loverslantern

[loverslantern]

I just rubbed my two brain cells together and realized this episode is a reference to Jeepers Creepers. I mean look at that scarecrow and tell me it doesn’t look like the creature. And the feeding habits are similar-ish, not really but kind of!

The first movie came out in 2001 and this episode aired in 2005

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x F!reader

Description: After getting a call from John Winchester after no contact for months. The group gets led to a town in which a couple goes missing every year around the same time. But Sam doesn’t want to follow orders anymore, and the town still needs help.

Warnings: Cannon Violence, fight scene (tell me how i did, im still learning how to write it!), arguing, a little angst, talk of crimes, cursing (i think), talk about sacrifices and Pagan rituals (i fricken love learning about Paganism), Y/N gets a little snarky and cocky, use of magic and abilities

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra , @fablesrose , @ada--44, @bonkydarnes , @star-yawnznn

Word Count: …14,005

Scarecrow

(Master List, Prev. Chapter, Next Chapter)

“So you’re with the Winchesters?” Adeline says, her voice just as husky and amused as I remembered. It had been months since we talked, I'm surprised she wasn’t mad at me, though maybe she was and she was just hiding it well. “Yes.” I answer simply, waiting for the impending lecture.

“I should be surprised, but I'm not,” She remarks, and I can hear the smirk on her face.

“You know B/N said nearly the same thing!” I laughed lightly, but it soon died down when she didn't join in instead going completely quiet.

“You should have told me.” She says, venom on her tongue, but I know it’s out of worry. “No text, no call, not even a letter! I show up at your house. Not only are you not there I have to find out from your co-workers that you quit and haven’t been in contact with anyone. Did you quit because of those Winchesters? ‘Cause I swear to God I wil-“

“No!, quitting had nothing to do with them.” I cut her rant off, “Look Addie I'm sorry. I got so caught up in it all I didn’t think of telling anyone.” I sigh, leaving out the part I forgot I had people who cared about me—which is so stupid. “I��m sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you or scare you. But that isn’t what I called for…”

Suddenly a sharp demanding knock sounds at my door. I don’t move for a second, watching it, “One sec, Addie” I place my phone down on the bed pulling back the heavy blankets. I tiptoe to the door, the rough carpet dragging on my feet. I take a deep breath preparing myself for the worst, I unlock the door, creaking it open just wide enough to see who is there.

Dean stands there, his eyes wide and his hair a little messy, still in his pajamas. A black shirt and some plaid pajama pants, though I figured he might have thrown those on before coming to my door- I knew he wasn’t foreign to sleeping with just a shirt and underwear on. I open the door further, “Are you okay? What happened?” I spew out.

“Get dressed. Dad called, ‘doesn't want us following him. He's going after the thing that killed Mom, says it’s a demon. He gave us a bunch of names and needs us to go investigate. Meet by the car.” He answers quickly. I stared at him, all of this was rushed, we barely got any sleep and we were already leaving rather quickly. He looks me over, nods, and then walks away back down the hall to his room, giving me no chance to ask if he was okay.

I closed the door a little shocked, making my way back to my phone and before it was even by my ear I heard the impatient click of her nails against some hard surface, “Now what” she huffed. Definitely mad at me. “I’ll have to call you back later” I sigh, “I need to go.”

“No you don’t get to just call me—“ She nearly yells but I cut her off again, “Addie I promise I’ll call you back.” The line goes silent for a beat and I wonder if she’s still there.

She sighs, “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m okay” I smiled sadly, yet even as the words passed my lips my stomach twisted itself, “I will call you.”

“Fine.” She huffs but she doesn't sound so convinced.

“I love you, Addie.” I say, and I mean it.

“I love you too. Stay safe, and call me!”

“Alright, just to double check all those names are couples?” I ask from the back seat of the Impala, copying notes down on a little notepad. “Three different couples. All went missing.” Dean confirms from the passenger seat. The darkness of the night cloaks us in its cold embrace.

“You said they were from all different states, Washington, New York, Colorado, and all went missing at the same time each year trying to travel across the country. But is it possible that it’s just a serial killer? Not to undermine your fathers findings.” I explain motioning my pen around as I speak, “I mean it is possible the suspect lives in Indiana, knows the roads well, and which way people go when road-tripping. Then being able to intercept them therefore fulfilling his or her urge. Then that kill can satisfy them till next year.”

“I guess, but they always disappeared in the second week of April. One year after another after another. That’s pretty weird.” Dean points out.

“Not necessarily, serial killers can have a certain connection to a date like an anniversary of something. Feeling only the need to do such an act during said time.” I ramble.

“Well, we’re still checking it out” Dean answers plainly, practically shutting down my theory. I guess it’s safer to check but it’s nighttime. I didn’t get any sleep, they barely got any sleep, and rushing over to Indiana in a 3-hour long car ride doesn't sound so fun if it turns out not to be a supernatural thing. “And this is the second week of April.” Sam remarks.

“Yep.” Dean nods.

“So, Dad is sending us to Indiana to go hunting for something before another couple vanishes?” Sam asks, though it’s clear he knows the answer.

“Yahtzee. Can you imagine putting together a pattern like this? All the different obituaries Dad had to go through? The man’s a master.” Dean beams, flipping through the papers he had on the missing couples. He very clearly looked up to his Dad in some manner, even though he wasn’t deserving of such praise. I know Sam feels this way too, he never had an issue calling out John and he certainly can see all that’s wrong with how they grew up. The thing is I know Dean knew too, he was just trained to be loyal.

I watch Sam in the rearview mirror, his nostrils flaring in anger, his hands gripping the steering wheel harder until the knuckles turn white. He pulled the car off to the side of the road, sharply, my body jerking at the motion. “What are you doing?” Dean asks confused, straightening the way he sat.

“We’re not going to Indiana.” Sam says firmly.

“We’re not?” Dean replies, shock and amusement written on his features.

“No. We’re going to California.” Sam answers, “Dad called from a payphone. Sacramento area code.”

“Sam.” Dean warns.

“Dean, if this demon killed Mom and Jess, and Dad’s closing in, we’ve gotta be there. We’ve gotta help.” Sam reasons, and I don’t disagree.

“Dad doesn’t want our help.” Dean argues, his voice getting louder.

“I don’t care.” Sam answers rather calmly.

“He’s given us an order.” Dean bites, using one of his favorite excuses.

“I don’t care.” He repeats himself, this time more firmly, “We don’t always have to do what he says.”

“Sam, Dad is asking us to work jobs, to save lives, it’s important.” Dean tries to explain.

“Please stop fighting, why don’t we work this job, put all our energy into it. Work it quickly. Then immediately head to California, both of you win” I offer, always the person trying to cool the fight down and offer some sort of solution. But even as the words leave my mouth I know I’m wrong, this argument is more than working a case or chasing demons. This is years of grief built up. Sam half turns to view me, his eyes are pained and I almost think he might be close to tears, “It won’t be enough. You said it yourself. My Dad moves fast, if we don’t head there right now we’ll miss him entirely.” He looks between both of us now as he adds, “But I’m talking one week here, to get answers. To get revenge.”

Dean sighs, “Alright, look, I know how you feel.”

“Do you?” Sam spits, nearly yelling. “How old were you when Mom died? Four? Jess died six months ago. How the hell would you know how I feel?”

Oh. This is old grief on top of new grief, he hasn’t coped with the loss of his girlfriend not that we could have expected him to. It’s too soon. These emotions are too raw, too new. Dean matches his brother yelling, “Dad said it wasn’t safe. For any of us. I mean, he knows something that we don’t, so if he says to stay away, we stay away.”

“I don’t understand the blind faith you have in the man. I mean, it’s like you don’t even question him.” Sam argues, looking at his brother strangely.

“Yeah, it’s called being a good son!” Dean yells. The tension has exploded, the car falling quiet in its aftermath. My dislike for their father seemed to grow ten folds, to make your own child feel like that—

“Dean, that’s no—“ But before I can say anything more about it Sam exits the car. Slamming the door behind him. Dean and I get out of the car following him to the trunk where he unloads his things from. “You’re a selfish bastard, you know that? You just do whatever you want. Don’t care what anybody thinks.” Dean yells.

“Dean!” I snap, “This has gone far enough, you don’t get to say things like that, he’s your brother! Both of you calm down, please.” I didn’t want Sam to be treated like this, not from his brother who I know cares about him. “No. It’s okay, Y/N” Sam says calmly, his movements slowing as he stares his brother down, “Is that what you really think?”

“Yes, it is.” Dean gives a single sharp nod.

“Well.” Sam shuts the trunk, “then this selfish bastard is going to California.” he puts his backpack on and starts to walk away.

No. This can’t be happening. “Dean,” I say desperately, he has to apologize or stop him so they can talk it out. This isn’t my place but I can’t watch this happen. He looks out at his brother, “Sam, come on. You’re not serious”

“I am serious.” Sam responds, still walking away.

“It’s the middle of the night!” Dean yells out, “Hey, we’re taking off, I will leave your ass, you hear me?”

Sam stops walking, turning around, “That’s what I want you to do.”

I let out a frustrated groan, “What the hell is wrong with you both?! Just talk it out, we can come to some sort of agreement or—or reason with each other.” I practically beg. Both their eyes fall to me but Dean just responds with, “He’s made up his mind” his eyes turn back towards his brother, “Goodbye Sam.”

I stand frozen, eyes wide, this is not happening.

Dean grabs hold of my wrist, his hand warm despite the cold night, practically dragging me to the passenger side of the car. He waits for me to sit and buckle myself before closing the door and making his way to the driver's side. He gets in, putting the car in drive.

I watch Sam turn back around and walk away in the car's side mirror. Dean must have been watching too because he slams his fist on the steering wheel, takes a deep breath, and then does it again and again. I place my hand over his just as it connects with the steering wheel again. “Dean…” I say softly, but it comes out more like a plea. His hand goes still under mine, and when I turn my face to look at him, his eyes are glossy.

He does not turn to look at me though, keeping his eyes straight ahead at the dark road. “Dean” I say weakly, letting out a shaky breath feeling my own eyes welling up, “please, stop the car.” He listens, slamming on the brakes, my body jolting at the sharp stop. He snaps his head towards me, “Why so you could leave too?!”

I lean away from him retracting my hand, placing it on my lap, “No” I say quietly. But his reaction made me want to leave, the tears in my eyes finally fell over, spilling down my cheeks, “Do not take your anger out on me.” He sighs, turning his face away from me, cursing.

“I know you don’t want to hear this…but you must” I begin to say, having to pause to clear my voice of its shakiness, “I care for you both a lot but I’m so sick of you guys constantly fighting over something stupid when all you have to do is talk.”

“That's easy for you to say.” Dean snaps back, still looking away from me.

I huff, annoyed, “See! You get all standoffish instead of dealing with your emotions and I know that's what you’re used to but you don't have to be that way around me of all people.” He goes quiet, with no snappy comeback or even a grunt of annoyance. His jaw clenches and I wonder if that's from anger, trying to hold back tears, or both. “What if were destined to always hate each other,” he says quietly, and I know he means him and Sam. “He doesn't hate you, and I know you don't feel that way either,” I answer softly, even when I know what he truly means. He turns his head towards me, a single tear rolling down his cheek, “Then why does he keep leaving?!” he says through gritted teeth the last word coming out as if he spit venom.

In truth, I can't possibly know what he feels. He raised Sam and was there every moment of every day. He saw him take his first step and say his first word, brought him to school, fed him, put him to bed, and kept him safe. I was more like Sam in that aspect, I was the youngest with an older brother who took care of me and looked out for me. Honestly more than our own Dad, maybe that’s why he and Dean got along together so well- a shared understanding.

So, no, I could not understand exactly what he felt, not even a fraction of it. But even despite that I reached my hand out carefully, my fingertips barely brushing his cheek before pausing giving him time to pull away and hide if he wanted to. He didn't. I cup his cheek, whipping away another tear that fell. His green eyes seemed softer then like his anger had diminished enough but still lay beneath the tears. I don't have all the answers, “I know it may not seem like it, but he isn't leaving you. He went off to college ‘cause he wanted a chance away from this life. Even now he is going in hopes of stopping what started this all, he’s going to come back…your brothers you can't escape each other even if you wanted to.”

It's not a solution, and I don't expect it to help. But all I can do is hope it eases something in him. He leans his face into my hand, his eyes fluttering shut as he takes a deep breath in.

In one quick motion, I unbuckle my seat belt with my free hand. He must have known what I was going to do because he removed his face from my hand only to put the car in park, release his seat belt, and turn his body so I could hug him properly. I close the distance between us so I can wrap my arms around his neck, his body immediately reacts to my movements. His head falls to the crook of my neck, his arms wrapping around my waist. He pulls my body impossibly closer and tighter.

His breathing gives him away, his warm breath coming out uneven against my neck a wetness forming against where he resides. I don't say anything about him crying, or anything at all, I just move my hand up and down his back in soothing motions, hoping to ease him.

I do not know how I managed it but after he finished crying I got him to switch seats with me so he could rest while I drove. I've never driven the Impala before, maybe this was him showing me he trusted me even though I already knew he did, or maybe it was tiredness overtaking him. But the drive was pretty straightforward and it was dark so there wasn’t a worry about other cars.

He managed to drift off, which I was envious of but I was more proud of being able to drive Baby to notice my exhaustion. I even got to play music that wasn’t the usual rock songs he liked to play, which I don’t have any problem with but a change is nice sometimes (even if I played it very quietly so he could rest).

Just as we pulled into the small town he woke up, grumbling a “good morning” before staying silent the rest of the time. He went on his phone at one point, pulling up the contacts but ultimately he did not call anyone. “Ok, ready?” I ask, shutting off the car after pulling into a spot.

“Yeah” He nods, his voice still a little gravely from sleep. I hand him back his keys before exiting the car, the pure feeling of accomplishment pulling over me. I drove Baby accident-free and made it to the destination! I’m so good!!

We walked up to the only person in sight, an older man sitting on a wooden rocking chair in front of a café. Maybe it was too early for anyone else to be out, it certainly felt too early to be up though I guess I never really went to sleep.

“Let me guess,” Dean points to the store's sign that reads Scotty’s Café, “Scotty.” He looked proud of his stupid joke if you could even call it that, a dumb grin on his face. Scotty looks up at the sign and then back at us looking unamused, “Yep,”

“Hi, my name’s John Bonham and this is Pat Phillips” Dean introduces us both, and I want to glare at him for using a member from a popular band's name but if Scotty doesn't know then the glaring would give it away.

But of course, our luck has long run out, “Isn’t that the drummer for Led Zeppelin?” He looks at Dean pointedly then at me, “And his wife?” Now I really do glare at him, I didn’t know Pat Phillips was Bonham's wife! I barely knew Bonham was the drummer for Led Zeppelin, only remembering because of Dean rambling about it. Dean looks at me, eyes raised as if to silently say he didn’t think he would know. He turns back to Scotty, shock clear on his face, “Wow. Good. Classic rock fan.” Alright, he wasn’t even trying to deny it, great.

“What can I do for you, John?” Scotty asks anyway and I’m surprised he didn’t completely write us off. Dean takes out two pieces of paper from his pocket, unfolding the missing person's flyers. “I was wondering if, uh, you’d seen these people by chance.”

Scotty takes the flyers, barely studying them before answering, “Nope. Who are they?” Huh, that was a little weird, I would think he would want to think harder about it. I study the older man but his face reveals nothing, no fear in his eyes.

“They’re really close friends of ours, honestly we’re worried,” I explained while trying to test him, if he is responsible and he knows friends are looking for them and hasn’t given up he might crack a little. “They’ve been missing for a year now, passed somewhere through here. And we already asked around Salem and Scottsburg—“ But he doesn't let me finish my list, “Sorry.” He hands back the flyers to Dean, “We don’t get many strangers around here.”

Once more his eyes and face reveal nothing but still something about him is coming off weird.

“Scotty, you’ve got a smile that lights up a room, ‘anybody ever tell you that?” Dean tells him, earning a glare from the man himself. Dean chuckles, amusing himself at this point, “Never mind. See you around.”

I wait until we’re back in the car to say something, Dean taking his rightful place in the driver's seat, “Is it me or was that guy acting weird about this all?”

“Nah, he just doesn't have expressions,” Dean responds. I laughed, “That is not what I meant!”, I turned in my seat to face him, “Okay if someone came to you and was all like ‘my friend went missing and she’s been gone a long time and I think she passed through here do you know anything.’ Wouldn’t you really study the photo and try and think back, especially cause it’s a year ago. Scotty barely looked at the photo!”

He seems to contemplate what I said, “ ‘Could also just be a jerk.” he responds. I let out a frustrated sigh, “Dean.”

“Alright, you could be onto something sweetheart. We’ll keep asking around.”

Our next stop is a sort of Gas Station, all road trip essentials lining the walls from maps to mixed nuts. Aka the perfect place someone would stop at on their trip. “You sure they didn’t stop for gas or something?” Dean asks the older couple working.

“Nope, don’t remember ‘em. You said they were friends of yours?” The man who introduced himself as Harley responded.

“Yes, dear friends,” I answered.

“Did the guy have a tattoo?” A sweet blonde girl probably around our age asks, coming down the nearby stairs with a large box in her hand, her face just barely visible. “Yes, he did,” Dean responds. She puts the boxes on the counter and looks at the picture of the dark haired Vince then back up at the couple, “You remember? They were just married.”

Harley’s eyes suddenly widened making a little ‘oh’ sound, “You’re right. They did stop for gas. Weren’t here’ more than ten minutes.” Dean and I shared a look, now this guy wanted to suddenly remember. “You remember anything else?” Dean pushes further.

“I told ‘em how to get back to the Interstate. They left town.” Harley answers, finally sharing some truth. These townspeople were strange. “Would you be able to point us the same way?” I ask him, eyeing him carefully.

“Sure.”

Dean drives down the long road, slower than usual, both of us looking for anything unusual or suspicious. There was undoubtedly something going on whether it was supernatural or not. But there wasn’t much near us, just trees and endless roads.

We pass by what looks to be an orchard, apples hanging from the lush trees.

If I was kidnapping and possibly killing people I would choose somewhere along this Interstate, it was practically dead and no one would suspect anyone driving here even late at night. My thoughts are cut off by a violent buzzing noise coming from just behind me, most likely in the back seat. I turn to Dean, giving him a confused look, he turns his head to the back of the car looking instead of the road. “Dean. Road” I remind him, his eyes going back where they belong.

I unbuckle my seatbelt, shifting myself so that I was kneeling on the seat. I lean over the back seat, having to drop down low to reach his duffle bag, the top of the seat digging into my gut. My ass is definitely sticking up in the air and most likely close to Dean, but I ignore the embarrassment of that idea as I shuffle through his bag. I move one of his shirts around, finding the cause of the loud noise, “It’s your EMF” I call out hoping he can hear me even with my head still buried in the little space between the floor of the car and the backseat. I grab the box, the medal heavy in my hand.

I lift myself up and back to my seat half turned and sitting on my legs, it continues to buzz violently, the meter blaring to the red. “‘Think it’s the orchard” he announces, pulling the car off to the side of the road. We venture into the trees.

The ground was soft beneath my shoes, a light morning dew still clinging to the grass. If this was any other day or occasion I’d say it’s a rather nice orchard but the EMF has not stopped, and I think if it could go any further red it certainly would be there.

The trees were all lined up, apples scattered about the ground and a potent scent of rotten fruit following it. From where we pulled over it wasn’t hard to find the middle of the orchard, the trees cut down in almost a circle, except some paths that broke away in various directions.

A tall post stood in the middle, a creepy scarecrow on it. It looked rather human and full rather than stuffed with straw. Its face looked like a mask with stitches adorning it and hollow eyes, greasy long hair flowing from beneath his fedora. The only scarecrow-like thing about him was the fact he was tied to a wooden post and had a sort of jumper with patches on it, though the added black trench coat contradicted this. And in his hand was a sickle, what was meant to be used for agriculture only made him that much creepy.

Its head was leaned down, and looking up at it made it only seem like he was staring down at us with those empty eyes. “Dude, you're fugly.” Dean says out loud and I almost expect the thing to move or respond, but it doesn't. “Maybe you should say sorry to him.” I practically mumble to Dean. If it came to life I didn’t want a target on his back for insulting it, or mine if it thought I was guilty by association.

“Why would I say sorry?” he counters.

“So that he doesn't kill you if it comes to life!”

“I think it’d kill us either way”

Rationally I knew he was right, but the thought of something like a doll or in this case a scarecrow coming to life creeped me out a little too much, “Good point, but he is horrifying.”

“Yeah, horrifyingly ugly” He chuckles at his own joke, a stupid smile on his face. I try to hide my own laughing, not wanting to encourage him.

“I think I see something,” He murmurs. He moves back, turning to the closest tree with a ladder against it. He picks it up as if it weighs nothing, placing it right next to the scarecrow. He climbs it until he’s at eye level with the thing. I watch his eyes fall to the hand that held the sickle, his gaze at its wrist. Its sleeve ripped a bit revealing leathered “skin” and a sort of design.

I wrack my brain for any customs or cultures that decorate scarecrows beyond just its clothing and face, but I couldn’t come up with anything. Why would anyone put a design on a scarecrow's wrist?

Dean pulls out a paper from the inside of his jacket, unfolding it swiftly before placing it near the thing, comparing the two. “Look who has a nice tat.” he says, turning the paper down so I could see. He held Vince’s missing poster, the young man holding a mug in his hand the perfect pose to see his tattoo. Detailed ink with all sorts of shapes I could even begin to describe, I look back up at the scarecrows tattoo. The two are the exact same, far too alike to be any sort of coincidence.

“Nice tat indeed.”

We immediately got in the car and turned around back to the town. Something was going on and someone was causing it. Now Dean pulls the car into the local gas station. Turning it off and exiting, I nearly stay put in the passenger seat until I see the same blonde girl from before walking up to the car. We needed answers and she seemed to be the only one willing to help.

I exit the car, keeping the door open as I lean my arms on the roof of the car. “You’re back” she greeted, smiling. “Never left.” He replies smoothly.

“Still looking for your friends?” She asks, acknowledging us both. “Yup, call it stubbornness or what have you but we aren’t given up.” I respond, still pushing the same agenda as before. “I’d call that a good friend,” she smiles.

I don’t think she’s involved in all this, she’s willing to answer our questions when no one else was and she seemed to genuinely care. If she was involved then she was quite the actor. “You mind fillin’ her up there, Emily?” Dean asks her, nodding his head towards the car. The nameplate necklace she wore came into view as she grabbed the pump and began to fill the tank. That’s how he knew her name.

“Did you grow up here?” I ask, starting back up conversation.

“I came here when I was thirteen. I lost my parents. Car accident. My aunt and uncle took me in.” She explains shortly.

“They’re nice people.” Dean replies plainly. She nods as she speaks, “Everybody’s nice here.”

“So, what, it’s the, uh, perfect little town?” Dean shrugs, nonchalantly.

“Well, you know, it’s the boonies. But I love it.” she pauses for a moment, “I mean, the towns around us, people are losing their homes, their farms. But here, it’s almost like we’re blessed.”

Dean turns his head towards me, giving me a look. This definitely was weird, I mean how could every town around them be failing but not here?Were they making sacrifices to the scarecrow? It would make sense considering its tattoo. Dean turns back around to Emily, “Hey, you been out to the orchard? ‘You seen that scarecrow?” We were thinking the same thing.

“Yeah, it creeps me out.” She answers her nose scrunching. “You can say that again” I laugh, “Do you know who owns it?”

“I don’t know. It’s just always been there.” She shrugs.

He nods to something behind her, I turn my gaze to it, my eyes landing on a red van parked by a garage, “That your aunt and uncle’s?” he asks.

She shakes her head, “Customer. Had some car troubles.” That’s a little too convenient, “Is it a couple by any chance? A guy and a girl?” I ask, worried that they might be the town's next victims.

She nods even as her face twists with confusion, “Mmhmm.”

As soon as the Impala's tank was filled, and Emily gestured toward the couple's location, we wasted no time heading straight there. Dean opens the glass door for me, the little welcome bell ringing above us. I walk in first, immediately being hit with the sweet smell of baked goods, the culprit of it being a thick piece of apple pie that Scotty delivered to a couple sitting by the window.

“Oh, hey, Scotty. Can I get a coffee, black?” Dean greets, walking in behind me, adding “And a green tea…actually while you’re at it some of that pie too.” I have to hold back the smile that wants to escape onto my face, he was being slightly annoying on purpose which is proved further when Scotty gives him a nasty look before walking away. But beyond that I’m surprised Dean knew what I wanted, yes I drank tea quite often but how did he know I was feeling that flavor in particular?

He moves to sit at a table right next to the couple, I sit in the chair next to him trying to come up with a conversation starter for the people only a table away. I mean how do you say ‘hey you’re in danger! haha, please leave town’ to someone without them thinking you're actually insane? I am pulled out of my thoughts at the feeling of my chair moving, a soft scratching noise below it. Immediately I see Deans hand at the side of my chair, pulling me closer to him without saying or looking at me.

I try to ignore his strange antics and the butterflies that flutter in the depths of my stomach at his movement as he talks to the dark haired couple, “How ya doin’?” God for someone whose usually so smooth he was being so awkward. They share a weird look clearly looking uncomfortable before waving and smiling. But their uninterest in starting a conversation with strangers is very obvious as the girl leans closer to her boyfriend placing her arm up to lean her head on as if to block us out.

“Just passing through?” Dean continues, ignoring their reactions. “Road trip.” The girl answers plainly, clearly trying to shut down the conversation.

“Hm.” Dean hums his hand suddenly finding my thigh. My heart lurches, my leg twitching slightly at the sudden movement but he just gives me a little squeeze before readjusting his hold. Splaying his warm hand against my thigh, his fingers hooking onto the inside of my leg as he pulls them apart slightly, the gap just big enough to hold my thigh comfortably. He gives me another squeeze as if he was testing the feel of me again…oh god.

My brain seemed to short circuit, any logical thoughts I had turning into a mass space of blankness and static. I swallowed roughly, my heart beating out of my chest and the butterflies in my stomach flying frantically in warmth. This was just for a cover, if we acted as a couple too then they might feel more comfortable and inclined to talk with us, I try to reason with myself. But god when did my face get all warm? Stay focused Y/N, stay focused, I repeat to myself in my head. This wasn’t the time. Can’t be thinking of my feelings for him or the fact that this was only making me feel more desperate for him. Stay focused.

“Us too” He adds, and I have to think for a second what he’s talking about…Oh yes, we are also on a road trip, yeah.

Scotty walks over with a pitcher of something brownish orange, maybe it was apple cider considering this town clearly has a large supply of it. He moves right past us, refilling the couples cups, “I’m sure these people want to eat in peace.” he scolds us.

“Just a little friendly conversation.” Dean smiles up at the grumpy man who begins to walk away, “Oh, and that coffee and tea, too, man. Thanks.” Scotty just stares at him, the scowl on his face deepening, but he doesn't say anything as he walks away fully. “So, what brings you to town?” I ask softly, a sweet smile on my face in hopes of erasing the awkwardness in the air.

The girl answers, “We just stopped for gas. And, uh, the guy at the gas station saved our lives.”

“Aw, really!” I respond trying to sound amused.

The guy answers this time, “Yeah, one of our brake lines was leaking. We had no idea. He was fixing it for us.”

“That’s really sweet” I nod with a smile even as concern eats at me. They were definitely going to be the next victims. But I’m also terribly confused, I have no idea what he was talking about. I'm guessing a broken brake line means you won’t be able to stop the car but I didn’t know it could leak…

“Yeah.” The man nods trying to go back to his food.

All at once it hits me, I nearly want to kick myself for not thinking about it right away. I want to blame it on Dean's hand placement but it was most likely my lack of sleep because I was in fact enjoying his hand on my thigh…

This small town in Indiana was practicing Pagan rituals, and as much as I hate to admit it learning about Pagans was one of my favorite things to do.

“So, how long till you’re up and runnin’?” Dean asks them.

“Sundown.”

It was common in Paganism to sacrifice something or someone to the gods. It was a time where they didn’t understand why certain things happened like crops dying, so they blamed this on not respecting the Gods enough. When the real cause could have been for a number of reasons from lack of water to not crop rotating…

“Really.” Dean pauses for a minute, “To fix a brake line?” He receives a nod. “I mean, you know, I know a thing or two about cars. I could probably have you up and running in about an hour. I wouldn’t charge you anything.” He offers.

…However in terms of supernatural beings when these sacrifices were made it did work, whether or not it was the Gods “cursing” them or just not understanding agriculture. Either way it did work, the gods answered, and the bigger the sacrifice the bigger the payout which is why they typically did human sacrifices, sometimes even on a mass scale.

“You know, thanks a lot, but I think we’d rather have a mechanic do it.” The girl replies, looking nervously at her boyfriend.

“Are you sure?” I chime in, “He really is good, I mean you should see the level of care he puts into his own car. ‘Keeping it all good even though it’s decades older than him, he even keeps my old car in check.” I knew with every word I was stroking his ego, but it was true. Beyond his own car I can count on two hands the amount of times he helped with my old Volkswagen Beetle, he’s probably the reason why it still works.

In the corner of my eye I can see his cocky sexy grin, he squeezes my thigh once more and my thoughts fizzle out again as a kaleidoscope of butterflies flutters in my gut. Jesus Christ, Dean Winchester will be the death of me without knowing.

“Yeah we’re sure” The girl insists.

“Sure.” Dean pauses, his smile dropping, “You know, it’s just that these roads. They’re not real safe at night.” I guess he figures they won’t listen any other way. The couple exchanged a look, “I’m sorry?”

Dean leans in closer, “I know it sounds strange, but, uh—you might be in danger.”

The man finally snaps, looking annoyed, “Look, we’re trying to eat. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean says disappointingly, "You know, my brother could give you this puppy dog look, and you’d just buy right into it.” The couple looks at him strangely.

The bell above the door rings and I figure we don’t have much time left, “Look we aren’t trying to bother you and ruin your day, okay, I’m sorry.” I start, looking back at the Sheriff who had walked in. I lean in, speaking just low enough for them to hear, “But you really are in danger, for the last couple of years couples have gone missing this time of year repeatedly withou—“

“I’d like a word with you both.” The sheriff practically booms. I go quiet giving the couple a warning look both to say to listen to what I said and to not bring anything up now, they look scared and hesitant.

“Come on. I’m having a bad day already, ‘m just tryna make it better with my girlfriend” Dean reasons, I know it’s a lie but the way the word slipped so easily from his lips made my heart flutter.

“You know what would make it worse?” The sheriff replies. Dean releases his hold on my thigh, a tingling feeling taking its place. We got up and followed the man outside then following his orders, he was going to follow us out of town and we weren’t allowed back.

We drive down the interstate, both knowing we would turn back once it was clear. But for now we trudge toward passing by a sign that says ‘Thanks for visiting Burkittsville.’ I check the side mirror, the sheriff making a U-turn, heading back to town. Great.

“Should we find a motel nearby and return at night?” I ask, knowing the couple wouldn’t have a car to leave with ‘till sundown.

“Yeah, you need sleep” He hums. I wonder if he’s saying that because he knows I haven't slept at all. “Unfortunately I will not be sleeping ‘cause I have a very good idea on what’s going on and I wanna research further” I answer, opening up the glovebox to pull out the map that resided there.

I unfold it, tracking down Indiana and then the small town we just left, following the colored lines. “I think if we stay straight we’ll be at a rest stop in about 15 mins” I mumble, hopefully reading it right.

“Anyways!” I place the map down in my lap, “I’m very sure this town is sacrificing the couples to a Pagan God.”

“‘Thinking the same,” He answers.

“Okay, good. Now I'm not 100% sure i’m right on which one it is ‘cause there’s a lot of agricultural Gods as well as Gods of the woods, but the second I can search it up I’ll confirm it.” I ramble, talking with my hands.

“To be honest, sweetheart, ‘don’t know much about Norse Gods except the basics.”

“Oh don’t you worry, I got this” I beam.

I grumble for the fifth time typing different wording into the search bar. I want to scream as the page turns blank, the only words on the screen being ‘No Results.’

“What is it?” Dean asks from where he lays in his bed his fathers journal open, looking for anything on Norse Gods.

“Somehow there is nothing on Vanir Gods and when I mean nothing I mean nothing!” I get up from my bed walking the short distance to his, I climb on it putting my legs beneath me. I turned my laptop towards him, showing him the screen, “See!”

His eyebrows scrunch up looking just as confused as I feel, “I know we aren’t in the town anymore but do you think it’s somehow related?” I ask.

“Maybe. We aren’t that far from Burkittsville” He answers, taking my laptop and searching up ‘Books about Vanir Gods’ but again the same message pops up ‘No Results.’

He types in ‘Books about Norse Gods’ a couple searches pop up the main one being a thick book only available in a college in Burkittsville. “That’s so strange.” I mumble, I mean how could they be interfering with the internet.

“If they can make sacrifices to a god I’m guessing they could mess with google of all things. We’ll go there later” Dean responds and I’m sure he means after making sure the couple is safe. He closes my laptop, “You should sleep, I’ll wake you”

I studied him for a moment, and he was right. I should sleep, it sounds wonderful actually. I nod getting up, I don’t even bother changing into comfortable clothes or even taking off my bra I just crawl underneath the covers of my bed. “Good night, Dean.” But it was hardly close to night time.

He smiles, “ ‘Night baby.”

Dean sped down the interstate, the sun was nearly down and we would have been there on time if not for all the semi trucks in the truck stop not knowing how to exit. You really think it wouldn’t be so hard.

Continuing by the vast orchard, we scanned for a red van parked on the side, hoping to beat them there.

After some more driving, we eventually stumbled upon the deserted car, devoid of anyone. He stopped the car short even as we still had multiple feet between us and the vacant van.

He turns the car off and I meet him by the trunk, he hands me a shotgun, “Go through here, cut ‘em off--get in front” he rattles off the plan as he cocks his own gun. I nod, cocking my gun before shutting the trunk as he takes the lead.

I catch up to him, running at his side, passing through each tree as my shoes crush the fallen apples with a satisfying crunch.

