daddymaster21

[daddymaster21]

Review two! Let’s go boys!

1. I’m desperately wracking my brain trying to figure out who pretty lady is

2. WHAT IS IT WITH PEOPLE STEALING OUR KNIVES, GODDAMN

3. Stupid human body, always needing things like food and rest

4. Yeahhhhh heaven is about to be VERY unhappy. Chuck Shirley, we’re coming for you.

5. Girl when are we gonna learn that we can’t die. Getting shot will just slow you down.

6. Ohhhhhh THIS is Eileen. I was stuck in a treatment center when the last few seasons came out, so I haven’t actually finished the show lmfao

7. Okay yeah I like her a lot. Go Eileen.

8. I NEED a Dean perspective of him missing her before she gets home. Tear out my heart, pretty please.

9. My autism and I could never. If I got puked on, I think I’d actually crumble into dust. Blood and guts? Could totally deal with that. Vomit? Nope. I’ll just die actually, thanks.

10. I’m the opposite. Love bacon, hate peanut butter. Together, we’ll conquer sandwiches across the world.

11. All my homies love books that give us an excuse to ignore people

12. I know I have a problem because I guarantee I could tell you what Dean was thinking when he ran up and kissed her

13. WOOF HER CALLING HIM HER SHADOW

14. I see your Indiana Jones reference. You can’t escape me, Thea.

15. Her still talking about Jo in the present tense 😭😭😭

16. Look. I know should hate him. But it’s Luci!!! I love Luci!!!!!! He’s just a lil guy!!! (He’s the literal devil lmfao)

17. Ew okay don’t love the teeth bit

18. DEAN PERSPECTIVE!!!! LETS FUCKING GO!!!!

19. Her being able to see the Gold in the dreams 🤝 Him being able to smell the fruit in the dreams

20. Actually, Deano, I’m pretty sure Luci is the one in danger

21. Yeah, of course Sam thinks it’s his fault. That’s just the Winchester way, you gotta blame yourself for everything.

22. Lmao she making omens now

23. I hate Becky so much, tbh, I would kiss Dean for punching her

24. See, all you gotta do is kill Chuck, and then you’ll be in her league!

25. Wait, sorry, hollup, did she just teleport to him??? Was that him praying to her???????

26. SHE DID!! SHE TELEPORTED TO HIM!!! INCREDIBLE, SHOW STOPPING, NO NOTES

27. God men are so hot why aren’t they real.

Final thoughts: WOOF. I know I didn’t get this review out in the same day but I AM reblogging it before you finish with your daily tumblr updates, so I’m counting it. Somewhere between your favorite scene being the apocalypse dream and them laying in the motel bed, particularly the part where Dean calls her god (this definitely isn’t me projecting)

Chapter 22 - I'd Go Black And Blue

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I always hate saying "this is my favorite chapter so far" in case y'all hate it, but there's one scene in particular there that's a top 5 Babylon scene for me personally. If you guys can guess it, I'll... idk you can chose a bonus chapter theme. Enjoy!!

Chapter Title from Make You Feel My Love by Bob Dylan

Word Count: 18.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You make another friend, and Dean makes another enemy. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 21 - Chapter 23

Read on A03!

Your head fucking hurts. A dull pain in the back of your skull, like you’d been hit with a club and knocked out. Everything is fuzzy, and there’s a high ringing in your ears, but you’re not tied up. 

The floor is cold under your body, and you can’t feel any wind. There’s no sense of danger, but there is something shuffling around near you. Nothing’s sliced or burned you, the only additional, foreign pain existing in the sting on the tip of your finger.

You need to open your eyes and figure out where you are. But every muscle feels like it’s been threaded with lead and iron, and your head fucking hurts, and you don’t even know how you got here.

All you can remember is a blur. 

The Blue, in the church.

An archangel. 

You’d called for Cas, and the Blue showed up instead. It had said you needed to get some sleep, but you don’t feel rested. Just a little fucking sick and dizzy, despite being frozen to the floor. 

And if he’d shown up after the Blue left, you wouldn’t have been there, which means you aren’t home, which means-

Dean.

Something like electricity jolts through your body. 

And when your eyes fly open—stinging from the sudden intrusion of light—you’re staring down the barrel of a fucking shotgun. 

“God- Fucking-“ You scramble back against the wall, and the shotgun only follows you. “What the-“

“Don’t scream.” A strangely accented voice comes from the other side, and you lean to the side just enough to see its owner.

It's a woman. Pale, a little on the shorter side, with long brown hair and narrowed eyes that are never leaving your face. She's holding the gun like it's a second limb, rather than a tool. Relaxed, keeping it trained against your brow with her shoulders relax. The same way Dean and Sam do. 

Like a hunter.

“Who-“

“Don’t speak.” The woman snaps, and you blink, but obey. 

The Silver is starting to wake up, bristling from threat of the gun, but you can get out of this exact scenario before with only your knife-

Fuck. 

Your jacket is gone. Which means your knife is gone. The knife Dean gave you is gone-

“My knife-“

“I said don’t speak.” Her voice is harsh, but the words are still oddly rounded. It’s really not your biggest concern.

You open your mouth—the Silver starting to build, because this woman made the smart choice not to tie you up, but she took your fucking knife—and she shakes her head, pressing the gun forward.

“I am going to lower the gun to hear you. If you move, I shoot you. Got it?”

You raise your brows, keeping your mouth closed, and the woman sighs.

“Just nod.”

You nod, and that seems to be enough. The gun lowers, and you and the women blink at each other. 

She’s teal. A dark, pretty teal that starts near her eyes and spreads like fire out. She’s definitely a hunter—only hunters wear that much plaid—and there’s no blood stains or visible scarring, so she’s either a very good one or an incredibly bad one. 

Your money is on the former, but it could go either way. The gun might look natural in her hands, but she also didn’t tie you up, and that’s a stupid move. She did take your knife—smarter move, you need to get back to Dean so you wouldn’t have pulled punches—but she’s still lowering the gun, which isn’t great survival instinct. She has no way of knowing that, if she makes one wrong move, the Silver will explode and rip that teal straight from her body.

But she said she’s lowering it to hear you. 

You don’t know what that means. 

“I’m sorry about the gun,” the woman shrugs, but still doesn’t put it away. “When I tried to tie your wrists, you seemed distressed. I think you were screaming.”

“You-“ Your eyes narrow, and the woman hasn’t looked away from you for a second. “You think I was screaming?”

“I’m deaf.”

Oh. That explains the accent. And you might have gotten that sooner if your head wasn’t on a loop of Dean, Dean, you said you’d get home to Dean

“You’re American.”

You blink at her, and nod slowly. “How’d you know?”

“You don’t seemed shocked by the shotgun.”

“Europe has shotguns.” You counter, and she shrugs.

“Not like this. This is for hunting.”

“You can hunt without a gun.”

The woman gives you a dry smile. “Not the things I hunt, no.”

“Monsters?”

She pauses. “You’re a hunter.”

“Yep.” You hum, and she frowns.

“You don’t look like you hunt.”

Huh. “Don’t I?”

“You weren’t armed.”

“I had a knife.” You sit up slightly, and the gun moves right back to your brow.

“I said don’t move-“

“I’m not moving.” You scan around the room—dark, a little damp, probably a basement, at least the Sky can’t see you—and glare back to the teal woman. “What the fuck did you do with my knife.”

“It’s back there.” She nods into the dark, and a light weight moves off your shoulders. Not gone. That one piece of Dean you always get to have, just back there. “So you are a hunter?”

You sigh. “It’s complicated.”

Her head tilts slightly. “How do you hunt without a gun?”

“Talent.” You mutter, and the Spiderweb is straining and whining in your body. “Believe me, I’ve gotten the lecture.”

The woman lowers her gun again, frowning at you. “The lecture?”

“My-“ Dean. No proper word to call Dean that doesn’t make you sound insane. “Friend. He doesn’t like that I hunt without a gun. He’s really dramatic about it.”

“You have hunter friends?”

“Yeah. I, they’re actually waiting for me-“

“In America?”

“That’s where I left them, yeah.”

“How were you planning to return?” She’s watching you wearily, and she might think you’re lying.

For once, you’re not. 

But you also don’t know her.

So you have to be careful what you say.

“Flight.”

“Without a passport?”

You shrug. “I’d work it out. Am I here to be questioned about my travel plans, or can I go?”

The woman shakes her head. “Not until you answer my questions.”

“All I’ve been doing is answering your questions-“

“Not the ones I want to ask.” She scans over you carefully, a small frown on her face. “Would you like some water? Or food?”

It’s only when she says it that you feel it. A little faint, your throat dry, and the room suddenly spinning like now that it’s been reminded of the situation, it’s realizing you’ve been knocked out for-

Fuck. 

You don’t actually know how long you were out for. You can still only remember the Blue telling you to get some sleep, and then it’s all dreams. You might have been out for days, but you also still hadn’t been eating or drinking before, so it just might be catch up with you. 

Everything still hurts. Everything always hurts. And the Silver is waxing and waning in your body, starting to coil before settling comfortably back down. It’s making you feel a little sick.

You’d try to just pray to Cas—to appear into the room and take you home right now—but the Blue said you were still interfering. An archangel had told you to stop interfering. And you want to. You don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of you. But you promised. You’d told Dean you would go home, and then you didn’t. You’d been knocked out, and taken here. 

You still don’t know where here is. 

Or how long Dean’s been waiting for you. 

“I have some-“

“What happened?” You blurt, and the woman blinks at you. 

“That was one of my questions for you.”

Shit.

“Do you want food?” The woman repeats her offer, and you swallow, but nod. 

You’re starving. And you’d promised Jo you’d be okay, so you need to eat.

“If I walk away, are you going to run?”

You pause, then shake your head. If you need to get out, the Silver will explode, or you’ll try that prayer to Cas. Right now, you need a few answers yourself. 

And food. 

Your head is spinning, and food sounds really good.

The woman seems to decide you’re not lying, and she moves into the darkness for only a second before returning with a water bottle and sandwich. You’d be worried about poison, but if she wanted to kill you, she’d just fucking shoot you. 

And she looks almost amused, as you chug the water bottle in seconds, turning your attention to the sandwich and all but shoving it in your face seconds later.

“You’re hungry.” She says, and you shrug, quickly chewing and swallowing before you answer.

“I was knocked out.”

“Only for three days.”

Three days.

That’s not bad. You can explain three days, when you get out. You just have to get out.

“Where did you find me?” You wipe at few crumbs from your face as you speak, and the woman—you should probably ask her name—gives you an odd look. 

“I am not sure. It looked like a church.”

Something twists in your stomach. “Looked? Past tense?”

She nods. “It was covered in vines and flower and water. Pretty. Not a church anymore.”

Fuck. “Oops.”

The woman frowns. “Did you do it?”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t know her. You don’t know who she works with—you doubt Ketch, but you’re in no position to lack vigilance—what she wants from you, or why she took you at all-

“The earth was grown around you.” She links her fingers together in a wide gesture, her shotgun resting at her side. “I had to rip it up to get to you.”

You lean back, narrowing your eyes. Nobody would just rip up the earth to get to you.

Dean might.

No one else.

“Why?” You ask, rubbing over your wrists. “Were you looking for me?”

“No. Was nearby. Felt the earth shake, went looking for the source. Found you.” Her hand moves back to the shotgun. You don’t let your face shift at all. “What are you?”

There it was.

That’s why you’re here. 

“It’s complicated.”

She shakes her head. “Try.”

“I…” You take a long, slow breath. “That’s not a good idea.” 

“Why not? I know you are something.” The gun’s back in her lap, and the Silver starts to go taut again. Readying itself to snap. “I thought you were a witch, when you reacted to the iron. But you didn’t have any books or tools-“

“I didn’t?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, and it’s not helping your case, but you don’t care. “What did I have?”

“Nothing.”

“No- Fuck.” The Silver is building, and all you can do is dig your nails into your palm to keep it down. 

Everything. Gone. All your books and notes, fucking vanished, and what was it for. You left Dean, and now all you have to show for it is an ache in your chest and bags under your eyes.

And the Blue has told you not to go home. You’re betting he thought this would deter you, and you’d spend a lot of time scrambling to get everything back, or being so afraid of how you’re changing things that you’d crawl back to wherever you were made. 

But he’s made a severe misjudgment about you. 

First of all, you have most of that shit memorized. You’re not a fucking idiot, and you’re a good hunter. Everything you need to know lives in your head. The Blue took it, but now all that’s telling you is that, no matter what you do, Heaven isn’t going to be happy with you. That they won’t be happy until you’re safely chained and locked up in their care, whether you’re at Dean’s side or not.

And you’re sick. You’re exhausted and in pain and so fucking sick. You’ve always been sick, and you’ve always infected and interfered and destroyed. 

But you’d rather be sick at Dean’s side—where he can hold you in the dead of night and you drown in the Gold of him all the time—then something docile and chained up without him. He won’t be safe anyway. Between what he’s told you and what the Blue mentioned in passing, Heaven’s got plans for him outside of the seals that have nothing to do with you. And Dean’s sat with you through everything you allowed him to. All your sickness and crying and trying to claw your way out of your own skin, only holding you tight until you could breathe, and letting you go because you asked. And you’ll crawl to him and hold him in Hell, if that’s what it takes for you to return the favor. 

Second, you’re really fucking good at causing problems for people that try to control you. For people that hold you and try to pin you there, wanting you mounted high up on their wall.

John Winchester’s dead.

You don’t do checkups on your family, but they’re down one chosen, special, vile little girl forever.

Ketch has a slump in his back, and Anna’s gone.

It doesn’t never works out in their favor. 

Finally, you always end up back at Dean. You run from everything, but when you have nowhere left to go, you always end up back at Dean. No matter how sick you are, you always end up back at Dean.

And it may be the worst fucking curse of your life, how you’ll never be able to tell Dean you love him, because the Sky will hear, and it might take him away. Because Dean will hear, and he doesn’t deserve that.

But he’d said he needs you. He waited for you, even when he shouldn’t have. You promised you’d stop running and then left, and you said all the way down and stayed away until he called you, and you looked back.

You always look back for Dean. You love him. And you’d do anything for him.

But the Blue took you away from him. Knocked you out and sent you- 

He’d said he’d send you someone good. 

Your eyes narrow on the woman. “You working with the angels?”

She stares at you. “The angels? What angels?”

“Heaven angels. God angels.” You’re still only met with a blank expression. “They’re hunting for me, you might have seen a blue-“ She won’t know its color. “A blond one. At the church.”

The woman mostly looks shocked. You can’t tell if that’s a positive or not. “Angels are hunting for you? Are you crazy?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Depends on how loose you’re playing with the term crazy.”

“Fucking-“ The woman shakes her head. “What about that note? I don’t think angels leave notes.”

You frown. “What note?”

She nods, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small, blue sticky note for you to see. Move Me! is written in glitter.

“Yeah,” You mutter, rubbing your thumb over your palm. “That’s an angel.”

“And you think they’re hunting you-“

“They are. It’s a long story, but I- I have to go.”

“No,” the shotgun is back. You don’t have time for this. “I am still asking questions-“

“Like what?” You challenge, raising your chin and moving to your knees. If she shoots you, she fucking shoots you. At least you’ll see Jo again. Maybe you’ll find out if the Sky actually cares enough to haul you back out. 

And if it doesn’t, you’ve walked in and out of Hell for Dean before. Given how the Silver is starting to roll like a storm through your body, you don’t think it will be that big an issue, to claw up through the earth and return to Dean’s side. The earth might even part for you like the ocean, if you ask it right. If you scream that you have to get back to Dean, and that nothing is going to get in your way. 

This lady isn’t working with the angels.

You still need her to get out of the way.

“Listen.” You keep your words slow, taking a firm step forward and swallowing bile as the gun aims for your head. 

Bobby would kill you. 

He can get in line.

“I am going to leave. I have a few things to do, but then I’m going back to America, because my- My family needs me. And you can try to shoot me, but historically, trying to kill me has never worked out in anyone’s favor.” 

The woman’s eyes widen. “I- I will shoot you.”

“Do it.” You snap. “I-“

She doesn’t shoot you. She raises the blunt end of the gun and slams it into your chest, and sends you stumbling back as she shoots to her feet, cocking the gun and reaiming it for your foot. 

This would be a great time for the Silver to snap. To burst through the room and rip the teal from the woman’s body, so you can shove it back in fast before fucking running. But she’s not grabbing at your wrists, she’s not a demon or angel, and the only threats she’s making are to you, and apparently, the Silver is over that. 

So you have to do this the old-fashioned way. 

You dodge the gunfire, but only barely. Springing to the side and slamming into the woman’s body, right as she whacks your shoulder with the barrel of the gun. You regain your balance a little faster, and it lets you dart in the corners of the room, grabbing through the dark for-

A hand wraps around your shoulder, and you turn with a swinging fist that collides with the woman’s jaw. Blood spits in your face as her knee hits you in the gut, and you are not in good shape for a fight. The pain rushes through you and somehow causes a throbbing in your head, the sandwich letting itself up too easy, and you vomit all over her face.

She recoils, wiping herself with a disgusted expression, and there’s your window. 

The jacket had been folded fairly neat on a wooden crate, and it seems all the Blue left you was your knife and flask.

You can work with that.

The click of a safety comes from behind you, and you duck just in time. The rebound of the shotgun is working in your favor. The woman is occupied just long enough for you to roll under the barrel and-

She fucking kicks you again. A groan escapes you at the blunt pain, but you don’t give her the opportunity to reaim, sweeping her legs out from under her and knocking the shotgun out of her hands as she falls at your side. 

Neither of you can get the upper hand. Your knife gets knocked across the floor seconds after the woman’s gun, and you might be a better hand-to-hand fighter overall, but your whole body is also made of pain. When you punch her it’s weaker, and when she knees you in the gut a little more bile spits out.

You don’t have the energy to go for as long as she can.

But you fight dirty.

This woman doesn’t seem to have a problem with the ethical questions of hunting—she was about to shoot you—but she also doesn’t seem to be on board with moves like biting and ripping hair.

And when you employ said tactics, she scrambles back as if you might be carrying rabies. 

“What is wrong with you?!” Her voice is almost a screech, and you shrug, wiping your mouth with your palm.

“Lot of things. Jury’s still out on most of them.” You slump against the wall, wincing at the pain that shoots through your shoulder. “You up for a truce?”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you going to try and run again?”

“Probably.” You shrug. You’re too tired to lie. “Are you going to try and kill me again?”

She shrugs right back. “Maybe.”  

“I think that’s a stalemate then.”

“Yeah.” The woman groans, glancing down at the bite mark on her arm. “Do you need any ice?”

“I’m good. Sorry about, uh- That.”

“It’s fine.” She gives you a small smile. “You did say people who try to kill you end up regretting it.”

That pulls a short laugh for your chest, and it hurts—she must have gotten a blow there too, somewhere in the fight—but you can’t bring yourself to hate it. Means you’re still alive. And that you can laugh, because unless you count phone calls with Dean—which even in the better moments, were always lined with tears—you haven’t laughed since you left. 

You end up spitting up a little bit of blood. 

You really fucking miss the Silver not just choosing when it came out. It’s amazing that Dean, Sam, and Bobby just exist with these bruises and cuts all the time. Dean’s voice in your head is humming slow breaths, but it’s barely helping. When you get home, you’re going to steal a whole Walgreens first-aid aisle.

But you need to get home first.

You look up at the woman, examining her own injuries, and wave for her attention. “What’s your name?”

“Eileen.” She tilts her head at you. “You?”

You answer her, running a hand up and down your calf, and you’re both just watching each other now. Your knife and Eileen’s shotgun still in the dark corners of the room, neither of you moving to try and grab them.

“What does your family need you for?” She asks, and you sigh.

“My dad’s injured, my brother fucked up and I’m worried about him, and my-“ No proper word. “Best friend asked me to come back.”

Eileen hums. “Did you leave?”

“Yeah.” A lump is forming back in your throat, and when your eyes flick down, your fingertips are frosted with pastel blue. “I- I lost my sister.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Eileen pauses, before adding. “My parents died. It’s not fun.”

You huff a soft laugh. “No, it’s really fucking not. Were they hunters?”

“No. My mother knew about it, though. Is your-“ She stops herself, shaking her head. “You already said they were hunters. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You mumble. “Long day. How’d your mom know?”

“Her dad was part of a fancy group of them.” 

Your head shoots up. “Fancy group? Was he British?”

“American immigrant to Ireland.” She stares at you. “Why?”

“I- How long have you been hunting?”

“My whole life.”

You nod slowly, frowning at the air. If she’s been hunting that long, in Europe, she must have an idea. Have a rumor. Just a fucking lead you can chase, to get what you need. 

“How long have-“

“A while.” You lean forward, ignoring the aching protest through your whole body. “You heard of an asshole named Ketch?”

Her eyes narrow, her lips curling slightly into a sneer, and that’s a yes. “Arthur?”

You nod, and she scoffs.

“He’s a dick. Won’t work with me because I’m deaf, always whining about hunter pigs getting in the way.” 

You grin. He is a dick. “Is he part of the big fancy group?”

“Sort of.” Eileen’s words are cautious, but she’s still not making a move to restart the fight. “Different branch, I think. They don’t like me enough to tell me technical things.”

“What do they like you enough to tell you?”

“Not much.” She gives you an odd look, her words still slow. “Why?”

“He stole my book. And tried to kidnap me like, twenty times.”

“Ah.” Eileen smiles slightly. “How did it work out for him?”

You snort. “Bad.”

That gets a laugh from Eileen, and it’s a little spluttered like yours, but it’s nice. Full and real and a little loud, echoing around the basement for several moments, and your own smile grows. 

You haven’t talked to someone that’s not either trying to kill you—or the frustrating, insufferable, awesome love of your life over the phone—for so long.

It’s another thing that’s nice. And Eileen had just beat you up, but you both seem to be done with that. If you’re careful, you might even have an ally. She seems to hate Ketch. That alone is a hallmark of a good person. You just need to see if she’s committed to this not letting you leave thing.

“How are we feeling about the truce?” You ask carefully, and Eileen only shrugs.

“Are you going to tell me what you are?”

You pause. It’s not good to tell a lot of people. You’re not sure why, but the more people know about you in general, the worse things get. Openly sharing the fact that you’re a Magdalene, when that’s something even Heaven considers better as not known, seems unwise.

But you’re really tired. And you really want to go home. 

Getting home means getting the Book and—ideally—the Blade back. The Silver has always responded to the Blade, so maybe that can kickstart it, and get you back to being dangerous, but useful. And the Book is in Enochian, and full of weird shit. There will have to be something useful to the whole apocalypse situation. And if not, nobody had died when you’d had the Book and the Blade.

That alone can be a false comfort. 

You mostly just don’t want to be useless. Don’t want to return as just a sickness that Dean seems to be fine catching.

It’s better not to think about that. About how maybe you are infecting and hurting him, but he’s a fucking adorable idiot, so he just doesn’t care. You don’t know why he wouldn’t care.

He should care.

He shouldn’t be asking you to come home, because now you have no choice, and he really doesn’t understand exactly how much you love him. How willing you are to be sick if it’s what keeps him alive. 

It hadn’t kept Jo alive. But fighting it hadn’t kept Dean alive before.

You won’t fail a third time.

You won’t.

So you need the Book and the Blade.

Eileen might be able to help with that. And you may not be able to tell her what you are, but you can also tell half-truths. It’s better than lies. Better than full truths. 

The last person you told full truths was Jo. 

You feel fucking sick again. Bile rises in your throat, bitter on the back of your tongue and making you choke on the air. The Silver isn’t rising, but it is shifting, and you’ve started to claw the skin of your arms. 

