fxckingjo

[fxckingjo]

This week on Babylon the Great

Chapter 29 - I'll Be Lonely

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Dean Winchester is built for yearning. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from I'll Walk Alone by Louis Armstrong

Word Count: 19.1k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean survives. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 28 - Chapter 30

Read on A03!

There had been long months where he couldn’t look in the mirror.

He didn’t want to see it. The sorry son of a bitch looking back at him. The man who had big bags under his eyes and wasn’t ever going to properly sleep again. 

The man who couldn’t do anything. 

He just drifted, waited for the tidal wave that had taken everything good in his life to sweep in and take him too. 

Dean wasn’t sure how he remembered his own name. He barely remembered this morning. There was harsh light and his hand tracing over the mattress to check for Her, only to find a cold bed. He probably sat up and looked to the other bed, because he was still getting double rooms, even when it was just himself. 

It was always just Dean.

So he didn’t look in the mirror. 

Not when he moved through the day, finding the liquor store at nine in the morning and buying the strongest shit on the shelf. Not when he carved his way through hunt after hunt, not really caring if some vamp sank their teeth into his jaw, or a ghost ripped him wide open. If he had a way to Hell, he’d take it. Maybe he could break out of whatever rack they put him on, and go down to the Cage. Free them both. 

Never have to be alone again. Apologize to Sammy for a million years, for not protecting him, for breaking his promise. Convince them to leave this life and maybe start over in Canada. 

Fall to his knees in front of Her, and beg for forgiveness. She didn’t like when he drank, but all he did anymore was race himself to the bottom of a bottle. She hated when he’d go into a hunt swinging, but plans made him start to think what would She and Sammy do, and then he felt sick. 

Ask for Her to forget. For all of them to forget. To just fucking go back, maybe ten years. If he could meet Her in the summer again, give Her his number, then never leave. He’d never leave Her again, if he got a second, third, fourth chance. If She somehow could look at the shell he’d become and still want him. Still be willing to sleep in his bed, kiss him, and let him in on all Her plans. Hear all Her thoughts and jokes and ideas and everything.

She was insane, and Dean had never loved anyone more. 

It felt like something was gone from his chest. Not his heart—it was still beating for Her, and that felt worse—but something deeper. All the world looked duller. Food tasted like ash, and water felt like drinking gasoline. His vision was always slightly blurred, although that might just have been the alcohol. 

That thing in his chest might have been more important than his lungs. It might have fallen into the cage with Her and Sammy, or maybe he just lost it on the dirt road when he left Bobby’s.

It could have been taken out of his chest by a body, passing through his bed, and he wouldn’t have even noticed.

He had to remove every edge from his words to speak to women, because none of them ever sounded like a siren. He had to get blackout drunk to let them touch him, and if he woke up and the chick was still there, he’d leave.

It was his damn hotel, but they could have it. 

He didn’t want to look at the woman who thought they could replace Her, who was sleeping where She was supposed to be sleeping, and hate himself even more. 

Dean didn’t know if She’d slept around, after he died. He didn’t really want to. Didn’t want to think about Her face broken with the same emptiness he could feel right now—stretching out that pit in his body, eating him alive from within and splitting deeper and deeper every hour—being kissed by some man that wasn’t Dean. He didn’t want to think about if She’d been stronger than he was, and never touched anyone. If She waited for him completely, when they’d never even kissed.

He was waiting for Her. He’d always wait for Her, all the way down, until Her fucking soul was gone, or Dean didn’t have hands to hold Her or feet to run for Her. Until his was just dust in the wind, and even then he’d been drifting to the sound of Her voice. The smell of fruit that still lingered in his car. 

Eden Apples. 

She smelled like Eden Apples. 

And the last lady that had ended up trying to stay in Dean’s bed after they were done had been wearing apple-ish shampoo, and his weak goddamn brain had been so pathetic he’d thought it was Her. For a split second, in the haze of waking up, Dean had smelled sweet apples, and really fucking thought. 

Then his hand had wandered over, and he’d known in a half second. The smell wasn’t right. The feel of the woman wasn’t right. 

But she’d smiled at him—not blinding, not beautiful, not Her—and hummed something like good morning, handsome. 

Dean didn’t remember the rest of the day after that. He’d come to in a dive bar with a half empty bottle, sitting on the floor of a dirty bathroom with a large gash in his forearm. 

He’d almost been able to hear Her, on the wind again. Humming “Winchester, where did you even fucking get that.”

“I don’t know, Princess.” He’d muttered, losing his damn mind more every fucking second. “Looks like a knife cut. You finally stab me?”

“I’d never stab you, De.” 

He’d blinked, turned his head, and this wasn’t losing it. This was lost it. This was gone. 

This was Her, sitting with him on the bathroom floor like nothing had ever happened. Shiny hair, bright, glossy eyes, a soft smile on Her face that made the pit in Dean cleave itself wide open. 

He’d whispered Her name, moved his free hand to trace Her face, and she’d flickered. 

Not real. 

Not actually here, with nothing but a scratch on Her body. With Her hair tucked behind her ears and a sweet smile. His brain had given Her a low-cut blouse and skirt—he should be put down like a fucking dog—and short heels he’d never seen Her wear in his life. But everything else was just Her. Smiling at him. Propping Her chin on Dean’s shoulder while she frowned at his arm. 

“Did you cut yourself again?” 

She sounded like She was a million miles away. Her voice echoed slightly in the air, but it was still Her voice. Dean didn’t care that it wasn’t real. He’d been calling Her phone every damn day just to hear Her voicemail. When he’d filled up the box with his pointless rants that would never be heard—or just Bobby would hear them, which was sort of worse—he’d damn near cried on the floor. 

So if this was what he got, he’d fucking take it. 

“Don’t know what cut me, Princess.” He’d muttered, eyes wide on Her’s. ‘“I- I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She’d shaken Her head, and pressed at kiss to his jaw. 

It had almost felt real. A soft shiver down his spine, his eyes fluttering shut as She hummed in his ear. 

“You always know what you’re doing. I don’t let just anyone cook me dinner, Deano.”

A heavy, choked noise had left his throat, and he hadn’t really been able to fucking breathe. She was gone. She was gone, and he was a fucking piece of shit that had brought another woman into the bed that should be Her’s. He was crawling through the mud alone, and it was starting to suffocate him but there wasn’t going to be anyone to save him. He wouldn’t deserve it anyway. He barely deserved this, this pretend, twisted version of Her that somehow loved him. That looked at Dean, bleeding and broken on the floor, and didn’t leave him to waste away. 

“I miss you.” His voice had been hoarse, and She’d frowned at him. 

“De, I’m sitting next to you.” Her voice had been so soft, and She reached up to hold his jaw. 

He could feel it when She touched him. And Dean had closed his eyes and leaned into it, slumping against the wall, because this was all he got to fucking have.

“It- I- I know, sweetheart- But-“

“Dean.” She’d cut him off, words far to gentle, and he couldn’t really see either. “Are you okay?”

“No.” He’d rasped, the first burning tear sliding down his cheek. “I’m not, Princess. I- I miss you and Sammy, and I can’t get you out, and I- Son of a bitch, baby.” He’d turned his face to meet Her’s, and She’d looked so soft. Blinding eyes bearing right into Dean’s, fingers reaching up to wipe his tears and getting nothing, because She wasn’t fucking real. 

He’d been able to care. An illusion of Her was better than nothing at all. 

“I’m so fuckin’- I’m sorry.” He’d whispered, closing his eyes once more and trying to pretend the warmth of Her hand was more than a phantom feeling. “I can’t fuckin’ do this without you and Sammy. I don’t deserve you- Never did- But you gotta come home. I don’t know where I’m going, don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do, can’t goddamn sleep or eat- I- I need you. Please.”

There hadn’t been an answer. 

Someone had pushed the door open, and Dean had just been the crazy asshole crying and bleeding out on the floor.

He’d patched himself up at the motel, stares lingering on shadows in the hope She’d appear. 

She hadn’t. 

And the dreams had stopped, since he’d lost Her. It was either nightmares, or nothing at all. But if drinking brought Her to Dean, he could drink. He could do anything, just to play pretend a little longer. 

Then the months start to pass in a blur. He wasn’t sure his liver was going to make it the whole year, but goddamnit he didn’t give a shit. He got to see Her. Sammy never showed up, but when he was really wasted, sometimes he’d turn his head and see him in the shadows. 

When it was Her, She’d look fine. Happy. The version of Her his brain made up was just happy. Still harsh and smart and bossy, but never picking at Her fingers until they bled, never breaking down in the middle of the night. And Dean was a selfish asshole again. He didn’t know if it was worse, how his brain wasn’t offering him the real Her—that was just as broken as Dean was, but in all the right places—or that he missed the real version of Her. That he still loved this bright, beaming and giggly version of Her, but it wasn’t enough.

He missed the midnight drives. He missed holding Her face between his hands and petting the bridge of Her nose. Missed muttering Her name and making Her look at him, or letting Her curl into his body with shaking sobs. Dean missed all of Her, loved all of Her, and that was part of Her. So was the joy, but Dean hadn’t seen Her that easily happy since Jo died. 

He wanted it for Her. In any way he could get. 

And he was also a douchebag who wanted Her to sink into his arms, but he couldn’t even fucking touch Her like this. It sliced through him every time. 

“Can we get a cat?” She’d said in Dean’s ear, and he’d sighed, giving Her a small, weak grin.

“Anything you want, Princess.”

“Anything?” Fake Her’s smile widened, and She sat up on her knees. “Can we get a dog, too?”

“Told you,” he'd said Her name, giving Her a half-amused look. “Anything.”

“Even the moon?”

“If you want it, yeah.” He’d reached for Her, his hands moving just to touch Her, he always wanted to touch Her-

She’d slipped through his fingers. Wavered in the air, smiling the whole time, and the pit in Dean had grown. 

It was going to consume him, eventually. And he was doing nothing but driving it along. 

He had no plans to stop. 

Because just as he didn’t remember the morning, he never remembered the night. He’d blackout, fuck some new girl he found in a bar, and the pit would double in size. There couldn’t be a worse man alive. If he did get Her back, by some miracle of something above God, he wouldn’t deserve to keep Her. He couldn’t save Her. Couldn’t keep his dick in his pants while She was being fucking tortured. Couldn’t even fucking enjoy the sex he was having, because he never remembered it and none of it was Her. He kept driving a blade into his heart in the hope of feeling something, only to have it numb. 

Then he’d pick up the next blade—next colorless girl, with a voice that scratched at his skull and eyes that looked dim—and hope this one did more damage. 

It didn’t. It never did. And he’d gotten chicks shouting at him for calling out the wrong name, but there was no other name for him to damn say. It was just Her. Always just Her.

He hadn’t even made it to bed, tonight. He’d moaned Her name when the lady had kissed him, and that had been the end of it. 

But, stumbling into the bathroom—unsure if he was going to vomit, shit, or just die—Dean’s gaze wandered up.

To the mirror. 

And this was why he avoided it. Why he rushed past reflective surfaces and kept his gaze cast down, whenever he had to shower or wash his hands—and if it was up to him, he’d never do neither of those things, but blood starts to stink and stain Baby’s seats—to avoid seeing this.

Himself.

Staring back at him. The ugliest, dumbest dickhead he’d ever seen. Hair messy, and getting too long. Ratted in small places and still damp with blood in others. There was a swollen split to his lip, from a wolf hunt he hadn’t fully patched himself up from. His features were gaunt, large graying bags under his eyes, and a hollowness in his eyes that didn’t nearly show they vastness of the pit in his chest. His skin had a thin, shining layer of grime, and it was a miracle he even got that lady to look at him. Maybe he should actually stop showering all together, and then it wouldn’t be a problem. 

People would just see the rusted blade, and no amount of drunken, broken charm would get anyone in bed. He’d be saving them, and himself from making another unforgivable mistake. 

The lipstick mark on his cheek. Redder than the actual blood staining his collar, worse to look at than the bubbling scar on his neck. Another hunt where the monster had gotten the jump on him. Another poorly done set of stitches. Fucking artwork compared to the lipstick, because the wound just was something he deserved.

The lipstick meant he deserved nothing. He was a weak traitor, and maybe he was doomed to fall in bed with another body, trying to chase the pain away, only for Her to immediately reappear and find him touching another woman.

He never wanted to touch anyone but Her. But She always vanished, and he wasn’t drunk enough to see Her—just enough for a splitting headache and sick turning in his gut—so he was stuck trying to feel something. Anything. Not just the pit, widening and swallowing him from within. Reminding him that he failed, failed both of them, the asshole in the mirror had been made to do one thing and he couldn’t even fucking do it right.

Dad should’ve hit him more when he fucked up. Yelled louder. Worked harder to make him into a weapon, because he’d left soft spots and now they were rotting and spreading, and all Dean could see in the mirror was mold. Something nobody wanted. Couldn’t want. 

Spreading over something good—Her, Sammy, Bobby, Jo—and ruining it for himself. 

Son of a bitch, the asshole staring back at him didn’t deserve to breathe.

His grip white-knuckled on the sink, eyes narrowed and breathing ragged—he couldn’t vomit, everything was already bad enough—as he tried to just make the douchebag go away. Vanish. Go back and walk away from all those good things, because nobody would be hurting if he had.

But he’d been selfish. 

Kissed Her. Lost Her. 

Turned around and let someone else press their lips to his cheek, even when just the thought-

Anything that had been in him fell out. A little shot from his nose, and he still couldn’t breathe, but it was something. He felt something. 

Disgust. 

Dean wiped his chin from the vomit, glowered at his reflection—showing just as much torn, broken anger that he could feel in the cavity of his chest—and slammed his fist against the glass.

Pieces shattered. Red ran from Dean’s knuckles, but he couldn’t really feel it. And it wasn’t his good hand, so everything was fine. He could do passible first aid, shoot, and write with that hand.

That was the most important thing. Dean needed to be able to write. 

He’d started after the first time the hallucination of Her had appeared. She’d vanished, and he’d had so much more to tell Her. That She needed to know, that She had to understand and forgive him for. So he’d stumbled back to his motel, and grabbed the free pen and paper. 

He hadn’t been sure what he was going to do at first. But then he’d just started writing. And done the same the next night. And the night after that. 

It kept him sane, and made everything worse. He wasn’t lingering on the edges of bridges anymore, wondering if Cas would bother to pull him out of the black water. He still got Her and Sammy snacks and drinks, whenever he stopped for gas. It was a habit he didn’t want to break. That meant accepting all those purple sodas and baby carrots were really never going to be eaten. That Dean was going to have to stop looking at the passenger’s seat when he turned up the volume, because Sammy was never going to sit there again. 

That the flickers of Sam in the shadows, and fake conversation with Her were all he was going to get for the rest of his life.

It couldn’t be. 

So he wasn’t writing because they were gone. He used the letters so when they got back, he wouldn’t have to explain everything. He’d never been good at that. It had always been Her and Sammy, doing it for him. But now it was just Dean. Just fucking Dean, alone and unforgiven-

He vomited again. In the trash can, as he stumbled to the bed. But he couldn’t pass out yet.

There was a letter he had to write.

———

Feb. 21 - 2010

Princess,

I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to spell things wrong. You’ll know what I’m saying. You usually do. One time I said boom and meant Molotov, but you got it. Sammy said I was the luckiest asshole alive, because he would’ve just made me go to bed with how much I was drinking.

I’m drinking more now. 

Youd be pissed.

I miss you.

This is shit. I’ll try again in the morning.

I love you

DAW.

———

Feb. 22 - 2010 

Princess, 

I can do this. I’m wirting. 

That’s not how you speel writing. Or spell. I think drunk me spells better than normal me. 

I can’t do this. Not without you and Samy Sammy. I need you. I told you I needd you, and goddamit i was right. I don’t know how to sleep, Princess. I told you I was drinking, btu its the only way i can sleep. And when i do, i just get fuckign nightmares. Had one last night where im back in hell, and you and sammy save me then get put on the rak rack

Come home. i need you. Gonna try again in the morning, cause theres stuff you gotta know about. 

DAW

——

Feb. 23 - 2010 

Princess. And Sammy too, if he’s reading this. He shouldn’t be. Fuck off, bitch. 

Not you, Princess. You keep reading this. It’s for you. It’s always

I’m not gonna throw out those other two letters. You can have them, if you want, but I’m gonna give you this one, when you get home. Cause you’re gonna come home. You’ve gotta. Point is, I don’t know where to start. Probably where I lost you we got separated. 

Here goes. 

——

He didn’t wake up in the field. He’d passed out there. There had been so much pain, and his head had been spinning as the screams died in the throat, and he’d slumped onto the ground like a corpse. Maybe he’d just died. Maybe this was hell. Maybe that had just been the first nightmare in Hell, and in reality, Lucifer had just won. 

But there were voices, splitting through the peace of the dark. 

“Castiel, you fuckin’ asshole, you better give me a goddamn straight answer or I’m gonna start shooting-“

“I have given you every answer I have. I’m sorry, they’re both-“

“You say gone one more goddamn time, you’re gonna wish you were being skinned by angels-“

“Bobby, I’m sorry-“

“Stop fucking sayin’ sorry and bring ‘em back!”

Not Hell. 

Just reality. Just painful fucking reality, where She and Sammy had fallen into the cage. The pain—physical pain, from Lucifer’s fists—was gone, and he wasn’t in the field anymore. Cas must have healed him, and brought him back to the house. Maybe he could waste away here. On the couch that smelled like Her fruit. He could grab the pillows and pretend he was holding Her. 

He wasn’t.

He might never again. 

And he had to move. To stand up, shuffle into the kitchen, and look Bobby in the eyes. Tell him what happened. It was the goddamn least he could do, after losing both of them. 

