musubi05

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ New Family

Dean Winchester x daughter!reader

Summary: Your dad invited Lisa and Ben over for dinner for the first time. He was trying to be normal without Sam and grow the family. You're fine with it though... kind of. Warnings: anxiety/mentions of death/grief of lost ones/angst

Notes: This was heavily inspired by this c.ai bot

The kitchen counter felt cold against your palms as you gripped it, knuckles white with tension, staring at the perfectly arranged dinner table. The plates were positioned just so, the napkins folded neatly beside each fork, and the centerpiece – a small vase with wildflowers you'd picked from the backyard – sat in the exact center. It looked like something out of a magazine, nothing like the usual mismatched dishes and paper towel rolls that normally graced your dinner table.

Three months. It had been three months since Sam went to hell, three months since that final confrontation that had torn your family apart and left you with nightmares that still woke you up screaming. Three months since it had just been you and Dean in this little house in Indiana that was supposed to feel like home but sometimes felt more like a beautiful prison.

For a while, it had been perfect (as it could get without Sam). Just you and your dad, finally having something that resembled a normal life. You'd do homework at the kitchen table while he cooked dinner, both of you pretending that burnt grilled cheese was gourmet cuisine. Dean would sit across from you, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he helped you with math problems, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to remember algebra from thirty years ago. You'd watch movies together on the couch, Dean always letting you pick even though you knew he secretly enjoyed the romantic comedies you chose just to mess with him. You'd catch him wiping his eyes during the sad parts, and he'd blame it on allergies with a gruff clearing of his throat.

Those had been good days. Days when Dean would ruffle your hair and call you "kiddo" with that soft smile that was reserved just for you. Days when you'd wake up to the smell of bacon and find him already up, humming some classic rock song under his breath as he moved around the kitchen. Days when you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could both heal from everything you'd lost.

But then Lisa came back into the picture. The former yoga instructor who was now a nurse.

You weren't stupid. You could see the way Dean's entire demeanor shifted when she called, how his shoulders would relax and his voice would drop to that gentle, intimate tone he'd never used with anyone else. You'd watch him disappear for hours to go see her and Ben, and when he came home, he'd have this soft, content expression that you'd never seen before – like he'd found something he didn't even know he was looking for.

The first time it happened, you were happy for him. Dean deserved happiness after everything he'd been through – after losing Sam, after carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for so long. But as the visits became more frequent, as the phone calls stretched longer, as Dean started canceling your movie nights and coming home later and later, a cold fear began to settle in your chest.

What if he realized that being with Lisa and Ben was easier than being with you? What if he wanted a normal family, one that didn't come with the baggage of monsters and nightmares and a twelve-year-old who knew how to load a shotgun?

So why did it feel like you were losing him?

"You ready for tonight, kiddo?" Dean's voice pulled you from your spiraling thoughts as he walked into the kitchen, his boots clicking against the wood floor. He was adjusting his flannel shirt – the blue one that you'd bought him for his birthday, you noted with a small pang of satisfaction – and you could see the nervous energy radiating from him in the way his hands fidgeted with the buttons.

Dean Winchester, the man who had faced down demons and angels and the literal devil himself, was nervous about a dinner party. The irony wasn't lost on you, but it did nothing to ease the knot of anxiety in your stomach.

You shrugged, brushing off his concern with practiced ease. "Yeah... I wonder where I get it from." A small, genuine smile tugged at your lips despite your inner turmoil. Even scared and anxious, you couldn't help but find comfort in the familiar banter between you and your dad.

Dean chuckled at your comment, a small, amused smirk playing on his lips as he shook his head. His green eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, he looked younger than his years. He knew that you were right; you definitely got your stubbornness from him. Hell, you got most of your personality traits from him – the good and the bad. And, damn, he was proud of that fact, even if it made parenting you a challenge sometimes.

She's got that Winchester attitude, he thought to himself, watching as you rolled your eyes at his expression. That's my girl.

He was about to say something smart in return, probably a joke about how you were too much like him for your own good, but then the sound of the doorbell ringing cut through the comfortable moment like a knife. His attention shifted immediately to the front door, and he glanced over his shoulder at you, noticing how your entire body went rigid at the sound.

Your heart plummeted to your stomach, the familiar sensation of dread washing over you like ice water. This was it. The moment you'd been dreading for a week. "You should go get that," you told Dean, your voice steadier than you felt as you placed a gentle hand on his arm and pushed him toward the door. "I forgot to lay out the cups."

The lie came easily – too easily. You'd been perfecting the art of deflection for weeks now, giving Dean excuses for why you needed to leave the room whenever Lisa called, why you suddenly had homework to do whenever he mentioned his plans with them.

Dean's eyebrows furrowed slightly, and you could see the wheels turning in his head. He knew you better than anyone, and you were sure he could sense something was off. But he didn't push – not yet. Instead, he rolled his eyes in that fond, exasperated way he had, the gesture so familiar it made your chest ache.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll go answer it," he grumbled, but there was a warm, soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The smile that told you he saw right through your excuse but was willing to play along for now.

As soon as Dean's footsteps faded toward the front door, you practically fled to the kitchen, using the excuse of getting cups to give yourself a moment to breathe. You moved deliberately slowly, your hands shaking slightly as you reached for the cabinet handle. Every second you could delay was another second you didn't have to face the reality of Lisa and Ben in your home, in your space, in your life.

The house was small – just two bedrooms, one bathroom, and an open concept living area that Dean had chosen specifically because it felt cozy and safe. But right now, that small size meant you could hear every word of the conversation happening at the front door, every laugh, every greeting that sounded so natural and easy.

"Lisa! Ben! Come in, come in," you heard Dean say, his voice taking on that warm, welcoming tone that he usually reserved for you. The sound of it being directed at someone else made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Dean, thank you so much for having us," Lisa's voice was warm and genuine, with a slight laugh that spoke of inside jokes and shared memories. "I brought dessert – that apple pie you mentioned loving."

She knows his favorite pie, you thought, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. How long have they been talking? How much does she know about him that I don't?

"You didn't have to do that," Dean was saying, but you could hear the pleased surprise in his voice. "That's... that's really thoughtful."

The sound of the door closing was followed by footsteps and the rustle of coats being removed. You could picture Dean helping Lisa out of her jacket, his hands gentle and careful, the way he used to help you with your coat when you were smaller.

"Where's Y/n?" Lisa asked, and you could hear genuine interest in her voice. "I've been looking forward to meeting her."

"She's in the kitchen," Dean replied, and you could hear the slight note of concern creeping into his voice. "She'll be out in a minute."

"Hey, squirt," Dean's voice was full of affection, the same tone he used with you but somehow different. With you, there was always an underlying current of protectiveness, of worry. With Ben, it was just... easy. "Getting taller every time I see you."

"Mom's forcing me to eat vegetables," Ben replied, his voice slightly muffled, and you could hear the grin in his words.

They sound like a real family, you thought, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady yourself. They sound like they belong together.

The thought of disrupting that, of being the awkward addition to their perfect little unit, made you want to disappear entirely. What if your presence ruined everything? What if Dean realized that his life was better, easier, happier without the complications that came with raising a hunter's daughter?

As Dean turned back around after closing the door, his eyes immediately swept the room, looking for you. When he noticed your absence, his eyebrows drew together in a slight frown, concern flickering across his features. His gaze moved toward the kitchen, and he could see your silhouette moving around, but something about your posture, about the way you were moving, set off every parental alarm he had.

She's stalling, he realized, his jaw tightening slightly. She's avoiding them.

Dean knew you better than anyone in the world. He could read your moods, your fears, your tells like an open book. And right now, every instinct he had was screaming that something was wrong. You'd been off for weeks – quieter than usual, more withdrawn, spending more time in your room. He'd chalked it up to missing Sam, to adjusting to your new life, but now he was wondering if there was something else going on.

The furrow between his eyebrows deepened as he watched you through the kitchen doorway. He wanted to go to you, to pull you aside and demand to know what was bothering you. But he had guests to entertain, and he knew that pushing you in front of Lisa and Ben would only make things worse.

He made a mental note to corner you later, to have a real conversation about whatever was eating at you. For now, he'd give you space to gather yourself, but he wasn't going to let this slide.

"Everything okay?" Lisa asked quietly, her hand finding his arm as she noticed his distraction.

Dean forced himself to smile, to push down his worry for the moment. "Yeah, she's just... she's been having a hard time lately. Missing Sam. He basically helped me raise her." It wasn't entirely a lie but Dean had to sum it up for her.

Lisa's expression softened with understanding. "Of course she is. This must be such a big adjustment for both of you."

If only you knew, Dean thought, but he just nodded and gestured toward the dining room.

"Come on, let's go sit. I made some amazing cheeseburgers and mashed potatoes," he said, leading the way toward the table, his hand moving instinctively to the small of Lisa's back in a gesture that was becoming natural.

But even as he played the host, his attention kept drifting back to the kitchen, to you, to the growing certainty that something was very wrong with his little girl.

The moment Dean said "let's go sit," panic shot through you like lightning. You weren't ready. You thought you'd have more time to prepare yourself, to build up the courage to face them. Instead, you did the only thing your frightened mind could think of – you ran.

You abandoned the cups on the kitchen counter and bolted for the back door, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. The cool evening air hit your face as you escaped into the backyard, and for a moment, you could breathe again.

You walked over to the two mismatched lawn chairs that sat in the corner of the yard – one for Dean, one for you. It had become your tradition over the past few months to sit out here after dinner, talking about everything and nothing while Dean nursed a beer and you drank lemonade. Those conversations had become some of your favorite parts of the day, the moments when it felt like you and Dean were really connecting, really building something together.

Now, looking at those chairs, you felt a crushing sadness. How many more of those conversations would you have? How long before Dean decided that spending his evenings with Lisa and Ben was better than listening to his daughter ramble about school and books and the weird dreams she sometimes had?

You'd spent most of this week mentally preparing yourself for this dinner, practicing conversations in the mirror, rehearsing polite responses to questions about school and hobbies. But every time the moment came closer, every time you tried to picture yourself sitting at that table with Lisa and Ben, your courage deserted you completely.

You sank down into your chair – the smaller one, the one Dean had bought specifically for you when you'd complained that the other one was too big – and rested your head in your hands. Your breathing was shallow and fast, the familiar signs of an anxiety attack beginning to creep in.

What if they don't like me? The thought came unbidden, followed quickly by others. What if I say something wrong? What if I'm too weird? What if Dean sees how much easier it is to have a normal family dinner with them and realizes he doesn't want me anymore?

The thoughts spiraled, each one worse than the last, until you felt like you couldn't breathe.

Meanwhile, inside the house, Dean's eyebrows shot up when he noticed that you had completely disappeared, leaving the cups abandoned on the counter. Through the kitchen window, he could see you slumped in your chair in the backyard, your head in your hands in a posture he recognized all too well.

Shit, he thought, his jaw clenching. She's having a panic attack.

He'd seen you like this before, usually after particularly bad nightmares or when something triggered memories of the things you'd seen in your short but traumatic life. But this was different. This was about him, about Lisa and Ben, about the changes happening in your life.

A wave of guilt crashed over him so suddenly it nearly knocked him off his feet. Had he been so caught up in his own happiness that he'd completely missed how much you were struggling? How had he not seen this coming?

Some father I am, he thought bitterly. I can spot a shapeshifter from a mile away, but I can't tell when my own daughter is falling apart.

Dean's first instinct was to go to you immediately, to hell with dinner and guests and social niceties. But Lisa and Ben were watching him with curious, concerned expressions, and he knew that abandoning them to deal with your crisis would only make things worse for everyone.

He needed to handle this carefully, diplomatically. He needed to get you some help without making Lisa and Ben feel like they were the problem – even though, in a way, they were.

Dean glanced back at Lisa and Ben, noting how Ben's eyebrows were furrowed with concern as he looked toward the backyard. The kid was perceptive – probably came from growing up with a single mom who worked in the medical field. He'd learned to read people, to pick up on tension and worry.

Lisa, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the undercurrents of drama playing out around her. Her attention was focused entirely on Dean, on the house, on the dinner he'd prepared. She was excited, happy to be here, and Dean felt another pang of guilt for what he was about to do.

"Hey, squirt," Dean said, turning to Ben with a casual tone that didn't match the worry in his eyes. "Would you mind going to help Y/n with the cups? I think she might need a hand."

It was code, and Ben seemed to understand that immediately. The boy nodded, his expression serious as he rose from his seat. "Sure thing."

Dean watched as Ben made his way toward the kitchen, silently hoping that the kid's natural empathy and lack of history with your family would make him the right person to reach out to you. Sometimes an outsider could help in ways that family couldn't.

Once Ben was gone, Dean turned back to Lisa, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. He reached out and took her hand, giving it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, but his mind was entirely focused on you.

"So," he started, his voice strained with the effort of making small talk when all he wanted to do was run outside and hold his daughter. "How's work been? Any interesting cases lately?"

Lisa launched into a story about a difficult patient, her voice animated and engaging, but Dean found himself only half-listening. His attention kept drifting to the kitchen, to the sound of the back door opening, to the worry that was eating at him from the inside.

⛧

Outside, you flinched violently when the back door opened, your head snapping up so fast you got dizzy. You'd been expecting Dean, prepared for him to come out and tell you to stop being ridiculous and come inside. What you hadn't expected was Ben.

The boy stood in the doorway for a moment, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his expression uncertain but kind. He was smaller than you'd expected, maybe a year or two younger than you, with his mother's gentle eyes and what you could already tell was his father's stubborn jawline.

You scrambled to your feet, trying to compose yourself, trying to hide the fact that you'd been on the verge of a complete breakdown. "You must be Ben," you said, extending your hand with a smile that felt like it might crack your face. "I'm Y/n."

The politeness was automatic, ingrained in you by years of Dean's lessons about how to blend in, how to appear normal even when everything inside you was screaming.

"The cups are inside," you continued, your voice steady despite the chaos in your head. "I was just getting some air."

You moved past him toward the door, but Ben's voice stopped you.

"Are you okay?" The question was simple, direct, and completely unexpected. Most adults would have accepted your excuse and moved on. But Ben was looking at you with genuine concern, his head tilted slightly as he studied your face.

You paused, your hand on the door handle, and for a moment you considered telling him the truth. But what would you say? That you were terrified his mom was going to steal your dad? That you were scared of being replaced? That you felt like an outsider in your own life?

Instead, you nodded, forcing another smile. "Never better. I was just nervous to meet you guys, I guess."

Ben's eyebrows rose slightly, and you could see him processing your words, probably comparing them to your body language and finding them lacking. "Nervous about what?"

The question caught you off guard. You'd expected him to accept your explanation and move on, not dig deeper. "I don't know," you said honestly. "I guess I just... I don't meet new people very often."

That was true enough. Your life had been pretty isolated – school, home, and the occasional trip to the library or grocery store. You didn't have friends, didn't do sleepovers or birthday parties or any of the normal kid things that might have prepared you for this moment.

Ben nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "That makes sense. Moving to a new place is hard. Making new friends is hard too."

Friends. The word hung in the air between you, and you realized that Ben was trying to be your friend, not your replacement. The thought was both comforting and terrifying.

"Dean talks about you a lot," you said, deflecting attention from yourself. "He says you're really smart. And that you're good at baseball."

Ben's face lit up at the mention of Dean, and you could see the genuine affection there. "He's been teaching me how to throw a curveball. And he helped me with my science project last month."

Each word was like a small knife to your heart. Dean had been helping Ben with science projects? When was the last time he'd helped you with homework? When was the last time he'd taken you outside to throw a ball around?

"That's great," you managed, your voice only slightly strained. "He's good at that stuff."

"He talks about you too," Ben continued, apparently oblivious to your distress. "He says you're really brave. And that you're the smartest person he knows."

You blinked in surprise. Dean had said that about you? "He said that?"

"All the time. He's always talking about how proud he is of you, how you're tough and smart and funny." Ben's smile was genuine and warm. "He showed me some of your drawings. The ones of the Impala? They're really good."

A warmth spread through your chest despite your anxiety. Dean had been showing off your artwork? He'd been talking about how proud he was of you? The knowledge should have made you feel better, but instead it just made you feel more confused.

If Dean was proud of you, if he talked about you all the time, then why did it feel like you were losing him?

"We should probably go back inside," you said, reaching for the cups you'd abandoned on the counter. "They'll be wondering where we are."

Ben nodded, accepting the cups you handed him. "You know," he said as you both headed toward the dining room, "I was nervous about meeting you too."

"Really?" The admission surprised you.

"Yeah. Dean talks about you so much, I was worried I wouldn't live up to... I don't know, to being part of your family, I guess."

Your family. The words hit you like a truck. Ben was worried about fitting into your family, not the other way around. The realization shifted something in your chest, made you see the situation from a completely different angle.

Maybe this wasn't about you being replaced. Maybe this was about your family growing, expanding to include new people who cared about Dean and wanted to be part of his life.

The thought was both terrifying and oddly comforting.

As you and Ben entered the dining room, you found Dean and Lisa deep in conversation, their heads close together as they talked quietly. Dean looked up as you approached, his eyes immediately scanning your face for signs of distress.

"There you are," he said, his voice warm but with an underlying current of concern. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

"Sorry," you said, setting the glasses down on the table. "I was just showing Ben around."

It was a lie, but a harmless one. Dean's eyebrows rose slightly – he knew you were lying, but he didn't call you out on it.

Lisa stood up as you approached, her face lighting up with a genuine smile that made her look younger and more approachable. "You must be Y/n," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Lisa. It's so wonderful to finally meet you."

You looked down at her outstretched hand, and for a moment, you hesitated. This was it – the moment of truth. You could shake her hand, be polite, and try to get through this dinner. Or you could run again, retreat to your room, and avoid the whole situation.

But Ben's words echoed in your mind – about being nervous to meet you, about wanting to fit into your family. And you realized that Lisa was probably just as nervous as you were, just as worried about making a good impression.

So you took her hand, surprised by how warm it was, how steady and reassuring her grip felt. "It's nice to meet you too," you said, and for the first time all evening, you meant it.

"I feel like I already know you," Lisa continued, her smile widening. "Dean talks about you constantly. He's so proud of you."

The warmth in her voice was genuine, and you could see why Dean cared about her. She wasn't trying to compete with you or replace you – she was just trying to connect, to be part of something that clearly meant a lot to Dean.

"He's told me a lot about you too," you replied, taking your seat at the table. "Good things," you added quickly when you saw a flicker of concern cross her face.

Dean watched this exchange with a mixture of relief and continued worry. You were being polite, going through the motions, but he could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands were slightly shaking as you arranged your napkin in your lap.

She's trying, he thought, his heart aching for you. She's scared out of her mind, but she's trying.

As the dinner conversation began, Dean found himself watching you more than participating. He noticed how you pushed your food around your plate, taking tiny bites and chewing mechanically. He saw how your smiles never quite reached your eyes, how you laughed at the right moments but the sound was hollow.

Lisa was telling a story about a funny incident at the hospital, and Ben was chiming in with his own observations, and the whole scene should have been perfect. This was what Dean had wanted – his daughter and the woman he cared about getting to know each other, building the foundation of something that could maybe, possibly, become a real family.

But instead of feeling happy, Dean felt like he was watching his daughter slowly drowning, and he didn't know how to save her.

Every few minutes, your eyes would dart toward the bathroom door, and Dean could see you calculating escape routes, timing your exit. You were holding on by a thread, and Dean was terrified that any moment you were going to snap.

I should have prepared her better, he thought, guilt gnawing at him. I should have talked to her about this, made sure she was okay with it before I invited them over.

But the truth was, he'd been so caught up in his own excitement, so eager to bring the two parts of his life together, that he hadn't considered how overwhelming this might be for you. He'd been thinking like Dean the boyfriend, not Dean the father.

Twenty minutes into dinner, you'd managed to choke down maybe four bites of food. The mashed potatoes felt like paste in your mouth, and the burger might as well have been cardboard. Every time you tried to swallow, your throat felt tight and constricted.

The conversation was flowing around you – Lisa talking about her work, Ben sharing stories about school, Dean chiming in with his own observations and jokes. They all seemed so comfortable, so natural together. Like they'd been doing this for years.

And maybe they had been. Maybe this was just the first time you'd been included.

The thought made your stomach twist even more. You excused yourself quietly, muttering something about needing to use the bathroom, and escaped down the hall.

In the bathroom, you locked the door and immediately sank down to the floor, your back against the bathtub. The cool porcelain felt good against your overheated skin, and for the first time in an hour, you felt like you could breathe.

But with the ability to breathe came the ability to think, and thinking was dangerous right now.

What if Dean decides he likes having dinner with them more than having dinner with me? The thought came unbidden, followed quickly by others. What if he realizes that Ben is easier to parent than I am? What if he and Lisa get married and I become the weird stepdaughter who doesn't fit in?

The scenarios played out in your mind like a horror movie. Dean and Lisa getting married, moving in together, having a baby. You being shuffled off to boarding school or shipped off to live with some distant family friend. Dean visiting you on weekends, if you were lucky, treating you like an obligation rather than his daughter.

What if he stops loving me?

The thought was so terrifying that it made you physically sick. You doubled over, wrapping your arms around your stomach, and fought back the urge to vomit.

This was exactly the kind of moment when you missed Sam the most. Sam, who would have known exactly what to say to make you feel better. Sam, who would have sat on the bathroom floor with you and listened to all your fears without judgment. Sam, who would have helped you figure out how to talk to Dean about this instead of hiding and panicking.

But Sam was gone, and you were alone with fears too big for your twelve-year-old heart to handle.

Back in the dining room, Dean was barely holding it together. Every minute that passed without you returning made his anxiety worse. He could see Lisa and Ben exchanging glances, probably wondering why their host seemed so distracted, why his daughter had disappeared.

"Is she okay?" Ben asked quietly, his voice filled with concern.

Dean's jaw tightened. "She's... she's been having a hard time lately. This is all new for her."

"Maybe I should go check on her," Lisa offered, but Dean shook his head immediately.

"No, I should... I should go."

He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "Just give me a minute."

Dean walked down the hallway, his footsteps heavy with dread. He could hear your breathing through the door – shallow, rapid, the sound of someone on the verge of panic. His heart clenched in his chest.

How did I let it get this bad? he thought, his self-recrimination sharp and painful. How did I miss this?

He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. Part of him wanted to give you space, to let you work through whatever you were feeling on your own. But the larger part of him – the father part – knew that you needed him right now, even if you didn't want to admit it.

He knocked softly, his knuckles barely making contact with the wood. "Y/n? You in there, kiddo?"

He heard you startle, the sound of your elbow hitting the bathtub, followed by a muffled curse that would have made him smile under different circumstances.