Eileen says your name slowly, and you dig your nails in, forcing yourself to come back down. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You mutter. “I- I’ll tell you what I am if,” you narrow your eyes. “You help me. To find what I’m looking for.”

Eileen only holds your gaze. “What are you looking for?”

“You know that book I mentioned?” You wait for her nod, then continue. “I want it back.”

“Your book?”

“Yeah. And my knife.”

Her gaze flicks to the floor. “Your-“

“Different knife.” You mutter. “This one’s a gift. The other one is… weird.”

“Huh.” Eileen raised her brows. “Weirder than you?”

You snort. “Same amount of weird, actually. You in?”

Eileen’s scanning over you, and if she says no, you’re going to be stuck in a loop of fighting and resting until she kills you, or your escape. And she has a lot of reasons to say no. You do sound insane, she found you with the earth growing around you and a sticky note from an—alleged—angel, and you’re not winning any awards for worth helping after fucking biting her-

“You are sure Ketch took your shit?”

You nod. “Him or Davis.”

Eileen blinks. “Mick?”

“Sure.”

“If it is Mick, I know where your stuff might be.” She gives you a weary look. “But you can’t be mad at me if it’s not there. And you have to tell me what you are.” 

It’s not a bad deal.

That doesn’t stop you from pushing it, just a bit.

“Why do you care what I am?”

It earns you a flat look. “I pulled you from the earth and you talk about angels.”

“I could just be crazy, you know.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I’ll judge that when you tell me.”

She’s not backing down.

You won’t either.

“Alright, then.”

Eileen grins at you. “Alright.”

There’s a second where you’re both staring at each other, and then you’re moving at the same time. Eileen grabs her shotgun and kicks your knife across the floor, and you shrug on your jacket with a grimace at her vomit-stained clothing.

“Do you- We can stop so you can shower-“

She waves you off. “I’ve been covered in worse. I’ll change, shower later.”

You nod thoughtlessly, feeling through your pockets one last time to check that the Blue really did take your phone. You need to call someone, just to tell them you’re alive and still trying to get home. And after how your last prayer went, you’re not jumping to make another one soon. 

But your phone is gone. And when you ask Eileen to borrow hers, Bobby’s number goes straight to voicemail, and you’re a fucking idiot who never memorized anyone else’s. Not even Dean’s. 

You’ll apologize when you get home. For vanishing like that, giving him another reason to worry when he’s already got so many. You’ll fall in front of him and wrap your arms around his legs, giving him even more weight and apologizing for it every second, until he picks you up and moves you to the bed. Not to rest. 

You’ll rest when you know he understands. When he gets that—at the end of it—you’re always just his. That as long as you have hands that refuse to hurt him, you’ll drag yourself though mud and dirt to return to his side. To crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck as you prove to him that you’ll never leave.

As you show him with a hand between your bodies, or your mouth kissing down his chest. Letting him guide you like he’d promised—or at least you’ve twisted his words into promising, just in your head where it can’t hurt anyone but you—and he understands-

“How old is your brother?”

You turn and blink at Eileen. The ride has been wholly silent save for the radio—she can’t hear you if she’s not looking at you—and you’d settled too quickly into fantasy.

“I thought we’d stop and eat.” She says, and the engine has indeed turned off.

You need to get it together. “I- That would be nice.” You mumble, rubbing your thumb over your palm. “I’m hungry.”

“I know. You threw up your lunch all over me.” She reaches into the back of her car, and pulls out a Tupperware. “BLT or PBJ?”

“PBJ,” You hum, grimacing to yourself as Eileen passes you the food. “I don’t like bacon.”

“You can take the bacon out.”

“I do.” You smile to yourself, a very wide, charming smile flashing over your vision. “I usually just sneak it onto my- De- My friend’s plate. He loves bacon.”

Eileen gives you a vague look, swallowing before she speaks. “The friend who wants you to come home?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you not tell him you hate bacon?”

You shrug. “Probably could, but he’d get really dramatic about it.” How do you not like bacon, Princess?! It’s- It’s bacon! “Plus he gets really excited when he has more bacon than he thought. It’s cute.”

“Cute?” She raises her brows. “Are you- Are there feelings?”

Fucking- 

You must have a big, blaring sign on your forehead that says I love Dean Winchester.

Sure, Jo knows because she knows you, and Sam knows because he basically is your brother, just as Bobby is your dad, but they all have spent time around you. Listened to you talk about Dean, seen you turn back for him and flush at his voice and name, clinging to him like the sorry little girl he still can’t figure out you are. The one that’s going to be tosses aside and forgotten, when he finds better-

Not the time for that. You’ll have plenty of time to try and mark Dean somewhere visible so everyone knows that no matter what they do, you’ll always love him, and that should terrify them.

Right now, you need to work out how Eileen figured out that you love him from basically fucking nothing.

And you’re not saying anything. It’s not helping your case. 

“I-“ You clear your throat. “It’s complicated.”

Eileen nods, and drops it just like that. “How about your brother?”

“My- What brother?”

Her eyes narrow. “You said you had a brother. Who fucked up.”

“Oh. Sam.” You shake your head, giving her an apologetic, close-lipped smile. “Sorry. Forgot I called him that.”

“Is he not your brother?”

“No- Ye- Sorta.”

Eileen tilts her head. “Family?”

“Yeah. He is. And he’s twenty-five.”

“Younger?”

You hum a conformation, taking a large bite of your sandwich, and Eileen’s remains neglected in her Tupperware. 

“Do you have a big family?” You give her an odd look, and she sighs. “I grew up without one. A family. I’m… curious.”

“Well I- I sort of grew up without a family too.” You frown into the air, the bread of the sandwich smushing between your fingers. “I- I had my dad. And my uncle. But I only met the rest of them when I was an adult.” You shrug, looking fully back to Eileen. “What happened to your family? Parents die when you were young?”

“I was an infant. Killed by a banshee. I’ve been hunting it since, but-“

“Have you tried throwing a funeral?” You cut her off before you can stop yourself, and she frowns. “Shit, sorry, just- Banshee hunts go really well if you’re throwing funerals. All the emotion, it’s like a- uh-“ You sigh. “I can’t think of anything. But they’re good.”

Eileen nods slowly, giving you a tentative, small smile. “It’s okay. I haven’t tried that, but I also don’t know how to throw a funeral.”

“You can use my body, if this goes south and you have to kill me.”

Her smile grows. “I will.”

You tell Eileen a little more about your family, while she eats. About how Bobby thinks you don’t know about how he uses shea butter lotion, but you shared a desktop before you bought—stole—a laptop, and you’ve seen his shopping history. She hears about Dean less than most people—you’re trying to make up for the slip, but based on her amused expression as you talk about how you think he genuinely believes his car has a soul, it’s not working—but Sam plenty, with all his books but no fucking clue how to work a self-checkout machine.

You know that because you’d been standing right next to him, staring at it for three straight minutes until Dean gotten back and explained how.

Explained to you how. He’d guided you up with a hand on your lower back, and scanned two items before letting you scan the rest. Sam had craned over your shoulder, and spent the rest of the drive back to the motel grumbling about favoritism. 

It had helped, though. When you’d chosen to sit with him and read instead of watching TV with Dean. 

And Eileen listens, nodding along so you know she understands. You get to hear much about the hunter who raised her—it sounds like with less vigilance than John, but more urgency to join hunting than Bobby—and she mentions that she likes muscles cars too, as well as big, long books, because they give her a reason to ignore people waving for her attention. 

When the ride starts again, there’s a little less wired air than before. You don’t feel better—you’re not sure you remember what better even could mean right now, when it’s not home—but Eileen’s not going to shoot you, and you’re not going to try and ditch her to do this alone. You could.

Right now—with pale blue stuck on your fingers and the Spiderweb howling for Dean so loud you have to ignore it, or you’ll go insane—you don’t want to.

The radio is low and soft, all the roading winding with the same scene of grass and trees and grass and trees, to the point that you’d think you were driving in circles if you didn’t know better. And the Sky isn’t flaring, over and over and over above you, but if you close your eyes you won’t be able to see it. And when you do—with the music and wind and hum of the engine—it’s bordering on peaceful, and if Eileen’s not going to kill you, there’s nothing to help you fight the sleep as it-

You’ve never been here before. 

It looks like a camp. A military camp. All the buildings are low, and they don’t look to be all that well put together. Wooden doors and low, rotting foundations, the pavement below your feet cracked and the grass overgrown. There’s a strong, golden haze cast over everything—lit from the sun, suspended right above the horizon and never moving—and people who mill about like ghosts. Their bodies tensed and eyes heavy. 

You don’t bother to try and talk to them.

You’re looking for Dean. 

This is the type of dream you would have about him. The type of dream you’ve always had, that has only grown sharper over the years. Where everything is golden, and your mind is making up any excuse for him to be near you. This scenario seems to be an apocalypse. 

If you believed in interpreting dreams, you’d think that your mind was trying to tell you something about how you feel like the world is ending because you’re not home.

The more likely case is that you’re simply stressed about the apocalypse.

And Dean. You can’t find him. You poke your head into buildings and down alleys, and there’s a very strange Cas that stares right through you, and a small, bearded man who’s eyes feel like they’re following you–even though you know better—but no-

There he is. 

The whole world feels like it’s glowing. He’s sprinting up towards you with a wild expression, and it’s not real, but that doesn’t stop the small sound from leaving your throat. 

He always looks so real. And when he crashes into you, his hands find you the same way Real Dean’s would. Grabbing your face between his hands and quickly scanning over you for injury, pressing you right up to his chest like there’s ever a chance you’d try to run away. 

And this is the part that makes you certain it’s a dream.

Dean kisses you like he’s about to die. Like you’re about to die. Like more than the universe will crumble if he doesn’t kiss you, and hook his arm around your waist to pull you just a little bit closer. And you can’t feel it—not really, when it’s all in your head—but you can still melt into him. Curl your fingers on his shirt and open your mouth for Dean to take more.

It would be nice if he could take all of you. Pick you up and throw you over his shoulder, then take you out of the dream into the real world. And you’d wake up with the Real Dean asleep at your side, his arm thrown over your waist in his sleep. 

You could pretend like you never left. You could pretend you’re allowed to take things from him, and climb over him, waking him up with soft kisses over his face and a smile when he blinks up at you. 

For now you’ll settle for this. For this Dean hauling you fully up into his arms with barely a grunt, and burying his face in the crook of your neck when you pull apart.

The whole world smells like a phantom of cinnamon. 

If you die, right here in your own mind, there would certainly be worse ways to go.

“You’re okay.” Dean mutters against your skin, a hand combing through your hair, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince yourself. “Son of a bitch, Princess, I kept saying shit about you missing, and you are, and- Fuck-“

You lean back, just enough to see Dean’s eyes a little glossy. You don’t know how he deals with you crying all the time.

Just the sight is making you feel like your heart is being crushed into millions of pieces that you can’t figure out how to offer him, to patch up the pain. 

Instead you just wrapped your arms fully around his neck, drop your face onto his shoulder, and stay wherever he wants to move you. 

“I miss you.” He mutters. “Miss you so freakin’ much. Everything’s a mess, and Cas said he couldn’t find you, the angels are fucking douchebags, and I- I need you here, baby. Can’t do this if you’re not here.”

Baby. 

You know I love you, baby.

You swallow, turning your head to press a light kiss to his neck. You’ve always wanted to do that. 

He makes a small sound, and that’s going to haunt you louder than ‘baby’ is.

“I miss you too.” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“You wouldn’t happened to know where you are, sweetheart?”

“Nope.” 

“Shit. Worth a shot. Stranger things.”

You hum, propping your chin up to scan around the ruined camp around you. “Do you know where we are?”

“Uh-“ He sighs, holding you a little tighter. “Just a nightmare, about the end."

"The-"

"End of the world. If Lucifer wins."

“Oh.” Your fingers are digging into his skin. It’s a good thing he can’t feel it. “That… fucking sucks.”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, it does. Whole thing really fucking sucks. Lose Sam and Bobby, Cas' fine, but human, and you- you're-“

He cuts himself off, and you lean back to scan over him with a frown. “De-“

You let out a soft yelp as you're crushed back against his body, his grip tight enough to suffocate you, like he's trying to mold himself to you until it's impossible to tear you away.

It's already impossible for someone to tear you away. Even when Dean's not with you, he's there. Removing him would be like trying to take your shadow. Just simply fucking impossible. 

"It's fine, now." Dean presses his face into the side of your head, his breathing is deep, as if he's trying to inhale you. "You're here."

You flush. It's fine. Dean's fine.

Right now, it's all fine, because you're here.

"I- I miss you, De. A lot."

"I know, Princess. I-"

"You don't." You shake your head, grabbing his face between your hands and running over every deep line and small scar. It's all still Golden. And in here, it's yours. "You- I miss you so much. I want to come home, and I miss you, and I- I said all the way down but I don't want to go there if it's not with you- and-"

Dean mutters your name, tracing his thumb down the bridge of your nose until you're leaning into his touch, your voice evening out once more.

"I wanna come home." Your voice is almost a childish whine, and Dean's lips twitch slightly.

"I do know, baby. I promise I- I'd give goddamn anything just to know where you are." He sighs, his thumb dropping down to trace over your lips, and you think you'd be happy melting into the depth of him and never bothering to climb back out.

"Dean- I-"

"I know." He mutters, pressing his thumb on your lower lip, and you can only sit in him and pray to absolutely nothing that this, somehow, could become real. Tangible. 

Permanent.

He’s kissing you again. Slower, carefully, as if you might shatter or dissipate if he’s not careful.

You really wish you could feel it. 

And then the Sky starts to split open, and it’s all gone.

Someone’s saying your name, and it’s not Dean. 

You’re still not home. Not in a bed, but in a seat, that’s made of leather and sticking your skin, just like the glass near your face. You’d be bothered by it, but there’s still too much of your mind trying to grab the idea of Dean kissing you, being happy you’re there, missing you half as much as you miss him, and you don’t want to move.

The voice is close to your ear now. Round and oddly accented- 

Eileen.

“We’re at the place.” She’s saying, and you appreciate that she’s not trying to jostle you awake. That could have ended poorly for everyone. “If you want to get home, you should probably get up.”

That’s the right thing to say. Your eyes shoot open, and you push yourself off where you’d slump on the door.

“You fell asleep fast.” Eileen offers as you rub your face, watching you with the same amusement from before. “Seemed like you could use it. But we’re here.”

“Where’s-“

“They have a big, important, secret library.” She nods out the window, and you follow the direction to see-

It’s not a castle. You’ve never seen a castle, but you’re pretty sure that’s too small to be a castle. But it’s got all the fancy architecture and surrounding gardens and a fucking iron fence to keep people out—that’s going to be annoying—and the scream of I think I’m more important than you are all over it.

“Secret.” You repeat, your tone dry, and Eileen shrugs.

“They think it is. It’s where they keep artifacts they gather on their travels.” 

“You mean steal, don’t you.” 

She nods, and you let out a heavy sigh, dropping your voice under your breath.

“Fucking- It’s not fun when it’s real.”

“Wha-“

“Movie I like that’s not great with morals. Don’t worry about it.” You reach into your jacket, shifting around the flask and pulling out your knife. “Is it warded?”

“Against what?”

“Uh…” You. “Witches?”

“I think so.” She says, watching you as you take a few, long breaths, trying to test where the Silver is in your body.

It’s not set to explode, but it’s also not entirely down. There’s a slight edge to it, that’s bumping up against the Spiderweb and making it ripple and throw light all over your body.

Something might be off with this. Something will go wrong, even if Eileen doesn’t intended it to.

You’ll get through it.

You have to. 

“Are you a witch?”

You sigh, and shake your head. “Sort of. I’m made of the things witches use.”

You won’t tell her the name. If you tell her the name, she might look into it more, and the Sky is beating above you. It won’t like that.

Half-truths. 

Only the pastel blue on your fingers—running with you wherever you go and never trying to do anything will help—will know full truths. Jo might be the only non-angel or demon who understands just what you could do, with the Silver. She’s the only one who knows you’re a virgin, too. Who knows just how much you love Dean.

She’s the only one who really knows you love Dean. You all but broke that last rule and told her. 

And she’s the only one who will ever know. 

Because she’s the only one who gets the whole truth, forever, all the time. 

But she made you promise you’d be okay. And okay means talking to people that aren’t the sky, demons and archangels come to taunt you, and Dean. 

So you tell Eileen the half-truth, and it doesn’t itch on your tongue. She doesn’t react too much, either. You think she knows it’s not everything, but just like about Dean, she doesn’t push it.

“Do you want help in there?”

You pause, the Silver rolling once more, and shake your head. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“No problem. I’ll try that funeral thing, too. Might work.”

“Will work.” You correct, spinning your knife in your hands. “Trust me.”

Eileen gives you another amused look. “Alright, crazy. Heist safe.”

“I will.” You offer her a smile in return, and it’s not full, but it’s not strained either. “If you’re ever in the states, call my dad. His number should be in your phone. Say you’re looking for Sam, then tell him you’re looking for me. He’ll pass it on.”

Bobby and Dean wouldn’t. They’d snap that they’ve never heard that name in their life, then hang up the phone. 

Sam will. 

Eileen nods, and neither of you are all that interested in long goodbyes. She seems like a practical person, and you’re really fucking sick of goodbyes all together. Given your luck and odd habit of meeting people then never being able to avoid them, you’ll see her again.

And now, you have a job to do. 

The Silver is starting to build. You hop the fence—biting on the inside of your cheek as blister form on your skin from the iron—and get into the library without a hitch, but the Silver still builds. Nothing is happening as you wander down the hallways, but the Silver just keeps building.

Maybe it’s because this is too easy. Because you’re just walking inside, and there’s nothing and no one stopping you. 

There should be someone stopping you. Ketch and his people don’t seem like the lax security types, and Davis was better, but he did seem to love his lore.

You’d think there’d a least be a guard, but there’s no one.

Not even a librarian. 

And the blur kicks in.

If you were smarter, you’d turn around and run. Damn it and pray to Cas now, them get the fuck out of here. The Silver is already winding too tight, and you might tear through more than the building when it snaps.

But you’ve come this far. And you’re not smarter.

It doesn’t help that you know they’re here. The Blade and the Book. They’re calling you forward, reminding you that they’re made for you. Made for the Magdalene to have, as a gift. Promised to you, just as you’re promised to Him. Take them, because they’re yours. 

The Silver is glowing. Starting to fall out of you without destruction—until you’re the wisdom of all the books on the shelves and the grief of the spaces between the Sun and the earth, and very, very far away, something perfect and Golden and your more than anything else—all while continuing to wind up inside of you. It feels a little like being a galaxy, consumed in the black hole but still everywhere. Still everything.

You still can’t figure out what’s wrong. There’s not a bloodstain on the floor or a dent on the wall, no alarms or cries for help making it through the blur.

Only the Book and the Blade, calling you forward.

And it’s in a glass case, when you stumble into the room. 

Just the Blade. 

They might be separated, and you’re not stupid enough to leave the Blade until you find the Book. You only pause to read the small placard they’ve added, noting that it’s a witch-blade that causes insanity, marked with Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, and Enochian. 

They know about Enochian. 

That’s going to have to be a problem for later.

Right now you’re scanning over the rest of the placard, lingering on how most of the Blade has been translated, save for one word, that they’ve reprinted on the metal.

Magdalene. 

They think it means either whore or bride, which is a fascinating dual stance to have. 

Not the time. 

You glance around, and rip a curtain down from the wall to wrap around your knuckles, and—before you can think twice—slam your knuckles into the glass.

Nothing slices your hand open. No one screams at you for destruction of property. 

Something is really fucking wrong, and you need to move.

But it happens in a flash. 

You grab the Blade—it still fits perfectly in your hand, it still belongs to you—and just like the first time, you’re lost.

It’s quicker this time. The moment where you’re everything from the hope of the soil, buried under the too fancy building to the blinding fury of the loneliest stars, wishing for something to orbit around them.

And then you crash back down, and you feel it. 

Shadows, creeping towards you before curling away. 

Fuck.

“Finally.” A voice sighs from behind you, and your grip on the Blade tightens. “I’ve been waiting forever. Almost thought I missed you, but nope.” It laughs, and your skin crawls. “That’s a fun little trick you’ve got there. Well, fun for me. For you I’d bet it’s a bit of a problem.”

You turn, and there he is.

The Red. Slammed and violent inside his vessel of some poor asshole that’s already gone.  

Grinning at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted to see. 

“I knew you’d come for that.” He nods to the Blade in your hand. “Even took care of the whole building for you. And don’t make that face.” He rolls his eyes, dismissing you with a hand. “There were like, only forty people in here. And most of them were boring, and mundane, and really? Kind of stupid. Seven of the men were rapists! So you’re welcome.”

You swallow, and still don’t speak. Just like with the Blue, the Silver is being frustratingly uncooperative. Growing up before shrinking down again, like it can’t decide if it should attack the Red.

The Red is vile, but it’s not here to hurt you. The Silver doesn’t seem to believe it’s here to hurt you. Which is fucking insane, because this is-

“Do I need to introduce myself? That song says I do. But you,” it frowns at you, tilting its head. “You should know. Do you know?”

You nod, dragging your voice from your chest. “Lucifer.”

“There we go!” He claps his hands together, his grin growing. “I’d offer you a prize, but y’know. For you, it would be pointless.”

You don’t know. Before you can ask, he’s moving on.

“Here’s the deal, doll. Can I call you doll?”

“N-“

“Well I’m going to. It’ll grow on you, trust me.”

“I-“

“Shh.” Lucifer hold a thousand fingers up to his lips, shaking his head. “You don’t get to tell me what to do yet. And I’ve had no one to talk to for so long. Listen, or I track down that new friend of yours and stab her just like the Angel stabbed that sweet girl that followed you like a fucking puppy. Got it?”

The Silver still doesn’t react. All you can do is nod, and swallow your vomit when Lucifer grins.

“Okay. Like I was trying to say, here’s the deal. You and me?” He gestures between your bodies, raising his brows. “We should be friends. And I know, being friends with Satan, spooky. But if you help me, I help you.”

You open your mouth, and he shakes his head.

“No, I know what you’re thinking. How could I help you. Well, doll.” His mouth pulls into a wide, horrible grin, and he has teeth. Sticking out of him and his wings like horns, tinted with red like he’d been eating himself.

It’s fucking disgusting. And he just keeps talking.

“All I’d ask for you to help me get little Sammy Winchester to say yes to me playing puppet with him, and that’s it.”

“I-“ You blink at him. “What?”

Lucifer sighs. “There’s a whole game being played here, doll, you don’t have to understand it. What’s important is that you know I will not hurt you. Michael’s a little pussy, if he wins he’s going to lock you up to keep you safe. All wrapped up and ready, a perfect, sweet present. But I’ll let you roam however you want! I’ll free you from all the stupid fucking plans! You can stay with me, just to fuck with him, or I- I’ll even make you a deal! That’s a classic, right? Deal with the Devil? That’s what killed Dean, too, it’s artful-“

The Silver flashes. Quick, spurred by the Spiderweb, whipping out until glass shatters, and Lucifer cuts himself off with an amused look.

“Alright. Touchy about Dean, got it. Hey,” he grins at you again. “Good thing that’s the deal, right? Heaven wins with Dean, he’s gone. And Mikey is way too much of Daddy’s boy to try and touch you. If I win,” he spreads his arms in a wide gesture, grin widening. “I’ll let you keep Dean around, as a pet! All you have to do is get Sam to say yes-“

“Sam won’t listen to me.” You whisper, because it’s all you can fucking think to say, but Lucifer just shakes his head. 