The air in the kitchen felt thin and wired, but the whole world felt like that. Like it was going to snap at any second, because She and Sammy were gone, so nothing fucking mattered. Bobby was still in his wheelchair, shotgun aimed at Cas’ head, and Cas mostly looked tired. Dean clapped him weakly on the shoulder as he joined them, and Cas just frowned at him. 

“You should be resting, Dean. You’ve had a hard day.”

“‘M fine.” Dean grunted. Rest was for people who didn’t fucking fail.

And Bobby knew that too. 

His gun turned to Dean’s chest, and Dean didn’t care if he shot. Bobby would have every right to pull the trigger.

“Might be better to do that,” he nodded to the gun, holding Bobby’s gaze. “Outside. No mess.”

Bobby’s eyes just narrowed. “Cas says they both fell in.”

Dean swallowed, and it flashed through his head again. She and Sammy, hand in hand, looking at Dean. Michael flailing around as they fell in. The Earth closed behind them, and Dean’s roar carrying through the world, with no power to turn it back.

“Yeah.” He muttered. “They did.”

“And how the hell did that happen.”

Dean shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Dean Adam Winchester-“

“They jumped in, Bobby. Lucifer beat the shit out of me, and-“ Dean tried to say Her name, but choked on the first letter. “I- She had a plan. She was gonna pull out Michael and Lucifer and throw them in. Went wrong. That’s it.”

Bobby gaped at him, gun raising higher. “And you let her fuckin’ do that-“

“If you’re gonna shoot me, Bobby, just fucking do it.” He’d taken a step forward, shrugging Cas off when he tried to hold him back. “I lost them. Both of them. You told me not to, and I fucking did. They’re both in the cage, and I’m still alive, so just fucking shoot me.”

Dean’s voice had raised to a shout, and Bobby had just been staring at him. Not pulling the trigger, not cursing his name, just staring. 

It was the same way She’d stared at him, when he’d done something stupid that hurt them both. How She’d stared at him when he’d come back from Hell, when She’d found out about the deal, when he’d gone to Death by himself. Not like She wanted to kill him, but something worse. Like he was hurting himself more, and that somehow fucking mattered. Like he wasn’t the most worthless goddamn man alive. 

He’d never seen that look on Bobby’s face before. He was never going to fucking forget it.

Good.

If Bobby wouldn’t just shoot him, that was the least he could goddamn do. Haunt him. Torture Dean just a little more, to repent for what he’d done. Failed to do. For daring to look Bobby in the eyes and tell him the two people they’d been responsible for—the little boy Dean had all but goddamn raised, and the girl Bobby had found on the side of the road and loved like his own—were gone. And he couldn’t get them back.

———

Sorry, baby. I can’t finish it tonight. Hurts Got a headache, and I might be bleeding. Ran out of rubbing alcohol. It’s fine. I’ll be alright. 

I’ll talk to you in the morning. Before that, if I get the alcohol. 

Can I drink rubbing alcohol? You’d know. Or Sammy would. 

Guess I’ll find out. 

I’ll be back tomorrow. 

Wait for me. 

I’m sorry. 

DAW.

——

Feb. 24 - 2010 

Princess,

I don’t remember what I told you. Shit, I don’t remember last night. Or this morning. Slept in the car and it still smells like you  was fucking cold. I think I’m gonna go to Texas. There’s a vamp nest. Quick hunt, and if it’s not, then I’ll see you soon. 

I’m gonna go re-read what I wrote. Wait here. 

Okay, I told you about Bobby. He loves you, y’know. A lot. He’s a good fucking dad. And you look like him. Not your faces. Just. I don’t know. You know what I mean. 

What I’m saying is, Bobby loves you. And I love you We all do. 

———

“Wha- What happened?”

Dean froze, the barrel of Bobby’s shotgun still aimed for his chest. The soft, nervous voice sure as shit didn’t belong to Cas, and it was close enough to Sam’s to make his ribs ache, but not certain enough. Sam had an air like what he was saying—even if he knew it was wrong—was true. Dean was pretty sure the kid had gotten it from Her, after that first night they’d met Her. When She’d stared down Dad and said She was never wrong.

She wasn’t. But She’d said it like it was impossible for Her to be wrong, and Sammy had taken it as gospel. 

Adam didn’t have that. 

Adam was lucky he still had goddamn vocal cords. They let him scream when Dean whirled around and flew a punch for his face. 

“Dean-“ Cas tried to grab him, hold him back, Dean didn’t give a shit. If Cas really wanted his fists to stop bashing into Adam’s jaw, he could stop Dean easy. But he wasn’t. And Adam fucking deserved it.

“You fucking dick- Asshole- Son of a bitch-“ Dean grabbed Adam by his collar, spitting the words against his face. “You feel like a fucking man, huh?! Betraying your family and letting Michael ride you like a little fucking bitch-“

“Dean.” Bobby grunted, wheelchair creaking over the floor as Dean socked Adam’s nose. “That’s enough.”

“He said yes!” Dean roared, turning to see Cas and Bobby looking at him with almost pitied expressions. “He’s the fucking reason we had to do any of that, he said yes to Michael and now they’re both- They-“

His words died in a strangled noise, Adam let out a groan, and tried to turn back to land another blow. But Cas caught his shoulder, carefully pulling Dean to his feet, leaving Adam bloodied on the floor. 

“Cas-“

“He’s just a child, Dean.” Cas held his gaze, shaking his head. “Michael likely promised him riches and glory-“

“Then he should’ve fucking said no. I said no-“

“You already had the glory.” Cas gave him an odd look, and Dean frowned. “Adam desired it. This is not his fault.”

“The hell it’s not-“

“Dean.” Bobby muttered, glaring up at him. “This ain’t gonna bring ‘em back. You’re just gonna kill your own fuckin’ brother-“

“He’s not my brother.” Dean sneered, fists curling at his sides. “My brother’s trapped in a cage with Lucifer and Michael.”

“Dean,” Cas muttered, and Dean shook his head. 

The whole world felt sort of far away. Words were falling out of him liken food poisons. Trying to grab the pain, and push it up his throat. It wasn’t making it better. It felt like shit. He couldn’t fucking stop.

“I don’t want to see him.” Dean grunted. “Fix him up and get him out, Cas. Or I’m gonna kill him.”

Cas had looked at him for a long, strange moment, then nodded. Knelt down and pressed his finger’s to Adam’s brow, healing all his bruises in a second. And Adam had pushed up, staring at Dean with an almost desperate expression, and Dean hadn’t fucking cared. If he’d been able to resist Michael, Adam should’ve as well. It didn’t goddamn matter what he’d been promised. Everything was worse now. Adam had gotten saved—Michael had been pulled from his body, and he’d get to start over—and the cost was Dean’s whole world. 

“I didn’t mean to.” Adam muttered, and Dean was going to break his own hands. “He- He said everything would be fine. That- I didn’t know-“

“Cas.” Dean grunted, ripping his gaze away. “Out.”

Cas sighed, then vanished, taking Adam with him. And for a second, the world had stood still. Because Dean’s eyes had landed on the fridge, and it was decorated with Her drawings. The sketches She’d done of Famine and Pestilence, the half-done one of Death. 

Death. 

Dean’s gaze was lingering on Death, and with Lucifer gone, Death was free. Maybe he could owe Dean a favor. Maybe Dean could try that trick Lucifer had pulled, and bind Death himself. Use him to get Her and Sammy out-

“You feel big, boy?”

Dean grunted, giving Bobby a broken, tired look. “The fuck am I supposed to say. No?”

Bobby scoffed. “You’re supposed to admit you’re bein’ an idjit-“

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“Why?” Dean raised his brows, something prickling over his skin and starting to rot just to the right of his heart. “The hell am I supposed to do, Bobby, just welcome him in with open arms after- After they- Goddamnit-“

He couldn’t breathe. The world was blurring, and Cas had healed him but that just meant this pain wasn’t curable. That the pit starting to split in him was never going to be filled or sewn back together. All the shadows look longer. The lump in his throat only grew bigger. 

“Maybe I am being an asshole,” Dean muttered, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second. He wasn’t going to cry. Not in the kitchen, in front of Bobby. “I don’t give a shit, Bobby. I can’t.”

Bobby let out a slow breath, opened his mouth, and Cas reappeared in the kitchen. 

“Do you care to know where I sent Adam?”

“No.” Dean snapped, before Bobby could speak, and Cas shrugged. 

“Alright, though I will lose him fast. I hid him from angels, as many may be… displeased. With his performance as the vessel.”

Bobby frowned. “Angels havin’ a lot of thoughts about the failed apocalypse?”

“I do not know.” Cas sighed. “Heaven has lost their leader. We have never been without one before, and without God in the picture-“

“God’s in the picture.” Dean grunted, and Cas gave him an odd look. 

“Dean, I have spent the past year-“

Dean muttered Her name, and it tasted sickly sweet on his tongue. He shouldn’t be allowed to speak it. Think it. Know it. “She said he’s alive. Guess she’d know.”

Would’ve known.

They all thought it. None of them were strong enough to say it. 

“If he is,” Cas murmured, frowning at the air. “I won’t change how I proceed. He is not here. And- When she gave me my Grace back, it felt- Feels, different. I have a deeper connection to Heaven than before. A deeper connection to Earth, as well.”

“That’s great, man.” Dean muttered, and he didn’t want to sound that bitter. He didn’t know how the hell not to. “You wanna sing fuckin’ kumbaya and dance around the campfire? Talk about our dreams and hope a freakin’ falling star grants them?”

“Dean.” Bobby muttered, and Cas shook his head. 

“It is alright. He is distressed, I know not to take it personally.” Cas gave him a sad look, and Dean’s heart might be withering away. “If you call me, Dean, I will come. But I have work to attend to. Do not try to jump off a bridge, please. I’ll save you.”

Dean sneered in response, and that just fucking hurt more. That meant that the last damn person—angel, but person—he had was going off to Heaven, and Dean was being left alone. 

He was just fucking alone. 

———

He healed Bobby. Just damn healed Bobby, then vanished. 

And I’m sort of not talking to Bobby anymore. Can’t look at him. Only see you. 

He can’t look at me, either. I think he’s just seeing Sammy. Doesn’t really matter. Haven’t been sleeping. Think I already told you that, but it doesn’t matter. Most shit doesn’t.

I miss you.

That matters. 

You matter, Princess. You always mattered. Not just as all that Magdalene shit. To me. You mattered to me, and I love need you. Come back. I don’t give a shit if I gotta share you with God, I just need you home. I keep waking up and thinking you’re in bed, and you’re not. It’s just you. Always been just you, baby. Sorry I didn’t tell you. Sorry it’s too late to tell you now. 

DAW

———

Mar. 5 - 2010 

Princess, 

Hunted ten vamps today. One of them had a knife, you would’ve liked it. Took it off the body, in case you want it. I can clean it, too. I can do whatever you want. Wish that you I keep seeing (don’t ask) would tell me how to talk to you. Direct line. I just need to tell you about the burger I had. Tasted like shit, but came with a stuffed animal because Vegas is insane. Little cat. You’d like it.

Cas never got you that cat. I would’ve been fine with it. They make meds for that shit, and I love you want you to be happy. I’m not giving up on you, baby. I’ll get you back. Been looking into ways. Bet Cas has too. Bobby’s gotta have something. And Vegas was a dead end, but at least I got you that cat. 

It’s gray. Got big eyes. I think it’s staring at me. I don’t wanna salt and burn a stuffed cat. 

You’d like Vegas. You’re shit at poker, but I’d help you. Think I’d have to pull you away from all those music shows. 

You never sang for me, either. I know what I would’ve asked you to sing. But I know everything I want from you.

That makes me sound like an asshole. I meant a family. Life. And not from you. With you. 

You.

Want you. 

DAW

———

Mar. 8 - 2010 

Princess,

I’m trying something. You’re gonna kill me. Shit, you’re gonna be so fucking pissed. I can see it. You get this little wrinkle in that space between your eyes, when you’re feeling a lot of things. It’s cute. I always wanted to kiss it. 

Maybe if you don’t kill me for this, you’ll let me. And I know it’s stupid, but if it works, I can just give you all of these and you’ll understand. Need you here, baby. Can’t do this without you. I mean it. I feel like I’m in the ocean or something, but I never learned how to sail. Or like when Dad used to drop me a state over and tell me to find my way back. I know I’m going somewhere. I don’t have a goddamn clue how I get there without you and Sammy. If I can get there.

Miss you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Here or out there. 

Don’t stab me. I love miss you. So damn much. 

DAW

———

Dean squinted up at the sun—the light far too harsh and uncaring about how the whole world felt lifeless—then down the two, long dirt roads. 

Crossroads.

And he’d buried the bones, and made the call—even laid his gun down as a show of good will—so where the hell-

“Hello, Dean.” A smooth, British voice broke through the air behind him, and Dean scowled. “My, my. Don’t you look worse for wear. Something happen?”

“I didn’t call for you.” Dean grunted, turning slowly. 

Crowley shrugged, suit pressed, hands in his pockets, beard well-trimmed and expression bored. The asshole had come out ahead after the apocalypse. Dean hadn’t slept in three damn days, but Crowley had new fucking shoes.

“I may be the King of Hell now, but I do hold a certain fondness for my old day job. And Dean Winchester, making a crossroads call after his brother and girlfriend fell into the cage?” Crowley clicked his tongue. “Well, color me intrigued. I had to know what you could possibly offer me.”

“I gotta know, Crowley. How long you been working on slipping in that you’re the King of Hell into every sentence?”

“Oh, about as long as you’ve been trying to tell God’s Bride that you’re in sweet little love with her.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “How the fuck did you know about God-“

“I didn’t know. But when you get promotions, you hear whispers. And I had a hunch.” Crowley smirked. “Thank you for confirming it, though. I shall keep that in mind. Now, I believe you had a question you wanted to ask me?”

This was stupid. He’d promised Her and Sammy he wouldn’t. Shit, he’d promised everyone he wouldn’t. But this time they’d have Cas, and She’d be using her magic stuff, and they could get out of it. 

Even if they couldn’t, Dean would rather have just one more fucking day where he could hug Sammy and kiss Her. Just one chance to apologize. He’d formally give Sam the Impala, teach the kid how to care for her. Tell him to go back to trying to live a normal life. That maybe he didn’t think he could, but he’d find it. If not a lawyer, something smart. Do everything Dean always knew he could, now that Sammy wouldn’t have anything holding him back.

And Dean would let himself be selfish for one day. He’d kiss Her, tell Her whatever she needed to hear to understand—Princess, I want you, always want you—then, if She’d let him, touch Her. 

He’d feel Her once, before he was gone. Watch Her come undone beneath him, give Her everything he had, then whisper that he loved Her. The last thing She’d remember about Dean would be that he loved Her. Not that he’d ever hurt Her or failed Her. She’d go on, and God would come for Her, and She’d just know Dean loved Her. Only Her. He could have a million more bodies pass through his bed, meet billions more people, and he’d only ever love Her. 

He couldn’t tell Her, if She was trapped in the cage. And maybe She’d curse his name deeper than Hell for this, but at least She’d know Dean loved Her. 

“I want them out.” He grunted, and Crowley’s smile grew. “Both of them. You can give me one day, fuck, twelve hours. But you get them out.”

“How sweet.” Crowley drawled. “But no.”

Dean froze. The world stopped moving in an odd stutter stop. That wasn’t how this worked. He put himself in, they got out. He accepted that, and they got to have lives. “The hell you mean, no.”

“I mean no deal.” Crowley shrugged. “You stay nice and alive up here, they stay… less than that in the cage.”

“Why the fuck won’t you-“

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it. “Crowley frowned around the long fields. “I do wish you hadn’t summoned me in the middle of nowhere, Dean. I would’ve liked a steak.”

“I don’t give a shit about your steak-“

“Well, that’s quite rude.” Crowley sighed. “Are we done here?”

Dean stared at Crowley for a second, then his brain kicked into gear. This had to work. He didn’t have a single other way to get Her and Sammy out, so this had to work. And if Crowley was going to be a dipshit and say no, Dean would make him say yes. 

He snatched his gun off the ground, raised it right for Crowley’s skull, and Crowley sighed.

“You know guns won’t work on me, right? Or did you only manage to hunt things properly when the brains and the beauty were here?”

“This isn’t just a gun.” Dean grunted Her name, and Crowley paled slightly. “Enchanted it. Made an archangel blow up. And I’d like to see if it does the same shit to demons.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed, and he vanished. Only for a second. 

Didn’t take him long to work out that there was no way out, reappearing just a little further down the road, then behind Dean, then in the tall grass with a sneer. 

“How in Hell’s name-“

Dean laughed. Dry and cold and hollow, because he wasn’t the smart one, but he wasn’t a freakin’ idiot. “Made a devil’s trap in the field.” Dean cocked the safety off the gun. “You’re gonna give me my baby brother and my girl back. Now.”

Crowley opened his mouth, but then his eyes darted over Dean’s shoulder. And a smile crept over the assholes face, right as a firm hand landed on Dean’s shoulder. 

“Dean.” Cas murmured. “This is not the way.”

“The hell it isn’t.” He grunted. “I got the King of Hell, and two people in Hell. He’s swinging his dick this big, he’ll either back it up, or I gank him-“

“Crowley doesn’t have the power to get them out of the cage, Dean.”

Dean turned to glare at Cas—lowering the gun slightly—and he looked far more worn than the last time Dean saw him. Tie askew, hair matted in something bronze and metallic, eyes heavy. 

“I’ve tried to get them out myself.” Cas muttered Her name, low enough that only Dean could hear. “Her soul makes meddling with the cage like doing heart surgery on a galaxy. Impossible.”

“There’s always another way-“

“Not here.” Cas sighed. “Not for us.”

“Told you.” Crowley called from down the road, and Dean’s grip on the gun tightened. “Now if someone could please let me out- Ah, bullocks.”

Dean raised the gun again, eyes narrowed on Crowley’s smug expression. “You give me one good reason not to blow your sorry demon ass apart.”