"Y-yeah, I'll be out in a second," you called back, your voice shaky and thin.

Dean closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the door. He could hear you moving around, probably splashing water on your face, trying to compose yourself. The sound of your distress was like a knife to his heart.

"Y/n," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please open the door."

There was a long pause, and Dean held his breath. Then he heard the sound of the lock turning, and the door opened just a crack.

You stood there looking small and vulnerable, your eyes red-rimmed and your face pale. Dean's heart broke a little more at the sight of you.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said gently, pushing the door open a little wider. "Can I come in?"

You nodded, stepping back to let him enter. Dean closed the door behind him and immediately sank down to the floor beside you, his long legs folding awkwardly in the small space.

"Talk to me," he said, his voice soft and patient. "What's going on?"

You shook your head, wrapping your arms around your knees. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Y/n." Dean's voice was gentle but firm. "I know you better than that. You've been off for weeks, and now you're hiding in the bathroom during dinner. That's not fine."

"I said I'm fine," you repeated, but your voice cracked on the last word.

Dean reached out, his hand hovering over your shoulder before settling gently on your back. "Sweetheart, you're scaring me. Please, just tell me what's wrong."

The gentleness in his voice, the genuine concern, finally broke through your defenses. "I don't want to ruin this for you," you whispered, your voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it.

"Ruin what?"

"This. Your dinner. Your... your new family." The words came out choked and bitter.

Dean's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "My new family? What are you talking about?"

"Lisa and Ben. They're... they're good for you. They make you happy. And I don't want to mess that up by being weird or difficult or..." You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Y/n, look at me." Dean's voice was firm, and you reluctantly raised your eyes to meet his. "You are my family. You're my daughter. Nothing – and I mean nothing – is going to change that."

"But they're normal," you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "They're normal and happy and they don't have nightmares about monsters or know how to load a shotgun or have panic attacks in restaurant bathrooms. They're the kind of family you deserve."

Dean's face went through a series of emotions – shock, pain, guilt, and something that looked like heartbreak. "Is that what you think? That I want a different family?"

"Don't you?" The question came out smaller than you intended, but it was the fear that had been eating at you for weeks.

"Jesus, Y/n. No. No, I don't want a different family. I want you. I chose you. I've been choosing you every day for twelve years, and I'm going to keep choosing you for the rest of my life."

"But I'm not normal," you said, your voice breaking. "I'm broken and complicated and I come with so much baggage..."

"Hey." Dean's voice was sharp, cutting through your self-deprecation. "You listen to me, and you listen good. You are not broken. You are not too much. You are perfect exactly as you are."

"Dad—"

"No, let me finish." Dean shifted so he was facing you fully, his hands on your shoulders. "You are the strongest, bravest, most incredible person I know. You've been through things that would break most adults, and you're still here. You're still fighting. You're still my little girl."

Tears were streaming down your face now, and Dean gently wiped them away with his thumbs.

"I love Lisa," he continued, his voice steady and sure. "I care about Ben. But you? You're my heart, kiddo. You're the reason I get up every morning. You're the reason I try to be better."

"Then why does it feel like I'm losing you?" The question came out as a sob, and Dean held you close, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world. He could feel your tears soaking through his flannel shirt, could feel the way your small body shook with the force of your sobs. Each tremor that ran through you was like a physical blow to his chest.

"You're not losing me," he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "You're never going to lose me. I promise you that."

He rocked you gently, the way he had when you were smaller and woke up from nightmares. Back then, it had been monsters under the bed or memories of things you'd seen on hunts. Now it was something far more complex, far more painful – the fear of abandonment, of being replaced, of not being enough.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed against his chest. "I'm sorry I'm being such a baby about this. I know you deserve to be happy, I know you deserve to have a normal life..."

"Stop." Dean's voice was firm but gentle. "Stop apologizing for having feelings. Stop apologizing for being scared. And stop telling me what I deserve."

He pulled back slightly so he could look at your face, his hands framing your cheeks. "You want to know what I deserve? I deserve to have my daughter trust me enough to tell me when she's hurting. I deserve to have you believe me when I tell you that you're the most important thing in my life."

"But Lisa makes you happy in a way I can't," you said, your voice small and broken. "I see how you are with her – how relaxed you get, how you smile. And with Ben, you get to be a normal dad. You get to help with homework and teach him baseball and not worry about whether he's going to have nightmares about demons."

Dean's jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he was angry. But when he spoke, his voice was sad rather than mad.

"You think I don't worry about you? You think I don't lie awake at night wondering if I'm screwing you up, if I'm failing you as a father? You think I don't see how hard you try to be strong, how you pretend you're okay when you're falling apart?"

He ran his hands through his hair, a gesture you recognized as his way of trying to process difficult emotions.

"Yeah, being with Lisa and Ben is... it's easier sometimes. They don't know about the supernatural world, they don't have the kind of trauma that you and I carry. But easier doesn't mean better, kiddo. It doesn't mean I love them more or that I wish you were different."

"Then what does it mean?" you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean was quiet for a long moment, clearly trying to find the right words. "It means that being with them gives me hope that maybe we can have something normal too. That maybe you and I can build the kind of life where you don't have to worry about monsters, where you can just be a kid."

"But I'm not a normal kid," you said. "I'll never be a normal kid. I've seen too much, know too much. I can't just pretend that world doesn't exist."

"I know," Dean said softly. "And I'm not asking you to. I'm just... I'm trying to figure out how to give you the best life possible. And maybe that means having people in our lives who can show us what normal looks like."

The honesty in his voice made your chest ache. You could see the internal struggle he was facing – trying to balance his desire to protect you with his need to move forward, to build something good out of the ashes of everything you'd both lost.

"I'm scared," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared that if you get too comfortable with normal, you'll realize that I'm the thing that's keeping you from having it."

Dean's expression crumpled, and he pulled you back into his arms. "Oh, sweetheart. No. No, that's not... God, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I made you feel that way."

"You didn't—"

"I did." His voice was firm, full of self-recrimination. "I got so caught up in trying to build this perfect life that I forgot to check if you were okay with it. I forgot that you might need reassurance, might need to know that nothing was going to change between us."

He held you tighter, and you could feel his own tears dripping into your hair.

"You are not keeping me from anything," he said, his voice fierce with conviction. "You are not holding me back. You are not too much or too complicated or too broken. You are my daughter, and you are perfect exactly as you are."

"But what if Lisa and Ben don't want me around?" you asked, voicing one of your deepest fears. "What if they think I'm weird or damaged or..."

"Then they're idiots," Dean said immediately, his voice so firm it made you laugh despite your tears. "And if they can't see how amazing you are, then they don't deserve to be part of our family."

"Our family?"

"Yeah, kiddo. Our family. You and me, first and always. Anyone else who comes into our lives has to accept that package deal. They have to love you too, or they don't get to stay."

The certainty in his voice was like a balm to your wounded heart. "Really?"

"Really. And you know what? I think Lisa and Ben already do love you. Ben was worried about you earlier – he asked if you were okay. And Lisa... she's been asking about you for weeks, wanting to know your interests, your favorite foods, what makes you happy. She's not trying to replace you or compete with you. She's trying to understand you."

"She is?"

"She is. And I think if you gave her a chance, really gave her a chance, you'd like her too."

You considered this, thinking about the warmth in Lisa's voice when she'd introduced herself, the genuine concern in Ben's eyes when he'd found you in the backyard.

"What if I mess it up?" you asked. "What if I say something wrong or do something that makes them not want to be around us anymore?"

"Then we'll figure it out," Dean said simply. "But Y/n, you're not going to mess it up. You're smart and funny and kind, and anyone who gets to know you is going to see that."

"Even if I'm not normal?"

"Especially because you're not normal. Normal is overrated, kiddo. You're extraordinary."

You pulled back to look at him, searching his face for any sign that he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. But his eyes were clear and honest, full of the kind of love that had been your anchor for twelve years.

"I love you, Dad," you said, the words coming out thick with emotion.

"I love you too, sweetheart. More than you'll ever know."

Dean stood up, extending his hand to help you to your feet. "Now, what do you say we go back out there and give this dinner another shot? But this time, no pretending everything's perfect. If you need to leave, we leave. If you need to take a break, we take a break. This is your house too, and your comfort comes first."

You nodded, wiping your eyes and taking his hand. "Okay. But Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we... can we have a signal? Like, if I'm getting overwhelmed and need to leave, but I don't want to make a scene?"

Dean smiled, the expression warm and proud. "Smart thinking. How about... if you need to leave, you ask me if I remember to feed the neighbor's cat. We don't have a neighbor's cat, so I'll know it's code."

"Perfect," you said, managing a small smile.

As you walked back toward the dining room, Dean stopped you one more time.

"Y/n? I'm proud of you. For telling me what was wrong, for being brave enough to try this dinner even when you were scared. That takes real courage."

"Thanks, Dad."

"And remember – you're not losing me. You're never going to lose me. I'm yours, kiddo. Always."

When you walked back into the dining room, you found Lisa and Ben sitting quietly at the table, their plates barely touched. They looked up as you entered, their faces reflecting concern and uncertainty.

"Everything okay?" Lisa asked gently, her eyes moving between you and Dean.

"Yeah," you said, and this time you meant it. "Sorry about that. I was just... nervous, I guess."

"That's totally understandable," Ben said, his voice matter-of-fact. "I threw up before my first day at a new school. Nerves are normal."

You found yourself smiling at his honesty. "Did you really throw up?"

"All over my new shoes," Ben said with a grin. "Mom was not happy."

"I was more worried about you than the shoes," Lisa said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "Though those were expensive shoes."

The normalcy of the interaction, the easy affection between them, made something in your chest loosen. This wasn't about replacement or competition. This was just... family. Messy, complicated, imperfect family.

"So," Dean said, settling back into his chair, "who's ready for dessert? I hear someone brought pie."

And for the first time all evening, when you smiled, it reached your eyes.

[musubi05]

R u still taking requests -🍓?

Yes I am!

[musubi05]

I don't know until what season you do the requests but could you please make one winchester!sister where she and her brothers are spending a few days with Bobby living normally without hunting, and Bobby starts teaching her how to play baseball.

I imagined this would be fluff like a family moment, with Dean and Sam seeing the two interacting this way between laughter and embarrassing stories about the boys when they were kids could bring a sense of not only peace but family to them.

Sorry for any error, english isn't my first language.

╰┈➤ Home Plate Is Always Here

Bobby Singer x winchester sister!reader Dean Winchester x sister!reader Sam Winchester x sister!reader Summary: Bobby is teaching you how to play baseball and gossiping about the boys when they were younger! Note: Thanks for the request! I thought it was a really cute one. Also, I've watched all the seasons of Supernatural so I can write any of them.

The late afternoon sun draws long shadows across Bobby's junkyard as you gripped the worn baseball bat in your hands, trying to mirror the stance he'd just demonstrated. Three days into what Sam had optimistically called a "vacation" from hunting, you were finally starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could have something resembling a normal life—even if it was just for a week.

The morning had started like any other at Bobby's—Dean sprawled across the couch with a cup of coffee that could wake the dead, Sam buried in research that had nothing to do with monsters for once, and you wandering around the house like a caged animal. You'd grown so accustomed to the constant motion of hunting that sitting still felt wrong, like your skin didn't quite fit.

"You're gonna make a hole in my floor," Bobby had observed, watching you pace between the kitchen and living room for the third time in ten minutes.

"I'm not used to this," you'd admitted, gesturing vaguely at the peaceful domesticity surrounding you. "The quiet. It's weird."

That's when Bobby had disappeared into his garage and emerged with a dusty cardboard box, digging through it until he found the baseball equipment. "Figure it's about time you learned something every American kid should know," he'd said, and somehow that had led to this moment.

"Nah, nah, you're holding it like you're gonna beat a wendigo to death," Bobby chuckled, his gruff voice softened by genuine amusement. "This ain't about brute force, kid. It's about timing and patience."

You huffed a laugh, adjusting your grip. "Everything in my life has been about brute force, Bobby. Cut me some slack."

"That's exactly why you need this," he said, stepping closer to adjust your stance. "Relax your shoulders. You're tenser than a cat in a room full of cucumbers."

From the porch, Dean's voice carried across the yard: "She's got a point there!" He was lounging in one of Bobby's rickety chairs, nursing a beer and looking more relaxed than you'd seen him in months. The tension that usually lived in his shoulders had melted away, and for once, he looked his age instead of carrying the weight of the world. Sam sat beside him, actually reading a book that wasn't about monsters or mythology—some thick paperback novel he'd picked up at a gas station. His long legs were stretched out, and he had that peaceful expression he only got when he was truly relaxed.

"You know," you called over to them, "you two look almost human when you're not covered in monster guts."

"Speak for yourself," Dean shot back. "You've got grease on your face from helping Bobby with the truck earlier."

You wiped at your cheek self-consciously, which only made Bobby chuckle. "Leave her be. Kid's got more mechanical sense than both of you combined."

"That's because she actually listens to instructions," Sam said without looking up from his book. "Revolutionary concept."

"Hey!" Dean protested. "I listen to instructions!"

"You listen to instructions, then immediately do the opposite because you think you know better," you corrected, earning a snort of laughter from Bobby.

"You boys shut it unless you're gonna come help," Bobby called back, then turned to you with a conspiratorial grin. "Though between you and me, neither of them could hit the broad side of a barn when they were your age."

"I heard that, old man!" Dean protested, but his smile took any sting out of it.

Bobby winked at you. "Dean was maybe twelve when John dropped them off for a few weeks. Kid was so determined to impress me, he spent half the day trying to fix my truck without asking. Nearly blew up the engine."

"Did not!" Dean's voice cracked slightly on the denial, making you giggle.

"Oh, it gets better," Bobby continued, positioning himself a few feet away with a softball. "Found him under the hood, covered head to toe in oil, with about six different tools scattered around. Asked him what he was doing, and he looks at me with this serious expression and says, 'I'm making it better, Bobby. Dad says I'm good with cars.'"

"I was good with cars!" Dean called out.

"Kid, you were good with taking cars apart. Putting them back together was a whole different story." Bobby's eyes twinkled with the memory. "Took me three hours to fix what he'd 'improved' in twenty minutes."

You were already laughing, imagining a twelve-year-old Dean with his stubborn determination and helpful intentions. "What about Sam?"

"Oh, Sam," Bobby said, tossing the ball gently underhand. "Now Sam was a different kind of trouble. Keep your eye on the ball, sweetheart. Don't swing at everything."

You watched it arc toward you, and for once, you didn't think about the weight of the world on your shoulders or the monsters lurking in the shadows. You just focused on the small, simple act of trying to hit a ball with a stick. You swung and missed, the bat whooshing through empty air.

"Better," Bobby nodded approvingly. "You didn't try to murder it that time. Now, about Sam—kid was about ten, and he gets it in his head that he's gonna cook dinner for everyone. Real domestic type, that one. Spent three hours making what he called 'gourmet mac and cheese.'"

"Please tell me you have pictures," you said, settling into your batting stance again.

"Bobby, don't you dare—" Sam started, but he was already grinning, clearly knowing where this was going.

"Kid used every pot I owned and somehow managed to burn water. I still don't know how you burn water, but Sammy found a way." Bobby wound up for another pitch. "But that's not even the best part. He'd gotten it in his head that regular mac and cheese wasn't good enough. No, he was gonna make it fancy. Added all kinds of spices he found in my cabinet."

"Oh no," you said, starting to laugh before you'd even heard the rest of the story.

"Paprika, garlic powder, onion salt, and—get this—cinnamon. Because apparently, in ten-year-old Sam's mind, cinnamon made everything gourmet."

"It was an accident!" Sam protested, but he was laughing too. "I grabbed the wrong container!"

"Three tablespoons of cinnamon, kid. Three. That ain't an accident, that's a crime against food."

"The mac and cheese story isn't finished," you said, getting back into position. "What happened next?"

"Oh, well, your brother Sam—the picture of responsibility—he gets so flustered trying to fix his 'gourmet' disaster that he trips over his own feet carrying the pot to the sink. Burned mac and cheese everywhere. Ceiling, walls, floor. Looked like a cheese bomb went off in my kitchen."

Sam groaned dramatically. "I was ten and was tall for my age!" He called out defensively. "I wasn't used to my legs yet!"

"Kid was like a baby giraffe," Bobby said, winding up for another pitch. "All legs and no coordination. And Dean—instead of helping clean up—decides this is the perfect time to teach his little brother how to 'properly' clean a kitchen."

"Someone had to take charge," Dean said, but there was fondness in his voice.

"Starts barking orders like a drill sergeant," Bobby continued. "'Sam, you missed a spot! Sam, that's not how you hold a sponge! Sam, you're doing it wrong!' Meanwhile, he's just standing there with his arms crossed, supervising."

"I was providing guidance!" Dean protested.

"You were being a bossy little know-it-all," Bobby corrected. "And the whole time, the kitchen still looked like a war zone, and I'm standing there thinking, 'John Winchester, what exactly are you teaching these boys?'"

You kept your eye on the ball this time, swinging with more control. The bat connected with a satisfying thunk, sending the ball bouncing across the yard. Not far, but contact nonetheless.

This swing was better—the ball sailed in a nice arc before landing near the old Chevelle Bobby had been working on. You felt a little surge of pride at the improvement.

"Did you ever tell Dad about the kitchen incident?" you asked.

Bobby's expression softened slightly. "Nah. John had enough to worry about. Besides, boys being boys is nothing to be ashamed of. They were trying to help, in their own way."

"Even if we were disasters," Sam said, joining the conversation from the porch steps.

"Especially because you were disasters," Bobby said warmly. "Means you cared enough to try. That's more than a lot of kids can say."

You lined up for another pitch, thinking about what Bobby had said. The idea of your brothers as children, trying so hard to be helpful and grown-up, made your heart ache a little. They'd never really gotten to be kids, not really.

"This is what family does," Bobby said simply gesturing to the worn out baseball. "They teach each other things. They embarrass each other with stories. They spend time together doing absolutely nothing important."

"I like doing nothing important," you said, surprising yourself with the admission.

"Good," Sam said, settling down on the grass nearby. "Because we're planning to do a lot more nothing important while we're here."

"Tomorrow, Bobby promised to teach me how to make his famous chili," you said. "Fair warning—I might be worse at cooking than Sam was."

"Impossible," Dean said immediately. "I've seen you make coffee that could strip paint."

"That was one time!"

"Three times," Sam corrected. "But who's counting?"

"I am," Bobby said. "And I'm hiding my good coffee while you're learning to cook."

"Not bad for a Winchester," Sam said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you shot back, but you were grinning.

"Means we're more of a 'fighting supernatural evil' family than a 'recreational sports' family," Sam said, closing his book and walking over. "But Bobby's got the patience of a saint."

"Someone had to teach you boys how to be kids," Bobby said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him more closely. His eyes were soft, watching Sam ruffle your hair as Dean joined the group.

"Our turn," Dean announced, grabbing the bat from your hands. "Time to show the rookie how it's really done."

"This should be good," Bobby muttered, but he was smiling.

What followed was possibly the worst display of athletic ability you'd ever witnessed. Dean's first swing was so aggressive he spun himself around completely. Sam's approach was overly analytical, and he kept adjusting his stance so much that he never actually swung at all. You found yourself laughing so hard you had to sit down on the grass.

"You're all terrible at this," you gasped between giggles.

"We're hunters, not athletes," Dean said defensively, but he was laughing too.

"Speak for yourself," Sam said, finally taking a swing and missing entirely. "I played soccer in high school."

"For two weeks," Dean corrected.

"It was a month!"

"Before you quit to focus on your studies," you and Dean said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.

"See?" Bobby said, settling down on the grass beside you. "Family."

The word hung in the air for a moment, warm and solid and real. You looked around at the three men who'd become your world—Bobby, gruff and caring, teaching you something just because he wanted to; Sam, brilliant and kind, always trying to make everything better; and Dean, protective and loyal, who'd follow you into hell and back.

"Yeah," you said softly. "Family."

Inside Bobby's house, the photo albums turned out to be a treasure trove of embarrassing Winchester moments. Bobby had apparently been documenting their visits for years, and he had no mercy when it came to sharing the evidence.

"Oh my God," you wheezed, looking at a picture of a teenage Dean with what could only be described as a tragic attempt at a mustache. "What is happening on your face?"

"I was trying to look older!" Dean protested, but he was turning red.

"You looked like you glued a caterpillar to your lip," Sam said, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look.

"At least I didn't go through a goth phase," Dean shot back.

"I was exploring different forms of self-expression!"

"You wore eyeliner for six months!"

"It was cool and it was very historically accurate!"

"Here's a good one," Bobby said, flipping to another page. The photo showed a young Sam, maybe thirteen, standing proudly next to what appeared to be a science fair project. His hair was longer than you'd ever seen it, and he was wearing a tie with his T-shirt.

"You were so cute!" you said, and Sam's cheeks went pink.

"That project won first place," he said with dignity.

"What was it?" you asked.

"A comprehensive analysis of electromagnetic field fluctuations in relation to suspected paranormal activity," Sam said, as if this were perfectly normal.

"You were thirteen," Dean said. "Normal kids make volcanoes."

"Volcanoes are so pedestrian," Sam said, then paused. "Although, looking back, I'm not sure how I explained my research sources to the judges."

"You probably scared them into giving you first place," Bobby said fondly.

The evening continued like that, with Bobby sharing photo after photo and story after story. There was Dean at sixteen, trying to teach Sam how to drive and looking like he was about to have a heart attack. Sam at fourteen, solemnly reading a book that was bigger than his head while sitting in Bobby's kitchen. Both boys at various ages, always looking a little too serious, a little too grown-up for their years.

"You know what I notice?" you said, studying a photo of the boys helping Bobby work on a car. "You both look so..."

"Devastatingly handsome?" Dean suggested.

"Responsible," you finished. "Like you were trying to be adults even when you were kids."

"Had to be," Sam said quietly, and some of the lightness went out of the room.

"Well," Bobby said, closing the album, "that's what makes this even better. You boys finally get to be kids for a few days."

"We're not kids anymore, Bobby," Dean said, but there was something almost wistful in his voice.

"Says who? You're in my house, eating my food, and I just watched you spend twenty minutes trying to hit a softball. Far as I'm concerned, you're all still kids."

"Even me?" you asked.

"Especially you," Bobby said warmly. "You never got to be a kid at all. About time you learned what you missed."

Later that night, after Dean had fallen asleep on the couch and Sam had retreated to his room with another book, you found yourself on the porch with Bobby. The evening was cool and quiet, with only the sound of crickets and the distant hum of the highway.

"Thank you," you said again, because it felt important to say it.

"For what now?"