I squint my eyes, the dark haired couple too far away to get there before the dark figure of the scarecrow does. It was a clear distance away, I could bring us there in a moment's time. I’ve practiced this sort of distance before, it was doable, and nothing like the asylum. “Get ready to shoot 45 degrees to your left” I shouted, reaching a hand out to grasp Dean's shoulder. He meets my eyes with a look of determination hard in his irises. I focus back ahead on the target, forcing my energy there.

The air ripples around us even as we continue to run, in a blink of an eye we’re in front of the couple. A loud shot rings out, Dean shoots the thing square in the chest. But all it does is stumble back before it continues to walk forward.

Its head was tilted slightly, that greasy hair dangling on his shoulders, the sickle gripped tightly in its leathery hand. “Get back to your car!” I yell behind me, “Go!” I looked behind me for a split second, they were running and we weren’t too far from the orchards clearing.

Almost at the same time Dean and I start walking backward away from the horrifying thing. I raise my shotgun up, shooting it right in its chest as Dean cocks his gun again. But these salt bullets were doing nothing and was hardly buying us time, “Get ready to run!” Dean orders as he shoots the thing again.

Not needing to tell me twice I shift my footing, running towards the clearing right after the couple. Beyond Dean's own shoes hitting the ground hard next to me I could hear the subtle click of its boots walking the ground. Now I know how every character in Halloween felt as Myers went after them.

I do the thing that you should never do in a horror movie and turn my head to see how close the scarecrow was. It couldn’t be more than 10 feet away, “Screw this” I mumble, twisting my footing again so I could walk backwards as it came towards us. I uncomfortably hold the gun in the crook of my arm as I extend my hands forward, effortlessly calling upon my abilities as I shoot out pure energy from my hands.

The scarecrow goes flying what seems like 100 or more feet, landing harshly on its back. I want to celebrate and get all cocky but this was dealing with Norse Gods and I didn’t particularly feel like getting on their nerves at the moment.

I make it to the clearing, my chest heaving from the running and use of powers. Man, water would be good right now.

A familiar arm wraps around my shoulder, the crook of his arm touching my neck as he brings me into his side. His chest heaves too, “Good job.” The praise makes my heart swell but the sweet moment is cut off by the man in the couple panting, “What—what the hell was that?” He points between the orchard and me. Double yikes.

“Don’t ask.” Dean responds.

We sit in the Impala just outside of town so we wouldn’t technically get in trouble.

After helping the couple officially leave, thank god, we went back to the motel. It would be hours until the college opened so we really just had to wait. We ate at some all night diner before showering and sleeping for a couple more hours. We woke early, I threw on some low rise black jeans and a fitted black & gray long sleeve baseball tee, heading out to grab some coffee before heading back close to town to wait.

Dean had called Sam, placing his phone on speaker and positioning it in the middle of the dashboard so we could both hear and speak. He called his brother on his own accord to talk about the “hunt” and I didn’t dare say anything about it knowing he would just brush it off. The call was certainly more than just letting him know how the hunt was going. “The scarecrow climbed off its cross?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, I’m tellin’ ya. Burkittsville, Indiana. Fun Town.” Dean muses, taking a sip of coffee from his cup.

“It didn’t kill the couple, did it?” Sam responded concerned.

“God no” I scuff.

“We can cope without you, you know.” Dean adds.

“So, something must be animating it. A spirit.” Sam theorizes.

“No, it’s more than a spirit. It’s a god. A Pagan god, anyway.” Dean answers.

“What makes you say that?”

I answer this time, “There’s a lot that points to it, from annual cycle killings to the choice of victims. And I’m sure you know human sacrifices were common in Paganism especially when it comes to fertility. There were even mass sacrifices to even protect them and or help them with wars.”

I begin to speak with my hands again, getting more animated as I get excited, “And according to a local all the towns around them are failing in multiple degrees especially in agriculture, while Burkittsville remains flourishing largely in their apple department. As seen not only through their extensive orchard but their numerous apple products, they practically gloat upon it.”

“And you should see the locals. The way they treated this couple. Fattenin’ ‘em up like a Christmas turkey.” Dean adds in.

“The last meal. Given to sacrificial victims.” Sam acknowledges.

Dean answers, “Yeah, we’re thinking a ritual sacrifice to appease some Pagan god.”

“So, a god possesses the scarecrow…” Sam starts, Dean adding in with their usual weird finishing each other's sentences, “And the scarecrow takes its sacrifice. And for another year, the crops won’t wilt, and disease won’t spread.”

“Do you know which god you’re dealing with?” Sam asks.

“Well, there’s hundreds of Gods.” I answer, “But it will most likely align with Norse Paganism which are broken up into two sections one of them being Vanir Gods. From what I remember they’re Gods of fertility, wealth, wisdom and two other things. I don’t remember too much and unfortunately there’s an issue with the internet so I can’t even confirm my theory.”

Sam laughs, “What do you mean issue?”

“Long story,” Dean responds, “But we’re on our way to a local community college, they have a book on Norse Gods there. You know, since we don’t have our geek boy to figure out the issue with the internet crap.”

Sam laughs again, “You know, if you’re hinting you need my help, just ask.”

“I’m not hinting anything.” Dean replies quickly with a fake annoyance to his voice, “Actually, uh—“ He looks at me as if he isn’t sure what to say, I nod my head encouragingly, “I want you to know….I mean, don’t think….”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, too.” Sam says seriously, seemingly knowing what his brother was struggling to say.

Dean looks to his hands cradling his coffee cup to straight ahead through the windshield, “Sam. You were right. You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life.” I don’t try to bite back my smile, he wasn’t looking to begin with, either way I was proud of him.

“Are you serious?” Sam asks, probably never expecting to hear that.

“You’ve always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I—“ He cuts himself off, sighing, “anyway….I admire that about you. I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

“I don’t even know what to say.” Sam says quietly.

“Say you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

“Call me when you find Dad.”

“Ok.” Sam responds, though he sounds upset, "Bye, Dean.”

He collects his phone from the dashboard, hanging up. He catches me staring, “What?” I don’t answer, just smile at him, “No. Don’t give me that happy go lucky sweet look.”

“Oh come on!” I laugh, “That was really sweet of you Dean! So can’t a girl be proud of her boy.”

He rolls his eyes, placing his coffee in the cupholder before crossing his arms across his chest, but his face gives him away a light pink gracing his cheeks. “You are a sweetie pie” I declare, placing a hand on his shoulder. He removes one of his arms from their own hold, placing a warm hand on top of mine, grasping it gently to remove it, “I’m not.” he bites. His tough boy act was so cute.

“If you say so” I shrug, the smile on my face giving away the fact that this wasn’t me giving up on the fact he was a total softy. He turns his head away, facing his window, mumbling something incoherent.

I want to start skipping into the library, who knew a community college would have such a nice one. Though to be fair I would say any library was nice as long as it was in good shape. I make my way to the librarian's desk, “Hello!” I greet, my excitement getting the best of me, “Could you point us to the books on Paganism? Or even just Norse mythology?”

The old woman at the desk looks at me a little strangely, maybe I came off too strong. But her expression contorts into a small smile, “One of our dear old professors would have those sorts of books, lucky for you sweetie I think he’s free right now. I can just give him a little call.”

I look back at Dean, who stands a little bit behind me, he shrugs, I guess it wouldn’t hurt talking to a professor about this. Especially if it meant looking at that book.

I turn back to the old librarian, “Yes please.” But she already placed the phone back in its holder, “He’ll be right down.” Oh. Okay, this woman works fast. “You can take a seat there, it’ll be a moment” she points to just behind us at a mostly empty table. “Thank you!” I smile.

“It’s not every day I get a research question on Pagan ideology.” Professor Williams says, as he leads us to his classroom.

“Yeah, well, call it a hobby.” Dean responds, not sounding all that amused.

“Well what are you looking for in particular?” The older man asks.

“Uh, local lore, maybe” Dean answers, looking at me to jump in at any time but I don’t know if I want to put all my eggs in one basket. We had to choose who we could trust here, and maybe I shouldn’t have been so forward with the nice librarian but doing so made getting to the book easier. I hope. “I’m afraid Indiana isn’t really known for its Pagan worship.” He answers.

I can already feel this being a painfully slow lead to the answer, “You know, actually,” I began, “I was interested in the Vanir Gods. It struck me the other day and when I can’t get an easy answer for something I go digging.” The professor stops in his tracts, turning to face me, “Very well. I was not expecting to hear such a clear topic.”

I laugh a little uncomfortably, “I just like to learn.”

We follow him down the rest of the long hallway into his classroom. A small room with desks and chairs lined in order while a large whiteboard rested on the long wall. He beckons us over to his desk, a thick and long brown leather bound book lying there, “Well, let’s see.” He leafs through a couple of pages seeking what seems to be the chapter he’s looking for, “Ah ha, there we are” he declares, turning the book towards us.

I read the first page quickly, breezing through information I already knew. I turn to the next page only to be met with a picture of a scarecrow-like thing on a post in a field with farmers surrounding it. I read out loud the text just below the image, “The Vanir were Norse gods of protection and prosperity, keeping the local settlements safe from harm. Some villages built effigies of the Vanir in their fields. Other villages practiced human sacrifice. One male, and one female.”

I looked up from the book catching Dean's eyes, this was definitely it. “This particular Vanir that’s energy sprung from the sacred tree?” Dean asks, gaze flipping to the man in question.

“Well, Pagans believed all sorts of things were infused with magic.” He answers not all that helpfully.

“So what would happen if the sacred tree was torched? You think it’d kill the god?” Dean questions further. He’s really just putting it all out there. The professor laughs, “Son, these are just legends we’re discussing.”

“Yes of course” I fake laugh along with him, “My, uh, friend here just loves the hypotheticals, you know?”

“I do,” Dean nods seriously. The professor just looks at us strangely. God I really hope he just thinks we’re weird people. “Listen, thank you very much.” Dean says, holding out his hand. The professor takes it, giving what seems like a firm handshake before offering one to me, “Yes, thank you so much,” I say sincerely, taking his hand for a single awkward handshake.

I follow Dean to the door, an odd feeling settling itself in my gut as if something was about to happen. He opens the door and the feeling spikes, my heart jumping at the simple action. What the hell. I want to ignore it, push it to the back of mind and chalk it up to just random anxiety. But I can’t, genuine fear twists itself around within me, clawing at the walls of my stomach as if to warn me. Just as my foot breeches the hallway everything in me screams to turn around.

I listen to my body, turning around as I take a half step back, a large book only inches from my face. A small breathy squeak leaves my lips as I duck, a loud bang and tumble coming from beside me. This was a trap.

Using my bent knees as leverage as well as the attackers stumbling at missing me, I latch on to their forearms pushing up and out still holding on tightly as I lift my leg and kick. My foot connects with the soft expanse of the person's stomach, letting go of his arms at the same time. It was no doubt the professor as he was the only one in the room with us. I watch him stumble backwards, knocking into his desk roughly.

My brain works quickly, adrenaline rushing through my veins. The bang and tumble I heard must have been someone attacking Dea—I twisted my upper body to the right, catching the sheriff's wrist before the blunt of his gun could hit me too. I didn’t need to look to know he already got Dean. God this town was crooked.

I bring his arm down closer to my level, twisting it in an attempt to put it behind him, but he uses his free hand to left hook me, his fist connecting with my cheekbone. I let go of his arm at the action, my hand instinctively going to my cheek that stinged until something cold clinked onto my wrist. I knew it was handcuffs but my eyes went to my wrist anyways just as he clicked into place the other half of the cuff.

He looked smug, as if he had won. He must have been stupid. Not that it changed much but my hands were cuffed in front of me, magic aside it couldn’t have stopped me. I tilt my head slightly, giving him a ‘seriously?’ look before kicking him where the sun doesn't shine, immediately he doubles over holding onto his crotch with teary eyes. I guess you could add assaulting a police officer to my list of crimes, he may have been a sheriff but it probably still counted.

He would be down at least for a minute or more so I turned back to the professor who seemed to be stalking closer with the same book raised as if he was trying to kill a bug. The second my eyes landed on him he stopped moving, I foiled his plan. “Could you stop with the book?!” I exclaim. He seems to contemplate what I said, his eyes slipping from me to something behind me. He was not good at this fighting thing.

Thin but strong arms wrap around me, forcing my arms to my chest. I flailed around trying to shake the guy off, I didn’t want to use my magic yet. The less they knew the better. “Watch, she’s a kicker” the professor warns. “I know” the somewhat familiar voice of the sheriff huffed from behind me, his chest rumbling with each word. His chest was rising and falling fast, I wonder if he fully recovered from my crotch attack or if he was pushing through.

All at once I stop flailing, a smirk making its way on my face, and before anyone can do or say anything more I bite down hard on the sheriff's hand, my neck bending at a weird angle to reach him. He yells letting me go to hold his wounded limb.

I take a couple steps away from both of them, “I’m also a biter,” I muse. I look between both men, neither of them seeming to know what to do. They hadn’t expected this. “Which one of you wants to go next?” I point between either of them, the handcuffs rattling with my movement, “ ‘cause I can go all day, baby.”

They look at each other, worried in their eyes. The sheriff's throat bobbed with a hard auditable gulp. “Aw, don’t tell me you’re scared” I tease, smirking viciously, I was having too much fun with this.

The sheriff reaches slowly for his gun, the one he must have put back after I kicked him. I watch him do it, he’d pull it but wouldn’t shoot and ask me to stand down or come with him. He expects me to be afraid of the gun, at the prospect of being shot which is why he assumes it would work. He pulls it out, holding it firmly out in front of him aiming for my chest, “Get on your knees. Hands behind your head!” he yells. How predictable.

The smirk on my face only deepens, I lift an eyebrow at him, “If you wanted me on my knees so badly you could’ve just asked.” I was never usually so flirty or straightforward, but this was just so fun. I knew I was getting cocky. Maybe I was hanging around Dean too much. “Knees now!” He yells again. At this point he was just feeding me these easy openings. A laugh escapes my lips, I must look like a psychopath.

He readjusts the gun in his hand, his finger scooting back towards the trigger, but he couldn’t shoot, not when they wanted to use Dean and I as sacrifices. “Last chance!” He warns. Last chance indeed.

I catch my eyes flaring purple in his shiny revolver, a look of horror and confusion apparent on his face. A look I was used to, and as much as it normally would upset me I could use it now. The air fizzled around me, maybe I was getting better at this, in a blink of an eye I was right behind him. I kick the back of his knee, the man buckling under his own weight, his gun going off. The bullet hits the ceiling light right above where I stood only moments before.

Shards of glass fall, the light flickering for dominance before eventually going dark. I easily grasp the gun from his hand, turning the safety back on before sliding it across the floor out of the room. Without a plan to actually hurt the man, I used what he gave me, pressing the linked chains of the handcuffs to his neck as I brought the back of his head to my stomach.

He grunts against my hold his hands trying to pry the chain off as his eyes search the professors for help, but his partner backs away hands up in defense. I loosen up my hold, I wasn’t trying to severely hurt the guy or kill him for that matter. “‘Had enough?” I ask, mostly teasing.

Suddenly a soft plush material is pressed to my face, I move to fight or teleport away but my limbs suddenly feel too heavy and my eyes begin to droop. My body feels like it’s falling even as I stand in place, I think. My eyes begin to flutter close, my legs giving out on me. The world turns black.

My head feels fuzzy. My eyes are too heavy to open just yet. It smelt bad, a musty smell combined with a farm-like smell. The ground was comfortable.

I try to open my eyes but they flutter shut again. Someones calling my name, they’re too far away…need to come closer. My head was pounding.

Something suddenly brushes into my hair repeatedly. Even still half gone, fear spikes in me. My eyes shoot open, my upper body jolting up into a seated position. Familiar hands hold my shoulders as I sway, the room seeming to move back and forth, “It's okay, you’re okay” Dean says soothingly. I stare at him, his features becoming less and less blurry as I blink.

He cups my face gently, his fingers barely brushing against my skin. He seems to study me, most likely noting the bruise that is undoubtedly forming where I was hit. His thumb brushes over my wounded cheekbone gently, yet even so I wince sucking in a breath between my teeth. “Sorry” he mumbles, meeting my eyes. I hum, my tongue feeling too heavy to utter a word. “What happened to you?” he asks softly.

I swallow, trying to force my tongue to work enough to answer but my words still come out too quietly, “You went down first. I fought, but I think someone else came. They covered my mouth with a thingy, maybe they used, um, what is it called?” My thoughts felt all jumbled still, fog covering the expanse of my brain. My head was killing me too much to think straight. He practically scowls, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips turned down in a frown, “Chloroform” he answers. I smile weakly, “yeah that.”

I want to lay down. The room was still spinning, my head hurt. This was embarrassing, I had gotten all confident before– feeling invincible only to be drugged. I remove Dean's hands from my face, holding them instead as I place them on his lap. I looked around us, the room might be moving but it was obvious enough it was some sort of basement. No, a cellar. It was dark and empty, except for the straws of hay lying around. And just across from us was a small staircase up to what seemed like cellar doors. “It's locked,” Dean says, noticing my stare. Of course it is.

But if I could just right my mind, clear the fog, I could get us out easy peasy. Almost as if I willed it, the cellar doors creek open. The sunlight floods through, I try to block it with my hand, the sudden light worsening my headache if that was even possible. I need Advil. Dean lets go of my hand getting up quickly, just watching the quick movement makes me want to vomit. I blink slowly, following suit, with a lot of stumbling I make it to my feet even as it feels like the room is pulling me down.

Four jerks stand just outside the cellar, Harley and Stacy, Scotty, and the Sheriff. Harley moves close to the stairs as if he's about to descend them before getting abruptly stopped by the Sheriff, “I wouldn’t, she's feisty.” Dean laughs at that, my assault on the man very apparent by the various bruises he displayed. I would smirk or laugh too if it didn't feel like I was using all my energy to keep me standing. Harley knocks the Sheriff's hand off but makes no move to get closer, “She’s also still drugged” he bites. “Wrong,” I pointed a finger up, feeling more like a drunk as I spoke, “This would be the side effects or aftermath of Chloroform.” All four of them looked at me blankly, maybe I was wrong. I don't know.

“I hope you both know this is for the common good,” Stacy nods. I furrow my eyebrows, “Thanks for the preaching, lady. It really eases the brain into all this sacrificial nonsense.”

“That's enough” she replies rather calmly before nodding to the others. They begin to close the cellar doors, darkness enveloping us. I sat down rather quickly, landing on my butt harshly, “I'm surprised you didn't say anything snarky to them.”

“You were more entertaining” He answers with a half shrug. He tries the cellar door again but of course it's locked, he huffs moving to sit next to me.

I lean my head on his shoulder. He speaks softly now so as not to disturb my throbbing head, “Where do you think this important tree would be?” He was referring to the tree we would have to destroy in order to kill the scarecrow, and it was a good question. “Hm” I hum, “It would be the oldest tree here, probably the most protected. Maybe the first immigrants brought it over here, so it’s wherever they would plant it. I would say in the middle.” He nods and I swear I could hear the gears in his head turning.

The cellar doors open again, Stacy coming into view “It’s time.” I want to ask why they didn't just take us the first time they opened the doors but I guess waiting to die a little later was better than sooner. I remove my head from Dean's shoulder, do we fight? It would be 4 against 2 except I wasn't completely okay. But we could fight, right? I mean we always make it out, we always wind up fine.

Harley and the Sheriff come down the stairs, the Sheriff watches me carefully as he lifts Dean forcefully up. Harley doesn't show any remorse as he grips my forearm tightly, lifting me to my feet before grabbing my other arm roughly holding them behind my back. I struggle against him attempting to step hard on his foot as he forces me up the stairs behind Dean.

Real fear twirled itself around me, were we not going to fight?

They drag us forward deeper into the orchard, I dig my heels into the dirt trying to slow it down as much as I can. I’m scared. I don't want to die. I don't want to be sacrificed to some god. Please. Please. My headache needs to go away, let me use my powers without pain. I struggle against him more, trying to let my magic seep into anything around me but immediately my headache worsens by ten folds. I grunt in frustration, trying to shake the older man off further but he only tightens his grip. I hope bruises won't come from it, not that it would matter if I died today. I close my eyes tightly, digging my heels in further, please. Please. Anything, please.

Harley pushes me forward effortlessly. I don't want to die. Please. Please.

The ground begins to rumble, shaking violently. Apples tumble from the trees hitting the ground with a bunch of thumps. My heart beats wildly in my chest as if it's trying to jump out and run away. His grip loosens on me as he freezes in place, “It's angry at us!” Stacy yells covering her head. I wiggle out of Harleys hold, taking a couple steps away as my legs wobble like the ground. A familiar click locks into place, I come face to face with a gun, “It’s not causing this. It's her” the Sheriff accuses.

“Dont touch her” Dean yells, struggling against Scotty's hold. The Sheriff must have passed him on to hold me at gunpoint for the second time today. “I'm not doing anything” I spit, the shaking ground growing more intense.

“Your eyes are glowing again” he states. “What are you talking about?” I nearly yell, I think I would know if I was using my own abilities. Plus I've never done anything like this before so how would I be able to do so now?

Before I can react he has my hair wrapped in his fist, pulling my head back forcefully a hiss of pain escaping my lips. It felt like it was going to rip itself right from the roots. “Dont you fucking hurt her!” Dean roars. The ground seems to become more violent, the large trees themselves shaking where they stood while everyone nearly stumbles over. He pulls my hair hard, my neck snapping back as he moves his shiny gun in front of me, showing me its side.

My only slightly blurred reflection stares back at me. My cheekbone had a dark bruise painted there and my eyes were–

My irises were purple. No. It doesn't make sense, I wasn't controlling this. I wasn't making it happen, I've never done this before. The Sheriff pushes me forward letting go of my hair at the last minute, I fall to my knees only a foot away from him. The barrel of the gun is pressed into the back of my skull, “Make it stop or I'll make you stop” he threatens. I can hear Dean struggle against Scotty again, and in the corner of my eyes I see him finally pull away before turning around and punching the man right in the face. Scotty doubles over, but before Dean could do any more damage to anyone else Harvey grabs him.

“You can't kill her, we have to leave them both for it” Stacy argues. The ground seems to roar, the earth shaking so siverley I nearly fall to my hands. “I would stop if I could!” I admit, “I don't kno–” I cut myself off, a sudden deep memory making its way to the surface of my brain. A memory of a deceased corn field, a disaster I caused.

“Make it stop!” the sheriff spits. “I told you I don't know h–” Suddenly the gun is raised up and before I could do anything to stop it, the gun hits the side of my skull. My head feels like it explodes as I hit the ground, my eyes struggle to stay open. The last thing I see before it all goes dark again is Dean trying to lunge forward and the ground halting in its shaking.

My eyes flutter open, my horrible headache accompanied with an even worse head-ache. Both in my head and outside. At this point my brain should be a scrambled mess.

My wrists were zip tied to a thinner part of the tree trunk my back rested on. It was just beginning to be dark out. I move my gaze from above me to across me, Dean sitting against a different tree in the same position I was in. His eyes widen and he attempts to move closer before grunting in frustration at the restrictions of his wrists, “You're awake. Are you okay?” He licks his lips, “I swear to fuckin’ god I’ll kill ‘em.”

I don't say anything, my head is too heavy. He's staring at me with wide eyes, fear clear in his irises. “‘You okay?” he asks again. I nod, my head hurts and I’m confused and upset, but I’m alive so I’m okay. He shakes his head, “No.” I look at him confused, I don't understand. He continues to shake his head, wetting his lips again, “Say it. I need to hear you say it,” he sounded breathless, “I need to hear you say you're okay.”

“Im okay” I say weakly. He sighs, relief clear in the way his shoulders drop. But I had a feeling he knew I wasn't being totally truthful.

He swallows roughly, “Can you see the scarecrow?” Despite my heavy head I look in each direction for the thing, until I can slightly see the post. “Dean” I start and I can hear my own voice wobble with fear, “It's not there.” He fights against his restraints, and I would join him in that effort if my head hasn't already given up on me. “I hope their apple pie is frickin’ worth it” he grumbles.

A shadow catches just behind Dean, I squint hoping I'm just seeing things from potential brain damage then the actual scarecrow. “Dean, I think it's behind you.” Forget everything I said and thought, I begin fighting against my own restraints, the zip ties digging into my wrists harshly. “Dean?” a familiar voice called out.

Sam’s tall figure comes into view as he rounds the tree Dean is tied to. Dean twists his neck oddly to see his brother, “Oh!” he sighs in relief, “Oh, I take everything back I said. I'm so happy to see you. Come on.” Sam takes that as his chance to assess his brother's binding before pulling out his pocket knife, “‘You okay, Y/N?” he asks as he works on sawing the bindings. “Dandy” I respond, truly done with this all.

“How’d you get here?” Dean asks his brother.

“I, uh–I stole a car.”

Dean laughs at that, “That's my boy!” His bindings finally break with a snap. Sam doesn't wait for his brother to get up as he walks the short distance to me, beginning to remove my own restraints. His eyes gaze down at me every now and then, most likely assessing the damage.

Deans at my side a breath later, squatting down to be at my level. He brings his hand carefully to my face, gently moving a piece of my hair behind my ear. Something feels dried and stiff there and I wonder if it's blood from being hit or just dirt. I tilt and roll my head away from him, the pain overwhelming even with the delicate touch.

My restraints snap above me, bits of the plastic tangling itself into my hair. My wrists are raw and red, just one more thing to add to the list. I place my hands on the cold dirt, trying to pick myself up but my ears begin to ring and my vision spins. I sit back down again, huffing. Strong arms grab my arm and waist all but lifting me off the ground and onto my feet, “‘You got eyes on the scarecrow?” Dean asks, looking at his brother who shakes his head. “Alright, I can carry you, the clearing isn’t far off” Dean says looking down at me.

“That's ridiculous,” I shake my head, “I’ll slow you down. I’ll just push through, and we don't have time to argue this.” He grumbles, he doesn't like the idea. But again we don't know where the scarecrow is and we can't waste time bickering over stupid logistics.

I immediately regret not taking the offer. My brain feels like it's jumping around in my skull and swishing side to side as if on a boat. I feel like the orchard is spinning around me, tumbling over itself like one of those tunnels in a fun house.

“Alright, now, this sacred tree you’re talking about–” Sam pants lightly as we run, Dean having filled him in on the information we gathered. “It's the source of its power” I finish, my voice feeling far away even in my own ears. “So let’s find it and burn it.” Sam annonces.

“Nah, in the morning.” Dean counters, “Let’s just shag ass before Leather face catches up.”

We come to a skidding stop, just at a clearing of trees the four jerks from before as well as a couple others stand guard. Sam nudged us in a different direction just to be met with a wall of people, we were surrounded. “Did the whole fricking town come to watch us die?!” I exclaim, “Just let us leave!” I was so tired of this, I just want to go to a motel or something and shower off today's fears before falling into a deep sleep. “It’ll be over quickly” Harley says, and if it was meant to be comforting it was not working. “It's for the greater go–” suddenly a sickle is pushed through his stomach. His mouth opens in shock, blood dripping down the sides. Screams come from all around us, and I hardly know if I was screaming too.

He’s raised off the ground before the sickle is quickly pulled out. Stacy still stands there screaming, watching her dying husband on the floor. But soon her screams are cut off too, the sickle going through her throat. Her eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open too as blood not only spurts out of her neck but spills down like a waterfall onto her shirt. The air fills quickly with all the blood's metallic scent. The scarecrow does not retract its weapon, keeping the curved blade in her neck as it grabs onto Harley's collar dragging them both behind it.

Shock had frozen us in place, but apparently not the townspeople. “Come on let’s go,” Dean insists, leading us away.

Morning came by far too slowly but at least we passed the time by using the stolen car to drive back to the college to get the Impala before returning to the orchard. It all went by so weirdly, I knew I was moving but it felt like I never left that road outside the expanse of apple trees. I hardly remember the drive there or the drive back, everything still spun and the ringing only got louder. I think I might have lost my mind.

We stand in front of the sacred tree though I don't remember how we found it. The tree had Vince’s tattoo printed onto it, that was a tell tale sign it was the right one. Sam pours gasoline all over it, Dean picks up a long branch lighting it on fire before throwing it onto the tree. “‘Think the towns ‘gonna be okay?” Sam asks as the flaming tree roars with the crackling flames. “Don’t know” Dean shrugs, but I think the answer was apparent to all of us.

“And the rest of the townspeople, they’ll just get away with it?” Sam adds.

“Well, what’ll happen to the town will have to be punishment enough.” Dean answers.

We walk back to the car leaving the burning tree behind us, though I hope it won’t spread and cause a whole forest fire, “So, can I drop you off somewhere?” Dean asks.

“No, I think you’re stuck with me.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t. I still wanna find Dad. And you’re still a pain in the ass.” Sam explains, “But, Jess and Mom—they’re both gone. Dad is God knows where. You, me, Y/N. We’re all that’s left. So, if we’re gonna see this through, we’re gonna do it together.”

I give Sam's arm a little squeeze, it was a really sweet speech.

“Hold me, Sam. That was beautiful.” Dean smiles, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder who hits it away. They fall into a fit of laughter, “You should be kissing my ass, you were dead meat, dude.” Sam says between laughs.

“Yeah, right. I had a plan, I’d have gotten us out.” Dean scuffs.

“Right.”

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: Sam gets a vision that leads them to meeting someone just like him.

Warnings: Cannon violence, angst, insecurity, mentions of SA and castration.

Word Count: 11.5k

Simon Said

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit)

The radio hums soothingly, a smooth, deep voice announcing: “Rockin’ Nebraska. Your source for the classics, all night long.”

The road is dark, only lit by the occasional streetlight and the light from the car's headlights.

“I don’t know, man, why don’t we just chill out, think about this?” Dean tries to reason.

Sam leans up, turning the radio off. “What’s there to think about?” he asks.

“Sleep,” I answer. “Seriously, I don’t know how you guys function with the amount of sleep you get.”

“Alright,” Sam considers. “Besides that.”

“I just don’t know if going to the Roadhouse is the smartest idea,” Dean reiterates.

“Dean, it’s another premonition. I know it. This is gonna happen, and Ash can tell us where,” Sam counters.

He told us he saw an older man go into a gun shop, and while he was checking out a gun, he loaded it, killing the cashier and then himself.

“Yeah, man, but…”

“Plus, it could have some connection with the demon. My visions always do,” Sam points out.

“That’s my point. There's gonna be hunters there,” Dean continues, “I don’t know if…if going in and announcing that you’re some supernatural freak, with a…a demonic connection is the best thing, okay?”

“Seriously, Dean?” I groan, eyebrow quirking.

“That’s not—you’re the exception,” he corrects, smiling sheepishly.

“You can’t just say I'm the exception every time you throw a blatant insult out,” I point out. And it’s complicated because on one hand, I understand he was raised with a specific mindset that’s hard to correct, but on the other hand, you’d think he would realize how he sounds. I don’t know if he doesn’t consider me in the same category as other supernatural beings or if he sometimes forgets, but it gets to a point.

“Well, if anyone in that Roadhouse finds out about either of you we’re gonna have a problem. It’s dangerous,” he points out, correcting his earlier statement. “And Sam, you’ve always been a freak.”

And, yeah, he’s right about the Roadhouse part, regardless of his insults. It is dangerous and I’m probably going to hate every second of it.

“Good save, ‘cause I specifically remember you saying I could hit you if you said anything like that,” I remind him with a smirk.

“You can hit me,” he shrugs, giving in a little too easily.

“Okay, well…I’m not gonna actually… hit you,” I answer weakly.

“Yeah, I know, sweetheart,” he nods like he expected that answer.

“Oh,” I hum quietly.

********

The moment we step through those bar doors, my heart jumps to my throat. This is an incredibly bad idea followed by an even worse idea.

And as if to rub salt in the wound, there’s a table of men cleaning their weapons. One of them, with a gruff beard and a scar on his forehead, makes eye contact with me as he rubs a white cloth down the blade of his machete. I smile nervously, breaking the eye contact he had set while stepping a little closer to Dean’s side.

I hadn’t expected so many people to be here. It’s pretty late, like past bedtime late.

This goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. It’s one thing to have met a lone hunter, but to be walking into their hangout spot? I might as well have a huge red arrow hanging above my head. I might as well just walk into their blades.

“So, is this a good time to say that you were totally right?” I ask, arms crossed to make myself smaller.

“It’s always a good time to say I’m right,” he muses, a cocky glint in his eyes.

“I’m being serious,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“Just act cool,” he answers instead of rubbing it in further.

“I’m so totally cool,” I word vomit, my voice pitching slightly higher.

“You look scared,” he says bluntly, eyebrow quirked at me.

“‘Cause I am, dummy,” I murmur. I’ve never been around this many hunters ever. What would my parents say about this? Hell, what would my brother say about this? He’d give me an insane lecture, that’s what he'd say.

He scoffs beneath his breath, his hand pulling on mine, forcing me out of my defensive stance. My arms fall to my side, and he quickly takes claim of my hand, fingers interlacing with mine.

In a twisted way, it does make me feel better, if only a little. His hand and the warmth he envelopes me with act like a lifeline. But then we’re stuttering to a stop, nearly hitting a blonde-haired woman.

“Oh, hi, Jo!” I beam, waving at her. She’s a familiar, and relatively safe, face in this crowd.

Her eyes drop to my hand, to our hands. Her eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up while a smirk stretches on her lips. She looks at me with a little nod as if approving what she sees.

I didn’t know we were cool like that. I don’t mind being cool with her. It’s bittersweet, though, because if we are friendly, then it’s under the pretense of her not knowing what I am. If she knew that I’m a witch, would she still want to be friends?

“Well, look who’s back,” she muses.

“How you doin’, Jo?” Dean asks.

“Where’s Ash?” Sam cuts in, speaking so fast the words smush together.

“In his back room,” she answers slowly, pointing behind her.

“Great,” Sam exhales, brushing past her with his one-track mind.

“And I’m fine…” she mutters, a little mocking tone clipped to its edges.