Crowley frowned. “May I have ten minutes to brainstorm-“

“If you kill him,” Cas cut in, voice somehow more tired than before. “Hell will return to political unrest. He’s keeping the demons in check, Dean.”

Son of a bitch, it would be so easy to pull the trigger. But Cas kept his hand on Dean’s arm, and Crowley wasn’t even flinching, and goddamn it-

Dean lowered the gun. Cas gave him a small nod, then vanished. Crowley gone only a few moments later. 

And once again, Dean was alone. 

———

Mar. 9 - 2010 

Princess,

I’m sorry, baby. 

Not giving up on you. You never gave up on me. I’ll get you and Sammy out. Pinky promise. 

DAW

———

Mar. 20 - 2010

Picress Princess,

I gotta stop writing these in pen. Stack of them is getting too big. Should get a box, too. Pink one. 

Would you want a pink one? You would. You like that girly shit. 

Always lo liked that about you. If you asked me to do a million of those face mask thingys with you, I would’ve. Would’ve done anything you asked though. I don’t think you knew that. Tried to tell you, a lot. But I’m not good at talking. You know that. And you never got pissed at me about it either. Wish I could’ve figured it out. How to tell you, I mean. I would’ve. Son of a bitch, baby, I’d have spent the rest of the sorry life I’ve got doing girl shit for you. I’d learn how to paint nails. Let you paint mine. 

But no glitter. Don’t care what you say, it’s bad for hunts. You just got that thing where monsters don’t attack you. Rest of us? Not that lucky. And you’d hate that I call it luck. I don’t love it either, but it always made me feel better. How I wasn’t gonna lose you on a hunt.

Lost you anyway.

Sorry for the stains on the paper, I spilled my drink. I wanted to tell you about the hunt. That was the point of this one. It was an Al-Mi’raj. Don’t know how to say that. Only spelling it right cause I’m looking at the book. But you said you always wanted to hunt one, so I’m telling you. It wasn’t that great. You’re not missing out on anything. 

I wish you’d been here, though. Even though the hunt was shit. Would’ve been better with you.

Yours,

DAW

———

Mar. 26 - 2010

Princess,

Did you ever feel it? 

I worked this case today. Romanian thing. Căpcăun. Cap con, is how I’ve been saying it. 

Made me think about the moroi. The first time I saw you. It felt like being struck by lightning, and dying, and being drunk. I think it was just you there. In the office. That jacket was so fucking big on you, but I remember wanting to see how my jacket would look. I wanted to kiss you, too. The whole time. You were so pretty, and it was like I’d found something I’d been looking for. But I hadn’t. I mean, I did find it, but I hadn’t been looking.

Remember when Sammy was looking for a book, and we wear tearing apart that library until we got kicked out? Then you get back with dinner, and we tell you we got banned, and you’re pissed cause we didn’t even need to go to the library. You already knew what the thing was. 

It’s sorta like that. 

Did that sound stupid? Sorry. Point is, it was all there. First damn time I looked at you. Always been there. I didn’t see you for year, and I’d still think about you. I always think about you. Stopped trying not to a damn long time ago. Can’t even get mad at you right. 

Cause I should be pissed at you, Princess. You did something so fucking dumb, jumping into the hole. There were other ways. You always say ‘there are other ways, de’ and then you do the eyelash flutter thing, and i’d jump off a cliff to make you smile. that’s why i can’t be pissed at you right. just want to see your smile. did you know your teeth are kind of crooked? i did. you’ve always got stray little baby hairs, too. and your eyes looking like they’re glowing. when you go all magic-mode, they actually glow. and when you walk its like you think the world is gonna move around you and it does.

Wish it would open up and give you back. wouldn’t fuck it up this time, baby. pinky promise. you can’t see it, but i’m pinky promising that stuffed cat i got you. named it velma. i’ll give it to you when you’re home.

come home.

Yours,

DAW

———

Apr. 5 - 2010

Princess,

I love you. 

Thought I should put that in one of these. Been crossing it out, but yesterday I saw this old couple in the park. Then I saw two graves, right next to each other, and I thought about how we’re never gonna get that. Not the graves thing (can you die? Don’t know why I’m asking. You don’t know.) but next to each other. Forever. 

That sounds gross. Not gross. Creepy. There’s a fancy word you used for creepy. 

Morbid. Word was morbid. Looked it up. Sammy left me his laptop, used that. He’s gonna be so pissed, I wiped the whole thing because the bitch never told me his passwords after he caught me looking at doing something. Don’t ask him what. He’s a liar. Can’t be trusted. And if he says they looked like you, he only saw it for like, 3 seconds. And he’s a liar. Tell him he’s a liar. 

Say anything. Stop disappearing. =

Spilled my drink again. Sorry, baby. You can still read it. I hope. My handwriting isn’t great, but I also flunked high school. 

I was talking about the grave. And old people. Point is, I love you. I want to be old with you. I think you’d look hot old. You always look hot. And I’d die first. I’d have to die first, because I can’t fucking do this twice. You did it twice, but you’ve always been better than me. I told you I don’t know how you didn’t kill someone. And I know you’ve never felt the thing (mentioned it last week. 18th? You’ll work it out) but shit. This sucks. Sucks ass. Hurts and sucks fucking balls and ass.

So I love you. Point of this one is I love you. All the way down, Princess. Love you. 

Yours,

DAW

———

Apr. 11 - 2010

Princess,

Went to a bar last night. Going to bars most nights. I’d say it was just for hustling, but there not really anything to lie for. You’re not here. If I get you back, I don’t even know if you’ll ever read these. Point is, bar. They had a big Indiana Jones poster on the wall. Tested the Shirley Temples for you, too. You’d like it. I’ll take you there, when you get home. 

You gotta come home. 

I don’t know where I’m going, Princess. I miss you. Think about you all the time. Need you. 

These letters all sound the same. Sorry. Never done this before, but you know that. 

I hope you know that. Shit, I hope you never thought I didn’t want you. I know I sleep slept around a lot, but I only ever loved you. Fuck, Princess, I call your name when I have sex and I think about that apple pie life with you. Promised Sammy I’d have it, with you, after he went into the cage. Always thought I’d end up making you a house, getting you a ring, marrying you. We’d have a good wedding. You’d plan it, but I’d help. I’d want to help. I’d try to help, and you’d make me stop cause you’re bossy. But you’d do it better anyway. You’d look hot in the dress, and I’d wear a nice suit that doesn’t have any blood on it, then we’d get married. Go somewhere nice and sunny for our honeymoon.

I’ve had a lot of dreams about that honeymoon, Princess. Could do a whole separate letter about it. 

But I mostly just have a lot of dreams about you.

This one is my favorite. 

We get married. Live together, and no monsters come knocking. God never takes you. I give you kids. I’d like five, it’s a good number, but just one would make me the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. If it’s gotta be one, I always hoped it was a girl. She’d look just like you, but I think she’d have my taste in music. She’d like Star Wars, too. Uncle Sammy would watch it with her (he’d try to be uncle sam, but you wouldn’t let that happen) and Grandpa Bobby would teach her about cars because she’s too cool to talk to her dad about it. 

You give me nothing back, by the way. You’ve given enough, baby girl. 

And I promised Sammy I’d at least give you this, but you jumped in the cage. And I know you saved the world, but fucking Christ, shouldn’t have been you. I don’t know why it always has to be you. It’s some fucking bullshit. 

And you’d tell me it has to be you and i’d say it doesn’t then you say it does. 

I’d never make it you.

I bought that box I mentioned. Last month? Can’t remember. You’ll check. Couldn’t find pink. Got gold and purple. Looks fancy. You’d like it. 

Yours,

DAW

——

Apr. 24 - 2010

Princess, 

I keep looking at the stupid box. It’s gold. I think I told you that, last time I wrote about it. But it’s golden. 

You said I was golden. That you’ve never seen another golden soul.

There are a lot of souls in the world. Lot of people. I can’t be only golden one, but you weren’t lying. I know when you do.

Maybe you’ve just never seen another one. 

I never asked you why souls are different colors. The internet doesn’t know. Just got a lot of ads for psychics. Was fucking bullshit. 

Your soul would’ve been a pretty color. Like the stars. 

Yours, 

DAW

——

May. 3 - 2010

Princess, 

I broke the mirror. I’m sorry. I love you. 

Yours,

DAW

——

That was a fucking shit one. Short. 

It was all he could think. All he could manage, with his head spinning and the pen in his hand heavier than a gun.

Dean stumbled over to the little box—purple and gold and sort of glowing, as car headlights shifted through the room, fucking taunting him—and shoved the letter inside. 

The whole room smelled like vomit. His shirt smelled like mud and beer. 

He didn’t give a shit, as he passed out with a breath of Her name on his lips. 

She was on the edge of the mattress in Boston. Dean on his knees before Her, their gazes locked as he slowly pushed up, and kissed Her. 

And he’d had this nightmare so many times before. This was the part where all Her features were supposed to twist into ugly mold, before She’d melt into dirty water and seep into the floor. Then Dean be left holding nothing. Left alone. 

But it had changed, the past few months.

Now, the floor opened. Right down into the cage. And a noose wrapped around Dean’s neck and yanked him up, suspended in the air. And he caught Her before she could fall, but he wasn’t strong enough. 

He was never strong enough. 

She slipped through his fingers, and fell into the darkness without a scream. Without a trace. And this was the part where cage was supposed to close, and Dean was supposed to rip up the floorboards and find Sammy’s body. But it didn’t. The cage kept turning below him, and from the very depths of it-

She was screaming. Her voice torn through the world, rattled Dean’s skull and heart and blew the roof clean off the world until the sky was hanging over them, and She kept screaming. 

His name. 

She was screaming for Dean. And a sound like a toll bell split the air, marring her words but not enough for him to miss the pain in Her voice. And he couldn’t get to Her. No matter how loud he roared back, how hard he fought against the noose, Dean was stuck here. Alone. Nothing but him and the sky, listening to Her scream. 

He jolted up in bed, groaning at the throbbing headache and twist of his stomach, and that bell was still pounding around his skull-

Not a bell.

Phone. His phone was tossed off to the edge of his mattress, and it was ringing. 

He didn’t pick it up immediately. Dean groaned, forced himself upright, and tried not to vomit again from the smell of everything. The bile in the trash can. The stains on his shirt. His damn breath. If She walked through the door right now, he wouldn’t be able to kiss Her. Hell, even if his hallucination of Her appeared, he wouldn’t want it to see him. He didn’t need that broken mirror to know he looked like shit.

But it didn’t show up. She didn’t. Dean was too sober for that. It might be smart to shower, though. Just in case. And he needed to get on the road, because the case was done and staying in one town too long was dangerous. It meant he learned bars. Alleys. Where he could get a drink that would make him pass out, and a spot no one would find him in. And Dean might be worth less than nothing, but Baby wasn’t. The phone had stopped ringing. He could force himself into a quick shower, just to not stink up the upholstery-

It started ringing again. The sound sent a new bolt of pain through Dean’s skull, and he gripped the bridge of his nose with a groan. He didn’t want to do this. Not today, of all damn days. Could’ve been yesterday. Or tomorrow. But he’d had big plans involving skipping down, locking himself in the bathroom, and drinking until She appeared in front of him, and he only remembered how to whisper Her name. 

But the phone keeping going, and Dean had to grab at the sheets, just to see who the hell was bothering him. 

Called ID - Unknown

Dean frowned, his skin feeling tight from the motion. He got a lot of calls from hidden numbers, just because of hunting. But everyone who would call him was dead, or wasn’t speaking to him. 

He could just leave it. Block the number if it tried to call back. 

But a voice in his head murmured that it could be Her and Sammy. Out of the cage and needing Dean. Calling him to come get them.

He picked up the call. And his heart spiked for a second at the woman’s voice, but dropped back into the pit a split second later. It wasn’t Her. 

“Am I speaking to Dean Winchester?”

He grunted, frowning at a stain on the carpet. He didn’t remember making that, but it looked a lot like the mushy pretzels he’d eaten at the bar. “Who’s asking.”

“Jody Mills, Sioux Falls Sheriff’s department.”

Dean’s gaze shot off the stain. “Sioux Falls?”

“Yeah,” the woman—Jody—paused slightly. “You heard of it?”

“I, uh- Yeah. Sorta. Lady, I don’t know what you want, but I haven’t been to South Dakota in three months, so-“

“Where are you now?”

Dean scowled. “East. And unless you got something to throw at me-“

“I’m just callin’ to tell you that Bobby Singer needs you here.” 

Bobby. 

Fuck.

Dean shot to his feet, the room spinning, but he pushed through it. Wasn’t anything left to throw up anyway. “Shit, what happened to him- Don’t put him in an ambulance, he can’t afford it- But there should be insurance cards in the Firebird outside-“

“He’s not injured.” Jody cut him off, and a slightly weight lifted. “I might just be best for you to be here. You know I, uh- I don’t know your relation to Bobby. Would be nice to, before I ask you to drive across states for him.”

“Yeah, uh-“ Dean paused. He’d been trying to put his shoes on the wrong foot, and he couldn’t fucking think over the pain in his head, but- “I’m his son.”

“Son? With a different last name?”

“It’s complicated.” He muttered, grabbing his bag—the box safely tucked inside—and the keys. “I’m in Oklahoma. Be there tonight. And-“ He paused, wincing at the harsh daylight. “Jody, right?”

The woman hummed, and Dean sighed. 

“Is he okay?”

There was a pause, then, “I think it’s best if you see yourself, Dean. Drive safe.”

The line went dead, and Dean let out a long, slow breath. He could do this. See Bobby. 

Driving safe sounded a little out of the question—no more Sammy, telling him to slow down—but he’d get there. Where Bobby needed him. 

It was a blur, the hours driving through field to South Dakota. It didn’t matter how loud Dean turned up the music, he still couldn’t really hear it over the blood in his ears. Bobby was—probably, physically—fine. Jody—small, sturdy looking woman Dean vaguely recognized from the city—was pacing on the lawn when Dean pulled up, but everything was fine. Or whatever fine meant now, where no one new was gone, and Dean didn’t just twist Baby off a cliff to try and feel that. 

“You Dean?” Jody called across the lawn as Dean got out of the car, and he nodded. 

“Yeah. Where-“

“Inside.” 

Dean made for the door—his gun in his jeans, just in case—and Jody caught his arm. She was strong, for a small lady. And when Dean glared at her, she didn’t even flinch. 

Jody scanned over Dean slowly, and her nose scrunched. “You smell like Bobby.”

“Thanks.” Dean gave her a mocking grin, then jerked his head to the door. “Can I go do the thing I drove ten damn hours for?”

Jody ignored him. “You know, I’ve known Bobby Singer for a long time. Few years ago, he helped me out with this thing that happened, my husband and dem-“ She shook her head, laughing softly. “Never mind. Point is, I had a problem, he helped me solve it. He was a drunk, but a good man. Smart. You grow fond of him, if he doesn’t shoot you first.” Jody’s eyes narrowed on Dean. “But something changed, February. And I’ve seen you around before, Dean. But not since Singer went off the deep end.”

“Off the deep end?”

“It a miracle if he gets himself home at night.” Jody muttered, and the pit in Dean split a little further open. 

“He lost his daughter.” Dean muttered. “It’s been rough.”

Jody hummed, giving Dean’s appearance a pointed look. “His daughter? Not your sister?”

He let out a dry laugh, because if he didn’t, he’d vomit again. “No. Not my sister. Told you, it’s complicated.”

“I’d imagine.” Jody didn’t waver, and Dean felt like he was folding. He didn’t want to talk about it. The whole point of the letter was that he never had to talk about it with anyone but Her. “It your brother, that went in the cage with Bobby’s kid?”

Dean stood up a little taller. “You know about-“

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Was tryin’ to see if you knew.”

“How-“

“Bobby gets loose lipped, when he drinks. And y’know. Demons. Angels.” She shrugged. “Not that far a stretch. C’mon.”

Jody finally let go of him, nodding to the door, and Dean pushed it open carefully. 

This wasn’t the house he’d left. It wasn’t in a state of ruin, but trash and beer on the floor and Jody was right. The smell was strong enough to make Dean retch slightly, and he’d been wallowing in it for months. It was a miracle Jody was upright, let alone talking like this was just another-

“It’s been like this,” Dean gestured around. “Since I left?”

Jody nodded, kicking a bottle and watching it roll away. “Pretty much, yeah. But this morning, and the days leading up? Worst I’ve seen it. Wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t know his own name.”

Dean sighed, glancing up the stairs. He’d hadn’t had the wheelchair thing removed, and the wheelchair itself was still in the hall. Like he wasn’t expecting the whole walking thing to last. 

He started up the stairs without looking back, and this time Jody let him go. Dean knew why today was worse than usual. And he’d explain later, if Jody asked. If Bobby didn’t kick him out on his sorry ass, cause Dean would bet Jody hadn’t asked him if Dean was welcome. His money was on Bobby drunkenly groaning his name, and Jody being desperate for anything to help his state.

Because Dean wasn’t so much shocked by the scene in Her room—once their’s, now empty, and a new wave of emptiness crashed over him—as he was surprised it wasn’t worse. It could be. It could so damn easily be more than Bobby on the floor, Her phone on his knee—playing some song Dean knew she loved—and old drawings in shaking hands. It smelled better than the rest of the house, but Bobby had also lit Her cinnamon apple candle in the corner. And it wasn’t beer, scattered over the room. 

Just one, half empty bottle of absinthe. 

Dean took it, and gave himself a strong swig as he dropped at Bobby’s side. “May 4th, huh.”

Bobby grunted, not looking up from the drawing at the top of his pile. Dean had seen that one before. The stick figures of Her and Bobby, the grass golden and clouds red and sun white. 

Dean could see it again. Little hands, gripping crayons like knives and scribbling on the papers. Any further comments died in his throat. If he spoke, he’d break. So he just took another deep drink of the absinthe, and prayed the burn would make the sting behind his eyes fade. 