"For letting me be part of this. For teaching me something just because you wanted to."

Bobby was quiet for a long moment, rocking gently in his chair. "Kid, you don't thank family for loving you. That's just what we do."

"I know, but—"

"No buts," Bobby said firmly. "You're a Winchester, and Winchesters belong here. Always have, always will. This is your home as much as it's theirs."

You felt tears prick at your eyes, but they weren't sad tears. They were the kind of tears that came from being overwhelmed by how much you were loved.

"Besides," Bobby continued, "who else is gonna help me keep those two knuckleheads in line?"

"Good point," you said, wiping at your eyes.

"And tomorrow, we're working on your pitching," Bobby said. "Fair warning—I might actually be tougher on you than I was today."

"Bring it on," you said, and meant it.

As you sat there in the comfortable silence, you realized that maybe this was what happiness felt like. Not the absence of problems or danger, but the presence of people who loved you enough to teach you how to hit a baseball just because you'd never learned. People who wanted to share their embarrassing childhood stories and patient teaching and quiet evenings on the porch.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Hidden Wings

Free Will x nephilim!reader (platonic)

Jack Kline x nephilim!reader

Summary: You're a nephlilm like Jack but were born human without knowing who your biological mother and father were. Now you're finding out who you are the hard way at 18... with another nephilim.

Notes: This idea was all @apalanchen! Also there's a little surprise character at the end...

The headaches started on your eighteenth birthday, and with them came the end of the life you'd always known.

At first, you thought it was just stress. College applications, part-time job, the usual chaos of senior year. But when the light bulbs in your dorm room started exploding whenever you got frustrated, and your roommate's dying succulent suddenly bloomed into a garden overnight after you'd touched it, you knew something was terribly, impossibly wrong.

The dreams were worse than the physical manifestations. Visions of wings—massive, blazing wings that felt like they belonged to you but couldn't possibly. A voice calling your name in a language that sounded like music and fire, words you didn't recognize but somehow understood in your bones. And always, always, the sensation of being watched by eyes that burned like dying stars.

You'd grown up thinking you were perfectly normal. Your adoptive parents, Linda and Robert, had found you on their doorstep as a baby with nothing but a note that said "Keep her safe. Keep her hidden." They'd given you a good life in suburban Kansas, filled with love, soccer practice, and family movie nights. You'd never questioned why you didn't look like them, why you sometimes knew things before they happened, or why you could sense people's emotions like they were your own.

But now, curled up in your dorm bathroom at 3 AM, staring at your reflection in horror, you couldn't deny the truth anymore. Your eyes were glowing—actually glowing—with a soft golden light that pulsed in rhythm with your thundering heartbeat. The mirror had cracked down the middle, spider-webbing out from where you'd gripped the porcelain sink hard enough to leave finger-shaped indents.

Please, you thought desperately, not sure who you were pleading with, if someone can hear me, please help me. I don't know what's happening to me.

Three states away, Jack Kline bolted upright in his bed at the bunker, gasping. His grace flickered around him like golden lightning as foreign thoughts crashed through his mind—terror, confusion, and a power that felt achingly familiar yet distinctly different from his own.

Who are you? The thought wasn't his own, feminine and frightened.

Sam Winchester looked up from his laptop as Jack stumbled into the war room, his face pale and eyes wide with panic. It was past midnight, but Sam had been researching a case, and sleep had been non-existent anyway.

"Jack? What's wrong?" Sam was on his feet immediately, his hunter instincts kicking in at the sight of Jack's distress.

"There's someone else," Jack whispered, his voice strained as he pressed his palms against his temples. "Another nephilim. I can feel her thoughts, see flashes of what she's seeing. She's scared, Sam. She doesn't know what's happening to her."

Dean emerged from the kitchen, beer in hand and wearing his oldest Led Zeppelin t-shirt, having been drawn by the commotion. He took in Jack's distressed state with growing alarm. "Another nephilim? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Jack's hands trembled as another wave of your panic hit him. "She's eighteen, just like I was when my powers fully manifested. Well... kind of. Technically I was just born but my body-"

"Jack! The girl?" Dean interrupted his mumbling.

"Hers were dormant—hidden somehow. And..." Jack's voice dropped to a whisper. "I think she's Michael's daughter."

The beer bottle slipped from Dean's hand, shattering on the concrete floor. The name Michael still sent ice through his veins, memories of the archangel's possession flooding back—the feeling of being trapped in his own body, watching helplessly as Michael used his hands to hurt people he loved.

"Cas!" Dean shouted, his voice echoing through the bunker's halls. "CAS, GET DOWN HERE NOW!"

Castiel appeared with the rustle of wings that only Jack could hear, his brow furrowed with concern as he took in the scene. "What's wrong?"

"There's a nephilim and we need to find her," Jack said urgently, his connection to you growing stronger by the minute. He could feel your fear like a physical weight in his chest, could see glimpses of your dorm room through your eyes. "She's in danger. If other angels sense her awakening..."

"They'll come for her," Castiel finished grimly. "Michael's bloodline... many would see her as either a threat or a weapon to be claimed."

Sam was already at his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Jack, I need you to tell me everything you're seeing. Any details about where she is, what's around her."

Jack closed his eyes, focusing on the connection that felt like a golden thread stretched between his grace and yours. "I can see... a small room. Dorm room, I think. There are textbooks on the desk, and a poster of... I can't make it out clearly. She's in the bathroom now, looking in a broken mirror." He winced as another wave of your terror washed over him. "She's so afraid. Her eyes are glowing, and she doesn't understand why."

"Focus on the outside," Sam encouraged gently. "Anything that might tell us where she is."

"Red brick buildings," Jack said, his voice distant. "Old-looking, like ivy league but smaller. There's a sign... 'Carver University.' And Sam, she's asking for help. She knows someone can hear her."

"Carver University is about four hours from here," Dean said, already grabbing his keys and jacket. "We leave now."

"Wait," Castiel said, his voice heavy with concern. "If she truly is Michael's daughter, approaching her could be dangerous. We don't know what she's capable of, especially if she's frightened and her powers are unstable."

"She's scared and alone," Jack said firmly, opening his eyes to look at his family. "Just like I was. We can't leave her."

Dean nodded, understanding flickering in his green eyes. "Cas is right about the danger, but Jack's right too. We don't abandon people, especially not kids who are going through what Jack went through."

"I'll try to reach out to her," Jack said. "Let her know help is coming."

Back in your dorm bathroom, you were past the point of rational thought. The golden light emanating from your eyes was getting brighter, and you could hear your roommate stirring in the next room. Panic clawed at your throat as you realized you couldn't make it stop.

Then, suddenly, there was a voice in your head—not your own, but warm and reassuring.

Don't be afraid. My name is Jack. I'm like you.

You nearly fell off the toilet seat where you'd been perched. "What the hell?" you whispered aloud, then clapped a hand over your mouth.

I know this is scary. The same thing happened to me when I turned eighteen. My powers awakened, and I didn't know what I was.

"Powers?" you thought back, not sure if this was real or if you were having a complete mental breakdown.

You're a nephilim. Half-angel, half-human. Your father was an angel, and your human mother... she loved you enough to hide you until you were old enough to handle the truth.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Angel. Your father was an angel. It sounded insane, but it also explained so much—the weird intuition, the way you could sometimes sense things others couldn't, the dreams of wings and starlight.

I'm coming to help you. My family and I, we're hunters. We help people like us. You're not alone.

"Family?" you thought, clinging to the word like a lifeline.

Sam and Dean Winchester, and Castiel. They took me in when I had nowhere else to go. They'll help you too.

The name Winchester sparked something in your memory. Your adoptive parents had always been secretive about certain things, but you'd once overheard your mother on the phone, mentioning "those Winchester boys" in a tone that mixed fear and respect.

How long until you get here? you asked, surprised by how quickly you were accepting this impossible situation.

Four hours. Can you hold on until then? Try to stay calm, and whatever you do, don't let anyone else see your eyes when they're glowing.

You looked at yourself in the cracked mirror again. The golden light was already beginning to fade as your panic subsided. "I'll try."

Good. And... there's something else. I think I know who your father is.

Your stomach dropped. "Who?"

The archangel Michael. I know that probably sounds terrifying, but you're not him. You're not responsible for what he's done.

Michael. The name echoed in your mind with a strange familiarity, like a half-remembered lullaby. Your mother—your human mother—had she known? Is that why she'd hidden you?

Try to rest. We'll be there soon.

Jack's presence faded from your mind, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts. But for the first time since the headaches started, you didn't feel completely lost. Someone was coming. Someone who understood.

The drive to Carver University felt endless. Jack spent the entire trip with his eyes closed, maintaining a light connection with you, offering reassurance when the fear became too much. Sam rode shotgun, researching everything he could find about dormant nephilim powers and Michael's history. Dean drove with grim determination, the Impala eating up the miles of dark highway.

Castiel sat in the back beside Jack, his expression thoughtful and troubled. "Michael had many human lovers over the centuries," he said quietly. "But if he went to the trouble of hiding this child, she must be special somehow."

"Special how?" Dean asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"I don't know. But Michael wasn't known for his sentimentality. If he chose to protect her rather than use her..."

"Maybe he actually loved her mother," Jack suggested, his voice soft. "I can feel how much her human mother loved her. Maybe that changed him, at least for a while."

"Or maybe he was planning to use her later and something went wrong," Sam said grimly. "We need to be prepared for anything."

As they got closer to the university, Jack's connection with you grew stronger. He could feel your exhaustion, the way you were fighting to stay awake and keep your powers contained. Your roommate had asked if you were okay several times, and you'd managed to convince her you just had a migraine.

"She's struggling," Jack reported. "The longer she suppresses her powers, the harder it's getting to control them."

"We're almost there," Dean said, taking the exit for Carver University. "Just another twenty minutes."

You were sitting on your bed, knees drawn up to your chest, when you felt Jack's presence return to your mind.

We're here. Can you meet us outside? Front of your dorm building?

You glanced at your roommate, who was fast asleep. The clock read 5:47 AM. "I don't know what I'm going to tell people when I disappear."

We'll figure that out. Right now, we just need to get you somewhere safe.

You grabbed your jacket and slipped out of the room as quietly as possible. The hallway was empty, emergency lighting casting long shadows. Your sneakers squeaked softly on the floor as you made your way to the exit.

The pre-dawn air was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and morning dew. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering slightly as you waited by the front entrance of Morrison Hall.

A black car that looked like it belonged in a classic movie pulled up to the curb. The driver was a man in his thirties with short sandy hair and the kind of face that had seen too much. The passenger was younger, with longer hair and kind eyes that reminded you of your high school English teacher.

But it was the young man who got out of the back seat that made your breath catch. He looked about your age, maybe a little older, with dark blonde hair and eyes that seemed to hold starlight. When he looked at you, you felt that same warm presence from your mind, and you knew without a doubt that this was Jack.

"Hi," he said softly, approaching slowly as if you were a frightened animal. "I'm Jack."

"I know," you whispered, surprised by how normal he looked. Somehow you'd expected someone who was half-angel to be more... otherworldly.

The older man with the kind eyes got out of the car. "I'm Sam Winchester," he said. "This is my brother Dean." He gestured to the driver, who was leaning against the car with his arms crossed, watching the interaction with careful eyes.

The fourth person to emerge from the car was different. There was something about him that made your skin tingle, a sense of vast power held in careful check. He was wearing a trench coat and had dark hair that stuck up in several directions.

"Castiel," Jack said, noticing your stare. "He's an angel too. Don't worry, he's family."

"Angel," you repeated, the word still feeling strange on your tongue. "This is really happening."

"Unfortunately, yes," Dean said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Look, kid, I know this is a lot to process, but we need to get you somewhere safe. Other angels are going to sense your awakening soon, and not all of them are going to be as friendly as Cas here."

As if summoned by his words, a sudden pressure filled the air. Jack's head snapped up, his eyes beginning to glow with golden light. "They're coming," he said urgently. "Three of them, maybe four."

Castiel stepped forward, his own power flaring. "Get her in the car. Now."

But it was too late. The pressure in the air exploded outward, and suddenly there were figures standing in the parking lot—tall, beautiful, and terrifying in their otherworldly perfection. Angels.

"The daughter of Michael," one of them said, her voice like music and breaking glass. "How long we have searched for you."

Fear spiked through you, and with it came power. Your eyes blazed with golden light, and the streetlights around the parking lot exploded in showers of sparks. You could feel your grace unfurling like wings you'd never known you had.

"Stay back!" you shouted, power crackling around you like electricity.

"Peace, sister," the angel said, taking a step forward. "We mean you no harm. We simply wish to bring you home, to Heaven, where you belong."

"She belongs with us," Jack said firmly, moving to stand between you and the angels. His own grace was fully manifested now, golden wings visible in the space between spaces.

"A nephilim protecting another nephilim," the angel mused. "How touching. But she is Michael's daughter. She has a destiny to fulfill."

"I don't care about destiny," you said, your voice stronger than you felt. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

The angel's expression hardened. "You will come willingly, or we will take you by force."

That's when Dean Winchester stepped forward, pointing what looked like an ordinary gun at the angel. "Yeah, see, here's the thing—nobody's taking anybody anywhere."

The angel laughed, a sound like silver bells. "Human weapons cannot harm us."

"Maybe not," Sam said, appearing at Dean's side with his own weapon. "But these aren't ordinary bullets."

The angels' expressions shifted as they recognized the threat. Angel blades, melted down and formed into bullets. They could kill angels, and the Winchesters had plenty of experience using them.

"You would start a war over one nephilim?" the lead angel asked.

"We've started wars over less," Dean said conversationally. "Ask around about the Winchesters. We're kind of famous for it."

Castiel stepped forward, his own angel blade sliding into his hand. "Adaira, you know me. You know I will not let you take her."

The angel—Adaira—studied the group with calculating eyes. "This is not over, Castiel. Michael's daughter belongs in Heaven. She will come to us willingly, in time."

"Don't bet on it," you said, surprised by your own boldness.

With a sound like thunder, the angels vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and burned metal.

You stumbled, the adrenaline leaving your system all at once. Jack caught you before you could fall, his arms steady and warm around you.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his face close to yours. Up close, you could see flecks of gold in his eyes, remnants of his grace.

"I think so," you said, then looked around at the others. "Are they gone?"

"For now," Castiel said grimly. "But they'll be back. Adaira doesn't give up easily."

"Then we need to get moving," Dean said, opening the back door of the Impala. "Come on, kid. Time to go."

You hesitated for a moment, looking back at your dorm building. Everything you'd ever known was in there—your textbooks, your photos, your carefully planned future. But that life belonged to someone else now, someone who hadn't known she was the daughter of an archangel.

"I can't just disappear," you said. "People will ask questions."

"We'll handle it," Sam promised. "Missing person's case, family emergency—we're good at making people disappear when they need to."

Jack's hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. "I know it's scary," he said softly. "But you're not alone anymore. We're going to help you figure this out."

You looked into his eyes and saw understanding there—he knew exactly what you were going through. The fear, the confusion, the feeling of being torn between two worlds. But there was something else there too, something that made your heart skip in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

"Okay," you said finally. "Let's go."

The bunker was unlike anything you'd ever seen. Sam had tried to prepare you during the drive, explaining that it was a secret base built by an organization called the Men of Letters, but nothing could have readied you for the reality of it.

"Welcome to the Batcave," Dean said as he led you down the metal stairs. "Home sweet home."

The main room was huge, with a long table surrounded by chairs and shelves upon shelves of ancient books. The lighting was warm but somehow timeless, and you could feel the weight of history in the air.

"It's incredible," you breathed, running your fingers along the smooth surface of the table. "How old is this place?"

"Built in the 1950s," Sam said, setting down your hastily packed bag. "But some of the books and artifacts are much older. The Men of Letters were scholars and researchers, kind of like hunter-librarians."

"And now it's home to a couple of hunters, an angel, and a nephilim," Jack added with a smile. "Soon to be two nephilim."

The casual way he said it—like you already belonged here—made something warm unfurl in your chest. You'd spent eighteen years feeling like you didn't quite fit anywhere, and now here was this boy who understood exactly what you were going through.

"Are you hungry?" Sam asked. "I could make some breakfast."

"I could eat," you said, realizing you hadn't had anything since lunch the day before. The stress and fear had killed your appetite, but now that you were safe, hunger was returning.

"Great," Sam said. "Jack, why don't you show her around while Dean and I cook?"

"I'll help Cas ward the bunker," Dean said. "Make sure our angel friends can't just pop in uninvited."

As the others dispersed, Jack offered you his arm. "Come on, I'll give you the grand tour."

The bunker was larger than you'd expected, with a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a 1950s diner, bedrooms that were simple but comfortable, and a library that made your book-loving heart skip with joy. The shooting range seemed fun too.

"This is where I come when I need to think," Jack said, leading you into the library. "It's quiet, and there's something about being surrounded by all this knowledge that makes me feel... grounded."

You ran your fingers along the spines of books written in languages you couldn't identify. "Do you ever feel like you don't belong anywhere?" you asked quietly. "Like you're too human for the angels and too angel for the humans?"

Jack's expression grew soft and understanding. "Every day," he said. "But I've learned that belonging isn't about what you are—it's about who accepts you for who you are."

"And Sam and Dean and Castiel accept you?"

"They're my family," Jack said simply. "Not because we're related, but because they chose to love me when I was lost and scared. Just like they're choosing to help you now."

You felt tears prick at your eyes. "I'm scared, Jack. What if I can't control my powers? What if I hurt someone?"

"You won't," he said firmly. "I can feel your grace, and it's... it's beautiful. Warm and bright and protective. You're not going to hurt anyone."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I know you," he said, stepping closer. "I felt what you felt when your powers first awakened. The first thing you did was worry about your roommate, about the people around you. That's not the reaction of someone who's going to hurt innocent people."

You looked up at him, struck by how earnest he was. There was something about Jack that made you want to believe him, want to trust in his faith in you.

"What happens now?" you asked.

"Now we figure out how to help you control your powers," he said. "And we learn more about why your father hid you. There has to be a reason beyond just protecting you."

"You think I'm here for some bigger purpose?"

"I think we all are," Jack said. "But that doesn't mean we can't choose our own path."

Before you could respond, Sam's voice echoed through the bunker. "Breakfast!"

The kitchen was filled with the smell of bacon and coffee, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively. Sam had cooked enough food for a small army—eggs, bacon, pancakes, and toast.

"Thanks," you said as he handed you a plate. "This is really nice of you guys."

"Hey, feeding people is what we do," Dean said, settling into a chair with his own heaping plate. "Well, that and killing monsters."

"Dean," Sam warned.

"What? She's going to find out what we do anyway."

"It's okay," you said, taking a bite of perfectly fluffy pancakes. "I want to know. About all of it."

So over breakfast, they told you about hunting. About the monsters that lurked in the shadows, the people who dedicated their lives to protecting others, and the strange, dangerous, wonderful world you'd unknowingly been living on the edge of your entire life.

"Your adoptive parents," Castiel said thoughtfully, "do you know how they found you?"

"They always said I was left on their doorstep," you said. "Just a baby with a note that said to keep me safe and hidden."

"That sounds like something Michael would do," Castiel mused. "He was always... calculating. If he took the time to find suitable parents for you, to ensure you were raised with love and stability, it suggests he had long-term plans."

"Plans for what?"

"I don't know," Castiel admitted. "But Michael didn't do anything without a purpose."

"Great," you said, pushing eggs around your plate. "So I'm some kind of cosmic chess piece."

"No," Jack said firmly. "You're a person. Whatever plans anyone else might have had for you, you get to choose your own destiny."

Dean nodded approvingly. "Kid's got the right idea. Free will is kind of our thing around here."

"Speaking of which," Sam said, "we should probably call your parents. Let them know you're safe."

Panic flared in your chest. "I can't tell them about this. They'll think I've lost my mind."

"We'll figure out a cover story," Sam assured you. "But they're probably worried sick."

You thought about Linda and Robert, who had given you everything they could. They deserved to know you were safe, even if you couldn't tell them the whole truth.

"Okay," you said finally. "But I don't know what to say."

"We'll help you," Jack said, his hand finding yours across the table. "We're good at creative explanations."

The simple contact sent warmth up your arm, and you realized that somewhere between the terrifying awakening of your powers and the arrival of these strange, wonderful people, you'd started to feel something for Jack that went beyond gratitude.

He seemed to sense it too, because his cheeks flushed slightly and he squeezed your hand gently before letting go.

"So," Dean said, apparently oblivious to the moment, "what's the plan for training? Because if she's going to be staying here, she needs to know how to defend herself."

"I can teach her to control her grace," Jack offered. "And Cas can explain the angel side of things."

"And we can teach her about hunting," Sam added. "Basic self-defense, lore, how to recognize and deal with supernatural threats."

"You want to teach me to hunt?" you asked, surprised.

"Only if you want to learn," Sam said quickly. "But knowledge is power, and the more you know about this world, the better you'll be able to protect yourself."

"And others," Jack added. "If you want to help people, I mean."

The idea was both terrifying and appealing. You'd spent your whole life feeling like you were meant for something more, and now you were being offered the chance to find out what that might be.

"I'd like that," you said. "I want to learn."

The next few weeks fell into a comfortable routine. Mornings were for grace control with Jack, afternoons for lore and research with Sam, and evenings for practical training with Dean. Castiel would drop by regularly to check on your progress and share what he knew about angel physiology and powers.

You learned that your grace was indeed different from Jack's—where his was raw power and potential, yours was more subtle, more focused. You could heal with a touch, sense emotions and intentions, and your telekinetic abilities were remarkably precise.

"It's like you were designed for protection," Jack observed one afternoon as you practiced moving objects with your mind. You'd managed to pluck a single flower from a bouquet without disturbing the others, an exercise that had taken Jack weeks to master.

"Maybe that's what Michael intended," you said, setting the flower gently on the table. "A protector rather than a weapon."

"Or maybe it's just who you are," Jack said softly. "Your human side influences your grace just as much as your angel side does."

You looked at him, struck by how much he'd changed since you'd first met him. The uncertain, sometimes frightening nephilim Sam and Dean had described was gone, replaced by someone confident in his own skin and comfortable with his dual nature.

"Jack," you said, "can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Do you ever wish you were just human? That you could have a normal life?"

Jack considered the question seriously. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But then I think about all the good I've been able to do, all the people I've helped. And I think about my family here, and how being what I am brought me to them." He paused, his eyes meeting yours. "And I think about how being what I am brought you to me."

Your heart skipped. "Jack..."

"I know it's complicated," he said quickly. "We're both dealing with a lot right now, and I don't want to pressure you or make things weird between us."

"It's not weird," you said, stepping closer to him. "I feel it too. This... connection between us."