“Sorry, he’s…we’re…kind of on a bit of a timetable,” Dean tries to explain, smiling nervously. He nods awkwardly, leading us away.

We follow after him, moving through the swinging doors into the back room where spare glasses are held in plastic container tubs.

Sam stands in front of the only door that isn’t marked as a bathroom; the wood is missing pieces, and there are flecks of paint missing. A little sign hangs on the center of the door, reading: “Dr Badass Is: In”

“Okay, who took a bite out of that door?” I ask, looking at a chunk of wood missing from the side of the door near the hinges.

“I’d say 'what' took a bite out of that door, but no, that does look human,” Dean mumbles, head tilted slightly as if doing so would make the answer clearer.

“‘Think it was Ash?” I ask quietly beneath Sam’s knocking and calling of the man in question.

His lips purse in consideration, mouth opening to answer. Then, he pauses, holding up a finger to say, “Give me a minute.”

His hand leaves mine, rising up to knock on the door. “Hey, Dr. Badass?” he calls.

A click comes from behind the door, and then it cracks open. Ash stands there, pasty skin fully on display. My eyes drop down, meeting the sight of more skin and…

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and, for good measure, cover them with my hands.

“Sam? Dean? Y/N? Sam and Dean and Y/N,” he answers, seemingly unfazed by having us see him naked as the day he was born.

“Hey, Ash, um, we need your help,” Sam explains.

“Well, hell then,” he remarks. “Guess I need my pants.”

********

Ash sits, now fully dressed, with his monstrosity of a laptop open, typing away something that must be related to the sketch of a bus logo Sam made.

“Well, I got a match,” Ash announces, leaning back in the wooden chair. “It’s the logo from the Blue Ridge bus lines in Guthrie, Oklahoma.”

“Okay. Do me a favor—check Guthrie for any demonic signs, or omens, or anything like that,” Sam lists out.

“You think the demon’s there?” Ash asks.

“Yeah, maybe,” he answers.

“Why would you think that?” he pushes further.

“Just check it, alright?” Dean bosses from where he leans against a post behind the computer whiz.

He looks over his shoulder at the older Winchester, then shakes his head as he gets back to click-clacking away.

“No, sir, nothing,” he announces. “No demon.”

“Alright, try something else for me. Search Guthrie for a house fire. It would be 1983, fire’s origin would be a baby’s nursery, the night of the kid’s six-month birthday,” Sam rattles out.

Ash’s eyes widened, glaring at Sam like he had grown another head. “Okay, now that is just weird, man. Why the hell would I be looking for that?”

“Just amuse us for a moment,” I answer. His eyes flicker to mine, and he blinks just once.

“Alright,” he half shrugs.

There’s a clink on the table, an open and sweating bottle of beer pushed next to the laptop. “There’s a PBR in it for ya,” Sam adds.

“I already said 'alright' to this beauty, but I won’t say no to a cold one. Give me fifteen minutes,” he declares, taking a quick sip of the beer before getting to work.

I look up, feeling a pair of eyes on me. Dean’s eyes. His jaw is a little tight, and there’s something written in those green eyes I can’t understand. I want to understand, but I don’t. I wish we could have another moment alone, maybe even like before, when we didn’t have to worry about the demon or the next monster. When it was just us.

He holds me in this gaze, everything else background noise, like it’s just our souls whispering to each other. Then his hand rises and with two fingers, he gestures me over to him. I rise from my seat as if in a trance, my feet taking me to him, my heart pulling me to his.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, a teasing smile curving on his face.

“Will you have one with me?” I counter, a smile of my own already breaking through.

“Now what kind of question is that, sweetheart?” he teases, taking a step back until he’s walking backwards.

I follow after him, shaking my head affectionately at his ridiculous antics. And I think, for just a moment, between background chatter, the clinks of glassware, the muffled noise of laughter, and an arcade game beeping, I can spend my entire life like this, following after him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, and no one else. What an incredible thing to want when I’m not his and he is not mine.

********

He ordered a tall glass of amber liquid with a bit of foam at the top for himself and a Shirley Temple for me.

The minutes had passed on like seconds, both of us nursing our drinks and making stupid conversation. It’s incredible how just minutes ago I was terrified of being in this bar with all these hunters around, and now it’s like they aren’t even here at all. It’s just us in this bubble.

“Someone’s happy,” he mutters into his cup, taking a sip of whatever it is.

“And someone has a foam mustache, but you don’t see me complaining,” I quip right back. His face drops, cup hitting the counter hard as he quickly uses the back of his hand to wipe at his mouth.

I laugh hard, head tilted back, the stool beneath me wobbling. His hand reaches out quickly, grabbing hold of the side of my chair to stabilize me. My laugh bubbles out slowly, eyes tracing back to his and how close he is, leaning over to me.

My eyes fall to his lips, “You, um, missed a spot…” I mumble, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where just the smallest amount of foam is. My finger lingers on his warm skin, my heart both slowing down and speeding up all at once. “Got it,” I all but whisper.

“We have a match. We’ve gotta go,” Sam announces quickly, coming out of nowhere. I jump, fumbling to sit properly, hands around my cup like I wasn’t just centimeters from his lips.

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah,” I stammer, nodding quickly.

********

“And even as I wander, I’m keeping you in sight. You’re a candle in the window on a cold dark winter night, and I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might,” Dean sings unprompted from beside me with no radio to back him.

“You’re kidding, right?” Sam asks unamused, looking up from his pile of papers he has stacked in the backseat with him.

“I heard the song somewhere, I can’t get it out of my head, I don’t know, man,” Dean answers, shaking his head.

“It was playing at the Roadhouse,” I explain, “like moments before you came up to us, Sam. ‘Think I saw Jo lingering by the jukebox.”

I heard it play in the background, but I don’t think it fully registered for me, especially when I was entirely distracted by the man I now sit next to casually.

“There you go: earworm,” Dean nods, snapping his fingers. “Anyways, Waddya got?”

I watch Sam in the rearview mirror, his nose buried in a stack of papers. “Andrew Gallagher, born in ‘83, like me. ‘Lost his mother in a nursery fire exactly six months later, also like me,” he informs.

“You think the demon killed his mom?” Dean asks.

“Same M.O.” I point out. It’s exactly what happened to Sam; that’s no coincidence.

“How did you even know to look for this guy?” Dean asks.

“Every premonition I’ve had, if they’re not about the demon, they’re about the other kids the demon visited,” Sam explains. “Like Max Miller, remember him?”

“Yeah, but Max Miller was a pasty little psycho,” he remarks.

“He was only so crazy because of what was happening to him; his abilities just gave him the reassurance and confidence to do something,” I defend.

“I don’t see you murdering people,” he retorts, eyes leaving the road to glance at me. It feels like a jab as much as it feels like a small secret shared between us, though I’m sure Sam would have caught on if Dean hadn’t already told him.

“Trauma affects people in different ways,” I counter. “He was using the coping skills that he had learned from being in an abusive environment. That’s not to say that it was necessarily correct or just, but I think he deserves a little more peace than being called ‘crazy.’”

“The point is, he was killing people, regardless of why,” Sam cuts in. “And I was having the same type of visions about him. And now it could be happening all over again with this Gallagher guy.”

“I wonder if they have visions of you, or if it’s just one-sided for whatever reason,” I ponder out loud.

“They’d see enough to put them in a ward,” Dean murmurs. “How do we find him?”

“Don’t know. No current address, no current employment,” Sam answers. “He still owes money on all his bills—phone, credit, utilities…”

“Collection agency flags?” Dean asks.

“None in the system.”

“They just let him take a walk?” he questions further.

“Seems like it,” Sam answers. “There’s a work address from his last W-2, about a year ago. Let’s start there.”

The strong smell of roasted coffee beans wafts throughout the cafe, a full-faced blonde topping off the mugs at our table. This is, apparently, the last job Gallagher worked before he seemed to drop off the face of the planet.

“You won’t get anything out of Andy, guys. I’m sorry, but they never do,” Tracy, our waitress, says with an apologetic smile.

“They?” Sam echoes.

“You’re debt collectors, right?” she asks, looking between us and our formal attire; suits for the boys and a blouse with a pencil skirt for me. “Once in a while, they come by. I don’t know what Andy says to them, but they never come back.”

“Actually we’re…we’re lawyers representing his Great Aunt Leta. She passed, God rest her soul, and left Andy a sizable estate,” Dean explains smoothly.

“So did you know Andy well outside of being coworkers?” I ask.

“We used to be friends, yeah,” she answers. “I don’t see much of Andy anymore.”

“Andy?” someone echoes, coming up to join the little group. He has an apron around his waist and a coffee pot in his hand like Tracy, the soft lighting catching his blue eyes. “Andy kicks ass, man,” he adds.

“Is that right?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised slightly.

“Yeah. Andy can get you into anything. He even got me backstage at Aerosmith once, it was beautiful, bro,” the dirty-blonde man gushes.

A thoughtful expression crosses Dean's face, ears practically perked up at the mention of the band. But, I can’t lie, that does sound awesome. I mean, how many people can say they’ve been to an Aerosmith concert, let alone back-fucking-stage?

“How about bussing a table or two, Weber?” Tracy mocked.

“Yeah. You bet, boss,” Weber answers with a little mocking tone of his own before shuffling over to a table on the other side of the room

“Look, if you want to find him, try Orchard Street. Just look for a van with a barbarian queen painted on the side,” she suggests.

“Barbarian queen?” Dean echoes in disbelief.

“She’s riding a polar bear. It’s kind of hard to miss,” she explains, nose scrunching at her own description.

********

As much as I was really hoping Tracy was joking, she wasn’t. She got it down to a T.

The van across the street from the Impala is dark blue, and on the side, right over the back door, is a large sticker of two polar bears charging forward, a half-naked woman riding one of them, her sword pointed to the sky. I’ve never hated anything more.

“I’m sorry, I’m starting to like this dude. That van is sweet,” Dean remarks with a cheesy smile.

“Please tell me you’re joking, Dean,” I groan. “That van is the breeding ground for B.O. and getting no game.”

I glance in the rear-view mirror, trying to see if Sam would back me on this because if anyone will, it’d be him. But his lips are pursed, and his eyes look lost in focus. “Oh no, what’s wrong, Sam?” I ask, twisting sideways to face him in the backseat.

“Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I squint my eyes at him like it’d somehow make the truth evident. “That wasn’t very convincing,” I reply.

“Sam, you look like you’re sucking on a lemon. What’s going on?” Dean pushes, watching his brother through the rear-view mirror.

“This Andrew Gallagher, he’s the second guy like this we’ve found. ‘Demon came to them when they were kids, now they’re killing people,” he explains.

“We don’t know what Andrew Gallagher is, alright. He could be innocent,” Dean reasons.

“My visions haven’t been wrong yet,” he counters with a frown and a desperate look in his eyes as if he wants to be wrong.

“What’s your point?” Dean asks.

“My point is, I’m one of them,” he answers.

“As in abilities, yeah, but you’re not a murderer, Sam,” I reason. It’s almost like looking into an obscure mirror; insecurities and worries that I carry around each day now hang around his neck.

“Last time I checked, I kill all kinds of things,” he counters, voice a little harsh. He wants to be proven wrong as much as he wants to be proven right if only to have clarity.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“‘Cause you’re killing things that are hurting people. You’re saving lives,” I explain. “I mean, you didn’t even have it in you to kill those vampires that weren’t bothering anyone. Sam, you’re a good person, powers don’t change that.”

“But, the demon said he had plans for me and children like me. Maybe this is the plan, maybe we’re all a bunch of psychic freaks, maybe we’re all supposed to be kill—“

“It doesn’t matter what his plans are; it doesn’t mean you have to follow them or become something,” I cut him off, sternly. “I told you guys before, it’s about the coping skills and strategies that someone learns that dictate how they’ll react. Most people kill because they think that’s the best option.”

“But—“

“No, Sam, seriously. Your powers don’t define you, regardless of where they came from. You’re not a murderer,” I say, voice as clear as possible. ”And, I think to worry so much, to be so insistent like this, proves what you aren’t and are capable of.”

I can see a part of him still doesn’t want to believe it, because it’s easier said than done, and I can’t blame him when I’m in the same boat as him. Most days, I wonder if I’m just lying to myself, and I am as bad as the thing in my blood says I am. I go to bed thinking over every single thing I did that day, trying to examine if I’ve tipped over too far. Most days, I hate what I am as much as I can’t imagine or stand being anything else.

“Whatever happens with all of this, Dean and I are gonna be with you,” I reassure, softly, speaking for both of us.

He nods, that desperate, almost pleading, look pooling in his brown eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbles with a certain emphasis behind it that feels like he really means it.

“Always,” I nod, the word slipping from my lips with ease.

“Got him,” Dean mumbles, looking out his window, bringing our conversation to a close.

I follow his gaze to a shaggy-haired brunette swaggering away from a house further down the block in dark pajama pants and a long satin robe with red dragons all over it. He pauses halfway down the walkway, turning back and looking up at a window on the second story to a blonde with big messy hair and a pink robe that’s slipped off her shoulder, showing off the smooth expanse of tanned skin. She leans out the window, waving at the man below with a dreamy, lovesick look on her perfect features. He appears to blow her a kiss before smoothly turning around to continue his sauntering.

“Uh-uh, no,” I utter, picking my jaw up from off the floor. “That woman is far too hot to have had sex with that dude. She’s twenty times out of his league.” He’s all…and she’s all sultry brown eyes, and a perfect pout.

“Looks like he does have ‘game’,” Dean remarks, head swiveling towards me to show off his annoying smile.

Raggedy Andy strides down the block with his head held high and a beaming smile on his face like he’s got the whole world going for him. He pauses one last time, halfway down the block, to exchange pleasantries with an old black man in a suit. He takes the bigger man’s hand, shaking it with a smile and a nod of his head.

“That’s him,” Sam blurts out, leaning so far forward that his head is between me and Dean’s. “That older guy, that’s him, that’s the shooter.”

“Alright, you keep on him, we’ll stick with Andy,” Dean directs, taking action. “Go.”

Sam gets out of the car quickly, head ducked slightly as he follows after the old man. Meanwhile, Andy hops into his van, driving away like normal.

Baby follows after the very obvious van, keeping a safe distance behind it at every turn and every stop. Then, the dark blue van pulls over to the side of the road, and Andy gets out.

“Hand me the gun in the glovebox,” Dean mutters casually. The glovebox opens with a pop, his collection of cassette tapes clattering as I slip the handgun that lies amongst the tapes to him. He hums low in his chest, tucking the gun into his leather jacket.

“Hey,” Andy greets, ducking down so his head is right at Dean’s window. His eyes flicker to me in the passenger seat, first acknowledging me and then staying there, dragging down my frame.

“Hey, hey,” Dean answers, snapping Andy’s attention back to him.

“This is a cherry ride,” Andy smiles, tapping the roof of the car as he gives the outside a one-over.

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean smiles proudly.

“Man, the ‘67? ‘Impala’s best year of you ask me,” he continues, admiring Baby. “This is a serious classic.”

“Yeah. You know, I just rebuilt her, too,” Dean boasts.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, can’t let a car like this go,” he adds.

“Damn straight,” Andy nods, eyes flickering to me again. “I bet you like to ride in it, too, huh?”

“I—yes, I suppose so,” I stammer at his odd question.

“Hey. Can I have it?” He asks Dean.

“Sure, man,” Dean answers like it’s no problem at all. I look at him strangely, studying him to see if he’s joking or not. But then he’s opening the car door to get out.

I grab his arm, stopping him before he can do anything. “What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Giving him the car?” he answers, eyes wide like I’m the weird one. “Come on, Y/N, he asked for it.”

“What is going on with you?” I exclaim. There’s no way in hell that he would ever give up this car to anyone. Still, he gets out, gesturing for Andy to take his seat, even holding the door for him.

I lurch forward, snatching the keys from the ignition. I pull at the top of my shirt, shoving the ring of keys into my bra. “This is for your own good, ‘cause I don’t know what the hell is going on with you!” I shout. It’s entirely uncomfortable; cold and a little pokey, but it’s far better than letting Baby get hijacked.

I get out and round the car quickly, both men watching me. “What did you do to him?!” I accuse, shoving the shorter man away from Baby, and closing the door for good measure.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Andy answers calmly, but just behind it I can feel the worry in his tone.

“He’s not doing anything, sweetheart,” Dean defends.

“You,” I gesture to him, “Need to shut up, please.” I take a step towards Andy, “And you,” I point, “How are you doing that to…Oh my god. You’re using mind control or some sort of…suggestion thing!”

His eyes go wide, and he smiles nervously. “That’s crazy,” he laughs.

“Oh, I knew there was no way that girl would sleep with you,” I continue, stepping closer to him.

“Wait, what?” he exclaims. “Just—give me the keys.”

“Um…no…?” I answer, mildly confused. “Oh! You’re tryna do it to me!”

“Why isn’t it working?” he spews, fear swiping across his eyes like a ghost drifting in front of a mirror.

“‘No idea,” I shrug. “But that’s a mystery for another day. The real—“

“Stay away!” he shouts, trying to command Dean and me.

“Look, you can’t go around controlling people. You’re violating their privacy and right to their bodily autonomy, it’s wrong,” I try to reason. “And it’s even worse to use it to kill pe—“

“Kill?“

“Would you stop cutting me off? It’s really annoying,” I grumble.

“I haven’t killed anyone,” he shouts, running his hand through his hair.

“Well, not yet, technically,” I mutter. “‘Point is, you don’t have to. Whatever the issue is, it can be resolved without hurting anyone.”

“Stay away from me!” he shouts again, though I haven’t moved a muscle this entire time. “Just stay away! You’re crazy! I’m not hurting anyone!” He continues yelling, walking backwards to his van with each declaration. “I’m not going to hurt anyone! Just leave me alone, you crazy bitch!”

“Okay, well, name-calling was just not needed,” I shake my head, a little taken aback.

The tires screech loudly as he scurries off the block, taking a very quick turn. I turn back to Dean, eyeing him carefully as I approach him. “Are you…uh…okay now?” I ask.

“I almost let him take Baby,” he utters, looking down at his hands like he’s some kind of monster. He rushes to the car, running his hand over the sleek outside, “I won’t let him take you,” he tells the car.

“Okay…” I mumble, pulling my phone out of my back pocket and flicking it open to Sam’s contact. It barely gets to the second ring before he’s answering. “Hey, so, problem, and also funny story: Dean almost gave Andy the Impala…”

“What?!” Sam shouts into the phone.

“Yeah, I literally had to…actually speaking of which.” I fetch the keys out of my bra, the key ring dangling from my finger, “Here ‘ya go, sorry for all the…boobs it was exposed to,” I say, and I think that might be an original sentence.

He steps over with his eyebrows raised high and a slight smirk, grasping the keys from me. “You saved Baby,” he says, eyes running up my body. My heart bubbles with nerves in my chest. “‘S far as I know, that’s the safest place these could be,” he adds, twisting the key ring around his finger.

“‘Kinda the first thing I thought of…” I mumble.

“Hellooo!” Sam calls, “Could you guys stop flirting in my ear, please?”

“We’re not—shut up,” I mutter, my cheeks warm. I’ve never been more glad to have my phone pressed to my ear. “Andy’s using mind control,” I finally say, desperate to change the subject.

Dean leans in close, adding with a yell, “He fucking Obi-Wanned me!”

********

When we reconnect with Sam shortly after our phone call with him, he’s sitting on the curb with his head in his hands. Red and blue lights spin around; the ambulance is waiting with its doors open.

There’s a group of people on the caution-taped side lines, watching in horror and curiosity as the blood scraped against the asphalt is captured in a photo and the body lying crumbled in the road is collected in a black bag.

It was towards the end of our call that it happened; the old man who was going to die in the gun store, instead, walked in front of a bus.

Dean crouches behind his distraught brother, placing a hand on his back. It makes me realize all too well that letting Andy go meant I got this man killed. I shouldn’t have trusted that he would have taken my advice. I shouldn’t have let him leave.

“I kept him out of the gun store. I thought he was okay,” Sam shares. “I thought he was past it, at least…I should have stayed with him.”

“You did all you could,” I reason. “You couldn’t have known this would’ve happened instead.”

But I should have.

********

Immediately, Sam deflates in the passenger seat, still wearing his frown.

“It looks like Andy can’t work his mojo just by twitching his nose; he’s gotta use verbal commands,” Dean starts the conversation.

“The doctor had just gotten off his cell phone when he stepped in front of the bus. He must have called him or something,” Sam informs.

“You know, Andy was so sure that he wasn’t going to kill anyone,” I think out loud. “So, I wonder what set him off. What made him change his mind?”

“He could’ve been lying,” Sam answers. “Or he was making you believe him.”

“Oh no, his mind thingy wasn’t working on me,” I answer, brushing him off with a wave of my hand.

“I don’t know, maybe he hasn’t killed anyone,” Dean suggests.

“Beg your pardon?” Sam deadpans, head turning slowly to look at his brother.

“I just don’t know if he’s our guy, Sam,” he rephrases it,

“He did try to steal your car, you know, your prized possession?” I point out.

“Only possession,” Sam corrects beneath his breath.

“The point is I feel like that has to add some bad guy points, or at the very least, mean points,” I continue.

“‘Mean points’? Really?” Sam scoffs. “Dean, you had O.J. convicted before he got out his white Bronco, and you have doubts about this?”

“He just doesn’t seem like the stone-cold killer type, that’s all,” Dean reasons. “And O.J. was guilty.”

“Is guilty,” I correct. It’s the most cut-and-dry case ever. “But, okay, fine, maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt and consider this the proper way; innocent until proven guilty.”

“Either way, how are we going to track this guy down?” Sam asks.

“Not a problem,” Dean smirks.

********

Unsurprisingly, it’s not difficult to find a van with polar bears and a woman on it. In fact, I'm fairly sure no one else has that sticker.

The van is, once more, empty when we find it, which makes it even easier for me to unlock the back door with a simple touch, pulling it open.

The stale smell of weed fills my senses, the scent sticking to the soft interior of the van, including the fur rug. A small disco ball spins from the ceiling, the sun making it glitter along the tiger painted on the wall.

“Proving myself right about this van,” I comment, looking over the interior with something between disgust and mild disturbance.

“Oh. Oh, come on,” Dean mumbles. “This is…this is magnificent, that’s what this is.”

“No, it looks like an '80s orgy threw up in here,” I correct with a sneer. There’s no way he actually likes this tacky van.

“Well, it’s not exactly a serial killer's lair, though. There’s no…clown paintings on the walls, or scissors stuck in victims’ photos,” Dean defends, gesturing to the walls. “I like the tiger.”

I internally groan, rolling my eyes.

“Hegel, Kant, Wittgenstein?” Sam lists out, barely touching the thick stack of books by the door. “That’s some pretty heavy reading.”

“Yeah, and, uh, and Moby Dick’s bong,” Dean smirks, holding up the tall and winding bong proudly.

********

Unsurprisingly, it’s not difficult to find a van with polar bears and a woman on it. In fact, I'm fairly sure no one else has that sticker.

The van is, once more, empty when we find it, which makes it even easier for me to unlock the back door with a simple touch, pulling it open.

The stale smell of weed fills my senses, the scent sticking to the soft interior of the van, including the fur rug. A small disco ball spins from the ceiling, the sun making it glitter along the tiger painted on the wall.

“Proving myself right about this van,” I comment, looking over the interior with something between disgust and mild disturbance.

“Oh. Oh, come on,” Dean mumbles. “This is…this is magnificent, that’s what this is.”

“No, it looks like an '80s orgy threw up in here,” I correct with a sneer. There’s no way he actually likes this tacky van.

“Well, it’s not exactly a serial killer's lair, though. There’s no…clown paintings on the walls, or scissors stuck in victims’ photos,” Dean defends, gesturing to the walls. “I like the tiger.”

I internally groan, rolling my eyes.

“Hegel, Kant, Wittgenstein?” Sam lists out, barely touching the thick stack of books by the door. “That’s some pretty heavy reading.”

“Yeah, and, uh, and Moby Dick’s bong,” Dean smirks, holding up the tall and winding bong proudly.

********

The parking lot seems to go on for miles as we sit in the empty lot, the Impala smelling faintly like greasy food.

I sip on my slushie as I skim through a paper regarding Dr Jennings, the man who died, while Dean munches on taquitos, and Sam looks through his own stack of papers.

Dean groans, crushing the foil around his food a little more. “You know, one day I’d love to just sit down and eat something I didn’t have to microwave at a minimart,” he complains.

“Well, find me a proper kitchen, and I’ll cook for you,” I answer without looking up from my paper.

His crunching stops. “I might just have to marry you,” he claims, muffled with a mouth full of food.

I laugh through my nose, all airy and disbelieving his declaration. He might be the definition of “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” but he doesn’t mean it, not with me. Though that doesn’t stop my brain from conjuring up images of us married and cooking together, the kitchen soaked in warm lighting, and laughter. I want it. I crave it as much as he craves something that isn’t gas station food. But maybe neither of us can get what we want, not in this life.

“I don’t get the motive,” Sam states. “I mean, the doctor was squeaky clean. Why would Andy waste him?”

“‘No idea,” I answer, finally putting my paper down, which supported exactly what Sam said: Dr. Jennings was an innocent man. “You know, for someone so into philosophy, he sure has no problem breaking ethics.”

“If it is Andy,” Dean corrects.

“Dude, enough,” Sam groans, rolling his eyes.

“What?”

“The doctor was mind-controlled in front of a bus. Andy just happens to have the power of mind control. You do the math,” Sam reasons. And he’s kind of got a point; for now, Andy is our only suspect.

“I just don’t think the guy's got it in him, that’s all,” Dean defends.

“Well, how the hell would you know?” Sam spits. “I mean, why are you bending over backwards defending him?”

“‘Cause you’re not right about this,” he answers.

“About Andy?” Sam asks quickly.

Suddenly, there’s a thud behind me, and Andy leans his head into the open back window. “Hey!” he shouts. “You think I haven’t seen you three? Why are you following me?”

“Well, we’re lawyers,” Sam explains calmly. “See, a relative of yours has passed aw—“

“Tell the truth!” Andy shouts.

“That’s what I’m—“

“We hunt demons,” Dean blurts out.

Wide eyed I whip my head towards him, “Dean!” I exclaim. “He’s joking!” I lie, twisting around to tell Andy directly.

“Demons and spirits,” Dean continues anyway. “Things your worst nightmares—“ I twist back around and lean over to cover Dean's mouth with my hand.

“Please, stop speaking,” I whisper.

“I’m trying,” Dean answers, his voice muffled by my hand. “He’s psychic, kind of like you, Sam. Well, not really like you, but see, he thinks you’re a murderer, and he’s afraid that he’s going to become one himself, ‘cause you’re all a part of something that’s terrible,” he rushes out, unfazed by my attempts to quiet him. “And, I hope to hell that he’s wrong, but I’m starting to get a little scared that he might be right.”

“Okay, you know what?” Andy starts, his voice suddenly dropping down to something deep and distorted. “Just leave me alone.”

“Okay,” Dean exhales.

“Alright?” he repeats before he stands straight and walks away.

I let my hand fall from Dean's mouth, studying his face with careful eyes as his fingers press into his head.

“Are…are you okay?” I ask, my gaze jumping around his features with worry. “Frick, I—I really should’ve stopped him. I could’ve stopped him, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head like that’s the last thing on his mind. “I’m alright, sweetheart. ‘Just freaky,” he answers, brushing my concern off. Then he nods behind me, towards where Sam is already trailing after Andy.

I nod, “Stay here or a safe distance away.” I get out of the car, following after the two.

“What are you doing? Look, I—I said leave me alone,” Andy presses, his voice once more dropping down into that almost demonic sound. “Alright? Get out of here, just start driving and never stop.”

“Doesn’t seem to work on us, Andy,” Sam says calmly.

“What?” Andy exclaims, though I’m not sure what there’s not to get.

“You can make people do things, can’t you? You can tell them what to think,” Sam continues.

I hear the sound of a car door closing, and I know immediately that Dean didn’t listen to my advice.

“Look, tha—“ Andy laughs, “That’s crazy.”

“You don’t have to lie to us,” I reason.

“It all started about a year ago, didn’t it?” Sam asks. “After you turned twenty-two. Little stuff at first, and then you got better at controlling it.”

“How do you know all this?” he asks, softer now.

“Because the same thing happened to me, Andy. My mom died in a fire, too. I have abilities too. You see, we’re connected, you and me.”

He shakes his head, momentarily squeezing his eyes shut. “You know what? Just—just—just—just get out of here, alright?!”

“Why did you kill the doctor? Why did you tell him to walk in front of a bus? What did he do to you?” I ask, rapidly

“What?” he exhales. “Why do you keep saying I killed someone?!”

Sam sucks in a sharp breath beside me, his head twitching and his eyes shutting. “Why did you kill him?” Sam asks too, but it seems like he’s a million miles away.

I put a hand on his arm, trying to steady him while whatever is happening to him happens.

“I didn’t!” Andy shouts.

Sam puts his hands on his head, cradling his head while he sways. Then, suddenly, he goes limp, leaning all his dead weight onto me. Dean appears at my side in a millisecond, catching Sam before he takes me down with him.

“Sam? What is it?” Dean asks, lowering him gently to the asphalt.

“Look, I didn’t do anything to him,” Andy defends, hands up in surrender.

“No one said you did!” I reply, kneeling next to Sam.

“A woman,” Sam answers, his eyes still closed. “A woman burning alive.”

“Where?” I ask softly.

“A gas station, a woman is gonna kill herself,” he answers, relaying his vision as best as he can.

“What does he mean, going to? What is he—what is—“

“Shut up!” Dean barks at Andy.

“She gets triggered by a call on her cell,” Sam adds, brown eyes fluttering open.

“When?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know,” he answers as he sits up, hand rubbing his head. Immediately, Dean is on it, helping him get back to his feet. “But as long as we keep our eyes on this son of a bitch he can’t hurt her.”

“I didn’t hurt anybody,” Andy mutters, eyes wide and frantic.

“Yeah, not yet,” Sam remarks.

Suddenly, a red truck soars past, sirens blaring sharply. “Go,” Sam orders his brother quickly. And without hesitation, Dean runs back to the Impala, quickly wiping it out of the parking lot to follow after the firetruck.

Andy steps forward, trying to brush past us, but Sam stops him before he can get far, putting his hand on his chest. “No, not you. You’re staying here with us.”

“Might even clear your name,” I mumble beneath my breath.

********

Dean arrived on scene quickly and shortly after that, called to inform us that Sam’s vision had already happened; no head start this time.

“It might be time to start making friends with him,” I remark, nodding towards the man in question.

Andy can’t be the killer when he was right in front of us the entire time. He wasn’t even on his phone.

“We did kind of accuse him of being a murderer,” Sam points out, glancing over at the curb where Andy sits.

“Does this mean I'm breaking the news that we were wrong?”

“Yes,” Sam answers quickly, smiling sheepishly.

“Great,” I mutter, dragging my feet a little as we saunter over to him. He looks up at us expectantly, which somehow makes this worse. “Okay…well, turns out you are in fact not the killer, so…yay,” I say awkwardly.

“I told you,” he answers bitterly.

“Yeah…” I nod, sucking air through my teeth while I rock on the balls of my feet. “Sorry about all that.”

He looks between us, contemplating my apology. “This whole thing is weird,” he replies, and it feels like a win.

Sam takes a seat next to him on the curb, shrugging, “Welcome to our life.”

“So…you get these premonitions of people about to die?” Andy asks him, earning a nod. “That’s impossible.”

Sam laughs, head tilted back slightly. “You should see what she can do,” he nods towards me.

“What? Are you like us?” he asks, a certain sparkle in his eye. He found someone who was like him. I wonder if I’d feel the same way if I met someone like me.

“No, uh, something else,” I answer, plopping down on the ground in front of them, hugging my knees to my chest. “But, you know, mind control seems like a pretty impossible thing too.”

“But…death visions,” he reiterates, looking at Sam.

“Yeah,” he exhales.

“Dude, that sucks. I mean, like, when I got my mind thing? It was like a gift, you know, it was…it was like I won the Lotto,” he gushes, his face brightening.

“But you still live in a van,” Sam clocks. “I don’t get it, I mean, you could have anything you ever wanted.”

“I mean I…I got everything I need,” he shrugs.

“So you’re really not a killer, huh?” Sam mutters.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Andy laughs.

“That’s good,” he smiles. “‘Means there’s hope for both of us.”

“Which, I told you,” I point out just as the familiar rumble of the Impala pulls near. The black car pulls up a couple of feet away, the three of us rising to our feet in near synchronization.

Dean gets out of the car, pocketing his keys and giving Sam and me a once-over. “‘Victims name was Holly Backett, forty-one, single,” he informs.

“Who is she?” Sam asks Andy.

“Never heard of her,” he answers.

“Called Ash on the way over here; he came up with a little something—“

“Did he also leave a message for Y/N?” Sam cuts his brother off with a smirk.

“Oh my god, could you guys stop with this?” I ask, throwing my hands up.

“Well, did you see how quick he was to do what you said?” Sam teases.

“Why are you being so annoying about this?” I grumble, recalling how Sam made a point about mimicking it and Dean's apparent bitchface, when we eventually got back to the car.

“What’s going on?” Andy asks, looking between the three of us.

“Nothing!” Dean and I say at the same time, his voice much deeper and sharper than mine.

“‘Tell you later,” Sam whispers.

“No. No, you will not be doing anything of the sort,” I lecture, arms crossing over my chest.

“He said,” Dean starts again, glaring at his brother with eyes sharp enough to kill him right then and there. “Holly Beckett, apparently, gave birth when she was eighteen years old, back in 1983. Same day you were born, Andy.”

“Andy, were you adopted?” Sam asks, focusing back on the situation at hand and not annoying Dean and I.

“Well, yeah,” he answers.

“You were? And you neglected to mention that?” Dean remarks.

“Never really came up,” he defends. “I mean I—I never knew my birth parents, and—and like you said, my adopted mom died when I was a baby—do you—do you think this Holly woman could actually be my m—“

“I don’t know. I tried to get a copy of the birth records, but they’re hard copy only, sealed in the county office,” Dean informs, voice all serious and straightforward.