It didn’t.

But Bobby broke the silence for him. 

“She hated that today was her birthday.” Bobby muttered, voice hoarse. “We got cupcakes for her twelfth, some jackass said that Star Wars thing to her at checkout. I thought her little head was gonna explode. Started talkin’ about how if she wanted to watch a western, she’d do it properly. None of that space shit.”

Dean chuckled. The absinthe wasn’t going to be strong enough. “She said space shit when she was twelve?”

“I had a unique parentin’ style.” Bobby muttered, holding out his free hand. Dean passed the bottle, and Bobby sighed. “She tell you her birthday?”

“Nah. Found out in 08’. Jo told me I couldn’t die, cause it would be right after her birthday. Tried not to think about it.” He frowned at the air, voice dropping slightly. “Was gonna get her a dinner, if I survived. Properly celebrate it, cause she as shit doesn’t. Then in 09’-“

“Jo.” Bobby sighed. “Died. Right before.”

“Fuck, she did. Guess she’s never had the best luck, huh.”

Bobby was silent for a second, and then he finally looked at Dean. Bloodshot eyes and reddened skin, no worse than Dean himself, but time wasn’t on Bobby’s side. His hairs were grayer. Skin sagged slightly, likely from lack of sleep. And Dean tried to give him a grimacing smile, but it didn’t come out right. It couldn’t. This was what he hadn’t wanted to see.

His own pain, reflected right back at him. The reminder that he’d failed, he’d fucking failed, and now everything was going to be worse forever. 

“She had you.” 

Dean blinked, and Bobby’s voice had been rough, but not a mocking drawl. Real. Sincere.

“And don’t tryin’ lie to me and say that just friends bullshit. Or even just kissin’. You worshipped the ground she walked on, Dean. I ain’t stupid.”

“I- I didn’t-“

“Dean-“

“She didn’t have me.” Dean’s words were tight, and he could feel it. Pushing up through the pit, tearing him at a little more than the seams and festering to the right of his heart. “I lost her, Bobby. Her and Sammy, they both fell in on my watch-“

“On your watch.” Bobby scoffed. “They were grown. Grown fuckin’ idjits, but grown.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re the one who said I let them-“

“I was wrong.”

Dean blinked. “But-“

“I was wrong, Dean. I’d lost my daughter. Sent her off to fight Lucifer like she wasn’t-“ Bobby looked back to the paintings, and his grip on them tightened. “I was mad. I ain’t mad anymore.”

Dean nodded slowly, staring at the drawing. She drawn Herself with a smile, skin silver and hair matted on her head in what Dean guessed were supposed to be braids. She’d been young. So young.  

She’d still been young. Sammy had been young too. Dean was the oldest. He was supposed to watch out for them. 

But Bobby was older. And Dad had issues, but he’d still traded his life for Dean’s. 

Bobby hadn’t even gotten the chance. So when he was passed the bottle, Dean took it, and settle further into the carpet. The room, when he took a deep, deep breath, still smelled like Her. He could almost hear Her voice—even though he’d never actually heard her sing—belting along with the song coming from the player. And Dean wasn’t made anymore either. 

He was just lost.

“You look like shit,” Bobby grunted after a while, and Dean snorted. 

“You’re not better, old man.”

“Least I don’t gotta look pretty. You gonna meet her like that, if you get ‘er back?”

“You think she’s-“

“I think I know you, Dean.” Bobby gave him a flat look. “And I told ya. You ain’t gonna fool me.”

Dean swallowed, his gaze falling to the carpet. She’d loved this carpet. “Nothing’s working, Bobby.”

“So you’re gonna give up?”

“I didn’t say that-“

Bobby cut him off with a sigh. “I know. I’ve been lookin’, and there’s really damn nothing. Cas ain’t helpful, either. Feathery dumbass just healed me and left. He better be workin’ on something too.”

Dean grunted, and the silence settled once more. He missed Her. He had been trying, but it was harder without Her and Sammy here. Harder when every damn demon and monster went running at his name, and the ones who didn’t were smug idiots who deserved to be murdered. Most of his days were blood, and She’d always been careful not to let things stain books. Sammy would hate blood in his laptop. 

He’d rather have them back, and pissed at him. 

But he’d also, secretly, been thinking that one day he’d get a phone call from Bobby saying they got it. That Dean just needed to show up, do whatever was needed—spill blood, take a rib from his chest, kill something then prepare it with some magic sauce, get ready to trade himself into the cage in their place—and it would be done. They’d be home. 

He still wouldn’t give up. It’s why he wrote the letters, so—if She wanted—She could have them when she came home. 

When.  

They’d have to come home. They’d have to. Have to. Son of a bitch, it didn’t sound like words anymore, but they’d have to-

“Have you thought about it?” Dean muttered, watching the absinthe swirl in the bottle. A few more, then he’d at least see fake Her again. “What happens if they don’t come back?”

The silence was too long again. And it was the first time he’d said it aloud. That they might not. That this could be forever. 

They had to.

But that didn’t mean shit if Dean couldn’t figure out how.

“We keep goin’.” Bobby grunted. “Make sure they didn’t go for nothin’.”

“You think you’d be able to- Do anything?”

Bobby sighed. “No.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighed, and finished the bottle. “Me neither?”

“Fuckin’- Balls.” Bobby sighed, setting down the drawings carefully on the carpet. “You want dinner?”

Dean blinked. “You- I can just go-“

“Nah. If we’re doin’ nothing, least we can do for them is waste away together. And don’t say no, Dean. My daughter’s locked up in hell. Be nice to me.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn’t fight back. He hadn’t eaten proper food in a while, and he’d had too much to drive anyway. 

And dinner was easy. They didn’t talk about it. Outside of that—the strange moment in Her bedroom—Dean didn’t know how. But Bobby had said he wasn’t pissed at Dean anymore, and he’d take it. And Jody had stayed for dinner, not saying anything when Bobby and Dean walked down the stairs, and managing to stick to the unspoken no hunting talk rule at the table. Dean liked her. She was smart. Practical. Didn’t take shit. And she gave a pretty firm handshake, when she left for the night. 

“You stayin’ on the couch?” Bobby grunted over the dishes, and Dean shrugged.

“I can.”

That was it. But Dean didn’t stay on the couch. 

He stared at the ceiling for about three hours, then gave up. Tossed the itchy, woolen blanket onto the floor and snuck upstairs. It took another two hours, to clean everything. Change Her sheets, do her laundry, organize the shit the way She’d want it. And he didn’t deserve to sleep in Her bed. Not when he’d let other women touch him. Not when he’d lost Her. But he sat on the mattress, Her apple smell overwhelmed him—he had no damn clue how it was so strong, She’d been gone months—and he passed out.

Bobby didn’t mention it, in the morning. Didn’t ask Dean when he was leaving, either. Just passed him a beer, grunted that he’d set aside and gone through all the angel books, but second eyes never hurt. And Dean nodded, shuffled to the library, and stayed. That day, and night. Then the next. Then the next after that. 

And it hurt, to see all the places She and Sammy used to be. But it also hurt to breathe air that they couldn’t. Listen to music, when he couldn’t look over and see Sam’s pinched bitch-face. Watch TV when he couldn’t try to pull Her half into his lap. See colors, water, sunlight, when Dean knew all too well there wasn’t any down there.

At the very least, Dean could still see Her. 

“You look tired, De.” 

He sighed, frowning at the wrench in his hand. At least She only popped up when Bobby was around. Dean didn’t really want to explain just how insane he’d actually gone. 

“You wanna order pie from that pastry place, later?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, and he looked up to see Her. No fancy or formal outfits. Just Her. Jacket and shiny hair and knife, twirling in Her hands. It knocked the air clean out of his lungs. And he really didn’t think that was ever going to get better. 

“We can get the cherry one. Even though it’s too gooey.”

Dean let out a soft chuckle, his grip on the wrench growing painful. He couldn’t touch Her. Couldn’t run his thumb down Her nose, or tuck hair behind Her ears. But son of a bitch, he wanted to. Needed to. Couldn’t.

“You look beautiful.” He muttered, and She flushed. Parted lips. Hitched breath. 

He was worse than a damned man. But this was just fucking cruel.

“You look pretty too.”

“Nothing to you, Princess.” He looked back to Baby. “I miss you.”

“Why? I’m right here.”

———

May. 7 - 2010

Princess,

Been thinking about your birthday a lot. Wish you’d told me about it sooner, but I didn’t tell you about my. We’ll call it even. Least you never died on my birthday, right?

I don’t know how you put up with me, sweetheart. Damn near punched myself for that one. 

You did a lot for my birthday. Pie and cake. Presents. Kissed me. That was my favorite part. Wanted to tell you there, but I didn’t know how. Fuck, I don’t know how here. I think I could write a whole paper that was just l love you, and you still wouldn’t get it. 

I do. Love you. 

Would’ve gotten you ice cream cake. Two. Cas would flip his shit about ice cream cake, and you’d try to give him all of yours. Then we could go to a bookstore, and I’d buy you whatever you want. Actually, Kevin Brown would’ve bought you whatever you want. But I’m the one who stole his card. I get the credit. 

Don’t know what I’d get you for a gift. Might have too many ideas. Think we could go on a trip. You never travelled just to travel, sweetheart. I think you’d like Canada, or Yellowstone. We’d get one of those fancy hotels. I know you hate camping. 

Yours, 

DAW

———

May. 16 - 2010

Princess,

I think Bobby’s got a crush. There’s a sheriff that comes around, and he sort of acts like an idiot. Wish I could ask you what Bobby with a crush looks like. Otherwise I think I need to worry about him having a stroke. 

Not much else to report, I guess. I’m still looking for a way to get you out, but everything’s coming up empty. It’s just a cage. Can’t be that hard to open. 

I’ll get it. Pinky promise. Now that Bobby’s talking to me, we’ll get it. 

The house is still trashed, but I’ve been keeping your room clean. You’re gonna be so pissed, though. Everywhere else smells like beer. I smell like beer. I’ll take a million showers though. Use that fancy sugar scrub, if you want. 

I bought you more of it. Was cleaning the bathroom, saw yours was almost empty. 

Yours, 

DAW

———

It was past one in the morning, when he finished the letter. And he couldn’t sleep. It was the two-year date of him going to hell, and at least on the last one, he’d had Sammy. Now it was just him, the dead of night, and a smell of fruit, hanging in the air.

Stronger than he’d smelled it in months. Eden Apples. He’d never stood a chance of guessing. He’d never been to paradise. 

But he’d lived with Her. And She was better than paradise. The idea of Paradise couldn’t wrap around him in the dark. Didn’t wear his shirt and nothing more. Never made him a pillow fort in its bedroom, just so they could play pretend everything would be okay.

The idea of Paradise couldn’t kiss Dean, and make the most beautiful sounds in the world.

Only She could.

And he was going to suffocate in it. How the room smelled like Her—even more so, with all the booze cleared—but She wasn’t here. 

He sat up with a grunt, and shuffled outside. Just a walk. Maybe a drive-

Not that. Midnight drives were for Her. Doing them alone was pointless. 

He’d do a walk. The cold of the wind—harsher from the rain last night—reminded him that he was alive. He could work with it. 

He thought he could. 

But it was dark. And Dean was tired. He stumbled through the junkyard, not sure where he was going, and realized he’d stopped where he’d probably always been bound to end up. 

The Firebird. 

It was in better shape, than he’d thought it would be. Bobby must have been driving it, when he wasn’t drunk. Bobby had been driving it, because Dean open the door and almost knocked out by the smell. Under it was still Her apple. But, Christ, She’d be pissed if she came back and her car smelled like booze. Dean should check under the hood, while he was here. Rotate it’s tires, too-

It’s.

His. 

She’d said Her car was a he. That She’d named him, and was waiting for the right time to tell Dean.

He still didn’t know. 

And for some, stupid goddamn reason, that’s what broke him. Dean sunk down to the mud of the yards—his legs didn’t want to support him anymore, and he understood that, he didn’t either—and there was an iron like grip over his chest, sinking claws into his chest until it stung, making everything burn and his breathing labored. 

He’d made Her this car, and unless he figured something out, they’d both just waste away to rust. He’d promised Sammy, and Bobby, and his goddamn self that he wouldn’t lose Her, then he had. And then he’d run. He’d fucking run, like he’d made Her promise She wouldn’t. He was a goddamn hypocrite, and he didn’t have a single goddamn way to get Her back. Even if he did, he’d never have another moment like the one where he’d given Her the Firebird. She couldn’t look at him the same, knowing how he’d gone off and done all the shit She hated, while she was gone. Drinking and the sex he’d stopped having—just for Her—the moment She was gone. She’d want to leave him. Fuck, Dean wanted to leave him. And Her other option would be fucking God-

God. 

Dean looked up to the clear, night sky, and narrowed his eyes. 

God could fucking do something about it. She was supposed to be his bride. Dean would dig his way to Hell with bare hands, if he thought it would work. The least God could do was fucking something. 

“I know you’re listening.” Dean muttered, glowering at the stars, words painful in his throat. “You’re God. I’m praying. That’s the deal, right? You gotta listen. And if you’re not, you better start now.” He took a deep breath, rubbing the lingering tears from his eyes. “I want her back. I don’t care if she’s your bride, I want her back. And if she’s your bride, you’ll bring her back. You can’t love her and just leave her in there. I wouldn’t. And I need her. I- I need her. I fuckin’-“ Breathing was hard again. He’d push through it. “I love her. Son of a bitch, I love her. So bring her back.”

Nothing. The sky remained silent, and Dean wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe to be smited on the spot. But that would’ve meant God was listening, and he wasn’t. 

Nobody had heard Dean say he loved Her aloud. 

Nobody had heard him at all. 

“Dean.” 

His gaze shot up, and Cas tilted his head, scanning over Dean with a frown. 

“Why are you in the dirt.”

“Shit year, Cas.” Dean muttered, pushing to his feet. “What’re you doing here, I haven’t heard from you since you declared it was impossible to save them and fucked off-“

“You didn’t call.” Cas grunted, narrowing his gaze. “And now is not the-“

“I’m not supposed to call, Cas, you’re supposed to let me know you’re still fuckin’ alive-“

“I am alive.” Cas snapped, voice raising. “And so is Sam.”

Dean froze. The world froze. There was a high ringing in his ears, and he wanted to have heard Cas right, but if he hadn’t-

“He appeared in Kansas. The earth shook and cried, and Sam Winchester appeared. All angels felt it. We’re lucky I was fast, otherwise Raphael might have gotten to him first”.  Cas muttered Her name, and Dean might be able to feel all the blood in his body go cold. “She hasn’t been spotted, but I am looking.”

Dean swallowed. He felt sort of sick. “And Sam-“

“In the house. But Dean-“

He didn’t wait for Cas to finish his sentence. Dean ran to the house—ignoring the shouts of his name, he could be walking into a damn volcano, and he’d keep going, as long as Sammy was there—and slammed through the door. 

Bobby was hovered over the couch, a tight frown on his face. And he glanced up as Dean sprinted over, letting out a slow sigh. 

“Don’t be loud, Dean. You’ll spook ‘im.” 

“Spook-“

Dean’s words died in his throat. 

Sammy. 

He looked so damn small. Still a goddamn giant, but curled into himself the way he’d done before he’d said yes to Lucifer, after Ruby, when he’d been kids and come crying to Dean about a nightmare Dad wouldn’t care to hear about. But this wasn’t a temporary, fleeting fear. 

Sam looked like a feral, baby animal. Nothing but low whines and groans leaving his throat, wincing away when Dean reached out to touch him. 

“Sammy,” Dean muttered, and Sam didn’t even move. “It’s just me-“

Sam shrank away, and Dean didn’t know what the hell to do.

“I healed all his physical injuries.” Cas muttered. “And this seems to be a best-case scenario. His soul is not broken, just- Fractured. But I- I do not have a way to heal it.”

“How the hell did he get out,” Bobby grunted, and Cas sighed.

“I don’t know. The cage is strong. Too strong for Lucifer to break out. And with-“ Cas sighed Her name. “If someone meddled with it, we would have known.”

“What.” Dean muttered. “Angels got an alert on Hell-quakes-“

“As I’ve told you before, Dean.” Cas shot him a glare. “We means you as well. It would be world ending. You would know, because you would be dead.”

Dean swallowed, and Bobby sighed. 

“Fine. Sam’s out. Don’t know how, but he is. Now what.”

“I suggest an anesthetic.” Cas muttered. “The damage to his soul is… not good.”

Dean raised his brows. “Not good?”

“It is all I could think of-“

“Cas.” Bobby grunted. “What’s an anesthetic.”

“I don’t know.”

“The hell you mean, you don’t know-“

“I am not powerful enough to change a sould, Dean. They’re like tiny suns-“

“You’re a freakin’ angel-“

Bobby grunted Her name, and Cas’ flinch might have been identical to Dean’s. It hurt to hear. He kept expecting Her to walk around the corner—the real Her, not his illusion—and sit at Sam’s side. He wouldn’t shy away from Her. And She’d fix it-

Son of a bitch. 

Dean echoed Her name. “Her spells. Bobby, you don’t think-“

“Can’t hurt.” Bobby grunted. 

And it couldn’t.

She had a spell for it. Dean didn’t have a damn clue why, but after hours of Sammy groaning on the couch and Cas translating Her Enochian, they found it. A soul blocker. 

And Dean didn’t think about it, as Cas rested his finger’s on Sam’s brow—coated in pure wildflower honey and the ashes of a jackal—and read out the spell. 

He didn’t think about what soul blocker meant, as Sam’s body relaxed, and his eyes slowly opened. Landed on Dean’s, as they all held their breath. 

“Dean?” He muttered, and Dean gave him a small, sad smile.

“Hey, Sammy.”

Sam blinked around, frowning at the state of the house, that was all that mattered. Dean had Sam back, so he didn’t think about it.

