still tight on your wrist.

"Let go!" you finally yanked free, stumbling back a step.

He whirled around to face you then, his chest rising and falling with anger, or maybe something else. Fear. You could see it now, bleeding through the cracks in his fury.

"You don't get it, do you?" His voice was low, dangerous. "You can't just... walk around acting like nothing's gonna touch you. This life... it doesn't work that way. You get careless, you get hurt."

"Dean..." Sam warned.

You swallowed hard, blinking against the tears that threatened to spill.

"I was just dancing," you said, voice small.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldn't stand how close he'd gotten.

"You're not some... girl at a bar," he said, his voice breaking into something hoarse. "You're..."

He stopped himself, clenching his jaw. Sam gave Dean a sharp look before turning to you.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, but it was a lie. You weren't okay. Not even close.

Another flutter of wings and Castiel was there.

"Let's get out of here," he hurried and the four of you get into the car.

The ride to the motel was silent, the tension in the air thick enough to choke. Dean's jaw was clenched, eyes focused on the road ahead, while Sam kept glancing between the road and Dean, clearly unsure of what to say. Castiel sat quietly next to you in the back, his expression unreadable.

When you pulled into the parking lot of the motel, it felt like almost all the alcohol in your blood had worn off.

The boys were already walking toward the motel door, but you didn't follow immediately. You stood there for a moment, the emotions swirling inside you: the hurt, the confusion, the lingering taste of rejection... and somehow, a spark of something else you couldn't quite name.

"Dean," you called after him, your voice firm, with just a hint of drunkenness left.

He paused but didn't turn around. "What?"

You took a few unsteady steps toward him, your mind buzzing with everything you hadn't said earlier. "Could you give us a moment, please?" you asked Sam and Castiel.

The angel turned around and disappeared into the room. Sam looked at you both, unsure, but decided it wasn't his battle to die for.

"What?" Dean repeated, his voice bored and exasperated. But his body language said otherwise. He was tense, nervous.

"One minute you're bloody lovely to me, and the next... you're just plain rude. I haven't the faintest idea what you want from me. I don't understand it, Dean. I really don't." Your words came out slurred, but the pain was still there, raw.

Dean's hand clenched into a fist, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away again. But he didn't. His face a mix of frustration and something else you couldn't understand.

"Deer..." His voice was low, edged with something painful.

"Don't. Don't 'deer' me now when you've been treating me like rubbish." you snapped.

He took a breath to keep the frustration away. It didn't work, of course. "You don't know what this life does to people. What it does to me."

You took another step closer. "And I've got to pay for it, Dean?" you whispered. "That doesn't give you the right to hurt me."

As soon as it left your lips, a sob tore from your throat. You didn't try to hide it; you just let the tears fall freely.

Dean's eyes softened for a moment, and then, without warning, he stepped forward, closing the distance between you. His hands cupped your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear. "Please, don't cry," he murmured.

"Then don't make me," you responded, barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry, deer."

Every cell of your body screamed at you, telling that you should step back. That you shouldn't give him the opportunity to get under your skin just to have him rip it off tomorrow with his indifference and meanness. That you should just get into bed and sleep the night away, or you gonna regret it.

But instead, before you could think or say anything else, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was nothing like the first. It was rough, desperate, and full of everything neither of you had been able to say. It tasted like tears and tequila. You could feel the heat of his body, the pressure of his hands on your face, and for a moment, it was all you could feel.

You kissed him back, despite the tears, despite the pain, despite everything you shouldn't have felt.

When the kiss finally broke, you were both breathless. You leaned against him, your forehead resting against his chest, the sobs still wracking your body.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Claire," Dean whispered, his voice strained.

You didn't know either. His eyes were soft, but there was something unspoken there, something that made you want to stay and figure it out, but your mind was a mess, your heart too raw to deal with it right now.

"I don't expect you to know," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You rubbed your eyes, feeling the weight of everything press down on your chest. "Maybe... maybe we just need to sleep it off, yeah?"

Dean opened his mouth like he was about to say something more, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping.

You took a step back, your body moving on autopilot, as if you couldn't stand there anymore, couldn't face him, couldn't keep pretending that things were fixed by a kiss when they were so far from it.

"Good night, Dean," you said, didn't wait for a reply.

Instead, he just saw you head toward your shared room with his brother, feeling the burn of your tearful eyes.

Slipping into the room, you closed the door quietly behind you. Sam was in the shower, so there was no need for a walk of shame or worried glances from him.

You finally allowing yourself to collapse onto the bed. The weight of the night settled into your bones, and you couldn't shake the feeling that things were never going to be the same again.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche

Let me know if you want to be added in the Tag list!

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 5: According to the Lore of Salt and Silver

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: You wake with memories that feel like someone else’s life, until you realize they were yours. As the pieces start falling into place, you decide that it’s time to start a new life, and the Winchesters and Castiel help you train for whatever’s coming.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +2.2K

Warnings: This chapter contains sensible topics. Allusion of suicide.

A/N: Hola Cazadores! Here’s Part 5 of SPN series! Tell me, what do you think of the road so far? Hope you like it!

Btw, have you seen the series Masterlist?👀

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

You sat at the war room table, hands curled around a chipped mug of tea that Dean had awkwardly made for you: two sugars, no milk, like you'd mumbled. Your throat still burned, and your voice came in scraps, but it was there.

The silence around you was warm, watchful.

Dean sat across from you, his arms folded on the table like he didn't quite trust the chair to hold his weight. Sam had a notepad open, more habit than necessity, pen uncapped and waiting. Castiel stood behind you, not hovering, but steady, like a shield between you and whatever still clung to the dark.

Your eyes flicked between them.

"While I was out," you began, after a while. You had already told them what you saw in your visions with Castiel. But during the two days you'd been unconscious, the dreams had kept coming. They were sporadic, like smoke vanishing the moment you tried to hold on. "I dreamed of something else..."

"About what, deer?" Dean asked, his eyes fixed on you.

"I saw her again," you said softly. Your accent cut through the air, still hoarse, but unmistakably British. "She looked like me. It felt like... like I was remembering something. But not just that... it was like I was her."

Dean leaned forward slightly, trying to picture your words.

"What was happening?" Sam asked gently.

"Nothing. She... I... was alone," you whispered. "I wore a blue gown. Very fine silk, high waist, a red lace on my neck..."

Your hand traveled to the bruise on your neck, still very sore and purple.

Castiel's gaze sharpened.

"I think I was about to get married," you went on. "To a noble man. Tall, dark hair, kind eyes. I never saw him, but it was all on my mind. He didn't love me, neither did I, but he... he tried to be gentle. Said he wanted me to be happy."

Dean frowned. "Is that supposed to be a good thing?"

Jealousy burned low in his chest, unexpected and unwelcome. He didn't say anything else, mostly because he was surprised to feel it at all.

You gave a tired, crooked smile. "You don't know society men."

Sam's eyebrows twitched upward. "And you do?" He asked. You didn't responded, you weren't sure.

"I planned to run," you continued instead, the smile fading. "I... I left but... didn't went too far."

A hush settled over the room again.

"Why?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," you whispered. "I mean... I'm not sure."

Dean's hands tightened into fists on the table.

"I followed myself. I reached the woods on foot. There was a lake." You stopped and swallowed hard. They were staring at you.

"And there was a big, old tree," you said, your voice trembling. "It had a rope hanging from one of the branches..."