“Whelp, that’s never stopped us before,” I shrug.

********

Light from the hall filters through the blinds, casting lines of shadows across the vinyl floor and rows of filing cabinets.

The metal table in front of me is covered in large brown boxes filled with vanilla folders, neatly written names captured in the tabs sticking out like a hand raised to the sky, saying, “pick me.” My finger trails over said names, eyes tracing the script for the one.

“Probably shouldn’t have left you kids in here,” the grey-haired security guard speaks up, lingering by the doorway.

“No, it’ll all be fine. Alright?” Andy answers calmly, putting his arm around the round man. “Just go get a cup of coffee,” he tells him.

The guard nods, eyes lidded and dazed as he trails down the hall to what I can only imagine is the break room.

“These aren’t the ‘droids you’re looking for,” Andy declares, quoting something that makes Dean grin ear to ear. Maybe I should make more film references.

“I got it,” Sam declares, nose buried in the folder.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, raising his hands back to stretch his shoulders.

“Yeah. Andy, it’s true,” he reveals, looking straight at him. “Holly Beckett was your mother.”

“Huh,” Andy exhales, hand absentmindedly searching behind him. “Does anyone have a Vicodin?” he asks, leaning back against the doorframe.

“Dr. Jennings was her doctor too, I mean, he oversaw the adoption,” Sam adds. “You have a solid connection to both of them.”

“Yeah, but I—I didn’t kill them,” he mutters, repeating himself for the upteenth time today.

“We know, it’s okay,” I answer softly.

“But, uh, who did?” Dean asks, scratching the side of his head.

“I think I got a pretty good guess,” Sam replies. “Holly Beckett gave birth to twins.”

********

For the last 15 minutes, Andy has, more or less, been in the same position, his elbows resting on his knees as he holds his head in both hands, staring right at the floor. “I have an evil twin,” he mumbles, eyes wide in shock.

“Holly put you and your brother up for adoption. And you went to the Gallagher family, obviously, and your brother went to the Weems family from upstate,” Sam informs, pacing with the folder in his hands.

“We’re the Weems bad people? Is he jealous of what you have?” I ask, thinking about each possibility out loud. “I mean sure he could be angry he was put up for adoption, but to be driven to murder? I don’t get it.”

“Andy, how you doin’?” Dean asks, arms crossed against his chest as he leans against a printer. “Still with us?”

“Um. What was my brother's name?” he asks, timidly, finally looking up from the floor.

“Ansen Weems,” Sam answers, reading from his folder. “And he’s got a local address.”

“He—he lives here?” he stammers, face a little pale.

“Let’s get a look at him,” Dean suggests, twirling around to a computer. “Got his picture coming off from the DMV…right now.”

The printer whorls, groaning and sputtering before it spits out a couple of papers. Dean pulls them out swiftly, eyebrows shooting all the way up. “Hate to kick you while you’re freaked,” he mutters. “Take a look at that.”

********

The Impala rolls down the dark road, Sam back in shotgun and Andy sharing the back seat with me. “Alright, Andy, tell us everything you know about this guy,” Sam directs.

“Well, I mean, not much I…Weber shows up one day, eight months ago?” he starts. “Acting like he’s my best friend in the world. Kinda weird, like, trying too hard, you know?”

“Must have known you guys were twins,” Dean figures. “Why did he change his name? Why not just tell you the truth?”

“Maybe he was scared to see how’d you react,” I guess.

“No idea,” he exhales.

Sam groans loudly, his palms pressed into his eyes.

“Sam?” Dean calls, stealing a glimpse of his brother.

Then he’s yelling, pulling on the doorhandle frantically.

“Sam? Sam! Sam!” Dean shouts, bringing the car to an immediate stop.

Sam shoves open his door, leaning out and taking great big gulps of air. I hop out of the car, my heart racing in my chest. Dean meets me by his brother in seconds, kneeling and grabbing his shoulders. “Hey. Hey!” he says, eyes wide and jumping along his face.

**********

“Dean, you should stay back,” Sam suggests as we stand over the trunk of the Impala. His vision had led us here: to the entrance of a bridge where Weber would kill Tracy.

“No argument here,” he puts his hands up in surrender. “Had my head screwed with enough for one day.”

“Are you actually gonna listen this time?” I question, taking a handgun from Sam. The weight is familiar in my hand though I doubt I’ll be using it.

“I will,” he nods, holding up his pinkie for me. A smile spreads across my face, he remembered. I lift my own hand up, happily interlocking my pinkie with his. “Just, uh, be safe” he adds softly,

“Always,” I whisper, my finger dropping from his.

Sam meets my eyes as I turn to meet him, nodding in silent confirmation as to say he was ready. I nod too, falling into step with him.

“Wait! I’m coming with you!” Andy shouts, stepping in front us.

“Andy, no,” Sam shakes his head.

“If it’s Tracy out there…then I’m coming,” he declares.

“Just stick by one of us,” I answer for both of us. He nods quickly, moving out of the way to let us continue walking.

It doesn’t take us long to spot the only car pulled off to the side of the bridge, our steps slowing just slightly.

Through the windshield I can see the crazed, sadistic, sparkle in Weber's eyes as he says something to the crying blonde beside him. Her body is shaking as tears stream down her face, her hands shaking as she slowly unbuttons her shirt. This son of a bitch.

Sam nods at me with a snarl that matches my own, our guns pointed on the piece of shit of a man ahead of us. We split as we stalk closer, Sam taking Weber's side as I creep towards the passenger side for Tracy, Andy right on my heels.

Bang.

The back windshield shatters, distracting Weber just enough for Sam to yank open the driver side door, his gun pointed right at his face. “Get out of the car! Now!” he shouts.

“You really don’t want to do this,” Weber says in a deep and distorted voice.

I put my gun down, tucking it into the back of my shorts just as Sam backhands Weber hard enough to make the corner of his eye bleed.

I pull open the car door, Andy nearly shoving me to the side as he frantically says, “Tracy! Come here, come here, come here. It’s okay.”

“Andy! I can’t! I couldn’t control myself,” Tracy sobs, hands paused on a button, her pale skin peaking out from beneath.

“It’s okay,” I say softly, nudging Andy out of the way. “I’m going to put my hand on your head, okay?” I tell her, not wanting to freak her out more.

“Okay,” she sniffles.

“What are you doing?” Andy asks.

“Shh,” I shush, carefully lowering my hand to the side of her head. “Go to Sam,” I direct him. He nods, lingering for a moment longer before he’s rounding the car to aid him in subduing Weber.

Energy flows from me, finding the whispered echoes bouncing around her mind. It’s dark and angry; a rough, gravely voice that commands the same thing over and over: a list of instructions for her to undress, have sex with Weber, and then kill herself by taking a dive off the bridge. I latch onto it, pulling it back onto myself.

I pull away from her mind with a gasp, stumbling backwards slightly as I blink repeatedly. But then she’s sobbing again, hand clenched to her mouth. I offer her my hand, and immediately she grips onto it like a lifeline. I nod, helping her from the car. She hunches over, hugging herself as sobs continue to rock her body. I help her lean against the car before I hold out both palms of my hands, making a folded, soft blanket materialize on top of them.

I unfold it quickly, purple sparkles still lingering in the air as I wrap it around her shoulders.

“No!” Sam suddenly shouts. “No, Andy, let me handle this, alright?”

“One second,” I whisper to the poor girl, leaving her side to see what the hell the boys were doing.

There, on the pavement, Weber lies on the floor with duct tape over his mouth, blood dripping from the corner of the sticky material.

“I’m gonna kill you!” Andy shouts while Sam holds him back.

“No! I’ll handle this. I’ll handle this!” Sam yells back.

“I will kill you!”

“Andy! Listen to me! Listen to me!”

I kneel down, grabbing Weber's jaw roughly. I yank his head the other way, forcing his gaze away from Tracy. “Eyes here, ‘you piece of shit,” I spit.

His eyebrows go up and then scrunch inwards like he can’t make out what to do.

Thump.

I stand quickly, looking towards the sound. Sam’s on the floor, Tracy standing over him with a plank of wood.

“Tracy, stop!” Andy yells. “I said STOP—“

“Both of you!” I shout, throwing my hand out. A wave of shimmery purple light slams into the two men, shoving them a couple of feet backwards. “This mind control thing is getting really annoying!”

Both boys pull themselves to their feet, Weber ripping off his duct tape. He rubs his cheek, rolling his jaw around.

“How did you do that?” Andy asks, pointing at me.

“None of your concern,” I answer, fed up.

“And how did you do that?” he asks, this time turning to his brother.

“Practice, bro. If you’d just practice, you would know. Sometimes you don’t need to use your words. If you have to,” Weber answers, tapping his forehead, “all you need is this. Sometimes the headaches are worth it.”

“You’re a twisted son of a bitch!” Andy spits, lunging towards his twin.

“Back off, Andy. Or Tracy’s gonna do a little flying,” he teases. Andy rips himself away from Weber, hands up in defense as he turns over his shoulder to find Tracy. His face drops.

“Aren’t you, Trace?” he continues to mock. “I’m stronger than you. I can do it.”

“Yeah, but maybe not stronger than me,” I declare, fists clenched at my side.

“What?” he utters, finally looking over.

Tracy isn’t by the ledge like she was directed. Instead, she’s exactly where she was standing before, over Sammy. Frozen.

“And you’ll find that you’re unable to move too,” I inform. He looks down at his feet, arms jerking as he wills himself to move. “Which is as generous of an offer as you’ll get from me today because after the stunt you pulled, I really feel like castrating you.”

He grunts as he turns his sharp gaze to me. “Oh, yeah, the whole mind thing doesn’t work on me. And, Andy, if you don’t play nice either I’ll freeze you too,” I warn.

“It’s—it’s all wrong!” Weber roars. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, it’s just…Tracy? She’s trying to come between us.”

“You’re insane,” Andy spits, circling his brother.

“She’s garbage! Man, they all are!” he rants. “We can—we can push them, we can make them do whatever we want!”

“You can’t play God,” I say.

“Are you really…are you really this stupid?” Andy exclaims. “Is it—?”

“Wha—“

“I mean, you—you learn you’ve got a twin, you call him up, you go out for a drink, you don’t start killing people!”

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, bro. But he didn’t let me,” Weber reasons. “He said I had to wait until the time was..”

“Who?”

“The man with the yellow eyes,” Weber answers.

I groan. “This demon really needs to get a life,” I mumble.

“What are you two talking about?!” Andy exclaims, looking between us.

“Long story—“

“He came to me. In my dream,” Weber explains, eyes frantic. “He said I was special. He told me he’s got big plans for me. Wait ‘till you see what’s in store, Andy, for both of us! See, he’s the one who told me that I had a brother. A twin.”

Then, Weber’s head snaps to the side, eyes locking in on something. I follow his gaze into a wooded area, a figure crouched down.

“I see you,” he says. “Bye-bye.”

Dean. It’s Dean. He’s turning the rifle in his hands up, tucking the barrel under his chin.

“No!” I scream, moving before I can think.

Bang.

I collapse onto Dean, the gun thumping to the grass beside us. His arms wrap around my waist, holding me to his chest as he sits up, taking me with him.

I peer over my shoulder, looking through the shrubbery to see Weber face down on the dark bridge where I once stood. Andy stands behind his collapsed body, gun shaking in his hand.

Sirens whirl and whine; police cars and ambulances stagnant as they observe the scene. The yellow caution tape sections us off, placing us in our own bubble of blood soaked asphalt and a sun that still twinkles on the water below as if pain doesn’t exist on the bridge above. But the sun has always been more forgiving than any human being, always rising the next day like clockwork. So, maybe I can take a page from her book and stop glaring at Dean with a jaw that won’t unclench.

“You lied,” I mumble, gaining his sole attention. He puts his back to his brother, giving us our own temporary cautioned tape bubble. “You pinkie promised, and you broke it,” I add bitterly, unable to care if I sound childish because he made a promise in a way he knows matters most to me.

“I didn’t break it. I kept myself a safe distance away,” he reasons, head tilted towards me to close our bubble more.

“No, you didn’t!” I exclaim, pushing at his chest. “He still…” I glance over at the paramedic who’s taking care of Sam’s shoulder near us. “You almost died!” I mutter, finger pressed to his chest.

“You broke the promise,” I repeat, pushing at his chest again. And, he takes it, not even flinching at my outburst. Gently, he grabs my wrists in his hand, eyes soft like he might actually feel bad.

“And you were the one who threw herself in danger's way,” he answers, voice just a little harsh. “I wouldn’t normally mind you being on top of me, but I’d prefer if that didn’t come with a bullet in your stomach.”

“Well, you scared me!” I whisper-shout, cheeks warm. “He was going to…I thought you were going to—“

His fingers nudge my fist open, pressing my palm flat against his chest, over his heart. It thumps steadily beneath my hand, his chest rising and falling with each quiet breath. “Still here, baby,” he says.

“You’re still a jerk,” I mumble, meeting his eyes. “And mean. And an idiot.”

“Mhm,” he hums, chest vibrating. Then he’s pulling me in, arms encircling me, my head tucked into him. His lips press onto the top of my head and for a moment I think maybe I did die when I ripped through the fabric of time and space to put myself between Dean and the gun.

The gravel crunches beside us, feet dragging against the broken rock. “She won’t even look at me,” Andy suddenly voices. “Oh…doesn’t look like you’re having the same problem.”

I pull away from Dean despite my heart begging me to stay tucked into him. He doesn’t let me get far though, keeping his arm slung around my shoulder to tuck me into his side, my cheeks as warm as the sun.

“Yeah, she’s pretty shaken up,” Sam answers, mumbling a thank you to the paramedic before he walks away.

“No, it’s, this is different,” he reasons. “It’s, uh, I never—I never used my mind thing on her before last night. She’s scared of me now.”

I’d tell him it gets easier, but then I’d be lying to him. To see the way someone’s face changes when they find out what you are is like an ebbing darkness that swallows your heart, tearing at the muscle from the inside. It’s like a betrayal, except they aren’t really doing anything to you. Still, getting stabbed, or getting hit by a car, or having a broken vertebrae doesn’t hurt nearly as much as seeing someone you love suddenly despise you. It’s exactly why my friend group is so small, why it always has been.

“You said you guys were a thing before. If she still cares for you—loves you—I think she’ll come around,” I say with hope. It may not get easier but that doesn’t stop us from looking for another solution, which must exist as long as we continue to breathe.

“Hey, Andy, I hate to do this, but um, we have to get out of here,” Sam cuts in with a tight lipped smile. “I wrote down my cell. You don’t have to be alone in this, alright? If anything comes up, just call me up.”

“Wha—What am I supposed to do now?” Andy asks, looking down at the small piece of paper.

“You be good, Andy,” Dean answers. “Or we’ll be back.”

He stares after us as we walk away, that wonder that was in his eyes yesterday now just barely a twinkle.

“Look like I was right,” Sam declares.

“About what?” Dean asks.

“Andy. He’s a killer after all,” he decides.

“No, he’s a hero. He saved his girlfriend’s life, he kind of saved my life,” Dean defends.

“Bottom line, last night, he wasted somebody,” Sam reiterates.

“Yeah, but he’s not a foaming at the mouth psycho. He was just, he was pushed into that,” he reasons.

“Weber was pushed too, in his own way,” Sam adds.

“Was he?” I ask. “He was manipulated to an extent, sure, but he had no reason to kill—he gained nothing. He justified his kills because in his demented mind he thought others were out to get him by particularly getting between him and his brother when in reality no one was doing anything. It’s a delusion of persecution.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Dean nods. “All that. Exactly.”

“My point is under the right circumstances, everyone’s capable of murder. Everyone,” Sam elaborates. “You know, maybe that’s what the demon’s doing. Pushing us. Finding ways to break us.”

“Sam, we don’t know what the demon wants, okay?” Dean exclaims. “Quit worrying about it.”

“You know, I heard you before, Dean, when Andy made you tell the truth. You’re just as scared of this as I am,” Sam points out.

“That was mind control!” Dean shouts, arms thrown up. “I mean, it’s like—like—that’s like being roofied, man, that doesn’t count.”

“What?”

“I feel like being mind controlled to tell the truth makes it count 10 times more,” I reason, just as confused as Sam is.

“No. I’m calling do-over,” Dean declares, chin raised.

“What are you, seven?” the younger Winchester scoffs.

“Doesn’t matter,” he brushes off. “Look, we’ve just gotta keep doing what we’re doing, find that evil son of a bitch and kill it.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam mumbles.

********

The Roadhouse is barren in the daytime, like the hunters are vampires who only come out at night—how ironic. But, Ellen called and so we came. Though, it’s probably best that it’s just us in the bar based on the stern look the older woman is giving us.

“Jo?” Ellen starts.

“Hm?”

“Go pull up another case of beer,” she directs, clearly trying to remove her daughter from hearing our conversation.

“Mom…” she groans.

“Now. Please,” she says sternly. I get why Dean is kind of scared of her, she’s certainly a badass and not someone I ever want to mess with.

Once Jo is completely out of sight Ellen leans on the bartop, studying us further. “So, you want to tell me about this last hunt of yours?” she asks in a way that tells us she wasn’t actually asking but rather telling us.

“No. Not really,” Dean answers. “No offense, it’s just kind of a family thing.”

“Not anymore,” she announces, producing a tall stack of papers she got from beneath the bar. An audible thump coming from the paper landing. “I got this stuff from Ash. Andrew Gallagher’s house burnt down on his six month birthday, just like your house. You think it was the demon both times, don’t you? You think it went after Gallagher’s family?”

“Yeah, we think so,” Sam gives up.

“Sam…” Dean warns.

“Why?” Ellen challenges.

“None of your business,” Dean spits.

“You mind your tongue with me, boy,” she snaps, pointing at him. “This isn’t just your war. This is war. Now, something big and bad’s coming and it’s coming fast, and their side holds all the cards. Now, at best, all we got is us. Together. No secrets or half-truths here.”

“There are people out there, like Andy Gallagher, like me,” Sam spills easily, almost as if it was killing him to not say so sooner. “And um…we all have some kind of ability.”

“Ability?” she echoes.

There’s a buzzing in my ears. I know how this goes. We’ll have to run.

“Yeah. Psychic ability,” he clarifies, somehow still going. Is his heart not beating out of his chest? Can he not feel the target sign he’s painting on his forehead? “Me, I have, um, I have visions. Premonitions. I don’t know, it’s…it’s different for everybody. The demon said he had plans for people like us.”

“What kind of plans?”

“We don’t really know for sure,” he answers honestly. He’s being so honest.

“These people out there, these psychics—they dangerous?” she asks, looking at him carefully. There it is. Always ready to attack.

“No. Not all of them,” Dean answers.

“But some are,” Sam adds. “Some are very dangerous.”

“Okay, how many of them are we looking at?”

That’s it?

No disgust? No fear that paralyzes her? No torches being lit? No pitchforks being lifted? Does she not care? Why doesn’t she care? How is she so calm? Is she faking it? Is she making us feel secure before she gives the signal for the hunters surrounding the Roadhouse to shoot?

I don’t get it.

Why is it different now? How is he so different?

“We’ve been able to track a clear pattern so far,” Dean explains. “They’ve all had house fires on the night of the kid’s six month birthday.”

“That’s not true,” Sam corrects.

“What?”

“Weber? Or Ansen Weems, or whatever his name is—I looked at his files, and there was no house fire. There’s nothing out of the ordinary,” he explains.

“Which breaks pattern,” Ellen recognizes. “So if there’s any others like him, there’d be nothing in the system. No way to track ‘em all down.”

“And so who knows how many of ‘em are really out there?” Dean echoes.

“Jo honey?” Ellen calls out.

“Yeah?”

“You’d better break out the whiskey instead.”

(Next Chapter)

A/N: This is not my favorite chapter or episode tbh, sorry if that’s evident in the writing.

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Outfit Board- Simon Said (Chapter 26)

**like always, you can ignore this if you want, you can imagine the outfits differently, change colors, whatever you want. this is just how I picture it and we can have totally different interpretations and styles!!**

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What? Okay first tag thang hello!

Name: Nina

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Crush Initials: No crush here

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We hit 300 followers….erm what the freak chat. Thank you!! That’s crazy. Big crazy wow

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The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: Visiting Mary’s grave breaks open another hunt, and regret.

Warnings: Cannon violence and gore, angst (but with some comfort), grief, death

Word Count: 12.8k

Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things

(Masterlist, Prev. Chapter, Outfit)

The Impala speeds down the empty road, nothing but flat lanes on either side of us and the relentless August sun that the black car soaks up. 

  “Come on, Sam, I’m begging you,” Dean groans. “This is stupid.”

  I prop my arm on the door, my head resting in my hand, letting the wind whip at my face. The sun caresses my face as if it’s about to tell me a secret, maybe something about how she’s so gentle and harsh at the same time. Or, the answer to how Dean somehow complains more than I do. Regardless of what she may spill, I push up Dean's sunglasses further up my nose.

  “Why?” Sam asks, scuffing.

  “Going to visit Mom’s grave?” he answers. “She doesn’t even have a grave; there was no body left after the fire.”

  “She has a headstone,” Sam retorts. 

  “Yeah, put up by her uncle, a man we’ve never even met,” Dean retorts. That explains why we’re going to Illinois instead of Kansas; maybe their mystery uncle lives there. “So you wanna go pay respects to a slab of granite put up by a stranger? Come on.”

  “It’s more about honoring her and mourning than a headstone or a grave,” I add my two cents.

  “It’s about her memory,” Sam adds.

  “I think it’ll be good for both of you, to be honest,” I consider, earning a mumbled grumble from Dean. I bet he wishes I would agree with him instead of Sam.

  “And after Dad it just…just feels like the right thing to do,” Sam includes carefully. It’s a very touchy subject.

  “It’s irrational, is what it is,” Dean argues, scuffing.

  “Look, man. No one asked you to come,” Sam defends.

  “Why don’t we swing by the roadhouse instead?” Dean suggests. “I mean, we haven’t heard anything on the demon lately. We should be hunting that son of a bitch down. 

  “That’s a good idea, you should go. Just drop me off, I’ll hitch a ride, and I’ll meet you there tomorrow,” Sam answers. 

  “Right,” Dean laughs. “Stuck…stuck with those people, making awkward small talk and watching Ash try and flirt with Y/N again? No thanks.”

  “Wait, what?” I exclaim. “When was Ash flirting with me?”

  “He said you smelled good,” Dean answers, his voice somewhere between bored and unamused.

  “I thought that was just a weirdly worded compliment,” I defend. I didn’t think Ash was interested in me at all.

  “Yeah, that compliment was flirting,” he grumbles.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, head tilting to catch the side of his face rather than the back of his head.

  “Very,” he confirms, eyes stuck on the road ahead.

  “Huh,” I hum, going back to looking out the window. 

  “Wh—What do you mean ‘huh’?” Dean asks, suddenly sitting up straighter as he looks at the rear view mirror.

  “I just didn’t realize he was,” I answer, shrugging. I didn’t mean anything by my ‘huh’ like he’s making it seem.

  “You…” he adjusts his hold on the steering wheel, wetting his lips. “‘You interested in him?”

  I catch the smug smirk on Sam’s face and the pointed look he gives his brother before he goes back to looking out the window like he’s not there. 

  Finally, I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror. Was that…worry in his eyes? That doesn’t make sense. “Uh…not really,” I answer truthfully. Someone else has my mind and heart, I want to add. 

  He nods once, a thoughtful expression gracing his face as he returns his eyes to the road. 

********

  I stand off to the side with a makeshift bouquet of wildflowers I collected before we stepped into the cemetary.

  Sam kneels before his mother's headstone: Mary Winchester, 1954-1983, carved into the granite. He’s silent as he uses his pocket knife to dig a little hole into the ground.

  I look up momentarily, making sure Dean’s still around and okay. He’s wandered off, sticking nearby but not close enough to be actively a part of the memorial. I know he’s uncomfortable with expressing most emotions, feeling like it’s a weakness rather than a naturally occurring sensation. It’s okay, though, for now it is. 

  The clink of a chain brings my attention back to Sam, who’s holding up a set of dog tags. “I think, um…” he sighs. “I think Dad would have wanted you to have these.” 

  He drops the dog tags in the little hole he made, dragging the mound of dirt over it. He pats it flat, staring at the changed Earth for a moment before he raises his eyes to the gravestone. “I love you, Mom,” he says softly.

  Slowly, he stands up, eyes never leaving the grave. I take a step forward, crouching down to rest the bouquet in front of the gravestone. I stand up beside him, joining him in staring at the grave while I put a comforting hand on his back, accepting the weight he leans into me. 

********

  Dean holds a sleek white card between his two fingers, a business card that some man in a suit gave him. I think it’s some sort of groundskeeper seeing as he talked to Dean right over the dead girls grave. 

  “Angela Mason,” he starts. “She was a student at the local college; the funeral was three days ago.”

  “And?” Sam questions as he starts walking towards the car.

  “And?” Dean echoes. “You saw her grave. Everything is dead around it, in a perfect circle? You don’t think that’s a little weird?”

  “It’s kind of like a fairy ring,” I point out.

  “You think it’s a fairy?” Sam deadpans.

  “I want it to be,” I shrug. “Does that count?”

  “Of course you want it to be,” Dean shakes his head.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, faking offense.

  He looks at me like the answer should be clear. “Look at you. You’re all….” he points at me, gesturing up and down. “Nice, and you dress all…you.”

  I bite back my smile as best as I can, which isn’t much at all. “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” I beam, bumping into his arm. 

  “Can you two focus?” Sam complains. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe the groundskeeper went a little agro with the pesticide.”

  “No, I asked him. I asked him,” Dean clarifies. “No pesticide, no chemicals. Nobody can explain it.”

  The circle of dead grass around the grave is far too large to be a simple gardening mistake, especially since it took out a whole tree. “So, do you have any theories of your own?” I ask. 

  “I dunno. Unholy ground, maybe?” he suggests, half shrugging. 

  “Un—“ Sam stutters, flabbergasted.

  “What? If something evil happened there, it could easily poison the ground,” Dean argues. “Remember the farm outside of Cedar Rapids?” 

  “Yeah, b—“

  “‘Could be the sign of a demonic presence. Or the…the Angela girl’s spirit, if it’s powerful enough,” he tries. Sam nods, but he’s clearly not amused as he looks away as if trying to avoid continuing the conversation. “Well, don’t get too excited, you might pull something,” Dean remarks.”

  “It’s just…stumbling onto a hunt?” Here, of all places?”

  “So?”

  “So—are you sure this is about a hunt, and not about something else?” Sam asks.

  “What else would it be about?” Dean counters.

  Sam sighs heavily, shaking his head, “You know, just forget about it.”

  “You believe what you want, Sam, but…I let you drag my ass out here, the least we could do is check this out,” Dean reasons, clearly grasping at straws.

  I’m not exactly sure if there is a hunt here because as much as the dead grass in a perfect circle is odd, Sam has a point, it is quite the coincidence to find a hunt like this. But, maybe that’s the difference between Sam and me; I can see what something is, but still let it happen, and he can’t. I can’t say which is the better option. Though if I had a little more courage, I’d probably say leaving the delusion behind sooner rather than later is for the best. 

  Still, Sam gives in. “Yeah. Fine,” he grumbles, because sometimes you have to let someone see it for themselves. Sometimes you have to play into the delusion, too, make them feel sane just for a second, so that all the other noises can turn into buzzing.   Dean nods, “Girl’s dad works in town. He’s a professor at the school.”

********

  The hallway is densely populated with students going to their next class, the new semester in full swing. So when we enter Dr. Mason’s office, it’s like walking into another world. All the life that dances in the hallway dies before this entrance. 

  Dr. Mason sits behind a desk with a distant look in his eyes. He looks disheveled between the little hair he has left being all messed up and the sagging off his face like he hasn’t slept in days, but I can’t blame him, considering he just lost his daughter. I don’t know how he’s at work at all. 

  So it feels worse to claim we were friends of Angela’s just to get information. We’ve done it before: lied to someone grieving, but it never gets easier, nor does it feel right. 

  He has a photo album out, having Sam and me look through the photos of Angela, a sad smile on his face the entire time. She was a radiant girl, that’s clear by these photos, her perfect smile beams up at us, her eyes a little squinty with the intensity of it. 

  “She was beautiful,” Sam compliments.

  “She had a really nice smile,” I add.

  “Yes, she was and she did,” Dr. Mason answers solemnly. 

  “This is an unusual book,” Dean declares, interrupting the grave mood that had settled over us. I know it’s not that he doesn’t care, but instead it’s him wanting answers, standing by a bookshelf with an old book propped open in his arms. He holds the book up to show off the cover with a triangular symbol carved into it, as well as some other symbols.

  “It’s ancient Greek,” Dr. Mason answers. “I teach a course.”

  Dean nods, lips pursed as he puts the book back on the shelf. “So a car accident, that’s…that’s horrible,” he continues. 

  “Angie was only a mile from home when, uh…” he trails off, swallowing roughly.

  I can’t imagine what it’s like to bury your child, to put them to rest in the dirt. A parent is not meant to outlive their child, to have to relive memories of them growing up and hitting every milestone, just to know that they’ll never get to see them complete another one again. I don’t know how he’s functioning in any aspect. He’s strong when he doesn’t have to be.

  “It’s gotta be hard. Losing someone like that,” Dean adds. “Sometimes it’s like they’re still around. Almost like you can still sense their presence. ‘You ever feel’ anything like that?”

  I look at him for a long time, the photobook and anything else forgotten about. This is probably the closest and the most I’ve heard Dean talk about what happened. He won’t let himself outwardly express it, let alone speak about it. And as much as I want to respect his silence, I wish he would just let it out. But, I guess now the dam has some breaks in it, and some things are bound to come loose.

  “I do, as a matter of fact,” Dr. Mason answers. 

  “That’s perfectly normal, Dr. Mason. Especially with what you’re going through,” Sam swoops in. 

  “You know, I still phone her,” he reveals. “And the phone’s ringing before I remember that, uh…Family’s everything, you know? Angie was the most important thing in my life. And now I—I…I’m just lost without her.”

  I frown, feeling the familiar ache of utter despair forming in the back of my throat. There are no words that can describe grief; you can try, but it just doesn’t work. It makes you feel utterly powerless. I didn't even know this girl, and yet I feel powerless.

  “We’re very sorry,” Sam answers softly for all of us.

********

  “I’m telling you, there’s something going on here,” Dean reiterates. “We just haven’t found it yet.”

  He’s been adamant about this all day and even more so after our meeting with Dr. Mason. He won’t let it go. It’s not that I necessarily disagree with his theory of something going on, in fairness, I’m not really here nor there on this ongoing argument. But Sam is.

  “Dean, so far you’ve got a patch of dead grass and nothing,” Sam points out.

  “Well, something turned that grave into unholy ground,” he argues back.

  “There’s no reason for it to be unholy ground. Angela Mason was a nice girl who died in a car crash. That’s not exactly vengeful spirit material. You heard her father,” Sam explains.

  “I mean that’s not totally true,” I butt in. “She could still be vengeful because of the crash.”

  Sam groans, “Tell me you aren’t on his side.”

  “I’m not on anyone’s side,” I say in defense, shrugging. 

  “Not being on a side is being on a side,” he argues, gesturing towards me with his arms fully extended.

  “No, it’s called being neutral,” I correct, shaking my head.

  “No, it’s called you’re too loyal to Dean and don’t have the heart to say that he’s wrong about this!” he counters.

  “Oh, that is so not true,” I scuff, though it doesn’t sound as convincing as I’d like it to be. 

  “You know what? We never should have bothered that poor man. We shouldn’t even be here at all,” Sam continues.

  “So what, Sam? What, we just bail without even figuring out what’s going on?” Dean questions.

  “I think I know what’s going on here,” Sam claims. “It’s the only reason I went along with you this far.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dean asks.

  “This is about Mom’s grave,” he answers.

  “That’s got nothing to do with it,” Dean scuffs, rolling his eyes. 

  “You wouldn’t step within a hundred yards of it,” he reasons. “Look, maybe you’re imagining a hunt where there isn’t one, so you don’t have to think about Mom or Dad.”

  Dean glares at him, his jaw set tightly. Sam looks up to the ceiling for a second, sighing, “You wanna take another swing? Go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “I don’t need this crap,” he spits, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of a chair and the keys off the table. 

  “Wait, where are you going?” I ask just as his hand touches the doorknob. 

  “I’m going to get a drink. Alone,”  he answers bitterly, pulling open the door and slamming it behind him.

  The door rattles on its hinges, and I’m quick to get up to follow him. 

  “He said he wanted to be alone,” Sam reminds me.

  “Too bad, so sad,” I answer, throwing a quick wave back before I slip out the door. 

  I have to run after him, he’s already close to Baby. I skid in front of him before he can try to unlock the car. I smile at him, my hands behind my back on the car handle.

  “Move,” he grumbles, “…please.”   “No, sorry,” I answer.

  “I really don’t wanna talk about it,” he says sternly, his shoulders tense, and his face frozen in annoyance. He already knows what I’m here for.

  “Okay,” I say softly. “We don’t have to talk, just let me come with you.”

  “You don’t like drinking,” he points out.

  “I’ll drink with you,” I shrug, not really thinking about it.

  His eyebrow quirks as he repeats himself, “But you don’t like to drink.”

  “I drink sometimes…on occasion…a little bit,” I answer. 

  He sighs, clearly somewhat annoyed. “No, sweetheart, you don’t understand. I’m not gonna let you do something you don’t like just to make me happy.”

  Oh. A smile pulls onto my lips, my brain melting a little. “Stop being sweet,” I lecture, using whatever is left of my brain function to stay on task. “I’m trying to be here for you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “I don’t care about being alone,” he shakes his head.

  “Well, I can care enough for both of us,” I counter. 

  He looks at me for a long moment, hard eyes softening enough to let me know I’m in. He sighs, grumbling, “Fine. Get in.”

  “Yay!” I beam, before wiping the smile off my face to give a very serious nod. I slip past him, rounding the car for the passenger side with a little pep in my step. I half expected him to tell me to leave him alone, which I would’ve accepted if he really wanted me gone. 