“Wrong. Oh, that’s- It’s actually kind of sad, how wrong you are-“

“I’m-“

“I’m sure Gabe told you, but Sammy adores you. You made him hold on so long.” Lucifer pouts at you, and the Silver rushes through you, right under the surface, making no effort to break out. “I mean, if Heaven hadn’t been such dicks, and you’d toughed it out, Sammy might have stopped drinking demon blood all together. You made him like Ruby less. Want to be around Dean more.” Lucifer laughs, and every time is worse than the last. “You know, out of everyone, you shook him the most. He didn’t want to disappoint you, maybe even more than his strong big brother. You chose to stick with them. You never treated him like less because of what he was, and he’s only ever seen the best things in you. How happy you make Dean, how you’ll talk to him about anything, how you always saw right through John’s lies and big man shit. If you said it was a good idea, he’d do it. Dean trained him well. You’re never wrong.”

But you’re always wrong. You so fucking wrong, all the time.

You’re not sure you’re breathing, and if you aren’t, you’re only being kept awake by the Silver. 

You need to go home.

“I-“

“No!” Lucifer cuts you off with a tsk. “Don’t answer now! Take some time and think about it, because you and me together? We could do great work. But if I were you, I’d make a choice fast. Before it’s too late for the Dean part of our deal to go through.”

“The-“ You’re choking on the Silver. It’s trying to burst out of your throat, or your fingers, or your back. You can’t even really tell. “What do you-“

“Nothing.” Lucifer shrugs, taking a step back, his expression on your unreadable. Tense. “But I can’t control all my demons. Just like Heaven couldn’t control all their angels, and Dean? He’s prime hunting meet right now-“

That’s it. 

That’s what the Silver explodes for.

And just before it does, you realize what the expression on Lucifer’s face is. 

Fear. 

Real, pure fear.

But then he’s gone, and the Silver doesn’t care. It just wants something to hurt. Something to change. 

And it’s not coming back down. Not fully. So you still can’t really think. Whatever you’ve turned the library into, whatever awful beauty you’ve created, you can’t really see it, either. It’s all just fucking Silver.

You have to run. 

Home.

To Dean.

——————

“I’m not goin’ crazy! There’s some weird fuckin’ shit happening here, Rufus!”

Dean frowned, Bobby’s voice echoing up the stairs of the house. The paint on the walls was different—a darker color, a little more chipped—and the carpet was brand-new. 

He remembered when Bobby got that new carpet. Dad had dropped them off, Sammy had liked how soft it was, and Dad had mocked Bobby for his new girly obsession with interior design. Bobby had waved it off then, and only scowled when Dean asked if he had a new girlfriend, because Dad said men only did stuff like that for their girlfriends.

Now, Dean could know he’d been an idiot. Dad probably never would’ve done stuff like that for a girlfriend, Sammy had been right—the carpet was soft—and Bobby had done it for Her. Because someone would have to be insane to not try to make everything as nice as possible, for Her.

Even in a dream, Dean couldn’t stop missing Her. And Dean would bet a lot this was a dream, because Bobby wasn’t in any position to buy a new carpet right now, out in the waking world. 

Son of a bitch, She was going to be pissed about that. 

“Bobby, you’re sayin’ the plate exploded-“

“Yeah, I am!” Bobby sounded like he was arguing with someone. It was probably Rufus. “I’m sayin’ I didn’t sleep, got pissed she didn’t do the dishes-“

“Got pissed-“

“Yelled, Rufus. I fuckin’ yelled, and I know that wasn’t right, so save it. Went to walk it off and get her somethin’ to apologize, but when I got back the dishes were broken.”

There was a loud sigh, and Dean started slowly down the hall. Whatever fight was happening, he kind of wanted to see it.

“Don’t gimme that face, asshole-“

“You’re bein’ paranoid, Bob. Maybe she just smashed the dishes-“

“No. You ain’t listenin’. She broke all of them. Even the ones in the cabinets she can’t reach. It was like they’d just burst on freakin’ the spot.”

Dean turned to the top of stairs, and froze.

There She was. 

It was a smaller version of Her, with hair in complex braids and little fingers, grabbing at the bannisters of the staircase. She was wearing a dress, and fuzzy socks, and Dean was pretty sure that if Dad had dropped them here all those years ago and She hadn’t hidden, he still would’ve crashed down into Her. Still would’ve worshipped the ground She walked on. He might have gone insane about it, trailing after Her like the shadow he was. Back when he couldn’t even properly shoot or fight yet, and she could probably still have made the tides bend to Her will. 

Then She turned and looked at him, and whatever fight Bobby and Rufus were having wasn’t important anymore.

It was all just Her.

It was always just Her.

She waved him over, and Dean obeyed without a thought. Scrambling down the steps until he was pressed right at Her side, crowding all Her space because in here, he was allowed to. He didn’t have to worry about failing Her or pushing Her away. He could just wrap his arms around Her and kiss all over her neck, before resting his chin on the top of Her head. He was punishing no one but himself, with how She giggled in his ear and held his arms against Her. 

And God, it was the best torture there could ever be. It made Dean feel like he was being ripped in half and fused back together all at once. Made him feel useful, when She leaned back into him with a hum, then like the lowest piece of shit in the mud when it hit him again that this wasn’t real, and he was making Her something she might not want to be. 

Sammy called it lucid dreaming. 

“What’s lucid mean,” he murmured Her name in her ear, She twisted to smile at him, and he might as well have been hit by a damn truck.

“In full control of your own actions or thoughts.” She said, still peering through the banister at what was probably the kitchen. “Like when you sign a will, you have to be lucid.”

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Her in his arms. He was a little worried that if he let go of Her, and all the light in Her body, She’d turn into nothing, and Dean would wake up in the dark. Alone.

So he held on tight, and buried his face in the crook of Her neck. Even in his dreams he could smell that fucking fruit. It was becoming a little like an anesthetic.

“What happenin’ out there?”

She hummed, a hand moving up to comb through Dean’s hair as She spoke, and he held Her a little tighter. “This is when Bobby started to figure out I wasn’t just a little crazy. He’s going to fight with Rufus for ten more minutes, then I’m going to have an episode because I think he’s going to kick me out.”

Dean froze. “He doesn’t-“

“No. Never.” She sighed, leaning Her head against his. “He calms me down, makes me hot chocolate, and tells me that we’re going to figure it out. Tomorrow he’s going to take me to a Psychic friend of Rufus’, and I’m going to- Uh-“ She swallowed, Her grip on Dean tightening as Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She loses all her senses. Literally. I think she lives in a facility in Chicago now, because she can’t hear, or smell, or feel anything but pressure-“

“Hey.” Dean let his lips ghost over her neck, and she let out a soft, breathy sound that was going to make his hard rule of ‘no sex in dreams, because She was still his best friend, and he had to respect that’ real fucking difficult to follow. “I get it. Don’t hurt yourself.”

She laughed softy. “Don’t tell me what to do, Winchester.”

“Sorry, Princess.” He leaned back, pressing a kiss to Her cheek and trying not to feel too proud when She giggled. “Can’t boss me around all the time.”

“Try me-“

“I’d love to.” He smirked, carefully grabbing Her chin to tip it back. “You have no idea how much I’d love to boss you around for once, baby.”

Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lip.

He was the luckiest son of a bitch alive, just to even know Her. To have seen Her enough to have her memorized, even if it wasn’t in every way he wanted. Hair tangled, but still glossy. Eyes brighter than the fucking universe, skin smooth against Dean’s. 

But he paused. There was a cut on Her lower lip, and a few visible bruises on Her face, and while Her features had been growing gaunt in his head—a lot of tension in his body seemed to exist from the worry that she wasn’t eating or sleeping, lately—She’d looked like this.

“What’s-“

“Nothing.” He grunted. Just a dream. She wasn’t actually hurt. He was pretty sure She wasn’t actually hurt. And he wanted to think about Her, here. In this dream, where She wanted him. 

“Dean-“

“I just miss you, sweetheart. Never gonna stop missing you.” He brushed a little hair from Her face, and Her face split into a wide grin.

“You miss me?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Course I freakin’ miss you, you know that-“

“How much?”

“More than fuckin’ oxygen-“

“But you have oxygen right now-“

Dean moved his hand lightly to Her neck, keeping her gaze fixed on him, and She let out a soft squeak that was going to drive him insane. “Princess?”

“De?” She whispered, bright eyes doing that flutter thing that always made Dean’s cock twitch, and he groaned.

“I miss you more than anything, baby.” He lowered his mouth to ghost over Her’s, and this was pushing it right to the line. “You’re never gonna be able to understand how much I fuckin’ miss you, but I do. I’d rip out my heart, if it made you come back to me.”

She swallowed and nodded, almost fully melted into Dean’s body, and it didn’t matter what Heaven offered him to take Michael in. Nothing could ever be better than this. 

And then something shook the world, and it was all gone.

“Dean, wake up, dude-“

“Fuck off.” He rolled over, moving the pillow to block over his ears. He didn’t want to hear Sammy right now. He just wanted to pass out and go back to Her siren voice, haunting him just as it always had.

“C’mon, Chuck texted me-“

“Don’t care. Let the angels have him, Sammy, what’s the asshole ever done for us anyway.”

Sam sighed from somewhere off to the side. “He did help me escape Lilith. And I know you don’t mean that, Dean.”

“You don’t-“

“I miss her too,” Sam’s voice had dropped to being impossibly soft, and Dean’s gut started to twist. “And we’ll find her. But we have to keep going, Dean.”

No, they didn’t.

They needed to be looking for Her. She’d said she was going to pray to Cas, but Cas said it never came through. She was fucking missing, again, and when Dean tried to call Her it just went to fucking voicemail. He didn’t give a shit about Chuck and his life-or-death situation. 

He just wanted his fucking girl home, so he could snap at Her about being insane and then hold Her until everything in the world was finally okay again.

“Dean. We gotta go.”

Dean let out a long, slow groan, and forced himself up. The morning was so fucking bright. And not Her bright, guiding Dean down, down, down and making the pit feel like it was full. Painful bright, that made him squint and rub his eyes.

Sam was, annoyingly, right. 

With all the angels running around, if Chuck was in danger, that was going to be a problem.

But that didn’t stop Dean from scowling and stewing into, for the entirety of the ride. Wasn’t like he had anything else to do. 

The trail on Her was all but dead. When She hadn’t appeared with Cas, after the last phone call, Dean had called for him instead. Just to check.

Then, it had been just to check.

“Dean, you know I am busy looking for-“

“God, yeah, I know.” Dean had been white knuckling his guns as he cleaned them, scowling at the air, and Cas had paused.

“Something is troubling you.” He’d said Her name slowly, and Dean might have almost broken his jaw. “I have told you, Raphael was likely just trying to provoke you-“

“Well, it fuckin’ worked.” It had. After they’d summoned the feathered asshole, Raphael had hummed that She’d make a good motivator, when it came down to it. Dean had almost shot him, and only managed not to because of Cas physically stopping him. But that wasn’t the goddamn point. “Cas, she-“

“I am not going to betray her trust and-“

“No, it’s-“ Dean had run a hand over his face, shaking his head. “She said she’d call you, man. I asked her to come back, and she said she’d call you.”

Cas had blinked, a small frown of his face, and Dean had felt something to the right of his heart clench.

Cas hadn’t needed to confirm it with words. Dean had understood. 

She was missing. 

Fucking again. 

And Cas couldn’t find Her. It had been damn near a week, and they hadn’t heard one word. When Dean pushed him, Cas said he’d lost the scent—whatever the hell that meant—so how She couldn’t be tracked unless she wanted to be.

But She wasn’t avoiding them. She’d promised She’d come back home, that She wasn’t running. That She’d return to Dean, and everything could be okay again, so She wasn’t running. 

Dean was pretty sure She wasn’t running. He hadn’t done anything to drive Her away that he could think of. He’d been just as careful with Her as always, and She’d been calling him, and She’d- She’d fucking promised. Pinky promised. Dean owed Her a dance, and She wasn’t running from him anymore, and they’d said all the way down. She had to come back to him. That was how this was supposed to work. 

And if She was missing, it couldn’t be anything good. Lucifer was out and running around. Heaven clearly knew things about Her they weren’t sharing.

She was in danger. They needed to be looking for Her, not saving Chuck. He had a whole douchebag archangel to do that.

The only thing that kept Dean from turning the car around was Sammy. He needed a win, and saving Chuck would be one.

And Dean was a little worried Sammy was blaming himself. For Her being gone. 

“I don’t know, Sammy.” Dean had muttered a few days ago, frowning at his burger in the diner booth. “I just got a bad feeling. I can’t stop thinking about her-“

“Which is,” Sam had raised his brows. “Different than normal?”

“Shut up, bitch. I’m being serious. Last time she went MIA like this I found her with a fuckin’ stab wound on the Mexican border-“

“Dean, I- I know.” Sam had sighed, a strange shadow crossing over his face. “But you told her everything, didn’t you. Maybe she- I mean- If she knows-“

Dean had frowned. “Knows what?”

“Lucifer. And me. How- That she was right.” Sam had bowed his head, his voice dropping. “About Ruby.”

“She knew she was right about Ruby-“

“Yeah, but- I don’t know. Never mind.”

In the moment, Dean had spiraled. Moved around thoughts of maybe She didn’t want to come home. To deal with their shit, with the burden that just being near Dean brought. Why would She let Dean, of all fucking people, even stay in Her orbit when he’d failed Her, and Jo, and Sam. 

Because he had. He hadn’t fought harder to keep Her next to him, and now She was missing.

He hadn’t been faster with Jo. Pushed harder for how he didn’t like the plan, gotten away from the demons to trade himself in her place. Jo was gone gone. If Anna had taken Dean instead, the angels would just pull him right back up. They needed him. But Dean had failed, and how he’d lost Her and the closest thing he’d had to a sister. 

And Sammy. 

He’d failed Sammy.

He hadn’t saved him from Ruby’s clutches. Hadn’t gotten him to listen. The only victory Dean could claim was not letting the kid wander off on his own after the cage opened, and even that was failing. 

Because he’d missed what Sam meant, in the diner. How She might not come back, because of Sam.

It was an insane thought. She never ran because Sam pushed Her away. Sam had only ever been loyal to Her, keeping her secret and going with Her plans, and treating Her well, even when She and Dean were fighting. Just like She’d always treated Sammy well, when he and Dean were fighting. 

Dean was the common factor there. The one who fucked up, and lost Her.

And he lay awake at night about it. When he was afraid to close his eyes, because it didn’t matter if he had a nightmare or dream, the worst thing in the world would be not dreaming of Her. Not waking up with the smell of Her fruit still lingering in the air and his hand bruised from Her phantom touch. There was always a chance that this night would be the night She wasn’t there.

So he’d stare at the ceiling, and try and work out where he’d gone wrong. But he could never fucking find it. Whenever he thought of when She’d vanished before, Dean could pin a reason to it. Dean left first. Dad drove Her away. Dean drove Her away. Dad used Azazel to drive Her away. Dean’s death drove Her away. 

But Dad was dead, and couldn’t touch Her anymore.

And Dean had been so fucking careful with Her. Tried to hold Her right and be Her shadow, even when holding Her meant through the phone—choking on the lump in his throat when he listened to Her cry, but never hanging up—and being Her shadow meant waiting for Her to return. 

He’d gotten up in the dead of night, two days after the phone call. Shuffled into the kitchen just for water, and gotten a heart attack when Bobby grunted his name from the doorway.

“Son of a bitch-“

“Stop being a dramatic baby.” Bobby had rolled his eyes, glaring at Dean from his wheelchair. “It’s my house, ya idjit. I’m gonna be in it.”

“It’s 2 in the damn morning-“

“And we’re both up. So stick it.” Bobby had paused, giving Dean an odd look. “I’m guessin’ it ain’t thirst keeping you up.”

In a way, it was. 

Dean wasn’t stupid enough to say that, though.

He’d sighed, leaning against the counter, and taken the risk. He’d needed to talk about it with someone.  

Bobby might be the only person who really understood. 

“I miss her.” He’d muttered, his voice already going hoarse, staring at the water in his glass. “Shit, Bobby, I- I miss her so much. And I keep thinking about how she might be on the floor somewhere, and I won’t be able to get to her.”

Bobby had sighed, and rolled further into the kitchen. Until he was right in front of Dean. “I know. I do. And I- Fucking hell, I miss her too. House is always too big without her, and you two dumbasses aren’t half as funny as she is. But, he’d reached up, grabbing Dean’s forearm until he looked up from the glass. “Listen to me, Dean. Since she was fourteen, there have been months at a time where she don’t come home. Where I get a phone call a week and then she’s showin’ up covered in blood with another stolen car for me to scrap. But she always shows up. Always comes home.”

Dean had shaken his head. “But-“

“I know you wanna look for her. And if you think you can find ‘er, trust your gut and go. But wherever she is, don’t think she’s not tryin’ to get back.” Bobby’s voice had dropped, and in the dim light of the kitchen, Dean could’ve fucking sworn he saw something like pain all over Bobby’s face. “She’s a fighter more than a runner, when she’s pushed to it. And if she wants to come back, I don’t think God himself would do well standin’ in her way."

Dean could agree with that. 

And he tried to replay it, whenever he wanted to jump out of the car and rip up the world until he found Her.

She always came back. 

And She’d promised, so She would.

She had to. 

“There was an Earthquake in France.” Sam said, jerking Dean’s attention back from his thoughts. “9.5. Bobby thinks it’s another omen.”

Dean grunted, glaring out at the road. “Omen for what, this time? Just more freakin’ death?”

Sam shrugged. “Don’t know yet. There’s still damage assessment happening, and the press is saying that the earthquake might have been a result of something else.”

“Something like what? Lucifer?”

“Still don’t know, Dean-“

“Then why are we talking about it?”

Dean could feel Sam’s flat look. “Because we need to be paying attention to his stuff. And you brooding isn’t going to help anyone.”

“I’m not brooding-“

“Yeah, you are.” Sam said Her name, and Dean was going to strangle him. “She’d say it’s brooding.”

“Shut up.”

“Dean-“

“No. Shut up, and listen to the music.”

Sam sighed, and listened. Dean wouldn’t strangle him. He was trying to help, even if he was being a little fucking bitch about it.

But Dean was going to strangle someone. 

Chuck wasn’t in danger. He was using those stupid books to throw a costume party that exploited their lives, and not even the good parts. Fucking Becky—Chuck’s messenger girl, the one that was obsessed with Sammy—had tricked them into coming here, and now they were losing valuable time to look for Her-

“Dude, you gotta relax.” Sam muttered, scanning around the room of nerds, and Dean scowled.

“This is fuckin’ stupid, we should just go-“

“It’s not gonna help her, Dean-“

“You don’t know that-“

“Yes, I do.” Sam gave him a firm look. “If Cas finds her, he’ll call us, and if she ends up back at Bobby’s he’ll make sure she’s fine-“

“Who are you talking about?” Becky appeared between them, looking back and forth with wide eyes. “Is it Anna? Are you looking for Anna?”

Dean shouldn’t hit a girl. His fist still curled to punch this chick’s face in.

It was good Sam answered first. “It’s not Anna. Anna’s dead.”

Becky frowned. “No, she’s not-“

“How the hell do you even know about Anna?” Dean snapped, and Becky just shrugged.

“Chuck told me. And she’s not dead, she escaped Castiel and Uriel-“

“Then she turned around and sided with heaven again.” Sam muttered. “Anna might not be dead in Chuck’s version, but she’s dead in our lives."

“In your- Are things different than in the books?” Becky’s eyes widened, and Dean gave Sam a flat look.

“Nice going, dumbass.”

Sam sighed. “She’d probably find out anyway, Dean-“

“Well, she did, because you fuckin’ told her-“

“Wow.” Becky was looking between them, shaking her head. “You guys swear a lot more than in the books.”

Dean scowled. “There’s a lot more to swear about in real life, lady.”

“Like the mysterious she that you lost?” Becky was smiling again. Punching her was quickly becoming a very real option. “Is it Lisa? Bela? No, Bela’s dead too. Jo?” Dean felt his chest ache and twist, and he must have visibly tensed, because Becky’s smile widened. “Oh my gosh, it’s Jo, isn’t it! Did you go back to Jo, Dean-“

“Jo’s dead too.” Sam grunted. “Anna killed her.”

Dean got a very firm don’t shoot the crazy lady look. He rolled his eyes, and moved his hand off his gun. 

“But- Anna killed Jo? Then who killed Anna? Was it Dean?” Her voice dropped to a whisper as a few more idiots dressed in leather jackets and open button ups moved past them. Dean wasn’t allowed to shoot her. “Did Dean kill her in revenge- Murdering one lover in the name of another-“

“One lover?” Dean spat, and Sam let out a long sigh. “What the fuck are you talking about-“

“You and Jo had a thing.” Becky stood her ground, although her voice was suddenly a lot smaller. Good. “And- And Chuck said you slept with Anna-“

“With Anna-“

“Dean.” Sam grabbed his shoulder, shaking his head. “Not worth it. It’s- It’s probably better nobody knows.”

Dean scoffed. “That’s pretty fucking easy for you to say, Sammy-“

“It is.” Sam held his gaze, keeping his words steady, even though fucking Becky was still listening. “If she was in the books, her family could find them. Chuck might not have used last names, but- I don’t know, dude, they could connect the dots and track her down. She’s safer not being a part of this, Dean, and you know it.”

Sam was right. God fucking damnit, that was a good point. And if She had been in the books, all of Dean’s thought about Her would be available to the public. There would be people dressed up with glossy hair and jackets and knives, trying to imitate her bright eyes and siren voice, like a crude, faded knockoff of one of those fancy statues in museums. It was bad enough to look around the room and see all the reminders of the worst parts of Dean’s life—there were three yellow-eyes, and Dean wanted to march over and rip out their stupid contacts—so he didn’t need people fucking up the best part. 

He already had to put up with Becky.

He really wished he was allowed to shoot her.

“Is there… a secret person?” Becky pried in a hushed whisper as some guy with a clipboard rambled into the microphone. “Who’s not in the books? Who Dean’s sleeping with instead of Anna and Jo?”

“Yes.”

“Sam-“

The bitch just shrugged, smirking slightly as Becky turned to Dean. 

“You have a girlfriend?” 

Dean ignored her, and shot Sam a very firm I am going to murder you later look.

Sam didn’t seem as worried about it as he should be.

Becky still wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

And Chuck was taking Q&As. But as much as Sammy was right, a lot of the questions were pretty fucking simply answered by Her.

Everything was better with Her.

A guy dressed as Bobby asked why Sam didn’t explore witchcraft as an option to save Dean. Chuck shot Dean a nervous look, and mumbled that Sam had been too stressed to think of everything. 

Becky gasped, moving herself right into Dean’s view. “Did your secret girlfriend do the witchcraft? Did you not die in real life-“

“No, uh,” Sam swallowed, his voice dropping slightly. “He died.”

“Oh no.” Becky gave Sam a sympathetic look—not Dean, which was pretty fucking rude, cause Sammy hadn’t died—and placed a hand on his chest. “That must have been so hard for you, Sam.”

“Yeah, uh,” Sam coughed. “It was rough. Think it was worse on-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted, shooting him a firm glare, and Sam nodded.

“Right. Sorry.”

It continued all afternoon. Through the Q&A—someone asked if Dean would ever settle down with Lisa, and Sam had to shove Dean outside to walk it off—and their conversation with Chuck. Becky kept fucking pushing about it, and Chuck didn’t seem all that happy about the situation either.