But he should have. 

Because he’d gotten Sam back, but he didn’t have Sammy. Soul blocker was exactly what it sounded like. 

Sam didn’t have his goddamn soul. 

———

Jun. 6 - 2010 

Princess, 

Something’s wrong with Sammy.

He doesn’t got his soul. I mean, he sort of does. It’s in there. But that spell of yours, the one I told you Cas used? It’s like he doesn’t have a soul at all. Need to ask you why the hell you’d ever make that. Wanted to ask Cas, see if he could at least tell what all your other Enocian shit said. (Don’t think I’m spelling that right. Angel language). 

But I haven’t really seen Cas since Sam got back. When he does show up, it’s never good news. Sort of wish I could have one visit where he’d be there to just get a damn beer or some shit. Want to make him try frozen yogurt. He’d make a face. You know the one. 

Last time I saw him, he was just checking that your spell was holding on Sam. It is. But goddamnit, sweetheart. Sam’s not Sam. I know I keep telling you that, but you wouldn’t recognize him. He doesn’t sleep. Barely eats. Yesterday, I was pretty damn sure he was going to leave me for dead on a hunt. I’m fine, though. Just a wendigo. And I got myself out just fine. 

Cas told me he thinks you’d be able to help Sam. That when you get out, you can use your magdalin magdaleen magdalane thing to fix him. (I know I didn’t spell that right. Only ever seen it in Enochian. Really need to ask Cas to translate everything for me.) (And you’re getting out.)

I’ve been looking at your notebooks. Can’t read them, think I just like seeing them. Means you were actually real. Didn’t just dream you up or something. There’s that one word you always write, over and over. It looks like it was important to you. Wish I knew what it meant. 

Yours, 

DAW

———

Jul. 13 - 2010

Princess, 

I’ve been drinking less. Sorta.

I’m not blacking out anymore. Still enough see you though. Today you showed up wearing this fancy dress. It was shiny. Your hair was done like a movie star. You looked gorgeos hot. 

You always do. Never seen anything prettier than you, baby. Sometimes I really do think I made you up in my head. 

I’m trying to think of a way to tell you. You know I’m not great with that shit. But I think about you and I think about all the good things I’ve ever seen. Sunsets. Stars. That garden Sammy and I visited as kids. Grand Canyon. Ocean. My car. 

I love you.

Can’t stop drinking all together. I’ll stop seeing you. But I promise I meant it. Haven’t touched Bobby’s absinthe. I remember most days now. And nights. Have to. Can’t risk someone telling me how to get you out, but I’m too drunk to remember. 

We still don’t know how the hell Sammy got back. Didn’t tell anyone about the praying to God thing, but I don’t think it was that. He doesn’t owe me any favors, and I sorta told him I was going to try and steal his wife. 

But you’re not his wife. Not my wife, either, but I’d treat you better. I’ve told you, baby. I’d make you a house and give you the world. I’m trying to get you out. God’s doing shit. Don’t care if he’s all powerful, I’d love you better. He can give you everything and have more left over, like the Monopoly man. I’m just an asshole, but I’d be your asshole. 

I keep praying to Cas, and he shows up just to tell me he’s got nothing. Raphael’s people have been looking into it too. Everyone has. Not every day someone jailbreaks an atomic bomb, and Cas says it should’ve been impossible. 

I think it was you. Think Bobby does too. (Cas won’t tell me what he thinks.)

Cause I know you, baby. I know you’d get Sammy out before yourself. I know you’d try to help him. I know you’d leave yourself in there. 

Wish you fucking wouldn’t. And I don’t know why you didn’t break yourself out after. You can get Sammy out, you can get yourself out. That’s why Sam doesn’t think it was you, but he also doesn’t remember any of it. His time in the cage. If you guys were in there together, or if they split you up. I don’t know how big the cage is. I hope it’s huge. Hope you’re hiding, giving Lucifer and Michael a run for their money. 

Cas says they can’t hurt you. That you’re the Bride of God, so Michael and Lucifer can’t lay a hand on you. I don’t trust it. They hurt Sam. They’ve gotta be doing something to you.

I’ll be here, when you’re back. No matter what. You get back to me broken up and all nutty like Sam, I’ll be here. Come back without a soul, I’ll still love you. Even if you don’t come back at all, I’ll love you. 

But you need to come back. 

Please. 

If you’re the one who broke Sammy out, come home. I’d do anything. 

Yours, 

DAW

———

Aug. 22 - 2010

Princess, 

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

Yours, 

DAW

———

Sep. 24 - 2010

Princess,

I’m worried about you. Down there alone. Sam’s still got nothing for me. I asked him last night, what he thinks Michael and Lucifer are doing to you. He was a dick about it. Started telling me about how he doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t really care. 

I punched him. Hurt my hand. He’s built like a brick wall. 

But he’s really not Sam anymore, baby. Don’t got another way to put it. Sam would’ve said I needed to stop torturing myself, thinking about you. That’s what Bobby’s said. That I’m not helping either of us, trying to work out what kind of pain you’re in.

Can’t stop it, though. Think about you (always think about you) and then it just. Happens. Wake up and think about you not in bed with me. Eat breakfast and think about what you’d want from the diner. Sam says something psycho, think about what kind of face you’d make. You always make good faces. Think the word is expressive. 

Now I’m thinking about how touching you. Think about that, too. A fuck ton. Always thought about it. I wanna see how your lips would look swollen, see if you’d do the fluttery thing when you came. If I tell you I love you, and your lips do the thing. Don’t know how to describe it. But it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, when you get all sweet and nervous about it. You get this flush, too. Your breath does this little thing, and it’s awesome. You’re awesome. 

I love you. Like to think when I tell you that you’ll do all the things, instead of kicking my ass to the curb. 

Don’t kick me to the curb I’d show you I love you, if you didn’t believe me. Think about that all the time. Then I think about kissing that scar on your stomach. One the hell’s assassins gave you, cause I wasn’t fast enough. Then I either think about you saying my name and begging me to touch you, or 

I think about something else. Scar makes me think about failing you. Then the cage. 

Ends the same. Worried about you. Bobby can tell me to stop all he wants, we both know I won’t. Not until you’re home and safe.

Still trying to drink less. I’m at a bar right now. Had three beers. Less than last night. Probably gonna have two more though. Back in the motel. Sam’s got this blonde chick all over him, think they’re leaving together. 

Whatever. More time I get to talk to you. Last time you were wearing one of my shirts. Hope you do that again, when you appear.

Hope you stay this time. Would be real nice if I opened the door, and it was just you. The real you.

I got a plan. Less stupid than the last one. Maybe I’ll see you, when I open that door.

Yours,

DAW

———

Dean tucked the letter in his pocket and let out a long, slow breath. Sam gave him a small nod from across the bar, and Dean understood. That was the most of a signal he was going to get, that he’d be alone for the night while Sam headed out with the big-eyed blonde girl. 

She was looking at Sam like he was some sort of savior, as they left the bar. She had no damn idea the kind of shit Sam had been pulling. Saying. Doing. 

Leaving Dean for dead on hunts. Acting like Dean was insane, for wanting to get Her out of the cage. For giving a shit about anything at all. Dean was pretty damn sure he could die, and this Sam would drop his body on the side of the damn road. 

He got through it by remembering that this wasn’t Sam. Not real Sam. Real Sam was in there, just blocked. And the two choices seemed to be a broken Sammy, afraid and unable to speak, or a cold, calculating Sam. Uncaring about feelings, sort of a douchebag, rolling his eyes whenever Dean even mentioned Her name, because he didn’t get it. 

“She’s just a girl, Dean.” Sam had frowned at him over the table last week, and Dean had almost choked on his beer. “There are a lot of them. There was that redhead, last night. You could’ve gone home with her. Would’ve put you in a better mood.”

“I don’t want a better mood.” Dean had grunted. “I want my girl back.”

“But she was never your girl. You guys kissed like, three times-“

“Six.”

Sam had given him a flat look. “That’s not enough times for you to be acting like this, Dean-“

“Like what?” Dean had snapped. “Like the woman I- That I’ve- Son of a bitch, like she’s not in the cage and I’m up here, and I want her back.”

“Yeah.”

Dean had almost broken the bottle in his hands. “You know, you used to be the asshole telling me to go to her all the time. That when you went in, I should settle down with her.”

“I know.” Sam had shrugged. “But things change, Dean. She’s in there. You’re not. Logically, the best thing to do would be move on.”

He’d had to take a walk. If he didn’t, he’d shoot Sam. 

Not Sam. He needed to repeat it over and over, that their Sam would be losing his damn mind with guilt, trying to console Dean while working just as hard to get Her out. And this was better than a broken Sam. 

Almost. 

Dean hated how this Sam made him more selfish. How this Sam made Dean falter, on the question of is this better. Would he rather have a broken Sam, that would be in pain with him, or this Sam, who wanted to leave Her in the cage to rot. For now the answer was this Sam. At least Dean could tell this Sam we’re getting her out, and he’d roll his eyes but listen. Help. And this Sam made it easier for Dean to not sleep around. There was still all that shattered pain and emptiness in his body, but at least this Sam made him feel something. 

Anger. A lot of anger and a sour, sore feeling of unfair. This is so damn unfair. Sam gets to drink and fuck and hunt without remorse, but Dean’s stuck to five drinks a night for a level head, and that’s not nearly drunk enough for his body to allow itself to be touched.

Because Sam leaves, and Dean’s alone at the bar. Glowering at his beer and trying to figure out if it’s worth going back, or just passing out in an alley. He should go back. He’s got Her letter in his pocket, and the box is in the motel, so-

“Hey, handsome.” A smooth, silky voice coos way too close to Dean’s ear, and he tenses. “Drinking all alone?”

Dean didn’t bother to look over. He could see a woman with Her skin tone, features, and hair, and it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t Her. Even an identical copy wouldn’t have the blinding eyes She did. 

He’d rather get back to the motel, and see the Her he couldn’t touch. That was a good form of self-torture. Repentance for touching other women. 

“Leaving, actually.” He reached for his wallet, running his thumb over the letter. Just to remind himself it was still there.

But the woman grabbed his arm, and when he shot her a glare, she had a dazzle smile. Straight teeth, perfect makeup, well styled hair. 

“C’mon.” She leaned forward, still smirking at Dean in a way he knew well. A promise of more. “Just one drink. I can keep them down. You’ll never see another girl that takes a drink like me.”

Dean didn’t want a girl who could take a drink. He wanted Her. 

But the woman took his silence as permission, leaned a little further forward for a kiss, and Dean jumped off the stool like she’d been aiming a burning poker at his face. He was gonna throw up. The place the lady had been holding his arm felt like a brand, and not in the good way. It was boiling and twisting and painful, wrong. And it sank into his skin, because he wasn’t drunk enough to forget. 

“Don’t touch me.” He grunted, and the woman blinked at him. 

“I’m sorry, I thought-“

He didn’t wait to hear her explain. Dean turned and left the bar, rubbing his arms like he could get the stain away. The lady had been attractive. Obviously not looking for more. Probably good place to unload all his anger and frustration and fear—that cold, unmoving dread that maybe his plans wouldn’t work, maybe he wouldn’t get her back—but he couldn’t. 

Dean knew his own name. Knew who he was. Who he loved. So he couldn’t.  

And it fucking hurt.

Maybe he could just cut off his hands. Or pull out his heart, so this wouldn’t have to fucking hurt anymore. Find something to wipe his memory clean, so he could just spend one night like Sam lived now. Without feeling. Not caring about anything but himself, and his own pleasure. Never hating himself for all this shit. 

It wouldn’t work. 

His body would know. Dean could remove his brain all together, and he’d still breathe Her name in his sleep. Something to the right of his heart would keep glowing and straining for Her to come home. 

And Dean was so close. He dropped back at the motel to put the letter away, and he had his goddamn plan. He’d get Her out. 

Nothing else mattered, but getting Her out. 

A year ago, he would’ve begged Sammy to come with him. He’d done it alone one before, and it hadn’t ended in the best way. But Sam had his blonde, and Dean didn’t really have anyone, and if this didn’t work Dead didn’t think he could handle a this was a stupid look. Asking was a gamble. Shit, seeing if he’d show up was a gamble. 

But Dean paced the parking lot, garlic fries in hands, frowned up at the sky. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to take a prayer, and if he was, Dean didn’t have a damn clue where to start. 

So he raised the fries into the air, squeezed his eyes shut, and cleared his throat. 

“Hi. It’s me- Uh, Dean Winchester. You gave me your ring, in January. We sat in a church-“

“I know who you are, Dean Winchester.” A cool voice drifted through the air, and Dean stiffened, a chill running over his skin. “You never returned my ring.”

Dean swallowed, turning slowly to Death watching him with a bored, neutral expression and tilted head. He could do this. Worse that happened was Death killed him. It would be fine. 

“You showed.”

“Of course I did.” Death shrugged. “You have my ring.”

“Right, uh-“ Dean fished through his pocket for the ring, holding out the fries. “Got an offering, too. They’re good.”

Death sighed. “Just my ring, I think. Although-“ He titled his head. “I don’t presume you called me just to return it, though. Did you?” 

“No.” Dean muttered, bracing himself as he found the cool metal. “I want to make a deal.”

Death’s brows raised. “A deal? Are you going to make me work for the ring I gave you as a very generous loan? When I step on you like an ant?”

“Uh- Yeah.”

“Hm.” 

Dean wasn’t dead yet. That was a good sign. Death was only examining him, eyes barely lingering on Dean’s hand in his pocket before they drifted up to the right of his heart, then back to Dean’s nervous expression. 

“May I guess,” Death drawled. “What you think you’re going to accomplish here?”

Dean gave a tight nod, and Death sighed. 

“You’re going to tell me you’ll give me my ring back, if I break the Bride of God out of Lucifer’s cage. If I don’t, you keep the ring.”

“That’s the general thing, yeah.” Dean tried to raise his chin, but he probably shrank back at the same time. “Is it working?”

“Not at all.” Death drawled. “Although less because I don’t admire your nerve and lack of self-preservation, but more because you’re asking me to do something impossible. The Bride of God cannot be touched by me, just as she cannot touch me. It would disrupt the natural order.”

Fuck.

“If you already knew all that,” Dean muttered. “Then why the hell did you take my call-“

“Because you amuse me, Dean Winchester. In many ways I don’t feel the need to explain, and several I can’t.”

Dean blinked. “Uh- Thanks?”

“You are welcome. It is not every day I get to watch a wisp of dust become the most important thing in the universe.”

Dean frowned, but Death just kept talking.

“By proxy, of course.” Death sighed, leaning forward on his cane. “May I offer you some unsolicited advice, Dean?”

“If you tell me to move on-“

“Oh, there would be no use in telling you that. You can’t. No, you should try drinking rainwater, salting the earth, then spitting on the ground, in Lebanon, Kansas. Or San Francisco, California. I’d recommend Newfoundland and Labrador, but I do not believe you have a passport, or the time.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“There are point on Earth where the barriers between worlds are thin. That little ritual was invented by the Bride of God, and she planned it to rescue you from Hell. Of course, you don’t hold even a shred of her power, but it may allow you to make a call.”

“A- A call.” Dean muttered, and Death nodded. 

“You will be surprised what a bit of hope will do to someone, locked away and alone. A call might hold more weight than you think.”

Dean frowned, watching Death carefully. “Why would you want me to make a call? Just- Y’know.” He let out a soft, nervous laugh. “Kindness of your heart?”

Death smiled. His lips turned up, and he had teeth, and there wasn’t a light in his eyes but there was something close to it. And goddamnit, that was worse than the lack of expression. That made Dean’s blood curl in his body and all his nerves cold like there knew something was wrong. His muscles tightened, and his spine went rigid, and whatever this was, he wanted it to stop. Death wasn’t ugly, but the son of a bitch should never smile again. 

“We can call it something like that.” Death extended a hand. “My ring?”

Dean’s hands were shaking, and it might be from just the cold, but it was mostly from trying to hold the attention of that smile. How Death hummed as Dean dropped the ring into his palm, slid it on his finger quickly, then took a garlic fry.

“Not bad.” Death murmured, holding Dean’s gaze. “I do wish you luck, Dean. Many things will be far better if you succeed.”

Death vanished, the garlic fries with him, and Dean swayed in the parking lot. Kansas. He had to get to Kansas, drink rainwater, then spit on the ground. And he’d be able to hear Her again. 

Kansas was about ten hours away. 

Dean made it in eight, an hour added by a detour to get that rainwater.

And he’d feel worse about leaving Sam if he didn’t get a text in Oklahoma, that Sam was planning to spend a few more night with the blonde, because she was bendy and energetic. Dean had just sighed, pocketed his phone, and gotten back on the road. 

It was an easy ritual. He pulled off to the side of the road in Lebanon, drank the rainwater, salted the earth, then spat. But nothing happened. No glowing, or swirling, or earth shaking. Once again, just Dean and the wind.

But he didn’t have anything else. So he cleared his throat, knelt closer to the ground, and muttered Her name. 

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he rasped, tracing a hand over the dirt as if it could turn to Her face. “But I’m here. Waiting. And I’m gonna get you out. I swear, Princess. I fuckin’ swear, you’re gonna get out of there. But I’ve tried everything, and I- Son of a bitch-“ He was choking on nothing at all. He didn’t even know if She could hear him. But he had to try. So Dean wiped his eyes, grunted Her name, and pushed on. “I need you. I’ve been telling you over and over, I need you. Need you back. Safe. Need you to forgive me for all the shit I did while you were gone, need to kiss you and tell you it’s gonna be better. It’ll get better, baby, I promise it’ll be better, I’ll be better- But fuck, I need you.” He whispered Her name again, bowing his head. “I need you. Come back to me. Please.”

Nothing happened. 

The Earth didn’t split. She didn’t drop from the sky. Cas didn’t appear and tell Dean She’d returned. Sammy didn’t crawl out of a field, soul fully healed because She’d returned. 