Dean opened his mouth, but before he could speak, your eyes fluttered. Your breath hitched. You lifted your fingers to your throat. The bruise still throbbed, dark and ugly beneath your skin.

Your gaze turned to Castiel.

"I did this to myself, didn't I?" you asked, tears welling in your eyes.

Castiel's voice broke the silence. "Yes."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but didn't. He couldn't. It was too hard. Too raw.

As your eyes dropped to the table, tormented and twisted, he felt the urgency to protect you. To shield you against everything and everyone.

"What happened then?" Sam asked, more to himself than to anyone else, trying to piece the puzzle together. "If you... well, did that to yourself, why are you here? In the now?"

"I... I don't know," you mumbled. The three of you turned to look at Castiel, but he didn't have any answers either.

Dean swore under his breath and stood up, pacing a little before finally turning back to you. "That's it," he said. "No more visions. No more dream-diving. Not unless you've got backup."

You glanced up, confused.

"You're getting better, deer" he said, gentler now. "You're getting stronger. And if something out there wants you back, you need to know how to protect yourself."

You blinked at him. "You want to... train me?"

Sam leaned forward on the table, hands clasped loosely. "We've been talking," he said, glancing at Dean and then at Castiel, who stood silently near the end of the war room table. "About what happened. And about what could happen, if something out there is looking for you."

You met his gaze, your voice still rough, but steady. "You think it's not over."

"We don't know," Dean said, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "But if we're wrong, and it is over, then great. If we're right? Then we better make sure you don't go down easy next time."

You swallowed. Then gave a single nod.

"So," Sam said, straightening up, "we figured we could start as soon as possible. I'll walk you through the lore. Monsters, sigils, wards... what kind of things we deal with."

"And I'll show you the fun stuff," Dean added, pushing away from the table. "Weapons. Basic self-defense. How to not shoot yourself with rock salt."

"It’ll also protect you while you join us during hunts," Sam added. "You’re part of the team now."

You nodded, almost smiled, a feeling of belonging warming your heart.

Dean caught it, and something flickered behind his eyes. Something warm. But he looked away quickly, covering it with his usual smirk. "Come on, Marty McFly. Time to learn how to kill a wendigo."

"Marty McFly?" you asked, brows furrowing in confusion as you stood.

Sam chuckled from across the room. "Don't ask."

You gave him a little smile, but your heart tight in your chest, wondering if there was anything that could hurt more than you already were.

You kept having dreams every night. So frequently that you didn't bother to let them know anymore. There were just blurry images, incoherent phrases and vague sentences.

The most clear you get were the three and the rope, the red lace, your family symbol and the man's blue eyes. Nothing more.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

For the following week, you underwent intensive training with the Winchester brothers in the arts of Hunting.

Every morning, you woke up early and went straight to the kitchen to make breakfast for them. They had insisted it wasn't necessary, but you refused to stop. You wanted to do it as a small gesture of gratitude for everything they had done for you.

One of those mornings, you took advantage of a quiet moment when Castiel arrived early to announce something new.

"I've been thinking," you began, a small rush of excitement and confidence running through your veins. "Since there's no record of my real name, I've decided I can choose my own. I'm a new person, a brand-new woman with a new life. So I need a new name. I chose it because it's the closest I have to my real family name: Sinclair. I'll go by Claire from now on."

There was a pause. Castiel tilted his head, as if committing the name to memory, and Sam gave a small, encouraging nod.

"Claire," he said thoughtfully. "That feels right."

But Dean didn't say anything right away. His eyes lingered on you, something soft and almost vulnerable flickering in them. You felt the weight of his gaze settle over you like a blanket; warm, just a little too much to bear without looking away.

But you didn't.

He stepped a little closer, like he didn't even realize he was doing it. "Claire," he repeated, quieter this time. "Yeah... that's a good name."

His voice was gentler than you'd ever heard it. It curled around your heart, made it beat a little faster. Made you want to look down at your shoes, or hide behind your hair, but you didn't. You held his gaze, even if your cheeks warmed under it.

He gave you a slow, crooked smile, one of the real ones. "It suits you," he said, like it was a fact, not just a compliment.

You swallowed, blinking fast, heart fluttering in a way that scared you and comforted you all at once.

Then his grin turned playful, a little more sure of itself.

"Well, Claire," he added, more casually now, his grin a little more sure, "guess we're gonna have to get you a fake IDs."

You laughed, the tension breaking like sunlight through clouds, but the warmth he left in your chest stayed.

In the afternoons, you attended what Dean had jokingly named «Hunting College».

Castiel taught you everything he knew about angels and demons, Heaven and Hell. His lessons were the most cryptic, often fragmented like ancient poetry, but his steady voice helped things settle in your mind like forgotten memories.

Sam focused on lore: monsters, cryptids, ghosts, spirits, rituals, sigils... you name it. He'd sit with you in the library, books spread out across the table like a battlefield of ink and parchment, guiding you through the pages with patient, scholarly ease.

And Dean... Dean was the toughest instructor of all. He handled weapons training, teaching you how to use silver bullets, silver blades, rock salt, and your own fists. Physical combat was grueling, and he never let you slack off, though he softened the edges of his orders with quick grins and low murmurs of encouragement.

"No, like this," he said for the third time, his voice rough with impatience but his hands... his hands were steady as they moved to correct you.

You froze when he stepped behind you. One hand on your elbow, guiding it. The other settling at your waist, adjusting your balance. He was close. Too close. You could feel the heat of him at your back, the slow inhale of his breath near your ear.

"Keep your shoulders down. Feet apart. Grounded."

"I am grounded," you murmured, not looking at him. He prayed you didn't notice the effect your British accent had on him.

Dean gave a low, amused sound in his throat. "You'd tip over if I blew on you, sweetheart."

You turned your head just slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. "You're not very good at compliments."

"I'm not trying to compliment you," he said, but his voice had dropped a little, like he was trying to convince himself of that too.

The gun in your hands felt heavy. Foreign. Dangerous.

He moved back, finally giving you room to breathe again, and pointed toward the targets.

"Alright. Aim. Breathe. Squeeze the trigger, don't yank it."

You took a breath, lined up the shot, and fired. You missed.

"You're flinching," he said, walking over. "You're scared of it."

"Shouldn't I be?" you replied, your voice clipped. "This could kill someone."

Dean stepped in front of you, eyebrows raised. "That's why I'm teaching you."

He held out his hand. You placed the gun in his palm. He checked it, reloaded it, then passed it back. But this time, when you reached for it, your fingers brushed his. You didn't pull away.

Neither did he.

A beat passed. "Try again," Dean said, quieter now.

You lifted the gun. Aimed.

This time, when you fired, it hit just left of center.

Dean gave a short nod. You turned your face toward him, not thinking, just looking. His expression was unreadable, but there was something heavy behind his green eyes. Something that made your pulse skip.

"Better?" you asked.

The moment stretched too long. You should've stepped back. He should've turned away. But neither of you moved.

Dean's eyes flicked from yours to your lips, then back again. He exhaled through his nose, quiet, like he was trying to steady something inside him. You didn't dare move. You barely breathed.

Then he said it, soft, like he wasn't even thinking: "You did good, deer."

Your brows furrowed. That name again.

You tilted your head slightly. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

Dean blinked, like he hadn't expected you to ask. "What?"

"Deer," you said. "You know I chose a name for myself. Claire. You were there."

He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. "Yeah, I know. I just... it fits. The way we found you. You looked at me like..." He trailed off. Then shrugged. "Like a fawn caught in the middle of the road."