“I- I didn’t include her for a reason, Becky.” Chuck gave Dean another nervous glance, and Dean just narrowed his eyes. “There’s a lot of complicated things going on, and I don’t fully understand them, so I wanted to just focus on making the books enjoyable-“

“And I’ve enjoyed them! But I want to know everything, Chuck, please.” Becky pouted again, and all Dean wasn’t sure how the expression could look mind-blowingly perfect on Her, and constipated on Becky. “Haven’t I earned it-“

“No.” Dean grunted, and Becky rolled her eyes. 

“You just want to keep your secret girlfriend all to yourself-“

“Girlfriend?” Chuck cut in, gaping slightly at Dean. “I- I didn’t know you guys were dating-“

“We’re- It’s complicated-“

“No, it’s not.” Sam rolled his eyes. “They’ve made out. Twice.” 

Dean scowled, and he should punch Sammy right in the jaw—what the fuck happened to better as a secret—but before he could, the words fell right out of his mouth. “Three times.”

“Three- When did the third time happen?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Why didn’t you tell me-“

“Because of this,” Dean gestured to the shocked faces of Chuck and Becky, and Sam sighed.

“Yeah, but- Alright. That’s fair.”

There was a second of silence, and Becky broke it with a cough. 

“Is she pretty?”

Sam snorted. “She’s way out of Dean’s league, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She was. Son of a bitch, She was out of everyone’s league. She was playing a wholly different game, and it was made of being the brightest thing in to every exist. Playing in Her league would probably mean killing God or something.

And She’d still been kissing Dean. 

Chuck gave Dean an odd look. “But she- likes him?”

Dean opened his mouth to snap something—he wasn’t sure what, but it would be made of didn’t matter, because Dean was the only one who got to be Her shadow and he’d rather jump headfirst into Hell than be anything else—but Sam laughed first.

“You have no idea-“

Dean stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m going for a walk.”

He wasn’t telling anyone in particular. And a walk meant going outside and pacing around the lawn, glaring at the dirt under his feet and breathing slowly until he wanted to kill someone less. 

Sam was such a fucking shit. Dean was going to put hot sauce in his underwear again, or shave half his head in his sleep, or throw him off a cliff. 

But it was less the snitching, that was fueling the fury in his body. 

It was the ache. Missing Her. Just fucking wishing She was here, because if She told Sammy to shut up, he’d listen. He never teased Her about anything. And if She was here, Sam wouldn’t try to stop Her from killing Becky. She’s spin Her knife in her hand and give Becky a firm glare when she got to close to Sammy, and the bitch would back the hell off, Dean could even put a hand on Her lower back and she might lean into him, smiling up at him as they traded whispered jokes about how fucking stupid this whole thing was. 

She wouldn’t put up with it. Any of it. At the end of the day She was Bobby’s daughter, so She didn’t put up with any of this fucking bullshit.

And maybe when Chuck asked if She liked Dean, he’d get to watch Her flush, and her breath hitch with parted lips, and he’d get to know. That She felt some of it. That She would still give Dean those pretty, fluttering eyes when he teased Her. That there was a chance—if he grabbed Her chin and smirked down at Her like he’d done in so many dreams—that She’d whisper his name, and Dean would get to kiss Her in front of everyone. And they could all know that Dean was Her shadow. That there was no one who would touch Her or protect Her like he could.

Fuck, he missed Her. 

And it didn’t matter how much he called for Her in his head—looking up at the sky like it might take his plea for her, and throw it across the universe—nobody was listening. 

Then something to the right of Dean’s heart pounded. Strained. Echoed around his rib cage in a way that way borderline painful, growing and growing and growing as it only got worse. All the world was Technicolor, and air was shifting into that sticky warmth that came before a storm, and Dean could fucking swear he could smell Her on the rushing wind, could see the sparkling glass in the pavement growing brighter and all the flowers on the edge of the forest start to bloom in seconds. 

Something was coming. Dean knew something was coming. And he should run back inside and tell Sammy, but his legs wouldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. Every single fiber of his being was keeping him rooted in place, like he was anchored there by that pain in his chest, and then-

He almost fell to his knees.

She was there. 

Here. 

In front of Dean, blinking at him with slightly glazed eyes and silver pupils, but here.

It wasn’t a trick, or a replica. Dean should probably be more vigilant of that, but he knew. Nothing else made the world look like this. Made every color brighter and every edge sharper. Nothing could ever duplicate the sheer beauty of Her, as if all the stars and waterfalls and gardens and storms and fireplaces had been shoved in one woman.

It was all Her. 

Dean whispered Her name, and she just stared at him. 

Not speaking to him. Not moving for him. But not moving away, either. Just looking at him as Her hair seemed to float around Her face, and when Dean took a slow step forward—the pain in his chest easing slightly as he moved to Her, and it was the only place he could ever think to go—She didn’t flinch. 

Her pupils were still sheer silver, and Dean felt a little like he was looking at something he shouldn’t be. It should be hurting his eyes, how bright She was.

But it was more like looking at a lighthouse, or the North Star. There was nothing to do but follow it.

Nowhere to go but home.

Dean reach out a hand to touch Her, to trace over Her face and She was real. Soft and warm under his fingers. Leaning into his touch. 

And the silver in Her eyes flared, when he tried to move away. Her hand darted up to hold Dean against Her, lip parting as she shook her head. 

“Princess, are you-“ 

She took an unsteady step forward, until She was pressed right into Dean’s chest. Fingers tracing over his face so gently as he just stared at Her, and looked perfect, but still a little gaunt, and there were bags under Her eyes, and she still wasn’t speaking-

Dean muttered Her name, catching her hand in his, and Her eyes fluttered as she looked up to him. .

“It’s okay.” He whispered, squeezing Her hand three times, over and over and she leaned a little further forward. “I’ve got you, but- Shit- Wait-“

The beauty of the world was only growing brighter, as Her eyes grew glossier. More and more silver.

Dean moved his hands to hold Her face—there were not visible injuries, but it was only a small comfort—and did the one thing he’d only ever done right.

Calmed Her down. Running his thumb over the bridge of Her nose and mutters low words about how he was here, and She was fine, holding Her until she came back down to him.

“You’re gonna be okay,” He muttered Her name, keeping his gaze fixed on Her’s, even as Her eyes fluttered closed. “I’m here. I’ve got you. All the way down, Princess. Come back down for me.” His voice was a rasp. He didn’t try to fight it. “Please come back down.”

She let out a shaky breath, and when She blinked Her eyes open, her pupils were blown out and glazed, but black. 

She was back. She could see him. And slightly swollen lips parted as She scanned over his face, Her voice barely a breath when she spoke. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, offering a small smile. “It’s me. I’ve got you, Princess.”

“Are- Are you-“

“I’m okay.”

She made a sound like a whimper, and suddenly Her face was buried in into him, Her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

She was shaking as another choked sound was muffled against his chest. 

Dean felt like he was being split in half by lighting. Like he’d stepped into the middle of an electric storm, and everything was moving too fast and too slow all at once. She smelled like fruit and fit so well against him, and She wasn’t vanishing, but She was sobbing, and it was making Dean’s heart split and fracture.

But he just kept holding Her, combing his finger through Her shiny hair, right up until the sounds stopped, and Her breaths became even. 

She’d passed out.

Good.

He could just carry Her home. 

Dean hooked his arms under Her knees and hauled Her up his chest, glancing around the yard one last time to check that this really was just it. That he’d asked Her to come home and She had, without demons or angels on Her tail. 

And it would be so easy to miss it. To mistake the way the air seemed to be shimmering as a trick of the light, or decided that the way the flowers and moss seemed to be bursting out of the trees was just a natural phenomenon. Yet there was no mistaking how—growing out the walls on the inn, like an odd limb—there were branches hanging with iridescent apples that glowed. 

But it was all Her. 

No trap.

Just Her, fit perfectly into Dean’s arms, and knocked the hell out. 

Dean said Her name as he turned back to the inn. Just to make sure She really was down. She didn’t even shift or stir, and he sighed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Her head. 

She moved further into him at that. But Her eyes barely even fluttered, and Her grip didn’t tighten. She just squirmed until Dean could feel how fucking warm She was—too warm, bordering on a fever with the way sweat was clinging to Her brow—and keep his cheek pressed to Her’s as he marched back inside.

“You’re gonna be alright, baby.” He muttered, turning to let his lips ghost over Her skin. “You’re home. It’s gonna be okay.”

She didn’t so much as hum.

And She was still so fucking warm. 

The smart thing to do would be put Her in the car, then go find Sammy and tell him what was going on. But every time Dean so much as shifted Her, She’d make that whimpering sound, and something to the right of his heart would ache. It would be easier to just show Sam. Easier to just keep holding Her, because she wanted him to, and Dean couldn’t deny Her anything if he tried. 

“Dean!” Sam called from behind him, somewhere in another freakin’ hallway. “Look, dude, I think there might be a case here, and I’m sorry for teasing you about-“

Dean turned, and Sam’s voice trailed off as he said Her name, his eyes growing almost comically wide.

“I- You-“ Sammy’s eyes were fixed on Her sleeping form in Dean’s arms, his voice almost a whisper. “How?”

“Don’t know.” Dean grunted, and Sam’s eyes shot back up to him.

“What do you mean, you don’t know-“

“I mean I was standing outside, thinking, and then she was fuckin’ there-“

“Thinking about what-“

“That’s not important-“

“It seems pretty important, Dean! People don’t just fucking teleport-“

“Shut up.” Dean hissed through his teeth, and Sam snapped his mouth shut as She twisted slightly in Dean’s arms, settling down after a few, long moments.

“Fuck.” Sam whispered, looking back to Her, sleeping peacefully once more. “That’s- Are we sure it’s not a trap-“

“Yes.” He grunted. “And if you wanna hear the truth, I don’t really give a fuck if it is.”

Sam let out a long breath, then nodded slowly. “I’ll stay and take care of this. Probably just a salt and burn, and with all the fake us’s around here, one of them has to end up being useful.”

“Thanks.” Dean started his walk back to the car, and Sam quickly fell into pace. “I can have Bobby send someone-“

“I think Bobby’s gonna be occupied, dude.”

Dean huffed a dry laugh, glancing back down, because even though he could feel Her, he still had to check She was real. “Yeah, I’d bet that too.”

“You gonna call him?”

“I’ll do it on the road.” Dean ducked through the door as Sam held it open, giving a short nod. “Text him if you need something, though, I-“

“I know. I-“ Sam took a deep breath, and Dean glanced at him with a frown. His face was turned down, his eyes still fixed on Her. A little like he was trying to will Her to wake up.

Dean understood the feeling.

His keys were in his jacket, and he couldn’t hold Her and get the car started. Passing Her into Sam’s arms felt a little like his heart was trying to move out of his chest to go with Her, but he’d survive. He’d managed this long not touching Her at all. Managed longer. And She didn’t fold into Sam the same way She had with Dean, but she didn’t wake up or fight it.

And Dean didn’t miss the way Sammy’s shoulders relaxed, when he realized She wasn’t going to try and push him away. 

“I’ll call you when I’m back,” Dean muttered, unlocking the Impala as Sam swayed Her slightly, like he was cradling a baby. 

She’d be pissed about that, if Dean told Her. She’d pout and scowl and mutter that She wasn’t a fucking baby.

Dean just found it kind of adorable. Like some weird, twisted image of a kid singing their parent a messy lullaby. 

“Okay.” Sammy nodded, still swaying Her as Dean opened the door. “If I’m done before then I’ll call around and see who’s nearby-“

“Sam!” Becky’s shrill voice echoed through the parking lot, and Dean really wished Sam had let him shoot her. “Oh my gosh, Chuck told me that you think there’s a real case, did you find- Who is that?”

Dean didn’t fucking appreciate the venom is Becky’s voice. The lady was lucky to even be in Her presence.

“It’s- Uh-“ Sam looked to Dean with almost a desperation, and Dean sighed, reaching out to take Her back.

She fit right back into him. 

The real struggle might be getting Her into the car. 

“Sam, you have to tell me if you’re with someone else-“

“I- Why?”

“Because it’s not fair-“

“To who?” Sammy was spluttering as Dean maneuvered Her onto the bench, Her grip impressively tight for a woman who was passed out.

“To me!” Becky whined, not seeming to give a fuck that Sammy wasn’t even touching Her anymore. “It’s stringing me along, Sam, and that’s not very nice-“

“Becky?” Awesome. Chuck here too, now, and Dean still couldn’t get Her in the damn car. 

“You gotta work with me, Princess.” He muttered, drawing back up to his full height. “I can’t drive you home in my lap-“

That wasn’t actually a shit idea. Dean had done more without being pulled over-

“Becky?” Chuck was still walking over. Dean was really leaning towards the lap plan. “Oh, shit, there you are. You know, I told you that so you wouldn’t run off- Are you guys leaving?”

“No, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat. “Just Dean. He’s got some other stuff to attend to-“

“Really?” Becky scoffed. “Listen, Dean, I know you’re too cool for all this stuff, but a lot of people worked really hard-“

“No, Becky, it’s not that-“

“Then what is it- Is it that slut-“

Dean had been ignoring most of the conversation. 

That got through. 

“Hey.” He whipped around, still holding Her tight against him, and narrowed his eyes at Becky. “You talk about her like that, I put a bullet in your fucking brain, you got that?”

Becky nodded, her face a little pale, and Dean let out a breath. 

“Good. Sammy, how illegal is driving with someone in your lap?”

Sam frowned. “Are we talking normal people illegal, or us illegal?”

“Us illegal.”

“Then I’d say like, 45%-“

Chuck cut Sam off with a breath of Her name, and they both froze to find him staring, mouth open, face a little pale. “Is- Is that her?”

“Yeah.” Dean grunted, his fingers curling slightly against Her body, and Becky frowned.

“Who’s-“

“Don’t worry about it, Becky.” Chuck said, his eyes still fixed on Her, and Becky let out a dramatic huff. 

Chuck seemed done talking, though. He just kept staring as Sam helped Dean move into the car—he figured out a strategy where he rolled Her to the side once he was sat down—and Becky tried to ask more questions that were wholly ignored. It was pretty easily chalked up to how She was the only person in Sam and Dean’s lives the prophet couldn’t read. 

It was still pretty fucking creepy. 

And Chuck was still staring in the rearview mirrors, as Dean pulled the Impala away. He seemed almost in a trace, shaking his head right before they drove out of view.

Dean had bigger worried though. 

He had to get Her home. 

She remained down, the first four hours of the drive. Dean allowed himself to press a carefully kiss to Her temple every few miles—to check Her temperature, and no other selfish reasons—and Her possible fever wasn’t growing, but it wasn’t going down, either. Likely not a side effect of doing whatever the hell that had been, but probably not a sickness, either. A sickness would mean She was vomiting, shivering, coughing slightly in Her sleep, doing something else besides burning like the freaking sun. 

But She wasn’t. She was just settled against Dean, breathing without a single hitch, even when Dean fucked up and hit a bump. 

She seemed fine, visibly. On the surface, where Dean would find cuts and bruises if someone had hurt Her. 

But maybe being in that borderline catatonic state had healed Her. And someone had been hurting Her, and when She woke up, she’d start screaming and crying and scrambling away from Dean’s touch. 

He could deal with the first two. When She screamed and cried, Dean just had to stay with Her, and sooth Her however he was allowed. But if She scrambled away, Dean didn’t know what he would do. If he had Her back, just for Her to not want him anymore. 

That was a lie. Dean knew exactly what he’d do.

He’d wait, and follow Her wherever She asked him to go. 

All the way down.

He called Bobby, around hour five. When She was staring to roll a little, readjusting Her face and wiggling closer into Dean’s side.

It took two tries. Dean should’ve used Her phone. The old fucker would’ve picked up right away.

“Dean, I’m in the middle of damn dinner, and Sam said it was just a salt and burn-“

“Bobby.” Dean muttered, glancing down at Her as he spoke. “She’s back.”

There was a long silence, and Bobby’s voice was hoarse as he said Her name. “You found her?”

“Kinda. More like she found me.” Dean let out a long breath, and She hummed slightly. “It’s- Has she ever gotten a fever? Using her thing?”

Bobby sighed through the speak. “Only for a few years, when she was real little. She used to make the floors form black mold after I cleaned ‘em, and one time the trees all started growin’ some weird glass-lookin’ fruit, then she’d get a fever. But it stopped when she started usin’ her… methods. She warm when you touch ‘er?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she’s fine. She gets cold when she’s sick. Sorta like touchin’ a dead body.”

“Alright.” Dean let out a long, slow breath, shaking that image from his head. “We’re heading back now, but Sammy stayed behind, he’s gonna work the case himself-“

“Dean-“

“Maybe send someone, just so he has extra hands-“

“Dean.” Bobby’s voice was firmer, and Dean swallowed. “Stop drivin’.”

“I-“ Dean must have misheard him. “What? I’m driving her home-“

“From Oregon, ya idjit. That’s a fuckin’ day.”

“I’ve driven longer-“

“I know, but she needs you.”

Dean swallowed. “Bobby, I-“

“Don’t play humble and stupid with me, Dean. You ain’t good at either. She needs you, and you’re already fuckin’ there. Movin’ Her around is only gonna distress her when she wakes up.”

“But-“

“No but. Trust me, I wish you could just teleport her right back to me, but ya can’t. And you ain’t been sleepin’ well, Dean. One more night without her home ain’t gonna kill me, but findin’ out your dumbass passed out at the wheel and drove off a bridge will. Rest.”

Dean opened his mouth to tell Bobby that—actually—teleporting did seem to be an option on the table, but the line clicked dead, the conversation forcibly over. 

The motel they pulled off to was nicer than Dean usually opted for. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure why. The credit cards were stolen anyway, but Dad had always insisted they sleep in the cheapest place available. 

And She used to steal all those fancy cars, before Dean bought Her the Firebird. 

Dean had a feeling She did it for the same reason She always gave about all Her skincare and makeup and hair shit. Made Her feel a little more normal.

This did feel a little more normal. They had air conditioning that didn’t rattle, and a door where Dean trusted the lock, and they were sleeping in a bed that didn’t have lumps in it.

Together. 

Dean had tried to move away. Just for his own peace of mind, he’d made an effort to pry himself away, and then She’d let out that whimper and he’d given up. She’d let him know if She didn’t want him there, when She woke up. Dean didn’t doubt that for a second. But for now She let him wrap around Her—their shoes resting near the door and their jackets folded together on a chair—and kept sleeping peacefully as Dean just watched Her. 

He couldn’t sleep. Bobby had been right, he needed to, but he couldn’t. He needed to keep watching Her, in case an angel swooped down and tried to take Her away. Dean needed to keep looking to make sure She was real, and this wasn’t just an impossibly cruel dream.

And he’d been here before. Holding Her through the night and just staring at Her like a creep. But he’d never allowed himself this close. Where his chest was all but pressed against Her’s, and Her breath fanned over his neck, and their legs were tangled together under the sheets.

Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever been this close to anyone. He’d cuddled, after sex, but this felt different. Softer. She was still trying to bury Herself into him. Dean was keeping his hands over Her shirt, but he’d allowed himself to rest his face against Her hair, and breathe in the fruit until his body fully relaxed. 

She was here. Holding him. Her fever slowly dropping and Her soft, humming noises becoming more frequent as she only burrowed in closer.

Bobby had said She needed him. 

If this was being needed felt like, Dean never wanted to be anything else again. 

And when She woke up, there wasn’t any panic. Her eyes just fluttered open and landed on Dean’s, neither of them making any move to pull away. 

They didn’t speak for a long moment. There didn’t seem to be a damn point to it. Her hand reached up between their bodies to trace over Dean’s face with an impossibly light touch, and Dean just let himself fall into Her eyes. Fixed on him. Looking so fucking tired, but still bright. Always bright. There were lights from passing cars dancing through the windows, but She was brighter. More beautiful. And a few tears were rolling down her face as She met Dean’s eyes once more, features a little puffy from sleep, but no less ethereal. 

And Sammy used to be obsessed with mythology, when he was a kid. And Dad had been sure to let him know what was danger and what was fantasy, but Dean had sat next to the kid and let him explain all the different gods until he fell asleep, and Dean moved him into the bed. 

There had been a lot of gods. The biggest thing Dean remembered thinking was that, for all of history, people had spent too much time worshipping things that didn’t fucking exist.

He knew he’d been right, now. 

Because in all of human history, nobody had ever seemed to work out what the closest thing to God actually looked like.

Her. 

It was—always had been—that fucking simple.  

It was just Her.

“Dean.” She whispered, and he gave Her a small grin.

“Hey, Princess. I-“ He had to keep it together. For Her. 

But that didn’t stop his voice from dropping to a rasp.

“I missed you.”

“I-“ Her lips tightened, wobbling slightly, and Her hand was lingering against his jaw.

Dean wished he had a good reason to turn it, and kiss Her palm. 

“I missed you too.”

He nodded slowly, holding his voice as he forced the words out. He had to ask. 

He had to know.

“Are you staying?”

Her breath hitched slightly. “Do you want me to stay?”

Dean nodded, because there was nothing else to do. “All the way down.” And before he could stop himself- “Please.”

“Okay.” Her voice was so soft. “All the way down.”

And that was it. They fought and screamed about this before, but it had ended the same way every time. 

They’d both stay.

All the way down. 

She cleared Her throat, scanning over his face. “Are you hungry?”

He’d never been hungrier. He’d never craved anything like he wanted to roll Her over right here, and claim his place fully as Her shadow. As he wanted to make Her feel good, take full care of Her, show Her how much he’d missed Her with his hands and tongue and- 

“Dean?” She whispered, and he sighed.

Not now. Not when the tears were still dry on Her face, and Dean was a little afraid She’d grow wings and fly away if he didn’t give Her enough of a reason to stay here in the mud, with him.

He’d show Her later. When things were easier, and She could pass out peacefully against him, after. 

“I could eat. Saw a gas station a mile or two back.” He offered Her a small grin. “You wanna drive, Princess?”

Her smile might have been bright enough to wipe the sun out of existence. 

Dean wouldn’t care if it did. 

At least She’d still be here, at his side. 

Right where they both belonged.

End Note: Becky I hope you know that you are now in danger. Eileen you've never done anything wrong in your life ever. Princess, you need like a nap and maybe some dick.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378

@godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend

@lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney

@funkenniffler

[daddymaster21]

Okay, two reviews today! I’m prepared to be stabbed in the heart.

1. Insanity in her blood lmao me too girlie

2. Fuzzy socks are a vital component of mental health.

3. ‘Holy the way the plagues of Egypt were holy’ babe you are KILLING me.

4. DEAN WELCOME IN WE MISSED YOU

5. Season 4 Sam still gonna catch these hands (tho I did like the chapter you did from his POV)

6. HE CALLED HER BABY AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

7. God I forgot you killed Jo. I feel like I just got gutted a second time.

8. Not the long-term dissociation. Bitches hate to see it coming (I’m bitches)

9. IS THIS ALISTAIR???????

10. IT IS ALISTAIR. FUCK THIS GUY.

11. We’re back to not using our powers??? Fuck that, crush this bitch into nothing

12. Sir, you are poking the fucking bear, and it is not gonna go well for you.

13. Ohhhhh okay, totally valid that we don’t wanna use the silver, actually. Decimating a countryside doesn’t seem very conducive to a good time.