  I get in the car and buckle up, Dean doing the same with a grumpy look on his face. “I really don’t want to talk about it so don’t try that crap with me,” he warns again, putting the car into drive. But, already, there’s less bark and bite in him.

  “Okay,” I say softly, nodding. “That’s okay.”

  He’s silent as we pull out of the parking lot, jaw clenched like he’s trying to keep something locked behind his teeth. We only make it a block away when he sighs deeply. 

  “I know you didn’t like him,” he starts.

  “You don’t like my father either,” I point out.

  His head snaps towards me. “I have ‘good reason to,” he says sharply. 

  “So do I,” I whisper, twisting in my seat. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear everything.”

  He frowns, eyes back on the road. His lips twitch like he’s holding back what he wants to say. This is hard for him, I know it is, which is why I never want to push him. 

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s perfectly okay, but if you do…..” I stretch out the word, “I’m here for you, always.”

  He nods, just a single bob of his chin. There’s something unreadable in his green eyes, something I want to learn and unpack. He swallows roughly, running a hand down his face. “It’s my fault he’s dead,” he claims, his voice wavering just slightly.

    The car slows to a stop on the side of the road, his palms pressing into his eyes, his throat bobbing. He doesn’t want me to see him cry. Like I care. I unbuckle myself, sitting on my knees as I scoot closer to him. “Don’t say that,” I answer softly, a hand going to his wrist. 

  “It’s true,” he continues, voice breaking. “Don’t tell me it isn’t when I know it is.” He removes his hands from his eyes by himself, his green eyes glossy, and his eyelashes wet. “I should be dead, not him.”

  “No, no,” I mumble, shaking my head while it feels like someone lodged a dagger into my heart. “Don’t say that, baby, that’s not true.”

  A flash of hurt passes over his features like he just got hit by something, and he nods. “It is. It is,” he repeats. “I made a full recovery; it was a miracle. And then five minutes later, my Dad's dead and the Colt is gone.”

  I clench my hands tightly, nails biting my palm. He swallows roughly before he continues, “I know you’ve made that connection already. Sam had a point before, you don’t have the heart to tell me the truth about that kind of shit.”

  He’s right. He’s right, and I wish he weren’t. Of course, I knew. I knew the moment John died. I know he died so that Dean could live, and as messed up as it is, I’m glad that he did. 

  “I was supposed to stay dead, there’s no other way around it,” he reiterates, shoving the dagger deeper into my heart.

  “No,” I shake my head, moving through the break in my voice. “We would’ve found a way. I would’ve found a way, I was close.”

  “Yeah, close to killing yourself,” he scuffs. “Sam told me what happened, you passed out.”

  “I don’t care, I was—”

  “I care!” He cuts me off. “It would’ve been the same thing, you dying so I could live. That’s not any better, ‘not a fair deal.”

  Still, I shake my head. I can’t accept this. I can’t. I won’t. I swallow back my tears, trying to be strong for him. But tears are streaming down his face, and it makes it that much harder. I reach out, cupping his cheeks to brush them away. “I’m glad you’re alive even if you don’t feel that way. I’m sorry you do. I’m sorry that you’ve been put in an impossible situation.”

  He grabs my wrists, hands wrapping around them, but not pulling me away. There are no words to make this right, or to make him feel better. I wish there were. I hate that he feels this way. It hurts. “Fuck survivors guilt,” I laugh through unshed tears. I swallow them down again, vision almost blurry, “I’m so glad you’re alive, sometimes I think it's a dream, like my brain is trying to make me feel better by convincing me that you’re still around, and…and if it is, I hope I never wake up. I don’t want to live in a world that you’re not in.”

  His eyes close tightly, tears that had collected in his eyelashes falling, his thumbs pressing into the pulse of my wrists. “Don’t say that,” he mumbles, opening his eyes.

  “Say what?” I retort, brushing away his tears without a second thought. “That you’re so important to me that I’d rather let the sun burn out than lose you.”

  His lips part, breath stuttering. His eyes are wide, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. “C’mere,” he says softly. Then all at once, his hands fall from my wrists to my hips, lifting me onto his lap without a grumble, my knees on either side of him. His head falls to my collarbone, my hands moving to the back of his head and his back. His shoulders jerk forward, a choked noise mumbled into my skin.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, running my fingers through the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. His arms are wrapped around me entirely, like he’s trying to prevent me from going somewhere. But I’m not leaving him, I don’t care that my neck is wet or that his grip is firm. I don’t want to be anywhere else.

  “It’s okay. I have you,” I continue whispering.

 I know he thinks expressing emotions makes him weak. So, I wish that for just one moment, he could see himself through my eyes and see how incredible he is. I can’t think of a better word for it, though I think there isn’t one that can perfectly encapsulate him. He’s beyond any feeble word; he’s the rising sun, the growing evergreen, and the strong gusts of wind that keep the world moving. He keeps me moving.

  “You know, life does this funny thing with you in it. I don’t know how or why but it gets all sunny, light brimming at the edges like a perfect frame—even when it’s stormin’ or it’s midnight,” I babble, voice breaking slightly. 

  I don’t know what I’m saying—that’s not true, I do.

I know what I’m saying but I don’t know why—that’s not true either.

But I might be spilling my guts, a confession sewn into each syllable like a patchwork blanket, hidden in trying to say anything to comfort him. It’s not anything, it’s the truth spewing from my lips like syrup spilling from a maple tree, and I can’t help myself. 

  “It’s okay,” I mumble over and over until I can convince myself, and, maybe, him too.

********

  It took some time for him to stop crying, for the sobs to turn to a sniffle. Even then, it took a while longer for him to finally pull away, an embarrassed look on his face as he let me slip off his lap and into the passenger seat. He let me hold his hand as he drove, though “let me” is a strong word considering it was his hand reaching for mine. 

  Now, he’s checking his face in the side mirror before we head into—not the bar as he made it out to seem, but to Angela’s home, which was apparently his plan all along.

  His eyes are a little puffy, but considering we’re breaking in, it should be the least of his worries. No one would see him anyway, so there’s nothing for him to worry about. No one will know that this macho man is human. 

  I pull on his hand, “Come on, you look perfect. Very hardcore and cool like always.”

  There’s a smug little smirk on his face as he straightens and lets me pull him onto the sidewalk, his body hitting mine. “You’re right, I am cool,” he declares. 

  “Yeah, you are, you dork,” I smile softly, trying not to laugh. 

  Then his eyes drop to my neck, his thumb coming up to brush my collarbone lightly. My heart erupts in my chest, getting stuck in my throat. “I messed up your shirt,” he states, finger moving over my shoulder.

  “Just a shirt,” I shrug.

  His eyes jump to mine, a crease forming between his brows. “‘You feeling okay?” he asks, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead.

  I laugh, taking a step back until he’s pulling me forward again with the hand he’s still holding. “I’m perfectly well, why?” I ask. 

  “A shirt has never been “'just a shirt” to you,” he answers, eyebrow quirked. 

  “Well, look who's been paying attention,” I tease, unable to stop myself from smiling. It’s a small thing for him to notice, and yet I want to giggle and kick my feet back and forth like I’m at a slumber party talking about my top secret crush. 

  “I always pay attention,” he replies defensively.

  “Mhm, sure you do,” I muse, leading him towards Angela’s apartment building before we get distracted in our bickering (not that I’d exactly mind that.)

  Quickly, he falls in step beside me.“I pay attention enough. When it matters,” he defends.

  “So never?” I joke, tilting my head in mock thought.

  He snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t push your luck, sweetheart,” he warns without malice.

  It’s late, and we're walking up to an apartment building we’ll be breaking into, and yet nothing has felt so right or natural. It’s not the crime aspect that feels that way; it’s his hand in mine as we walk side by side, having a stupid and quite meaningless conversation. Sometimes you’re with someone, and somehow you know nothing could ever truly be wrong or bad as long as they’re right there. I wonder if he’s feeling that now, too, or if his mind is elsewhere, still convincing himself that he shouldn’t be around. I hope it isn’t. I hope that even for just three insignificant minutes, he can be himself again, before he had to carry the extra weight of his father's death.

  He drags his hand down the bell panel of the apartment building, hitting each one in hopes someone buzzes us in.

  “That’s not gonna work,” I point out, “the chances of someone expecting someone to be coming home this late are—”

  Bzzzz.

  He pushes the door open with a cocky smirk. “You were saying?” he remarks, guiding me inside.

  “Okay, that was pure luck,” I argue, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Ain’t nothin’ I do ‘s pure luck. That’s pure skill, baby,” he boasts, head leaning towards me to rub it in. 

  “Your ego is far too big,” I reply, almost surprised by his audacity.

  His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, “Not the only thing of mine that’s “far too big.””

  I laugh nervously before I can stop myself, my face warm and my chest tight in the way it gets when I forget to breathe. My thoughts come to a stuttering halt. He starts laughing, full-on chuckling, his head thrown back.

  I shove him away, which only serves to make him laugh harder. “You…you are not allowed to speak ever again,” I stammer, quickening my steps to avoid him, and his face, and the thoughts that attack my brain.

  I don’t need to know that if he’s being serious. In fact it shouldn’t matter if he’s being serious. Why is this hallway so goddamn hot?

  I take a deep breath, trying to cool my warm face as I speed down the hallway to the last door, stopping in front of what was Angela’s apartment. 

  “It was just a joke,” he teases, leaning against the wall beside the door. His eyebrows raise in contemplation, “Well…not really.”

  I hold a hand up, not looking his way. “No speaking. Ever,” I mutter.

  He wipes the bright smile off his face, hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say, darling,” he shrugs.

  I shake my head, sighing. I ignore him, turning the doorknob, letting the lock quickly come undone. I enter slowly, hesitant to invade someone’s home even if she’s now dead. Dean closes the door softly behind us, following me into the living room.

  “Who the hell are you?!” someone screeches.

  I jump, turning around quickly to watch a girl with straight black hair and pink pajamas shut herself into a room, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared.

  “Wait, wait, wait, wait, hold on!” Dean spews, going after her.

  “I’m calling 911!” she yells from behind the door. 

  We’re so screwed.

  “I’m Angela’s cousin!” Dean shouts, thinking quickly. 

  “What?” she exhales.

  “Yeah, her dad sent me over to, uh, pick up her stuff, my name’s Alan? Alan Stanwick?” he continues. “I brought my girlfriend, Madeline with me to, you know, help with the, uh, the grief.” 

  The door creaks open, her dark eyes peeking through the crack. “Her dad didn’t say that you were coming.”

  “Well, I mean,” he answers, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “How else would I get the key to your place?”

********

  Lindsey, the girl who threatened to call the cops on us, was Angela’s roommate. She’s hunched over on the dark red couch, face in her hands as she cries, she’s been doing this for the last five minutes—she pretty much immediately started balling.

 Dean shifts beside me, throwing me a “please do something” look. I’m not exactly the fixer-upper he thinks I am, and yet I still get up to sit beside her, taking a couple tissues from the box on the table to hand to her. 

  She wipes her eyes carefully, mumbling a “sorry.”

  “Oh don’t apologize,” I shake my head. “You’re allowed to cry as much as you want to.”

  “Yeah…” Dean agrees half hardly, looking at me sideways. “So…I’m sure you got a view of Angela that none of the family got to see,” he continues, jumping to the point. “What was she like? I mean, what was she really like?”

  “She was great,” Lindsey answers through sniffles.

  “Mhm,” I hum, waiting for her to continue.

  “Just great. I mean, she was so…so…” 

  “Great,” Dean finishes for her, unamused.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” she sobs into the tissues. She’s really broken up about this, which is expected considering the death and grief we’re talking about.

  “You two must have been really close, huh?” Dean remarks.

  “We were,” she answers. “But it’s not just her, it’s Matt.”

  “Who?” he asks.

  “The boyfriend,” I answer, mostly guessing.

  “Yeah, Angela’s,” Lindsey clarifies. 

  “Right. Right, that Matt,” Dean nods, flashing me a confused and surprised look. “What about him?”

  “He killed himself last night,” she answers, voice breaking. “He cut his own throat. Who does that?”

  “He was grieving,” I reply calmly. “Maybe it was too much for him. And men tend to choose brutal or messier suicides than women.”

  “Yeah, he was taking Angela’s death pretty hard, and I guess…I mean, he’d been messed up about it for days. He was losing it,” she adds.

  “Messed up how?” Dean asks.

  “He kept saying that he saw her everywhere,” she answers, wiping the tears from her face. 

  “Well, I’m…I’m sure that that’s normal, I mean with everything he was going through,” Dean reasons. 

  “No, he said that he saw her. As in, an acid trip or something,” she clarifies.

  Well, I guess that supposed suicide is no longer a suicide but a murder. While it could still be a grief induced hallucination, in our line of work it never is. So why would she want to kill her boyfriend?

  “Did they get into a fight or something before she passed?” I ask, trying to think of any other reason she would go after her boyfriend.

  “What? No, of course not, why do you ask?” she answers a little taken-a-back. 

  “Oh, you know…. guilt-induced hallucinations," I babble, coming up with anything.   “Mhm, yep,” Dean tags on awkwardly, nodding intensely. “So, where did Matt live?”

********

  I take another sip of my caffeinated drink, trying to keep my brain awake while leaning into Dean's side.

  “If you keep your arm around me like this ‘m gonna fall asleep,” I tell him and yet make no effort to remove myself. 

He slung his arm around my shoulder the moment we got out of the car, and I’m taking advantage of it even if it’s just while we walk the short distance from the parking lot to the motel room. He’s comfortable even like this and he smells like he always does, something woodsy and a little like coffee now that’s been nursing it.

  “Fall asleep like you did in the car?” he teases with a lopsided smile. 

  “It has been a long couple of hours!” I defend, halfheartedly, knowing he was the one who woke me up just before we pulled into the motel parking lot with one of my favorite drinks on the ready. 

  “Mhm,” he hums deep in his chest. “Baby needs her beauty sleep.”

  “You’re mean,” I laugh, scoffing, moving from his side to prove a point. 

  But then he’s pulling me right back in with a laugh of his own, “Yeah?” 

  He isn’t. Not even a little bit. “Totally,” I smile, giving myself away.

  He rolls his eyes playfully, keys jingling as he tries to unlock the motel room with one hand. It gives way, the door pushing open slowly. 

  Sam moves quickly, fumbles with the remote tossing  it sideways onto the bed he sits on the edge of. He looks at us with wide eyes, a nervous line pulled onto his face. “Hey,” he exhales.

  Dean leads us inside, a needed feat as I would’ve stood frozen at the doorway looking between Sam and the TV. I still do that even as Dean removes his arm from around my shoulder, kicking the door closed behind us with raised eyebrows.

  “What?” Sam questions, looking between us.

  “Awkward,” Dean mumbles, scratching his head.

  It’s all the confirmation my brain needs to make the connection on what Sam was watching and why he was fumbling with the remote. 

  “Oh, I’m not going anywhere near these beds ever again,” I declare, keeping myself as small as possible by the door.

  “Well, where the hell have you two been?” Sam asks, forcing us to move on. 

  “Working my imaginary case,” Dean answers matter-of-factly, placing his coffee on the nightstand before he flops on his bed. He sits against the headboard, hands behind his head and boots crossed. 

  “Yeah? And?” Sam scoffs.

  “Well, you were right, I didn’t find much,” he shrugs, gaining a sympathetic nod from his brother. “Except Angela’s boyfriend died last night. Slit his own throat, but, you know, that’s normal. And, uh, let’s see, what else am I missing Y/N?”

  “He was seeing Angela everywhere before he died,” I answer, hopping on the edge of the kitchen table, letting him bask in the glory of being right and rubbing it in. 

  He snaps, pointing at me, “Right, that was it. But you know, I’m sure that’s just me transferring my own feelings.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry,” he admits, “maybe there is something going on here.”

  “Maybe?” Dean echoes. “Sam, I know how to do my job, despite what you might think.”

  “We should check out the guy’s apartment,” Sam suggests.

  “We just came from there. Pile of dead plants just like the cemetery. Hell, dead goldfish too,” he answers.

  “Poor goldfish,” I frown, repeating the same reaction I had when I saw the golden fish. “And poor plants. She’s really giving a whole new meaning to “killing everything around you.”

  “So it is unholy ground?” Sam asks

  “Maybe. I’m still not getting that powerful, angry spirit vibe from Angela,” he answers. He sits up, reaching into his jacket to pull out a little pink book. “I have been reading this, though.”

  “You stole the girl's diary?”

  “Yes he did even though I told him to put it back!” I exclaim. “But nooooo, just have to invade the girls' privacy more.”

  “It’s a good insight,” he defends himself. “And if anything, the girl’s a little too nice.”

  “Being 'too nice' is not a thing,” I argue. “Plus it’s her diary, why would she be “fake nice” to something that’s for her eyes only?”

  “That’s true,” Sam agrees. “And you say Y/N’s 'too nice' all the time and she’s not murderous.”

  “Okay, well…” Dean stammers, cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “I do not say that all the time.”

  “I know I’m like the only girl you two know but I don’t have to be used as a point of comparison,” I remark, putting my hands up in surrender.

  “You are not the only girl we know,” Sam defends, crossing his arms.

  “Dude, you were just about to watch a porno, which you had to buy, by the way, so at this point I might as well be considered the only girl you know. Or, interact with,” I argue, gesturing between him and the black TV screen. 

  His face turns red, mouth opening to release some kind of snarky defense that never comes. 

  I hop off the little table with a smirk, “Alright then, while you two act like total guys and read through a girl's diary, I’m gonna go shower and change into new clothes. Have fun…I guess.”

We wear our best smiles, or at least our most convincing ones, to speak to Neil, a good friend of Angela. 

  “I didn’t realize the college employed grief counselors,” Neil remarks with a cautious smile, keeping us on his doorstep. He looks friendly, average if anything with short dark hair and a large forehead.

  “Oh yeah, you talk, we listen,” Dean nods. “Or maybe throw in a little therapeutic collage, whatever jump-starts the healing.”

I roll my eyes internally. Sometimes I wish Dean would let someone else do the talking.

“What my coworker means to say is: the school takes grief very seriously, especially since it’s one of our own. So, we wanted to reach out to any close friends of Angela’s to make sure they’re doing well in the wake of her loss,” I reply, hopefully fixing Dean's casualness. 

  “Well, I think I’m okay. Thanks,” he shrugs, looking between the three of us. 

  “Well, you heard what happened to Matt Harrison, right?” Sam starts.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Well, we just wanted to make sure you were okay. Grief can make people do crazy things,” he elaborates, pressing him. 

  “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to him. I am,” he answers a little defensively, his pitch rising just slightly. “But if Matt killed himself, it wasn’t ’cause of grief.”

  “No? Then why?” Dean asks.

  “It was guilt. Angie’s death was Matt’s fault, and he knew it,” he replies, words sharper.

  I throw a side glance at Dean, catching him already looking at me. Did I hit this right on the nail? “Why do you think that?” I ask.

  “Well, she really loved that guy. But the night of the accident, she walked in on him with another girl. She was really torn up, that’s why she crashed the car,” he reveals, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “Look, I gotta get ready for work, so…thanks for the concern, but…seriously, I’ll be okay.”

  He gives us a tight-lipped smile as he slowly shuts the door, disappearing somewhere into his house. “Well, that vengeful spirit theory’s starting to make a little more sense,” Dean remarks as we create distance between us and Neil. “I mean, hell hath no fury.”

  “So if Angela got her revenge on Matt, you think it’s over?” Sam asks.

  “I wouldn’t think so. I mean, wouldn’t she also go after the girl he cheated on her with?” I point out. 

  “It does take two to have, you know, hardcore sex,” Dean adds, looking over at me.

  “I bet I know who he cheated with!” I announce, hitting Dean's arm lightly. “Lindsey.”

  “The roommate?” Sam asks, eyebrow quirked.

  “Uh yeah,” I answer. “Look, it’s textbook. And even if we don’t go based on that, for supposedly being her roommate and like close friend, she really didn’t have much to say about her other than “good.”

  “Great,” Dean interjects, correcting me.

  I throw him a sideways look, “Right,” I nod. “‘Point is, if my best friend died, I would be going on a whole five-hour rant about her, not simmering it down to one word.”

  “She did seem broken up about Matt,” Dean adds, pulling open the car door. 

  “Yeah, and I feel like I’ve heard enough gossip in my life to have a good enough feeling on this,” I add, getting into the backseat. “And I’ve heard some crazy things.”

  “Well, there’s one way to make sure she can’t go after someone else,” Dean points out.

  “Yeah? What’s that?” Sam muses.

  “Burn the bones,” he answers like it’s obvious.

  “Burn the bones?” Sam scoffs. “Are you high? Angela died last week!”

  “So?”

  “So, there’s not gonna be bones. There’s gonna be a ripe, rotting body in the coffin,” Sam clarifies. 

  “Oh, it’s gonna smell so bad,” I say aloud to no one in particular. “‘Putrefied corpse to make your day that much better.”

  “Since when are you afraid to get dirty? Huh?” Dean muses, smirking.

********

  Sweat drips down my spine, my chest heaving with the exertion of shoveling about six feet of dirt. No one tells you how hard it is to dig up a grave, even with three people working on it, and there’s only so much watching a hot guy can do.

  That’s not true.

  I can watch this all day: his forearms flexing, eyebrows furrowed in focus, his grey button-up tightening against his back, his black shirt sticking to his chest, and his grunts and groans. 

  It’s only very mildly distracting. I think someone should turn this into a show, close ups and all, the viewership would be through the roof. 

  I don’t know if I can say the same for me, my skin is slick with sweat, my hair lazily tossed into some updo just to get it off my neck, and my white shirt is sticking to my skin—I somehow always choose the worst tops for days we dig graves, though there’s not exactly much of a notice on these types of things.

“We should really invest in those big yellow grabby-digger things,” I propose through pants and tossing dirt out of the hole we’ve created.

  Sam pauses beside me, shovel stuck into the dirt, hands crossed over the handle. “An excavator?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I shrug. “If that’s what it’s called.”

  He goes back to digging, shaking his head at my suggestion. And then Dean stops, head tilted back slightly as he sucks in a sharp breath of cool air, “And where would we keep it, sweetheart?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, ‘shrink it down and put it in our pocket?” I answer, pausing my digging to wipe the sweat off the side of my face with a huff. 

  “‘Now you’re askin’ for two impossible things,” he replies, going back to digging.

  “Well, I like to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” I declare with a knowing smile. And as if answering the silent pray that’s on all our minds, Sam’s shovel hits something with a clunk. Quickly, and without anymore side comments, we shuffle the rest of the dirt to the side, a crisp oak casket staring up at us.

  Dean helps me out of the grave the moment he hops out himself, hand wrapping around mine while the other encircles me. He turns me around in his hold, chest nearly against my back. “Ladies first, Sammy,” he calls out from over my shoulder, looking down at the hole Sam still stands in. 

  Sam glares at us, lips pursed in a bitch face. “Hold that,” he grumbles, tossing up his flashlight. I catch it with both hands before it hits the ground, shinning the beam of light onto him.

  In the corner of my eye I can see the sharp edge of Dean’s jaw, every rise of his chest brushing my back, his exhales blowing on me. If he were anyone else I’d push him away, the body heat too much when I’m already sweating and sticky. But, he isn’t someone else so I let him stay where he is, one arm slung low around my hips, his forearm and watch on display with the way his sleeve is pushed up. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make my mind all silly and my stomach all warm.

  I quickly shoot my hand up, plugging my nose as Sam leans down with tense shoulders, pulling open the casket.

Empty. It’s empty. My hand falls to my side, freeing my nose up to inhale the smell of dirt and grass. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I deadpan, looking at the clean white bedding of the casket. “All that work for nothing?”

  “They buried the body four days ago,” Dean adds, stepping away from me to get a closer look into the grave.   “I don’t get it,” Sam shakes his head, gesturing for his flashlight.

  “Well she definitely didn’t decompose into nothingness,” I answer, handing the beaming light back to him. He crouches down, tracing the inside of the coffin with his light. “And she definitely didn’t just walk out of here,” I add.

  “Look,” Sam announces, flashlight pointed over the inside roof of the coffin, the white covering shredded, letters in a different language carved into the wood below with a triangle symbol in the middle, a line going through it while another one curves at the triangles left corner.

  “What is that?” Dean asks, hoping back into the grave to get an even closer look.

  “Oh, she might’ve actually just walked out of here,” I mumble, head tilted to the side to see the symbols better.

  “I’ve seen these kinds of symbols before,” Dean reveals, looking up at me.

  Dean’s practically running ahead with one long stride after the other. Dr. Mason wasn’t at the school so instead we’ve pulled up to his house and Dean’s been fuming the whole time; jaw set tightly in a mix of determination and agitation. He leaps up the two steps to the front door, fist raised to pound on the wooden door.

  “Dean. Take it easy, okay?” Sam warns.

  The door pulls open wide, Dr. Mason standing there with confusion. “You’re Angie’s friends, right?” he asks, looking between the three of us.

  “Dr. Mason…” Sam begins softly.

  “We need to talk,” Dean finishes for him, harshly.

  “Well, then, come in,” he answers kindly despite the attitude he’s been thrown. He steps aside, gesturing for us to come in.

  He leads us into the house straight into his home office. It’s not that much different from his office at school, there’s still a large oak desk, books around, and shelves with little antiques like vases or small statues.

  “You teach Ancient Greek. Tell me–” Dean starts, pulling a folded piece of paper from the inside of his jacket. He unfolds the paper, pressing it down onto the desk for Dr. Mason to see. “What are these?”

  He looks down at the symbols Dean copied from the grave with a crease forming between his brows. It’s a great illustration, practitcally an exact copy of the carvings we saw last night. “I don’t understand. You said this had to do with Angela,” he answers, looking at us for some sort of clue.

  “It does,” Dean insists. “Please, just humor me.”

  “They’re part of an ancient Greek divination ritual,” he finally answers. It’s quite impressive that he knows that from the top of his head, even though I know he is a college professor.

  “Used for necromancy, right?” Dean presses.

  “That’s right,” Dr. Mason confirms. But he still looks confused like he doesn’t understand where this is all going.

  “See, before we came over here we stopped by the library and did a little homework ourselves,” Dean reveals. “Apparently they used rituals like this one for communicating with the dead. Even bringing corpses back to life. Full-on zombie action.”

  “Yes. I mean, according to the legends,” Dr. Mason answers. “Now, what’s all this about?”

  “I think you know,” Dean counters.

  “Dean,” Sam warns.

  “Look, I get it. Okay?” he counties anyways. “There are people that I would give anything to see again. But what gives you the right?”

  “Dean,” Sam tries again.

  “What are you talking about?” Dr. Mason asks, taken a back. 

  “What’s dead should stay dead!” He yells. 

  “What?!”

  “Stop it!”

  “He doesn’t know anything, come on let’s leave,” I plead through the erupting madness. It’s all very quick; and yet I know through all of it that the moment Dean and I had the other night could not fix nor ease the consuming part of his brain that’s been telling him he shouldn’t be alive.

  “What you brought back isn’t even your daughter anymore. These things are vicious, they’re violent, they’re so nasty they rot the ground around them,” he continues. “I mean, come on, haven’t you seen Pet Sementary?”

  “You’re insane,” Dr. Mason utters, face struck in fear with his eyes wide.

  “He is,” I agree just to end this whole thing, “And I’m very sorry for all of this. We’ll be leaving now.” Sam nods in agreement, helping me in trying to push Dean out of the room.

  “Where is she?” he asks, dogging is head around us to look at the strucken man.

  “Get out of my house,” Dr. Mason says sternly.

  “Gladly!” I chirp over my shoulder, crowding Dean into the doorway.

  Suddenly he rips away, pushing Sam aside roughly, and side stepping me. He storms over to the Doctor, knocking the phone out of the old mans hand. “I know you’re hiding her somewhere. Where is she?!” he roars.

  “Dean! Stop, that’s enough! Dean, look!” Sam yells, grabbing fistfulls of his brothers jacket, ripping him away from the man. He points to the window where a row of small green plants are lined up. “Beautiful, living plants.”

  He shoves Dean out into the hallway, and I follow after him to make sure he’s actually leaving. He’s fuming, fists clenched tightly at his sides all the while I hear Sam apologizing profusely, and still Dr. Mason shouts down the hall, “I’m calling the cops!”   “Dean what the hell was that? You can’t just talk to someone like that,” I lecture the moment we step out of the house, quickening my steps to keep pace with him.

  “Don’t,” he bites. 

  But how can I? I knew the conversation we had the other day wasn’t going to change anything, that’s not how it works, and I knew that—I know that and yet, there was a part of me that wanted so badly to believe that I could help in some way. That I was—am—capable of saving and comforting the person who always saves me—the person who actually gives a damn. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

  It’s more about him then it is about what he said to Dr. Mason, even if it was incredibly rude. It’ll always be about him. 

  “Don’t ’don’t’ me. We need to talk about this, please,” I continue, stopping in front of him in the middle of the sidewalk. He looks at me, jaw so tense I’m worried he might crack a tooth, his green eyes are hard like stone. But I see through that stone, I can see the thing that’s clawing him apart, hidden behind his pupils.

  “You can’t keep going on like this Dean, it’s—it’s tearing you apart, and something has to give. You need to talk to us—keep talking to me, or—“ 

  “What the hell is the matter with you, Dean?” Sam shouts, coming right up to us.

  “Back off,” Dean snaps, glaring at him as he moves around me to keep storming off. If I was making progress, or getting through the storm, it's gone. The walls are up again, if not higher.

  I don’t know what to say to make this better because those words don’t exist. It feels like every time I get a little closer I’m pushed back a hundred miles. 

  “That man is innocent! He didn’t deserve that!” Sam continues to shout. 

  “Okay, so she’s not here, maybe he’s keeping her somewhere else,” Dean answers, always with his one track mind.

  “Stop it! That’s enough, okay? Enough!” he shouts, forcing his brother to stop walking. 

  “Sam, I know what I’m doing.”

  “No, you don’t. At all. Dean, I don’t scare easy, but man, you’re scaring the crap out of me,” Sam reveals. 

  I’m scared too. I’m worried I’ll wake up, or look away for too long, and he’ll be gone. Just gone. Maybe he’ll be off on the road, leaving me behind, or he’ll be dead—just gone. I don’t want to lose him, but I feel it somewhere deep in my bones. 

  “Don’t be overdramatic, Sam,” Dean scoffs. 

  “If it’s overdramatic to care about you, Dean, then yeah we are really fucking dramatic,” I answer, annoyed. For some reason I’m almost angry with him. And it’s not fair, I know that. I also know that I’m not really angry at him but rather the fact that he doesn’t believe he should be alive. And that’s not so fair either. 

  “You’re lucky this turned out to be a real case because if it wasn’t you would have just found something else to kill,” Sam argues. 

  “What—“

  “You’re on edge, you’re erratic—except for when you’re hunting, because then you’re downright scary,” Sam lists. “You’re tailspinning, man. And you refuse to talk about it, and you won’t let me help you.”

  “I can take care of myself, thanks,” he answers bitterly.

  “No, you can’t. And you know what? You’re the only one who thinks you should have to,” Sam continues. “You don’t have to handle this on your own, Dean, no one can—” 

  “Sam, if you bring up Dad’s death one more time I swear—“

  “Stop. Please, Dean, it’s killing you. Please. We’ve already lost Dad. We’ve lost Mom. I’ve lost Jessica. And now I’m going to lose you too?”

  There’s no clarity or even hurt that passes across his face. I wish there were, but he’s stone cold. I know that somewhere deep inside he cares, I know it. I want to know it. But if he does, he doesn’t show it. It’s all the same to him because it makes sense for him to care for someone else but none at all if someone cares for him. 

  “We better get out of here before the cops come,” he answers. Sam frowns at him, head tilted in disappointment. And I kind of want to cry. I want to scream and cry, pleading until my throat starts bleeding because maybe then he’ll understand.

“I hear you. Okay? Yeah, I’m being an ass. And I’m sorry. But right now we’ve got a fuckin’ zombie running around, and we need to figure out how to kill it.”

  Sam laughs, a brief chuckle passing his lips. “Our lives are weird, man,” he states.

  “You’re telling me? Come on.”

***********

  I keep my head propped up on my hand, looking down at one of the many books I borrowed from the library regarding Zombies. We’ve been at this for hours, researching and combing through every legend and tale for something real, Sam sitting with John’s journal for an answer.

  “We can’t just waste it with a head shot?” Dean asks, pacing the motel room. 

  “Dude. You’ve been watching way too many Romero flicks,” Sam remarks.

  “You’re telling me there’s no lore on how to smoke ‘em?” Dean replies, plopping himself down on the chair across from me at the table I have covered in books.

 “No, Dean, I’m telling you there’s too much. I mean, there’s a hundred different legends on the walking dead, but they all have different methods for killing them,” Sam explains.

  “There doesn’t seem to be a definite answer on where they originated either,” I add. “Though it seems it might have come from Haitian mythology under the practice of voodoo. The word “zombi” even originates from African languages. And in Haitian mythology you can feed the zombie salt to cure them or even bottle their spirit. But that’s still only one myth.” 

  “You know some say to set them on fire,” Sam adds on, getting up from his bed. He brings a book from his night stand, flipping through it. “One said, where is it?” He takes the last seat at the table, pressing the opened book down, "Right here. Feeding their hearts to wild dogs. That’s my personal favorite. I mean, who knows what’s real and what’s myth?”

  “Is there anything they all have in common?” Dean asks, never one to really do any research himself.

  “No. But a few said silver might work,” Sam answers.

  “Silvers a start,” Dean nods.

  “Well, where do you think Angela is then?” I ask, thumbing through some of the pages in my book.   “Probably with whoever brought her back,” Dean answers.

  “Any ideas?” Sam replies.

  “I think if it’s not her Dad it might be that guy Neil,” he suggests.

  “Big forehead Neil?” I ask, looking up from the novel.

  Both boys seem to pause for a moment, blinking at me twice. “Yeah, that Neil,” Dean answers, lip twitching. He gets up from our little meeting table, plucking the pink diary from off the TV stand.