The world just had the goddamn nerve to send a stronger gust of winder, and he’d really lost his damn mind. 

Because Dean could swear that, under the flat grass and cow dung, he could smell Apples. Eden Apples. 

Her. 

He’d been up for so damn long. He was alone again, and in the middle of nowhere, and no amount of pleading or praying would deliver Her back to him. He’d cry if it didn’t just make him feel the pain of that pit in his chest. If there wasn’t a burning feeling, just to the right of his heart, as he drove away. 

He made it about four hours before his eyes started to droop, and he was miles from any sort of motel. So Dean pulled off to the side of the road, clambered into the backseat, and let out a long, slow breath. 

There wasn’t a single place to go from here. Not without Her. He was a goddamn useless shadow without someone to trail after. He was a useless kind of weapon without someone to wield. And he was so damn tired, and it was heavy in his chest. Heavier than iron, or a mountain. Maybe heavier than the whole damn universe. 

Not the universe. 

The lack of it. This was the weight of a black hole, threatening to swallow him alive. The pressure of knowing he had to keep going. 

The ache of knowing he couldn’t. He would, there wasn’t another choice, but he couldn’t.

He’d trade that weight for something heavier, if it meant he got to look at Her while he held it. 

He’d pick up the world itself, if it came in the form of Her, in his arms. 

———

Sep. 25 - 2010

Princess,

It didn’t work. But you know that. 

I’m so damn sorry.

I’ll find another way. 

Yours, 

DAW

———

He was back in the church. 

He still felt small. 

But this time, Dean was in the pews. His smaller body was squished between Sammy and Dad, and there was an old priest droning on and on, but none of them were paying attention. Sammy was reading all the prayer books like they were interesting. Dad was writing in his journal. 

Dean was looking. He wasn’t sure for what, but he knew it was here. The world was more colorful, with all that stained glass filtering the light. All the colors impossibly brighter, the smell of apples in the air, and all the world bending into Her. 

Her. 

Any weak illusion of the memory snapped, because it was Her. Here. Tiny for a second—braids and dress and barely damn tall enough for Her feet to hit the floor—but then their eyes met, and She was Dean’s. Loose and shiny hair. Bright eyes. Jacket hanging off Her body and the kind of beauty people said started wars. 

The version of Her he knew so damn well. Missed every second. 

Loved all the time. 

He wasn’t sure who moved first. It didn’t really matter. She sprinted to Dean, he sprinted to Her, and they crashed into each other. 

Dean hadn’t dreamt of Her since he lost Her. And in the haze of the dream, it almost felt real. Her breath hot on his skin, as she buried her face in his neck. Her heartbeat under his fingers, when he pressed them into soft skin. The smell of Her apples everywhere, and Her eyes brighter than the universe was Dean pulled back and took Her face between his hands.

“You look tired, De.” She whispered, and he swallowed. 

“I am, baby. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” She leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering slightly. “I’ll be home soon.”

He wished he could believe Her. Wished it was more than a plea from his own desperation. But he still angled Her face down, pressing a soft kiss to Her brow. 

“I love you.” He muttered against, just to say it. Just so She’d know, in some for other than paper in a box. 

And She just gave him a soft, sad smile, and gripped his wrists like he might disappear, and it would be worse than the end of the world. 

Dean understood that. As he brushed a little hair from Her eyes, he could feel it himself.

“I love you,” he repeated, this time with Her name, because she had to get it. It was so fucking important that She got it. “I love you, and I- Fuck, I’m so sorry-“

“I know, Dean.” She smiled at him, voice so soft, and the pit in his chest split in half and healed, all at the same time. “I know.”

End Note: It's rough out here squad. It'll get better I promise.

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

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[fxckingjo]

𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎: I Wanna Go With You

Disclaimer: I didn't edit this. I just kinda churned it out and hit post. Anyway! It's 1am. C'est la vie.

August 2008

It's a scene straight out of a John Hughes movie, something Dean would make fun of in one breath and reference in another. 

Birdie is sitting outside her bedroom window on the second story, planted on the slanted roof next to a massive oak tree with her dilapidated tire swing still creaking from a branch. She's got a beer pressed between her knees, the condensation bleeding through the fabric of her blue jeans. Her nose is stuck in a book, probably some obscure occult text about demons and deals. For good measure, she slipped a book jacket for one of Aunt Karen's old bodice rippers over it, just to hide the text. But Dean knows Birdie hates shitty romance books. He knows her better than anyone.

When the Impala roars into the scrapyard a couple of hours after she left the Roadhouse, she doesn't even look up. Dean wants to talk, so he'll find his way to her, foregoing the usual Roshambo for the other guest room. Loser gets the couch, or the trundle bed, though Birdie's kept her room to herself since she turned nineteen. Whenever she and Dean rolled through before 05, they enjoyed their privacy. 

It was so much simpler then. Before the yellow-eyed demon. Before Dean sold his soul. 

A few minutes after Sam and Dean walk into the house, he drops his duffel bag off on the sofa and heads into Birdie's room. For a moment, he contemplates knocking, but she's outside, and it doesn't make any sense to do that. He watches from the doorway, tracing the lines of her hair French-braided down her back, and he memorizes her. 

"It's creepy, the staring thing," she informs him, not looking up from her book. Not turning her head.

Of course, she feels him standing there. Of course, she knows what he's doing. 

The hardest thing he's given up since making his deal for Sam is his Birdie. And she has no idea just how deep his love runs.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You watch as Dean struggles to fit through the tiny window, one bow leg at a time. When he shimmies down to sit beside you, he plucks what's left of your beer from where it's growing warm between your legs and swigs it down.

You glance at him sideways. "Enjoy my backwash." 

"You never drink your beer warm," he says. "That's why I always finish them."

It's true. That's the part that hurts the most. He already knows everything there is to know about you, and you've developed your own language and habits. He's the only person you could have a conversation with without ever saying a word.

He's Dean. Your Dean.

It's hard to look at him and not see a corpse shredded to ribbons. A pool of blood out of a slasher. When you were little, you dreamed of the accident that orphaned you a thousand times. As an adult, it stopped being your parents, in their tiny Camry. It was always Dean. And every time, you could never save him.

Your unshed tears turn to a stone shoved into your throat. You clear it. 

"How have you been?" you ask.

"We don't gotta do this," he replies. "I know you and Sam email. I've seen—"

You arch an eyebrow. "You snooped?" 

You figured he would. It's why you never talk about your feelings for Dean, even hinting at something more complex than friendship. You haven't even figured out what to call it yet, and the idea of him uncovering raw, unfiltered feelings makes you feel seasick. Your emails with Sam are also intentionally vague, never detailing where you are or what jobs you're working. You know Dean. He'd show up in a heartbeat. 

Then again, it takes everything in you not to do the same time and time again. He's Dean. Your Dean. 

Your open wound, bleeding out in real time. 

He snorts, shrugging. He knows you're not mad. "Can you blame me? You weren't answering my calls. I needed to know you were alright."

"Well, I am." Except you're not. What the hell are you supposed to do without him?

He holds your gaze. "You look tired."

You do. You haven't been eating enough, keeping odd hours while staving off horrible nightmares. Most of your diet is liquid, and Bobby keeps looking at you like you're drowning in booze. And maybe you are. "Thanks. Real charming work, De."

He blushes. He actually blushes. He's trying so hard to keep peace between you, and he's flustered, tripping over himself. "I didn't mean it like that." 

The longer you avoid talking about his death, the more it'll hurt to rip the bandaid off. But you're not ready, so you keep talking about nothing important. "Then how did you mean it?"

"You're beautiful," he says.

The way he says it makes you forget your own name.

"But you also look like crap," Dean amends. You watch him backpedal in real time. "I mean, Jesus, Birdie, are you even taking care of yourself? This isn't healthy."

"I look worse than I am. I think I'm coming down with something."

He says your name. The real one. "Can we level with each other?"

"Okay."

"Bobby called me. He told me you'd be at Harvelle's tonight after coming back from a hunt. He also told me you've been drinking Everclear like it's a bottle of water—"

"I don't drink Everclear—" Anymore. You ran out. It's cheap and awful, but it numbs the pain. The ache of pre-mourning Dean. 

"He says you need me."

You scoff. A razor sharp wave of anger cuts through you. Bobby went behind your back instead of talking to you. Typical. Of course he did. Because no one trusts you to be an adult who can handle your shit. But you can't even say the words I don't need you because you remember promising Dean never to lie to each other. And it meant something to you.

"And I know you don't need me." He scrubs a hand over his face. His voice cracks. "I mean, look at you. You're so strong and brave. You've always been. You never needed me—"

But you're the moon, and he's the sun. Everything he thinks you are is a reflection of him, what he brings out in you. You're not brave or strong by yourself. You're those things because you love Dean Winchester, and he's taught you to be better. "You're wrong," you whisper.

"I need you." He bites down hard on his lip, sniffling and pushing his tears back. His bright green eyes are shining, fragments of stars caught midair. "I need you, Birdie. I'm putting on this tough face for Sam, but he probably sees the cracks. I don't wanna worry him. I don't want him to feel guiltier than he already does, because I made the choice. I made that call. And I do it again a thousand times but…" A tear slides down his cheek. He stares up at the stars, and you think, under the moonlight, the constellations match the pattern on his cheeks. 

You don't speak, because you know he needs to get it out. And like a horse, you can spook him easily. He'll turn tail and run instead of opening up, and you've spent too many years chipping away at the stone to make him understand it's okay to be vulnerable. Because you'll be there at the bottom of every canyon, the way he has been for you.

"I'm scared." He spits the confession like it's a slur, a horrible insult to his father's bullshit legacy. For a moment, you almost wish you could visit Heaven and beat the fuck out of John Winchester, who doesn't belong there for a minute. If you hadn't seen him escape from Hell yourself, you'd think he was still in the pit. And god, you'd love to take a swing.

"I'm so scared, Birdie." Dean almost whimpers as he chokes back his sob. "I'm almost thirty. Barely. I'm not… I'm not ready to die. I can't look out for Sammy in the pit. So please, I'm begging you, no matter how angry you are, don't let me do this alone. I need you. I need you, sweetheart."

He crumples like a thin piece of paper in a rainstorm. A paper crane in a tornado. You catch him, wrapping your arms around him as he buries his face into your collarbone. Tears drench your neck, your shoulder. You aren't sure if they belong to him or to you. You hold him like you're holding the world in your hands.

And you are. 

"I'm here," you promise. "I'm here. I'm here. Until… forever. Okay? You're not alone."

He holds you tight, so tight you think you might shatter, and he'll see that inside of you are pieces that all belong to him. He's a stain you can't scrub out. A love that lives etched into every cell, every inch. 

"And I'll be there for Sam too. I swear." You close your eyes, shaking. Tears slip down your cheeks with reckless abandonment, blending with his. As you let the dam break, the sky cracks open too, and you both get drenched.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you were little, you and Sam would build blanket forts in the living room, and whenever life would be too big or too much, the three of you would camp out in the tiny hut, curled around each other like kittens. Dean was there to scare away the monsters in the dark, so you and Sam could rest. 

It wasn't until you got older than you realized no one was there to scare off Dean's monsters. 

So from the second you started hunting together, it became an understanding. You'd have a sleepover whenever a job went rough, or things were hard, or one of you woke up from a horrible nightmare. You'd pad over to the next motel bed, slip in beside him, and hold his hand until he stopped thrashing. And more than once, you woke up to find he'd tucked you in with him.

You both sleep better that way. 

After you threw your wet clothes in the laundry with the contents of his and Sam's duffel bags, the two of you wordlessly decided a sleepover was needed. So, you curled up in your full sized bed. It was a tight fit, but it was better than being alone.

You wait until his breathing levels out. Then, as his breaths give way to snores, you slip out of bed. You find your shoes, your keys, and some of Bobby's herbs and ingredients. You slip behind the wheel of your Mustang somewhere between the Witching Hour and dawn. 

And you drive to a crossroads.

You bury the old cigarette carton, smoothing dirt over it with surprisingly steady hands. And then a woman materializes a few yards away, red-eyed, gleaming. 

"I thought I recognized you," she drawls. Says your government name. Appraises you in a way that makes you feel naked. "A friend of mine knew your parents. Such a pretty face. Damn shame about that bracelet of yours. I'd make more deals walking around looking like you."

Your parents. You can't afford to think about what she means, but you want to shiv her for it. "Are those the terms?" you ask evenly. "My face?"

"Terms of what, hon?" the Demon asks.

"My deal." You dig your heels in, standing a bit firmer. 

"What do you want? You want a boy to love you? You want money? Power?"

"Me for Dean Winchester," you say. "You can take me in a couple days. Don't need a year. Just take me instead. He lives, Sam lives, we all go home happy."

"Afraid I can't do that," she replies. "Not even if it means I get to wear your skin. See, Dean is a very important little fly, and we aren't letting him out of the web. Bosses. You know how they can be."

"What do you want?" Your chin wobbles. Shit. "Whatever you want, I'll find it. Just—"

"You got it bad." She clicks her tongue against her teeth. "Syrupy sweet of you, babes, but misguided. He's on borrowed time. We both know that. I can give you ten years and anything else, but not Dean."

"I'm a hunter. I've exorcised you fucks. You don't want me?"

"Au contraire," she replies, "but I don't need you. And besides, your soul? Let's just say it belongs to someone a lot higher up than me. Can't get my hands on it. Even if I wanted to. My advice? Enjoy Dean before he's puppy chow." She looks behind you, at the road, her red eyes gleaming. 

You don't turn. You keep staring at her, debating shooting her a couple of times just to hurt her, even if it barely scratches. You want to make someone hurt. Make something bleed. The rage inside of you is loud, howling in your mind. 

"By the looks of it, he's got it bad for you too. Or he's desperate."

"I'll kill you, bitch!" you scream.

Three things happen at once.

Gunshots ring through the air, hitting the demoness in the back. But they aren't your rounds, and it's not your gun.

Dean screams your name. 

She disappears. 

He's on you before you can react. His gun hits the ground, and he's bent in front of you so he's eye level, hands planted on your shoulders. "Hey. Hey! Look at me. Look at me, Birdie. What did you do? What the hell have you done?"

"Nothing," you whimper. "She wouldn't deal."

"Of course she wouldn't!" he yells the words at you. "Why would you try something so stupid and reckless? Bobby and Sam already gotta cremate me, you want to add yourself to the pyre?"

"No." You let out a sob, and he holds you tight. 

"Then what was it? What was so fucking important that you'd damn yourself to the pit?"

"I wanted to see if they'd take me instead. So you don't have to be scared." I'm protecting you from the monsters in the night, De. Just like you did when I was little. I can be brave now. Let me be brave now.

"Fuck, baby bird." The name slips out, and he doesn't take it back. "There's been enough loss. Let it end here."

Your words are tumbling out between broken, quick breaths. "T-They said they can't trade me for you—"

"Good!" he snaps. "The world'll go on without me. There are a hundred alcoholic hunters, but there's only one Birdie Singer. And I'll be damned if you skip out on this life early. You copy?"

You nod. All you can do is nod as shame curls in your gut. 

"Don't you ever scare me like that again. You understand me? I woke up and you were gone. Don't do that shit ever!"

You nod.

"Swear!" he orders.

You hold out your little finger. He curls his pinkie around yours with a small chuckle. 

"Good," he says. "Because I need you to live for me. You got that?"

"Okay," you whisper. 

"Let's go home."

He walks you back to your car, following close behind you in his. 

He doesn't know he's driving you back to a house, not home. That your home is driving a 67 Impala. Wherever he is, there you are. 

Until the end.

[fxckingjo]

A few cockwarming Thursdays last my partner called it marinating. I will never be the same

“nothing like a little cock warming on a thursday night, you know what i’m saying?” i offer to the silence of my bedroom.

“uh. no?” my husband calls from the living room

several moments of silence pass.

“was that all?”

“yeah. that was it.” i confirm.

“okay.”

he unpauses leverage and off we go, passing like nothing more than two ships in the night.

[fxckingjo]

Idk if anyone cares but here’s the fic lineup for the next week or two so you guys can peek behind the curtain ‼️

Birdie, Episode 3 - the conversation 👀

Feat. ‘Lonely Day’ by System of a Down

Maybe a standalone Mark Meacham fic?! It’s my treadmill show on Wednesdays and I had an idea after this week 🤯

Angel, Episode 3 - the power of friendship!

Feat. ‘Vienna’ by Billy Joel

Birdie, Episode 4 - Dean’s last night

Feat. ‘Lover, you should’ve come over’ by Jeff Buckley

I’m also going to write more Soldier Boy content… mayhaps spicy 🌶️

And finally… Gregory House 🩺🩻 with perhaps a Grey’s crossover?? Idk I love medical procedurals idc

[fxckingjo]

Wizard worm just emerged from a wizarding hole! Lucky you!!!✨🪱🪄🍀

[fxckingjo]

𝔼𝕡𝕚𝕤𝕠𝕕𝕖 𝕋𝕨𝕠: Another Version of Me

August '08

Or: how Angel and Sam become friends.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There's electricity in the air by the time you get off the stage. The Roadhouse, for all of a moment, becomes raucous with applause, before everyone goes back to poker and smoking and drinking away the day's work. You could get drunk off this feeling. The only time you've ever felt at home was when you were singing.

You never believed in god, but you joined the church choir just to have something to do on Sundays. You stashed secular CDs in your walkman, hummed along with every radio station. From the moment you heard your first Cranberries song, you decided the best thing in the world was music. And from then on, you became an omnivore, greedily consuming whatever you could get your hands on. 

And so, like a mosaic of all the genres and lyrics and bands you've loved before, you play a variety in your sets. The patrons love it, mostly, and Ellen insists that you bring more business in by playing, so you keep singing every night.

And it's everything. Truly.