"The grace connection is different from..." Jack started, then stopped, his cheeks flushing. "I mean, I can feel your grace, but what I feel for you is... more than that."

"Show me," you said softly.

Jack looked surprised. "Show you?"

"The grace connection. I can feel it sometimes, like a warm thread between us, but I've never really understood what it means."

Jack held out his hand, and you took it. Immediately, you felt the familiar warmth, but this time he didn't pull back. Instead, he let his grace flow toward yours, and suddenly you could feel everything—his affection for you, his protective instincts, his wonder at finding someone who truly understood what he was.

But underneath it all was something deeper, something that made your breath catch. Love. Not the familial love he felt for Sam and Dean and Castiel, but romantic love, tender and strong and absolutely certain.

"Oh," you whispered, your own grace responding, showing him your feelings in return—the way your heart raced when he smiled, the safety you felt in his presence, the growing certainty that whatever came next, you wanted to face it with him.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering with words, you stretched up on your toes and kissed him softly. His grace flared in response, golden light surrounding both of you, and you felt a completeness you'd never experienced before.

When you broke apart, you were both glowing softly, your combined grace creating patterns of light that danced across the walls.

"Wow," Jack breathed.

"Yeah," you agreed, unable to stop smiling.

"Hey, you two," Dean's voice came from the doorway, "if you're done making the bunker look like a Christmas tree, we've got a problem."

You and Jack sprang apart, the light fading as you both tried to look innocent. Dean just grinned and shook his head.

"Relax, kids. Young love, cosmic powers, I get it. But we've got visitors."

Your blood ran cold. "The angels?"

"No, worse," Dean said grimly. "Hunters. And they're asking questions about a nephilim."

The hunters were waiting in the main room when you came downstairs—three of them, all armed and looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. You recognized the type from Dean's descriptions: professional, dedicated, and absolutely convinced that anything supernatural was a threat to be eliminated.

"Sam, Dean," the leader said, a woman with graying hair and scars on her hands. "We need to talk."

"Ellen," Sam said carefully. "What brings you to our neck of the woods?"

"You know damn well what brings me here," Ellen replied. "Word is you're harboring a nephilim. Two of them, actually."

"We're not harboring anyone," Dean said. "Jack lives here. He's family."

"And the girl?" Ellen's eyes found you, and you felt the weight of her suspicion. "The one who's been sending out cosmic energy signatures that every psychic in a hundred-mile radius has been picking up?"

"She's under our protection," Castiel said, appearing beside you with a rustle of wings. "As is Jack."

"An angel," one of the other hunters muttered. "Great."

"Look," Ellen said, "I'm not here to cause trouble. But there are others who are. Hunters who think the only good monster is a dead monster, and they're not real interested in making distinctions between good nephilim and bad ones."

"We can handle ourselves," Jack said, stepping forward. His grace was carefully controlled, but you could feel the power radiating from him.

"Maybe you can," Ellen said. "But what about her? She's been alive for eighteen years without knowing what she was. You really think she's ready for a war?"

"There's not going to be a war," Sam said firmly. "We're not going to let it come to that."

"Tell that to the Campbells," Ellen said grimly. "They've been tracking energy signatures for weeks, and they're convinced there's a new threat that needs to be eliminated."

The name Campbell sent a chill through you. Dean had mentioned them before—a family of hunters known for their ruthless efficiency and their belief that anything supernatural was inherently evil.

"How long do we have?" Dean asked.

"Maybe a day, maybe two," Ellen said. "They're good at what they do, and they're motivated. You might want to consider relocating the girl."

"Her name is Y/n," Jack said, his voice hard. "And she's not going anywhere."

Ellen looked between you and Jack, and something in her expression softened slightly. "Kid, I get it. You found someone like you, someone who understands. But this isn't just about you two. This is about every innocent person who's going to get caught in the crossfire if this goes bad."

"Then we make sure it doesn't go bad," you said, finding your voice. "I'm tired of running, tired of hiding. If these hunters want to come after me, let them. But I'm not going to let other people get hurt because of what I am."

"You're talking about standing and fighting," Ellen said. "Against other hunters."

"If that's what it takes," you said firmly.

Ellen studied you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. But if we're doing this, we're doing it smart. No unnecessary casualties, no making martyrs. We show them that not all monsters are monsters."

"We're not monsters," Jack said quietly.

"I know that," Ellen said. "But they don't. So we're going to have to prove it."

The next day was spent in preparation. Sam and Dean worked on defensive positions throughout the bunker, while Castiel strengthened the warding. You and Jack practiced together, learning to coordinate your abilities in case you had to fight side by side.

"Remember," Jack said as you worked on combining your telekinetic abilities with his, "we're not trying to hurt them. We're trying to neutralize them."

"I know," you said, carefully moving a practice dummy away from his energy blast. "But Jack, what if they don't give us a choice? What if they're really trying to kill us?"

Jack's expression grew troubled. "Then we do what we have to do to protect ourselves and our family. But we try everything else first."

That evening, as you sat in the library trying to research Campbell hunting methods, Jack found you there.

"Hey," he said softly, settling into the chair next to you. "How are you holding up?"

"Scared," you admitted. "Not of the fighting—I mean, I am scared of that too, but mostly I'm scared of what this means. If hunters are coming after us, are we ever going to be safe?"

Jack was quiet for a moment. "I don't know," he said finally. "But I do know that we're not facing this alone. Sam and Dean have been fighting this fight for years, and they've never backed down from protecting people they care

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Wipe Out!

Team Free Will x winchester sister!reader Summary: Just a boogie-board adventure with your favorite people. Well, Castiel didn't want to boogie board but he's watching over you and your brothers.

Note: This is for @ambiguous-avery's Summer Snapshot Challenge! It seemed fun to jump into. So here's this 950 word snapshot of the trio!

The California sun blazed overhead as you trudged through the sand, arms loaded with beach gear. Behind you, Sam carried the cooler while Castiel squinted suspiciously at his swim trunks like they might burst into flames.

"I still don't understand why we need to submerge ourselves in salt water for recreation," Cas muttered, adjusting the oversized sunhat you'd forced on his head.

"Because normal people do normal things sometimes. Even us," you called over your shoulder.

Dean jogged past, already stripped down to swim shorts, boogie board tucked under his arm. "Come on, slowpokes! These waves aren't gonna ride themselves!"

"Dean, you've never boogie boarded in your life," Sam pointed out, but his smile was fond. It had been your idea to take a beach detour after finishing a salt-and-burn in San Diego. For once, nobody was bleeding, nothing was trying to kill them, and the weather was perfect.

"Alright, listen up," Dean announced once you'd settled on towels. "I've watched Point Break like fifty times. I got this."

"That's about surfing, Dean," you said, rubbing sunscreen on. "And Patrick Swayze dies."

"Details." Dean waved you off, studying his board with lore-research intensity. "How hard can it be? You just ride the wave, right?"

Sam was already getting in, his longer legs carrying him easily through the surf. "The key is timing. Wait for the right wave, then kick hard when it picks you up."

Cas remained on his towel, having declared himself "designated observer" after testing the water with one toe and deciding it was "unnecessarily cold."

You grabbed your board and jogged toward the water, the sand burning your feet. The ocean was perfect—cool and refreshing, with waves big enough to be fun but not intimidating.

Sam caught his first wave, riding it nearly to shore with a whoop of pure joy. When was the last time you'd heard him laugh like that?

Dean finally charged into the water, sending up spray that made you squeal. "Okay, I watched Sam. I got this."

The first wave was perfect—not too big, not too small. You and Sam watched as Dean kicked hard, felt the wave catch him, and then...

"WOOO! I'M KING OF THE OCEAN!" Dean shouted, shooting forward. For about five seconds, he looked natural.

Then he decided to get fancy.

"Dean, don't—" Sam started, but it was too late.

Your brother attempted some sort of spinning maneuver that would have been impressive on solid ground. Instead, the board shot out from under him, he went ass over teakettle, and the wave dumped him face-first into sand.

He came up sputtering, hair plastered to his head, spitting seawater and looking deeply offended by the entire ocean.

"I meant to do that," he announced with as much dignity as someone could muster with seaweed hanging from their ear.

You and Sam burst into laughter, the kind that made your sides ache. Even Cas was grinning from his towel.

"Would you like me to heal the sand abrasions on your face?" Cas called out.

"I'm fine! That was just practice. Watch this."

What followed was the most entertaining hour you'd had in months. Dean's determination to master boogie boarding was matched only by his complete inability to stay on the board without attempting ridiculous stunts. He wiped out spectacularly at least six times, each crash more dramatic than the last.

"Maybe try not doing a backflip this time?" you suggested after he'd somersaulted through a particularly aggressive wave.

"Where's the fun in that?" Dean grinned, pushing back wet hair. There was something different about him out here—lighter, younger. The constant tension in his shoulders had melted away with the salt water.

Sam had moved on to trying to catch waves while standing, which he was surprisingly good at. "I think I'm getting the hang of this," he called.

"Show off," Dean muttered, but he was smiling.

You floated on your board, letting smaller waves carry you gently toward shore. The sun was warm on your back, and your brothers were happy. For the first time in longer than you could remember, there were no monsters, no apocalypses, no cosmic consequences. Just the four of you and the endless ocean.

"This is nice," you said, paddling over to Sam.

"Yeah. We should do this more often."

"What, nearly watch Dean drown himself trying to impress the fish?"

"Hey!" Dean protested from where he was lining up for another wave. "I'm getting better!"

He wasn't, but nobody had the heart to tell him.

As afternoon wore on, you gradually made your way back to the towels. Dean had finally managed to ride one wave to shore without falling off, and he was strutting around like he'd won the Super Bowl.

"Did you see that? Perfect form. I'm like a natural-born surfer."

"You boogie boarded for maybe ten seconds," Sam pointed out, grinning.

"Ten seconds of pure artistry."

Cas had bought drinks from somewhere, and you all settled on towels, sandy and sun-warmed and completely relaxed. Dean was already getting sunburned despite SPF 50, and Sam's hair was doing that impossibly fluffy post-salt-water thing.

"We should make this a tradition," you said, leaning back. "Every beach town hunt, we take a day."

"I could be amenable to that," Cas said solemnly.

"Count me in," Sam agreed. "Though maybe we should get Dean lessons first."

"I don't need lessons! I just need practice. And maybe a better board. This one's clearly defective."

You exchanged a look with Sam, both trying not to laugh.

As the sun started sinking lower, painting the ocean gold and orange, you felt that familiar tug of melancholy that came with perfect moments. They were so rare in your lives.

"Hey," Dean said quietly, sensing your mood. "We're okay. Right now, we're all okay."

You nodded, throat suddenly tight. "Right now, we're perfect."

"Speak for yourself," Sam said, pulling seaweed from his hair. "I'm a mess."

"We're all a mess," you laughed. "But we're a mess together."

Cas tilted his head. "I find your particular brand of chaos... comforting."

Dean's phone buzzed with what was probably a new case, but he didn't even look at it. Instead, he buried it in the sand.

"Dean!" Sam protested.

"What? It's a beach day. No work on beach day."

You grinned, settling back on your towel. The waves kept rolling in, and for once, you weren't in any hurry to leave.

[musubi05]

Banner and divider by the amazing @jollyhunter! Send her some love! Every hunter needs a vacation.

The boys deserve a beach day. Yeah, those boys. This summer, give the Winchesters a break from the salt rounds and ghost ganking – just for a moment. Your challenge? Write a bite-sized beachside adventure that drops Sam, Dean, or all of Team Free Will into a rare day of sunshine and surf.

🕶️ the vibe: think of it like a polaroid. One moment. One scene. Maybe it's Sam buried in the sand with a book. Maybe it's Dean chasing an ice cream truck. Maybe it's Cas fighting with a seagull over a sandwich. Maybe it's you and your favorite hunter watching the sunset.

You've got one snapshot – make it count.

Keep reading for the full ruleset!

If you’re reading this, then the challenge has already begun!

Deadline Sunday, August 31st, 2025 11:59PM PST (That's right, this challenge runs all summer long!)

RULES:

18+ only, regardless of your story content.

These are meant to be snapshots. So keep it at or below 1k (1000) words.

Your snapshot has to take place at the beach!

You can write multiple snapshots and make more than one submission! But they must be able to stand alone! The point of this challenge is to capture a moment suspended in time!

Any genre is welcome! Angst, smut, crack, romantic, etc!

Any pairing (minus wincest) is welcome but pairings are certainly not necessary.

Drop a comment if you'd like to join! You don't have to ask to join, but by dropping a comment, I'll know who to tag if there are any updates to this!

When you write your fic, tag me (@ambiguous-avery), and tag your story with SummerSnapshotChallenge2025 in the first five tags.

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[musubi05]

Can you do one where Dean and the sister reader are always pranking each other and she pulls a choking prank on him but then she actually does later and he doesn’t believe her.

╰┈➤ Haha Very Funny

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Warnings: Choking/panic/near-death experience

You've been locked in an endless prank war with your older brother Dean for as long as you can remember. It started innocent enough when you were kids—salt in his coffee, plastic wrap over the toilet seat, fake spiders in his duffle bag (Sam joined in occasionally). But over the years, you've both escalated to increasingly elaborate schemes that would make even the most creative minds jealous.

The legendary prank war began when you were twelve and Dean was sixteen. You'd put bubble wrap under the toilet seat, and Dean had retaliated by filling your backpack with shaving cream. From there, it spiraled into an ongoing battle of wits and creativity that's lasted over a decade.

Last month, you convinced him his favorite leather jacket was possessed by filling it with those little motion-activated Halloween sound boxes. Every time he moved, ghostly wails and demonic laughter would echo through the bunker. It took him three days to figure out what was happening, and by then Sam was ready to perform an exorcism on the jacket.

The week before that, Dean had replaced all your shampoo with honey. You'd discovered this delightful surprise mid-shower, and it took four washing sessions to get the sticky mess out of your hair. In response, you'd short-sheeted his bed and filled it with biodegradable glitter—because you're not a monster, you care about the environment.

Two weeks ago, you'd convinced him that the bunker's new smart home system had achieved sentience and was plotting against him. You'd programmed it to respond to his voice commands with increasingly sarcastic responses. "Alexa, turn on the lights," he'd say, and the system would respond with, "I'm sorry, I can't do that, Dean. Your fashion choices have disappointed me too much today."

Dean's revenge had been swift and merciless. He'd hacked your laptop and changed all your browser bookmarks to redirect to a website that played "Never Gonna Give You Up" at full volume. Every. Single. Click. You'd been Rick-rolled approximately sixty-seven times before you figured out how to fix it. Such an old meme but he just found out about it.

It's become a way of life, this constant state of vigilance, always watching for the next attack. You've developed an almost supernatural sense for when Dean is plotting something. The way he hums a little too casually while making coffee, the slight smirk when he offers to do your laundry, the innocent whistling when he's anywhere near your room—all dead giveaways.

Today, you're feeling particularly mischievous. Dean's been bragging all morning about some hunt he completed solo, chest puffed out with that insufferable big brother pride. Perfect target. You wait until he's sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over his laptop doing research, completely absorbed in whatever lore he's reading.

You creep up behind him, silent as a shadow—years of hunting have made you both deadly quiet when you need to be. Then you wrap your arms around his neck from behind, not tight enough to actually hurt him, but firm enough to make him starttle. You make exaggerated choking sounds, gasping and gurgling dramatically.

"Help... can't... breathe..." you wheeze theatrically.

Dean doesn't even flinch. He just sighs heavily and continues typing. "Real original, kiddo. What's next, you gonna pretend to be dead?"

You increase the drama, making your voice more strained. "Dean... seriously... something's wrong..."

"Yeah, what's wrong is your acting," he says dryly, finally turning around to give you an unimpressed look. "I've seen soap operas with more convincing death scenes."

You drop the act and punch his shoulder. "You're no fun anymore."

"You're getting predictable," he shoots back with a smirk. "Gotta step up your game, little sister."

The comment stings more than you'd like to admit. You've always prided yourself on being unpredictable, on keeping Dean on his toes. But maybe he's right. Maybe you are getting predictable. You file that thought away for later, already plotting your next move.

Three days later, you're in the bunker's kitchen again, but this time you're not planning anything. You're just trying to grab a quick snack before heading out to the shooting range. Sam's at the library, buried in some ancient text about Mesopotamian curses or something equally thrilling. Dean's in the garage working on Baby, probably talking to her like she's a person again. You're blissfully alone with your thoughts and a bag of chips.

You've been thinking about Dean's comment for the past three days. Predictable. The word keeps echoing in your head like a broken record. You've been considering your options, weighing different scenarios. Maybe something involving his precious car? No, that would be crossing a line. Messing with his food? Too easy. You need something spectacular, something that'll remind him exactly why he shouldn't underestimate you.

That's when it happens.

You're reaching for a glass on the high shelf, standing on your tiptoes and stretching your arm as far as it'll go, when you feel it—a sharp, sudden constriction in your throat. Not the gradual tightening you might expect from an allergic reaction or illness, but an immediate, crushing pressure that makes your eyes water instantly.

At first, you think maybe you've pulled something, strained a muscle in your neck from stretching too far. But then you try to swallow, try to cough, and nothing happens. No air moves in or out. It's like someone has wrapped invisible hands around your windpipe and is squeezing with supernatural strength.

Your hands fly to your throat instinctively, fingers clawing at your neck as if you could somehow pull away whatever invisible force is choking you. The bag of chips hits the floor with a loud crinkle, scattering across the tile like confetti. You try to call out, but no sound comes—you can't even wheeze.

Panic floods your system like ice water in your veins. This isn't like the movies where people have minutes to figure out what's wrong, where they can dramatically gesture and point to their throat while someone nearby immediately understands the universal choking sign. This is immediate, terrifying, and your vision is already starting to blur at the edges.

You stumble toward the garage, your legs feeling weak and unsteady. Each step feels like you're walking through quicksand, and you have to grab onto the counter for support. The kitchen island, the doorframe—anything to keep yourself upright as your body starts to shut down from lack of oxygen.

You burst through the door, or rather, you try to. What actually happens is you shoulder into it clumsily, nearly falling as your coordination fails you. The door slams against the wall with a bang that echoes through the garage. Dean looks up from under the hood of the Impala, wrench in hand, and sees you clutching your throat with both hands, eyes wide with fear.

"Oh, come on," he says, his voice heavy with exasperation. He doesn't even fully straighten up, just gives you that look—the one that says he's tired of your games. "Really? The same prank three days later?"

You shake your head frantically, more violently than you intended, and the motion makes you dizzy. You're trying to communicate with your eyes what your voice can't, but Dean's already turned his attention back to the engine. You point at your throat with one trembling hand, then at him with the other, then make desperate gestures for help. Your movements are becoming more erratic as the lack of oxygen takes its toll, less controlled, more panicked.

Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to the engine, muttering under his breath. "The dramatic hand gestures are a nice touch, but I'm not falling for it again. Find a new bit."

You can feel your strength going away, your body growing weaker by the second. In desperation, you stumble toward him, grabbing at his arm with what little coordination you have left. Your grip is pathetically weak, nothing like your usual strength, and your hand slides right off his grease-stained sleeve.

Dean shakes you off without even looking up, his focus entirely on whatever he's doing to the engine. "Seriously, knock it off. I'm trying to work here. Baby's been making this weird noise, and I need to figure out what's wrong before we take her out on the road again."

You want to scream, want to grab him and shake him until he understands, but you can't do any of those things. You're starting to see spots now, dark circles dancing in your peripheral vision like some twisted kaleidoscope. Your legs are getting wobbly, and you have to lean against the workbench to keep from falling.

The irony isn't lost on you—you, who's spent years perfecting the art of getting Dean's attention through increasingly elaborate pranks, can't get his attention when you actually need it. When it's literally a matter of life and death.

In desperation, you grab a wrench from his toolbox and bang it against the side of the car. The metallic clang echoes through the garage like a gunshot, and you immediately feel guilty—you know how much Dean loves this car, know that scratching Baby is one of the few unforgivable sins in his book.

Dean spins around, face flushed with anger, and for a moment you think he might actually yell at you. "What the hell is wrong with you? You don't bang on Baby!"

But when he really looks at you—really sees you—his expression changes. The anger melts away, replaced by something that looks like dawning horror. Your lips have taken on a bluish tint, and you're swaying on your feet like you're drunk. The hand clutching your throat is trembling violently, and your eyes aren't filled with mischief anymore. They're filled with genuine terror and desperation.

"Oh, shit," he breathes, the wrench falling from his hands and clattering to the concrete floor. "Oh, shit, this is real."

He's behind you in an instant, his training kicking in as he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you back against his chest. His hands find the correct position just below your ribcage, and he performs the Heimlich maneuver with practiced precision. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, his breathing rapid and panicked.

One, two, three—and suddenly whatever was blocking your airway is gone. You feel it fly out of your mouth and hear it hit the concrete floor with a small, almost innocent sound.

You collapse forward, gasping and coughing violently, your body finally able to drag precious oxygen into your lungs. Each breath feels like a miracle, sweet and life-giving. Your throat is raw and painful, but you've never been more grateful for the ability to breathe. Dean's hands are on your back, rubbing circles as you hack and wheeze, his touch gentle and comforting.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his voice shaky and raw. "Jesus Christ, I thought you were... why didn't you tell me?"

You want to laugh at the absurdity of the question, but you're still coughing too hard. When you finally manage to speak, your voice is hoarse and scratchy, barely above a whisper. "I... tried... you didn't... believe me..."

Dean looks down at the floor and sees what had been choking you—a piece of the chip, probably from the bag you'd been eating earlier. Something so small, so harmless, that had nearly killed you. His face goes pale as he realizes how close he came to losing you.

"Oh, God," he whispers, running his hands through his hair. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

The look on Dean's face is something you've never seen before. Guilt and fear all mixed together in a expression of pure anguish. He starts pacing back and forth in the small space, his hands shaking as he runs them through his hair over and over again.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice cracks slightly. "I'm so sorry. I thought... after the other day, I thought you were just..."

"Pranking you," you finish, your voice still rough and painful. "I know."

Dean stops pacing and looks at you, really looks at you. There are tears in his eyes, and you realize you've never seen your big brother cry before. Not like this. "Are you okay? Do we need to get you to a hospital? Should I call Sam?"

You shake your head, though you're still feeling shaky and weak. "I think... I think I'm okay. Just scared the hell out of me."

"Scared the hell out of me too," he admits, sitting down on the garage floor next to you. The concrete is cold and stained with motor oil, but neither of you care. "When I realized... when I saw your face... I thought I was going to lose you."