14. Obviously I’m happy for them to be talking again, but how funny would it be if it were an actual spam caller lmao

15. Ughhhhh she’ll always listen to him, but he’ll always listen to her, so he’ll never actually end up begging

16. UMMMM WOOF I’D LIKE TO SIGN UP TO BE HIS PLEASE

17. All my homies hate it when the evil bitches are right 😔

18. Girl I know about the NDA, and I’ll be patient, but I am DYING to know who the sky is.

19. Nooooooo he thinks she’s leaving him for good, my poor heart

20. Psychic sex?? 👀👀👀

21. Awwww he almost talked about fucking her in cowboy land!

22. I didn’t cry when you killed Jo, but I might cry from the missing her

23. To be fair, if Dean was covered in grease and wearing a tight shirt, I’d be willing to watch him eat soap

24. THE HORNYYYYYY

25. Words cannot describe how much I love you for making your protagonists love people other than their love interests. That’s so often forgotten and you never forget it and I love you for it.

26. THE DREAMSSSSSSS

27. These fuckers, AGAIN??? She better get her blade back, at least.

28. Lmaooooo I forgot she dropped a ceiling on him. Get his ass.

29. WOOF HE’S HER COWBOY

30. Oh god he’s being so affectionate in the dream this is killing me

31. PRINCESS COMING HOME CONFIRMED

32. Love her summoning the garden of Eden everywhere she goes. I think that’s hilarious.

33. Gabe is such a little shit, I love him

34. NOOOO DEAN IS GONNA BE SO UPSET

Final thoughts: I got nothin’. Speedrunning to the next chapter.

Chapter 21 - If You Want To Survive

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This week on Babylon - long distance relationships!

Chapter Title from Dog Days by Florence + the Machine

Word Count: 18.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You run, and Dean waits. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 20 - Chapter 22

Read on A03!

“You’re doing it wrong.”

You know you’re doing it wrong. Your feet are dangling off the edge of the bench, and your fingers are still a little swollen from when you slammed them into the door, and you’re trying but you don’t know how to do it right-

“Hey. Breathe.” Rufus grunts your name, prying your hand from the strings of the guitar. “Nothin’ bad about to kill us right now. This ain’t life and death, it’s a fuckin’ guitar-“ 

He cuts himself off, scanning over your open face with a long sigh.

“Don’t tell Bobby I swore at ya. He’s been reading a bunch of parenting books. They’re all sayin’ swearing is bad for kids.”

“I’m not a kid-“

“Yeah, you are. Or at least he’s tryin’ to let you be.”

“That’s why he won’t let me do hunts, isn’t it.”

Rufus snorts, shaking his head. “No, you’re not allowed to hunts cause no kid should be doin’ hunts.”

“What about the boys staying at home?” You raise your chin, narrowing your eyes. “John’s sons. The older one hunts. I heard Bobby complaining to you about it.”

“You eavesdroppin’ on us now?”

“I- No-“ You get a pointed look, and bow your head to frown at your feet.

You’d liked these socks. They were fuzzy and covered in little rainbows, and you’d always kept them at Rufus’ because they made you feel better. You show up at his doorstep covered in a bit of dirt, with everything prying apart in your body and something dark in your body trying to seep out of your skin into the world, but it’ll be okay. Rufus will help you inside and make you some food, you’ll get a long bath, as much chocolate as you want, and your fuzzy socks.

But it doesn’t stop hurting.

It’s never fucking stopped hurting.

“I- I was.” You swallow, grinding your fingers further into the strings of the guitar. “I’m sorry.”

Rufus only laughs. “I don’t give fu- crap. Good you got away with it, too. Doin’ better than a lot of other hunters already.”

Your eyes widen. “Other-“

“Your family is hunters. You’ve got hunter in your blood.” Rufus sighs, running a hand over his face. “If we get say in it, you’re not gonna need to hunt. But Bobby don’t listen when I tell him that might not be his choice. But-“ Rufus’ voice turns firm, his eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t try nothin’ when you still can’t touch the fu- freakin’ ground.”

He bumps your feet with a small grin, and you return it, even if it’s toothless and nervous. 

And you don’t have hunter in your blood. Rufus knows that you don’t have anything but insanity in your blood. But he’s never treated you like you’re anything less than Bobby’s daughter.

You wish you were. That you’d come from him rather than the darker, twisted horror you were born into, with too clean floors, never enough food—despite the sheets being silk and the floor being marble, you’d never had enough food—and no fuzzy socks.

Still, you didn’t know how to just wait. How to just sit in the fucking pain like it had to be a given—it might be—and wait for your feet to hit the ground. You don’t think they understand how much it hurts. And how if it doesn’t hurt, you’ll make everything else hurt instead. How you can’t be trusted anywhere, and you might not deserve this kindness, and you still have nightmares about big and smooth hands wrapping around your throat and telling you it’s time.

“John Winchester’s sons have hunting blood.” You mumble, glaring back to the carpet, and Rufus sighs, giving you an almost amused look.

“You ain’t droppin’ this, are you?”

“It’s not fair-“

“Nothin’ is fair. And those boys shouldn’t be huntin’ at all.”

“But they do-“

“Only when their Daddy’s got no one better.” Rufus mutters, and you frown at him. “John drops ‘em with Bobby when he’s not looking for company on a hunt. And if he is, he takes Dean like the boy ain’t thirteen.”

Dean. The big one is named Dean.

And somewhere through the swirling fog of the world, there’s an iridescent light that whining and howling and aching. It’s hurts almost as much as the Darkness does. 

Did. 

You’re a little dizzy, and you know that when this happened, Dean was nothing more than a name. You think he was nothing more than a name. You might have felt the White rolling and humming for him, even then. 

“I’m not that much younger-“

“That ain’t the point-“

“And John takes both of them hunting all the time! And I’d know more! I have all the lore memorized, and I- I could fight-“

“You can’t shoot.”

“I could try-“

“No, ya couldn’t. I remember when you just saw Bobby’s gun, kid.”

“But I’d get over it- And if the Winchester’s can do it-“

“It don’t matter what those boys can do. You’re not like ‘em.” Rufus mutters your name, the look on his face almost sad. “And John- You know Bobby don’t want you near him for a reason. And I agree. Even if we were pro baby-hunters, you know you can’t be out there.”

“But- I- I can’t- I don’t-“ You take a shaking breath, the dark thing starts to twist around in your body, all your skin itching with the pain of keeping it down. “It hurts-“

“I know it hurts.” Rufus sighs, guiding your fingers back to the guitar strings. “That’s why we’re doin’ this.”

You shake your head, trying to curl back into your body. “I don’t wanna-“

Rufus grunts your name, giving you a firm look. “We keep doin’ this, or I tell Bobby ‘bout the door.”

You’d swallow, your eyes wide on his and he lets out a long sigh.

“There are ways to deal with it that don’t hurt, kid. I’m just tryin’ to find you some.”

“Ways like drinking?” You wrinkle your nose at him, and Rufus lets out a dry chuckle.

“Nah. I’m not a preacher, I don’t gotta practice what I’m sellin’. Go back to g-cord.”

You shift your fingers, but pause, staring ahead as the light turns in your body. 

It still hurts. Everything always hurts, and you feel small, and you’re safe here but it still feel like you’re being ripped in half. And you love staying at Rufus’, but it hurts, and it doesn’t matter that if you go back home you might get more hurt. You’re already hurting, and you- You don’t know what to do with all this fucking pain-

“I wanna go home.” You whisper, your eyes starting to sting, and Rufus only sighs.

He’s used to the swings. To the way it becomes too much, and you grow small.

You wish you could control it. Be better. Be more than a sick fucking problem, but it’s all you are. All you’ve ever been. And you want to go home.

“I know,” Rufus mutters, squeezing your shoulder carefully. “But you can’t, kid. Not until it’s safe.”

The world starts to shift, the fog around you glowing and bathing everything in a softer light, and your feet can touch the ground again. 

When this had happened, Rufus meant safe for you. That you could go home when it wouldn’t end with John Winchester putting a bullet through your brain. 

Now John was long dead, and you- 

You were still so fucking sick. There wasn’t hunter in your blood, there was power. Power and a long, long line of horrible, wrong creatures that even Heaven hated. You may be holy, but it might be the way the plagues of Egypt were holy. Wrathful and awful and vengeful. Sick and destructive and wrong.

You’re so fucking wrong, so home isn’t safe from you.

Nothing is safe from you, and the horror you bring. 

And you want your feet to go back to being too small. To having little blisters on your fingers from holding the guitar, instead of whatever put them there now. You’d only read books because it passed the time, and you didn’t think twice about the notes you were writing, and home was somewhere you could return to.

You want to go home. 

To return to not knowing that John would’ve been right. Being afraid of him was always so much easier than being afraid of yourself. It would be so nice to go back to this. It was lonely but simple. You were filled with sickness, but it poisoned only yourself.

But Rufus would’ve always said Dean, and you would’ve always felt the White howl.

You miss him most of all. 

“Where are we?”

You sigh, dropping your head to the side on his shoulder. It’s always a little like you summon him, and then he’s there. Warm and Golden and almost real.

Almost.

“I’m learning how to play guitar.” You mumble, strumming a smooth key that comes out twangy and weak, because that’s how it had sounded when this actually happened. 

Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Wow. You’re kind of shit at it.”

“That’s the learning part, Deano.” You twist to prop your chin on his shoulder, and his grin is wide. Strong. Happy. “Hi.”

His grin grows, a hand rising up to hold your face. “Hi, Princess. You look good.”

“You always say I look good.”

“Well that’s cause I’m not a liar, sweetheart.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

“So bossy,” he hums, tracing his thumb over your cheekbones, and everything but Dean is fading into the background. Even your memory of Rufus is being painted in Gold. Just to remind you.

Dean isn’t here. Not really. But you still love him. And it’s still all the way down.

“How do I look?”

You scan over his face, with heavy bags until his eyes and a slightly swollen cheek. 

When you reach up to trace a hand over it, he doesn’t flinch. Dean just lets out a soft sigh, and leans into your touch.

“Tired, De.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Haven’t been sleeping good. Fighting with Sammy again.” He pauses, his voice growing a little hoarse. “Miss you. Wish Cas would tell me where he dropped you, so I could come carry you home.”

“I know. I- I do too.” 

And you do. 

Because if Dean tracked you down and tried to carry you home, you’d never fight it. You’d always just go, because you love him, and it’s not indulging or making it about you if Dean’s demanding it. 

“I miss you.” You mumble, and everything is starting to wash away. Leaking with a light that hurts to look at, the bench and Rufus flickering in and out like a mirage on water.

There’s a loud, blaring sound, coming from far, far away, and you have to go. 

Dean must know it too, because his grip tightens. “Come home. I- So much shit is happening and it’s all freakin’ insane, and you’d know what to do. You always know and I fuckin’ miss you, baby, please come ho-“

The alarm rips through the world, crashing through everything you can see, and Dean vanishes.

You shoot up in your bed and let out a loud groan. The frame is so fucking small, and your legs are cramping, and the sound is still fucking going-

“Fuck.”

Your mumble is mostly to yourself.

There’s no one else to hear it anyway.

The month since you left hasn’t exactly been spent making friends. It’s been research and moving and finding ways to keep yourself afloat.

Cas had dropped you in Rome, and apparently didn’t stop to consider that you don’t fucking speak Italian. It had helped that most people here spoke English, but after about a week you’d gotten sick of not being able to read anything, and gotten—technically stolen, with Dean’s voice in your head humming I thought you weren’t a criminal, Princess—an Italian for Beginners book.

It’s mostly been tourist phrases. Where is the bathroom. How do you say taxi. I do not speak Italian.

You’ve used that last one liberally. 

And you don’t talk that much, all together. There seems to be a drastic shortage of monsters to hunt and a beautiful plenty of books to read, so you’ve focus all your energy there.

On looking for answers.

About anything. Lilith. The seals. Heaven. The Magdalenes. Witches.

You.

Everything you learn about yourself is something you had to teach. You can’t feel anything holy, but you can’t really feel a lot right now. It’s all just a lot of fucking pain. And as you force yourself out of bed for the day, your gaze falls to your hands, and you can still see it. 

Pastel blue. Glistening and crystallized on your fingers. The Gold has faded slightly, but the Blue is still clinging to you. Whenever you wash your hands, you’re afraid it’s going to run away with the water. When you wake up, there’s a dread in the pit of your stomach that you’ll glance down, it will fall off like an icicle from a roof. Maybe it will have been wiped away in your sleep, stained on the sheets, never to be returned. 

And then it’s there, and the dread shifts to just more fucking pain. Your eyes sting, and you freeze on the edge of the bed as you stare at it. The last bit of Jo, bled onto you when she-

Bile rises in your throat, and you swallow it back down. 

You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to be sad when you did this to her. Made Jo nothing more than a little bit of a mark on your fingers that no one else can see. Ellen didn’t get a little bit of Jo to carry all the time. 

Ellen didn’t even get to be there when it happened.

Jo wants you to tell Ellen something. And you’d cut her off, because you’re a fucking parasite, and you’d been so sure you could fix it. You would’ve done anything to fix it, but the Sky wouldn’t let you, and now she was gone-

A weak, sniffling noise escapes your throat, and this time there’s no bile. It’s only a heavy, crushing weight around your skull, and a searing feeling as your nails dig into your skin.

You need to move.

Most mornings, it takes too long to remember how.

And it’s never anything spurring you into action. You’re numb and hollow and breathing only because you have to, and then it all settles down and you move.

It’s mechanical. Sleep shirt off and in the backpack. Top. Bottoms. Socks and shoes and jacket. Your knife, spin it once in your hands just to move, then tuck it against your body. 

Go. 

You have to move and go, because you promised you’d be okay, and turning to stone is no way to be okay.

You don’t remember how to be okay either. 

But you’ll get through it. 

You always do.

You’d had to leave the city within a few days. There were too many people, too many colors, all of it bleeding together like a kaleidoscope or supernova and making you dizzy. Too many not-smells, giving you a migraine. The countryside was better. Quieter. Sometimes there was golden light reflecting in the rivers, and you got to pretend you could grab it and keep it. 

And there are less people to hurt, if something goes wrong. 

Because something always goes wrong. 

Even when your day is just reading and scratching notes in the corner of a library, something will find a way to go wrong.

Maybe that’s part of the Magdalene curse. Maybe angels and demons can’t kill you, but the world just shifts and rots around you from your presence. You are made of the same thing as Lilith, and she made things as wrong as they could possibly be. Maybe this ends with you either destroying the world, or imploding onto yourself. 

You’re closer to the second. You’re tired, and your teeth hurt, and every shadow is longer than you thought possible. The pencil is heavier than it should be in your hand, and you can’t tell if there’s something in the air or if your lungs simply can’t figure out how to breathe anything but iron. Your skin feels wrong on your body, but you can’t remove it or that final bit of Jo in the world will vanish.

You miss Dean. You miss him all the time. There’s no one here to hold you until you sleep, no one to calm you down when the souls start to swarm around you, and it’s like you’re being drowned. Nobody is making you drink water or eat through the grief, and some days you’ve just been forgetting until you stand up and almost fall over.

Then you have to steady yourself, but no one is as good at steadying you as Dean is. 

You love him. And every time you wake up from a dream—just like this morning—you could swear you could fucking smell him. On the air around you, stronger than the cotton and dry wood of your room. You’ve stopped wearing perfume, so that it can linger on the edge of the air through the day. 

But you’ve stopped doing a lot of things.

It’s why, when something goes wrong, nothing riots in your body to warn you. The most you get is a faint tug from the right of your chest, and then it’s too late.

“Look at what we have here.” A taunting, male voice crows over your shoulder, and your blood goes cold. 

You don’t have to turn to know that it’s something evil. You can hear it in the drawl of his words. Fucking smell it, metallic and rotten on the air, like blood and-

Sulfur.

Fuck-

Two hands close over your shoulders, pinning you down to the chair, and a cold breath fans over your neck.

“Took me so long to find you. Don’t move an inch, darling. We’re just here to have a conversation, and I might not be able to kill ya’, but I don’t think you can kill me either, can you.” The demon laughs. “I think you might be havin’ some performance issues.”

You swallow, trying to force your voice to stay even. “Would you want to bet on that?”

The demon laughs. “Why don’t we find out? I’ve been dyin’ to get my hands on you, princess.”

There’s a prickling, burning, white-hot feeling on wrong over your heart. 

Only Dean calls you that. Only Dean is allowed to call you that, because he says it with a teasing voice, but there’s always something under it that makes your body relax and the Spiderweb glow. It’s made of something soft and a little intoxicating. He says it as if he believes it. As if it’s not just a joking nickname that stuck, but a title. 

The demon says it like he knows how wrong it is. Like he’s slicing you open and driving a poker right into the Spiderweb, then laughing as it whines for something you both know it can’t have. Dean’s across the ocean, and you’re not a princess. Dean might look at you and see more than a monster, but the demon isn’t fooled. 

He knows what you are.

Like him.

Worse than him.

Demons are turned from years of torture. Demons are evil, but at least they were once human. 

You’ve never been anything but sick. You were born twisted. And you’d never asked Cas if Lilith’s daughters were born before or after she became a demon.

You don’t really want to find out.

“Calm down, sweetheart. Can fuckin’ taste your fear.” The demon sneer in your ear. “And there’s no need to get hysterical. You get to be special again. For once, I ain’t here looking for that delicious panic and pain.”

You don’t want to be special. You just want to go home. 

You just want Dean.

“What- Why are you-“

“I just thought I’d come see what all the fuss is about.” The demon hums, rising back up. “I’ve heard so much about you. And darlin’, the stories aren’t doing you justice.”

The demon rounds the table, and your nails dig into the scar on your palm. 

He’s like Lilith.

A little darker of a gray, but smooth. Refined. Nothing bursting out of where he wants it to be, and he’s fucking hideous and hateful and wearing it like a badge. Every shift of him is like a raised chin and a sneer.

You recognize him. You can’t place how, but you do.

“Dean needs to get better at tellin’ stories.” The demon hums, and even his vessel is twisted in a horrible, crude smirk. “Even all his fawnin’ and whinin’ didn’t manage to capture just how perfect you are.”

It’s so fucking wrong. In a way worse than Lilith, every fiber of your existence knows this demon is fucking wrong. And the Spiderweb hates him. It’s crawling and twisting in your body like it’s trying to fucking hide, stinging and whining as if just the demon’s presence makes it feel sick.

And he’d said Dean. 

He knows Dean. 

You do know him. 

The pieces snap together in a second, and you’re moving the next. Grabbing your knife out of your jacket and flying across the table, driving the blade right into the Alistair’s chest. 

Nothing happens. Alistair just laughs, pulling the knife out of his chest and examining it with a smirk.

“This that knife Dean got you, isn’t it.” Alistair raises his brows at you, and sighs when you only glare at him. “I’m tryin’ to have a conversation with you, you know-“

“I don’t want to have a conversation with you.” Your words are spat, and Alistair just rolls his eyes.

“There’s those dramatics I’ve heard about you havin’. Always so emotional,” he hums your name, sliding the knife back across the table. “I was building up to a compliment, sweetheart. Dean had good taste. I can feel a lot of anger and fear on that thing.”

The bile is back. It’s spilling into your voice. “What the fuck are you here for. I’ve stopped interfering-“

Alistair scoffs. “I don’t care about that. I woulda preferred you stick around, but Lilith said it wouldn’t work out in our favor if ya did. Shame. I was really lookin’ forward to killing Dean in front of you, then seeing what type of pain you’re really capable of causin’.”

“I-“ There’s something tight and horrible around your throat. “I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are.” Alistair smirks, scanning you over once more. “You want to know Dean’s worst nightmare?”

You really don’t. You’re only clinging to your knife like maybe it will summon Dean to your side, trying to wait Alistair out. 

The only other option is stirring deep, deep in your body. Starting to pick up and roll around. Shining bright enough to split through that gaping, infinite void of too much and nothing at all that seems to follow you with death.

And you can’t use the other option. So you just have to fucking hold on, and last through this new, awful thing.

“That boy has always been a little more creative than is good for him.” Alistair smiles, almost fondly, and you want to punch out his teeth. “Made him a beautiful subject, and a perfect student. But sometimes he’d get cold feet. All sad and whiny ‘bout hurtin’ people. But all I’d have to do is show him that nightmare of his. Dragged it from his head after about a year, and- Well, why don’t we just look together. Brace yourself, sweetheart. It’s a good one.”

Alistair reaches up, and before you can stop him, his hand is pressed to your brow.

You’re back in Hell. The screams and heat and colors running below your feet.

Not your feet. 

Lower than your feet. 

You’re suspend, on the same rack that you’ve seen before. And Dean’s right there. Golden, but tattered and mauled and frozen. Just staring at you, as something gray and horrible runs over your body, and you want to scream but you can’t breathe, and Dean’s still not moving.

The Gold is rioting, but Dean’s not moving.

Alistair laughs in your ear, and the Gold seems to be trying to press out, to get to you, but then it hits an invisible barrier, and Dean doesn’t move. 

You don’t think he can.

When the library comes back into focus, you’re panting. Every breath is too fast and short, your grip on the table driving splinters into your hands, and you can’t fucking breathe-

“Warned you.” Alistair hums, and his voice is driving right into your fucking brain. 

All you can see is Dean. Frozen, watching you with fear.

Dean was never afraid. He was angry and worried and stressed, but you’d never seen him look only afraid.

The Spiderweb is almost whimpering, shimmering with a soft light and still trying to bury itself deeper than Alistair can hurt it.

But the Silver-

It’s starting to move. To wake up.

Fuck.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret, darlin’. That little nightmare? It always was fun to feed, but it’s never gonna be the plan. I’m thinking, when we win and I get to take you home, we’ll find wherever the reapers stored sweet little Jo, and pull her out. To join the party, you know?”

The Silver rears its head. And you’re drawing blood on your skin, but your nails are short and chipped, and you still can’t really breathe-

“And then I’ll give Dean a choice. He can either torture Jo while you watch, or I’ll make his nightmare come true.” Alistair laughs to himself, and the Silver is starting to climb up. 

Or curve in. Building up by caving in. Like a fucking black hole, crushing down so it can-

“And he’ll choose you. He’ll hate himself for it, but you’re his girl. His Princess. He ain’t gonna do anythin’ that’ll hurt you. Not on purpose.”

The Silver is so close. But there are people here. People and animals, and a- You saw a fucking teenager, and she had a walk that kind of reminded you of Sam’s-

“But here’s the kicker,” Alistair says your name like you’re old friends. “After he finished chopping up Jo, I’d freeze him just like in his nightmare. And I wouldn’t touch you. That’s boring. If I’m makin’ art like this, I’m making it the right way.”

It’s going to fall out of your mouth. You can’t fucking control it, and all the Silver can feel is the pain of the Spiderweb, so all it knows is something’s wrong and you can’t stop it-

“No, here’s what I’ve got lined up instead. Good ol’ Sammy will be walkin’ around up here, well,” Alistair laughs. “His body will be. But point is, can’t use him. And I think what I’m left with will work better anyway.” Alistair’s smoke moves back into that ugly fucking smile, and the Silver reaches a stasis. A silence.

A split second before the storm.

“I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play. Let him do whatever he wants, while Dean’s watchin’. And maybe it’ll just be what Dean did to Jo, but you never know.” Alistair smirks. “Those men of god never could resist a Magdalene.”

Everything stills. Moves to match the stasis of the Silver, and it’s almost serene. You’re everything, and it’s all waiting for you. The walls will fall to shield you. The wind will turn to a hurricane to protect you. The grass outside will grow and flourish to protect you.

And the Sky is smiling at you. You can feel it, and not just watching.

Over you. Shining with praise, because this, this is that holy wrath you’re supposed to have all the time. 

You don’t fucking want it.

You just want to go home.

Alistair smiles at you again, a second before you lose control.

“There you are.” 

You don’t know how he gets away in time. You can’t tell through how you’re everything, and you can’t see anything but the blur.

All you know is that you explode.

Detonate.

Destroy.