After a few Joni Mitchell songs, you hang up your guitar for the night and head back to the bar for another drink. Birdie's already left, and Sam and his brother, who you've come to learn is Dean (the Dean, who Birdie is definitely in love with, even when she hates him), are shooting pool. The second you sit down at the bar, Sam ditches his pool cue and strides over. You pretend not to notice him.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. "You mean, can Chuck, who you hustled out of twenty bucks, buy me a drink?"

He blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. "You caught that?"

"He's an asshole. Make it a double," you whisper conspiratorally. You've been around long enough to remember a few particular people, and Chuck isn't your favorite. He's rude and sloppy, and you're glad he got a taste of his own medicine. 

Ellen hands you another cocktail, passing Sam a beer. She glances between the pair of you, but doesn't say anything. You feel your blush deepen and feel grateful the bar is dim, because your face is dangerously hot. 

"How long have you known Ellen?" you ask him.

"Not long," Sam admits. "But my dad and her husband knew each other. Had some history."

"Military?" you guess. For some reason, half the men here seem like military types. Your dad and uncle were both Army, and there's a look about soldiers that you recognize in these patrons. 

"Something like that," he replies. "So, where are you from?"

He's deflecting. You'll allow it, tentatively. "Why?"

"Why?" he replies, incredulous.

"Just curious why you're asking," you say. 

"Because you're interesting."

You've been called a lot of things in your day, but interesting isn't one of them. You decide to accept the compliment, and for whatever reason, you let Sam have more pieces of you. "California. Eureka, thereabouts." Not quite Eureka, to be fair. It was a middle of nowhere town with Redwoods and a singular postal code. 

But Sam knows it, which is the craziest part. "No way. I went to Stanford, actually."

Stanford. Sneakers with holes in them, battered Carhartt jacket. He was definitely a scholarship kid, and to go to a school like that with no money, he had to have an incredible admissions essay. "So you're smart then."

His dimples etch his cheeks as he glances away sheepishly. "Yeah, guess so."

You twirl your straw. "What did you study?"

"Pre-law."

You majored in conservation studies, but you never finished your degree. You wanted to study music, but your parents wouldn't go for it. Now that you're entirely on your own, college seems so far away, and all the problems associated with it happened to a girl you don't recognize. 

You want to keep talking, so you break your reverie. "So you're in law school now?"

He pauses. "Uh, no. Actually. Taking some time off."

Ah, a story there. It might not be the same as yours, but it's got weight. More heft than a private school kid can normally handle. 

So, you talk. Because you're in a remote bar in the middle of nowhereland, and Sam is easy to talk to. "I know the feeling. I'm on a road trip actually. Long sabbatical. My boyfriend passed away a year ago. I decided I couldn't stick around that place. I needed to find some air before my grief choked me out." You laugh nervously. "Sorry. I don't know why I told you that."

"It's okay." Sam puts a hand on your shoulder. "Believe me, if anyone gets it, I do."

You shake your head. "You don't have to say that. I know it's kind of depressing and kind of a lot—"

"My girlfriend passed away suddenly a couple of years ago," he says. And you're shocked he fills the silence with such a direct confession. "I couldn't stick around after that. Everything I did was for her, for the life we were gonna have. And anyway—" He glances over his shoulder at Dean, who winks at him and waves with a beer in his hand. "My brother and I have been taking odd jobs ever since. So I really do get it."

When you lost Nate, the fire inside of your died out. Playing music kept some of the embers hot, making things smolder instead of dying out completely. Sam is another spark. Sam, who has the same wound. Sam, who you don't have to hide from. Your sorrow is the same, so it's not uncomfortable to bear.

"Sometimes I feel like I shouldn't talk about Nathan. I don't know why, but it feels wrong to refer to him in the past tense. He was so… He was so alive. I've always been in my head too much, but Nate was grounded in the moment all the time. Reminded me to laugh." You pause, feeling your nose burning with the impending threat of tears. "Jesus, you buy me a drink and I spill my guts."

"Jessica was a lot like that. Reminding me to laugh," he says. "Sounds like they had a lot in common."

Before you can stop yourself, you start to ask, "How did…?"

"A fire," he answers. "Some electrical accident."

It doesn't feel like the truth, but at the same time, you're not sure who would lie about something like that. "Jesus."

He pauses. "If you don't mind…" He trails off.

"Aneurysm," you reply. "He had this headache, went to sleep it off, never woke up."

"I'm so sorry."

You deflect, because you're great at it. "No, I'm sorry."

And then you're both laughing, and you don't really know why. 

He chuckles. "You know, Dean told me to buy you a drink and see if I could get your number. He's convinced I need to get out there again."

You lower your voice, as if Dean can hear you across the room. "Well, I'll give you my number, but I don't think I'm ready to get out anywhere."

He shrugs a shoulder. "My job's kinda crazy anyway. I don't think I'd be a very good boyfriend."

"How about a friend?" you suggest, holding out your cell. "And if we roll through the same place, we can trade drinks and depressing life stories."

Sam grins, thumbing his number into your contacts. "Sounds perfect."

Dean saunters over a few seconds later, tossing a twenty on the bar for their tab. "Sorry, Sam. Got a hot date I can't miss. You ready to head out?" He pauses, giving you a once over. "I'm Dean, the handsome brother."

You snort. "Angel. And if that's your opening line, I think you need to work on it."

He whistles. "Damn. You sure you don't pull your punches. Real ball buster, this one."

Sam elbows him hard. "Dude."

"Anyway, nice meeting you," says Dean. 

Sam grins, and to your surprise, he gives you a side hug. When he bends to bring you into the crook of his arm, you realize just how giant he is. He hogs all the space with his large frame when he embraces you. 

"I'll text you," you call after him.

"I'll call you," he replies.

And even if there's no evidence he will, you believe him. Because his eyes don't leave you until the moment he leaves the bar and the heavy door swings shut.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

@midnightdriverrr is moving away and I am so sad about it so I wrote another installment of Angel!reader just for her. Love you bestie. Come visit your mans.

[fxckingjo]

𝙱𝚘𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔: Learn To Fly

June 13th, 1991

When Sam and Dean Winchester get dropped off at Bobby's front door at midnight, he doesn't even blink. John hauls off the dirt road without so much as a goodbye, the Impala roaring into the night as he speeds off like a bat out of hell. 

Bobby is nursing a beer at his desk when Dean comes in first, tugging Sam by the sleeve. Sam's just turned eight, but he's so tall already that he towers over all the kids in his grade. When Bobby notices his too-short jeans, he decides to take the kids to the thrift store to get them clothes that fit during daylight hours.

"Hi, Uncle Bobby," grumbles Sam, tucked sleepily behind Dean. 

"Hi, Bobby," Dean says, taking off his shoes. He leaves his sneakers in a heap by the door, all freckles and crooked smile. He's twelve now, and damn proud of it. As far as he's concerned, he's basically an adult, because his dad lets him hunt sometimes now, and he even pats him on the back too. 

"You two need to get in bed. This ain't no hour for kids to be awake." 

"Yes, sir," says Dean, trying to tug Sam up the stairs to the guest room they share when they're here. Sam doesn't budge. Instead, he lets go of his backpack and points to the small girl bundled up on the office sofa. 

"Who's that?" 

"My niece," Bobby answers. He says her name with the rarest bit of affection, his lips almost smiling. "She's livin' with me from now on. Lost her folks in an accident this winter."

It's the first time Dean Winchester lays eyes on Birdie Singer. She's not his Birdie yet. For whatever reason, as Dean traces her freckled cheeks with his eyes, evaluating her in the same way he sizes up all of Sammy's friends, he decides he knows her. Knows the places she's broken because they're the same as his. 

She spends most of her afternoons on the tire swing in the yard, reading library books or drawing with colored pencils. She doesn't talk to Dean, but she shares one of her books with Sam, and he shares a crossword puzzle he got from a gas station a few stops before Dad dropped them off. Neither of them know all the clues by themselves yet, but they take two separate pen colors and fill in what they can. Occasionally, Sam asks Uncle Bobby for help on the questions that stump them. Dean throws out incorrect answers just to get Birdie to smile. 

It's the first time Bobby's seen Birdie react since she got to Sioux Falls.

Three days after Sam and Dean arrive, Bobby wakes up to find the kids in the kitchen. Dishes clatter as they assemble breakfast for Father's Day. Standing beside Dean, who's manning the stove like his life depends on it as he fries up bacon and eggs, is his little girl. She's mixing instant pancake batter, her cheeks covered in dust from the flour, her movements with the whisk clumsy. 

Sam's setting the table, watching as Birdie and Dean assemble pancakes. The serious look on Dean's face is the one he reserves for shooting cans with Dad. His concentration on breakfast is just as fierce, like it may as well be the difference between life and death. None of them notice Bobby hovering in the doorway, wondering if he can sneak a photo with his digital camera before one of them notices he's standing there.

And then she speaks.

"Blackbird" by the Beatles starts playing on the radio, which is angled halfway out the window to get a half-decent signal without static. As Dean hums along, remembering his Mama's favorite songs, Birdie—so softly Bobby almost doesn't hear it—tugs the edge of his too-big flannel sleeve. 

"I like this song, too," she says.

And hell, the way Dean looks at her. Like she's sunshine on a cloudy day. Like she's handed him the keys to the universe with one little smile. Bobby knows right then the pair of them are gonna be trouble. "Oh yeah?" Dean asks, and then he cranks up the volume.

She doesn't say anything else, but after they eat breakfast, which is surprisingly edible for something assembled from questionable kitchen ingredients and three kids, Birdie hugs him so tightly her little arms shake. 

"Happy Father's Day, Uncle Bobby," she says.

And damn, it's enough to make a grown man cry.

[fxckingjo]

𝙱𝚘𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔: Trouble On The Way

November 2005

"This is a terrible idea, Dean."

He's been turning his watch around on his wrist for the last hour, pacing the parking lot, then sitting back down in the driver's seat of the Impala, weighing the keys in his hands like he's finding the guts to drive off. Once he's held the key over the ignition for a couple of minutes, he hops out again, starts pacing, and the cycle continues.

You're sitting on Baby's hood, hands stuffed in the pockets of your bomber jacket. One earbud in, one out, you flick absently through your latest stack of photo prints. Every couple weeks, you buy a new disposable camera and develop the pictures from the last one. You're not sure why, exactly, but you do know that a hunter lives a life like a ghost. Mementos are the only thing you leave behind after a classic salt and burn funeral. Photos, slightly washed out from the shitty camera quality and dashboard sunshine, will be all that's left of you and Dean one day.

"I don't know what else to do, Birdie," he says, biting his lip. "I mean, Dad's never gone this long without checking in before. We gotta find out what happened to him. What if he's—" He cuts himself off, because as far as Dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms go, he's certain not saying something means it ceases to be true. Hard to escape denial if you never face the issue head-on. 

"He'll turn up. I'm telling you he will." Not that you want him to. John Winchester is a piece of shit, as far as you're concerned, but Dean is loyal to his father, so you don't wish ill upon him. Not to his face anyway. 

"Sam needs to know."

"Are you sure this is about your dad, De?"

He turns to you, incredulous. "Of course it's about Dad! What else would it be?"

"Maybe that you miss your brother?"

"That's some chick flick crap," he retorts, crossing his arms. "I don't do that shit. If I missed him, I'd call."

"Uh-huh," you say evenly. 

"What's it matter to you anyway? It's not like you've seen him in years either!"

Dean doesn't know that you and Sam email at least once every couple of weeks. You've seen pictures of his girlfriend, Jessica, and studied for the LSAT with him over the phone. You've proofread his term papers and sent small Christmas presents in the mail. More than once, you've thought about telling Dean, but it feels like a betrayal, having parts of Sam he doesn't. Then again, Dean's under John's thumb, and what John says is the end-all, be-all. So even if it rips Dean apart inside, he stays away. He doesn't call or write or text. 

You really hate John. You think about the bruises on Dean's wrists as a kid, or the split lips he'd try to hide in the summertime. You think about the fact Dean was always rail thin when he'd get dropped off, because all of his food went to Sam's stomach. Sam, who never had clothes that fit. Sam, who never realized Dean was taking all the hits. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if John Winchester died, but you can't voice that opinion. So you shove it deep down. 

For whatever reason, Dean thinks Sam can help find John. If he's alive.

You think he is. John Winchester is a cockroach. Downright unkillable. You also think he doesn't want to be found.  

"It's late, Dean," you say. "Let's just drive back to the motel. We can come back in the morning."

Your suggestion is what rouses him to action. He shakes his head, resolute. "No. I'm gonna get him."

And then he's off, running upstairs to face Sam for the first time in years. If it weren't an unholy hour, you'd call Sam to let him know, but you decide not to interfere. 

"It's so good to see you, Sam!" you say brightly, as he follows Dean out of his apartment building. The serious look on his face melts away when he catches sight of you, and he hugs you tightly.

He says your name, just once. His shoulders are still tense, but there's a relief to see you too. Probably because you make a good buffer. "Did you get shorter?"

You slug him on the arm. "I think you got taller, Samsquatch. Next time there's a bigfoot sighting, I'll give 'em your address."

He snorts. "Jessica loved the perfume, by the way. Fantastic anniversary gift idea."

"I knew she would—" And then you realize, too little too late, that you really should've told Dean you and Sam were talking. 

Your face falls for a second, as Dean realizes what Sam's just admitted. He grinds out his words through his teeth, gesturing between you and Sam. "Wait, you…"

"We talk," you say. "He asked me for advice on Jess's anniversary present."

It's a lie, and both of you know it. You and Dean spend enough time together that you've memorized each other's microexpressions. Even though the two of you are professional bullshitters with a knack for schooling your tells, the smallest parts of you can't lie. He's the one person in the world you can't fake out, and you hate it. Then again, he feels the same way about you. It's what makes you so good at hunting together. 

He gives you a sharp look. A this isn't over look. 

You guys drive through the night to Jericho, where John was last working a job. That's all you got from Dean, who's taken to giving you the silent treatment. Even Sam notices the tension. That is, until he falls asleep in the passenger seat. 

At the gas pump, as you nurse a burnt coffee in a styrofoam cup so thin the heat bleeds through, Dean finally speaks. 

"So, you and Sammy, huh?"

"We're friends," you reply. 

He huffs out a breath, trying to keep his voice low as his green eyes shift in Sam's direction. "Well, you could've told me you still talked to him."

"Could I, Dean?" You work your bottom lip between your teeth. "Because whenever his name comes up, you freak out on me. It's like a taboo word around you. Not to mention, John—"

"Don't talk about Dad," he cuts in. "You don't know him like I do."

Honestly, you think you know him better. Bobby certainly does. 

"I don't know what you want me to say, Dean. I love both of you. You're family. We grew up together. I'm not gonna apologize for sticking with my friend when everyone else bailed on him."

That was a bad choice of words. His eyes flash with something unrecognizable, and he slams the gas pump back on the dock with a little too much force. You know he's warring with himself, wanting to argue that he never abandoned Sam, but that's not exactly the case. 

"All I'm saying is that it was hard on both of you," you finish. "You're all you'll ever have."

A small smile teases out of him. "Jesus, Birdie, only you could say some cheesy shit like that and make it sound wise."

"Yeah, well, it's part of my charm."

[fxckingjo]

Jensen Ackles - Entertainment Weekly

On set with Jensen Ackles

'Countdown' stars heat up the L.A. River

[fxckingjo]

Maybe I should write some one shots about living with bipolar disorder/anxiety/?? All the things because that’s how I be

[fxckingjo]

eventually you realize you don’t want to die. you just don’t want to live the life you’re living. and slowly you try to create a life you want to live. just gotta start there.

[fxckingjo]

His wife is the luckiest woman alive I swear

i just creamed into my panties

legs spread open!!!

[fxckingjo]

Maybe I’ll start compiling posts for an ‘about me!’ section one of these days. Anyway!

type: aesthetic, character, colour, movie, lyric, and celebrity into pinterest

when I expand my writing to the MCU, I’ll definitely be writing for Matt Murdock, so getting Elektra was just >>>

[fxckingjo]

Baby Talking pt. 2

NOTES: read part 1 here. sorry to everyone who voted for the baby to be a girl, @scrmqwn and I discussed and you’ve been overruled. A boy just feels sooooooo right.

TW: kind of angsty but also some fluff, very realistic postpartum experience, trouble bonding, breastfeeding + struggles w/ it (not super graphic), Ben was born to be a father and I do believe that

The thing is, you were good at being pregnant.

You thrived.

You liked the weight of it, the way people looked at you, the way Ben looked at you—like you’d done something holy. You liked the way your body changed. You liked the attention. You liked the purpose.

You were beautiful, and you felt it.

Ben couldn’t keep his hands off you—always rubbing your belly, kissing your neck, talking to the baby in that low gravel-voice like he was already here and listening. He carried groceries, made meals, fixed things that didn’t need fixing. He built the crib with his bare hands. Rewired light switches so the dimmers would be “softer on your eyes at night.” He built the nursery by hand. Read parenting books—well, parts of them.

It had felt easy, nice even.

You thought—naively, maybe—that if pregnancy had felt that sacred, motherhood would come just as easily.

But it didn’t.

You’re barely two weeks postpartum, and everything feels wrong.

You bleed through pads too fast. Your breasts ache. Your hips burn when you roll over in bed. You cry constantly. Not from anything in particular, just this dull ache under your ribs that won’t go away.

You feel like a ghost in your own house.

And your son—your son—won’t settle for you.

Not when he’s screaming. Not when you try to feed him. Not when you hold him with your whole body shaking, your shirt damp with milk and your arms aching from the effort.

But Ben?

Ben picks him up, and your baby goes quiet.

It’s not fair.

Ben holds him with one hand, talks to him like he’s been here forever. Like he’s an old pal Ben’s known for years.

“You givin’ your mama a hard time?” He’d murmur softly, swaying the baby the exact way he knew would work. “C'mon son, you know better than that.”