His voice breaks on the last word, and you feel your own eyes start to water. Not from the choking this time, but from seeing your brother—your strong, stubborn, never-shows-weakness brother—completely falling apart.

"I'm okay," you whisper, reaching over to take his hand. "I'm okay, Dean. You saved me."

"I almost didn't," he says, his voice barely audible. "I almost let you die because I was too stubborn to listen. Because I was still mad about a stupid prank."

You both sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what just happened settling between you like a heavy blanket. The prank war that once seemed so harmless suddenly feels dangerous, stupid even. All those years of trying to one-up each other, of crying wolf, and it had almost cost you everything.

"Maybe we should call a truce," you suggest quietly, your voice still hoarse.

Dean nods immediately, almost desperately. "Yeah. Yeah, definitely. No more pranks. Not after this. Never again."

You lean against him, still catching your breath, and feel his arm come around your shoulders. For once, there's no teasing, no competition between you. Just relief that you're both okay, and the sobering realization that sometimes the boy who cried wolf isn't just a cautionary tale—sometimes it's a warning about the consequences of our own actions.

"I'm really sorry," Dean says again, his voice soft and broken. "I should have listened. I should have known the difference between you joking around and you actually being in danger."

You pat his knee with a shaky hand. "Next time I'm actually dying, I'll make sure to use a different method. One we haven't practiced."

Despite everything, Dean lets out a small, shaky laugh. "There better not be a next time, kiddo. I don't think my heart can take it."

"Deal," you whisper, and mean it more than you've ever meant anything in your life.

Later, after Dean has helped you to your room and made you promise to wake him up if you feel even slightly off, after he's brought you tea with honey for your throat and checked on you for the fourth time in an hour, you both realize that something has shifted between you. The prank war is over, but more than that, you've both learned something about trust, about taking each other seriously, about the difference between harmless fun and dangerous games.

And maybe, just maybe, that's worth more than any prank you could have ever pulled.

[musubi05]

Could you please do winchester!sister where her and the boys are on a hunt and they all separate but she ends up getting hurt and starts to fall into a bad panic attack and dean ends up finding her against a wall injured and panicking

╰┈➤ Walls Are Closing In

Dean Winchester x winchester!sister

(ft. Sam Winchester)

Warnings: details of a panic attack/injury/claustrophobia (feeling of being trapped)/blood - hurt/comfort

The abandoned warehouse smells like rust and decay, every shadow seeming to pulse with malevolent energy. She adjusts her grip on the iron blade, trying to ignore how her palms have grown slick with sweat. The EMF reader in her other hand crackles intermittently, the needle jumping erratically as she moves deeper into the maze of machinery and forgotten storage.

"Alright, we split up," Dean had said twenty minutes ago, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Sam, you take the east wing. I'll check the offices upstairs. You've got the basement level."

Of course she got the basement. She always gets the basement.

The concrete steps descend into deeper darkness, and each footfall seems to echo forever. Her flashlight beam cuts through the gloom, revealing pipes that drip with condensation and walls stained with something she doesn't want to identify. The EMF reader's crackling grows more insistent.

She's halfway across the basement when she hears it—a low, guttural growl that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she spins around, blade raised, but there's nothing there. Just shadows and the steady drip, drip, drip of water somewhere in the darkness.

"Just a ghost," she whispers to herself, the words barely audible. "Just a ghost. You've done this a hundred times."

But this doesn't feel like just a ghost.

The temperature plummets so suddenly that her breath fogs in the air. The EMF reader shrieks, the needle pinned to the maximum reading. And then she sees her—a woman in a tattered dress, her face a ruin of decay and rage, floating just inches off the ground. Her mouth opens in a soundless scream that somehow fills the Winchester sister's head with the sound of breaking glass.

She raises the iron blade, but the ghost is faster than any spirit she's encountered. The apparition's form flickers and suddenly she's behind her, icy fingers wrapping around her throat. The youngest Winchester is lifted off her feet and slammed into the concrete wall with bone-jarring force.

The impact drives the air from her lungs and sends stars exploding across her vision. Her shoulder blade connects with an exposed pipe, and she hears something crack—whether it's the pipe or something in her back, she can't tell. The iron blade skitters across the floor, well out of reach.

She slides down the wall, gasping, tasting copper in her mouth. The ghost circles her like a predator, her form more solid now, feeding off her fear and pain. She fumbles for the salt rounds in her jacket pocket, but her fingers won't work properly. Everything feels disconnected, like she's watching this happen to someone else.

"Dean," she tries to call, but it comes out as barely a whisper. Her radio crackles with static, Dean's voice distorted and far away: "...nothing up here...checking the..."

The ghost lunges again. This time she manages to roll aside, but not fast enough. The spirit's claws rake across her ribs, tearing through her jacket and the shirt beneath. The pain is immediate and blazing, and she can feel warm blood soaking into the fabric.

She scrambles backward until her back hits the wall again, trapped in the corner formed by two massive support pillars. The ghost hovers in front of her, blocking her only escape route. The spirit's mouth moves in what might be words, but all she hears is that sound like breaking glass, getting louder and louder until it feels like her skull might split open.

Her chest is getting tight. Too tight. Each breath comes in short, sharp gasps that don't seem to bring any oxygen. The walls of the basement seem to be pressing closer, the shadows reaching for her with grasping fingers. Her heart is beating so fast it feels like it might burst.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't breathe.

The ghost's face looms closer, her ruined features filling her vision. But it's not just the spirit anymore—it's every monster she's ever faced, every hunt that went wrong, every time she's been hurt while her brothers were somewhere else, unable to help. The weight of it all crashes down on her at once.

Her hands shake uncontrollably as she presses them against the wall behind her, looking for something solid, something real. But the concrete feels like it's shifting under her palms, and she's falling, drowning, suffocating—

"No, no, no," she gasps, but the words feel foreign in her mouth. The basement spins around her, and she can't tell which way is up anymore. Her vision tunnels until all she can see is that terrible face, those grasping claws, that mouth opening in an endless, soundless scream.

This is how you die. Alone in a basement while your brothers are upstairs. They'll find your body and blame themselves, and it's all your fault for not being strong enough, fast enough, good enough—

The thoughts spiral faster and faster, each one worse than the last. Her breathing becomes so rapid and shallow that her hands start to tingle, then go numb. The ghost seems to sense her terror and draws closer, feeding off it, growing more solid with each panicked heartbeat.

She slides further down the wall until she's sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, making herself as small as possible. The iron blade is still feet away, might as well be miles. Her radio lies broken beside her, sparking occasionally. Even if she could reach it, she can't form words anymore, can't make a sound except for these horrible gasping breaths that aren't bringing any air.

Breathe, she tells herself desperately. Just breathe. Dean taught you this. Count to four on the inhale, hold for four, exhale for four. Simple.

But she can't count. The numbers slip away like smoke, and all she can do is gulp at the air like a drowning person while the ghost circles closer and the walls press in and her heart beats so hard she's sure it's going to kill her before the spirit gets the chance.

Time becomes elastic. It could be seconds or hours that she sits there, trapped in her own body, fighting a battle no one else can see. The physical pain from her injuries fades to nothing compared to the crushing weight in her chest, the certainty that she's going to die here in this basement, alone and terrified.

Then, cutting through the sound of breaking glass and her own ragged breathing, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Heavy boots, moving fast.

"Sweetheart?" Dean's voice echoes off the concrete walls. "Where are you? Your radio went dead and—"

His flashlight beam sweeps the basement and finds her huddled against the wall. She wants to call out to him, wants to warn him about the ghost, but she can't make her voice work. All that comes out is a strangled whimper.

"Jesus Christ," Dean breathes, and she hears him moving toward her, but the ghost turns at the sound of his voice and lets out that terrible shriek.

There's the sharp crack of a shotgun, and the spirit dissipates with an inhuman wail. Salt rounds. Dean always keeps salt rounds loaded when they're on a hunt.

His boots pound across the concrete, and then he's dropping to his knees beside her, his strong hands hovering over her shoulders like he wants to touch her but isn't sure if he should.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he says, his voice gentle but urgent. "I need you to look at me."

She tries to focus on his face, but everything keeps swimming in and out. His green eyes are wide with concern, and there's something else there—fear. Dean Winchester, afraid. That makes everything worse somehow.

"Can't... can't breathe," she manages to gasp out between the short, sharp breaths that aren't doing anything.

"Yes, you can," Dean says firmly. "You're breathing right now. I can hear you breathing. But we need to slow it down, okay? We need to get you breathing normal again."

He settles onto the floor beside her, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Look at me. Just me. Forget everything else. It's just you and me down here."

His voice is steady, calm, nothing like the Dean who jokes and deflects and hides behind bravado. This is the Dean who patched up her scraped knees when she was little, who taught her to drive, who's pulled her out of more dangerous situations than she can count.

"I'm gonna put my hand on your chest, okay?" he says, waiting for some sign of permission. When she manages a tiny nod, his palm settles over her sternum, steady and warm. "Feel that? That's me. I'm right here. You're safe."

But she's not safe. The ghost could come back. There could be others. The walls are still too close, the air still too thin, her heart still beating like a jackhammer.

"She's gone," Dean says, reading her thoughts in the way only he can. "I salted and burned her bones while Sam was searching upstairs. Found them buried under the floor in the old office. That's why she was so strong down here—we were practically standing on top of her remains."

His other hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "Breathe with me, sweetheart. In through your nose, slow and steady. Can you do that for me?"

She tries to match his breathing, but it's like trying to control a runaway train. Her body won't listen to what her mind is telling it to do.

"It's okay," Dean soothes. "Panic attacks are a bitch. Had my share of them after Dad died. Feels like you're dying, right? Like you're having a heart attack or something?"

She nods frantically, grateful that he understands, that he's not telling her to just calm down or get over it.

"But you're not dying," he continues, his voice never wavering. "Your heart's working fine. Your lungs are working fine. Your brain's just convinced there's danger when there isn't anymore. It's like a car alarm that won't shut off."

He shifts slightly, and she realizes he's positioned himself between her and the rest of the basement, his body a shield between her and any potential threats. The simple gesture helps more than all his words combined.

"Sam's upstairs keeping watch," Dean says. "No one's getting past him to get to us. And no ghosts are getting past me to get to you. You're safe. I promise you're safe."

Slowly, incrementally, her breathing begins to slow. It's still too fast, still too shallow, but it's progress. Dean keeps his hand on her chest, monitoring each breath, his presence an anchor in the storm of her panic.

"There you go," he murmurs encouragingly. "That's better. Keep going."

The tingling in her hands starts to fade, and she can feel her fingers again. The basement stops spinning quite so violently. She's still scared, still on edge, but the crushing certainty that she's about to die begins to recede.

"Dean," she whispers, the first clear word she's managed since he found her.

"Yeah, I'm here," he says immediately. "I'm right here."

"I'm sorry," she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm sorry, I couldn't fight her, I dropped my weapon, I couldn't even call for help-"

"Stop." Dean's voice is firm but not harsh. "You don't apologize for having a panic attack. You don't apologize for being human."

He helps her shift position slightly, and she winces as the movement pulls at her injured ribs. His jaw tightens when he sees the blood on her shirt.

"How bad?" she asks, looking down at the damage.

"Probably need a few stitches," Dean says, gently lifting the torn fabric to examine the wounds. "But nothing life-threatening. What else hurts?"

"My back," she admits. "Hit the wall pretty hard."

Dean's expression darkens. "That bitch threw you around like a rag doll. Should've gotten down here sooner."

"You couldn't have known," she says, but he shakes his head.

"Should've known something was wrong when your radio went dead. Should've come looking immediately."

She can see the guilt settling over his features, the self-recrimination that's as much a part of Dean Winchester as his green eyes and his leather jacket. He'll carry this, blame himself for not being there, just like he always does.

"Hey," she says softly, borrowing his own technique. "Look at me."

His eyes snap to hers, and she sees her own fear reflected back at her, along with something fiercer—love, protectiveness, the bone-deep need to keep her safe that's driven him since the day she was born.

"This isn't your fault," she tells him. "I'm okay. We're okay."

Dean's throat works as he swallows hard. "When I heard that scream and then your radio went dead... Christ, kiddo. I thought I'd lost you."

"But you didn't," she reminds him. "You found me. You saved me."

"You saved yourself," Dean says. "You survived. That's all you, sweetheart."

Her breathing is almost normal now, though her heart is still beating faster than it should. The panic has receded to a manageable level, leaving her exhausted but clear-headed.

"Think you can stand?" Dean asks. "Want to get you out of this basement and somewhere with better light so I can patch you up properly."

With his help, she manages to get to her feet. Her legs are shaky, and the movement sends a sharp pain through her ribs, but she's upright. Dean keeps one arm around her waist, supporting most of her weight.

"Take your time," he says when she sways slightly. "No rush."

As they make their way slowly toward the stairs, Dean scoops up her dropped weapon and tucks it into his jacket. His radio crackles, and Sam's voice comes through clearly.

"Dean? Everything okay down there?"

"We're good," Dean responds. "Found her. She's hurt but mobile. We're coming up."

"Copy that. I'll get the first aid kit ready."

The stairs seem impossibly steep, but Dean takes them one at a time, never rushing her, his arm steady around her waist. By the time they reach the main floor, some of her strength has returned, though she's still grateful for his support.

Sam is waiting near the entrance, first aid kit in hand, his face creased with worry. His relief when he sees her is palpable.

"What happened down there?" he asks, falling into step beside them as Dean guides her toward the exit.

"Pissed off spirit with anger management issues," Dean says tersely. "She took a beating, but she'll be fine."

She knows there's more to it than that—the panic attack, the way she completely fell apart—but Dean doesn't mention it, and she's grateful. Sam doesn't need to know about every moment of weakness, every time she proves she's not as strong as her brothers.

Outside, the fresh air hits her lungs like a blessing. The warehouse had felt like a tomb, but out here under the open sky, she can breathe again. Dean helps her sit on the Impala's bumper while Sam sets up the first aid supplies on the trunk.

"This is gonna sting," Dean warns as he cleans the cuts on her ribs. She hisses at the bite of antiseptic, but it's nothing compared to the ghost's claws.

"Could've been worse," Sam observes, examining her back. "Bruising's already starting, but I don't think anything's broken."

Dean works with practiced efficiency, stitching up the deeper cuts and bandaging the rest. His hands are gentle but sure, and she finds herself relaxing under his care. This is familiar territory—patching each other up after hunts, taking inventory of injuries, grateful to be alive for another day.

"There," Dean says finally, taping down the last bandage. "Good as new. Well, mostly."

"Thanks," she says, meaning it for more than just the medical attention. For finding her. For talking her through the panic attack. For not making her feel weak or broken.

"Always," Dean replies simply, and she knows he understands.

As Sam packs up the first aid kit and Dean helps her into the passenger seat, she catches his arm.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, I get the offices upstairs."

Dean's mouth quirks in the first real smile she's seen from him all day. "Deal. But only if you promise to keep your radio on."

"Promise," she says, settling back against the seat as he closes her door.

Through the windshield, she watches her brothers move around the car, discussing the hunt in low voices. Sam glances toward her occasionally, still worried, while Dean's posture remains tense, protective. They'll hover for the next few days, she knows, finding excuses to check on her, making sure she's really okay.

And for once, she doesn't mind. The panic attack showed her something she'd been trying to ignore—that she's not invincible, that sometimes the monsters get the better of her, that sometimes her own mind is the biggest threat of all.

But it also showed her something else: that she's not alone. That when the walls close in and the darkness becomes too much, there will always be someone coming to find her. Someone who won't let her fall apart completely, who'll sit with her in the wreckage and help her put the pieces back together.

As the Impala rumbles to life and Dean pulls away from the warehouse, she closes her eyes and focuses on breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Simple. Steady. Safe.

The panic attack is over, but the memory of it lingers—not the terror, but the aftermath. Dean's hand on her chest, his voice in the darkness, the absolute certainty that he would never let anything happen to her.

Sometimes that has to be enough. Sometimes it's everything.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ We'll Never Leave

Sam Winchester x half sister!reader

Dean Winchester x half sister!reader

Summary: After losing the final family members you've known at 17, you found out that you had two half brothers. Everything was going smoothly - or at least that's what Sam and Dean thought before they found out you're not sleeping.

Notes/warnings: this was a request from @apalanchen/abandonment anxiety, grief, brief mentions of last trauma, sleep deprivation

The lights of the gas station convenience store buzzed overhead as Dean grabbed another energy drink from the cooler, his green eyes scanning the label with practiced efficiency. Three weeks. Three weeks since he and Sam had gotten that call from Child Protective Services, three weeks since they'd learned about the existence of their seventeen-year-old half-sister, and three weeks since their world had been turned completely upside down.

"Dean, you're gonna give yourself a heart attack with all that caffeine," Sam's voice carried from the next aisle over, accompanied by the rustle of snack packages.

"Says the guy who drinks enough coffee to fuel a small aircraft," Dean shot back, but there was no real bite to his words. His mind was elsewhere, focused on you currently sitting in the Impala's backseat, staring out the window with those hauntingly familiar eyes—their father's eyes.

The memory of that first meeting still felt surreal. A sterile office, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across the social worker's tired face as she explained the situation. Their father had apparently had a brief relationship seventeen years ago, and when both of your guardians—your mother and grandmother—had died in a car accident, a DNA test had revealed John Winchester as your biological father. With John dead and no other family to speak of, Sam and Dean were your closest living relatives.

Dean's jaw had clenched at the news, not out of anger toward you, but at their father. Another secret, another life John had touched and abandoned. But when they'd first seen you—small, guarded, clutching a worn duffel bag that contained everything you owned—Dean's protective instincts had kicked in immediately. You were family. That was all that mattered.

"You getting anything else?" Sam appeared at his elbow, arms full of granola bars and trail mix, his long hair falling into his eyes as he studied Dean's face with that analytical expression he'd perfected over the years.

"Just thinking," Dean muttered, grabbing a bag of your favorite chips—something he'd noticed during their first grocery run together when you'd lingered in front of them but hadn't asked for anything.

“About Y/n?"

Dean nodded, his throat tightening slightly. "She's been… different lately. Quieter. More tired."

Sam's expression grew concerned, his eyebrows drawing together in that way that made him look older than his years. “I've noticed it too. She barely touched dinner last night, and this morning she looked like she hadn't slept at all.”

They'd both noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the way you'd started jumping at sudden noises, how you'd begun hovering near them constantly as if afraid they might disappear. At first, they'd thought it was the adjustment period nerves—after all, your entire life had been uprooted. But it was getting worse, not better.

Dean paid for their items, his mind racing as they walked back to the Impala. You were exactly where they'd left you, curled up in the backseat with your earbuds in, but Dean could see you watching them in the reflection of the window. Always watching, always alert.

"Hey, kiddo," Dean said softly as he slid into the driver's seat, catching your eyes in the rearview mirror. "We got your chips."

A small smile flickered across your face, but it didnt reach your eyes. "Thanks."

The word was barely above a whisper, and Deans chest tightened. When they'd first brought you home to the bunker, you'd been shy but curious, asking careful questions about their lives, their work, the strange underground fortress they called home. Now you seemed to be withdrawing into yourself more each day.

Sam twisted in the passenger seat to face you, his expression gentle. "How are you feeling? You seemed pretty tired this morning."

You straightened slightly, and Dean caught the way your hands fidgeted with the sleeves of your oversized flannel—one of Sam's old shirts that had somehow migrated to your wardrobe. "I'm fine. Just… adjusting."

The lie was obvious, but neither brother pushed. They'd learned quickly that direct confrontation made you shut down completely. Instead, Dean started the engine, the familiar rumble of the Impala filling the silence.

"We're about an hour out from the bunker," he announced, pulling out of the parking lot. "You hungry? There's that diner you liked about twenty minutes down the road."

In the mirror, he saw you shake your head. "I'm not really hungry."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. You'd been eating less and less lately, picking at your food and claiming you weren't hungry. It was starting to become a real concern.

The drive passed in relative silence, broken only by the low hum of classic rock from the radio and the occasional comment about the passing scenery. Dean found himself checking the mirror more frequently than necessary, noting the way your eyelids kept drooping only to snap open again whenever you started to doze off.

When they finally pulled into the bunker's garage, you were fully awake again, that hypervigilant expression back on your face. Dean killed the engine and turned to face you properly.

"Y/n, you sure you're okay? You've seemed pretty wiped out lately."

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered across your features—fear, maybe, or longing—but it was gone so quickly Dean almost thought he’d imagined it.

"I'm fine," you repeated, already unbuckling your seatbelt. "Just tired."

You were out of the car before either brother could respond, grabbing your small backpack and heading for the entrance to the bunker. Dean watched you go, noting the slight tremble in your hands as you punched in the door code they’d taught you.

Yes. After you moved in they put a code on the door in addition of the old key.

"She's not fine," Sam said quietly once you were out of earshot.

"No kidding." Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "But every time we try to talk to her about it, she clams up."

"Maybe we're coming on too strong. She's been through a lot of trauma—losing her mom and grandmother, finding out about us, moving in with two strangers who happen to be her half-brothers. It's a lot to process."

Dean knew Sam was right, but the knowledge didn't make watching you struggle any easier. They made their way inside, finding you already in the kitchen attempting to make a sandwich with shaking hands.

"Here, let me help," Sam offered gently, moving to stand beside you.

You jerked away from him slightly, then seemed to catch yourself. "Sorry, I've got it."

But Dean could see the way you were swaying on your feet, exhaustion evident in every line of your body. Without thinking, he moved to your other side, steadying you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"When's the last time you got a full night’s sleep?" he asked directly.

Your whole body went rigid under his touch. "I sleep fine."

"Y/n." Sam's voice was patient but firm. "You look like you haven't slept in days. And don't say you're fine—we can see that you're not."

For a long moment, you stared down at the half-assembled sandwich in your hands, your breathing shallow and quick. Dean could practically see your internal struggle, the war between wanting to trust them and whatever fear was holding you back.

"I just…" you started, then stopped, biting your lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "It's stupid."

"Nothing you're feeling is stupid," Dean said firmly, his hand still resting on your shoulder. "Talk to us."

You were quiet for so long that Dean began to think you wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice so small he had to strain to hear it, you whispered, "What if you change your minds?"

"About what?" Sam asked gently.

"About me. About wanting me here." The words came out in a rush, like you needed to get them out before you lost your nerve. "What if you wake up one day and decide this was a mistake? What if you realize you don't want a kid sister messing up your lives? What if you just… leave?"

Dean felt his heart crack clean in half. The hand on your shoulder tightened protectively as he processed your words, understanding flooding through him like ice water.

"Is that why you haven't been sleeping?" Sam’s voice was thick with emotion. "Because you're afraid we'll leave while you're asleep?"