The Silver razes through all it can reach.The building turns to ruin, rivers of blood run under your feet—although, as far as you can see, there are no bodies—and the forests and walls start to bloom with flowers and plants you’ve never seen before. 

They’re beautiful. Strangely shaped and delicate, glowing softly and filled with an iridescent light. 

But it’s all beautiful. 

The apples hanging from the ceiling are beautiful. The small, condensed bits of life floating through the room are beautiful. The countryside, now littered with pastel blue roses, is beautiful. 

And the souls stained on the walls are beautiful, too. 

And you have to go.

The angels will be here soon.

That must be the real reason Alistair was looking for you. He’d taunted you right to the fucking edge, then pushed you over. Forced you to lose control, and send up that loud, neon signal telling Heaven I’m here! Come and get me!

And you’ve been so fucking careful not to draw attention, but it’s not really up to you anymore.

Because the Silver’s been like this since Jo. Dormant and silent until it’s forced to move, and then reactionary. Worse than a live wire, worse than a sickness, worse than a monster.

Damnation. 

That must be why the angels are still after you, even though you did what they asked. Even though you left.

Zachariah had said to muzzle you.

And you weren’t muzzled.

You were feral.

And now you have to run again.

But you don’t want to be the sickness. You don’t want to be what the Sky keeps demanding of you. Blinking down over you and asking doesn’t it feel good, to have this kind of might in your body, to not be burdened by things lower than you are?

Nothing is lower than you are. They might not be talking to the Sky, but it’s lonely. Higher than anything else, but that seems to be more of a curse than a gift. And all the things it keeps telling you are lower are made of more than the Sky is. Every soul spilled on the ground around you is a little dented and tainted, but it’s beautiful.

It’s all so beautiful. 

You need to go. It’s not safe for you to stay. 

But you do. For longer than you should allow, you grab every soul you can and shove it back into its body. And you can’t heal them. Can’t fix whatever damage the Silver has done, because you can’t call it forward to mend what it broke. They’ll be alive, but maybe different. Maybe completely morphed, maybe just a little cracked, maybe shattered beyond repair. But they’ll be alive. And even if you could fix them, the Sky might decide you were overstepping again, and rip them right back out. 

It never stops you from cleaning, though. From finishing your little ritual. It shines in warning, but you flip it off.

“You’ve got something you want from me,” you hiss, narrowing your eyes. “Come and get it your fucking self.”

It doesn’t.

It just keeps watching.

So you run.

You don’t stop until dusk. Until you’re sure you’re far enough away that whatever angels Heaven sent won’t find you. 

And this is how it is now. You move from town to town like some sort of phantom. You miss Dean every second, but you can’t go home. You dodge angels and read in the dead of night, staring at your phone and willing it to-

You jump out of your skin a little, when the screen lights up. 

Possible Spam.

You’ve never picked up the phone faster.

Dean’s shouting your name through the speaker, when the call connects. There’s something strained in his voice. Almost distressed.

You raise your voice, just enough to get through to him. “De-“

“Oh, thank fucking- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, I- Are you good? Safe?”

“I’m fine.” You draw your knees up to your chest, trying to make your voice sound light. “It’s just- Long day-“

“I know about Alistair.” 

You freeze, and Dean’s voice grows a little hoarse. 

“He admitted it. Told me he’s seen you. It’s- We’re working one of the seals and he’s here, and I- He said-“

“He didn’t hurt me.” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. “He was just taunting me. Trying to make me- You know. Do the thing.”

Dean’s silent for a long, heavy second. “Happened again, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Any progress on-“

“No.”

Dean lets out a dry laugh. “You didn’t even let me finish talking.”

“I-“ You swallow, a heavy lump starting to form in your throat. “I’m sorry-“

“Hey, wait, don’t- I’m teasing you, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is so gentle. You can almost see the slightly panicked look on his face. “Don’t cry, it’s okay, you’re good-“

You’d been trying not to cry.

You really had. 

But you miss him. And you’re so fucking tired.

It’s impossible to swallow the choked sounds or whimpers. The sniffling as you wipe your nose with your sleeve, or the heavy breathing as a weight pressed onto your chest. You don’t want Dean to hear. You know he’s still dealing with the seals, and an angry Bobby—although Dean won’t admit they’re fighting about you, you know they are—and a Sam that’s still working with Ruby. He doesn’t need to hear you cry when you’re the one who fucking left. You’re the one who wouldn’t stay. 

You’d hated Dean so long for leaving you, so many years ago.

But then you fucking left him.

And he’s staying on the phone with you. Not speaking, but humming low and deep as your head drops to your knees, and your breathing evens out.

It’s steady.

Ragged and impossible, but steady. 

“De- I-“ You swallow, wiping your cheeks with your palm. “I wanna go home. I miss Bobby and Sam and I- I don’t know what to do. I miss you, and I can’t sleep, and I-“

I love you.

You’re not allowed to say it.

So you just strangle yourself on the sound, and hold the phone as close to your ear as you can.

“I know.” Dean’s voice is a rasp through the speaker, and it makes a new wave of tears fall. “Just come home, Princess- I- Fuck, I’ll call Cas and he’ll come get you right now-“

“I can’t.” You whisper. “You know I can’t.”

“But-“

“Please. Don’t.”

Dean can’t beg you to come home. 

If he does, just as always, you’d listen.

“Did-“ Dean clears his throat, and you’re grateful. He listened. “What did Alistair say to you? To set it off?”

You can’t tell Dean what Alistair really said. He’d drive himself mad about it. Doing something reckless, get himself hurt. And all of this is always just so Dean doesn’t get hurt.

But you can’t lie to him either. 

“Jo.” You mumble, leaning back and rubbing at your wrists. “You. Sam. Just- What he’d do, if they win.”

“Fucking bastard.” Dean mutters, and you smile into the air. 

You miss his glare. The firm one that he’s always aim at you, but never hurt you. It was always a glare that wrapped around you. Told you he was angry because he cared, and didn’t know how to do anything with it.

He still cares.

Dean knows what the past month has been for you. Nightmares and explosions, souls staining the ground and painted over your hands—although they always fade fast, as nothing but Jo seems to be clinging to you longer than it has to—and never getting more control or answers.

You only find more questions. More reasons to stay away. And Dean should give up on you, but that’s not what he does. You know how pissed he is at Sam, but he’s not giving up on dragging him away from Ruby. He wouldn’t.

Just like how he’s only ever held you when everything became too much. Only ever gone to help, whenever Sammy called. Had held you and tried to make you stay, after Jo.

And he still picks up the phone. Still calls you, even when you know that—wherever he is in America—it’s an unreasonable hour. Talks to you like nothing has ever gone wrong at all. Asks you to come home like it’s not ripping out and healing your heart all at once. 

“You know I’d never let that happen, right?”

You blink, frowning at the wall. “What?”

“Alistair.” Dean mutters. “No matter what happens. He’s never gonna touch you.”

I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play.

You know. You know I love you, baby.

“I know.” You whisper, even though you both know that’s not really up to Dean. “How was your day?”

“Kinda shit. You?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Kinda shit, too.”

“You could come home, and our days could be shit together-“

“Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright. Had to try.”

He did. He always does. And he’s nothing more than a voice in a box, but the Spiderweb still lights up under his attention. Still thrives from just to sound of Dean saying your name and telling you about astral projection, and you could fucking swear you smell spice-

“It felt fuckin’ weird,” Dean mutters your name, and you can hear something moving in the background. “I was solid, but it was soupy.”

You smile into the air. “Soupy?”

“Yeah, like chowder-“

“Those are two different feelings, De.”

“No they’re both globby.”

“Globby-“

“It works- Sammy!” 

You hear Sam’s voice grumble something in the background, and wait patiently.

“Being all ghost-like felt globby, right?”

“You sound insane, Dean.”

That breaks through, and you giggle.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is a little firmer. He’s talking to you. “I heard that. It’s not my fault Sammy isn’t a poet like me-“

Sam snorts in the background. “I heard you say soupy before. Are you talking to-“

“Yes.” Dean snaps. “She’s mine, Sammy. You can’t have her.”

He means the phone. You know he means the phone. 

It still makes the Spiderweb fucking shine.

“I just wanna ask her about a seal-“

“Call her later.”

“But-“

“No. Back off, or I’ll shit on your bed.”

“That’s so gross- Dean-“

A door slams on Dean’s end, and Sam’s voice goes muffled.

“Sorry about that, Princess. Don’t know who let Bigfoot into my hotel room like that.”

You hum, smiling like an idiot at your knees. “You know, one day he’s really gonna get sick of you doing that. It’s the third time this week.”

“Nah.” There’s a pause. “Are you getting sick of me, Princess?”

Sam’s right. He’s insane. “No.”

“You sure? Not finding some other guy with a sweet ride-“

“I’m not looking, De.” You whisper before you can stop yourself. “And nobody’s got a better ride than you, car boy.”

"Thanks.” Dean mumbles, clearing his throat. “I’m taking care of the Firebird. Drive her once a week-“

“He.”

"What?”

“My car. It’s a he.”

Dean pauses. “You, uh- You named him?”

“Not yet.” You shrug. “I’m brainstorming.”

“How about Dean Junior-“

“No.”

You only get a laugh in response, and this night doesn’t hurt as much as the others. You talk to Dean until the sun rises, and he mutters that his phone is about to die, and Sam will kill him if they’re not on the road early tomorrow. You don’t say goodbye, when you hang up. You never say goodbye. 

Instead the line goes dead, you shuffle out to find coffee, and return to your room for the rest of the day. You’re in no rush. You’re safe—for now—and all your work lives in reading and researching. Going over the emails Sam has sent you and responding with what you find. Combing through your own books for some sort of fucking clue. How many other Magdalenes there were. What they brought. How they controlled it, if it was something that could be controlled. So far all you have are a big do not attempt warnings on burnt pages,  a bunch of fake Magdalene spells—like plastic knockoffs of what you’ve found in the book, and made yourself—and the Sky watching you.

Nothing ever mentions the Sky. And it’s not like you’ve found anything explicit about Magdalenes. But you’ve learned to spot patterns. Clues. Draw timelines and pour over history books until you passed out, Dean called you, or something went wrong.

It would be lovely and simple, if you’d taught yourself that.

But it isn’t. And you didn’t.

“I heard you killed an angel.”

You’d spun around, and there she’d been. Standing in the corner of your room, smiling at you with that awful affection.

“That’s impressive, little one.” Lilith had hummed, her smiling growing. “Even I could never have done that, even at my brightest.”

“Cool.” You’d mumbled, rubbing at your wrists as you watched her. “How did you find me?”

“We are the same.” Lilith had shrugged. “You might be more, and but I can still know. You’d know too, if you just thought about it. And it took a little extra effort to find you, but I had to. You put on quite a show, almost locking all the seals. If those fucking uptight featherdicks hadn’t interfered, you might have succeeded. I mean, maybe if I’d sent the cavalry, too. But Ruby was begging me not to send Alistair himself. You did quite a number on her.”

“Ruby-“

“That’s not for you to worry about.” Lilith had waved you off like it was nothing. “I’d be concerned with yourself, little one. The angels are starting to look for their master, and mine- He will be here soon. And you should be ready. And I am reaching my purpose, but I can’t wait to learn, one day, what you do”

“I-“ You’d shaken your head, walking back to the wall. The Sky had flashed out the window.

If Lilith could see or feel it, she didn’t show it.

“I don’t- I’m not going to serve-“

“No, you won’t.” Lilith had hummed. “If you’re smart, they will bow at your feet for all of time to come, and you will never be a toy to those vile fucking animals again-“

“I-“ Your voice had been so small. You’d pushed through. “I’m not a toy-“

“Not now, little one. But you’re still attached to Dean Winchester. I can see him all over you.” She’d shivered. “You’ll get through it. We all have. Even I had a Dean, but- It doesn’t matter. Men of God. Doesn’t matter which one you chose, they are all the same in the end.”

And there it is again. Your hand freezes over your notes—a mindless scribble of Dean’s name in Enochian half-written—as the memory echoes, and you put it together.

Men of God.

Alistair had said it. So had Anna, before you crushed her like some sort of bug. 

And Anna had been an angel. She knew enough to know your name was written in places in Heaven that Castiel has never seen.

Lilith had spoken of them like they were everywhere. She’s said that all of you had one. That yours was another case of being special—more complicated—but you still needed to be stronger. That they always promise freedom, only to try and cut you up and morph you and put you in a cage.

Dean would never do that. He’d set you free. 

He was waiting for you.

You’d worry about that later. Right now, for the first time since you left, you had something.

It’s a good thing Europe is full of churches.

The months start to blur together, the longer you’re away. You didn’t expect it to be immediate, but it has to be something. Lilith, Alistair, and Anna wouldn’t all say Men of God only for it to just be some kind of weird Heaven and Hell phase. It’ll only take time. And you’ll comb through every library and visit every church and do whatever the fuck you need for just one answer.

And it does seem to be a marker. Every Magdalene you’ve found—Lilith had been right, you’d just had to try, and it would call to you like some distorted song—has had someone in their orbit. And there has to be a reason. Even if no one can place what the Magdalenes are outside of danger and change, even if there’s no idea for how you were made or why you exist, it can’t just be a coincidence.

Dean says there are no coincidences in this life. 

He’s usually right about this kind of stuff. He’s usually right about most stuff. 

And whatever Men of God are, Dean isn’t one. Not the way Lilith says, at least. He’s yours, but the Magdalenes you’ve found always ended up betrayed or abandoned by theirs. Dean would never do that. Even if he doesn’t love you, he just wouldn’t. That’s another thing he doesn’t do. 

Run away.

He’s stronger than you are. It’s why, whenever you run, he really has been always so good at catching you. At wrapping you up and keeping you safe, when he should’ve put you down. 

And Lilith had said the one you chose.

Dean’s never been a choice. He just is. You love him because he’s Dean, and that’s better than anything. He’s never been just one star you picked from the sky. 

He’s been full of gravity, like a planet. Not a flower from a garden, but a strong, unbreakable tree that could be split with lightning and still be the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. Not a rock from the ocean, but an island that you’d always returned to, because there’s nowhere better to rest.

And there are more differences—between you and the other Magdalenes—the longer you look. Some of them have been labelled as crazy or hysterical, but none of them are ever mentioned talking about all the colors. None of them ever claim to see demons and angels. 

Not one mentions the Sky. 

That seems to be another horrible, awful, exhausting thing that’s just for you. 

And time keeps passing. You keep reading and reading and finding something that’s really nothing, and nothing that looks like something, but it’s just a trick of the light. Things keep going wrong—a woman grabs your wrist in a coffee shop, you walk into a church and the stained glass begins to glow, you see an angel on the street and wipe them out with the whole block—and the Sky keeps watching. 

It doesn’t seem to mind you looking for answers. It almost seems to hum whenever you find something. A tattered page in a church catacomb, that’s a similar—but less detailed—to your own notebook. Colors and names scribbled in a French, like a personal guide. And then there’s the half-burnt, Portuguese version of the Book, and another Magdalene buried Florence, Italy.

You can go to Florence. 

You can raid a grave, to see if her bones are made of anything that tells you how she controlled it. If she left you anything. She must have. 

She did.

Maps of Heaven and Hell. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, or how she got them, but you know the Sky is happy you have them. 

Lately, the Sky only ever seems angry when Dean calls. 

You always pick up anyway.

“Hi, De.”

“Hey, Princess. You still in-“

“Nope. Nice try, though.”

He sighs. “Had to take the shot. How was your day?”

You smile into the air. “It was… long.”

“Did you eat?”

You’re silent for a second too long, and Dean snaps your name.

“Goddamnit, you need to-“

“I know.” You sigh. “I just- I got distracted, I promise. I got a new book, and it’s just regular witchcraft, but maybe Cas could use it-“

“Actually, uh-“ Dean clears his throat. “We kinda lost Cas.”

“You- How?”

“He’s a human again. We’re working on it, but Sammy-“ Dean lets out a long, heavy breath, and you sigh.

“Is Ruby still-“

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell him-“

“He won’t listen.” Dean mutters. “Thinks you must have misunderstood, or that Lilith was just messing with you.”

“But-“

“I know, Princess. But- I- Can you talk? Please?”

You swallow, staring up at the ceiling. You’d told Dean, what Lilith had mentioned about Ruby begging her. You’d hoped it would be some sort of evidence, to prove to Sam that Ruby can’t be trusted.

But Dean says he went a little off the deep end, after you left. That he thinks he should’ve been stronger and not gotten knocked out, or been more cautious about the ritual, or done more so you didn’t lose Jo. So you didn’t leave.

Whenever you talk to him, he never mentions it. That you left. And it’s not in the way Dean does, where he just knows you’ll come back. It’s a little hollow. His voice sounds heavier all the time, but more determined all at once.

Dean just sounds tired.

And it rips the Spiderweb in half.

“What do you wanna talk about, De?”

He lets out what might be a long breath of relief. “I, uh- I don’t know. What did you do today?”

“Read. A lot. I started looking at a map-“

“A map?” You can hear Dean’s frown in his voice. It’s adorable. “What, you hunting for treasure without me?”

“It’s a map of heaven. And,” you smile into the air, and you hope he can hear it. “I’d never hunt for treasure without you. There is no one else I’d rather treasure hunt with.”

“Damn. Not even Bobby?”

“I don’t think Bobby would be all that good at treasure hunting.” You shrug. “He’d get bored, and say that this kinda shit is pointless anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s soft laugh is a little muffled through the phone. “You’re right about that. How about Sammy?”

“He’d be fine. Do you not want to go treasure hunting with me, Deano?”

He snorts. “Princess, if I ever go treasure hunting with anyone, I’d want it to you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble. “Why?”

“Cause you’re smart, and you’ve seen a billion of those freakin’ treasure movies. You’ve studied, sweetheart. You’re a nerd.”

You scoff. “Well, if I ever need to commit crimes for the good of the community, I’ll call you, Cowboy.”

“Aw, you think I’m a Cowboy-“

“Dean-“

Dean cuts you off with a tsk, and suddenly you can see him. It’s just in your head, but it’s so close to real. Standing in front of you with a boyish, cocky smirk, his eyes alight on yours, every bit of him so fucking Golden, and all focused on you. Handsome. Always handsome. His hair a little spiky and out of place, his nose a little more crooked than the last time you saw him, but his body just as broad, and-

You can feel an ache between your legs, and it only deepens when he drawls your name.

Shit.

“I gotta tell you a secret, Princess.” Dean hums, and you swallow. “Our job is doing crimes for the good of the community. And you’re the best damn criminal I know.”

You flush, and the ache gets worse. “Shut up.”

“Bossy-“

“And I’m not a criminal-“

“Yeah, you are.” Dean laughs. “But it’s okay, we’re all criminals. You and me would’ve run the wild west, sweetheart, I’ll tell you that much.”

Your ditzy, slightly stupid smile is back. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. Sammy would be the sheriff, and Bobby would run the bar, and I’d be the awesome, lone cowboy passing through the town. I’d stop at the bar look for a drink but instead I’d find you-“ Dean cuts himself off with a cough. “And Bobby. And instead of just passin’ through, I’d plant my roots, and team up with the sheriff to take care of the town.”

He might be the most adorable person on the planet. “You’ve thought about it. Sam might be right about that cowboy fetish, De-“

“It’s not-“ He groans, and the sound doesn’t help your situation. “They’re cool. They’re really freakin’ cool, and they’ve got awesome hats. Is it so wrong to like something?”

“No.” You hum. “But that’s a fantasy, Winchester. You have a cowboy fantasy. And you call me a nerd.”

Dean’s silent. For a little too long, Dean’s silent. And right when you’re about to ask if he’s still there, he mutters your name. “’S nice to have a fantasy, Princess. Something to want. Bet you have them too.”

You do. 

You have two. 

The first one you think of is the one that always slams into you like a blow to your gut. It’s made of Jo. Of what you’d told her, the last night she was alive. Of a world where her fantasy was reality. And that’s what you think of there, and you break down on the phone with Dean—again—and he stays on the line through it. 

The second one makes you feel like a piece of fucking shit. Because you sob to Dean about how you miss Jo, and you want to come home, and you’re still looking for answers but everything still fucking hurts—it always fucking hurts, it never stops hurting, the only way to stop hurting is to stop being and you’ve never figured out how to do that—and then he goes. With a soft reminder to call him tomorrow, or text if you can’t, Dean has to leave and deal with human Cas.

And you’re worse than a monster. 

Because when you’re done sniffling into your pillow, your head wanders back to Dean’s words.

Bet you have them too.

His voice had been so deep—and it’s always been deep, but it only seems to get deeper—and a little like a lullaby. A low, soothing promise that’s vibrated in your bones when he’s held you, and still sparks in your blood whenever you hear it.

And you can still see him, in your head. Broad and strong, soft in all the right places and grinning at you. Always grinning at you, and touching you. Dean’s touched you. He’s had hands skimming right under your shirt and resting on your hips, and he’s held you by your lower back so often, but never on bare skin. 

It lights you on fire. 

And you have fantasies.

You might have a lot of fantasies.

They’re all made of the memory of Dean’s lips on yours, and his taste on your tongue, and the warmth and Gold of him being everywhere. It would feel better than heaven, if he’d hold you right against him, his palm splayed over your lower back, his voice moving right through your body as you grind down onto his thigh. Calling you Princess and his and teasing you until you’re scratching at his back, and he’s just chuckling.

C’mon, baby girl. Just a little more, I’ve got you, you’re doing so good. That’s it, scream my name-

“Dean!”

You cum with a shaking body, and short, shallow gasp.

When your eyes fly open, you realize that scream wasn’t a part of the fantasy. That was loud, for anyone to hear as you’d orgasmed, grinding onto the sheets and pretending your hands on your breast were Dean’s.

The pricking, sickening shame hits you so fast. Jo’s still gone. Dean’s not even here, and you’re turning him into something he might not even want to be. Not for you. He’d been looking for comfort, and you’d made him your fantasy.

But he is your fantasy. 

No matter how you try to push it down, now that the idea has crossed your mind, before you sleep you think of Dean.

Something must be wrong with you. Your days are spent staring at books and rubbing at your wrists, looking over your shoulder to make sure there’s no one behind you. No one to try and hurt you, only for their soul to end up splattered all over the ground. Someone tries to get your attention on the street again, and a redwood shoots out of the ground in Germany. You see a man that looks an awful lot like Ketch in a cafe—already putting you on edge—and then a little blonde girl with the same eyes Jo has starts crying, and a Javan tiger is seen running through Austria.

You don’t know how you’re doing it. Only that the Silver detonates, and everything is destroyed and remade all at once. You can’t find any records of that happening to other Magdalenes—or, really, at all—but you’re still looking.

You’ve found that Men of God is seeming to be a loose term—maybe a title—more than a solid rule. And when the trail runs dry on Magdalenes, you shift back to witchcraft. It’s easy, even without the Silver, and it makes you feel like maybe you’re being useful.

Not just running and destroying and sitting in the dirt near a river, staring at the blue on your hands.

Jo would like it here. She would like all the sun and beer, and she would like how the hotel shampoo smells, and she would love all the stray animals and stupid, fancy wines. She would drawl that all wine is wine, but this tastes like rippin’ off rich idiots. 

You stole a bottle for her, and poured it into the river. Then you just sit there. Ignoring the Sky over you, pretending that when you stand up things will be better.

They won’t.

Jo’s still gone, and it’s still so fucking hollow. You’re trying to eat more, for her. Trying to sleep more too. You’re getting better at it, as the time passes. At not dying from self-neglect.

And she would’ve wanted you to talk to Dean. To let him convince you to come home, so he could hold you until it hurt a little less.