  “You’ve got your journals—your research, I’ve got mine,” he muses, giving the book a little shake. He flips it open, finger guiding down the page as he reads with a higher pitched—horrible girl—voice. “Neil’s a real shoulder to cry on, he so understands what I’m going through with Matt.”

He clears his throat, dropping back to his normal, much deeper voice, “There’s more in here where that came from. It’s for untreated Duckie love written all over it

  “Firstly, please never do that girl voice again,” I say firstly, holding a finger up. “Secondly, you really think Neil had a thing for Angela?”

  “A guy doesn’t really comfort a girl about her relationship like that unless he’s into her,” Dean reasons. I’m not entirely sure if that’s true but he is a man so he’d probably know more than me.

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he brought her back from the dead,” Sam points out.

  “Hmm. Did I mention he’s Professor Mason’s TA? ‘Has access to all the same books.”

*******

  We creep into the house, right through the front door, into darkness. All lights are out like even the house is asleep at this time of night. 

  “Hello? Neil?!” Dean calls out. “It’s your grief counselors, we’ve come to hug.” He reaches into the back waistband of his jeans, pulling out a hand gun.

  “Silver bullets?” Sam asks, looking at the gun.

  “Yeah, enough to make her rattle like a change purse,” Dean remarks strangely before taking the lead down the hallway.

  There's been no response, not even a light turning on like he’s coming to see who broke in. “Maybe he’s asleep,” I whisper. 

  Dean gives me a pointed look over his shoulder, nodding towards the nearest window. There’s a small pot of a spider plant on the window sill, long leaves, turned a yellowish brown, shrunken and drooping. 

“Alright, maybe he’s doing more than sleeping,” I remark. She’s here, or was here. I'm hoping he’s still alive. 

  Dean pauses in front of the only closed door of the house, nodding at it. “Unless it’s where he keeps his porn…” he trails off, letting the rest be said for itself: it’s the last place either Angela or Neil could be if they’re here at all.

  I cringe, rolling my eyes at his stupid comment even though he’s technically right. Sam and I stand on either side of the door, he swings the door open swiftly, letting Dean go down the stairs with his gun leading the way. I file in after him with Sam behind me; entering like we’re some sort of SWAT team. 

  It’s a decently normal basement with a washing machine and dryer, and pipes on the walls. But right on the floor is a mattress, a blanket crumbled up in its center. 

“Sure looks like a zombie pen to me,” Dean says.

  “Yeah, an empty one,” Sam answers, having to keep his head ducked with the short ceiling, or at least short for his ridiculous height. “You think Angela’s going after somebody?”

  Dean moves a loose grate to the side, the metal hanging on by one nail in the corner, revealing some sort of exit to the outside. “Nah, I think she went out to rent Beaches.”

  “Okay, smartass. She might kill someone. We gotta find her,” Sam points out. 

  “Well, if I'm right about Lindsey being the one Matt was cheating with, then she’s probably next,” I consider.

********

The apartment door is slightly ajar when we move down the hallway, the distinct sound of a struggle coming from within. Our steps quicken, Dean taking the lead with his silver bullet-filled gun. The moment he slides up to the front door he fires multiple times in a row, too many and too quick to count, into the front of the black haired zombie. Lindsey is held within her grasp, her pale hand pulling her hair back while she rises a gleaming pair of scissors towards her chest.

But the stab never comes, Angela’s body convulsing and jerking with each shot, scissors clattering to the floor. Then, one more shot rings out, hitting her dead and center in the chest. She screams, and blood still seeps from the wound, staining the middle of her white dress, and yet it doesn’t seem to kill her or prevent her from bolting out the window.

Dean follows right after her, going right out the window and in a split second decision I decide to join in. I hop out the window, landing on the grass with a thud, and immediately I take off running. Angela’s way ahead, running ridiculously fast for someone who was shot, she’s just a blur of white in the darkness, and Deans some distance behind her, way too far to catch up or get another shot in.

The occasional trees and the grass blur together as I force myself to run quicker, the wind whipping at my face. I surpass Dean, my legs beginning to burn slightly with each footfall, my ragged breaths and the thump of my feet hitting the ground the only thing I hear in my ears. Still, she’s some distance away, heading into some sort of wooded area ahead.

I squint my eyes, focusing on the space behind her, which is hard to lock in on when we’re both constantly moving forward, still I force myself to fold the space between us. In a blink I’m pressed forward, still running, now just two feet away. I launch myself forward with my arms outstretched, grabbing hold of the zombie girl as I tumble to the ground.

The grass itches and pokes at my skin, lushes green turning brown and dry beneath her body a foot away from mine. I bring myself to my feet at the same time that she does, “Come on, Angela you know what you’re doing is wrong, no one else has to get hurt,” I say through my attempt to catch my breath.

The skin around where she was shot has turned an odd purplish color; she looks more like a corpse than ever. And this murderous, vengeful, girl in front of me looks nothing like the happy girl in Dr. Mason’s book, but I guess death will do that to you.

“I won’t go back!” She shouts, lunging at me. I dodge her attack, which was more just her body flung at mine then anything. I back-hand slap her across the face, my knuckles coming into contact with ice cold skin. She pauses, hand clenched to her cheek, glaring at me. She punches quickly, landing a hit against my chest. I stumble back, nearly keeling over as I clutch my right breast.

“What the hell!” I groan, sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth. I look up from the dead grass, forcing myself to stand straight despite the throbbing of pain. But she’s gone. I spin around, pain forgotten about, trying to spot her through the trees. Gone. I groan again, this time out of annoyance rather than pain.

“Damn, that dead chick can run,” Dean remarks, huffing. I twist around, his hands are on his hips as his chest rises and falls quickly. “Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“You okay?” he asks quickly.

“Yeah, she just got my boob,” I answer.

“Wh—what?” he stammers.

“Well she’s gone, and the only hit she got on me was to my boob,” I clarify, though it’s not exactly a sentence I thought I’d ever be saying out loud.

His eyes drop to my chest very obviously and then immediately flicker up to my eyes, his eyebrows rise and fall, furrow and unfurrow, eyes a little wide and lips twitching like he’s unsure of what to say. He scratches the side of his cheek, “Does that, uh…hurt?”

“Well, yeah!” I exclaim. “She wouldn’t have gotten away if it didn’t.”

It hurt more than the average punch, and more than the average hit to the boob. There were a couple of myths that suggested that zombies could have some sort of super strength so that aspect must be true for Angela.

“‘Wasn’t doubting your skills, sweetheart,” he answers, hands up in surrender. “I mean, I didn’t know you could run that fast.”

“I think you forgot I used to hunt even before I went on this road trip with you, not nearly as much as I do now but still,” I reason, walking closer to him. “But, no more of that, we need to focus on finding Angela.”

“Then, I say we go have a little chat with Neil.”

********

The Impala cruises down the dark highway, luckily the pain from the hit Angela landed on me has disappeared thanks to my abilities. Still, we aren’t any closer to finishing this hunt.

“So the silver bullets, they did something, right?” Sam asks using a flashlight to read his Dads journal.

“Something, but not enough,” Dean confirms. “What else ‘you got?”

“Um, okay, besides silver we have…nailing the undead back into their grave beds. It’s mentioned a few times. It’s probably where the whole vampire staking lore came from,” Sam answers.

“That’s genuinely the most obscene thing you could’ve said,” I remark.

“How the hell are we going to get Angela back to the cemetery?” Dean asks.

********

Knowing he isn’t at home we check the only other place we can think of: his office at the school. We find him sitting behind his desk in the dark, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead, his fingers fidgeting together where they’re folded on the desk.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asks, wide eyed and looking between us. He looks guilty.

“You know, I’ve heard of people doing some pretty desperate things to get laid but you—“ Dean muses, pointing at him with a finger-gun. “You take the cake.”

“Okay. Who are you guys?” Neil asks, somehow able to ignore Dean's comment. His office isn’t so different from Dr. Masons except for the fact it lacks the same sort of artifacts that he had, though it’s still not short of books and plants. Dead ones.

“You might wanna ask Angela that question,” Dean answers.

“What?”

“We know what you did. The ritual? Everything,” Sam declares.

“You’re crazy,” Neil scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Your girlfriend’s past her expiration date and we’re crazy? When someone’s gone they should stay gone. You don’t mess with that kind of stuff,” Dean answers.

He’s right, naturally so, and yet it was so easy to make him the exception. So, in that aspect, I can’t exactly blame Neil, I would do the same—I tried to do the same.

“You found a loophole, good for you, I’d do the same but she’s killing people. And, I’m sure you didn’t mean for that to happen but it is. We need to stop her,” I reason.

“She killed Matt and she tried to kill Lindsey,” Sam adds for clarification.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he claims, shaking his head.

Dean stomps towards him, moving past the desk and grabbing Neil’s collar in a single fist. He hauls him up, forcing him out of his chair, with ease. “Hey!” he barks. “No more crap, Neil. His blood is on your hands.”

I bite my lip, watching the exchange from not so far away. It’s kind of incredibly hot.

“Now. Me and them,” he nods towards us, “can make this right, but you’ve gotta tell us where she is.” Still he doesn’t answer, just stares wide eyed at Dean. “Tell us!” he yells.

“My house,” he spews quickly. “She’s at my house.”

Dean lets him go, the man sinking down into his office chair, nails digging into the arm rests.

“Okay then,” I nod. “But you should really clean up those plants, you’re gonna get a lot of flies.”

Dean hums, following my gaze to the window where a small pot of fern and a spider plant are dried up and brown. He looks back at Neil who’s now looking everywhere but us, eyes flicking around the room rapidly. Dean's lips purse slightly, looking past Neil to a closed door.

“Listen,” he starts, voice raised slightly. “It doesn’t really matter where she is. There’s only one way to stop her. We’ve got to perform another ritual over her grave, to reverse the one that you did. We’re going to need some black root, some…some scar weed, some candles…”

My eyebrows furrow, face scrunched in confusion. He’s naming really random things. Sure, black root does have some connection to banishing, among other things, but scar weed? I have no idea what that is.

“It’s very complicated, but it’ll get the job done,” he continues. “She’ll be dead again in a couple hours. I think you should come with us. I’m serious, Neil. Leave with us. Right now.”

“No. No,” Neil stammers, shaking his head.

Dean leans in, head ducked, voice low, “Listen to me. Get out of here as soon as you can. But most of all, be cool. No sudden movements. Don’t make her mad.”

He straightens up, walking back over to Sam and I, “Lets go.”

********

Short, thick, candles surround Angela’s open grave. I snap once with both hands, the wicks catching flames, orange and yellow wiggling back and forth before it settles down. While it gives us some light, it’s mostly to keep up the act.

“You really think this is going to work?” Sam asks.

“No, not really,” Dean answers bluntly. “But it was the only thing I could come up with.”

“‘Least you’re honest,” I mumble.

Then, suddenly, a twig about twenty feet away snaps, an audible crack echoing towards us. We look at each other, nodding. Sam pulls out the gun tucked beneath the back of his pants, stalking towards the direction of the sound. Meanwhile, Dean and I get into position. There’s not many places to hide in a cemetary with it being so open and all, but we set ourselves up a short distance away from the grave, while still directed right at it’s end.

Then the first shot rings out and Sam’s coming back into view, running full speed towards the grave. Angela’s right behind him, a blur of white tackling him to the ground. He lands on his face with a loud thud, she straddles him, twisting his hand behind his back. From beside me Dean fires at her forcing her to jump up. I throw my hands out, blasting energy straight from my palms, she falls backwards, crashing into the open grave. Quickly, Dean tucks his gun back into his pants, grabbing the long metal sword he had set up over here against a headstone. He takes off running, sliding the last length on his knees, sword raised above his head.

He disappears into the grave and barely ten seconds later theres a loud squelch followed by Angela screaming, “Wait, don’t!”

But there’s a grunt and another squelch. No more pleads come from the grave.

********

It takes us the rest of the night into the very early morning to finish burying Angela. I can’t say which is better, filling a grave or digging one, when both suck, though I suppose shuffling dirt is easier than digging it out. Regardless, I’m sweating an uncomfortable amount and all I want is to shower and sleep for about twelve hours.

We pat the last of the dirt down, all of us huffing and panting from the workout.

“Rest easy,” I tell her.

Sam nods, adding, “Rest in peace.”

“Yeah. For good this time, okay?” Dean comments last.

I hold the shovel at my side as we start walking back to the car, Sam grunting as he lifts his own over one soulder.

“You know, that whole fake ritual thing, luring Angela into the cemetery? Pretty sharp,” Sam compliments.

“Thanks,” Dean answers, a smug smirk pulling at his lips.

“But did we have to use me as bait?” Sam asks, shoulders slumping.

“I figured you were more her type. You know, she had pretty crappy taste in guys,” Dean muses, his smug smirk now a shit eating grin.

“I think she broke my hand,” he frowns, cradling his wrist.

Dean laughs, “You’re just too fragile. We’ll get it looked at later.”

“Or, I can heal it,” I offer.

“That too,” Dean nods, popping open the trunk. He pauses, looking over his shoulder to where his Mom’s grave is.

“You want to stay for a while?” Sam asks, noticing his hesitation.

“No,” he answers, dumping his shovel into the trunk and walking over to the drivers side. Sam looks at me with a slight frown. I shrug with a tight lipped frown of my own, putting both our shovels away. I close the trunk, making my way to my designated seat in the back while Sam makes his way to the passenger side.

We pull away from the cemetery, getting right onto the highway. The Impala cruises along, already on its way to knocking me out when I feel eyes on me. I tear my gaze from the window to see Sam looking at me in the rear view mirror, eyebrows raised to get my attention. He gestures to Dean with his eyes. I follow his gaze to the scowling man, his jaw is set tightly, his knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. Oh.

Then, he’s pulling the car across the next lane and into the shoulder. He puts the car in park, but doesn’t bother turning the car off when he quickly gets out, going to lean against the hood. Sam follows quickly, without thought. I get out quickly, but linger slightly behind. I know what this is, and as much as I want to comfort Dean, I know this is more for Sam.

“Dean, what is it?” Sam asks, concern wrapped around his voice. You can almost see it, something floating above them, something that lives between the pause, something that was always bound to happen.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

“You–For what?” Sam stammers.

“The way I’ve been acting,” he answers. Sam moves then, sitting beside him on the hood of the car. “And for Dad. I mean, he was your Dad too. And it’s my fault that he’s gone.”

There it is.

They talk like that for a couple of minutes. It’s all very similar to what he had said to me the other night, including how he breaks a little. Sam doesn’t say anything that I didn’t already say or think. We both know it’s not his fault. He just doesn’t believe us.

There’s nothing we can say to make this right. There’s no answer for how you can convince someone to live.

Nothing can fix this and that hurts worst of all.

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @toocrazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

A/N: I do very much believe Dean can pick you up regardless of ur weight. Fight with the wall. 😊

[loverslantern]

Outfit-Board- Children Shouldn’t play with dead things (Chapter 25)

**you can ignore this if you want, you can imagine the outfits differently, change colors, whatever you want. this is just how I picture it and we can have totally different interpretations and styles!!**

[loverslantern]

I actually need to go on a roadtrip with him so bad. It would definitely heal me.

𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ His energy is golden for the first few hours. He’s singing along to Sabbath, joking with Sam, and handing you gas station gummy worms on route to the next exorcism.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He loves a self-serve car wash. The second he spots one, he veers in like it’s obligatory. “I’ll handle the exterior. Think you can do the dashboard?”

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He has opinions about road snacks. Trail mix is “rabbit food.” Jerky is “essential protein.” Beers in the cooler, always.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Sometimes he talks to stay awake. Tells you old stories from hunts he thinks you haven’t heard. Gets nostalgic about old diners and older friends. His voice gets real soft near midnight.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He loves those corny tourist attractions in the middle of rural nowhere. Guaranteed he'll stop for the biggest rubber band ball in the Midwest

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Sam tries to navigate but ultimately, it's Dean who makes executive decisions on the road. Sometimes you'll drive aimlessly but that's okay because, "we're not lost. We're just spicing up the route."

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ “I’m serious, this is the best gas station pie in the country,” he swears for the fourth state in a row. He always makes you take the first bite.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ You hit a thunderstorm in Kansas once. Dean gripped the wheel tight, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the slick road ahead. Baby was home base, and keeping you and Sam safe always came first. Hydroplaning? Never heard of it.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ When he’s tired, his hand finds yours, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. One hand is plenty for steering, he insists.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He’ll drive for fourteen hours straight if you let him. But when he glances in the rearview and sees you dozing off, he'll lower volume on the music and call it a night, determined to get you a proper bed.

────────⊳⋆⊲────────

Okay, so you got a car? Yeah, I'm impressed.

[loverslantern]

I can’t believe someone wrote a song about reader and Dean this is so crazy!!!!

(It’s so them)

[loverslantern]

tell me i ain’t tweaking rn.

bro also responded “i’ll teach you,” to my last message up there….

i’m gonna crash out.

Bro i’m sorry i have to complain about this.

I lowkey became friends with a security guard at work today, he seemed chill and he lowkey guessed a bunch of things about me which i thought was cool as hell. He wanted my insta so i was like sure yeah cause it’d be cool to have a security friend yk???

So he followed me and messaged me asking if i got home okay since i did leave late (thanks 4th of july) and i just thought that was sweet and chill. Okay then he says i got a question for u, so like okay sure. then he asks if he can buy me lunch and get to know me some more.

Instant feeling of illness and anxiety.

One he knows i’m 18 and i know he’s 28. I don’t really care about age gaps that much but to top it all of he’s not my type and i’m not interested in dating him, i just wanted a friend.

Now i’m worried i led him on just because i didn’t pick up on the possible social cues he was dropping. Which could be true cause im not really good at picking up on social cues so… Idk.

I don’t even know how to response cause i don’t want to be mean but im not interested either.

[loverslantern]

Bro i’m sorry i have to complain about this.

I lowkey became friends with a security guard at work today, he seemed chill and he lowkey guessed a bunch of things about me which i thought was cool as hell. He wanted my insta so i was like sure yeah cause it’d be cool to have a security friend yk???

So he followed me and messaged me asking if i got home okay since i did leave late (thanks 4th of july) and i just thought that was sweet and chill. Okay then he says i got a question for u, so like okay sure. then he asks if he can buy me lunch and get to know me some more.

Instant feeling of illness and anxiety.

One he knows i’m 18 and i know he’s 28. I don’t really care about age gaps that much but to top it all of he’s not my type and i’m not interested in dating him, i just wanted a friend.

Now i’m worried i led him on just because i didn’t pick up on the possible social cues he was dropping. Which could be true cause im not really good at picking up on social cues so… Idk.

I don’t even know how to response cause i don’t want to be mean but im not interested either.

[loverslantern]

Sometimes (every time) i write angst it makes me cry or like tear up. idk if that means im effective or just being able to visualize it in my head more than i can write it is what makes me cry.

and on a separate note i almost burnt my apartment down because i put the stove top on with a paper towel too close by the thingy (i didn’t think it was that close) and the corner lit on fire 😃😃😃

[loverslantern]

literally who does he think he is???

(P.S. the GIF’s are taking me out)

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A summer car ride reveals something that’s been brewing beneath the surface

Warning: Happy time to angst but then it’s okay, arguing, banter, self deprecation, insecurity, a down bad Dean

Word Count: 1.4k

Return

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit)

The cool wind whips at my face, my hair blowing behind me as I lean out the car window to feel the warm sun on my face. It’s just me and Dean out on the road. He decided to take me for a drive, just the two of us, I think he’s doing it because he feels bad about what he said the other day. And while I’m pretty certain I’ve already forgiven him because of course I did, I’m not going to complain about a drive. It’s a beautiful summer day, hot but not unbearable.

It feels like old times too, just him and me driving with no specific destination in mind, one of his tapes singing to us. This time he let me pick the music, so I chose an Eagles tape. In fact it’s the one I gifted him years ago when I accidentally bought two, or at least that’s what I told him had happened.

He’s drumming along to the song, fingers tapping the steering wheel as I hang out the window watching the fields, on either side of the road, dance in the breeze.

There’s a tug on the belt loop of my shorts,“You’re gonna fall out the window,” he warns, his hooked finger slipping away just before I sit properly and put my seat belt on.

“I definitely wasn’t,” I laugh, nudging his arm. “I’m totally experienced in hanging out car windows.”

He snorts, shaking his head, “Yeah, like a dog.”

“A very pretty dog,” I correct.

“Yeah, a pretty one,” he agrees. But then the smile is slipping off his face, and he’s clearing his throat. “Uh, you know I was thinking I could drop you off at your brothers. ‘Know you’ve been meaning to go.”

“Oh, sure!” I chirp, “But, what do you mean “drop off?” He’d let all of us stay, you know that right?” I turn to him, sitting sideways, despite the fact that he’s looking straight ahead.

I watch his Adam’s-apple bob, distracting me from tracing his sharp jaw. He shifts a little as if he’s uncomfortable, his knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. He’s making me nervous now. “I, uh, I think it’s time you go home.”

“What?” I whisper before I can fully register his words. All the joy I had harbored and the bright smile on my face instantly vanished, replaced instead by something too big to put a name to.

“I asked you to tag along to find my Dad. Well, we found him and he’s gone now. So, you can go home,” he clarifies.

It makes sense now; he didn’t take me on a nice drive because he felt bad about the other day, he’s taking me on a drive because he knew he’d feel bad about what he was going to say.

My throat aches and yet I really don’t want to cry. “I…I don’t understand,” I mumble, shifting my body to face forward. I don’t want to look at him right now, it’ll only make it harder not to cry.

I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with him and Sam, but especially him. “I don’t mind staying around. I want to,” I add.

He sighs through his nose, his head hanging low for a moment before he has to focus on the road. “You should go home,” he states. He’s telling me. This was never a conversation, there was never going to be a negotiation. His mind is already made up.

It feels as if a long sword was shoved through my heart and I’m left to choke on my blood. He’s being mean. I want to hate him or to scream but instead I look down at my clenched hands, nails digging into my palm. “That’s not fair,” I answer, trying to speak around the invisible hand that grips my vocal cords.

“Is this because of Gordon? Did he say something or…or make you realize something?” I ask, my head snapping towards him. But he’s already looking at me, his eyebrows furrowed and a frown pulling on his lips.

“No, that’s—“ he tries to answer but I’m already cutting him off.

“I know what I am, I’m sorry,” I plead through a crack in my voice. “I wish I could change it but I can’t. But I can…I can stop using my powers. I don’t have to use them, we can forget it exi—“

The car comes to a sudden halt, a gasp cutting myself off. His hands move quick to put the car in park right where we stand in the middle of the road. He really looks at me then, not stolen glances while he drives, but full on attention. “You don’t apologize, you hear me?” he says sternly, his green eyes suddenly hard and sharp. He pauses long enough to hit the music off, never looking away from me.

“I don’t want you to ever change for me or anyone else,” he continues, firmly. “I don’t care what the hell you are. You could put a hex on me, and I still wouldn’t care, hell, I’d probably thank you. You’re my girl. If I ever say otherwise or say anything about you bein’ a witch like that then you hit me, understand?”

I nod, stunned. It’s a total 360. One moment he wants me gone, and the next he’s calling me “his girl.” And like an idiot my heart lurches in my chest like a bow against the strings of a violin in a slow song. “Then why do you want me gone?” I ask softly.

“I don—“ he clears his throat, eyes shutting as his head hangs low. “Fuck,” he mutters, finally looking at me again. His eyes have softened up, the storm passed right through. “You need to go home because I keep putting you in danger. Every hunt. The car crash. Gordon, for hells sake. I was too busy being an asshole to leave with you when you said you wanted to and it could’ve gotten you killed.”

“Dean, it takes a lot to kill me, you don’t have—“

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts me off, his jaw clenched tightly. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and you’ll always be in danger if you stay with me.”

“But I want to stay with you,” I reply. “I knew what I was signing up for when I came along with you.”

“No, you couldn’t have guessed all of this,” he corrects. He’s desperate for me to agree with him.

“Maybe not all of it but I don’t care. Dean, this isn’t for you to decide. I know what I’m getting into and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” I argue, finding some strength.

“You don’t mean that,” he shakes his head.

“How can you say that?” I ask, offended. “I do mean it. I mean it with my entire being, with every breath I take, and every pulse of my heart.”

He swallows roughly, his lip twitching as he looks down.

“There is nowhere in the world that I’d rather be than right beside you,” I continue, pleading. He doesn’t need to answer, doesn’t need to say a word. I just need him to listen and to understand. His eyes close tightly as if he took a hit just from me speaking. “You can’t get rid of me, not unless you really want me gone ‘cause you can’t stand to see my face.”

His eyes snap up at me then like I said something crazy. “I’m not going anywhere,” I double down. “It’s sweet that you care so much and I know it scary to lose people, but you can’t just push me away. I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t,” he exhales.

“I won’t.”

“Good,” he nods, lips parted just slightly.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I am,” he nods.

“Are you just agreeing with everything I say?” I ask.

“Only the parts where you’re right,” he answers.

“I must be really right then,” I remark.

His lip twitches, pulling into a slight smirk. “You are. I’m an idiot and an asshole.”

“Stop with that self deprecating nonsense,” I frown. “I know you think of yourself as some bad guy, for whatever reason. But you’re not. You’re incredibly kind, and loyal, and—“

“Don’t,” he cuts me off.

“Why?”

“I don’t deserve that. I made you upset,” he explains.

“You did make me upset,” I acknowledge. “But it stemmed from a good place, and I get it.”

“You shouldn’t forgive me,” he shakes his head.

“Why not?” I ask, nearly laughing.

“You shouldn’t,” he repeats.

“Okay silly, you’re forgiven,” I smile.

He scuffs, putting the car back in drive. “You’re annoying,” he mutters, smiling.

“Thanks,” I chirp.

“But, I’m…um,” his smile drops from his face. “I am sorry.”

“Oh, shut up and buy me a slushie, please.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

(Next Chapter)

A/N: This is lowkey inspired by this Eagles tape i’ve been listening to on repeat for the last two days. This also reminds me of the Laurie-Amy confession scene in Little Women (2019) which is kind of gonna make me crash out even though i’m the one who wrote it.

Taglist: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

[loverslantern]

tbh i’m so over myself at this point. like i want to beat myself up cause why aren’t they together yet???? but all in due time. TRUST I have something planned since the beginning.

But i’m glad u can feel the connection cause im always worried it’s not showing correctly and is mostly told.

I also hope this is the correct way to respond 🤨

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A summer car ride reveals something that’s been brewing beneath the surface

Warning: Happy time to angst but then it’s okay, arguing, banter, self deprecation, insecurity, a down bad Dean

Word Count: 1.4k

Return

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit)

The cool wind whips at my face, my hair blowing behind me as I lean out the car window to feel the warm sun on my face. It’s just me and Dean out on the road. He decided to take me for a drive, just the two of us, I think he’s doing it because he feels bad about what he said the other day. And while I’m pretty certain I’ve already forgiven him because of course I did, I’m not going to complain about a drive. It’s a beautiful summer day, hot but not unbearable.

It feels like old times too, just him and me driving with no specific destination in mind, one of his tapes singing to us. This time he let me pick the music, so I chose an Eagles tape. In fact it’s the one I gifted him years ago when I accidentally bought two, or at least that’s what I told him had happened.

He’s drumming along to the song, fingers tapping the steering wheel as I hang out the window watching the fields, on either side of the road, dance in the breeze.

There’s a tug on the belt loop of my shorts,“You’re gonna fall out the window,” he warns, his hooked finger slipping away just before I sit properly and put my seat belt on.

“I definitely wasn’t,” I laugh, nudging his arm. “I’m totally experienced in hanging out car windows.”

He snorts, shaking his head, “Yeah, like a dog.”

“A very pretty dog,” I correct.

“Yeah, a pretty one,” he agrees. But then the smile is slipping off his face, and he’s clearing his throat. “Uh, you know I was thinking I could drop you off at your brothers. ‘Know you’ve been meaning to go.”

“Oh, sure!” I chirp, “But, what do you mean “drop off?” He’d let all of us stay, you know that right?” I turn to him, sitting sideways, despite the fact that he’s looking straight ahead.

I watch his Adam’s-apple bob, distracting me from tracing his sharp jaw. He shifts a little as if he’s uncomfortable, his knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. He’s making me nervous now. “I, uh, I think it’s time you go home.”

“What?” I whisper before I can fully register his words. All the joy I had harbored and the bright smile on my face instantly vanished, replaced instead by something too big to put a name to.

“I asked you to tag along to find my Dad. Well, we found him and he’s gone now. So, you can go home,” he clarifies.

It makes sense now; he didn’t take me on a nice drive because he felt bad about the other day, he’s taking me on a drive because he knew he’d feel bad about what he was going to say.

My throat aches and yet I really don’t want to cry. “I…I don’t understand,” I mumble, shifting my body to face forward. I don’t want to look at him right now, it’ll only make it harder not to cry.

I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with him and Sam, but especially him. “I don’t mind staying around. I want to,” I add.

He sighs through his nose, his head hanging low for a moment before he has to focus on the road. “You should go home,” he states. He’s telling me. This was never a conversation, there was never going to be a negotiation. His mind is already made up.

It feels as if a long sword was shoved through my heart and I’m left to choke on my blood. He’s being mean. I want to hate him or to scream but instead I look down at my clenched hands, nails digging into my palm. “That’s not fair,” I answer, trying to speak around the invisible hand that grips my vocal cords.

“Is this because of Gordon? Did he say something or…or make you realize something?” I ask, my head snapping towards him. But he’s already looking at me, his eyebrows furrowed and a frown pulling on his lips.

“No, that’s—“ he tries to answer but I’m already cutting him off.

“I know what I am, I’m sorry,” I plead through a crack in my voice. “I wish I could change it but I can’t. But I can…I can stop using my powers. I don’t have to use them, we can forget it exi—“

The car comes to a sudden halt, a gasp cutting myself off. His hands move quick to put the car in park right where we stand in the middle of the road. He really looks at me then, not stolen glances while he drives, but full on attention. “You don’t apologize, you hear me?” he says sternly, his green eyes suddenly hard and sharp. He pauses long enough to hit the music off, never looking away from me.

“I don’t want you to ever change for me or anyone else,” he continues, firmly. “I don’t care what the hell you are. You could put a hex on me, and I still wouldn’t care, hell, I’d probably thank you. You’re my girl. If I ever say otherwise or say anything about you bein’ a witch like that then you hit me, understand?”

I nod, stunned. It’s a total 360. One moment he wants me gone, and the next he’s calling me “his girl.” And like an idiot my heart lurches in my chest like a bow against the strings of a violin in a slow song. “Then why do you want me gone?” I ask softly.

“I don—“ he clears his throat, eyes shutting as his head hangs low. “Fuck,” he mutters, finally looking at me again. His eyes have softened up, the storm passed right through. “You need to go home because I keep putting you in danger. Every hunt. The car crash. Gordon, for hells sake. I was too busy being an asshole to leave with you when you said you wanted to and it could’ve gotten you killed.”

“Dean, it takes a lot to kill me, you don’t have—“

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts me off, his jaw clenched tightly. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and you’ll always be in danger if you stay with me.”

“But I want to stay with you,” I reply. “I knew what I was signing up for when I came along with you.”

“No, you couldn’t have guessed all of this,” he corrects. He’s desperate for me to agree with him.

“Maybe not all of it but I don’t care. Dean, this isn’t for you to decide. I know what I’m getting into and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” I argue, finding some strength.

“You don’t mean that,” he shakes his head.

“How can you say that?” I ask, offended. “I do mean it. I mean it with my entire being, with every breath I take, and every pulse of my heart.”

He swallows roughly, his lip twitching as he looks down.

“There is nowhere in the world that I’d rather be than right beside you,” I continue, pleading. He doesn’t need to answer, doesn’t need to say a word. I just need him to listen and to understand. His eyes close tightly as if he took a hit just from me speaking. “You can’t get rid of me, not unless you really want me gone ‘cause you can’t stand to see my face.”

His eyes snap up at me then like I said something crazy. “I’m not going anywhere,” I double down. “It’s sweet that you care so much and I know it scary to lose people, but you can’t just push me away. I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t,” he exhales.

“I won’t.”

“Good,” he nods, lips parted just slightly.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I am,” he nods.

“Are you just agreeing with everything I say?” I ask.

“Only the parts where you’re right,” he answers.

“I must be really right then,” I remark.

His lip twitches, pulling into a slight smirk. “You are. I’m an idiot and an asshole.”

“Stop with that self deprecating nonsense,” I frown. “I know you think of yourself as some bad guy, for whatever reason. But you’re not. You’re incredibly kind, and loyal, and—“

“Don’t,” he cuts me off.

“Why?”

“I don’t deserve that. I made you upset,” he explains.

“You did make me upset,” I acknowledge. “But it stemmed from a good place, and I get it.”

“You shouldn’t forgive me,” he shakes his head.

“Why not?” I ask, nearly laughing.

“You shouldn’t,” he repeats.

“Okay silly, you’re forgiven,” I smile.

He scuffs, putting the car back in drive. “You’re annoying,” he mutters, smiling.

“Thanks,” I chirp.

“But, I’m…um,” his smile drops from his face. “I am sorry.”

“Oh, shut up and buy me a slushie, please.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

(Next Chapter)

A/N: This is lowkey inspired by this Eagles tape i’ve been listening to on repeat for the last two days. This also reminds me of the Laurie-Amy confession scene in Little Women (2019) which is kind of gonna make me crash out even though i’m the one who wrote it.

Taglist: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A summer car ride reveals something that’s been brewing beneath the surface

Warning: Happy time to angst but then it’s okay, arguing, banter, self deprecation, insecurity, a down bad Dean

Word Count: 1.4k

Return

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit)

The cool wind whips at my face, my hair blowing behind me as I lean out the car window to feel the warm sun on my face. It’s just me and Dean out on the road. He decided to take me for a drive, just the two of us, I think he’s doing it because he feels bad about what he said the other day. And while I’m pretty certain I’ve already forgiven him because of course I did, I’m not going to complain about a drive. It’s a beautiful summer day, hot but not unbearable.