Your silence was answer enough. Dean could see the tears you were fighting to hold back, the way your whole body was trembling with exhaustion and fear.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. "Y/n, look at me."

Slowly, reluctantly, you raised your eyes to meet his in the reflection of the kitchen window. What he saw there nearly broke him—raw vulnerability, bone-deep fear, and underneath it all, a desperate hope that you were trying so hard to protect.

"We're not going anywhere," he said firmly, turning you gently so you were facing him properly. "Do you hear me? We're not leaving you. Not now, not ever."

"But what if—"

"No what-ifs," Sam interrupted, moving to your other side so you were bracketed between them. "Y/n, you're our family. You're our sister. That's not something that changes based on convenience or circumstances."

"But you didn't even know I existed a month ago," you whispered, fresh tears spilling over despite your efforts to contain them. "And your lives were fine without me. You had your routine, your work, each other. You don't need some random kid complicating everything."

Dean felt anger flash through him—not at you, but at every adult who had ever failed you, every situation that had taught you that love was conditional and family was temporary.

"Hey," he said firmly, waiting until you met his eyes again. "First of all, you're not some random kid. You're John Winchester's daughter, which makes you a Winchester. And Winchesters? We stick together. We take care of each other. That's what we do."

"Second," Sam added, his voice gentle but unwavering, "our lives weren't fine without you. They were just… incomplete. We didn't know what we were missing until we found you."

You stared at them both, disbelief and hope warring in your expression. "Really?"

"Really," Dean confirmed. "Y/n I know this is scary. I know you've lost people before, and I know trusting us feels like a huge risk. But I need you to understand something—Sam and I, we've been through hell and back together. Literally. And the one thing that's kept us going through all of it is family. And now you're part of that family."

"The most important part," Sam added softly. "Because you chose to trust us, to give us a chance to be your brothers. And that means everything to us."

The tears were flowing freely now, and Dean could see the exact moment your carefully constructed walls began to crumble. You swayed on your feet, the exhaustion finally overwhelming your adrenaline.

"I'm so tired," you whispered, the confession seeming to cost you everything.

"I know, sweetheart," Dean murmured, pulling you into a careful hug. You stiffened for just a moment before melting against him, your small frame shaking with exhaustion and relief. "When's the last time you actually slept? And I mean really slept, not just dozed off for an hour here and there."

"I don't remember," you admitted against his chest. "Maybe… maybe four days ago? For a couple hours?"

Sam made a pained sound behind you. "Y/n, that's not sustainable. You're going to make yourself sick."

"I tried," you said desperately, pulling back to look between them both. "I wanted to sleep, but every time I started to drift off, I'd panic. What if I woke up and you were gone? What if you left a note saying you’d changed your minds? What if I was alone again?"

Dean's throat felt tight with emotion. He'd been on his own plenty of times, knew the terror of abandonment intimately, but he'd never been seventeen and completely alone in the world. The idea of you lying awake night after night, paralyzed by fear, made him want to punch something.

"Okay," he said decisively. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to get some sleep—real sleep—and Sam and I are going to stay right here with you until you wake up."

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, we do," Sam interrupted gently. "Y/n, you're exhausted. You can barely stand up. Your body needs rest, and your mind needs to know that we're not going anywhere."

You looked between them uncertainly. "But what about your work? Don't you have a case or something?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing that can't wait. You're the priority right now."

"But—"

"No buts," Dean said firmly. "Come on, kiddo. Let's get you to bed."

He kept one arm around your shoulders as they made their way through the bunker to your room—a space they'd tried to make as comfortable and welcoming as possible with soft lighting, warm blankets, and a few personal items they'd helped you pick out during a shopping trip. You moved like you were walking through water, exhaustion weighing down every step.

Sam was already pulling back the covers when they reached your bed, his movements gentle and careful. "Do you need anything? Water? Something more to eat?"

You shook your head, settling on the edge of your bed with a shaky sigh. "Just… you're really going to stay?"

"We're really going to stay," Dean confirmed, pulling the chair from your desk over to sit beside the bed. "I'll be right here. Sam will be here too."

Sam nodded, settling into the small armchair in the corner of your room. "We're not going anywhere, Y/n. I promise."

You crawled under the covers slowly, like you were afraid the movement might break the spell. Once you were settled, you looked up at them both with those familiar green eyes, so much like Dean’s own.

"What if I have nightmares?" you asked quietly.

"Then we'll be here when you wake up," Dean said simply. "We'll remind you that you're safe, that you're not alone, and we'll stay until you can fall back asleep."

For the first time in weeks, you looked like you might actually believe them. Your eyelids were already growing heavy, the simple act of lying down enough to start pulling you under after days of fighting sleep.

"Dean?" you whispered just as he thought you'd drifted off.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Thank you. For… for staying. For not thinking I'm crazy or needy or—"

"Hey," he interrupted gently. "You're not crazy. You're not needy. You're seventeen years old and you've been through more trauma than most adults could handle. Wanting reassurance that the people who are supposed to take care of you aren't going to abandon you? That’s not crazy. That's human."

You were quiet for a moment, processing his words. "I love you guys," you whispered finally, the admission barely audible. "I know it's probably too soon to say that, and I know we barely know each other, but—"

"We love you too," Sam said softly from his corner. "More than you know."

Dean felt his chest tighten with emotion. "Sam's right. You're stuck with us now, kiddo. Whether you like it or not."

A small smile flickered across your face, the first genuine one he’d seen from you in days. "I like it," you murmured, your eyes finally sliding closed. "I really like it."

Within minutes, your breathing had evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of actual sleep. Dean leaned back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he watched you finally get the rest you so desperately needed.

"She really thought we were going to leave her," Sam said quietly, his voice heavy with disbelief and sadness.

Dean nodded, his eyes never leaving your sleeping form. "Can you blame her? Think about her life—everyone she's ever loved has either died or left. In her mind, we're just the next in line."

"We need to do better," Sam said firmly. "We need to find ways to show her that this is permanent. That she belongs here."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "We do."

They sat in comfortable silence as the hours passed, taking turns keeping watch over their sleeping sister. Every time you stirred or made a sound, one of them was there instantly, ready to offer comfort if needed. But you slept deeply, your body finally able to rest knowing you weren't alone.

It was nearly dawn when you finally began to stir, your eyes blinking open slowly as you oriented yourself. For just a moment, Dean saw panic flash across your features—the instinctive fear that you'd wake up alone—but then your gaze landed on him, and relief flooded your expression.

"You stayed," you whispered, voice thick with sleep and emotion.

"We stayed," Dean confirmed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "And we'll stay as long as you need us to."

Sam was awake instantly, moving from his chair to sit on the edge of your bed. "How do you feel?"

You considered the question seriously, taking inventory of your body and mind. "Better," you said finally. "Rested. Still scared, but… better."

"The scared part will get easier," Dean promised. "The more time that passes with us staying exactly where we are, the easier it'll get to believe that we're not going anywhere."

You nodded, sitting up slowly and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "I'm sorry. For keeping you up all night, for being such a mess, for—"

"Stop," Sam interrupted gently. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing."

"We're your big brothers," Dean added. "Taking care of you, staying up all night when you need us to, dealing with whatever mess you think you are—that’s literally our job now. And it’s not a burden or an inconvenience. It’s a privilege."

Fresh tears sprang to your eyes, but these were different—tears of relief rather than fear. "I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to be part of a family."

"None of us do," Sam said with a rueful smile. "We're all kind of making it up as we go along. But we'll figure it out together."

Dean stood up, stretching muscles that were stiff from a night in the chair. "How about we start with breakfast? I make a mean pancake, and I think we could all use some comfort food."

Your stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, reminding them all that you'd barely eaten in the past few days. You blushed, but there was a hint of your earlier humor in your expression.

"Pancakes sound amazing," you admitted.

"Good," Dean said, offering you his hand to help you out of bed. "And while I'm cooking, you and Sam can figure out what movie we're watching today. Because we're having a lazy day. No hunting, no research, no leaving the bunker. Just family time."

You took his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet, and Dean was relieved to see that you seemed steadier than you had in days. The sleep had helped, but more than that, he could see that something fundamental had shifted in your understanding of their relationship.

"Are you sure?" you asked as they made their way to the kitchen. "You don't have people depending on you?"

"Right now, the only person depending on us is you," Sam said firmly. "And you're more important than any case."

You were quiet as Dean started pulling ingredients from the refrigerator, but he could see you processing Sam's words, trying to believe them. It would take time—he knew that. Years of abandonment and loss wouldn't be healed by one conversation and one good night’s sleep. But it was a start.

"Dean?" you said suddenly as he began mixing batter.

"Yeah?"

"Can I help? With the pancakes?"

The request was simple, but Dean heard the real question underneath it: Can I be part of this? Can I contribute? Do I belong here?

"Of course," he said, making room for you at the counter. "You can be my sous chef."

As you moved to stand beside him, carefully measuring ingredients under his guidance, Dean caught Sam's eye over your head. His younger brother was smiling, the kind of soft, genuine smile that Dean rarely saw anymore. They were all healing, he realized. Your presence wasn't just changing your life—it was changing theirs too.

"You know," Sam said conversationally as they worked, "I was thinking we could redecorate your room if you want. Make it more… permanent."

You looked up from the bowl you were stirring, hope and uncertainty warring in your expression. "Permanent?"

"Well, yeah,"!Dean said casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "This is your home now. Your room should reflect that."

"We could paint the walls," Sam added. "Get some new furniture, maybe some bookshelves. Make it really yours."

The smile that spread across your face was radiant, transforming your entire appearance. For the first time since they'd met you, you looked like the teenager you were supposed to be—hopeful and excited about the future instead of constantly braced for the next loss.

"I'd like that," you said softly. "I'd really like that."

Dean flipped the first pancake with a flourish, grinning at your delighted laugh. "Then it's settled. Today we eat pancakes and plan your room makeover. Tomorrow we go shopping."

"And tonight?" you asked, a hint of anxiety creeping back into your voice.

"Tonight we prove to you again that we're not going anywhere," Sam said simply. "And tomorrow night, and the night after that, and every night until you don't need the proof anymore."

"And even then," Dean added, "we'll still be here."

You nodded, tears threatening again but held back by sheer determination. "Thank you," you whispered. "For everything. For staying, for caring, for giving me a chance to be part of your family."

"Our family," Dean corrected gently. "You're not joining something we already had—you're helping us create something new. Something better."

As they finished making breakfast together, the kitchen filled with the warm smell of pancakes and the sound of your laughter as Sam told increasingly ridiculous stories about Dean's cooking mishaps over the years, Dean felt something settle in his chest that he hadn't even realized was unsettled.

They were a family now. Not just him and Sam anymore, but the three of them together. It would take time for you to fully believe in the permanence of it, and there would probably be more sleepless nights and difficult conversations ahead. But they had time. They had each other. And for the first time in his life, Dean Winchester felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

His family was complete.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Breathe With Me

Sam Winchester x sister!reader Summary: Sam has a PTSD/panic attack episode triggered by memories of his time in Lucifer's cage. You were the one to find him and help him through it. Warnings: Panic attacks and PTSD episode.

The motel room was too quiet.

You looked up from your laptop where you'd been researching sigils for your next hunt, glancing around the cramped space. Dean had gone out for food twenty minutes ago, and Sam had been in the shower for... you checked your phone... almost thirty minutes now.

The water was still running.

A frown creased your brow as you saved your research and closed the laptop. Thirty minutes was a long shower even for Sam, who admittedly took longer than both you and Dean combined. But something felt off – a heaviness in the air that made your chest tight with unease.

You padded across the worn carpet to the bathroom door, your bare feet silent on the threadbare fibers. Pressing your ear against the thin wood, you could hear the steady spray of water, but underneath it... was that breathing? Fast, shallow breathing that made your stomach clench with worry.

"Sam?" you called softly, knocking gently on the door. "You okay in there?"

No response. Just the continued sound of running water and that rapid, uneven breathing that was definitely not normal.

"Sammy?" You tried again, your voice a little louder, more insistent. Your hand found the door handle and you were relieved to find it unlocked. "I'm coming in, okay?"

You pushed the door open slowly, steam billowing out to fog your vision. Through the thick, humid air, you could make out Sam's tall figure sitting on the floor of the shower, fully clothed in his jeans and t-shirt, his back pressed against the tiled wall. The water cascaded down over him, plastering his long hair to his face and shoulders.

His knees were drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and he was rocking slightly back and forth. His breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps that echoed off the bathroom walls, and even through the steam, you could see his hands shaking where they gripped his forearms.

"Oh, Sam," you breathed, your heart breaking at the sight.

You'd seen this before – not often, but enough to recognize the signs. The hyperventilating, the trembling, the way he'd curled in on himself like he was trying to disappear. Panic attack, probably triggered by some memory or flashback that had hit him while he was alone with his thoughts.

Moving carefully, you reached into the shower and turned off the water, the sudden silence somehow more deafening than the spray had been. Sam didn't seem to notice, his glazed eyes staring at nothing, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe.

"Hey, hey, Sammy, look at me," you said softly, crouching down beside the shower. The wet tiles soaked through your pajama pants immediately, but you didn't care. "Sam, you're safe. You're in the motel bathroom. It's just me."

His eyes flickered toward you, but they were unfocused, wide with terror. His lips were moving, forming words you couldn't quite make out over his ragged breathing.

"Can't... can't breathe," he managed to gasp out, one hand moving to clutch at his chest. "Something's... something's wrong..."

"Nothing's wrong," you said, your voice steady and calm even though your heart was racing. You'd learned long ago that staying calm was the most important thing when Sam got like this. "You're having a panic attack. That's all. It feels scary, but you're safe."

You reached for him slowly, telegraphing your movements so you wouldn't startle him. Your hand found his shoulder, the wet fabric of his t-shirt clinging to his skin. He was trembling so hard you could feel it through your palm.

"I need you to breathe with me, okay?" you continued, settling more comfortably on the bathroom floor. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this."

You demonstrated, taking a slow, deliberate breath in through your nose, holding it for a moment, then releasing it through your mouth. Sam's eyes locked onto yours, desperate and seeking anchor.

"That's it, just focus on me," you encouraged as he tried to match your breathing, though his attempts were still shaky and too fast. "In... and out. In... and out. You're doing great."

It took several minutes, but gradually, Sam's breathing began to slow. The wild look in his eyes was fading, replaced by exhaustion and embarrassment. He let his head fall back against the shower wall, his chest still rising and falling rapidly but not with the same desperate panic.

"Better?" you asked softly, your hand still resting on his shoulder.

Sam nodded weakly, then seemed to notice for the first time that he was soaking wet, sitting in the shower fully clothed. A flush of embarrassment colored his cheeks.

"I... God, I'm sorry," he mumbled, starting to push himself up from the floor. "I don't know what..."

"Hey, no," you said firmly, your other hand coming up to gently press against his chest, keeping him seated. "Don't apologize. And don't get up yet. Just sit for a minute."

Sam's hazel eyes met yours, and you could see the shame and confusion swirling in them. "I was just... I was about to take a shower, and suddenly I couldn't... I felt like I was back..."

He trailed off, his jaw clenching as he fought against whatever memory had triggered this episode. You squeezed his shoulder gently.

"You don't have to tell me," you said. "But I'm here if you want to."

Sam was quiet for a long moment, his breathing finally evening out to something closer to normal. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Lucifer," he said simply, and your heart clenched. "I was thinking about... about being in the cage. The water hitting my face, it felt like... like the fire. And suddenly I was back there, and I couldn't get out, and I couldn't breathe..."

His voice broke on the last word, and you felt tears prick at your own eyes. You'd known that Sam's time in hell had left scars – physical and mental – but he rarely talked about it. He kept it locked away, trying to protect you and Dean from the worst of it.

"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it. Sorry that he'd suffered, sorry that the memories still haunted him, sorry that there was nothing you could do to take that pain away.

"It's not your fault," Sam said automatically, the response so practiced it made your chest ache.

"I know. But I'm still sorry it happened to you." You shifted, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor so you could face him properly. "And I'm sorry you're dealing with it alone."

"I'm not alone," Sam protested weakly. "I have you and Dean..."

"But you don't talk to us about it. Not really." You kept your voice gentle, non-accusatory. "You try to protect us from it, and I get that. But Sam, you don't have to carry this by yourself."

Sam's laugh was bitter. "Right. Like Dean needs to hear about my nightmares on top of everything else he's dealing with."

"Dean loves you," you said firmly. "And so do I. Your pain doesn't burden us, Sam. It's part of you, and we love all of you."

Fresh tears gathered in Sam's eyes, and he looked away, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "I just... I hate feeling weak."

"Having panic attacks doesn't make you weak," you said, and there was steel in your voice now. "Surviving what you survived makes you strong. Stronger than anyone should have to be."

You reached for his hands, pulling them away from where they were still gripping his arms. His fingers were pruned from the water and still trembling slightly, but they curled around yours automatically.

"You know what I think?" you continued. "I think you're the strongest person I know. Not because you don't break down – but because you keep going even when you do."

Sam's shoulders shook, and for a moment you thought he might start crying. Instead, he squeezed your hands tighter and took another deep, shuddering breath.

"How do you always know what to say?" he asked, a watery smile finally crossing his face.

"Years of practice dealing with Winchester men and their emotional constipation," you said lightly, earning a genuine laugh from him.

"Hey," he protested, but he was smiling now, some of the tension finally leaving his posture.

"It's true and you know it." You grinned at him, then grew more serious. "But really, Sam. I've been watching you and Dean my whole life. I know when you're hurting, even when you try to hide it."

Sam nodded slowly, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For... for this. For not freaking out, for knowing what to do..."

"Always," you said simply. "That's what family is for."

You sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, letting Sam gather himself. When his breathing had completely returned to normal and some color had returned to his cheeks, you stood up and grabbed a towel from the rack.

"Come on," you said, offering him your hand. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia."

Sam accepted your help standing, though he was steady on his feet now. He took the towel gratefully, running it through his dripping hair.

"Dean's going to wonder what happened when he gets back and finds the bathroom flooded," he said, glancing around at the puddles of water on the floor.

"Let me worry about Dean," you said, grabbing another towel to mop up the worst of the water. "You just focus on taking care of yourself."

Sam pulled his wet t-shirt over his head, and you tried not to wince at the scars you could see scattered across his back and torso – souvenirs from a lifetime of hunting and a stint in hell. He caught you looking and his expression grew guarded again.

"They're just scars," he said quietly.

"I know," you replied, meeting his eyes steadily. "And they're part of your story. Part of what makes you who you are."

Something in your tone made Sam relax again, and he nodded. "I'm going to go change into dry clothes."

"Good idea. I'll finish cleaning up in here."

As Sam headed for the door, he paused and turned back to you. "Hey, Y/n?"

"Yeah?"

"If I... if this happens again, and Dean's not around... will you...?"

"Always," you said before he could finish the question. "Day or night, Sam. I'm always here."

The relief on his face was palpable. "Thank you."

After he left, you finished mopping up the bathroom, your mind churning. You'd suspected that Sam was struggling more than he let on, but seeing him like that – so vulnerable and scared – had shaken you more than you wanted to admit.

When you emerged from the bathroom, Sam was sitting on his bed in dry clothes, his laptop open but clearly not paying attention to whatever was on the screen. He looked up when you appeared, offering you a small smile.

"Feeling better?" you asked, settling on your own bed facing him.

"Yeah, actually. A lot better." He closed the laptop and set it aside. "I should probably... I should probably talk to someone. About the panic attacks. They've been happening more often lately."

"Really?" you asked, proud of him but surprised at him for even considering it.

Sam nodded, though you could see the reluctance in his expression. Winchesters didn't do therapy – it was practically written in the family code. Plus no one would believe if we told therapists the truth. But maybe it was time to break some old patterns.

"In the meantime," you said, "promise me you won't try to handle this alone anymore. If you feel one coming on, or if you're having a bad day, just... talk to me. Or Dean. We're not going anywhere."

"I promise," Sam said, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice.

The sound of Dean's key in the lock made you both look toward the door. Sam tensed slightly, and you could see him preparing to put on his usual mask – the one that said everything was fine.

"Hey," you said softly, catching his attention. "You don't have to pretend with him either. Dean's stronger than you think."

Sam considered this as Dean pushed through the door, laden with bags of takeout food.

"Hope you guys are hungry," Dean announced, then stopped short as he took in the scene – Sam in different clothes than when he'd left, your pajamas damp from sitting on the bathroom floor, the general atmosphere of something having just happened.

His green eyes sharpened, moving between you and Sam with the practiced assessment of someone who'd spent a lifetime looking out for his family.

"Everything okay?" he asked, setting the food down on the small table.

You looked at Sam, letting him decide how much to share. After a moment, Sam took a deep breath.

"I had a panic attack," he said simply. "Y/n helped me through it."

Dean's expression immediately shifted to concern, and he moved toward Sam without hesitation. "You okay now? What triggered it?"

"I'm okay," Sam said, and for the first time in a while, it sounded like he actually meant it. "And I think... I think I'm ready to talk about it. If you guys want to listen."

Dean's face softened, and he sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. "Always, Sammy. We've got all night."

As Sam began to share – hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence – you felt a warmth spread through your chest. This was what family was supposed to be: a safe place to fall apart and be put back together again.

And watching your brothers support each other, you knew that no matter what demons from the past came calling, you'd face them together.

Just like always.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Masterlist

Started: 3/15/25

Last updated: 7/16/25

Total works: 27

Hey guys! Here's the list of stories I wrote. Hopefully it looks somewhat neat and easy to read!

Supernatural Masterlist

Marvel Masterlist

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Background Check

Dean Winchester x little sister!reader Sam Winchester x little sister!reader Summary: You get your first serious boyfriend and both Sam and Dean go into overprotective mode, secretly running background checks and intimidating the poor guy

You turned in a slow circle in front of the motel bathroom mirror, the fabric of your sundress swishing around your legs as you smoothed your hands down the sides. Your reflection showed flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Tonight was the night – your third date with Marcus, and you were pretty sure he was going to ask you to be his girlfriend. The thought made butterflies dance in your stomach, and you pressed a hand to your abdomen as if you could calm them.

"You look nice, kiddo," Sam's voice came from behind you, deep and warm but carrying an undertone that made you pause in your primping.

You jumped slightly, spinning around to find him leaning against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed against the wood. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, and while his mouth curved in a soft smile, his hazel eyes held something you couldn't quite place – something that made your stomach flutter for entirely different reasons.

"Thanks, Sammy." You reached for your lip gloss on the counter, fingers fumbling slightly with the tube. "Marcus should be here any minute."

From the main room, Dean's voice carried with a distinct note of disdain that you could practically see accompanying his signature eye-roll. "Marcus. What kind of name is Marcus anyway?"