You almost smiled. "Is that supposed to be charming?"

He gave a lopsided grin. "I'm not great with charming."

"I noticed," you whispered.

You didn't mean to lean in. And he didn't mean to meet you there. But somehow, both of you did.

The kiss was tentative, just a brush of lips that surprised you both. It wasn't practiced or confident. It was unsure. Cautious. Like a question neither of you wanted to ask out loud.

You pulled back first. Not far. Just enough to see the worry flicker behind his eyes.

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw clenched, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

You looked away, suddenly aware of everything: your hands, the gun still between you, the heat in your chest.

You weren't supposed to be this kind of girl. Not forward. Not fragile. Not reckless.

And yet...

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, something raw in his voice. "Sorry. That... shouldn't've happened."

But you shook your head. "It's okay."

"We're finished for today," he said, stepping back. Then he turned and walked away.

So you just stood there, in the quiet of the range, with the scent of salt and gunpowder... and the ghost of his soft lips still lingering over yours.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮

Supernatural Series Masterlist

(Dean Winchester x Female!Reader)

Main Masterlist

Series Summary: When Dean and Sam Winchester rescue a mysterious young woman in the middle of nowhere, they quickly realize she’s not like anyone they’ve ever met. Silent, wounded, and with no memory of who she is or where she came from, she clings to survival like it’s all she has left.

Please check on every chapter for its own warnings.

Series warnings: Violence typical of the series. Memory loss. Slow-burn. Age-gap (Dean early 30s / Reader early 20s). Mentions of sex and eventual sexual relationships. Mentions of suicide. Mentions of family issues. Reader gives herself a name, but no physical appearance is mentioned. Use of female pronouns. Images in the visual board are just illustrative.

THE ROAD SO FAR:

Part 1: In the Middle of the Road

Part 2: A Quiet Place to Hide

Part 3: A Soft Place to Break

Part 4: The Name No One Remembered

Part 5: According to the Lore of Salt and Silver

Part 6: Wrong Kind of Bravery

Part 7: The Sin of the Innocent

Part 8: Heat of the Moment

Part 9: Never Mine to Lose

Part 10: Wayward Daughter

Part 11: The Prophecy

Part 12: A Ghost Dammed to Live

Part 13: Sweet Child o' Mine

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

Let me know if you want to be added in the Tag list!

[cherry-holmes]

Did I just read your entire javier peña fic in a couple of hours? Yes I did. No me arrepiento de nada, fue increíble!

omg! Me alegra que te haya gustado tanto! Thank you so much🤍🤍🤍

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x fem!reader)

Part 4: The Name No One Remembered

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: After a reveling dream, all you want is answers, something to hold on to. But sometimes, the answers don’t heal: they hurt.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +3.4K

Warnings: Implied past trauma and mental illness. Mild language. Angst and emotional hurt/comfort dynamic.

A/N: omg part 4 already!I hope you’re as excited reading as me writing this series! I have so many ideas, i hope i can portray them as good as i think they are🤞🏻 I love reading comments! So don’t be shy and tell me what do you think about the series🥹

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

You were walking through a garden of stone.

The world around you was quiet, but not peaceful. It felt muted, like someone had placed a veil between you and sound. The only thing you could hear was the rustle of your own skirts brushing against the grass, the faint click of your boots on old stone paths. The trees loomed tall and proud, shaped by hands that had once carefully trimmed every branch. There were rosebushes, wilting with time, and ivy climbing over marble statues.

Your fingers grazed one of them, an angel, its face crumbling and wings chipped... and suddenly, your breath caught.

Etched at its base was a symbol. A crest. A circle surrounded by thorns, with a sword piercing through its center.

You didn't know how you knew it, but you did:

It belonged to your family.

The rush of it hit you like thunder. Cold, unfamiliar recognition. Your knees buckled. You tried to speak, to call out for someone, anyone, but your voice was swallowed by the silence.

The air shifted. The sun disappeared behind storm clouds, and you turned toward the path again; only this time, it wasn't a garden. It was a graveyard. Mud clung to your shoes. Shadows clung to your back. You were alone.

And then... You woke up.

Heart hammering, chest heaving, fingers curled into the motel sheets like claws. The room was dark, quiet except for Sam's soft breathing. The couch where Dean used to sleep was empty. You didn't know if he had come back at all.

You looked at the clock on the nightstand. Six minus five in the morning. Your clothes clung to your skin, damp with sweat.

That symbol... your brain replayed it like a flickering film reel. You didn't understand it, but something in your chest ached with the need to find it again. To know what it meant.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, silent as a breath. You reached for one of the new hoodie you had bought, pulled it over your nightshirt, and tiptoed across the room. Sam didn't stir.

By the door, you grabbed the cellphone Dean had given you yesterday, but placed it back on the table. You wanted anything but him to find you. You didn't want to see him. So you leave it.

You remembered the small public library tucked between a diner and a laundromat a few blocks away. You'd seen it when you went shopping.

The lock clicked softly. You slipped into the morning air before the sun had fully risen.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Dean shoved open the door with his shoulder, tired and a little hungover. He kicked his boots off, ran a hand through his messy hair, and dropped his jacket over a chair.

He moved to the little fridge, grabbing a bottle of cold water and drinking it all. He finished, exhaling like he'd been holding it in all night.

The truth was... last night hadn't been good.

It wasn't the girl's fault. She was nice, pretty. Funny, even. But halfway through, while she was talking about something he didn't care about, he'd zoned out, mind drifting somewhere else.

To the motel. To you.

To the way your eyes followed him when you thought he wasn't looking. To your silence, to the strange calm you carried like armor.

He'd kissed the waitress, tried to make it feel like something. But her skin wasn't as warm as yours had been when he held you in the kitchen. Her eyes didn't settle deep in his brain like yours had.

At some point, in the middle of it all, he'd looked at her face and thought: She's not her.

And then it was over.

Now here he was, standing in a cheap motel room, hungover, guilty, and haunted by the image of you, floating in silence over his head like a ghost he couldn't touch.

He looked toward the beds. Sam was still curled under the covers... But yours was empty.

Dean's brow furrowed. "Deer?" he called you by your nickname aloud, heading toward the bathroom. He checked inside. Nothing.

He froze. Something cold twisted in his gut. "Sam," he called, louder now, walking back toward the beds. "Hey. Sam."

Sam groaned, rolling over. "What...?"

"She's gone."

That woke Sam fast. He sat up, blinking hard, then looked around the room. "Gone?"

Dean held up the phone from the nightstand. "She leave this. But she didn't leave a note."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "Shit."

Dean was already pulling his boots back on, grabbing the keys. "You think something got her?"

"No," Sam said quickly, frowning. "Not like that. There's no sign of a struggle. Her boots are gone. Her hoodie, too."

Dean scanned the room again, jaw tight. "So what? She just walked out in the middle of the goddamn night?"

Sam hesitated. Then, something seemed to click on his mind. "She looked... unsettled last night, Dean. After the restaurant."

Dean paused mid-step. "What do you mean?"

Sam gave him a look. "I think she has feelings for you, man."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Dean, the waitress? You didn't see the way she looked after you called her our 'little sister'? Like it stung."

Dean's mouth opened, then closed again.

"I think she was bonding with you. At dinner, she was actually smiling. Seemed happy. Then you got distracted. And I saw her face change." Sam stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. "You didn't notice because you were too busy making out with the waitress in the back booth."

Dean grimaced.