And the baby listens.

You hate how easy it looks on him. You hate how calm he is. You hate that he gets the moments you’ve been desperate for—your son’s first smile, his first sound that’s not a scream, the way he nestles into Ben’s chest like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be.

You hate it. And you hate yourself for hating it. Which makes you hate the situation even more.

It’s the middle of the day. You’re sitting on the laundry room floor in nothing but an old t-shirt and one sock, clutching a burp cloth like it holds the answers to the universe.

And you’re crying.

Ugly crying. Silent and hot, like it snuck up on you. You’re so exhausted you don’t even feel it—just the tightness behind your eyes and the miserable ache behind your breastbone.

You feel ruined. Raw. Useless.

You can’t remember when you last brushed your teeth.

You can’t remember when you last felt like yourself.

And your baby—your beautiful baby boy—has screamed every time you’ve touched him today.

He latches wrong. The bottle’s wrong. Your arms shake when you hold him, and he squirms like he wants to get away.

Ben walks in, barefoot, shirtless, hair a mess, and stops dead in the doorway.

His eyes sweep over you. Then the crumpled pile of laundry. Then the stack of breast pads on the dryer.

Then back to you.

You don’t look at him.

Ben sighs. Sits down beside you against the dryer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thigh brushes yours. His arm slings over your shoulders like a goddamn lifeline.

He watches you for a long second, then says gently, “You havin’ a moment, sweetheart?”

You snort. It comes out wet and ragged. “I’m having all the moments.”

Ben nods sagely. “Yeah, you look like a raccoon that got locked in trashcan”

You huff out a broken laugh.

He perks up like it’s a win. “There she is.”

“I smell,” you mutter miserably, your head lolling back against the metal.

“Like baby puke and titty milk,” he agrees. “But it’s kind of doin’ it for me, can’t lie.”

You roll your eyes, still sniffling. “You’re disgusting.”

“You picked me, sweetheart.”

You rub your face with both hands. “I’m so tired, Ben.”

“I know.”

“I feel like shit.”

“You don’t look like shit,” he says casually. “More like... shit-adjacent.”

You laugh again, even as you cry. “You’re the worst.”

“Better than bein’ the guy with a diaper full’a crap waitin’ on the changing table.” He nudges your foot. “Which, by the way, I handled like a fuckin’ champion. Didn’t even gag this time.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, the shirt slipping further down your arm.

You hiccup despite yourself and the fact that just having Ben this close in a moment of quiet makes you feel 1000x better. “He doesn’t even like me.”

“Bullshit.”

“He doesn’t-”

“Sweetheart,” he says, dragging the word out like a sigh. “He came outta you like ten days ago. You think he’s got opinions already? He doesn’t even know what the fuck a ceiling fan is yet.”

You finally look up at him—old mascara smeared halfway down your face, lips trembling.

Ben frowns. “You been cryin’ in here this whole time?”

You nod.

“Jesus Christ.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I thought you were takin’ a shit.”

You laugh. It bubbles out of your chest like something broke loose.

“Look,” he says, voice low. “I know you’re having a rough time, sweetheart. But you’re learning, we both are. And we’re figuring out. He hasn’t died yet, that’s gotta count for something, huh?”

You sniff. “You’re already good at it.”

He shrugs. “I’m big and warm and not leakin’ five different fluids from ten different places. That’s my edge. It doesn’t give me any kind of jump on you.”

“But I’m not doing a good job.”

Ben looks at you then—really looks.

“You made him,” he says. “You let your body get torn up, stretch out, stitched back together like Frankenstein’s bride. You’re feedin’ him. Sleepin’ with one eye open. Tryin’ not to scream even when it hurts. And you think you’re doin’ a bad job?”

Your bottom lip wobbles.

“I’d be in the fuckin’ grave if I had to do what you did,” he says. “He lived under your heart for nine months. He is you. And he might be a little shit but he knows his mama’s having a rough go of things. He can tell you’re hurtin’ and stressed. That your body’s screamin’ and your brain’s fried and your hormones are all over the fuckin’ place. And that’s fine, no one’s expecting you to bounce back already. ”

You lean into him. Just enough to feel his warmth.

He kissed the top of your head. “You did all the hard work to get him here, let me take over, baby.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Ben leans in. Kisses the side of your face. “You don’t gotta know. You just gotta let me hold shit down ’til you do.”

You sit in silence for a minute. Your breathing calms. His hand never leaves yours.

Then, soft, you say: “I cried on my breakfast waffle.”

He grins. “You also made a person, you can cry on whatever the fuck you want.”

You sniff. “He still likes you better.”

Ben chuckles, raspy and tired. “For now. ‘Cause I didn’t rip in two and shoot him outta my body like a fuckin’ cannon. He’s lettin’ me take the night shift while his real superhero catches her breath.”

That gets a smile out of you. It’s small, but it’s there.

Ben pulls you to your feet, tucks you into his chest.

“You’re doin’ better than you think,” he says into your hair. “And when that little guy figures out what a goddamn miracle you are, I’m gonna have to fight him off just to get a turn.”

You laugh against his chest. It feels like the first real one in days.

The last few days had been better.

Not perfect. Not easy. But better.

Ben had all but commanded you to rest—his version of coddling less about flowers and foot rubs and more about standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and barking, “Back to bed. That’s not a request.”

He made you eat. Pulled you into the bath when he thought you wouldn’t go on your own. Helped wash your hair when your arms shook too bad. Even brushed it afterward, grumbling about “gettin’ tangled up like fuckin’ fishing wire.”

He handled the baby when you couldn’t.

Didn’t flinch when you cried.

Didn’t take it personal when you snapped.

Just held the line.

Kept things running.

And slowly—so goddamn slowly—the fog had started to lift.

Your body still ached. Your sleep was still fragmented. But you’d stopped flinching at your reflection. Stopped crying every time you heard your son crying. You’d been smiling again, here and there, and he’d noticed every single one.

“Look at that,” Ben had said just yesterday, pressing his mouth to your cheek. “Been missing that pretty smile like crazy.”

So yeah, you were healing. Even if your heart still ached every time your baby responded to Ben instead of you.

It’s just past five am when the door creaks open.

You stir a little—just enough to feel the cool air on your legs and the press of the blanket over your hip. You don’t open your eyes. Not yet.

Then you hear it: the cry.

Not the full-body wail of a newborn in crisis. Just the fussy, wriggling whine of a little boy who woke up mad and hungry and didn’t care what time it was.

“Yeah, yeah,” comes Ben’s voice—low, gravelled, awake in the way only parents are. “I know, I know. You’re starvin’, huh? Real dramatic, son.”

You blink your eyes open just as the mattress dips beside you.

Ben is shirtless, hair sticking up, baby cradled awkwardly against his chest. Your son’s tiny fists are flailing. His face is scrunched up and pink.

Ben leans over and kisses your forehead.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters. “He’s workin’ himself up.”

You nod, still groggy. “He hungry?”

“Looks like it.” Ben nudges the baby closer. “Wanna try feeding him?”

You hesitate. The weight in your chest returns, familiar and heavy. You’ve tried. Every time you try, it doesn’t work. And every time it doesn’t work, it hurts a little more.

But this time, something in Ben’s face stills you.

He’s not worried. Not rushing. Just watching you like he already knows you’ll say yes, even though you know if you didn’t he wouldn’t hold it against you.

You nod, slow. Shift the covers.

Ben helps you sit up—his hand firm on your back, the other still cradling your son. Then he settles the baby into your arms like he’s made of glass.

You settle the baby against your chest.

And before you can even adjust your hold—he latches.

Just like that.

No fighting. No fussing. No flailing.

You go perfectly still.

Ben sees it happen. Sees your face shift from cautious to shocked to something like shattered joy.

Your son makes a tiny, happy noise. Settled. Content.

You press your lips together, too scared to breathe.

Ben’s voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Look at that.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes. You nod slowly. “He… he’s really doing it.”

Ben exhales through his nose, and it almost sounds like a laugh. He sits on the edge of the bed beside you, one hand resting on your thigh. “Told you. He was just waitin’ on you to feel better.”

You shake your head, breath catching. “I didn’t think I could do this.”

“You are doin’ it,” he says, firm and steady. “Right now. You’re feedin’ our boy and he’s eatin’ like a goddamn champ.”

You look down at the baby. One hand curls over his tiny back. “Ben…”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He leans down, presses his mouth to your temple.

“I been waitin’ to see this,” he says. “You are so beautiful, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

It was so quick, so simple, so sudden—you almost don’t believe it. But it’s real. His little jaw moves, rhythmic and soft. He makes a tiny noise—a sigh, maybe. Happy. Comfortable.

You blink hard. Your throat tightens.

Ben exhales slowly. Like something unclenched in him, too.

You don’t speak for a second. You just hold him there. Your son, latched and quiet and warm in your arms.

Ben watches you like he’s seeing God.

“I didn’t think he’d ever do this,” you whisper.

“I did.” Ben leans down, brushing your hair back. “And he will again. You’re his whole damn world, sweetheart. He just needed a little time to figure shit out.”

You nod, blinking fast.

Ben slides in behind you, one arm around your waist, the other bracing behind your back. You settle into his chest while your baby feeds—both of you wrapped in the curve of his body.

The room is soft with early light. Quiet, but not silent. Safe.

“I think he likes you better now,” Ben murmurs against your ear. “I can’t blame him for it either. I’m a big fan of your tits, too.”

You laugh, shaky. “He has good taste.”

Ben kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. He does—he gets that from me.”

And for the first time in weeks, you feel like a mother.

Not a ghost. Not a wreck. Not a failure.

You’re not just surviving anymore.

And Ben? Ben is looking at you like there’s nothing else in the world he could possibly want. Except maybe to keep you like this for forever.

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie @estelleyyyy @spookyysinsanity @never-brooks @ladykitana90 @mindfulmesses

let me know if you’d like to be added or removed 🤍

[fxckingjo]

It’s a shame we even have to address this, but Vought can confirm rumors of a superhero orgy known as Herogasm are FAKE NEWS. Furthermore, there are no “Herogasm Files” with a list of attendees like Soldier Boy, Liberty and Deep. The idea that Soldier Boy, pictured here with the love of his life, would organize yearly debauchery is absolutely RIDICULOUS. (x)

[fxckingjo]

If reincarnation is real I wonder how many people stare at their own art in museums, listen to their own music they made in a different life and read books they don't remember writing

[fxckingjo]

Me whenever Soldier Boy does anything

cw: smut.ᐟ intoxicated!ben [benzos] x intoxicated reader [alcohol].ᐟ drug use [ben].ᐟ liquor play.ᐟ praise.ᐟ degradation.ᐟ sloppy sex [p in v].ᐟ overstimulation.ᐟ manipulation.ᐟ pet names [sweetheart, baby, princess, my girl].ᐟ 18+

#notes: this is a work of fiction and not meant to glamorize or condone substance abuse !! this is a little more twisted than my usual, so if you’re not into it, simply don’t read ᢉ𐭩

wc: 1300

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you never touched drugs. not on your own, anyway. sure you had smoked weed a few times with your friends, never the 'bad' stuff. but ben had a way of making anything feel holy—even the sick ritual he turned you into.

he’d crush benzos with the butt of his shiny 'soldier boy' knife, the same one he used to gut men open. you’d lie there quiet, pliant, as he tapped out the powder onto your skin— hip bone, belly, the curve of your ass— wherever he wanted it.

he’d tilt the blade, just enough to guide the white mess into perfect lines, admiring how the metal curved along your soft skin. you weren’t allowed to try it— he never let you. said you were too sweet for that.

“not my precious girl,” he’d mutter, right before pouring liquor down your throat instead, palm cupping your jaw to keep you from spilling it.

and you’d take it. because you loved him. and he loved you— just in a way that left you intoxicated, marked, and whining on motel sheets that smelled like smoke and sweat.

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the current motel room stinks of cheap cleaner. the paint chipping off the doorframe, carpets with stains older than you’d been alive. tv was on mute, looping static behind the sound of a bottle clinking against a table.

ben’s already halfway gone when you straddle him. pupils blown, the benzos still burning his throat, whiskey half-drunk in his grip.

“lay down f’me, sweetheart, you know the drill” his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth as he motions the knife around. “ass up.”

you follow his orders, trembling a little, not from fear— never fear— more from the way his eyes track every movement you make. like clockwork you can hear him behind you, ripping open the little plastic baggie.

“hold still,” he mutters. you don’t even have time to ask what for— he’s already parting your thighs, snorting the next line right off the curve of your ass.

"fuck—" he groans, head rocking back, sniffing hard. “best fuckin’ tray i ever had.” his hands are on you right after— ripping your panties down, tongue dragging over the skin he just snorted off.

he spreads your folds with two fingers and spits, watching it drip down your cunt before thumbing it in slow circles.

“my baby’s so fuckin’ wet for me, even after that?” his voice is a low rasp, high off powder and liquor. “gonna let me fuck you, even when i’m all messed up, huh?”

you hear the bottle whiskey clink again. he grips your jaw, forces your mouth open. coaxing you on your back, to part your lips for him.

“open up. drink,” he tells you, tipping the bottle rim to your lips. “that’s my girl.” you try to protest— murmuring how you’d much rather something less potent. a nice shot of something sweet would make your head feel all better.

“don’t gimme that look,” he breathes. “it’s just a sip, princess.”

his palm rests flat against your throat, tilting your chin up. the bottle— a cheap whiskey, presses to your bottom lip. he tips it slowly, watching the amber spill into your mouth, some of it leaking out the corners.

“attagirl,” he growls, licking the spill from your chin, eyes glazed over. “you look so fuckin’ cute right now.”

he sets the bottle down just long enough to palm your tit, thumb dragging rough over your nipple. and when you’re coughing from the burn of the liquor, he’s laughing softly, whispering it against your mouth.

“gonna loosen you up real good. don’t need pills for you. just a little liquor in that pretty belly, and you’re doin’ fine.”

then he’s pouring again— less careful this time. your back arched over his lap, tits out, as your throat works down the next load.

ben watches the way you blink up at him— teary, a little dizzy— when the liquor finally starts to haze your eyes over. he pushes your hair back from your face, kisses you rough. nose brushed with powder, beard sticky from the liquor.

“you feelin’ it now, baby?” he asks, watching you lick around the bottle’s rim.

you giggle, coughing a little as the liquor bites its way down your throat, dribbling past the corners of your smile. “yea e’r i mean,” you hiccup, blinking up at him. “i don’t even like whiskey, benny.”

ben laughs low in his chest—something dangerous. “no, but you do like me.”

he shifts, guiding you back onto the stained motel sheets. his hands are everywhere— groping your tits, spreading your thighs open with a force that makes the mattress creak. your soaked, slick clinging to your pussy lips, and he spreads you open just to stare at you.

“shit,” he mutters. “look how wet she’s gettin’ from jus’ a couple sips ‘n me talkin’ nasty.”

and then— cause he never knew when to stop— his body leans over you, finding the pill baggie once more. between his fingers with that half-crazed glint in his eye. crushes one of the bennies right there on your bare stomach, white powder dusting the soft skin of your belly.

“one more, c’mon now, hold still,” he murmurs, nose brushing your bellybutton. “gonna take this last one real nice for me.”

you squirm a little, body warm, giggly, pliant. and ben fucking snorts the line right off your belly, moaning against your skin. his beard scrapes rough against your hip, hands already pushing your thighs wider.

you whimper, already clenching around nothing. the residue of powder still lingers across your stomach, the scent of crushed pills and liquor heavy in the air. ben noses along your ribs, mouthing sloppy kisses up your side.

pulling back with spit trailing from his mouth to your belly. now he looks properly wrecked now— pupils blown wide, chest heaving. he reaches down to fist his cock— hard, leaking pre-cum down the crown— and drags the swollen tip through your folds. your pussy sucks at him, desperate to feel something. and he growls when he pushes in. just the head, and you’re already a mess.

seeing the outline of his thick cock appear and disappear in your stomach, he fucking gawks at it. and he knows it’s just so big, but you take it so fucking perfect.

“that’s me, huh?” he smiles, drool spilling warm against your cheek. “deep in this tight body— fuck don't ever change, princess.” his thumb pressing into the outline of his cock where it carves through your guts.

“i know, sweetheart, i know.” his voice dips damn near reverent. “hurts so good, doesn’t it? ‘course it does. you’ll take it again, won’t you? 'til your legs give out, 'til there’s nothin’ left of my pretty princess.”

and then he starts fucking into you harder and sloppier, full weight behind it. one hand gripping your throat and the other smeared in your slick. the room reeks of sweat and liquor and cheap drugs. but you love it. crying, drooling, saying thank you even while you can barely get a breath.

he chokes on his own breath when he comes— rutting deep and holding you there, buried to the hilt while his cock spills inside you. hand still cupped over your throat, head dropped to your shoulder.

ben kisses your temple. once. twice. three times, like he can’t stop. it's a fucking mess of spit, cum, empty bottles and dusted powder. but he keeps you buried beneath him, safe from everyone and everything.

and you'd take it, again and again, as harsh as he wanted to give. because you knew that as soon as you were done, he'd always pepper soft kisses along your neck, praising you for how good you'd been for him.

his pretty princess.

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tags: @tinas111 @fancyhideoutpeach @kimxwinchester @soldiersgirl @lanasgirlfr @unfortunate-brat @bruisedfig @angelically-yours @winchestersbgirl @spnaquakindgdom @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @pieandflannel @bejeweledinterludes @deanstubble @sunnyteume @titsout4jackles @sunnyfuffly @deansbeer @claymoresofinfamy23 @beforeroachfalls @capkatie @sbwifey @thesevnthseal @lunaleah @prettywhenipanic @defnot-svnshine @coventina2001 @adoredawn @averagedenjienjoyer0290 @scrmqwn @littlejoels @lori19 @tinysunshine @globetrotter28

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