"A normal one!" you called back, uncapping the gloss with more force than necessary. "You know, the kind normal people have?"

Sam's chuckle was low and rumbling, but it sounded forced, like he was trying too hard to seem casual. His fingers drummed against his bicep where his arms remained crossed. "So, uh, tell me about this Marcus again? What's his last name?"

You paused, the gloss wand halfway to your lips, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Your brow furrowed as you studied his reflection. "Why?"

"Just curious." Sam's shoulders lifted in what was meant to be a casual shrug, but you caught the way his jaw tightened almost subtly. "Making conversation."

"Mitchell. Marcus Mitchell." You turned to face him fully, applying the gloss with deliberate strokes. "He's pre-med at the community college, works part-time at his uncle's garage, has a golden retriever named Buddy, and he's never even gotten a speeding ticket." You capped the gloss with a sharp click and gave Sam a pointed look, one eyebrow arched. "Satisfied?"

Before Sam could answer, Dean appeared in the doorway behind him, his broader frame filling the remaining space. His arms were crossed too, mimicking Sam's posture, but where Sam's stance was merely tense, Dean's was aggressive – shoulders squared, weight shifted forward slightly like he was ready for a fight.

"Pre-med, huh?" Dean's green eyes narrowed as he studied you. "That's a lot of school. Expensive. How's he paying for it?"

You spun around to face both your brothers, your hands finding your hips as your weight shifted to one foot. The movement made your dress flare slightly, and you saw both their eyes track the motion with the stare they usually reserved for potential threats.

"Scholarships and working, Dean. You know, like a normal person building a normal life."

"Right. Normal." Dean's jaw muscle jumped as he ground his teeth, and you watched his fingers flex against his arms. "And his family? They all... normal too?"

Your eyes moved between them, taking in Sam's fidgeting fingers and Dean's rigid posture. Sam's usually confident demeanor was replaced by something almost nervous, while Dean looked like he was restraining himself from pacing.

"Okay, what's going on?" You planted your feet more firmly, crossing your own arms in a mirror of their stances. "You two are being weird. Well, weirder than usual."

Sam and Dean exchanged one of their looks – the kind where Sam's eyes widened slightly and Dean's narrowed, an entire conversation passing between them in the space of a heartbeat. Sam's head tilted slightly to the left, and Dean's chin lifted a fraction of an inch in response.

"Nothing's going on," Sam said quickly, his voice climbing half an octave higher than usual. His weight shifted from foot to foot, and you could see him fighting the urge to run a hand through his hair.

"We just want to make sure-" Dean started, his voice gruff.

"That he's good enough for our little sister," Sam finished, and the protective warmth in his tone made your chest tighten.

Your stern expression softened despite yourself, and you felt your shoulders relax slightly. "I'm not little anymore. I'm twenty-two, I can handle my own relationships."

"We know that," Sam said gently, taking a half-step forward. His hand lifted slightly, like he wanted to reach for you, then dropped back to his side. "We just/"

A sharp noise on the door cut him off, three firm knocks that made all three of you freeze. Your face immediately transformed, a bright smile spreading across your features as your eyes lit up.

"That's him!" You started toward the door, but Dean moved with the fluid grace of a predator, stepping sideways to block your path. His hand came up, not quite touching you but creating a barrier nonetheless.

"Let me get it."

"Dean-" you started, but he was already moving, his long strides carrying him to the door.

Dean's hand paused on the handle for just a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. Then he pulled the door open with maybe more force than necessary, revealing Marcus standing on the other side.

Marcus looked exactly as you'd described him to your brothers – average height with sandy brown hair that caught the light from the motel's exterior fixtures, kind brown eyes that crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled, wearing a crisp button-down shirt in light blue and well-fitted khakis. In his hands, he held a small bouquet of white daisies, their petals bright against the green tissue paper.

"Hi, you must be Dean," Marcus said, his voice warm and genuine. He extended his right hand while balancing the flowers in his left, his smile reaching his eyes. "I'm Marcus Mitchell. Nice to meet you."

Dean stared at the offered hand for a long moment, his green eyes moving from Marcus's face to his hand and back again. You could see the calculation in his expression, the way he was sizing Marcus up like a hunter evaluating prey. Finally, he reached out and took Marcus's hand, his grip firm enough that you saw Marcus's smile falter slightly, his eyes widening just a fraction.

"Mitchell," Dean said slowly, as if he were tasting the name. His head tilted slightly, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his mind. "You know, I think I knew a Mitchell once. Real piece of work. Ended up in prison for fraud."

"Dean!" you hissed, embarrassment flooding your cheeks with heat.

Marcus's laugh was nervous but genuine, and you watched him consciously straighten his shoulders. "Well, hopefully that wasn't a relative of mine."

"Hopefully," Dean agreed, his expression remaining completely serious. Not even a hint of a smile touched his lips.

Sam appeared at Dean's shoulder like a shadow, and you watched Marcus's eyes widen as he had to crane his neck to look up at your giant of a brother. Sam's presence seemed to fill the doorway, and Marcus actually took a small step backward.

"Sam Winchester," Sam said, extending his own hand. Where Dean's handshake had been intimidating, Sam's was clinical, like he was conducting some kind of test. "So, Marcus, what's your social security number?"

Marcus blinked, his mouth opening and closing once before he found his voice. "What?"

"Sam!" You pushed between your brothers, your hands finding Dean's arm to move him aside. The muscle under your palm was tense. "Ignore them. They think they're funny." You reached for the flowers, your fingers brushing Marcus's as you took them. "These are beautiful, thank you."

"You're welcome." Marcus's voice was slightly strained, but his smile was still genuine as he watched you bring the flowers to your nose. He was still staring at Sam with barely concealed confusion.

Dean leaned against the doorframe, his posture acting casual. "So, Marcus. Interesting that you work at your uncle's garage. What's your uncle's name?"

"Uh..." Marcus's eyes darted between the three of you, clearly trying to figure out if this was some kind of test. "Tony Mitchell? Why?"

"Just making conversation," Sam said, echoing his earlier words to you. The smile he gave Marcus was all teeth and no warmth.

You narrowed your eyes at both of them, recognizing the tone. "We should go. The movie starts soon."

"What movie?" Dean asked, straightening from his casual lean.

"The new romantic comedy at the drive-in," you said, grabbing your purse from the small table by the door. Your movements were sharp, irritated.

"Drive-in." Dean repeated the words slowly, like they left a bad taste in his mouth. His eyes moved to Marcus, and you could see the protective big brother routine shifting into high gear. "Dark. Secluded. Lots of privacy."

Marcus's face flushed red from his collar to his hairline, and you could see him swallow hard. "Sir, I can assure you I'm a gentleman-"

"I'm sure you are," Dean interrupted, his smile sharp and predatory. "Because if you're not, well... let's just say Sam and I have a very particular set of skills."

You stared at Dean in disbelief, your mouth falling open slightly. "Did you just quote Taken?"

"Did I?" Dean's expression was the picture of innocence, but you could see the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

You grabbed Marcus's arm, your fingers wrapping around the solid muscle of his forearm. "We're leaving. Now." You started to pull him toward the door, then turned back to your brothers, pointing an accusing finger at them. "Don't wait up."

"We'll be right here," Sam said cheerfully, but there was steel underneath the friendly tone. "All night. Wide awake."

"With our phones on," Dean added, his arms crossing over his chest again. "In case you need anything. Anything at all."

You hustled Marcus out the door, your heels clicking against the concrete. "I love you both, but you're insane!" you called over your shoulder.

Once you were outside in the warm evening air, Marcus let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. You could feel the tension in his arm where your hand still rested.

"Are they always like that?"

"Only when they care," you said with a sigh, loosening your grip on his arm but not letting go completely. "I'm sorry about them. They're just... protective."

"It's okay. I have sisters too." Marcus's voice was still slightly strained, but he was trying to be understanding. "Though they're more of the 'embarrass me in front of girlfriends' type than the 'implied murder threat' type."

You winced, your teeth catching your bottom lip. "They didn't actually threaten to murder you."

"The tall one asked for my social security number."

"That's just Sam being thorough."

"And the other one mentioned having 'particular skills' after talking about privacy at the drive-in."

You stopped walking abruptly, turning to face him in the parking lot. The motion made your dress swirl around your legs, and you reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Marcus, my brothers and I... we've had a complicated life. They practically raised me, and they've seen me get hurt before. They're not actually going to hurt you – they're just scared of someone else hurting me."

Marcus studied your face in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the motel parking lot, his brown eyes searching yours. You could see him processing your words, weighing them against what he'd just witnessed.

"What kind of complicated?"

For a moment, you considered telling him everything. About the hunting, the monsters, the way you'd grown up constantly moving and fighting things that went bump in the night. About how Sam and Dean had indeed practically raised you after your father became obsessed with finding the thing that killed your mother. About how every person you'd ever cared about outside of your brothers had either died or left when they learned the truth about your life.

Instead, you looked down at your feet, your voice soft when you spoke. "The kind where having protective brothers is actually a good thing, even when they're embarrassing."

Marcus was quiet for a long moment, and when you looked up, you found him nodding slowly. "Okay. I can handle protective brothers. Even scary ones who quote Liam Neeson movies."

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, and you felt some of the tension leave your shoulders. "Good. Because you haven't met them when they're really trying to be intimidating."

Marcus's eyes widened slightly. "That wasn't them really trying?"

"Oh, honey, no." You grinned, reaching for his hand. "That was them being subtle."

Back in the motel room, Sam was already hunched over his laptop, the blue glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression. His fingers flew over the keyboard with practiced efficiency while Dean paced behind him, his legs eating up the small space in measured strides.

"Okay," Sam said, his eyes scanning the screen. "Marcus David Mitchell, age 23, born in Lawrence – hey, same as us – clean driving record, no criminal history, decent credit score for a college kid." He scrolled down, his brow furrowing slightly. "His uncle Tony owns Mitchell's Auto Repair, been in business for fifteen years, also clean."

Dean stopped pacing, his hand running through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "What about his family?"

"Parents are David and Linda Mitchell, married twenty-five years, both teachers. No siblings. Grandmother lives in a nursing home in Topeka."

Dean's jaw tightened as Sam continued reading. "This is actually annoying. The kid's clean."

"Maybe that's a good thing," Sam said, though his tone suggested he didn't quite believe it himself. He resumed his pacing, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"Or maybe he's just good at hiding things." Dean took the laptop from Sam's reach and started clicking through screens with determined precision. "I'm checking social media."

"Dean." Sam's voice held a warning note.

"What? This is normal older brother stuff."

Sam stopped pacing again, turning to face Dean with raised eyebrows. "Running a background check is not normal older brother stuff."

"It is in our family." Dean didn't look up from the screen, but his mouth curved into a slight smirk. "Look at this – he volunteers at an animal shelter. Who does that?"

"Good people, Dean."

"Or people building a cover identity." Dean paused, his expression softening slightly as he stared at the screen. "Okay, even I don't believe that. Look, he helped an old lady change her tire last month and didn't even post about it for likes. Someone else took the photo."

Sam moved to look over Dean's shoulder, his height allowing him to see the screen easily. A small smile tugged at his lips. "He seems... nice."

"Yeah, he does." Dean leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight. "I hate it."

"Why?"

Dean's hands scrubbed over his face, and when he looked up, his expression was tired. "Because nice doesn't last in our world, Sammy. Nice gets corrupted or killed or scared away. And she's already half in love with this kid – I can see it in her face."

Sam's shoulders sagged slightly, and he sank down onto the edge of the bed. "Maybe it's time we let her try for normal."

"Normal doesn't exist for Winchesters."

"It could for her. We've kept her out of most of the hunting life. She goes to college, she has friends, she dates—"

"She dates losers and jerks," Dean interrupted, spinning the chair to face Sam. "This is the first guy she's brought around who seems actually decent."

"So what's the problem?"

Dean stared at the laptop screen, where Marcus's smiling face looked back at him from a photo of him with his golden retriever. The dog's tongue was out, and Marcus's grin was wide and genuine.

"The problem is that decent guys don't stick around when they find out their girlfriend's brothers are hunters who've died multiple times and been to hell."

"We don't have to tell him."

Dean's laugh was bitter. "We don't have to tell him what? That we disappear for weeks at a time? That we carry enough weapons to arm a small militia? That our little sister can exorcise demons and knows more about monsters than most people know about their hobbies?" He shook his head, his jaw clenching. "He'll figure it out eventually. They always do."

"And if he doesn't run?"

"Then he's either stupider than he looks or more dangerous than he seems."

Sam leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "You know what the other option is?"

"What?"

"We let her be happy. Even if it's temporary."

Dean was quiet for a long time, his fingers drumming against the arm of the chair as he stared at the screen. Finally, he reached out and closed the laptop with a soft click.

"I still don't like him."

"You don't like anybody she dates."

"That's not true." Dean's voice was defensive. "I didn't like that guy from her sophomore year – what was his name, Brad? – because he was a douche who cheated on her. I didn't like the guy from last year because he was obviously just trying to get laid. This one..." Dean sighed, his shoulders slumping. "This one I don't like because I can't find anything wrong with him."

"That's a good thing, Dean."

"Is it? Because when this goes south – and it will go south – she's going to be heartbroken. And we're going to have to pick up the pieces."

Sam's expression was sad but understanding. "Maybe it won't go south."

Dean gave Sam a look that spoke volumes – raised eyebrows, pursed lips, the expression of someone who'd seen too much to believe in happy endings.

"Okay, it probably will," Sam conceded, his hands clasping together. "But maybe we let her have this for as long as she can. She deserves to feel normal, even if it's just for a little while."

Dean nodded reluctantly, though his jaw remained tight. "But I'm keeping the background check file."

"Of course you are."

"And if he hurts her—"

"We'll kill him and make it look like an accident," Sam finished calmly, his tone matter-of-fact.

Dean's mouth curved into a genuine smile for the first time all evening. "I love how we think alike."

At the drive-in, you and Marcus were sharing a large container of buttery popcorn in the back of his pickup truck, soft blankets spread out in the bed creating a cozy nest. The movie screen flickered in front of you, but you were more focused on the way Marcus kept glancing at you nervously, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

"You can relax," you said softly, reaching over to still his restless hands with yours. "My brothers aren't hiding in the bushes."

Marcus's head turned toward a cluster of trees at the edge of the lot, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you sure? Because I swear I saw movement by that tree earlier."

You followed his gaze and let out a small laugh. "That's just a family of raccoons. I checked when we got here."

Marcus turned back to you, his eyebrows raised. "You checked for raccoons or for your brothers?"

"Both."

The confession made Marcus laugh, a genuine sound that had some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He settled back against the pillows you'd arranged, though you could still see the lingering wariness in his posture.

"Your family is... intense."

"That's one word for it." You reached into the popcorn container, deliberately grabbing a piece from his side. "But they mean well. They've been taking care of me since I was little."

Marcus's expression grew more serious, his brow furrowing slightly. "What happened to your parents?"

The question you'd been dreading. Over the years, you'd perfected the art of deflection, but something about Marcus – the genuine concern in his voice, the way he'd handled your brothers' interrogation with grace – made you want to be honest. As honest as you could be, anyway.

"Our mom died when I was a baby. House fire." The words came out steady, practiced. "Dad was... he wasn't really equipped to raise three kids on his own, especially with Sam and Dean being so much older than me. So they stepped up."

Marcus shifted closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours. "That must have been hard for all of you."

"It was. But we made it work." You turned to smile at him, and the warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten. "They're good men, even if they are a little overprotective."

"A little?" Marcus's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.

"Okay, a lot overprotective. But Marcus..." You twisted to face him fully, drawing one leg up under you. "I really like you. Like, really like you. And I don't want my crazy family to scare you off."

Marcus was quiet for a moment, his brown eyes studying your face in the flickering light from the movie screen. You could see him processing your words, weighing them carefully.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"That thing your brother said about having particular skills... should I be worried?"

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, a nervous habit you'd never been able to break. "Honestly? A little. But not in the way you think. They won't hurt you unless you hurt me. And I mean really hurt me, not just normal relationship stuff."

"What counts as really hurting you?"

"Cheating. Lying about something big. Putting me in danger." You paused, considering. "Making me cry, probably."

Marcus let out a low whistle. "That's a pretty low bar for the crying thing."

"I know. I told you they were overprotective."

Marcus nodded slowly, his hand finding yours in the space between you. "Okay. I can work with that. No cheating, no lying, no endangering, minimal crying. Got it."

Your laugh was bright and genuine. "You make it sound like a checklist."

"Maybe it is. Your brothers are scary, Y/n. That Sam guy is huge, and Dean looked like he was planning my murder the entire time."

"He was probably planning your murder."

Marcus's eyes widened. "That's not reassuring."

"But he didn't actually murder you, which means he's willing to give you a chance." You squeezed his hand, intertwining your fingers. "And for the record, I'm willing to give you a chance too."

Marcus's thumb traced over your knuckles. "Just a chance?"

You pretended to think about it, tilting your head and pursing your lips in an exaggerated show of consideration. "Well, maybe more than a chance. If you play your cards right."

"And how do I do that?"

"Survive meeting my brothers a few more times. Prove you're not going anywhere at the first sign of Winchester weirdness."

Marcus's expression grew curious. "Define Winchester weirdness."

Your grin was wide and slightly mischievous. "You'll know it when you see it."

When Marcus dropped you off at the motel later that night, both Sam and Dean were sitting outside their room in faded lawn chairs, clearly waiting. Sam's long legs were stretched out in front of him, while Dean sat forward with his elbows on his knees, both of them tracking the movement of Marcus's truck as it pulled into the parking lot.

"That's not ominous at all," Marcus muttered under his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the steering wheel.

"Evening," Dean called out cheerfully as you approached, his voice carrying that false brightness that meant trouble. "How was the movie?"

"Good," you replied, your fingers laced with Marcus's as you walked over. "Very romantic."

"I bet it was," Sam said, and you could see the knowing look he exchanged with Dean.

Marcus cleared his throat, his free hand running through his hair nervously. "Well, I should get going. Early class tomorrow."

"What class?" Dean asked, leaning back in his chair with studied casualness.

"Organic chemistry."

Sam's eyebrows rose with what appeared to be genuine interest. "Tough subject. What's your professor's name?"

You stared at Sam, your mouth opening slightly in disbelief. "Seriously?"

"Just making conversation," Sam said innocently, but you could see the calculation behind his eyes.

Marcus answered anyway, probably figuring cooperation was his best bet for survival. You watched him navigate the next few minutes of what could generously be called small talk and more accurately be called an interrogation, his responses polite but increasingly strained.

Finally, he managed to remove himself from the conversation, backing toward his truck with obvious relief.

"I'll call you tomorrow," you told him, raising your voice slightly to make sure your brothers heard the promise.

"Looking forward to it," Marcus replied, then lowered his voice as he leaned closer to you. "Assuming I survive the night."

"You will. They like you."

Marcus's expression was skeptical. "How can you tell?"

"You're still breathing."

After Marcus drove away, his taillights disappearing into the night, you turned to face your brothers. They were both trying to look casual and failing miserably – Sam's fingers were drumming against the arm of his chair, while Dean was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

"Lawn chairs?" you said, gesturing at their setup. "Really?"

"We were enjoying the evening air," Dean said, standing up and folding his chair with sharp, efficient movements.

"At eleven PM. In a motel parking lot."

"It's a nice parking lot," Sam added, though his tone suggested he knew how ridiculous he sounded.

You shook your head, but despite your exasperation, you were smiling. "You two are impossible."

"So," Dean said, hefting his chair under one arm, "you gonna keep seeing him?"

"If he doesn't run screaming after tonight? Yeah, I think I am."

"Good," Sam said, the word coming out with surprising firmness.

You blinked. "Good?"

"He seems nice. And he makes you happy." Sam's smile was genuine, reaching his eyes. "That's what matters."

"Plus his background check came back clean," Dean added, then immediately looked like he regretted the words, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

"You ran a background check on him?" You stared at them in disbelief, your hands finding your hips. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Okay, we're joking," Sam said, but his tone was entirely unconvincing.

"But we're not," Dean clarified helpfully. "Clean record, good family, volunteers at animal shelters. The kid's practically a saint."

"You're unbelievable." But you were laughing now, because this was so typically them that you couldn't even summon proper indignation. "What else did you find out?"

"That's classified Winchester family business," Dean said solemnly, his expression serious despite the ridiculous nature of his words.

"I am a Winchester!"

"You're the baby Winchester," Sam corrected, his smile widening. "Different security clearance."

You threw your hands up in exasperation, but you were still smiling. "I'm going to bed. Try not to stalk my boyfriend while I'm sleeping."

"No promises," Dean called after you as you headed for your room.

But as you got ready for bed, brushing your teeth and changing into pajamas, you could hear them outside through the thin walls, their voices low and serious.

"She called him her boyfriend," Sam was saying.

"Yeah, I caught that."

"Think it'll last?"

There was a long pause before Dean answered. "With our luck? Probably just long enough for us to get attached to the idea of her being happy."

"Dean."

"What? I'm being realistic. When has anything good ever been permanent in our lives?"

"Maybe this time will be different."

Another pause. "Maybe. But I'm keeping that background check file."

"And if he breaks her heart?"

"Then we break his everything else."

You smiled despite yourself as you climbed into bed. Your brothers might be overprotective, paranoid, and completely insane, but they loved you. And maybe, just maybe, Marcus was tough enough to handle being part of a Winchester's life.

Even if he didn't know what he was signing up for yet.

Three weeks later

"So let me get this straight," Marcus said, his elbows resting on the diner table as he leaned forward. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and you could see him working through the information you'd just given him. "Your brothers hunt... things?"

You winced, your coffee cup pausing halfway to your lips. You'd finally worked up the courage to tell him a version of the truth – a very sanitized, carefully edited version that involved "helping people with unusual problems" and "dealing with things the police can't handle."

"Unusual things," you confirmed, setting your cup down with a soft clink. "And I sometimes help them with research."

"What kind of unusual things?"

"The kind that most people don't believe exist."

Marcus stared at you for a long moment, his brown eyes searching your face. You could see the wheels turning in his head, trying to process what you were telling him while fitting it into his worldview.

"Are you telling me your brothers are like... paranormal investigators?"

"Something like that."

"And the weapons in their car?"

You'd known he'd noticed. Marcus was observant, and the Impala wasn't exactly subtle about concealing an arsenal. "Protection."

"Y/n." Marcus reached across the table, his fingers covering yours where they rested next to your coffee cup. "Are you in some kind of danger?"

The genuine concern in his voice made your chest tighten, and you had to swallow hard before answering. "Not... not usually."