Sam continued, "I figured she'd just go quiet like usual, but... she looked hurt. I don't even think she knows what she's feeling, but it was there. You should've seen her when you left with that woman."

Dean's jaw clenched. Shame rose hot in his throat.

I thought about her the whole damn time, he didn't say.

He remembered the shift: how the night had gone dull halfway through, how the woman's perfume turned his stomach, how the whole thing felt off. Like he'd been chasing comfort in the wrong place.

Wishing he'd stayed at the table. Wishing she'd looked at him the way she had before he ruined it.

Not when she was so quiet. So strange. So... young in a way that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with grief and displacement.

He swallowed hard.

"I'll find her," Dean said, already walking toward the door. "I'll drive around... hit the diner, the shops. Maybe that library we passed."

And with that, he was out the door.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The library smelled like old paper and dust, a kind of silence that wrapped around you like a familiar blanket. You hadn't meant to run. It hadn't even felt like running, really, just moving, instinctively, like your body had decided on its own that it couldn't sit still any longer.

You didn't even know what you were searching for, only that the symbol from your dream still burned in the back of your mind, etched in golden light behind your eyelids. A name. A crest. Something that had felt known, even if your waking self had never seen it before.

The librarian had looked at you strangely when you mimed a book and then drew the symbol in your notebook. She said nothing, but led you toward a section on European heraldry, her eyes kind but curious.

You'd been buried in a stack of old books for over an hour, tracing faded ink with your fingertips, flipping pages slowly and carefully. And still, nothing that matched. Not quite. But a few things were close. Your heartbeat hadn't slowed since you arrived.

Your hands trembled slightly as you turned another page. You tried to ignore the way your chest ached.

Stop thinking about last night. Stop thinking about him.

But your mind drifted anyway... to the way Dean had smiled at you while you were eating, the way he laughed when you wrinkled your nose at the overly sweet pie. The way you'd thought, foolishly, maybe he likes me too.

Then the waitress. The words "she's our little sister" cutting sharper than anything else. You hadn't cried, but your throat had burned for hours afterward.

You felt pathetic. Thinking of him when you had things more important to dig in than him.

Suddenly, a door creaked open at the front of the building. You didn't lift your head at first, until a voice called, low and familiar.

"Deer..."

Your heart jolted. You turned slowly, spine stiff with panic and embarrassment.

Dean stood at the entrance to the reading room, breathing hard like he'd been running. His eyes scanned the shelves, then landed on you.

His shoulders dropped, just a little. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath, stepping closer. "You scared the hell outta me."

You didn't move. Didn't smile. Just watched him as he came to stand across from you at the long oak table.

He looked like hell. Rumpled jacket, hair a mess, eyes red-rimmed and bleary.

"I thought maybe..." he stopped himself, jaw tight. "You okay, deer?"

You felt the urgency to ask him to stop calling you 'deer.' Not because it bothered you, it didn't. It just made your heart flutter and your cheeks warm in a way you didn't quite know how to handle. But instead of saying anything, you only managed a tiny, hesitant nod.

"I... I shouldn't..." he added, quieter now. Something seemed to be stuck in his throat, unsure of put in on the table. "Didn't mean to make you feel..." His words faltered, and then his shoulder went up again, his eyes suddenly serious. "Don't do that again. If you need anything, you tell me. Tell us."

You blinked at him, chest aching again, but you held his heavy gaze.

He looked down at your notebook, then at the stack of books beside you. "What's all this?"

You hesitated, then nudged the notebook toward him.

He squinted at the symbol you'd drawn, brows furrowing. "You dreamt this, deer?"

You nodded.

Dean looked at you a moment longer, then pulled out the chair beside you and sat down. His eyes softened slightly again.

"Okay," he said. "Let's find out what it is."

Eventually, he pulled out his phone.

"Hey," he said, keeping his voice low. "Yeah. Found her. She's safe. Yeah, come to the library." A pause. "No, the town one. She's looking into something from a dream... it's weird, but... I dunno, man. It might be important."

You looked at him as he hung up, and he gave you a small, apologetic smile.

"Sam'll be here in a few."

About ten minutes later, Sam arrived, hair a little windblown and worry still creasing his face. It softened the moment he saw you hunched over the table, book open in front of you.

"Hey," he said gently, sliding into the seat across from you. "Glad you're okay."

You offered a quick glance and a small nod.

Dean filled him in quickly, pointing to the sketch in your notebook. Sam took over then, pulling another dusty tome from the nearby shelf, one of those massive genealogical registers, and flipping with practiced ease.

You sat in silence beside Dean as he flipped carefully through another thick book of heraldic symbols, the yellowed pages whispering with every turn. You could feel his body heat beside you, steady and grounding. He hadn't said much since sitting down, but he hadn't left your side either, and that meant something.

Every few minutes, he glanced at your notebook, then at your face, as if he wanted to ask a hundred questions but didn't know where to start.

After another forty-five minutes, Sam spoke again. "This one?" he asked, tilting the book slightly toward you.

You leaned in, eyes widening as you saw it. A sketch of the crest, your dream's symbol, nestled beneath a short, faded entry:

House of Sinclair

Nobility of Essex, England – Early 19th century.

Prominent family of social and political influence during the Regency era. Historical records mention three daughters born to Lord George Sinclair and Lady Margaret.

Little was known of the eldest and youngest, though they were noted to have married into other noble families. The middle daughter, however, was marked with a suddenly absence.

Name withheld or lost. Described in scarce entries as "unwell," "willful," and "troubled by melancholia."

Vanished in her early twenties. No recorded marriage. No burial site listed. The only information about her was the date of her disappearance: June 18th, 1815. It was remembered because her family was furious that news of the Battle of Waterloo had overshadowed her disappearance, preventing it from being published in the newspapers.

Family correspondence and estate documents were sealed after her disappearance. A crest often associated with the Sinclair depicts a sparrow in flight beneath a crown of thorns, believed to be a personal sigil adopted after the daughter's vanishing. Rumors suggest spiritual unrest or scandal.

Your heart thumped loudly in your chest. You reached out, fingers grazing the text.

Dean exhaled. "No names, huh?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing concrete. The registry ends there."

You looked down, brow furrowed, the silence pressing in again. Then you picked up your pen, flipped your notebook to a blank page, and wrote a single word:

𝓒𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓵

Sam leaned forward, reading it. "You want him to look again?"

You nodded once.

Dean looked at you carefully. "You sure, deer? That stuff's... not always easy."

Your eyes met his eyes and you nodded again.

Dean let out a breath, then gave a small nod of his own. "Alright."

The three of you headed out of the library into the pale light of morning, the word Sinclair lingering in your mind like a match just beginning to spark.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

By the time they pulled into the bunker's garage, you were already opening the door, stepping out before the Impala had fully stopped. You didn't wait for them, you knew the path now. Down the stairs, through the hall, into the main room.

You stood at the edge of the war table. Dean and Sam caught up a moment later.

You flipped to the page where you'd written his name. Took a breath. Then placed the notebook carefully on the table and stepped back.

The air changed instantly. The lights buzzed and dimmed. The air turned still. And then, with a soft flutter of wings...

Castiel appeared.

He stood just beyond the war table, trench coat draped like always, his eyes immediately settling on you. Not on the brothers. Not on the room. On you.

His expression softened. He tilted his head slightly.

"You remember," he said, almost in awe.

You didn't respond. You only looked at him, your eyes wide and careful.

Sam stepped in. "She had a dream. There was a crest...House of Sinclair. We found a match in a genealogy record. Missing daughter, early 19th century."