You don’t want it to hurt less. When it hurts it means you’re thinking about her, and if you stop thinking about her—sobbing on the riverbank, watching your fingers because one day the blue will fade and you don’t know what you’ll do—then who will. Someone has to be in pain for this. Someone has to pay, you’d already killed Anna, and Zachariah seems pretty fucking occupied with Sam and Dean. 

Pain, numb and hollow and vast and fucking crushing—pressing on your lungs and head, faint in the background until it slams into you and breathing becomes a labor—is a price you deserve to pay. 

So the days pass, and they’re lonely and repetitive, as the Sky keeps watching.

But your nights are spent collapsing on the bed, and calling Dean.

“Are the souls different? Wherever you are?”

You smile at the ceiling. “I mean, they’re different soul to soul.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, sweetheart-“

“They’re the same as home, De. All souls are the same.”

“Huh. You, uh,” he clears his throat. “You see any other golden souls?”

You can’t stop your laugh. You’ve never seen another golden soul. Not like Dean’s. And even if you did, no soul is made of the same primal, pure thing his and Sam’s are. 

“What’s funny-“

“Nothing, it’s-“ You shake your head. “No. I haven’t seen any other souls like yours.”

Dean grunts, and you can picture his pouting scowl. “Alright. Good. But- I still don’t get why you were laughing, Princess.”

“It’s a soul joke. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Can you help me get it?”

“Dean-“

“C’mon. I show you stuff all the time. Taught you to drive stick, showed you how to clean a gun even though you never use them, explained all the work I did on the Firebird-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that one.”

“Yeah, but you were listening. You liked it.”

You had liked it. But that had been more to do with how—when he’d been talking—he’d been covered in grease and wearing a really tight shirt, smiling at you like there was never anything else to do and bouncing around like there’s never been any pain at all. 

Dean doesn’t need to know that.

“I- Souls are really complicated-“

“I don’t care. Just-“ Dean pauses, sighing into the speaker. “I wanna hear you talk, Princess. It’s been a long fuckin’ week, and I- How about this. If you tell me about souls, I’ll teach you whatever you want, when you get home. Pinky promise.”

You swallow, and suddenly there’s a very clear image of Dean above you, his hand in your hair and his lips curved in a wide smirk as he guides you up and down his-

Fuck.

“I, um,” You pause, trying to regain control over your voice. “What do you wanna know?”

“I dunno. Explain the joke?”

“It’s- It’s not really that funny, I’m just tired-“

“You been sleeping?”

No. You’ve been talking to Dean and drinking coffee and you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body, but that’s not the point. “Yes.”

“Lie. You need to fuckin’ sleep-“

You cut of Dean’s snap of your name with a sigh. “Are you sleeping?”

There’s a beat, and his response is so low you almost don’t hear it. “No.”

“Then shut up and stop telling me what to do.”

Dean chuckles. “So bossy, b- Princess-“

“Do you want to hear about the souls or not?”

“Yeah, alright. Go.”

You don’t explain it all. You tell him more about how souls tend to move and blend together, twining with other souls and staining each other in more and more colors until it’s almost kaleidoscopic. You mention the elements, but you’re vague—only that they all made of different things, not that you know what those different things are—because if you explain too much, Dean will ask what element he’s made of, and you’re not even sure what an honest answer would be.

To be fair, you never explain it all. You tell Dean you’re getting more leads on Magdalenes, but not a word about the Men of God, because he’ll freak out. You’ve explained all your outbursts, but never told him about the Sky. You never tell anyone about the Sky, because it makes you sound fucking crazy. Even in this life, saying the Sky is watching me and it hates when I talk to you, Deano would end with a strange look. Just like when you were a kid, telling your mother that the Sky is watching me, and making me promises, and I don’t want them. I don’t. I’m scared and I want to go home.

“Is it ever- Can you turn it off?” You can hear Dean’s frown through the phone. “I mean, that sounds like you’re being shoved into one of the carnival funhouses all the damn time.”

“That’s… Not far off.”

“But it’s gotta hurt your eyes or some shit-“

“I’m used to it,” you mumble, running your thumb over your palm. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to-“

“Dean. It is what it is.”

“Yeah, but- It shouldn’t be.” He lets out a long breath, and tears start to prick at your eyes. “There’s gotta be something that helps.”

You. You help, Dean. You’re so Golden it’s impossible to think about anything else.

“Maybe start looking for that?” Dean hums, and the lump starts to form in your throat. “How to control the soul-vision shit?”

“Soul vision?” You smile, even though it’s crushing over your ribs. “Creative, De.”

“Shut up. You love it.”

I love you. “I don’t hate it.”

“Good. Maybe work on-“

“But I don’t want to turn it off.” You glance down at your hands, and your voice is far too soft. Dean with be able to hear. “I- I can’t turn it off, Dean.”

He mutters your name, and you shake your head. 

“I- I can’t. She’s still on me, her soul is still on me, and if I stop seeing it, she’s gone.” You’re breathing too shallow. You can’t stop. “I can’t let her be gone like this too, I couldn’t- It’s all I’ve got left, it’s the only piece of her left and only I can see it- And if- I- She can’t be gone, Dean, I can’t let her be gone-“

“I know.” Dean mutters, his voice so low and soothing, even through the choppy speaker. “I know sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“I wanna come home.” You whisper, and Dean goes silent. “I miss you, and I don’t-“ I’m scared. I’m scared and I want to go home. “Dean, I don’t know- Please.”

You don’t know exactly what you’re asking for. But somehow, Dean does. 

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise it’s gonna be okay. I’ll send Cas out for you right now, if you want-“

You make a strangled noise, and Dean’s voice gets stronger. Firmer.

“Or we can just keep talking. You wanna keep talking, ba- Sweetheart?”

You nod, and even though he can’t see you, Dean still knows. Still understands. It rips another small, weak sound from your throat.

“I ate some pie, yesterday.” Dean hums, his voice still low and careful, and you let out a soft laugh.

“You eat pie every day, De.”

“Yeah, but this was cream pie. You’d like it, it had a bunch of chocolate on the top, and it was fucking full of that stuff they put in the donuts-“

“Cream?” You smile at the ceiling, and you don’t know how he does this. Every single time, even when he’s just a voice, Dean brings you back down. “I think it’s just cream, De.”

“Alright, whatever. Point is this thing is stuffed with cream-“

He can’t be doing this on purpose. You wouldn’t put it past Dean to do it on purpose, but this is the kind of thing he would talk about to see Sam get uncomfortable. But all you can think about is how even his voice is fucking pretty, and he keeps saying stuffed and cream and filled, and your skin is prickling with an aching, pleasant warmth, your thighs starting to press back together.

And Dean does eventually have to go. Once he’s satisfied with your lack of hyperventilation and the steadiness of your voice, he mutters that he has to go deal with Sam.

“Get some rest,” He mutters your name, and you swallow. “Or I’ll track you down and make you.”

The line cuts off before you can respond, and this is the part where something is wrong with you. You’re a fucking mess. Your cheeks are still stained with tears, and you’d been sobbing less than half an hour ago, but now you’re wet. Dripping. Your fingers trail between your legs, and over and over the sound of Dean saying you’d like the cream pie, Princess, replays in your head. The one time in his life that Dean wasn’t making an innuendo, you’re losing your mind with hunger for him.

And there are the fantasies. 

Dean over you in bed—you don’t really care which one, as long as Dean is there—and his fingers shoved into your cunt as he kisses all over your face. And you’re breathless and clinging to him, but he’s holding you just as tight, and when he buries himself fully inside of you, he lets out a low groan right in your ear-

I’ve got you. I love you, baby. You know I love you.

You don’t. Dean’s never said that. But Dean’s voice has. And it spoke with a long drawl and soft affection. Your mind is taking that and running with it. 

You cum with another gasp of Dean, your back arching off the bed, and you try not to think about it when you roll over and gather the blankets until they’re in a vague shape of Dean for you to hold all night.

And the Sky doesn’t get to see it. You always close the curtains when Dean calls, because you’re going to keep picking up the phone.

You’ll keeping missing him, too. And loving him.

And dreaming of him. 

You never stop dreaming of Dean.

“No wanderin’ off.” Bobby grunts, scanning around the room. 

It’s big. Almost as big as the rooms in your family’s house. There’s something different about it, though. Even though the air is colder, there’s a warmth to the walls and a comfort to the floor. 

You don’t tell Bobby that. Not because he wouldn’t want to know, but because he already has enough to worry about. 

“I’m not gonna wander.” You mumble, picking at the skin of your nails. “Promise.”

Bobby snorts. “I wish I believed you, kiddo.”

“Bobby-“

“I trust you.” He says your name carefully, holding your gaze. “But you like exploring and testin’ my fuckin’ blood pressure. I told you not to get distracted by the house, and what did you do?”

You pout at your shoes. “I sang on the staircase.”

“And why don’t we wanna do that.”

“Cause there’s an ubume running around.”

“Cause there’s a-“ Bobby pauses, frowning at you. “A what?”

“Ubume.”

“I ain’t sure what that is-“

“It’s the spirit of a woman who died in childbirth.” You mumble. “They’re not usually violent, but sometimes they try to steal children. And they like rocks, and there are all those rocks outside.”

Bobby blinks down at you, and shakes his has. “Fuckin’-“

“I’m sorry-“

“You’re righ-“ He cuts himself off, frowning down at you. “The hell are you sorry for?”

“I- I don’t-“ You swallow, the Darkness starting to turn out and press under your skin. “I don’t know.”

“Wel, ya shouldn’t be.” Bobby shrugs. “You’re right. The kids have been gettin’ the worst of it, so- They’re called ubumes?”

You nod, and Bobby sighs. 

“You’re not in trouble, kiddo. You can relax.”

“But I- I wasn’t supposed to get involved with the hunt-“

Bobby runs a hand over his face. “I told ya that cause I didn’t want you tryin’ to take on this shit yourself. But if you know somethin’ I might not, always say it. Deal?”

You nod nervously, and Bobby extends his hand.

“C’mon, kiddo. If we can wrap this up by the afternoon, I’ll let ya go back to the staircase.”

Your eyes widen, even as you take his hand. “But the family-“

“They ain’t home. What they don’t know ain’t gonna hurt them.”

“Who aren’t we hurting?”

You blink, and turn to see Dean next to you. 

Once again, you’re a little taller than before. And Bobby seems completely unaware of Dean’s presence, still running through the script of the memory as you walk through the house. 

“A rich family from California,” you explain, Dean trailing behind you. “Bobby heard about their haunting, and he decided to take care of it while they were out of town. I got to come because Rufus was busy, and I’d been having a lot of freak outs, so he didn’t want to leave me alone.”

“Huh.” Dean nods slowly. “Why are you holding his hand?”

“Because right now, I’m eleven.” You pause, and extend your free hand to Dean. 

He takes it without question, falling right into pace at your side and leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Where are we going?”

“To kill the ubume.”

“What the fuck is an abummy-“

“Oo-BU-me.” You hum, and when Bobby settles in the families kitchen—where you’d been keeping all the books and weapons—your hand doesn’t leave Dean’s. “Dead pregnant lady ghost.”

“Huh. And you killed it?”

“Bobby killed it.” You shrug, watching the younger version of Bobby shuffle around the room, asking you questions that in real life you’d answered, but in the dream are only met with an echo of your words as you keep talking to Dean. “I wasn’t allowed to leave the salt circle.”

“Why-“

“She was napping kids. I was a kid.” You sigh, resting your head on Dean’s shoulder. “And if he tried to take me, I would’ve lost it. And if I lost it, I probably would’ve had an even bigger freak out about losing it.”

Dean hums, keeping your hands interlocked as he slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you right into his side. “Did you? Lose it?”

“Not today, no. This hunt ends with the ubume ganked-“

Dean smirks. “You said ganked.”

“Shut up-“

“Bossy-“

“You gonna listen, Winchester?”

“Sorry, baby.” He’s still grinning, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “Keep goin’.”

Baby. I love you, baby.

Fuck.

“It’s not important.” You mumble. “I get to sing the Goodnight song from the Sound of Music on the stairs.”

“Oh, I remember that.”

You frown at him. “You-“

“You told me about it. When we worked that mall case. You said you wouldn’t sing for me, cause you wouldn’t kill for me.” Dean leans down, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice sending a shiver up your spine. “Would you kill for me now, Princess?”

“I-“ You swallow, turning your head to meet his gaze.

Mistake.

He’s so close. And even though you know this is a dream, he still looks so fucking real. Golden and pretty. All you’ve ever wanted. 

All you ever could want. 

“I think I would’ve killed for you then.” You whisper, and he blinks.

“And now?”

“I’d do anything.” You can tell him that. This isn’t real, so you’re not breaking any rules by telling him. “You’re- I-“

“I know.” He mutters, and he doesn’t kiss you on the lips. Dean just wraps his arms fully around your body, pulling you right into his chest and combing his fingers through your hair. “Me too. I- I miss you, Princess. I need you to come home.”

Your fingers curl in his shirt. “I want to, De. I- I’m so tired. And it hurts. It always hurts. This fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “It really fucking does. But life’s a bitch, sweetheart. Always gonna hurt. Better to have each other for it.”

“Alright.” You giggle into his body. “When did you get so wise?”

“When I started missing my girl all the time.”

You sigh. “She misses you too.”

“I know. But I hope she knows-“

There’s a bang on your door, and it rips you away from your dream. Away from Dean.

And the Silver is stirring. Nothing has happened but another loud, almost violent knock, but the Silver is already starting to hum and writhe.

That can’t be anything good.

You lay flat on your back, holding your breath until you’re a little light-headed. If it’s nothing, and the Silver is just going haywire, the knocking will stop. Whoever’s on the other side of the door will give up and move on.

But you’ve never been that lucky.

A bored, taunting voice says your name, and the sound is muffled through the door, but you still recognized the fancy, stupid accent.

Fuck.

“We know you’re in there, darling.” Ketch hums from outside. “It’ll so much easier for everyone if we cut to the chase, and you let us take you in.”

You stay silent, but your hands move to your wrists. You’ve been rubbing them until your skin was a little red and raw, and it stings to the touch, and the Silver is starting to turn and turn. It might not be the worst thing to explode on Ketch and whoever else he’s brought. But you’re in a cheap inn, and you’d passed a family when you were checking in. You won’t be in enough control to stop the damage from hitting them too. 

But if Ketch tries to grab you, you’re not going to be able to stop yourself, either. 

If you were a little better of a person, you’d let Ketch take you. You should be locked up. Contained. Kept where you’ll never hurt anyone, ever again.

But you’d never see Dean again, either. And you’d vanish, and he’s think you’d abandoned him. That you’d given up, or really run away, when it was supposed to be all the way down.

You’d promised Dean all the way down.

You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

So you can’t go without a little some sort of fight. You’ll try and keep the Silver down, but if Ketch thinks this is going to go in his favor, he’s disgustingly wrong.

God, this is still going to suck.

Ketch repeats your name, and you take a long, steadying breath.

You can do this.

“You’re just dragging it out,” he calls. “We’ve got you surrounded, and we’re well prepared. You won’t be getting away this time. I promise, darling, it will be better if you come quietly.”

You almost laugh.

He has no fucking idea what he’s in for.

“I’m busy!” You call, slowing pushing up out of bed, your knife already in your hand. You’ve been sleeping with it. Just in case.

Plus, it reminds you of Dean.

“Can you come back later?”

Ketch laughs, and Jesus, it’s not a pretty sound. “I’m afraid we’re quite busy later. And you are not the type of girl one wants to take a rain check on. You might lose her after.”

You roll your eyes, spinning your knife in your hands. “I think you’ll find that you’re going to lose me anyway.”

“Wrong. We lost you last time because you left our jurisdiction. But now? You’re in our territory. And we’ve been watching you.”

“Of course you have,” you mutter. Your jacket is on, your bag is packed, now you just need to get out.

“You’re quite the fascinating little creature,” Ketch drawls your name, and you wonder—if you punch him hard enough—if you could make all his teeth fall out. “If we can figure out how to tame you, I think Mick would be right. You’d be quite the addition to our organization.”

Organization. You’d guessed they weren’t just a team of fancy fuck hunters, but that confirms it. “I think I’ll pass. But thanks for the offer.”

“I’m afraid it’s not an offer, darling-“

“Oh, well in that case,” you swing the door open, and give Ketch a wide, mocking smile. “I’ll just say suck my dick.”

It’s good to see that he hasn’t fully recovered from the ceiling you dropped on him. He’s holding his gun differently than before, and there’s a slight, forced slump to his shoulders.

He’ll probably get better eventually. But you hope it’s a long, grueling journey until he can fully throw his shoulders back again.

“You always have been so vulgar.” Ketch sighs. “We’ll work on that.”

“No.” You shrug, keeping your smile plastered on your face, even as the Silver grows. “I’m going to recommend you let me past, Ketch. It’ll be easier for all of us.”

He laughs. “Always so overconfident, too. I told you, we’re ready. I’ve got snipers trained on you, in case you try to use that cute little blade. This place is warded, darling. Your magic tricks are useless.”

“Oh no.” You drawl. “It’s warded. What am I going to do.”

“Well, you-“ Ketch’s eyes narrow. “You are being sarcastic.”

“I have never been sarcastic in my life-“

Ketch snaps your name. “You are not working this in your favor, by being uncooperative.”

“I think you’ll find I’m being incredibly cooperative.” You shrug. “I’m trying really hard not to kill you all.”

“Oh, are you-“

“Yep.” Your eyes narrow. “Stand down. Now.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Ketch says, his voice bored, and you sigh. 

“Alright,” you swallow, glancing up to the Sky. 

Silent. Uncaring. To it, Ketch is nothing more than a firefly. More than just a bug, but still disposable. 

“Your funeral.” You give Ketch a grimacing smile. “Let’s dance.”

There’s a moment—as you watch the men behind Ketch raise their guns to your head and your spin your knife in your hands—where you think you might be able to get out of this the normal way.

Then Ketch grabs your wrist, and you’re gone. Tearing through the world once more, growing out and out and out until the Silver is satiated, and the ground doesn’t want to move up and protect you. 

It crashes back into you, the blur clears, and it’s such a fucking mess. Another building in ruin. A fucking jackalope hopping around in the strange, black and golden flowers, and a white stag prancing on the high way. 

When you sweep the damage, it looks like you got lucky. Most people were out for the day. There’s only a rose-pink receptionist to hold and push back into her body, all of Ketch’s men—they might have had guns aimed at you, but they’re still people—and Ketch himself.

A muddied orange on the pavement. And you could leave him. Dean would tell you to leave him, that he’d tried to kill you and kidnap you, and he has tortured you, so it’s not unjustifiable to just leave him for the angels to find. And they will find him. You’ve already lingered too long, and the angels will be here soon.

But you can’t stop thinking about Jo, draining of all her blue. Growing hollow, just like how Ketch’s body is passed out on the ground.

Before you can think about it too hard, you’re grabbing Ketch’s soul, and shoving it back where it belongs.

You might regret that. You know you’ll regret that.

But it’s done. You aren’t going to take it back.

And you have to go, and not look back.

You’re getting better at not looking back.

Except with Dean.

You’ll always look back for Dean.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Dean’s attention is all focused on John. Shouting at him and raising his hands, high enough that Dean flinches, but never landing a hit.

Dean looks young. Younger than you remember knowing him. His face is softer, and his nose is still crooked but his hair is a lot lighter. While John yells, he’s bowing his head in a way you’ve rarely seen before. There’s no fight in him. He seems to be absorbing every verbal blow John throws at him, only fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves as he waits for it finish. 

“He could be hurt, you fuckin’ dumbass- He could be goddamn dead and it would be your fault. I give you one fuckin’ job, and it ain’t makin' him happy-“ John groans, running a hand over his face. “If you don’t tell me where the hell your brother ran off to, Dean, it’s gonna be your fuckin’ head-“

“Why is he mad?” You whisper in Dean’s ear, and he starts slightly.

“Son a bitch, Princess. You scared the shit out of me.”

You grin at him. “Aw, are you jumpy-“

“I don’t get jumpy.” He grumbles, and before you know what’s happening, Dean’s arm is looped around your waist and his face is buried in your neck. “I’m tough, sweetheart. Just didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Right.” You let your fingers wander up to his hair, glaring as John just keeps shouting like nothing’s different at all. “Of course you’re tough, Deano. You’re a cowboy.”

“I know.” He mutters into your skin. “‘M your cowboy.”

“Yeah. You are.” You sigh, glaring at John over his head. “Why is he yelling at you?”

“I let Sammy have a sleepover, while Dad was on a hunt. He got back early. He wasn’t happy I let Sam out of my sight at all, but then I refused to say where he went. That made him pissed.”

“You lied to your dad?”

“Sometimes, yeah. When I had to.”

“This was a have to?”

Dean grunts into you. “Was a sleepover with a girl. Sammy had just turned sixteen.”

You laugh. “Right. Obviously.”

“And I lied to Dad for you, too.” He grumbles, his arms tightening around you. “Never told him about our hunts.”

“I- Why?” You ask before you can stop yourself, and Dean just shrugs.

“He woulda stopped me seeing you. Never wanted to stop seein’ you.” He takes a long breath. “You always smell so good. Drives me fucking insane.”

Jesus. “I don’t smell like anything, De-“

“Wrong. Smell like fucking heaven, I don’t even- Wish I could figure out what it was. Spent so much time trying to figure it out.”

“You lied to John to smell me?”

“Kinda.”

“Oh.“ You swallow. “Did you ever lie so you could have a sleepover?”

“A sleep- You mean to fuck someone?”

He’s so all around you. It’s just a dream, but Dean’s still Golden and surrounding you and almost folded over your body, and you’re not sure how you remember to speak. “Yeah.”

“Never needed to. Only to see you. And I didn’t get laid for that.”

“You didn’t ask to get laid.” You mumble, and Dean chuckles.

“Would you have said yes, baby?”

Baby. I love you, Baby.

“Don’t answer that.” Dean mutters before you can even open your mouth, pulling back with an almost sheepish grin. “Already know the answer.”

You don’t think he does. Even the Dean in your head doesn’t seem to know that you love him. That you’d do anything for him. But he’s holding your gaze, and he’s your Dean again. A little taller, small scars littered on his face that make him look even more like that Cowboy, skin more tanned and eyes far heavier. When his hand lifts up to trace over your features, it’s calloused and rough, and his lips have gone chapped, but he’s still so pretty. And his Gold is still strong.

“I think I woulda run away with you.” He murmurs, and his voice is like a spell. You couldn’t move away if you tried. “Met you a year after this, and- Son of a bitch, Princess, I wish I’d stayed, that night. Pushed my luck with the smartest, prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Missed you then, too. Always missed you. Shouldn’t have listened to Dad. He- I knew he didn’t like me, but I never thought he’d hate me that much. Taking you away from me.”

You let out a slow breath, and shake your head. And you hate John. You hate him more than anything, for what he’s done to you, and Sam, and Dean. But you never want Dean to think anyone hates him. If Dean thinks John did all this because he hated him, Dean will make it his own fault. Make himself a failure, when it was John who failed him. And John—in his own, horrible, selfish, fucked up way—had cared about Dean. You wish he hadn’t.

But he did.

“He didn’t hate you, Dean.” You whisper. “He was just a piece of shit, and he hated me. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, hating you is hating me. You the awesomest part of me.”

You flush, and Dean’s grin widens. “Awesomest isn’t a word.”

“Could be.”

“No-“

“There’s no a better word for you, Princess.” Dean swoops down, kissing your cheek and squeezing your hips until you giggle. “And I don’t care if Dad hated me. You like me.”

“I do.” You whisper, your stupid, ditzy smile returning. “I really do.”