It feels like old times too, just him and me driving with no specific destination in mind, one of his tapes singing to us. This time he let me pick the music, so I chose an Eagles tape. In fact it’s the one I gifted him years ago when I accidentally bought two, or at least that’s what I told him had happened.

He’s drumming along to the song, fingers tapping the steering wheel as I hang out the window watching the fields, on either side of the road, dance in the breeze.

There’s a tug on the belt loop of my shorts,“You’re gonna fall out the window,” he warns, his hooked finger slipping away just before I sit properly and put my seat belt on.

“I definitely wasn’t,” I laugh, nudging his arm. “I’m totally experienced in hanging out car windows.”

He snorts, shaking his head, “Yeah, like a dog.”

“A very pretty dog,” I correct.

“Yeah, a pretty one,” he agrees. But then the smile is slipping off his face, and he’s clearing his throat. “Uh, you know I was thinking I could drop you off at your brothers. ‘Know you’ve been meaning to go.”

“Oh, sure!” I chirp, “But, what do you mean “drop off?” He’d let all of us stay, you know that right?” I turn to him, sitting sideways, despite the fact that he’s looking straight ahead.

I watch his Adam’s-apple bob, distracting me from tracing his sharp jaw. He shifts a little as if he’s uncomfortable, his knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. He’s making me nervous now. “I, uh, I think it’s time you go home.”

“What?” I whisper before I can fully register his words. All the joy I had harbored and the bright smile on my face instantly vanished, replaced instead by something too big to put a name to.

“I asked you to tag along to find my Dad. Well, we found him and he’s gone now. So, you can go home,” he clarifies.

It makes sense now; he didn’t take me on a nice drive because he felt bad about the other day, he’s taking me on a drive because he knew he’d feel bad about what he was going to say.

My throat aches and yet I really don’t want to cry. “I…I don’t understand,” I mumble, shifting my body to face forward. I don’t want to look at him right now, it’ll only make it harder not to cry.

I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with him and Sam, but especially him. “I don’t mind staying around. I want to,” I add.

He sighs through his nose, his head hanging low for a moment before he has to focus on the road. “You should go home,” he states. He’s telling me. This was never a conversation, there was never going to be a negotiation. His mind is already made up.

It feels as if a long sword was shoved through my heart and I’m left to choke on my blood. He’s being mean. I want to hate him or to scream but instead I look down at my clenched hands, nails digging into my palm. “That’s not fair,” I answer, trying to speak around the invisible hand that grips my vocal cords.

“Is this because of Gordon? Did he say something or…or make you realize something?” I ask, my head snapping towards him. But he’s already looking at me, his eyebrows furrowed and a frown pulling on his lips.

“No, that’s—“ he tries to answer but I’m already cutting him off.

“I know what I am, I’m sorry,” I plead through a crack in my voice. “I wish I could change it but I can’t. But I can…I can stop using my powers. I don’t have to use them, we can forget it exi—“

The car comes to a sudden halt, a gasp cutting myself off. His hands move quick to put the car in park right where we stand in the middle of the road. He really looks at me then, not stolen glances while he drives, but full on attention. “You don’t apologize, you hear me?” he says sternly, his green eyes suddenly hard and sharp. He pauses long enough to hit the music off, never looking away from me.

“I don’t want you to ever change for me or anyone else,” he continues, firmly. “I don’t care what the hell you are. You could put a hex on me, and I still wouldn’t care, hell, I’d probably thank you. You’re my girl. If I ever say otherwise or say anything about you bein’ a witch like that then you hit me, understand?”

I nod, stunned. It’s a total 360. One moment he wants me gone, and the next he’s calling me “his girl.” And like an idiot my heart lurches in my chest like a bow against the strings of a violin in a slow song. “Then why do you want me gone?” I ask softly.

“I don—“ he clears his throat, eyes shutting as his head hangs low. “Fuck,” he mutters, finally looking at me again. His eyes have softened up, the storm passed right through. “You need to go home because I keep putting you in danger. Every hunt. The car crash. Gordon, for hells sake. I was too busy being an asshole to leave with you when you said you wanted to and it could’ve gotten you killed.”

“Dean, it takes a lot to kill me, you don’t have—“

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts me off, his jaw clenched tightly. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and you’ll always be in danger if you stay with me.”

“But I want to stay with you,” I reply. “I knew what I was signing up for when I came along with you.”

“No, you couldn’t have guessed all of this,” he corrects. He’s desperate for me to agree with him.

“Maybe not all of it but I don’t care. Dean, this isn’t for you to decide. I know what I’m getting into and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” I argue, finding some strength.

“You don’t mean that,” he shakes his head.

“How can you say that?” I ask, offended. “I do mean it. I mean it with my entire being, with every breath I take, and every pulse of my heart.”

He swallows roughly, his lip twitching as he looks down.

“There is nowhere in the world that I’d rather be than right beside you,” I continue, pleading. He doesn’t need to answer, doesn’t need to say a word. I just need him to listen and to understand. His eyes close tightly as if he took a hit just from me speaking. “You can’t get rid of me, not unless you really want me gone ‘cause you can’t stand to see my face.”

His eyes snap up at me then like I said something crazy. “I’m not going anywhere,” I double down. “It’s sweet that you care so much and I know it scary to lose people, but you can’t just push me away. I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t,” he exhales.

“I won’t.”

“Good,” he nods, lips parted just slightly.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I am,” he nods.

“Are you just agreeing with everything I say?” I ask.

“Only the parts where you’re right,” he answers.

“I must be really right then,” I remark.

His lip twitches, pulling into a slight smirk. “You are. I’m an idiot and an asshole.”

“Stop with that self deprecating nonsense,” I frown. “I know you think of yourself as some bad guy, for whatever reason. But you’re not. You’re incredibly kind, and loyal, and—“

“Don’t,” he cuts me off.

“Why?”

“I don’t deserve that. I made you upset,” he explains.

“You did make me upset,” I acknowledge. “But it stemmed from a good place, and I get it.”

“You shouldn’t forgive me,” he shakes his head.

“Why not?” I ask, nearly laughing.

“You shouldn’t,” he repeats.

“Okay silly, you’re forgiven,” I smile.

He scuffs, putting the car back in drive. “You’re annoying,” he mutters, smiling.

“Thanks,” I chirp.

“But, I’m…um,” his smile drops from his face. “I am sorry.”

“Oh, shut up and buy me a slushie, please.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

(Next Chapter)

A/N: This is lowkey inspired by this Eagles tape i’ve been listening to on repeat for the last two days. This also reminds me of the Laurie-Amy confession scene in Little Women (2019) which is kind of gonna make me crash out even though i’m the one who wrote it.

Taglist: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

[loverslantern]

Outfit Board- Return (Chapter 24.5)

**you can ignore this if you want, you can imagine the outfits differently, change colors, whatever you want. this is just how I picture it and we can have totally different interpretations and styles!!**

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A potential hunt leads to meeting another hunter, Gordon.

Warnings: Cannon violence, description of mutilated corpses, gore, sorry if the Latin is wrong, flirting?, cursing

Word Count: 12.5k

Bloodlust

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

  “Whoo!” Dean hollers, nodding along to the blasting AC/DC song. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the guitar riff in “Back In Black,” the brightest of smiles on his face.

  “Listen to her purr!” he shouts over the loud music, practically beaming. “Have you ever heard anything so sweet?”

  “You know, if you two wanna get a room, just let us know, Dean,” Sam remarks, acting disgusted as if there isn’t a slight smile on his face.

  “Oh, don’t listen to him, Baby. He doesn’t understand us,” Dean says, rubbing his hand over the dashboard. I can’t blame him for his enthusiasm, it’s nice to be back in the Impala and he did a damn good job in fixing her up, you wouldn’t know she was ever broken. The car runs smoothly, isn’t crushed in, its metal outside is shining, and the inside was wiped down and taken care of delicately. And, this song is banging.

  Sam laughs. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Dean asks without missing a beat.

  “No reason,” Sam settles on, shaking his head.

  “It’s nice,” I add.

  “Got my car, got a case, things are looking up,” Dean explains.

  “Wow. Give you a couple of severed heads and a pile of dead cows, and you’re Mister Sunshine,” Sam remarks.

  “He’s a simple guy,” I join in, joking.

  “How far to Red Lodge?” Dean asks.

  “Uh, about another three hundred miles,” Sam answers, reading over the map.

  “Good,” Dean smirks, flooring it.

  The sheriff, with a thick mustache, leans back casually in his office chair, unamused by our presence. “The murder investigation is ongoing, and that’s all I can share with the press at this time,” he tells us. He’s definitely media trained, I conclude.

  “Sure, sure, we understand that,” Sam brushes off, fitting into the journalist role quite well (professional attire included). “But just for the record, you found the first head last week, correct?”   “Mm-hmm,” he hums.

  “Okay, and the other, a, uh…”

  “Christina Flanigan,” I fill in for him.

  “That was two days ago. Is there—” he cuts himself off as his office door creaks open, a young woman pointing at her watch. “Oh. Sorry boys, ma’am,” he nods at us, “Time’s up, we’re done here.”

  “What about the cattle?” Dean asks before the sheriff can get up.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the cows found dead, split open, drained… over a dozen cases,” Dean clarifies.

  “What about them?” 

  “So you don’t think there’s a connection?” Sam pushes.

  “Connection…with…?”

  “The cattle mutilation and the two dead bodies,” I answer. “The perpetrator could have been using the cows as practice before he or she worked up the courage to actually kill. Or, it could be used as a way to fill the space between kills. It’s also, of course, a possibility that it's a part of their ritual, or is in itself a ritual.”

  “Like Satanic cult ritual stuff,” Dean adds to my rambling.

  He laughs, a full belly laugh, until he realizes we aren’t laughing with him. “You’re not kidding,” he realizes.

  “No,” Dean answers.

  “Those cows aren’t being mutilated. You wanna know how I know?” the sheriff asks.

  “How?” Sam muses.

  “Because there's no such thing as cattle mutilation. Cow drops, leave it in the sun, within forty-eight hours the bloat'll split it open so clean it's just about surgical,” he explains. “The bodily fluids fall down into the ground and get soaked up because that's what gravity does. But, hey, it could be Satan.”   “Sure, that’s a possibility, but it would be improper to rule it out so quickly,” I counter.

  “Are you tryna suggest that I don't know how to do my job?” he asks, leaning forward.

  “Sir, with all due respect, you’re being ignorant,” I answer, feeling the boy's eyes on me. His eyes widen, but I continue. “For one, cow mutilation, animal mutilation in general, is a real thing. There was a serial killer, Joseph Vatcher, back in the 1800s, who had mutilated animals, I believe it was sheep. It’s not uncommon for that sort of thing to happen. Secondly, we aren’t saying that Satan is real or has any part in this, but that doesn’t mean that the perpetrator doesn’t believe he is. I mean, seriously, sir, have you ever heard of religious psychosis or plain justification? Hell, the Son of Sam claimed the neighbor's dog was telling him to kill those people.”

  I watch his jaw clench, his lip twitching. I can practically hear his teeth grinding, and if this were a cartoon, there might be smoke coming from his ears. I struck about a couple hundred nerves with my rambling. Oops. 

  I sneak a glimpse at Dean, acutely aware of the silence filling the room. But he’s leaning back in his chair casually, legs spread, with a smug smile on his lips. Was he…proud? 

  “What newspaper did you say you work for?” The sheriff bites. 

  “World Weekly News”

  “Weekly World News,” the boys say in unison. Their heads snap to look at each other as they try again.

  “World—“ Dean tries again. I mentally sigh at the mess this is becoming.

  “Weekly World-“ 

  “Weekly…I’m new,” Dean smiles, exhaling a small laugh.  “Get out of my office,” he demands. 

********

  We’re onto the next office (if that office was a morgue). It was an easy switch, being able to throw lab coats over our suits and ties, or in my case, a white blouse and black slacks, but that’s neither here nor there. 

  The air is chilly and crisp, fluorescent lights reflecting dimly off the stainless steel tables. An intern with short black hair and a long face stares at us from over his desk. 

  “John,” Dean greets, guessing as he reads J. Manners off the guy's name tag.

  “Jeff,” he corrects, looking at us like a lost puppy. Essentially, he has that intern look to him, scared to do anything wrong. 

  “Jeff, I know that,” Dean lies, nodding. “Dr. Dworkin needs to see you in his office right away.”

  “But Dr. Dworkin’s on vacation,” he counters, somehow looking more lost.

  “Well, he’s back. And he’s pissed, and he’s screaming for you, man, so if I were you I would…” Dean whistles, shaking his head as he rocks on his heels. Jeff stands abruptly, his chair rolling back as he scrambles around the desk, running off with enough speed to make his lab coat all floaty in the back.

  “Hey, those satanists in Florida, they marked their victims, didn’t they?” Dean asks, moving on with ease.

  “Yeah, reversed pentacle on the forehead,” Sam answers.

  “So much fucked up crap happens in Florida,” Dean remarks, stating the obvious as he hands out pairs of latex gloves he stole from a little box kept on the wall.

  “It’s that Florida man mindset,” I add, slipping the gloves on. 

  Sam pulls open one of the many small doors on the far wall, wheeling out a corpse. A white sheet is placed over the body, except for the pale feet sticking out, a tag with the girl's name wrapped around her ankle. A brown box rests by the tips of her toes, where her head is no doubt being kept. 

  “Alright, open it,” Dean nudges his brother.

  “You open it,” Sam retorts, elbowing his brother back a bit harsher. 

  I roll my eyes, collecting the box myself. The box, and subsequently the head inside, isn’t very heavy, at the very least I know the average brain weighs about 3 pounds, I just don’t know how much the rest of it is. “You’re both scaredy cats,” I point out as I move the slightly heavy box onto a nearby table. 

  “I am not,” Dean defends, scuffing. 

  “Sure,” I stretch out. I lift the lid of the box, a pale, severed head staring back at me, well, not exactly staring because the brunette’s eyes are closed. “Mm, that’s so cool,” I mumble.

  “You have issues,” Sam answers, cringing as he peeks over my shoulder. 

  “Probably,” I shrug. 

  “Well, no pentagram,” Dean points out.

  “Nope, but look at that cut.” I run my finger along the cut, not exactly touching the jagged skin. “Not exactly perfect or surgical but pretty damn good. Definitely done in one movement.”

  I glance up, feeling their burning gazes. Sam’s jaw dropped, lip curled in disgust. “You’re kind of creepy,” he remarks.

  “Thanks,” I chirp.

  “Not a compliment,” he murmurs. “Ow!” he yelps as Dean slaps the back of his head. 

  “Maybe we should, uh, you know, look in her mouth, see if those wackos stuffed anything down her throat. You know, kind of like the moth in Silence of the Lambs,” Dean suggests.

  “I like the way you think, Precious,” I answer. “It was a pretty good book, though I think Red Dragon was a million times better.”

  “The movie was good, creepy as fuck,” he adds. “Put the lotion in the basket.”

  “Do you two need a moment?” Sam asks, looking between the two of us.

  My cheeks warm, and I shake my head, “Let us fangirl, Sammy,” I half-joke. But, at last, I go back to the task at hand, squeezing the dead girl's cheeks to open her jaw. I pry open her mouth further, mumbling a quick apology as I move two fingers into her mouth, pressing and searching around. 

  “Are you not disgusted?” Sam asks, “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  I shake my head, “‘M not disgusted at all, it’s very interesting.”

  “You’re really freaky,” he mumbles, taking a couple of steps away from the box and the prodding. 

  I tilt my head, leaning in closer as I lift her top lip up. “No moth or paper left in her mouth, but I think she’s got some sort of…mouth issue here. ‘Guess she saved a dentist trip.”

  “Wait, wait, is that a hole?” Dean asks.

  “Think so,” I mumble.

  “Press above it,” he directs.

  “Um, okay.” I press on the gum, a narrow, sharp tooth descending. “Huh.”

  “It’s a tooth,” Sam states.

  “Sam, that’s a fang. Retractable set of vampire fangs,” Dean clarifies. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  I freeze.

  “Well, this changes things,” Sam remarks.

  “Ya think?”

  I pull back quickly, tossing the lid back on and ripping off my gloves. I throw them out quickly, pushing back my hair as I pace. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

  “Woah, woah, woah,” Dean approaches with his hand raised as if trying to calm down an animal. “What’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “I have to leave. Those vamps didn’t just walk into a blade, okay? There’s another hunter here, and I should be, like, a hundred miles away from this. I’m so gonna die, oh my god, that’s gonna be my body on the table.”

  “Sweetheart, nothing is gonna happen,” he tries, and he looks sincere.

  “That’s what you think,” I point out. “But there’s another hunter in town, and he’s slashing down these…guys without batting an eye. You know, I could deal with meeting Bobby and Ellen, they actually turned out to be really cool even if the latter doesn’t know anything about me, but I don’t think this guy is gonna care for a meet and greet!”

  He steps closer, putting a hand on my shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to make sure that I’m looking in his eyes as he says, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’ll just be here for the vamps. No one’s going to kill you or come anywhere close to hurting you, you got that?”

  I swallow, I can still feel the buzzing in my veins that’s telling me to run. Maybe I should run. That’s the smart thing to do. It’s what I’ve been taught: stay away from hunters. The Winchesters have always been an exception, and that was only by a little. I’ve gotten too loose with the people I’ve been introduced to. I should run, but I don’t. For whatever stupid reason, maybe trust, or his firm voice, or the way his green eyes grew serious, I nod. 

  He shakes his head, “‘Wanna hear you say it.”

  “I…I got it, I understand.”

********

  As understanding as I am, I’ve been jittery the whole day, bleeding into night. I’m pretty sure I’m being overly paranoid as we walk into the bar in hopes of luring the vampires out. But there’s this gnawing in my stomach that I can’t seem to stop, regardless of the amount of tea I’ve drunk. It’s so bad that when we approach the bar top and Dean orders two beers and a soda, I cut him off, switching it to three beers and no soda. 

  “So, we're looking for some people,” Sam starts as the bartender places down the drinks. I snatch one up, taking a big sip that I instantly regret, wishing I could spit it back up.

  “Sure. Hard to be lonely,” he muses, leaning on the bartop.

  “Yeah. But, um, that’s not what I meant,” Sam makes a show of pulling out a $50 bill from his pocket, dropping it on the bar. The dark-haired bartender accepts it, sliding it towards himself. “Right. So these people, they would have moved here about six months ago, probably pretty rowdy, like to drink…”

  “Yeah, real night owls, you know?” Dean adds. I take another big sip of my beer. I don’t know why I’m drinking it when I hate the taste, and the smell is surfacing old memories. So, I’m glad when Dean quietly takes the bottle from my lips before I can take another disgusting sip. He keeps it on the other side of him, the action done casually as he continues talking. “Sleep all day, party all night.”

  “Barker farm got leased out a couple of months ago. Real winners. They’ve been in here a lot—drinkers. Noisy. I’ve had to 86 them once or twice,” he informs.

  “Thanks,” Dean nods, leading us out of the bar.

  “What does 86 mean?” I ask, despising the aftertaste on my tongue. 

  “‘Remove them,” Dean answers, his hand going to my lower back to urge me down the alley. It’s dark, and the asphalt is wet despite it not having rained in the last 24 hours. It’s only our footsteps between the two walls, but just beneath ours, there’s another. The fact is, we expected this and had planned for it. So, like we mapped out, we slip from view, using the shadows to vanish between a small gap in the buildings. The person’s steps continue, pattering forward, he pauses, scuffing and turning back around. The boys are on him quickly, shoving him against the paneled wall roughly, Dean holding a sharp knife against his throat. Our stalker is a dark skinned man in a flannel shirt; he has a buzz cut, and he looks just a little shorter than Dean. 

  “Smile,” Dean teases. 

  “What?” the man exhales, his eyes wide as he looks between the three of us. 

  “Show us those pearly whites,” Dean clarifies.

  “Oh, for the love of—“ he groans. “You want to stick that thing someplace else? I’m not a vampire. Yeah, I heard you guys in there.”

  “How much do you know about vampires?” I voice it quietly.

  “How to kill them,” he answers, and I fight the urge to take big steps away from him. “Now seriously, bro, that knife’s making me itch.” Sam pins him harder against the wall. “Woah, easy there, Chaci,” the man says.

  He brings his hand up to his mouth, pulling up his lip so that we can see his gums. “See? Fangless. Happy?” he proves. Not only is he not a vampire, but it looks like the dentist probably loves him. “Now,” he continues. “Who the hell are you?”

********

  The man, Gordon, shows off his arsenal, his car trunk popped open to put it all on display. He lifts a large silver hook, letting the street light reflect on it as he moves it this way and that.

  “You got a thing for I know what you did last Summer?” I ask, eyeing the tool. It’s an interesting weapon to choose, certainly not a conventional one. It seems harsh, it reminds me of the Hook Man hunt we had a while back. 

  “What?” 

  “Nothing, never mind,” I mumble. 

  “Sam and Dean Winchester,” he says, moving on quickly. It’s the second time he’s said their names as if testing the way they sounded. “I can’t believe it. You know, I met your old man once. Hell of a guy. Great hunter. I heard he passed. I’m sorry, it’s big shoes. But from what I hear, you guys fill ‘em. Great trackers, good in a tight spot—“

  “You seem to know a lot about our family,” Dean points out.

  “Word travels fast,” he answers, looking directly at me. “You know how hunters talk.”

  My heart stops, that fear curling around my gut and tugging it down. “No, we don’t, actually,” Dean replies. But Gordon is still looking at me. 

  “What was your name again?” he asks me, and I know by the way he repeated the Winchesters' name that he hadn’t actually forgotten mine. 

  “Y/N,” I answer.

  “And your last name?” he pushes.

  “Just Y/N,” I doubled down. Maybe he’s harmless, maybe I’m just very paranoid, but regardless, I don’t want him to know. And yet there’s a part of me, a large gnawing part of me, that’s telling me he already does. 

  “So, um, those two vampires, they were yours, huh?” Sam asks, diverting Gordon’s attention away from me. I want to throw confetti at him out of gratitude. 

  “Yup. Been here two weeks,” he answers.

  “Did you check out that Barker farm?” Dean asks.

  “It’s a bust. Just a bunch of hippie freaks. Though they could kill you with that patchouli smell alone,” he explains, and somehow that’s another red flag in my book, separate from him being a hunter. Hippies were not freaks, and to think of them as such is lame.

  “Where’s the nest, then?” Dean pushes.

  “I got this one covered,” Gordon replies, shutting it down. “Look, don’t get me wrong, it’s a real pleasure meetin’ you fellas. But I’ve been on this thing for over a year. I killed a fang back in Austin, tracked the nest all the way up here. I’ll finish it.” 

  “We could help,” Dean adds, and for once, I would love for his beautiful lips to stop moving. Gordon could have this case as much as he wants; I'm more than content with that outcome. 

  “Thanks, but uh, I’m kind of a go-it-alone type of guy,” he deflects. That was good news. He should leave. We should let him leave. Let him be alone. 

  “Come on, man, I’ve been itching for a hunt,” Dean pleads. 

  “Sorry,” he says, closing the trunk of his car. “But hey, I hear there’s a Chupacabra two states over. You go ahead and knock yourselves out.” He gets into his car, and I’ve suddenly never been more pleased by any other sight. “It was real good meeting you, though. I’ll buy you a drink on the flip side.”

  Staying back was perhaps the worst mistake of my life. I had been too paranoid. I had let the fear of running into Gordon get to me, deciding to hang back at the motel while they took care of a lead to some vampires. But, not knowing if they’re okay or alive is one hundred times worse than possibly getting killed by a hunter. I’d rather get tortured, stabbed a hundred times, and burned alive than let them go on a hunt without me, I know that now. So, when I got a call saying they were okay and would be heading to the bar to celebrate the success, I jumped at the opportunity. 

  I saw Dean first; he had stayed outside, knowing I was going to arrive separately from them. “Woah,” he chuckles as I jump into his arms, my own wrapping around his neck. He wraps his arms around me, his hands firm and secure on my back. I deflate against him, a weight I didn’t know was on my shoulders, easing in his embrace. 

  “If I ever say I’m gonna stay back on a hunt again, I’m lying or it isn’t me,” I declare.

  His hands slip lower down my back as he pulls away just enough to see my face. “I’m not going to force—” he pauses, eyes scanning my face with a precision only he seems to have. “Okay, baby, you can come with us, always,” he nods, giving in easily.

  “Good, thanks,” I exhale, another weight lifted from my shoulders, “Because that was a horrible time. I was really worried about you.”

  He smiles lopsidedly. He fricking smiles as if I hadn’t been pacing the motel floor enough to wear a hole into the carpet. “I’m alright, not a scratch on me. Sammy’s okay, too. It was just one vampire.”

  “You’re lucky it was just one!” I say, hitting his chest lightly. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even blink, he just wears that sure smile of his, his fingers twitching on my lower back. “Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, eyes squinting, a smile pulling on my lips.

  His eyes trace down my face, “Nothin’” he answers, shaking his head. “Come on,” he nods towards the bar entrance, and for a brief moment, I had forgotten that’s why we were here.

  I let him lead me in, frankly, I’d let him lead me anywhere, even if that was straight into danger. Coincidentally, that is exactly what he’s doing. I pause at the sight of Gordon occupying a table with Sam sitting across from him. “You didn’t say he was gonna be joining us,” I say, looking at him.

  I see the guilt wash over his face with the slight twitch of his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t have come,” he answers.

  “Yeah, that’s the whole point,” I shake my head.

  “Give him a chance,” he reasons. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” I know he means that, and I know he wouldn’t. Yet, there’s a part of me that’s screaming for me to be wary. This is different from a family friend of theirs; this is a stranger with no obligation to us. “You look pretty,” he tries.

  “You can’t compliment your way out of this,” I counter. Except he totally can, because whether he means it or not, my heart lurches, and little butterflies twirl in my stomach.

  “‘Wasn’t tryin’ to,” he shrugs, and I know I’m a goner. My throat fills with nervous, bubbly laughter that I have to force down. 

  “I…will give him a chance,” I declare, booping his nose before turning and making my way towards the table, so much for a compliment not saving him. I almost instantly regret my decision when I take a seat, my heart thrumming fast for an entirely different reason. But then Dean takes the seat beside me, and it eases something small in me, so maybe things will be okay. (That’s me lying to myself.)

  “Nice to see you again,” Gordon greets me, his eyes boring into mine. “Why weren’t you there for the take-down? Don’t like getting your hands dirty?”

  Shoot. “Oh, I was…” I fumble for a lie, my heart beating hard enough that I can feel it against my chest. 

  “Not feeling good,” Sam sweeps in, saving me, and I want to lean across Dean and place a big kiss on his cheek for that. 

  “But you feel well enough to come party?” he presses. 

  I broke the eye contact he had set, looking at the swirls of the wooden table. “‘Guess so,” I mumble, failing to come up with something witty. I’m really not helping myself.

  “‘Shame you missed it,” he remarks, leaning back casually in his seat. I look back up at him, nodding slowly and giving him an awkward, tight-lipped smile when a familiar, warm hand settles on my knee, halting its bouncing. I didn’t know I was doing that. He did, though, of course he did. 

  I watch the moment Gordon’s eyes briefly drop to Dean's hand on my knee as if taking note of it. I think Dean notices it too, but he doesn’t remove his hand or say anything about it, taking a sip of his beer and squeezing my leg softly instead. It makes the butterflies in my stomach get frantic. “‘She your girl?” Gordon asks him, nodding at me.

  “No,” Dean answers simply, a hint of a bite underlying it. What was that for? I thought he liked this guy. 

  Gordon quirks his eyebrow, shrugging as if contemplating it. But he seems to move on quickly. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks. “I’ll get another round.”

  Okay, that’s a pretty normal, if not sweet, question. “Sure, thank you, um, a Shirley Temple, please.”

  “No alcohol?” he asks, eyebrows raised slightly.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m not really a fan…” I answer, nodding a little awkwardly. Alcohol reminds me of my Dad—the sad man he was. So, I don’t enjoy it. I had to learn to like, or at the very least tolerate bars, back in college. Turns out the right music and a sugar high can be as much fun as alcohol.

  “Not even a shot?” he tries. “I don’t know how you handle hunting without it.”

  “I guess I handle it the normal way?” I answer, my voice going up in a question rather than a sure statement. “Maybe a good cry too.”   He chuckles lightly, taking a sip of whatever amber liquid is in his glass. Was that funny? I didn’t think it was. 

  He waves a waitress over, flashing his white teeth as he orders a handful of drinks. His words become a faint buzz in my ears as I study him. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I don’t want to assume that he has bad intentions, for all I know, I’m making a really bad assumption. But I don’t know, really, I have no clues to indicate anything other than that he’s a pretty good hunter whom we happened to run into. Maybe I am overreacting, anxiety be damned. 

  “How d’you two meet her?” he asks, and as harmless as he might be, I kind of don’t like the way he asks a question regarding me without me, like I can’t answer it myself.

  “Our parents knew each other,” Sam answered. 

  “Back to your parents, huh,” Gordon nods. “Your folks hunters too?” 

  “One of them was, yeah,” I reply, trying to be careful with what I share. It’s also why I hadn’t given him my last name; if he figures out who my Dad is, then he’ll know who my Mom is, which means he’ll know what I am. 

  “Married outside the life. That must be hard,” he remarks. 

  “You saying you have trouble with the ladies?” I tease. He laughs a dry laugh. I guess he didn’t like that joke too much. I clear my throat, moving on, “They loved each other, my parents, so…”

  “You one those “love always wins” kind of people?” he asks.

  “Um, I guess I am, yes.” I’m not sure if all of me knew that I believed that until now. But then the words left my mouth, and I know it’s true. “I mean, I think if you love someone a lot, you're bound to do anything for them, you know, regardless of the risks or consequences. I can’t imagine anything that could beat love because it sure as hell can break the constraints of death.”

  I have to resist the urge to look at Dean. I know I’m a hypocrite because, by my own words, I should tell him how I feel regardless of the consequences. But I can’t. I’ve known him practically my whole life. If I said something and he didn’t feel the same, then what would become of us? We couldn’t possibly be as close as we are; there’d always be the lingering awkwardness of an unwanted confession. And I wouldn’t be able to pretend that it didn’t kill me to hear him verbally say he didn’t feel the same. He’d probably be kind about it too, let me down gently while all the same ripping out my heart.

  I think it may be possible to love someone so much that you have no other choice but to do it silently. Is that foolish? Maybe. Probably. But I’ve almost lost him twice, and I still don’t have the courage to spill my guts, so I know all I am is foolish. Yet, his hand is on my leg, and it would be so easy to make that permanent, to turn to him and say the truth that’s always on the tip of my tongue. I want the chance to love him out loud. I want him to kiss me until my lungs start weeping and my heart begs for more. I wouldn’t care if it killed me. What a wonderful way to die. 

  I just want him. I want my heart to beat in sync with his. I want my skin to memorize his fingertips like a wildfire spreading. I want monuments to be carved out of our love, vines writing our tale in its intertwining fingers.

  I’m pulled out of my thoughts of old stone when the weight on my knee disappears, my eyes flicking to him. His hips lift slightly as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. 

  “No, no, I got it,” Gordon stops him. A waitress carefully lays down a couple of shot glasses, beer, and a red drink with my name on it. Condensation rolls down the glass onto the wooden table, possibly creating a mark that would prove that we had been here for years to come: something is comforting in that, I think.

  “Come on,” Dean reasons, his wallet in his hand. Is it possible to be jealous of a square piece of leather?   “I insist,” Gordon nods, holding a couple of bills pinched between his fingers at the waitress. My Dad used to say that anyone who buys you a drink is a friend, so maybe this is a good sign, though he was also an alcoholic, so maybe his advice doesn’t stand.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Gordon says to the waitress as she walks away, leaning far back to watch the sway of her hips. He grabs a shot glass, the clear liquid shifting as he raises it. “Another one bites the dust,” he toasts, getting Dean to raise a shot of his own.

  “That’s right,” he answers, the duo knocking back the drink with little to no grimacing. 

  Finally, I pull the red bubbling heaven to my lips. Whoever created this drink deserves endless love and all the wealth one could need. Seriously, I’d kiss whoever came up with it.

  “Dean,” Gordon laughs, “You gave that big ass fang one hell of a haircut, my friend.”

  “Thank you,” he answers.

  “That was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful,” Gordon reminisces, a satisfied, dreamy look on his face. “You should have seen the way he used the electric saw.” 

  There’s something childlike in the way he talks about it, like it was a cool scene in a comic rather than something that happened. I nod along, placing my glass down as I reply, “Like a slasher flick,” going along with how he gushes about the kill. Sometimes it’s easier to nod and smile, though Sam doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment with his unamused expression and distance from the conversation. 

  “You alright, Sammy?” Dean asks him.

  “I’m fine,” he answers a little harshly, or bitterly.

  “Well, lighten up a little, Sammy,” Gordon teases, mocking him.

  “Only they get to call me that,” he replies smoothly, nodding towards Dean and me, causing a sort of warm pride to pulse in my heart.

  “Okay, no offense meant,” he backs off, raising his hands in surrender. “Just celebrating a little. Job well done.”

  “Right. Well, decapitations aren’t my idea of a good time, I guess,” Sam remarks.

  “Oh, come on, man, it’s not like it was human,” Gordon argues. 

  My face scrunches in confusion, taken aback by that statement. “Well, that’s not necessarily true,” I point out, “They were turned, meaning they had to originate from a human.”

  “Key word: were,” Gordon replies. “They were human and now they’re blood sucking monsters.”

  “Well, sure. But that feels a little too black and white. I think it would be dumb to ignore that at least a handful of vampires hadn’t exactly volunteered to be turned, meaning that all they’re doing is surviving now.”

  “Are you trying to say they aren’t monsters?” Gordon presses, his face hardening. 

  “I mean, not necessarily. Yes, killing people is wrong—“

  “I’m glad we can agree on that,” he cuts me off, his lips pulled into a snarl. “Have you ever hunted a vampire?”

  I breathe a laugh. I’m not fond of being cut off during a debate or argument. “I have, but that’s not my point. I just mean to say that “monster” may be a strong word to use.”