Castiel nodded slowly, gaze never leaving yours. "I see it."

Dean leaned forward, hands braced on the table. "Can you show her? Whatever this is, who she was?"

Your hand moved instinctively, pressing to your chest, then to the notebook, then to the table again.

Castiel understood. He stepped closer. "You don't need words," he said softly. "You only need to be willing."

You looked at his outstretched hand. And after a long pause, you stepped forward and placed your fingers lightly in his.

A sudden rush of air swept through the bunker.

The lights flared, then dimmed. You didn't feel fear, not exactly... just a tight pull in your chest, like something deep inside you was stirring.

Castiel's voice echoed, distant and warm: "Hold on..."

And the world around you began to fall away.

But you didn't fall.

It was more like being drawn, gently pulled from one place to another, not by force, but by memory. By something ancient and buried.

Castiel's hand was warm in yours, grounding you in the now, even as the room around you faded like smoke. The bunker, the table, Sam and Dean... they blurred into shadows and whispers. All that remained was light. Soft and flickering. Like candlelight behind heavy curtains.

You were standing in a grand room. Velvet drapes. A carved fireplace. Music, faint and haunting, drifted from beyond the walls. It wasn't your memory. Not yet. But it knew you. Welcomed you like a ghost that had waited too long.

Castiel stood beside you. Silent. Watching.

Across the room, you saw a young woman in a baby blue silk gown.

She was standing by a window, facing away from you. Her hair was pinned in careful curls, a silver comb glinting in the candlelight. Her hands were clenched at her sides, trembling. You didn't need to see her face to know she was afraid. You felt it in your bones.

A male voice echoed behind her, low and stern:

"Think of the family. Think of the arrangement."

Another voice, younger, colder, and jealous said: "She should be grateful. Mister Benedict could've chosen anyone."

The girl didn't turn. But her shoulders rose, then fell. She was holding something in her hand: a ribbon, dark red, trailing from her fingers like blood.

You took a step forward, but the scene shattered.

The room dissolved, replaced by fragments. Heartbreaking sobbing. Running footsteps. A ball. Trees moving violently in the wind. And then...

The symbol.

Carved into a stone floor, just like in your dream.

You gasped. Not aloud, your voice still hadn't come, but your breath caught in your throat, sharp and painful.

Castiel's hand gently squeezed yours.

"She wanted to be happy," he said, his voice low. "She wanted to be free. But the world was not kind to her."

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

"She made a choice," he added, "to escape."

The vision began to fade. The memory pulled back like the tide, leaving only the echoes.

A symbol.

A rope under a tree.

A name no one remembered.

And the ribbon. Scarlet, slipping through pale fingers like a final goodbye…

You returned to the bunker floor in a rush of light and stillness. Dean had moved closer without realizing it. Sam stared like he'd seen a ghost.

You were still holding Castiel's hand.

Trembling violently.

You couldn't breathe.

And wetness touched your cheeks.

Tears.

And then, darkness.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

You woke gasping.

Sheets tangled around you, your breath hitching in broken sobs. The room was dark, save for the warm lamplight. A callused hand gripped yours tightly.

Dean.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes wide and bloodshot, like he hadn't blinked in hours. His flannel sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms tense, jaw clenched tight.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Are you okay, deer?"

Your gaze searched his, but your body still felt like it was sinking in molasses. It hurt to breathe.

Dean leaned in slightly, voice softer now. "You convulsed," he said, his broad hands caressing your soft hair. "Like... full-on seizure. You collapsed in my arms. You've been out for almost two days." He paused. "Sam went to get some more towels. You were burning up."

You swallowed thickly. Tried to sit up. He steadied you.

His hand brushed your hair aside, fingers froze against your skin.

"There's a mark," he whispered. "On your neck."

You didn't need to look. You somehow knew.

He stared at it for a second too long, then stood. Moved to the desk, fidgeted with the glass of water there, something to distract himself.

"Whatever you saw..." he began, then trailed off. "You don't have to tell us. Not if you aren't ready."

You stared at him.

The lump in your throat grew, until you thought it might choke you.

And then...

Quiet. Barely audible.

But there, in the stillness between you:

"...Dean."

He froze. Turned. Eyes wide. "You..." He blinked. "Did you just...?"

You gave a faint nod. Your mouth trembling.

"Say it again?" he asked, stepping closer, kneeling beside the bed.

Your lips parted. "Dean..." Not loud. Not strong. But real.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. "That's it, deer," he whispered. "It's me."

And in the silence that followed, he reached for your hand again, held it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Like it was the only thing that mattered.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 3: A Soft Place to Break

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: As you bond with the Winchester family, you began to feel closer to Dean… until a careless comment at a bar shatters the fragile connection you thought you were building, leaving you feeling invisible once again.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +2.4K

Warnings: Mentions of hunting. Brief mention of blood and injuries. Alcohol consumption. Brief mention of sex (not reader).

A/N: Hello Hunters! Here’s Part 3 of my Winchester series. Hope you like it!

I’m posting the SERIES MASTERLIST once a little more gets revealed about Reader 👀 gotta keep the spoilers at bay! But tell me, what do you think it’s about? I love reading your comments!

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Time. Time. Time. Time.

The word raced through your head, faster each time.

Was Castiel right about your aura? Honestly, it would explain a lot. You truly felt displaced, not just in place, but in time.

Even the simplest things around you: the clothes you wore, the food you eat, the bottles of shampoo in the bathroom, felt strange. You couldn't stop staring at the microwave like it might bite you.

It was more than weird. It was unsettling.

You started to sweat in bed, your spiraling thoughts chasing away any trace of sleep.

And then, your mind wandered to Dean. The way he had held you in the kitchen... the look in his eyes as he tried to soothe you...

Something in your chest fluttered when you thought about the way his hands had lingered just a little longer than necessary. The way his voice had softened for you. The way you had leaned into him without thinking.

And suddenly, you were thinking about his hands again. About the curve of his lips. About the warmth of his chest under your cheek. About what it might feel like to be...

You flinched, startled by your own thoughts. Heat flooded your cheeks in the dark.

That was indecent. Still, you couldn't stop thinking about him. And not just on his physical presence but in the way his eyes darkened when he's lost in thought.

How sad he looks when he's not aware you're watching him. There was a sadness on his eyes that made you feel pity about him. Like you wanted to fix it. Fix him.

Eventually, exhaustion won over your scattered mind, and you slipped into sleep without realizing it.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you woke with a clear purpose for the first time in days.

You wanted to thank them.

So you padded barefoot to the kitchen, the silence of the bunker oddly comforting. Everything about it was so foreign, cold metal, buzzing lights, shelves stacked with books and weapons, but you were starting to find comfort in the routine of it. In them.

You opened the fridge, the cabinets. Took stock of what they had. Eggs, bread, some old tins, jam. You frowned at the strange packaging but worked around it, moving on instinct more than memory.

By the time Sam and Dean emerged of their rooms rumpled, groggy, still in their sleep clothes, you had already set the table: scrambled eggs, toast stacked high, thick slices of ham seared on the stove, a small bowl of jam, and tea.

Everything had a strange, old-fashioned charm to it. A breakfast more suited for a quiet English countryside than the cold war-room bunker they called home.

Dean blinked hard, rubbing his eyes. "This is... different," he muttered, still half-asleep as he stepped closer.

Sam frowned at the table, then at you, confused. "Is that tea?"