You wake up slowly. Blinking as light seeps through the windows, your blanket still wrapped in your arms as a crude mockery of Dean.

And the better days are like this. Moving slowly through your gathered books—often finding nothing, but sometimes coming across a new spell or ritual or empty clue—and picking at your food, Dean’s voice in the back of your head humming eat, Princess. You need to eat.

You really have gotten better at it, over the months. You register when you need to go to the bathroom, and don’t fight it until it’s unavoidable. You eat less than you maybe should, but enough to not grow dizzy when you stand up. You keep water next to you all the time, and when your hand starts to cramp, you let it rest a little longer than one flex. You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

And you’re not. You’re still tired, and breaking down, and you want to go home. But at least nobody will look at you, and see a girl that’s really more of a ghost. 

Today is one of those better days. Good might be too far a stretch, but it’s better. Simple. Read and eat and drink, go for a walk because fresh air is good for the pain over your skull, take a shower because it’s nice not to feel grime on your skin.

And you could swear the Sky is growing brighter. 

All day, it seems to be somehow building brighter and brighter. 

And growing. It seems insane, but the Sky seems to be fucking growing until it’s wrapped around more than you. Like it’s bracing you for something you don’t understand.

But everything is peaceful. No demons crashing into your motel room. Nothing from Ketch or his organization since your last detonation. The grass shifts easily in the wind, but the flowers seem to be holding their bloom. You haven’t seen a bird all day. You’ve seen people, nothing else. No bugs, no rabbits, no spiders.

Only a snake in the flower bed, and a dog who whines as he passes you.

It’s strange. Eerie.

Wrong.

Something is, in a way you don’t know how to articulate—but sits and shifts deep in your bones and intestines—wrong.

The Sky is so big. It’s still only watching, but it still seems to be reaching for you.

Not to swallow you.

To veil you. 

Hide you.

When the sun sets, the Sky is still shining. Nobody can see it but you, and it’s not making the world luminated, but the Sky is pure white and glaring with danger.

You don’t know from what.

But you know that the Silver is waking up. Nothing has even happened, but the Silver is rolling around inside of you. And you know Dean’s not picking up the phone. You try him, when you can’t sleep under the white of the Sky, but he doesn’t pick up.

He always picks up.

You’ve called him when it was the dead of night for him, and he’s answered with a muffled grumble and sleepy grunts. You’ve called him in the middle of a hunt, and he’s picked up just to tell you he’ll call you back. Once you called him during a movie, and he turned it off to talk.

Dean always picks up. 

Something is really fucking wrong.

You try Sam, and you know he’s been put in the panic room for demon blood reasons—although you’re still worried about how long the infection will take to clear his soul—but maybe he has phone privileges-

Nothing. 

Bobby. He always picks up after three rings, but this goes all the way to voicemail. You’ve never heard Bobby’s voicemail before. It’s brisk and says nothing more than if you’ve got this number, you know what to do, but Bobby has never been anything if not efficient.

You didn’t leave Sam a message. 

You leave one for Bobby.

“Hey, It- It’s me.” You mumble your name, drawing your knees up to your chest. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been calling more, but I thought you’d be mad at me for leaving. I know you’re mad at Dean about it, but he was just trying to- Please don’t be mad at him. I miss you, and-“ You swallow down a sob. The point. You need to get to the point. “I think something’s really wrong, Bobby. It’s- It’s just a feeling, but somethings wrong. And Dean’s not picking up the phone, and I’m really worried, so please just call me back and tell me everything’s okay. I need to know you’re okay, and I- I’m sorry-“

“Fifteen seconds left.” A cool, automated voice hums, and you take a sharp breath. You’re going to fucking cry again.

“I’m sorry. I miss you and I’m sorry and please tell me you’re okay. Something is really wrong, Dad, and I need to know you’re okay, I’m so-“

The machine beeps. You wipe your nose with your sleeve as the message sends, and the feeling of wrong only grows, the Silver pushing up with it. It’s shrinking, like it’s trying to hide in the darker corners of your body, but still gnashing with sharp teeth for when things go wrong.

Things are going to go wrong. Something so fucking primal is rolling over your every nerve, telling you something is wrong. And the wind is howling a warning, and the earth is pressing up to try and guard you like the Sky, and when you turn on the tap water, it’s singing you a soft song. It’s almost soothing. Not like a sedation, but a comfort. 

You hole up in your motel room, closing the curtain to try and block the Sky. You pray to Cas and he doesn’t answer, and you try Dean two more times with no luck. Your knife is clutched in your hands, and you’re curled right against the wall, and the water is still singing in all the pipes through the building, and it hurts but the comfort seems to be an anesthetic, and-

You’re not sure where you are. Only that its’s dark and cold and lonely. And high. You’re so fucking high up. 

Or low.

You can’t actually tell. 

The whole word seems like it’s folded into itself. The sky is at your feet but it’s also above you and at your side. Like an illusion, keeping you contained with smoke and mirrors and light.

There are shadows, creeping forward and trying to touch you. But something always makes them recoil, as if you’re a toxic or poison or feral or-

Silver

It’s the Silver.

You’re only the Silver, and the shadows can’t stand it. They hiss and sneer at the feeling of it, but still try to touch you. Then after they retreat, they try again, Like maybe this time, they’ll be strong enough.

Or you’ll be weaker.

But you’re not growing weaker. The more the Silver is poked at, the bigger it gets. 

The bigger you get. 

You are the Silver, and you’re more than glowing. You’re bioluminescent and blinding, but still filled with every space between the starts and all the colors colliding and shimmering through you. 

Somewhere in the shadows, there’s something red. Bloody, electric red and shining like a black light. 

It has more eyes than you can count, and a billion fists, and a million wings. But it’s not made of fire.

It’s made of the same gleaming, wrathful light as Sam and Dean.

And when it smiles at you, the earth shakes.

“Wow. You’re prettier than he deserves.” It hums. “Don’t worry. I can help you fix that.”

You swallow, but before you can respond, everything splits open. All of it. A crack leaking through the mirage, filling with light.

The light of the Sky.

“This is me.” The Red smirk at you. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry. We’ll have a lot of fun.”

The Red bursts up, and then it’s gone.

But you don’t move. You’re not trapped. You could follow the Red thing through the crack, but you don’t know how to move. You’re all Silver, and it’s too much. There’s nothing to tether too. Nothing to shrink back into. You just everything and nothing all at once, and it’s as if you’ve been turned into mist and filled with iron all at once, then told to run. 

You don’t know how to do anything but sit here. The Sky is watching you, through the crack, and you can’t tell if it’s urging you to move or demanding that you wait for it to grab you by the scruff of your neck-

It yanks you out of the paralyzing sleep. The blaring sound of some screaming part in a Led Zeppelin song. 

Sam and Dean don’t to ringtone, but they’re also both legally dead and criminals. You’re a ghost. You don’t run scams, and as far as the government is concerned, you’re a stale missing persons case. 

So you get to do ringtone. 

And you’ve never been more grateful for that than now. 

You grab the phone and answer without checking who it is. You already get to know.

“Dean, fucking- God I was so worried-“

“You were worried about me, Princess?” Dean rasps, and you don’t miss the exhaustion leaking through his voice.

“Of course I was worried about you.” I love you. “Are you okay?”

He sighs. “I’m in one piece. So is Sammy, and Bobby- He will be.”

Will be.

Your stomach twists.

“Something happened, didn’t it.” Your voice is barely a breath, and leaving was a horrible idea. You know something’s wrong, and breathing is starting to become a labor as your skin itches off your body, but there’s no one here to hold you.

Dean’s not here to hold you. 

“I-“ You take a shaking, unsteady breath. “I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong, Dean, I can feel it-“

“I know.” Dean whispers, and your hand moves up to hold your throat. 

The Silver is dormant. But it’s still too much, and old habits don’t decay when you don’t know how to plant anything new.

“It’s- We- Son of a bitch.” Dean clears his throat. “We kinda fucked up.”

You can’t breathe. “What?”

“We failed.”

“Dean-“

“The cage.” Dean mumbles. “It’s open. He’s out. Shit it- It’s bad, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You whisper. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s- Son of a bitch, you were right,” he mutters your name, his voice almost hushed. “It was Ruby. She’d been working with Lilith the whole time, and she tricked Sammy, and he’s such a fuckin’ idiot but I’m worried about him-“

“Dean.” You whisper, and you wish you could touch him. Move his face into your neck, like in your dream. Maybe fold yourself around him and be that damnation for him. “Are you okay?”

“I- Yeah. We got out, everything intact. Something sent us away. We lost Cas for a minute, but turned out something wanted him to stick around. Some demons went for us in Bobby, and he got hurt-“

“Bobby-“

“He’s fine, Princess. Gonna be fine. Stable. We’re actually about to go see him right now. And Sam’s fine too. Detoxing. He’s angry, and we’re- We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” You take a shaking breath, keeping your eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Dean?”

He grunts, and try not to let the strain in your whole body grow audible.

“Are you okay?”

“I told you-“

“You told me Cas and Bobby and Sam are fine. I’m asking about you.”

There’s a long moment of silent static, and you know by now to wait. The line’s not dead. Dean’s just thinking. 

And when he speaks, his voice is barely a rasp.

“I- I need you to come back.” He mutters your name, and it’s too soft. “Son of a bitch, I- I can’t keep worrying about you and doing this.”

“Dean.” You sigh. “You know I can’t, they’ll-“

“I don’t give a shit what they do. Heaven or Hell or any of them. Demons rip me up and the angels will just pull me right back out. They need me. Some bullshit about Michael wanting to use me as a condom-“

“What-“

“Long story.” He mutters. “But I don’t fuckin’ care what consequences there are, Princess. Come home.”

There’s another silence as a lump forms in your throat, and you need to speak but words feel far away-

“Please.” Dean’s voice is so low and exhausted. “I need you.”

There it is. What you’ve been asking him not to do for months. 

He needs you.

Dean needs you.

And you don’t think you could say no if you tried.

“Okay.” You whisper. “Is Cas- Will he hear me?”

“Think so. Are you-“

“I’m coming home.”

You can hear Dean’s sigh, and it’s filled with relief. 

You’re really don’t think there’s anything you wouldn’t do for him.

“See you soon, Princess.”

“I- Yeah. Bye, De.”

It’s quick, to pack up. Most of your possession now are old, fragile books that better fucking survive angel travel, or you’ll punch Cas in the face. You don’t pray immediately, though. While there was no destruction, whatever had happened last night—Lucifer escaping, you’d been responding to Lucifer escaping, and you don’t know what the fuck that means—the wall are covered in vines and a little waterfall has formed from the window edge, falling down on to the floor-

Ground. You’re standing on the ground. Grass and flowers and tiny trees, and it’s buzzing with life below your feet. Like a little ecosystem, confined to your room.

That’s something the angels will probably be able to track. 

You can’t call Cas here. 

It’s a short walk than usual, and you stop at a Church. If the angels are sweeping the area, they probably won’t think to find you here. It’s hiding in plain sight.

You close your eyes, and pray. 

Cas. Help. Please.

There’s a whoosh, almost immediately. 

But it’s not Cas’ low, gravelly voice that comes from behind you.

“You should be careful, sweetheart. Praying in a church.” The bright, almost cheery voice laughs. “You might attract some unwanted attention.”

When you turn, the voice belongs to a shorter man, with longer, blond hair and bright eyes. 

But that’s not what makes you stumble back a step. 

He’s blue. 

He’s so fucking blue. 

Like the blue of Cas, turned up to a million. And he has an uncountable amount of eyes shoved into two, a billion fists curled into the same, and a million wings pressed to his back-

“You’re an archangel.” You whisper, and the Blue laughs. 

“Wow. That was fast. You know, everything I’ve ever heard about you said you’d be pretty, but smart? Don’t think he planned for that. In for a big surprise.”

You swallow. He can’t smite you. Or hurt you. Zachariah said nothing was allowed to hurt you. 

So you raise your chin, and hold the Blue’s gaze.

“What do you want?”

It doesn’t seem to faze him at all. “Damn. Moxie, too? They don’t know what they’re getting with you! A little spitfire.”

You frown. “Moxie?”

“Sorry, forgot you’re only what, thirty?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Shit. Even younger. Basically a fetus.” He shrugs. “Well, kid, moxie means you’re headstrong, little bit sassy-“

“I know what moxie means.” You mutter, rubbing the scar on your palm. “And that’s not correct. I just haven’t heard anyone use the word seriously.”

“Who says I’m serious?” The Blue winks. “I’m the fun one. I’d ask if you wanted to see, but I don’t think that would end in my favor. Already pushing it just by bein’ here.”

“I-“

The Blue cuts you off with a tsk. “I’ve got something to say, sweetheart. Something you’re gonna wanna here, before you do anything stupid.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m not doing anything-“

“You’re trying to go home.” The Blue shrugs. “And it is stupid. I know what tree you’ve been barking up, sister, and it’s not the right one.”

“Sister-“

“No.” The Blue cuts you off quickly, shaking his head. “Just a nickname. You’re not my sister. That would be…” He wrinkles his nose. “So fucking gross. Like, we’re a fucked-up family, but not that fucked up. There’s gotta be a line, y’know? I think it’s there.”

The Blue speaks in circles and riddles, and it’s worse than Cas. At least Cas is amusing, and simply doesn’t know better. This guy just seems to be trying to set you off-

“That won’t work.”

You blink at him. “Wha-“

“Your little magic trick. The bam.” He makes a crushing gesture, raising his brows. “Afraid you need to have a little more control and self-love than you’ve got now, to take me out. I mean, the other thing you’ve got, the boom-“ Another gesture. “That might work, actually. Not sure. Let’s not find out.”

Now you’re just too confused, and you’ll hand it to him. The Blue’s vagueness seems to keep the Silver only brimming in your body.

“Look, I’d love to talk with you forever, but we’re kinda on a timer.” The Blue sighs, his tone suddenly falling into something serious. “That tree? The one where you’re trying to work out what you are and how to control it? Stop it. Stop barking.”

“I-“

“You don’t understand what you’re doing.” The Blue says your name, and it’s a little distorted. Louder. Musical.

Enochian.

“You’re changing things. Things that shouldn’t be tampered with, let alone moved around and rearranged however you want.”

“No- I-“ You shake your head, your hands drifting up to rub at your wrists. “I left. I stopped interfering, I promise-“

“You already interfered.” The Blue sighs, giving you an almost sympathetic expression. “Just your existence, just by letting them into your orbit, you’ve done more than you can-“

“But I stopped.” You’re almost pleading. You’d left to stop. To make sure nothing you did hurt anyone you loved. That was the fucking point, you’d stopped-

“Look.” The Blue run a hand—hands?—over his face. “We’re behind schedule, because of you! Little Sammy Winchester actually held on longer against Ruby and the blood, because you planted a little extra doubt in his head! Because he and Dean were fighting, but they fought all the time! He just knew you’d always end up with Dean, and he didn’t want to lose you with his brother, so he held on!”

“I- I don’t-“

“They’re ahead, too! Sam and Dean aren’t fighting as much because of Sam trying longer, and Dean’s thinking about what you would do! And you turned sweet, hopeful Castiel over to their side too soon, and now they’ve got some extra steps on everyone, which is going make this drag. People are gone that should’ve stuck around, and some of them are early, and you’ve made a mess that’s going to take forever to get in order!”

The Silver is still silent, as the Blue throws his hands in the air. 

You wish it would turn in, and rip you to shreds.

“I didn’t mean to.” You whisper, your hand returning to your throat. “I promise I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t.” The Blue shakes his head, and there’s that fucking sympathy again. “But you’ve gotta stop, kid. You’re making this even more complicated than those chuckleheads ever could.”

“But I- I want to go home.” You sound like a child. You don’t care. “I’ll just lock myself in my room, I promise, I but I- I need to go home-“

“Sorry,” The Blue says your name, in Enochian once more. “No dice. He’s looking for you, and that’ll make this all worse-“

“He-“

“My brother.”

“Oh.”

The Sky flashes over you.

The Blue doesn’t seem to see it.

“It’s better if you get some sleep, I think.” The Blue frowns, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Yeah. Sleep will be good for you.”

You don’t want to sleep. You need to get home. Back to Dean. You’d told him you’d come home, so you need to come home-

“Probably won’t hold, but it’s better than the other option.” The Blue raises one of his bursting, electric hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it feel good. Send you someone nice.”

You want to scream, to run, to fight, but the Silver hasn’t built itself up, and you’re frozen. 

And before you can call for Dean, the Blue presses to your brow, and the world goes dark. 

“What don’t you think is real?”

You blink at Dean in the dark of the Impala, and a little bit of chocolate milk is smeared on his upper lip.

He’d grabbed a beer, insisting that he didn’t want anything else. But you’d grabbed two chocolate milks, because you know him.

Love him.

Miss him. 

You know this is a dream faster than usual. The whole world—even in the dark of midnight—is bathed in gold, just like when you dream about Dean without you. You remember what’s supposed to happen here.

You don’t really want to stray from the script, though.

You love this one.

“What do you mean?” You reach up to wipe the milk off Dean’s face, and he grins at you.

“Y’know. Some of this shit has to be fake.”

You hum, watching him carefully. “Like what?”

“Unicorns.”

“Unicorns are real-“

“I- No they’re not-“

“I’ve seen one.”

“Ah.” Dean grumble, taking another large drink of his chocolate milk. “Of course you have.”

You giggle, scooting a little close to his side to grab the jerky from his lap. His arm goes around the bench. Your shoulders. Casually keeping you pressed against him. 

It had never even crossed your mind to move.

“What don’t you think is real?” You ask, and he shrugs. 

“I believe what I can see. What I can kill. Monsters, ghosts, me, you-“

“Me? Should I be worried you’re going to kill me?”

“No.” He scowls. “You know that’s not what I meant. And I’m being serious-“

“I know you are, Deano.” You give him an amused look, reaching up to wipe the milk off again. “Do you believe in me?”

“Course I believe in you-“

“Do you believe in Sam?

“I-“ He sighs. “Just say it, sweetheart.”

Okay. You’re being dramatic.”

He’s almost pouting. “No, I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” You sigh. “It doesn’t matter what might be real or not. I’m real. You’re real. This,” you poke him, and his gaze never leaves yours. “Is real. And I know it.”

“You know it?” Dean shakes his head. “How-“

“I just do. Do you know I’m real?”

He sighs, and nods. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

“Oh, you guess-“

“Shut up.”

You giggle, and Dean grins at you again.

“I’m glad you’re real, Princess. Would suck if you weren’t.”

You smile up at him, and you look stupid, and nothing has ever felt better. “I’m glad you’re real too, De.”

What you want to say—what you always want to say—is I love you. Dean Winchester, you perfect, Golden idiot, I could never love anyone but you.

But you can’t be allowed to. Not even in a dream.

So instead you just lean press your face into his chest, breathe him in, and hope that this moment lasts forever.

End Note: introducing new lore mechanics is always very special to me because I get to share about something I’ve been keeping secret for MONTHS and also you guys get to be confused.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378

@godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend

@lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney

@funkenniffler

[daddymaster21]

i have the biggest ick ever

so obviously y’all know i blocked my ex on everything… welllllllll

tonight his dad started messaging me, telling me i’m beautiful, and that his son is a moron, as well as some other personal things. then he said that he saw a photo of me on his son’s laptop earlier that he wasn’t supposed to see…

dumbo me didn’t clock what that meant until after he said “you’re more beautiful than i realised” and it clicked that he’d seen a nude of me.

THEN MY EX “circumvents” my block by making another whatsapp account to message me and ask me if his dad’s been messaging me tonight. i say “yes, and im uncomfy.” then block him again.

what the fuck!!!!!!! i hate men more and more. gross gross gross gross

jackles and jarpad would NEVER pull this gross shit

[daddymaster21]

internet friends are kinda like illegally downloaded friends. you don’t get the physical copy but you still get all the great content

[daddymaster21]

people think that sci fi is about actors throwing themselves around spaceships but it's also about being bald and goth

[daddymaster21]

proud of them for continuing the tradition of bullying sam on his own show

[daddymaster21]

inviting gianmarco soresi to do crowd work with red flags is like inviting vic michaelis to do some batshit challenges with company credit card support for a year. amazing track record on the casting for these episodes so far

[daddymaster21]

One thing I hate about PTSD (other than the everything) is that when I say I had a nightmare, most people think I had a dream about like… a giant gorilla chasing me through a field. And I have to explain to them, no, that’s actually a Bad Dream. Something that could never be real and certainly isn’t pleasant, but doesn’t leave me feeling The Dread is a Bad Dream. Nightmares are when I wake up in a cold sweat and the thought of falling back asleep makes want to peel off my skin and I spend the rest of my day — or week, depending on on how bad it is — dissociating and/or constantly rotating it in my head, try as I might to get it out.

Anyways, I’m doing great.

[daddymaster21]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[daddymaster21]

“If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him.” - Sun Tzu, The Art of War The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement

giffing romcoms

[daddymaster21]

If you're a Youtube creator with monetization privileges, click on the "Earn" tab right now and deal with this if you feel like its necessary. Youtube is going to start running more ads on your videos automatically without your permission, and the ability to opt out will go away in two months.

Youtube is not advertising this anywhere. Checking my "Earn" tab on my own is the first time I'm hearing about it. To me, that suggests they don't want people to know they're doing this, because they want to crank up ad frequency and make more money.

If you've ever seen what happens when you let Youtube automatically pick ad slots like this, they basically try to run an ad every 2-3 minutes. It's a nightmare.

They are going to flood their platform with ads and drive away 70% of their viewership. On the other hand, if you opt out and choose to continue showing fewer ads, you may earn the trust and respect of your viewers.

You have a strategic operative to turn this off before May 12th. If you don't do it before then, it sounds like Youtube will take away your ability to reduce your ad frequency.

[daddymaster21]

No one has ever misjudged an audience harder than Gianmarco Soresi, tasked with asking a question only 10% of the audience could answer with "yes", and asking who has ever played a game of Dungeons and Dragons

To an audience of Dropout fans

[daddymaster21]

[daddymaster21]

[daddymaster21]

Listen to me current and future visitors to Copenhagen:

DO

NOT

Take the intercity train to the airport. I know google maps is telling you to do it, but google is wrong. The train is going to be crowded, and you're going to be stressed about the fact that if you miss that train its going to be an hour before the next one.

Instead you should take the M2.

Take the M2.

The M2 metro line, for Copenhagen Airport.

The M2! The yellow one!

It runs every 5 minutes (every 3 minutes during rush hour).

"Well I don't know how to get to-"

If you have been in Copenhagen, for more than 24 hours, you have been to either Frederiksberg, Nørreport, or Kongens Nytorv.

You wanna guess what departs from all 3 of those stations?

The M2 line, for Copenhagen airport.

No more worrying about missing your train, no more crowding the platforms, no more squinting at the information screens waiting for a me to take pity on you and ask if you need help.

If you are currently on Copenhagen central station, wondering which train goes to the airport:

Go to track 9/10

Take, literally any train

Get off at Nørreport

Take the stairs down, follow the signs.

And

Take

The

M2 LINE, FOR COPENHAGEN AIRPORT

[daddymaster21]

"The problem is people don't read classics anymore"

No I think the problem is people don't read WIDELY. The ONLY ya and/or fantasy romance crowd is just as insufferable as the ONLY classics crowd or the ONLY litfic crowd or the ONLY nonfiction crowd and vice versa.

You gotta get some variety in there my guys

[daddymaster21]

The stormlight archive is great because out of the cast of dozens, there is 1 (one) white straight guy, who spends the entire series following the commands of others and wallowing about the sins he has been forced to commit against humanity