  “What kind of hunter are you?” He scuffs, looking at Dean like he had chosen wrong. “How aren’t they monsters?” He presses, eyes locking onto me. “What else would you call them?” his voice rises. “Innocent? Friendly? Victims?”

  I flinch as his hand slams onto the table, the glasses rattling. My chair scrapes against the floor as I put distance between myself and the table, away from him. I look down at the swirls of the wooden table, tracing the loop with my eyes as I steal a sip from my drink in an attempt to pretend like I hadn’t reacted the way I did. I don’t say anything. I don’t try to argue more, saying that I meant that to use the word “monster” for every supernatural being rather than individually, as in depending on the case, is unfair. Which is not to say that there aren’t monsters out there, because there are. 

  “You both need to have a little more fun with your job,” Gordon adds, referring to Sam and me.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them, mostly him. You could learn a thing or two from this guy, Sammy,” Dean replies.  

  “Yeah, I bet I could,” Sam muses with a tight-lipped smile. “Look, I’m not gonna bring you guys down. I’m just gonna go back to the motel.”

  My ears perk up. That sounds like the perfect escape. 

  “You sure?” Dean asks.

  “Yeah,” he answers, standing. 

  “Sammy?” he reaches into his jacket, pulling out his keys, the metal jingling. “Remind me to beat that buzzkill out of you later, alright?”

  Sam catches the keys tossed at him with one hand, casually turning to leave. My fingers tap against the arms of the chair as I watch the back of his head. “Wait, Sam,” I call out. He stops, looks over his shoulder. “Can I come with you?” 

  “Yeah, of course,” he answers, and I wonder why I asked. I don’t need permission. 

  I stand, feeling Dean's eyes on me. His eyes are scrunched together, speaking the words we won’t say out loud because he’s asking if I’m okay and not just okay but genuinely, truly, okay. My hand falls to his shoulder, giving him a little squeeze as I lean down, head tilting slightly as I say a quiet, “Be safe.” I brush my hair from my face as I catch up to Sam, falling into step with him.

********

  I flop onto the nearest bed in the motel with a sigh as Sam drops the keys onto a hook. It's not my bed, it's not even my room, but I know neither boy will complain. “We should get a pizza,” I announce, tracing the dark water stain on the ceiling with my eyes. “A real greasy one that will definitely clog an artery or two.”

  “You sound like Dean,” he answers, scuffing and shaking his head as he tosses his jacket onto the other bed.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I reply, kicking off my shoes. I twist around, lying on my stomach with my head propped up in my hands. “‘Could be like a slumber party while those two get hammered, or whatever.”

  He frowns at the mention of them. “He gives you a bad vibe, right?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I muse.

  “You looked uncomfortable.”

  “That’s the exact opposite of what I was going for,” I mumble. “But, I’m probably biased, you know? He’ll probably kill me if he finds out what I am. But what’s your reasoning?”

  “I don’t know,” he answers softly, sitting at the edge of his bed. “The way he talks about hunting, and the way he handles it, I guess.”

  “That makes two of us, then. I guess Dean isn’t picking up on it. Or he’s ignoring it, rose colored glasses and all,” I consider. 

  “Do you think Ellen would know who he is?” he asks, looking over at me.

  “Probably. She said hunters pass through, maybe he’s one of ‘em, or she heard of him through others. She looks like the kind of person who knows everyone.”

  “‘Didn’t know you,” he points out, a small smile playing at his lips.

  “Guess I’m just that mysterious,” I joke, wiggling my fingers at him.

  “Sure,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna call her.” 

  “Put her on speaker,” I tell him as he pulls out and flicks open his phone.

  He nods, mumbling a “yeah, yeah,” his phone making small beeping noises with every button press. A steady ring buzzes from his phone, the line picking up after the third ring. 

  “Harvelle’s Roadhouse,” she greets, the distant sound of chatter filling the background.

  “Hey, Ellen, uh, Sam Winchester,” he answers.

  “And Y/N!” I add.

  “Sam, Y/N, it’s good to hear from you both. You're all okay, aren’t you?” she asks. She really is very sweet; it’s hard not to like her. 

  “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Got a question,” he answers.

  “Yeah, shoot.”

  “You ever run across a guy named Gordon Walker?”

  “Yeah, I know Gordon.”

  “And?” he presses.

  “Well, he’s a real good hunter. Why are you asking, sweetie?” 

  “Is he cool to be with? Safe?” I ask, shouting a little to make sure the phone picks me up.

  “We ran into him on a job and we’re kinda working with him, I guess,” Sam clarifies.

  “Don’t do that,” she answers, her voice suddenly serious rather than sweet and syrupy. 

  “I- I thought you said he was a good hunter,” he stammers, throwing me a worried look. I scramble to sit upright, worried about her change in voice and her short warning.

  “Yeah, and Hannibal Lecter’s a good psychiatrist,” she remarks. “Look, he is dangerous to everyone and everything around him. If he’s working on a job, you just let him handle it and you move on.”

  My heart plummets to my feet. I guess my fear was warranted this whole time. We should leave. 

  “Ellen—“ 

  “No, Sam,” She cuts him off sharply. “You just listen to what I’m telling you, okay?”

  “Right, okay,” he answers, giving in. It’s not that long after that he hangs up, and we sit in silence. I stare at the carpet, considering its little bumps and likely itchy material.

  “What do we do?” I ask, breaking the silence. 

  “We leave as soon as possible, I guess. ‘Tell Dean when he gets back.”

  “I feel like we should tell him now. Get him back now. After Ellen’s warning, I really don’t trust him,” I point out, picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna come back, he’ll insist he stays out. I don’t think he’s gonna take the warning seriously either,” he counters.

  “If I call him, he’ll come, he always does,” I reason. Before I went on the road with him, that’s pretty much how we were. If he didn’t make a surprise visit, or a pre-planned one, then it was because I called. 

  He shakes his head, “Maybe that’ll work, but it might set something off with Gordon.”

  “The longer he stays with him, the less he’s gonna believe us,” I point out. 

  “He’ll always believe you,” he says with finality, and it hits me. He isn’t wrong, I guess I never thought of that. “But Dean, he’ll be okay for now. We should be more worried about you.”

  “Back to my hundred miles away freak out,” I mumble, falling back into bed.

  “Look, I’m gonna go get a drink from the vending machine outside, and when I get back we’ll think of something, okay?” he asks, staying level-headed. “Do you want anything?”

  “Could you get me a (soda)?” I answer, leaning up on my elbows.

  He nods, throwing his jacket back on. “I’ll be right back,” he announces one last time before the door clicks behind him.

  I drop from my propped arms, staring up at the ceiling again. Sam’s right, we have dealt with worse. For one, Gordon is human; he may be skilled, but he’s still got a handful of natural weaknesses (worst comes to worst). That should be comforting, and yet for some reason it isn’t. 

  I can convince myself that everything will be okay if I squeeze my eyes closed hard enough. I exhale slowly, trying to let all the negative energy escape me. I try not to be negative, but sometimes it creeps through like a shadow overtaking the sunlight. My body feels heavy with all the anxiety it’s harbored today, my bones like jello against a mattress that’s almost comfortable. 

  I don’t count the minutes Sam is gone, but after what feels like an eternity of staring at a boring ceiling, I check the alarm clock. It’s been about five minutes, and the red glow of the numbers is watching me from the nightstand. I don’t think the vending machine is far enough to warrant five minutes, then again, maybe he got sidetracked. It wouldn’t hurt to check; worst-case scenario, I bump into him and we brush off how I got worried for no reason.

  I roll over to the other side of the bed, shoving my feet back into my shoes and throwing a sweater on. I make sure I have my phone before softly shutting the door behind me. Immediately, it’s vacant. There’s no one lingering outside, not even someone smoking, and the nearest vending machine, some distance to the left, is unoccupied. Fear punches my heart, but I try to act calmly before jumping to conclusions, taking a lap around the exterior of the motel in search of him. 

  He’s nowhere to be seen. He’s gone, and the car is still here. I flip open my phone, pressing his contact, the line rings and rings and rings, never getting anywhere. I huff, quickly calling again as worry eats at my gut. And again, there’s no answer. I should call Dean. But if I call Dean, then he’ll probably bring Gordon, and that’s what we want to avoid; then again, this is his brother we’re talking about, he deserves to know. I’d be pissed if no one told me my brother was in danger and I know Dean will be if I keep it from him. But how do I say, “Hey, your brother was kidnapped by I don’t know who, and I know you’re really worried, but I actually need you to not bring that new friend you made. No, I probably shouldn’t explain why over the phone, but you just need to trust me, okay?” Like, I would probably hit whoever said that to me. 

  I need to focus. Sam’s life is more important than Dean being mad at me, though the mere thought makes me feel nauseous. I head back to the room, quickly taking the car keys before heading to the Impala. Who would kidnap Sam?

  The vampires. That’s the only thing that makes sense. It seems like they didn’t find the nest previously but rather a lone vampire, so maybe this is revenge. It would then make sense as to why they didn’t go after me, too; I wasn’t there, so they wouldn’t know me. 

  I hop into the Impala, hands on the leather of the steering wheel. I’ve only driven this car a handful of times, but never alone and never under conditions like this. I summon a small compact into my hand, a ghost of purple lingering around it as I open it and focus on the mirror. “Ostende mihi illum quem quaero,” I whisper to it, focusing on Sam as I ask to be shown the one I’m looking for. The mirror ripples, a purple cloud moving over it, obscuring my reflection. And when the fog clears up, it is not my reflection staring back at me but a sleeping figure with rope around its arms and legs, lying on the ridged black floor of a van. I guess the vampires decide to go the classic route. But he’s safe and alive, his chest rising and falling steadily. 

  I let out a sigh of relief, placing the opened compact on the dashboard and starting up the car. I force my sight on him to zoom outside of the van, waiting for a sign to expose their location. I wait in bated silence, my breath held as the occasional street light illuminates the vehicle. There. Right there. Oak Road. That’s a start. I can head that way and then keep following them. I make a small pamphlet appear in the palm of my hands, a booklet I saw of Red Lodge, Montana, in the check-in area of our motel. I yank open the map, my finger skimming over it until I find the road and, not too far from it, a bridge that leads out of town. I bet that’s where they're heading. I take a mental picture of it and throw it beside me, pressing down on the gas pedal. 

********

  I wait a solid minute for them to drag him out of the van and into the rundown barn. It’s a horrible minute that leaves me on edge, but to get caught now is not an option. I put the car in park, some distance away from them. Silently, I get out, going to the trunk to pull out a machete, testing the weight of it in my hand. No time like the present. I close the trunk with as little noise as possible, stalking forward with the darkness cloaking me. 

  There are no vampires outside to play guard dog. It’s not exactly smart on their part, but it’s probably to avoid anyone looking over here, though I doubt anyone would with the overgrown grass and the boarded-up windows. But it’s good for me, so I creep closer to the two large barn doors. I doubt they know I’m coming, but with his life on the line, I don’t want to waste any more time sneaking around to take them out. I’ve taken down a nest by myself before; I can handle myself just fine. I stand in front of the doors, shooting a blast of energy at them with my hands outstretched. The wood shatters, paint chips, and shards of wood fly out.

  I just barely registered Sam, bound to a chair, with his hair messed up. Instead, I focus on the dark-haired vampire with his teeth flashing and a sack clenched in his hand. He’s looking my way, my flashy entrance causing quite the scene. I throw up a hand behind me, forcing the vampires that lingered near the door to be shoved up against the wall. I guess they kept their guard dogs on the inside. I’ll deal with them in a moment. 

  The vampire by Sam charges me, and somewhere between the punch that I dodge and the kick I deliver to his gut, a resemblance to the bartender who gave us information clicks. He staggers back, and I follow, machete raised.

  “Wait!” A girl yells out. I hold up a hand, keeping the bartender-vampire in place as I look towards the voice. A girl no older than me steps out from the shadows. She’s wearing a dark grey long-sleeved shirt with little buttons stopping mid chest, a white tank top peeking from the space the V-neck created, and an open black vest over it. She has straight brown hair that stops a little past her shoulders, and she looks only a little taller than I. “Don’t!”

  “Why?” I ask sternly. “You kidnapped my friend.”

  “Only because your friend killed one of us!” the vampire I hold in place spits.

  “Stop, Eli,” the girl warns. I guess she’s the leader.

  “We weren’t planning on hurting your friend here, okay? We just need to talk. My name’s Lenore,” she says softly, stepping closer slowly with her hands raised in surrender. 

  “Talk?” I echo. “Eli here looks like he wanted to do more than talk to Sam.”

  “He won’t hurt either of you. You have my word,” she swears, her voice never wavering.

  I null it over, tongue in cheek. I shouldn’t trust her. “Fine,” I give in. “We’ll talk. But one wrong move, if you try anything, I will have all your heads on the floor faster than you can say ‘please.’” The threat sounds foreign on my tongue, too ruthless, and yet I’m not fibbing. I let my hold on all of them drop, the sound of feet hitting the ground and sighs of relief filling the dingy barn.

  “Thank you,” Lenore exhales. Eli stammers off, going to her side. “Look, we’re not like the others. We don’t kill humans, and we don’t drink their blood. We haven’t for a long time,” she confesses.

  The machete in my hand suddenly feels heavy. They’re like me, then. 

  “What is this, some kind of joke?” Sam asks.

  “Notice you’re still alive,” she points out.

  “Okay, uh, correct me if I’m wrong here, but shouldn’t you be starving to death?” he counters. 

  “We’ve found other ways. Cattle blood,” she answers.

  “So you’re the ones killing the cows,” I say.

  “It’s not ideal, in fact, it’s disgusting. But…it allows us to get by,” she explains.

  “You guys are like that one character from that movie The Little Vampire,” I remark.

  “Isn’t that a kids' movie?” Sam asks.

  I look over my shoulder at him, “I was like 18 when that movie came out, leave me alone.” I look back at Lenore, “Anyways, what made you want to change?”

  “Survival,” she answers. “No deaths, no missing locals, no reason for people like you to come looking for people like us. We blend in. Our kind is practically extinct. Turns out we weren’t quite as high up the food chain as we imagined.”

  “Why are we explaining ourselves to these killers?” Eli spits.

 “Eli!” Lenore warns.

  “We choke on cow’s blood so that none of them suffer,” he continues anyway. “Tonight they murdered Conrad and they celebrated.”

  “Eli, that’s enough,” Lenore warns again, her voice sharper. 

  “Yeah, Eli, that’s enough,” Sam piles on. 

  “What’s done is done. We’re leaving this town tonight,” she adds.

  “Then why did you bring me here?” Sam asks. “Why are you even talking to us?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather not. But I know your kind. Once you have the scent, you’ll keep tracking us. It doesn’t matter where we go. Hunters will find us,” she explains.

  I feel sick. It’s like looking into an obscured mirror. We’re two sides of the same coin. I can faintly remember mom telling me how, before my brother and I were born, she and dad moved around a lot, worried about the hunters that would go after her. That’s why we moved to Kansas to begin with: I messed up the security they had created for all of us, and we needed to leave before a hunter caught wind. The room tilts on its axis. To think I threatened these people. I’m a hypocrite. 

  “So you’re asking us not to follow you,” Sam replies.

  “We have a right to live. We’re not hurting anyone,” she argues. 

  “Right, so you keep saying, but give us one good reason why we should—” 

  “Done,” I cut him off. 

  “What?” Sam exclaims. “You’re just gonna believe them?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “When we were looking into this case, there was no sign of any other unusual deaths, let alone one that resembled a death by a vampire. Gordon basically started this mess. He targeted them, not the other way around,” I explain.

  I meet Lenore’s eyes then, “I know what it’s like to want to try and be different from what people expect you to be. We won’t follow you, we’ll get out of your hair. But, I can’t say the same for Gordon, we’ll try and get him to look the other way, but I’m not sure how long that’ll last.”

  Her shoulders drop slightly, her face softening. “Thank you.”

********

  By the time we arrive at the motel, both our minds are swarming. Out of everything that could’ve been said and done, this was an outcome I couldn’t have foreseen. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why couldn’t more beings like me have no interest in being as evil as they’re dubbed?

  I wait by the Impala while Sam goes to fetch Dean from the room. We saw Gordon's car on the other side when we pulled in, which means he’s with Dean, and that’s exactly where I don’t want to be.

  It takes less than two minutes for Sam to come back with his brother right behind him. He exhales sharply as if preparing to drop the bomb on him. “Dean, maybe we’ve got to rethink this hunt,” he starts.

  “It’s not a maybe, we are,” I cut in. “The hunt's off, that’s it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dean asks, looking between us like we each grew another head. “Where were you?”

  “In the nest,” Sam answers bluntly.

  “You found it?” His eyes widened.

  “More like it found us. Or, actually, Sam,” I answer.

  “They kidnapped Sam, and you didn’t call me?” Dean asks, eyes locked onto me.

  “I handled it myself. And you were busy,” I defend, but the hurt in his voice is as clear as I had imagined.

  “I’m never too busy for yo—for either of you,” he answers, looking at both of us with almost wild eyes. “Well, how many’d you kill?” Dean asks rapidly, eyes scanning both of us for injuries. 

  “None,” Sam answers.

  “Well, they didn’t just let you go.”

  “Funny story…” I murmur.

  His face drops momentarily as if his brain is trying to compute it. “Alright, well, where is it?” Dean asks.

  “I was blindfolded, I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking at me. It’s only half true because he wasn’t blindfolded on the way back since he rode with me.

  “But you know,” Dean points out, looking at me.

  “Oh, would you look at that, I completely forgot where it was,” I answer, trying to put on my most convincing voice.

  He deadpans, one eyebrow quirked slightly. He doesn’t believe me, “Yeah, you do.”

  “Well….” I stretch the word out, “Maybe. But I’m not telling you or anyone, sorry.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Because we aren’t going after them. They aren’t killing people, they’re living off of cow blood instead,” I explain, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  “And you believed them?” he presses. But then he’s shaking his head, running a hand through his hair as he mutters, “Of course you believed them, Ms. gullible over here.”

  “I am not gullible!” I defend.

  “Well…” Sam chimes in.

  “Hey!” I shove his arm. “Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side here?”

  “Right. Look at me, Dean. They let me go without a scratch. Hell, Y/N was throwing them around and threatened to kill them, and they didn’t touch her either,” Sam reasons, gesturing to himself and then at me. 

  “Wait, so you’re saying…No, no way. I don’t know why they let you go. I don’t really care,” he shakes his head. “We find ‘em, we waste ‘em.”

  “Why aren’t you listening?” I ask, almost pleading with him.

  “I am. But what part of ‘vampires’ don’t you understand? If it’s supernatural, we kill it, end of story. That’s our job,” he spits, and it feels like a stab to the heart. 

  “No, Dean, that is not our job. Our job is hunting evil. And if these things aren’t killing people, they’re not evil!” Sam defends.

  “Of course they’re killing people, that’s what they do. They’re all the same, Sam. They’re not human, okay? We have to exterminate every last one of them.”

  “Then kill me,” I shout, stepping closer to him.

  His face falters. He knows where he went wrong. “You’re different. I wouldn’t—“

  “How am I different?” I press, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat that he emits. My heart is hammering against my chest, my anger slowly being overtaken by something else, something that makes my voice waver. “By your logic, you should’ve killed me a long time ago.” I turn from him, stepping away, running my hands down my face.

  “I thought you got over this, Dean,” I say, looking back at him. It hurts. And it doesn’t help that his jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes shining a certain sadness that reeks of regret. “You hang out with that guy for what? A couple of hours and suddenly your’re—you’re—“ I can’t get the word out. I’m not sure what I’m even trying to say. “Just…fuck you, Dean.” The words aren’t as sharp as I want them to be, not with a lip that won’t stop quivering and the ache in my throat, it’s filled with more hurt than anger.

  He looks down, and I’m almost glad I can make him feel ashamed. I thought he was different. I wanted him to be different. “Gordon’s been on those vamps for a year, he knows,” he continues as if I hadn’t said a word. 

  “Knows what?! That the only trail they’re leaving behind, are animals?” I question, rage eating at the edges of sorrow. “Has he shown you any evidence, or are you just blindly believing him?”

  “He’s taking his word for it,” Sam cuts him off before he can answer.

  “That’s right,” he nods. 

  “Ellen says he’s bad news,” Sam reveals.

  “You called Ellen?” Dean asks. Sam nods. “And I’m supposed to listen to her? We barely know her, Sam, no thanks, I’ll go with Gordon.”

  “Right, ‘cause Gordon’s such an old friend,” Sam mocks. “You don’t think I can see what this is?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dean exclaims.

  “He’s a substitute for Dad, isn’t he?” Sam guesses. “A poor one.” 

  “Shut up, Sam,” he warns. 

  “He’s not even close, Dean. Not on his best day,” he continues. 

  “You know what? I’m not even going to talk about this,” he throws up his hands.

  “You know, you slap on this big fake smile, but I can see right through it. Because I know how you feel, Dean,” Sam admits, arms opened wide. “Dad's dead. And he left a hole, and it hurts so bad you can’t take it, but you can’t just fill up that hole with whoever you want to. It’s an insult to his memory.”

  “Okay,” he nods, jaw clenched tight. He starts to turn away, only to swing back with a hard punch. Sam stumbles back, clutching his jaw.

  A gasp rips through my throat, and I move forward, pushing Dean away harshly. He stumbles back slightly, but there’s a small part of me that thinks he’s letting me move him. “What the hell has gotten into you?!” I exclaim, shoving him again. 

  “You hit me all you want. It won’t change anything,” Sam croaks from somewhere behind me. 

  “I’m going to that nest,” he declares, grabbing my hands in one of his before I can push him again. “You don’t want to tell me where it is, fine. I’ll find it myself.”

  “Dean,” I say sharply, meeting his eyes, before he can let go of my wrists. “I swear to God, if you go after them, I will never forgive you.”

  His lip twitches, and his eyes seem to soften just slightly. I’m begging for him to agree with us, to not fall into whatever pit Gordon is dragging him towards. I know he’s better than that. I know he’s capable of seeing past the black and white aspect of hunting, being friends with me, and all the times he’s defended me are proof of that. I can’t be making that up. I can’t be.

  “Please,” I whisper, eyes glossy with tears that wish to form. 

  He swallows roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing. He releases my hands, turning away from me. I stare at his back, at the brown leather of his jacket, trying to bite back the tears. I was so worried that confessing would lead to losing him, but apparently I’m capable of doing so all on my own. No love needed.

  He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Fine,” he bites, turning back around. “Fine.” 

  My knees feel like they want to give up, collapse in on themselves in relief, but I force myself to stand. 

  “I’ll, uh… I’ll go try to talk Gordon down,” he says, running a hand over his jaw as he shakes his head. “Stay here or go to your room, I don’t want you around if he acts badly to the news, and he will.”

  A small smile pulls at the corner of my lips. “See? That’s the Dean I know,” I murmur softly. He swallows roughly, but doesn’t say anything more. He heads towards his motel room in silence, Sam trailing behind him. 

  I wait by the car. I’d like to see Gordon leave, to see his face and know for certain that he’s given up on this hunt. But it’s not Gordon that leaves the motel room a moment later, it’s the Winchesters. “He’s gone,” Sam confirms as they approach. 

  “You think he went after them?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Of course he did.

  “Probably,” Dean answers. 

  “Alright, come on, we need to stop him,” I say, heading towards the driver's side of the Impala.

  “Oh…you’re gonna drive?” Dean asks as I unlock the car.

  “Yeah, I mean, I know the way there,” I reply, looking over my shoulder at him. He looks surprised, lips drawn in a tight line.

  “Right. Right,” he murmurs, head tilted to the floor. 

********

  An empty truck with its bed left open sits near the farmhouse. It’s a white home with a porch and shuttered windows on the same property as the barn I broke into previously. No bodies or heads are lying around, so I guess we aren’t too late. But that truck, the box left on it, his car pulled off to the side. Gordon’s still here, and he’s definitely keeping company. 

  A dim, barely there light stretches out from beneath the farmhouse door. Someone’s groaning inside, sharp hisses and jagged grunts filling the air. We are too late. 

  “Sam, Dean, Y/N. Come on in,” Gordon says from inside. He must have heard our footsteps.

  Dean pushes the door in, the old wood creaking. “Hey, Gordon. What’s going on?” he greets carefully. 

  It’s Lenore. He has her tied to a chair, cuts of all different sizes sketched into her skin. And he’s just standing beside her, with a bloody knife in his hand, his eyes wild with a smug smile on his face. I failed her.

  “Just poisoning Lenore here with some dead man’s blood,” he answers casually, nodding towards the jar of blood on the table. “She’s going to tell us where all her little friends are, aren’t you? Wanna help?”

  “How about you shove that knife up your ass you sadistic fuck,” I spit. 

  “Woah, woah,” he says, eyes wide. “Calm down, now. How ‘bout we put our differences aside and finish the job.”

  “You’re torturing her!” I argue.

  “I know. I was just about to start on the fingers. Come on, Dean, help a friend out,” he smiles, shining those white teeth. He drags the knife across the pale skin of her arm, dark veins following the tip of the blade. 

  “Woah, woah, woah, hey, let’s all just chill out, huh?” Dean mediates, hands raised in surrender.

  “I’m completely chill,” he answers smoothly.

  “And entirely insane,” I add.

  “Gordon, put the knife down,” Sam orders sharply, trying to step towards Gordon. But Dean holds him back with a hand on his chest. 

  “Sounds like it’s these two that need to chill,” Gordon answers, pointing the tip of the blade at Sam and me. 

  “You’re right. I’m wasting my time here. This bitch will never talk. Might as well put her out of her misery,” he considers, replacing his knife with a machete that rested on the table. “I just sharpened it, so it’s completely humane.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” I ask. “Is that the kind of excuse you tell yourself to fall asleep you pathetic asshole?”

  “Not an excuse,” he acknowledges, turning towards Lenore.

  Sam steps in front of him, creating a barrier between Gordon and Lenore. “Gordon, I’m letting her go,” he tells him. 

  He points the knife at Sam’s chest, stopping him from moving. “You’re not doing a damn thing.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, Gordon, let’s talk about this,” Dean spews quickly.

  “What’s there to talk about? It’s like I said, Dean. No shades of gray,” he reiterates, the hold on his machete never faltering.

  I want to throw him across the room and rip his throat out. I want to hurt him so badly that I don’t care what it makes me. Yet, I can’t give away what I am; I have to play this safe for as long as I can. I just don’t know how much more I can hold back. 

  “Yeah. I hear ya. And I know how you feel,” Dean answers calmly.

  “Do you?”

  “That vampire that killed your sister deserved to die, but this one…”

  Gordon laughs, cutting him off. “Killed my sister? That filthy fang didn’t kill my sister. It turned her. It made her one of them. So I hunted her down, and I killed her myself.”

  “You did what?” Dean echoes, his voice quieter than before.   “It wasn’t my sister anymore; it wasn’t human. I didn’t blink. And neither would you,” he answers, his chest puffed out like he’s proud of what he did. 

  “So you knew all along, then? You knew about the vampires, you knew they weren’t killing anyone. You knew about the cattle. And you just didn’t care,” Sam concludes. 

  “Care about what? A nest of vampires suddenly acting nice?” he mocks. “Taking a little time out from sucking innocent people? And we’re supposed to buy that? Trust me. Doesn’t change what they are. And I can prove it.”

  He grabs Sam’s arm, machete raised, but before the shining metal can come down, my hands are raised, a large and bright blast of energy shooting from my palms. The wooden wall that he crashes into bends and breaks beneath him, the last bit of moonlight seeping through the cracks. The machete clanks to the ground, and Sam stumbles back. 

  All eyes are on me, two pairs filled with worry and a third filled with wonder. He scurries to sit up right, fear flashing in his dilated pupils. “Do you like it?” I ask, stalking forward. “Being afraid?”

  He looks past me with crazed eyes.“You two ‘been hiding her?! What are you!?”

  “Nothing that matters,” I answer, shards of wood crunching beneath my shoes as I go to Lenore. I kneel down beside her, helping Sam untie her. 

  “What happened to no black and white, Dean?” he laughs a single short laugh. “Why haven’t you killed her yet?! Is she your little bitch? Is that why?”

  A click registers against the walls, Dean standing in front of him with a gun in his hand, pointed at Gordon. “I’d really shut my mouth if I were you,” Dean warns through gritted teeth. He doesn’t bother to look back as he says, “Get her out of here, both of you.”

  Sam scoops Lenore up in his arms, carrying her out carefully. The wooden floor groans far behind me, and I watch Gordon lift himself from the floor just as I disappear out the door. Sam carries her to the bed of the truck, lying her down. Immediately, my hands are on her arm, pouring light into her skin to mend the cuts he had sliced into her. “Wipe off the dead man’s blood,” I direct Sam. He moves around me, going through a nearby box until he finds an old rag. Instantly, he’s cleaning off the blood, letting the cloth soak it up. 

  I try to ignore the commotion coming from the farmhouse as I finish up. But it’s difficult when I know Dean’s in there fighting someone who’s probably just as good as he is with no help. Of course, I know he’s capable, but that doesn’t mean I can suddenly stop worrying about him. 

  I focus back on the cold skin beneath my hands, the cuts webbing together seamlessly. I pull away, my hands freezing as if I had let them sit on a giant ice cube for an hour. Sam helps her off the bed of the truck, getting her into the driver's seat. I run my hand over the cold metal of the truck, whispering to it, “Et evanescet.” And for a fraction of a second, a wave of purple shimmers over the dark vehicle.

  I meet them by the driver's side. Sam is leaning against the closed door, making sure she’s okay to drive. “I bought you a day,” I tell her. “Regardless of how long we hold him back, I can guarantee you that for the next 24 hours, there’ll be no sign of you. He won’t be able to find you with traffic cameras or anything else. You won’t exist.”

  Her hands clench the steering wheel tightly, her jaw set in place as she watches us. “Thank you,” she says. Sam nods, tapping the door as he steps away. The engine rumbles, tires crunching over grass and gravel as she rolls away. I wish that there were more we could do for her. 

  He nudges my shoulder, bringing me back to myself. I follow his quick steps back up the house. When we enter, it’s Gordon that’s tied up, his eyes hard and his lips pulled into a snarl as he stares daggers into Dean, who leans against the table, watching him. They’re both battered and bruised. There’s a bruise blooming across Dean’s cheekbone, and what looks like a black eye.  

  “Did we miss anything?” Sam asks. 

  “Nah, not much,” Dean shrugs stiffly, grimacing slightly at the lift of his shoulder. “Lenore get out okay?”

  “Yeah,” he nods. 

  I step closer to Gordon, his eyes snapping to me as he pulls against the ropes that restrain him. I step behind his chair, hands rising to his temples. “What are you doing?” he demands. 

  “I’m going to make you forget that you ever saw what I could do. Don’t worry, you’ll remember getting thrown into the wall, the fear. You just won’t recall how it happened,” I answer, letting the energy spark from my fingertips. “Don’t need you following us around,” I add, mumbling, as I soak back the memory of purple light, erasing parts of myself from his hatred-filled mind. I step away from him, putting my hands behind my back.  

  “I guess our work here is done,” Dean declares. “How you doin’, Gordy? Gotta tinkle yet?” he mocks. “Alright. Well, get comfy. We’ll call someone in two or three days, have them come out, untie you.” He picks up a knife from the floor, jamming it into the table behind him.

  “Ready to go, Dean?” Sam asks.

  “Not yet,” he answers. “I guess this is goodbye. Well, it’s been real.” Suddenly, he lunges forward with a punch, knocking Gordon and the chair he’s stuck to onto the floor. “Okay. I’m good now. We can go,” he says, rolling his shoulders back. 

  I don’t try to hide the smile playing at the corner of my lips. In some odd way, that was incredibly attractive. There’s a little pep in my step as we walk down the porch stairs, the very beginning of daylight breaking across the horizon in a subtle yellow brushing against the blue. 

  “Sam?” Dean starts, gently wiping at his split lip. “Clock me one.”

  “What?”

  “Come on. I won’t even hit you back,” he urges, gesturing to himself. “Let’s go.”

  “No,” Sam argues.

  “Let’s go, you get a freebie. Hit me, come on,” he tries again. 

  “You look like you just went twelve rounds with a block of cement, Dean. I’ll take a rain check,” he counters.

  “I wish we never took this job. It’s jacked everything up,” Dean complains.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, kicking along a loose pebble. 

  “Think about all the hunts we went on, our whole lives,” he continues. “What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing? You know? I mean, the way Dad raised us, Sam…”

  “Dean, after what happened to Mom, Dad did the best he could,” Sam offers.

  “I know he did. But the man wasn’t perfect. And the way he raised us to hate those things? You remember when he tried to turn us against Y/N?”

  “Wait, what?” I stammer.

  “You were barely twelve, and he was trying to convince us you were evil. And, man, it worked,” he elaborated.

  “Oh, I knew it. I knew that’s why you were acting like that on my birthday,” I answer.

  “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t make any contact with you for months after that. Sam he made us hate them. And man, I hate ‘em. I do.” He stops suddenly, cutting himself off so that he can point at me and say, “Not you. I don’t mean you. You’re the exception.”

  “Thanks…I guess,” I answer. “But, I mean, that’s a decision you made on your own. It’s the exact opposite of what your Dad wanted.”

  He shakes his head like I’m not understanding. “When I killed that vampire at the mill, I didn’t even think about it; hell, I even enjoyed it.”

  “You didn’t kill Lenore,” Sam points out.

  “No, but every instinct told me to. I was gonna kill her. I was gonna kill ‘em all,” he tells us.

  “But you didn’t. You’re capable of seeing past the soldier mentality put onto you, whether you can see that or not,” I say, sincerely. “Tonight—actually I guess last night— was just more proof of that.” 

  “You’re still stubborn, though,” Sam adds with a smile.

  “Oh, 100% still stubborn,” I nod, agreeing without hesitation.

  “You’re both pains in my ass,” he grumbles.

  “Guess you have to keep us around to be a pains in the ass, then,” Sam answers with an amused smirk.

(Next Chapter)

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