You stood by the stove, hands tucked in front of you, watching them quietly, unsure if you'd done something wrong.

But then Dean gave a low whistle and dropped into the chair. "Well, I'm not complaining. I'm starving."

He took a bite of the eggs and made a sound low in his throat, half surprise, half approval. "Damn, deer" he said, glancing up at you. "This is really good."

You looked down, a little awkwardly, folding your hands in front of you. You weren't used to praise. Or maybe you were. But the sounds he made and the way he talked to you, made your mind drift to the kind of thoughts you were having last night. Fortunately, he was very busy devouring his breakfast to notice the change of color on your face.

Sam picked up the teapot with curiosity, lifting the lid and sniffing the steam. "Did you... make this from scratch?" he asked, more to himself than you.

You gave a small nod. Sam shared a quick look with Dean, then sat down beside him.

"You, uh..." Dean leaned back in the chair, eyes still on you. "You sleep okay, deer?"

You hesitated. Another tiny nod. You didn't meet his eyes this time, fearing that if you do, he might seen what you were thinking about him.

Dean's gaze lingered longer than necessary. He wasn't subtle about it. You could feel it, heavy and searching. Not in a threatening way, not even quite curious. Just like he was trying to read something in you without the help of words.

Sam cleared his throat softly.

"We were talking last night..." he started, then paused. "We might have to leave the bunker for a couple days. There's a case. Not far."

Dean leaned forward again, elbow on the table, hand loosely holding his fork. "We're not sure if it's better to take you with us or have you stay here. Safer, maybe, but this place is a damn maze."

Sam nodded. "We'd feel better if you came. Just to keep an eye on you. Not that you can't handle yourself..."

Dean cut in gently, but firmly. "It's just... better not to leave you alone yet."

You looked between them slowly. There was no pressure in their voices. Just concern. You weren't sure what to say, or if you even could, but surely you didn't want to be alone. Anywhere would be better as long as they were near.

Dean studied you, quiet for a long beat. Then, with a softer voice than usual, "You seem like you wanna go," he said. "Is that so?"

You lifted your gaze just slightly, and you nodded.

"Well," the younger brother replied. "Seems you're coming to your first hunting trip with us."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The town wasn't big, but it buzzed in a way that made your skin feel too tight. Cars, signs, fluorescent lights blinking even in the middle of the day. You sat quietly in the back seat, watching it all blur past the window. Sam and Dean had the radio low, murmuring back and forth about the case—something about a missing person and strange footprints—but you only caught fragments.

The motel was beige and ugly, like motels often are. You looked around the parking lot, then up at the buzzing neon ‘Vacancy’ sign that flickered with a soft hum. Something about it made your chest ache.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of dust and cleaning spray. Two beds, a leather couch, a round table, a TV bolted to the wall, and pale yellow curtains that fluttered when the air conditioning kicked on. Familiar, in a strange way.

Dean dropped the keys on the nightstand and turned to you. "Alright," he said. "So here's the plan."

Sam handed you a small, shiny rectangle. A phone. You stared at it like it was a stone tablet covered in runes.

"It's just for emergencies," Sam explained gently. "You don't have to use it unless something weird happens or you want to reach us."

Dean smirked. "Or if the room service sucks."

You blinked at him, not quite getting the joke, but you nodded anyway.

"There's a store just down the block," Sam added, offering you a stack of cash. "You can get a few things. Clothes, whatever you want."

"Try not to wander too far," Dean said. "And don't talk to strangers."

You looked at him, then at Sam. Wasn't everyone a stranger?

The next two days passed in a blur of moments you didn't quite understand.

Sam and Dean came and went in odd patterns, sometimes carrying things you didn't recognize: odd tools, grimy books, even a stuffed rabbit once. They came in muddy, soaked from rain, or weirdly upbeat like something had gone just right.

You didn't ask. You couldn't.

Once, Dean barged in laughing and limping at the same time, a cut above his brow and some weird green slime on his shoulder.

"What the hell was that thing?" Sam had groaned behind him, dropping his duffel with a thud.

"No clue," Dean said, "but it screamed like a banshee when I hit it with the pipe."

You stood in the corner, holding your tea, wondering if they were joking.

Another time, Sam came in alone with a serious face and blood on his shirt. You moved to help, but he only waved you off with a tired smile and said, "It's not mine."

Sometimes it was funny. Sometimes it wasn't.

But through it all, they never forgot you. Dean always checked if you'd eaten. Sam always asked how you were feeling, even if he didn't expect a reply. They brought you odd little things from town, such as a book, a pastry, or whatever thing they think you will find useful. They didn't ask you to speak. They just made room for you.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

On the third evening, they came in covered in mud and grins. Dean kicked the door open and dropped his duffel on the floor. "And that's how it's done," he announced, wiping his boots on the mat.

Sam rolled his eyes but didn't disagree. "The case is closed," he informed you.

You looked up from the chair near the window, tilting your head. You didn't seem afraid of them, which they found rare. But they also knew you believed in what they do. Even if she doesn't understand it all yet, you believed. You trusted them.

"No more monsters for now," Dean said with a wink. "Just beers and burgers."

You could tell they were happy, and you liked that. To be honest, there weren't many moments when they seemed truly happy. Sadness was haunting them, just like it haunted you. So seeing even a flicker of happiness on their faces was enough to make you feel better.

Like a silent promise that everything it's gonna be alright.

«»«»«»«»

The restaurant wasn't fancy, just a roadside bar and grill with sticky menus and classic rock playing low from an old jukebox. But it was warm, and the scent of fried food and grilled meat somehow felt comforting.

You sat in the booth across from Dean and Sam at your side. You still didn't speak, but that didn't stop Dean from talking. You listened at their inside jokes, their shared hunting stories...

Dean had a beer in hand, his other arm resting casually on the booth behind him, his eyes occasionally flicking to you as he spoke.

"...And this guy, this actual grown-ass man, says he thought the corpse in his neighbor's yard was a Halloween decoration. In April."

This time your smile reached your eyes. Dean grinned, his heart doing something stupid in his chest, and his face softened. "There it is," he said quietly, like it was a secret just between you two.

The conversation kept going well, mostly one-sided. Dean talked about the Impala, music, hunts that weren't too gory, things that made him laugh. And you listened, really listened, nodding at times, letting yourself lean just a little closer to him.

Sam didn't say much, but he wasn't upset or anything. He was just mesmerized by the way his big brother seemed so happy around you. And he noticed how interested you were in everything Dean said.

For a little while, the world quieted down around you. It was... easy. It felt nice.

But then, everything changed. The waitress came by with a wink and a hand that lingered a little too long on Dean's shoulder, who was already over drinks.

And it was all over for you.

You saw it happen in slow motion. The way his posture changed, the shift in his voice when he ordered another round, the cocky smirk that curled on his lips.

The attention turned, and you disappeared. He didn't mean to, but he did it anyway. Like his male brain was programmed for that.

The rest of the night passed in snapshots: Dean laughing too loudly. Dean joking with the waitress. Dean forgetting you were there.

Sam gave you a glance full of quiet understanding. He saw it. Saw you shrinking in the corner of the booth. Saw your hands fold tighter in your lap.

At some point, the waitress leaned on the edge of the booth as she refilled Dean's beer, her fingers brushing the rim of the glass a little too intentionally.

She glanced at you, then at Dean, smiling in a way that made your stomach twist. "So, is she your girlfriend or...?" she asked with a teasing lilt.

You blinked, caught off guard, and your cheeks burned hot. Your gaze dropped to your plate before Dean could even answer.

He chuckled. Light, easy, like the idea hadn't even occurred to him. "Nah," he said, not even looking at you. "She's our little sister."

Something in your chest sank.

You didn't look up, but you didn't need to.

You felt the moment Sam turned to look at you, just a small shift beside you in the booth, his eyes lingering a second too long. He'd seen it.

The way your shoulders tensed. The way you blinked too slowly, suddenly too still.

The way that word—sister—settled heavy in the air between your ribs.

The waitress smiled wider, satisfied, and walked off. Dean didn't notice. He took another sip of beer like nothing happened.

Not until he was halfway out the door, slurring something dumb about "a nightcap" and tossing Sam the car's key like it was any other night.

You watched him go. He didn't even look back.

You stayed quiet on the ride back, curled by the window in the side-seat of the Impala, face turned toward the dark glass. Sam didn't try to talk. He just glanced at from time to time.

When you got to the motel, you climbed into the bed farthest from the door and stared at the ceiling.

Dean didn't come back.

And somewhere around three in the morning, as the moonlight cast silver shapes across the wall, you realized your chest hurt.

You felt ridiculous. He didn't owe you anything, not an explanation, not the courtesy of protecting your feelings. Not even the illusion that there was something happening between you.

So why would he stay? Why wouldn't he go off and have fun on his own? For you? Don't be pathetic, of course not. He barely knew you.

He was just being kind, that's all. He didn't feel his heart skip a beat when you laughed. Didn't feel the weight in his chest or the shiver that ran through you when he spoke—because you didn't even fuckin' speak.

You were the one who let it get to you. Who let him in, even just a little. And now, it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You felt stupid for believing he saw you at all.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573

Let me know if you want to be added in the TagList!

[cherry-holmes]

"Joel killed 19 people." ok?? Am I supposed to care?? God forbid a man has hobbies 🙄

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt,Iron,𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮:A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 2: A Quiet Place to Hide

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Trying to adapt yourself to your new environment, things seem to feel more than unnatural for your mind to process. Or remember.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +2.6K

⚠️Warnings: None.

A/N: Here’s Part 2! Please let me know what you think so far or maybe if you have any theories 👀

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The car ride was quiet.

Dean drove, fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every so often. Sam sat beside him with his laptop open, though he wasn't typing. Just watching the screen, lost in thought.

You were curled in the backseat, wrapped in the oversized hoodie like it was armor. The smell of  gunpowder and leather filled the car, strangely comforting. At some point, your head leaned against the window, eyes locked on the blur of trees and empty road rushing by.

Every bump in the road made your ribs ache, even with Castiel's healing. It reminded you that whatever happened, it had been recent. Brutal, real. And not over.

You were alert most of the road. But then tiredness cripted up your body and you fell fast asleep. About twenty minutes or so, you recoverd conscious, and started listen to the murmurs of the man in the front seat, who thought you were still sleeping.

Dean glanced at Sam. "... and she's still a quiet one."

"She's been through hell, Dean," Sam muttered. "Give her time."

''So, what do you think is it?'' he asked.

Sam ran a hand over his hair, staring at his laptop like he was trying to piece something together. "Could be a demon. Or some kind of witchcraft. Maybe even something new. She was terrified when we found her."

"She still is," Dean said quietly.

He glance back up at you, but he didn't noticed you were awake. The way your body tensed, even under the blanket; the way your eyes refused to settle too long on any of them, like you were always ready to run again.

Another hour passed before Dean pulled off the main road and onto a barely marked gravel path. You sat up a little straighter, pretending you just woke up.

"We're here," he said. "Don't worry. It doesn't look like much from the outside."

And he was right. The entrance was tucked beneath an overgrown patch of forest, hidden like some forgotten relic. A rusted metal door, half-covered in moss. But once they led you inside, everything changed. The bunker was massive. Cold stone walls, long halls lit with amber bulbs. It smelled like old books and gun oil. Like safety and danger, all at once.

You hesitated at the threshold, but Dean looked back and gave a small nod.

"You're safe here, deer" he said. The strange new nickname made your spine tingle pleasantly and your cheeks burned. "For real."

And you stepped inside.

Sam showed you to one of the guest rooms. Sparse, but clean. A bed, a small dresser, a desk with a lamp.

"We'll be in the library if you need anything," he said, and then hesitated at the door. "Or... if you just wanna sit with us. You don't have to talk."

The door clicked shut behind him.The silence there wasn't the kind that pressed on your chest, it was the kind that let you breathe.

You stood in the middle of the room for a long time. Then, slowly, you decided you wanted to sit on the bed.

But as you walked past the wall mirror beside the dresser, your eyes caught your own reflection. And they didn't let go.

You stood there, staring. The girl in the glass looked back, same face, same eyes you saw before on that motel's bathroom... but she felt wrong. Like someone else had worn her skin first. The hoodie swallowed your frame, the jeans stiff and unfamiliar. Your hair was drying in loose waves, still tangled at the ends.

You reached up, fingers brushing over your cheek. The faint bruises had already begun to fade thanks to Castiel, but the ache lingered in your bones.

You didn't recognize her. Not completely.

There was something... off. Like the clothes didn't quite belong on your body. Like your hair wasn't supposed to fall this way.

Your lips parted slightly.

You knew these things. Mirrors. Hoodies. Zippers and jeans. Motels. Hamburgers and fries. Cars. Electricity... You knew them, but in that moment, it struck you like thunder: you had no memory of using them. No image of ever putting on a hoodie, or brushing your teeth under a fluorescent bulb. It all felt learned, not lived.

What an utterly deranged creature you've become, you told to yourself.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

It didn't take long before you walked out of your room.

The bunker was quiet in a strange way, like the silence was listening. You followed the low hum of voices until you reached the library. Rows of books lined every wall, and a faint scent of paper and ink floated through the air.

Dean sat at the main table, boots propped up, nursing a beer. Sam was hunched over his laptop, scrolling through pages of lore. They both looked up when they saw you.

"Hey, deer" Dean said, lowering his feet and straightening up. "You feeling okay?"

You nodded slowly, arms crossed over your chest. Your eyes flitted across the room, at the books, the map-lined walls, the weapons pinned neatly along one side. It all should've felt alien, but oddly, it didn't.

Sam gestured toward the empty chair beside him. "Come sit. I've been digging into what might've happened to you."

You hesitated for a second before crossing the room and taking the seat.

"There are a few possibilities," he continued, careful not to make his voice too loud. "You weren't possessed. Castiel confirmed that. But there are rituals... spells... that can wipe memory or displace people."

Displace.

Your eyebrows twitched at the word. You weren't sure why, but it sat heavy in your chest.

Dean caught the flicker in your expression. "Ringin' any bells?"

You shook your head, but not fully. Because something in your brain did ring, like the soft echo of a bell down a long, empty hallway.

Sam exhaled. "We've ruled out demons. Maybe a witch. Could've been a hex or a curse. Some spells can force someone out of their body... I'm not sure yet. I was thinking another round with Castiel might help," he added gently. "He said he couldn't get much before, but now that you've rested, maybe he can see deeper."

You stiffened slightly. Not out of fear, just out of exhaustion. The thought of someone reaching into your mind again felt like handing over the last piece of yourself.

Dean noticed your hesitation and leaned forward, arms resting on the table. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to, alright? But if there's something locked in there... maybe it'll help you get answers."

Your gaze dropped to the table. There was a chipped ring on Dean's beer bottle. You focused on it. Let yourself breathe.

Dean shifted, shaking his head.

"Okay, that’s all," he said, voice firm. "Not yet."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Dean's eyes were on you, softer, and then back to his brother. "Because she's not ready. Look at her. She's still bruised up, barely sleeping through the night, flinching at every loud sound. You wanna push her into reliving God-knows-what just because we're impatient?"

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but then looked at you, and closed it again.

Dean turned to you, his voice lowering a little. "You don't have to rush it. Whatever's locked in your head... it'll come back when it's ready. For now, you need to heal."

You held his gaze for a beat longer than usual. Something in his tone told you he'd been there before, in his own way. Lost, broken, trying to put the pieces back together.

So, you nodded.

Dean gave a small huff through his nose, relieved, maybe, and muttered, "Alright then. Who's hungry?"

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The kitchen was dimly lit, the hum of the old refrigerator the only sound at first. You sat on the edge of the counter, legs dangling, hands nervously twisting in the sleeves of your hoodie. Your back still ached faintly, but you were stronger today. Enough to follow Dean when he mumbled something about making food.

He didn't ask you to come. He just looked at you from the hallway, gave a small tilt of his head, and kept walking. You followed without thinking.

Now he stood at the counter across from you, sleeves rolled up, pulling ingredients from the fridge like it was a sacred ritual: bread, ham, mustard, cheese, pickles. He moved with surprising grace for someone so broad-shouldered, occasionally glancing your way as if to check you were still there. Still breathing.

"You don't look like much of a mustard girl," he said, raising an eyebrow as he opened the jar. "Too yellow. Suspiciously yellow."

You didn't smile, but your eyes flicked up toward him for a second longer than usual. That was enough.

He kept going, making three sandwiches in a line. "Sam's knee-deep in lore. Said he's not eating until he figures out if you're from this planet or not."

You lowered your eyes again, unsure how to feel about that.

Dean slid a slice of ham into place. "Don't worry, he means well. Guy's just obsessed with knowing everything. Me? I just want you fed."

Then, suddenly, a sharp BANG. One of the pipes in the wall let out a violent pop as it settled, echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.

You flinched hard, nearly slipping off the counter. Your heart raced violently, eyes wide open while trying desperately to identify the source of the explosion.

Before you even registered what was happening, Dean was in front of you, one hand steady on your shoulder, the other gently bracing your back to keep you upright.

"Hey, hey," he said quickly, voice low and grounding. "It's alright, deer. Just the damn pipes. This place makes more noise than a haunted house."

You were shaking, and you hated it. Your breath came short and fast, chest rising and falling beneath the hoodie like you'd been running. It broke Dean's heart.

He didn't let go right away, crouching a little to meet your eyes, his hands still holding you steady. "You're safe. You're okay." He hesitated, but then,  he whispered, "I'm here."

You stared at him, breathing through the panic. He wasn't afraid of your reaction. He didn't back away. He just... stayed.

After a moment, he stepped back; slow, careful, not wanting to make you feel cornered. He grabbed a glass of water, handed it to you without a word.

You took it with both hands, sipping it slowly.

Sam's voice floated from the library, somewhere deeper in the bunker. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Dean called back, not taking his eyes off you. "Just a noisy-ass pipe."

He turned back to the sandwich he'd been making for you, adding a slice of cheese. "No mustard," he said softly, more to himself. "Gotta earn that kind of trust."

You blinked. The water was cold in your hands. Familiar. Real.

Dean slid the plate toward you, nodding at the sandwich. "Eat what you can. You need your strength."

You hesitated. Then picked it up.

And for the first time, Dean saw it: the way your fingers wrapped around the bread, slow, like you were figuring it out again. The way your eyes didn't dart to the door this time.

He smiled, just a little. Then leaned on the counter beside you, picking up his own sandwich.

"See?" he said with a grin. "Told you I make a killer ham and cheese."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Later that afternoon, the quiet of the bunker was broken only by the low hum of the fridge and the occasional flip of a page from Sam's corner of the library.

Then, Castiel appeared.

His sudden arrival made you jolt. The trench-coated angel stood still for a moment, blue eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. His head tilted slightly.

"She's stronger," he said simply.

Sam closed his laptop and stood. "We were thinking... maybe another look. See if anything's changed."

Dean was about to intercept for you. He saw your reaction for a simple pipe, he won't force your mind to begin examined like you were some kind of alien experiment.

However, Castiel nodded slowly, his eyes never left you, as he said. "Something has changed."

Dean frowned, arms crossing. "Meaning?"

Castiel stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "Her aura. It's... different."

"Different how?" Sam asked, already grabbing a notepad.

"Older," Castiel answered, his voice lower now. "Worn, but not in the way of trauma alone. She carries the weight of another time. Like she's been touched by something ancient. Or taken from it."

You felt the air leave your lungs.

Castiel turned his gaze to you again. "There's something unusual about the way time clings to her. Like it's trying to remember where she belongs. Or when."

Dean looked at you sharply, and something like concern flashed across his face. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Castiel said softly, "she may not be from here. Not just this place... but this time."

Silence. You gripped the edge of the table, that cold sensation blooming in your chest again. But now, it wasn't fear: it was recognition. That last word felt like a needle to your spine. Time.

You blinked. Not because it confused you, because it didn't. It made too much sense. The language in your head, the way you moved, the constant hum of recognition for things you shouldn't understand, like microwaves and light switches. You knew them. But it never felt like they belonged to you.

Dean cleared his throat, glancing between you and Castiel.

"Well, that's just peachy," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "So what are we talkin'? Time travel? Alternate dimensions? Freaky-ass time ghosts?"

"I don't know yet," Castiel admitted. "But the energy around her... she was moved. Not just physically. She was pulled."

You stared at the angel, your fingers tightening on the table's edge. Something about the way he said it made your bones hum with a memory you couldn't reach.

Dean noticed. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Hey. You okay, deer?"

You nodded, but it wasn't convincing. And he didn't push you.

Sam, meanwhile, was already scribbling notes, muttering about timelines and ancient rituals under his breath.

Dean turned back to Castiel. "Can you tell where from?"

The angel shook his head. "Not yet. The tether is fragile. If I force it, I could sever whatever is left of her memory. I need time."

Dean nodded, jaw tight. "Then take it."

Castiel gave you a long, almost apologetic look before vanishing with the familiar rustle of wings.

You sat still, feeling like the floor had shifted beneath you. You weren't from here. Not just the place, but the whole world. Maybe the whole century.

Dean was watching you. He didn't look scared. Just... thoughtful. After a moment, he stood, walked to the kitchen, and came back with the plate of cookies Sam had bought on some gas station run. He placed one in front of you.

"They're kinda dry," he said, shrugging. "But sugar's sugar."

You blinked at it. Then slowly reached for one, took a bite. Dean sank into the chair beside you, not touching his beer this time.

"You know," he said, voice casual, "my brother once got stuck in 1861. Didn't have showers back then. Guy smelled like horse for a week."

You blinked, surprised. Dean offered a small smirk.

"My point is... this crap? The weird, the time stuff, the magic... it happens. We deal with it."

You swallowed the cookie, then met his eyes.

You didn't spoke, not verbally at least, but somehow Dean understood your concerning through your eyes.

«You don't think I'm... broken?»

Dean snorted. "We're all broken, sweetheart. I'm just glad you're still standing."

And that—that—hit somewhere deep.

Because for the first time, someone wasn't trying to fix you.

Dean was just trying to see you.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315