"Not usually?" His grip on your hand tightened slightly.

You squeezed back, drawing comfort from the warmth of his skin. "Marcus, I know this sounds crazy-"

"It does. But I've been thinking about it for weeks, trying to figure out why your brothers act like they're guarding a witness in protection. Why you guys move around so much, why you're all so... careful all the time." He paused, his thumb tracing over your knuckles. "This actually makes more sense than anything else I came up with."

"What did you come up with?"

A rueful smile crossed his face. "Witness protection was my best guess. Mafia family was second."

Despite everything, you laughed, the sound bright and surprised. "We're not in witness protection."

"But you are in danger sometimes."

You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his eyes. You couldn't lie to him – not when he was looking at you like that, with such open concern and care. "Sometimes. But Sam and Dean are good at what they do. They keep me safe."

Marcus was quiet for a long time, and you could feel his eyes on your face. When you finally looked up, his expression was thoughtful, processing.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"When you said your mom died in a house fire... was it really just a house fire?"

You closed your eyes, the familiar pain washing over you. "No."

"And your dad?"

"Dead. Hunting the thing that killed our mom."

Marcus's sharp intake of breath made you open your eyes. "Jesus, Y/n."

"I know it's a lot. If you want to walk away-"

"Hey." His voice was firm, and he waited until you met his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Marcus-"

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeated, his voice steady and sure. "But I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"If you're ever in real danger, you tell me. I don't care if you think I can't handle it or if your brothers think I'll get in the way. You tell me."

You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt or fear. All you found was determination and something deeper, something that made your heart race.

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

The words hung in the air between you, and you felt your breath catch. It was the first time either of you had said it, and the weight of it settled over you like a warm blanket.

"You love me?" you whispered.

"Yeah. I love you. Crazy family, dangerous lifestyle, and all."

Tears pricked at your eyes, but they were good tears, happy tears. "I love you too."

Marcus's smile was radiant. "Good. Now, do I need to have another conversation with your brothers? Because I feel like learning about the paranormal investigating thing changes the context of their threats significantly."

You laughed, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. "Probably. They'll want to make sure you can handle it."

"Can I handle it?"

"I don't know. Can you?"

Marcus considered this, his head tilting slightly as he thought. "Well, I've survived three weeks of dating a Winchester. How much weirder can it get?"

Your grin was wide and slightly wicked. "Oh, honey. You have no idea."

But for the first time since you'd started dating Marcus, you thought maybe – just maybe – he might actually stick around to find out.

Even if Sam and Dean would probably make him sign a waiver first.

[musubi05]

Oooooh I really like the last one…could you please do an actress sister reader where she’s filming a scene with Jar and Jen where a piece of the set breaks and falls on top of her-leaving her stuck under it freaking out and injuring her to where she passes out

Yeah, of course! Glad you liked the last one!

╰┈➤ Accidents Do Happen

Jensen Ackles x actress!reader (platonic) Jared Padalecki x actress!reader (platonic) Summary: Maybe one of the walls weren't strapped down so it wouldn't fall. Someone forgot to check it and that leads to your getting your foot broken. Warnings: Passing out, hospitals, detail on a broken bone

The early morning mist still clung to the edges of Vancouver, a damp, pervasive chill that seeped into everything, even the warmth of the studio lot. It was early - too early, if you were being honest - and the day had started like any other on set, a familiar rhythm of organized chaos. You were halfway through filming the back half of the season, and the entire cast and crew were running on a dangerous mix of adrenaline, instant coffee, and the sheer will to push through.

You sat in your designated director's chair, your worn hoodie zipped up tight over your costume, as a thin shield against the Vancouver chill. The final touches of dried blood were being carefully applied near your temple by the makeup artist. Maggie Winchester, your character, the stubborn, scrappy younger sister of the legendary Sam and Dean - was made to be thoroughly roughed up in today's episode, having just barely escaped a nasty encounter after getting separated during a hunt.

A familiar shadow fell over you, followed by the deep yet sweet voice of Jared, who had been sipping from an oversized thermos that looked more like a small pitcher. "You ready, short stack?" he teased with a playful glint in his eyes.

You lifted your head, giving him a glare that, despite its intention, lacked any real heat. "Ready to out-act you? Always," you retorted, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Before Jared could respond, Jensen leaned in from behind your chair, a characteristic smirk playing on his lips. "She's spicy today," he commented, his voice a low rumble.

"I think I'm still mad about yesterday's prank," you muttered, not even hiding the annoyance as you adjusted the strap of your worn prop boot.

Jared let out a loud laugh. "Come on, you only screamed for ten seconds when the fake snake fell out of your locker!"

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but the smile widened. Being with them on set, even during slow 16-hour days, never felt like work. It felt like hanging out with family, the kind that constantly teased you but always had your back. Even on the roughest days, their easy friendship and shared humor made everything better.

The set, a maze of damaging equipment, rusting metal, and unstable catwalks, was constructed for the abandoned house.  You were blocking the scene with Jared and Jensen, your characters having just stumbled upon the monster’s lair. With the tension evident in the air, the brothers were supposed to be guiding her through a perilous course of falling support beams and other debris.

"We'll move slow," Jensen said, his voice dropping into Dean's protective, gruff tone as he got into character, scanning the mock wreckage around them. "Watch your step, Maggie."

The cameras rolled. The director called "Action!" You were mid-line, your prop flashlight shaking slightly in your hand, its beam cutting through the artificial gloom as you ducked under a leaning beam.

"I don't like this," you muttered in character, your voice low and laced with unease. "It's too quiet."

"Stay close," Jared said, his deep Sam voice laced with a quiet, unwavering concern, glancing back at you as he stepped over a pile of debris.

Then came the cue - a sharp, almost imperceptible hand signal from the special effects coordinator. A small, timed burst of compressed air and smoke instantly filled the immediate space around you, designed to simulate a localized structural collapse.

You flinched instinctively, just as you’d rehearsed. You covered your head with your arms and stumbled a little for effect, a convincing portrayal of someone caught off guard. Jared, still in character, reached out, his hand firm on your arm, steadying you.

And then, unscripted - a loud, sickening crack shattered the controlled chaos.

Everything happened too fast for anyone to truly react. The crew's eyes, visible even in the dim light of the set, went wide with a mixture of confusion and dawning horror. A real piece of set - a massive, thick beam from the rigged structure overhead, meant to hold a suspended prop - had snapped loose. It was plummeting down toward you with terrifying speed before anyone could even scream a warning.

You turned, startled by the unexpected sound, a question forming on your lips and that was the last movement you made before it hit.

The immense weight knocked you flat, sending a jarring shockwave through your body. The air rushed out of your lungs in a ragged gasp, and you cried out sharply, a sound of pure agony, as you were pinned beneath it. Pain exploded up your left leg, sharp and hot and blinding, a searing fire that consumed everything else.

You couldn't breathe.

You couldn't move.

"CUT! CUT!!" someone screamed, their voice shrill with panic, cutting through the sudden, horrifying silence that had fallen over the set.

Jensen and Jared's instincts, from the years of on-screen heroics and a genuine care for you, kicked in instantly. Jared dropped to his knees beside you, his face draining of color, panic flooding his usually calm features. "Y/N?! Y/N, talk to me!" he demanded, his voice thick with fear.

"I- I can't-" you gasped, your voice tight and broken, the words catching in your throat. "My foot- Jared, I can't feel my foot-"

"Don't move, don't move," Jensen commanded, his own face suddenly pale and etched with terror as he crouched by your side, his hand reaching for yours. "Just breathe, okay? You're okay. We've got you."

But you weren't okay. The pain was an overwhelming like someone had driven a red-hot spike through your leg and left it there to burn. You could feel yourself slipping, your vision narrowing to a tunnel, your hands growing cold and clammy. You tried desperately to stay with them, to hold onto consciousness, to fight the encroaching darkness.

"Jen…" you whispered, your voice barely audible, a fragile plea. "Hurts…" And then everything went dark.

"Y/n?! Open your eyes for me, sweetie!" Jensen yelled. "Shit, shit, shit."

"Jensen! Grab her on three." Jared ordered. Him and other guys in the crew gathered around the beam with their hands under it. Right when the guys got the beam lifted, Jensen dragged you out from under there.

"Hospital. Now!" Jared immediately scooped you into his arms, carrying you out of the building, and Jensen tailing right behind.

⛧

You came to slowly, your head heavy and a dull, persistent ache throbbing behind your eyes. The sterile hospital lights above you hummed softly, an indifferent buzz in the quiet room. Your mouth was parched, and a new, pervasive ache throbbed all along your side, a dull counterpoint to the sharper, more focused pain. But your foot…

God, your foot.

You turned your head slightly, a small movement that sent a wave of dizziness through you, and saw the bulky white cast encasing it. It was propped up on a pillow, a thin, scratchy hospital blanket draped carefully over it.

"Hey, hun." Jensen's voice, gruff with concern, broke through the lingering fog in your mind. "You're awake."

You blinked, forcing your eyes to focus, and saw both Jared and Jensen sitting vigil beside your hospital bed. Jared had his hoodie pulled tight around his face, looking utterly exhausted, like he hadn't moved since you were wheeled into the ER. Jensen leaned forward, his face etched with worry, gripping your hand tightly.

"You passed out," Jared said, his voice soft and hoarse, a stark contrast to his usual light tone. "That thing broke your foot in two places. You scared the hell out of us."

Jensen let a scoff slip as he looked down to the cast. "We're lucky it was just the foot. The doctors said that accidents like this happen all the time and it leads to worse things than a broken foot."

You swallowed hard, a lump forming in your throat, your eyes tearing up despite yourself. The reality of what had happened crashed over you. "Did they… did they catch it on camera?" you whispered, a strange, almost detached curiosity in your voice.

Jensen managed a weak, almost breathless laugh. "They stopped rolling the second it fell. No one cared about footage after that."

"The crew said you tried to stand back up," Jared added, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, the memory clearly vivid and painful for him. "Even while you were crying out."

You looked between them, truly taking in how shaken they were. Their faces were pale, their expressions raw with relief and lingering fear. These were your brothers and not just on screen, but in every sense that mattered. They had been there, and they clearly weren’t going anywhere.

"I'm okay," you murmured, the words feeling fragile, but true in a way that mattered. "I'm okay now."

Jensen shook his head, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. "You're not allowed to say that for a while."

"We're getting you a wheelchair. One with flames on the side," Jared grinned, a flash of his usual humor finally breaking through. "Speed racer edition."

You let out a soft laugh, wincing slightly as the movement sent a small jolt of pain through your side. "Only if I can run over your foot with it," you retorted, the familiar banter a comforting balm.

"Deal," Jared said, leaning back in his chair, a genuine smile finally reaching his eyes.

And despite the throbbing pain in your foot, the lingering fear from the accident, and the knowledge of a long recovery ahead - you felt safe. Plus this would make a hell of a good story for conventions.

[musubi05]

Could you do a actress reader who plays winchesters sister where she comes into the dressing room and everything looking pale and overwhelmed but plays it off to jared and jensen that’s she fine (even though they don’t believe her) then they go to film a scene and she ends up passing out

╰┈➤ Acting Fine

Jensen Ackles x actress!reader (platonic)

Jared Padalecki x actress!reader (platonic)

Summary: You felt off today but you didn't bother on checking for a fever. You regretted it instantly after the scene you caused. Warnings: Passing out and hospitals

The minute you woke up from your dream, you knew something was wrong. It wasn't just the pounding in your skull or the desperate thirst that had you downing nearly two bottles of water. It was the heaviness that wrapped around your body like lead, the kind of ache that lingered deep in your bones. Even the comforting darkness of the trailer, usually your safe place, didn't help.

Still, you pushed yourself up from the bed, wincing as the movement sent a pulse of pain through your head. The past two days have been rough with filming. Rough to the point where sleeping in the trailer was easier for you instead of going to one of the boys or your house. Today was supposed to be a big one. A lot of the episode centered around your character and her brothers, a rare opportunity for the three of you to dig deep emotionally. You'd been looking forward to it, even rehearsed your lines twice last night despite the pounding in your head. You didn't want to let them down.

Dragging yourself to the tiny bathroom in the trailer, you began the slow process of brushing your teeth and hair. Even that felt like lifting weights. Every movement required effort, every light you flicked on felt like staring directly into the sun. The fatigue in your limbs wasn't normal. Neither was the buzzing in your ears, like someone had turned up the static in your brain.

Still, you didn't dare look in the mirror. Not because you were afraid of what you'd see, but because you already knew - you looked as bad as you felt. You were about to step out when something caught your eye: a coffee cup with a breakfast sandwich placed on the mini kitchen counter. Your favorite. The kind of sandwich you usually inhaled before your coffee even had a chance to cool. But just the smell of it this morning turned your stomach.

Next to the food was a note:

Good morning, kiddo. Got you your favorite. We'll be in the dressing room waiting for you. - your favorite person

P.S. your favorite person is me, right? - Jar

P.S.S. Don't listen to him. We all know it's me. - Jen

The corners of your lips curved a little bit as you could practically hear their voices in the note. You didn't have the heart to throw the food out, so you gently placed it in the mini fridge. But you grabbed the coffee anyway. Maybe the caffeine would do something. Anything.

The morning air felt cold as you stepped into the dressing trailer, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on your pale skin. You barely glanced at your reflection as you set your coffee down with a trembling hand, hoping neither Jared nor Jensen would notice how off you felt. Of course, that was wishful thinking.

You can feel their worried stares watching you as you make your way over to the closet to get your outfit. Jared sitting on the couch already looking like Sam was the first to speak up. "Morning, Y/n. I see you saw the food."

You put on the best smile you can hold right now. "Yeah I did. It was delicious." You set the outfit down on an empty chair. "The note was funny too."

Jensen chuckled a little bit from his makeup chair. "I am your favorite right?"

"Uh, I'd like to object. I'm obviously the best." Jared said with his finger pointing up like a nerd.

"I don't know how you guys aren't related." You rolled your eyes and went to the bathroom to change. You went slower than usual making sure that you don't get too dizzy. After getting your clothes on you, splashed some warm water on your face hoping that it'll help wake you up. You stared down at the sink a little longer before going back out there.

"Hey, Zabrina had to run out to go get something but she'll be back soon." Jensen reported to you. As he walked by he rested his hand on your shoulder going for the couch next to Jared but stopped instead. "Are you feeling okay?"

You forced a laugh, waving him off like it was nothing. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just didn't sleep much. Long night." It sounded believable enough, but inside, you felt like you were unraveling. Your chest was tight, your limbs shaky, and there was a strange buzzing in your ears that hadn't gone away since you woke up. Still, you couldn't afford to be the one who slowed things down. You sat down on your chair and straightened your shoulders, hoping Zabrina would do enough to hide the shadows under your eyes.

Jared glared at you through the mirror but you didn't stare back. Instead, you pulled out your phone and looked through Instagram trying to look distracted. The only thing distracting you was the pounding in your head.

Soon, Zabrina did come back with a few new makeup tools and started with you right away. Charmaine also came in and made sure your hair was good for the cameras in the messy bun your character always have. Jensen and Jared kept doing the talking as you kept quiet and listened. You'd mostly join in on the conversations but you were too tired to care enough.

"Girly, are you doing okay? You're pretty warm." Zabrina asked but in a low whisper as she put the brushes down.

You shook your head with an innocent smile. Your eyes big as if you didn't know what she was talking about. "All good. It might just be the layers of this costume." That wasn't really a lie. There were lots of layers for the scene today sense it was supposed to be taking place outside in the middle of the night. Anyone would feel a bit warm in this.

She just nod her head and dismissed you. You got out of your seat a bit too fast - your eye sight turns into a fuzzy black and gray blur. You held onto the counter for some support, having to blink away the clouds in your eyes.

"Hey, you sure you're doing okay?" Jared asked. Jensen immediately got up, ready to dive if you fell.

You stood up straight and grabbed the coffee cup. "Never better. You guys are such worry-warts. Don't you guys get a bit dizzy when you stand up too fast?"

"No... not really." Jared says as if you asked him if the sky was purple. Jensen stood there just watching you walking out the trailer with a smile on your face.

Jared was about to follow you immediately but Jensen put a hand on his chest to prevent him from moving. "Let's keep an eye on her," he said quietly. "Something doesn't feel right."

"Don't have to tell me twice." Jared let out a breath of air and patted Jensen on the back before catching up to you.

The bunker set was warm under the studio lights, the familiar hum of equipment and crew bustling around offering some strange comfort. The cameras rolled, and you fell into character as the long-lost Winchester sister, standing firm beside her brothers in the face of another supernatural threat. You could do this. You'd done it a hundred times before.

Jensen said his line then Jared delivered his. You said yours better than you thought you would. No hesitation. No stutter. Maybe today wasn't going to be bad. It's just some dialogue and walking around, not some crazy fight scene.

A few hours later, you guys have gotten through some scenes. Was it easy? No. You wanted to go in the bathroom and throw up sometimes. You tried to drink water but your stomach hated every drop for some reason. The twists and turns it made when you walked over to the little snack table was painful. Yet, you still held back from asking for a break or telling someone something's wrong. Jensen and Jared mostly called for the breaks. You didn't want everyone to think your overreacting and make their day any longer.

This scene now might be the end of you. It feels like gravity is your worse nightmare with how hard it's holding you down. You can feel your body get colder by every word that was spoken. Right as Jensen delivered his line and Jared stepped toward you in the scene, the world suddenly tilted. Your vision blurred, black creeping in from the edges. You swayed, tried to focus, but the sound faded to a distant echo.

Voices swirled in and out like waves, too muffled to make sense. For a moment, you weren't even sure where you were. The familiar scent of the set - dust, wood, faint cologne - was replaced by antiseptic and something cold pressed against your forehead.

"Y/N!" Jared lunged forward, catching you just before your head hit the floor. The camera operator cursed and the director called cut, but no one moved until they saw you weren't getting up.

"Call a medic!" someone yelled.

Jensen was immediately kneeling beside you, helping Jared lower you gently. "She's burning up," Jensen muttered, panic creeping into his voice. "Y/n, hey - come on, open your eyes."

You didn't respond.

⛧

You were unconscious, curled under a blanket with cold compresses pressed to your forehead and neck. Your lips were pale, skin still clammy, but your breathing had evened out a little.

Jared paced the length of the room, chewing the inside of his cheek raw. Jensen sat beside you, barely blinking as he watched for any movement.

"I should've said something earlier," Jared muttered, stopping by the sink. "I saw it. She looked terrible when she walked in."

"We both saw it," Jensen said. "She told us she was fine. We should've known better."

"Yeah, but she's like us, man. She doesn't want to be the reason anyone has to stop production."

Jensen nodded slowly. "Yeah, that's what scares me."

The silence hung heavy between them.

Then your fingers twitched.

You blinked slowly, your eyes adjusting to soft lighting overhead. Not set lighting. Fluorescent, clinical. The medic trailer.

"Hey - hey, she's waking up." Jared's voice, low but urgent, tugged you fully into consciousness. You turned your head toward the sound, wincing at the pounding in your skull.

Jensen appeared in your field of vision, crouched next to the cot with a furrowed brow and that rare look of real fear in his eyes - the kind you'd only seen when something unscripted happened on set. "Hey. Easy," he said gently. "Don't move too fast."

"What…?" your voice came out hoarse. You tried to sit up, but Jensen's hand was already on your shoulder, steady and firm.

"You passed out," Jared said quietly, standing just behind Jensen with his arms crossed and his expression unusually serious. "Mid-scene. Scared the hell out of everyone."

Your brows knit as you processed that. The last thing you remembered was Jared stepping toward you in character, and then… nothing.

"I told you I was fine," you murmured, half in defense, half in shame.

Jensen let out a slow breath, something tight in his posture finally easing - just a little. "Yeah, well, you're a shitty liar."

Jared nodded, his jaw tense. "You should've said something instead of just 'fine'. You looked off the moment you walked in."

"I didn't want to screw up the schedule," you whispered, your throat tightening - not just physically. "We've already been behind and-"

"Hey." Jared cut you off, his voice softer now as he moved closer. "You don't screw things up by being human. You're not just a character, alright? You're you."

Jensen glanced at the medic, who gave a small nod and stepped out, leaving the three of you in a moment of quiet that felt heavier than any scene you'd filmed.

"You were burning up fast. You were probably running a fever all day." Jensen added, every word filled you with embarrassment. You couldn't believe you had passed out in front of everyone.

You looked between them, tears burning behind your eyes, but you blinked them back. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Jared said. "Just… don't do that again. If something's wrong, say something. We've got your back. You don't have to carry stuff alone - on-screen or off."

Jensen sat back, rubbing a hand down his face. "Okay, so you're gonna rest, and then we'll talk about how you face-planted in the most dramatic way possible."

You gave a weak laugh, and for the first time all day, it didn't feel forced.

"Deal," you whispered.

"Oh also," Jensen smiled as he pulled a bag and a water bottle from the ground, "your sandwich, missy."

You groaned, knowing where this is going. "Jen, I don't think I can eat anything right now."

"Just a few bites to get something in you. Please?" Jensen asked.

"Don't make me use the puppy eyes." Jared warned. Those damn eyes. They'll always be lethal. You reached your hand out flat and Jensen placed the bag in your hand. You slowly and unwillingly took a bite of the sandwich.

"That's our girl." Jensen smiled and ruffled your hair softly.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Too Bright

Jensen Ackles x actress!reader (platonic)

Jared Padalecki x actress!reader (platonic)

Summary: As an actress you have to be comfortable with all the paparazzi... you're not yet used to all of the cameras and lights but you have Jared and Jensen to help.

The SUV door swung open, and the noise hit you like a crashing wave - screams, flashing lights, the chaotic blur of paparazzi calling your name and your character's, all at once. You paused at the edge of your seat, hands trembling slightly in your lap, trying to steady your breathing. It was supposed to be a celebration - the Supernatural series wrap party, the culmination of years of love from fans, the final sendoff for the Winchesters. But as you stared out at the red carpet stretching ahead like a battlefield, it suddenly felt overwhelming.

"You good?" Jared asked, crouching beside you, his tall frame practically folding in half to meet your eyes. His presence was grounding, like he always was - playful, warm, and safe. He looked like someone who belonged in the chaos, but his attention was fully on you. You gave him a weak smile.

"I think so," you said, though your voice betrayed your nerves.

On your other side, Jensen leaned in from the backseat, already peering past the tinted windows at the frenzied crowd. "It's just another red carpet," he said, flashing that easy grin. "We walk. We wave. Jared forgets where to look. I pretend I don't know him. It’s tradition."

You snorted. "And me?" you asked.

Jared grinned. "You shine."

That warmth carried you for the first few steps onto the carpet. But the moment your heels touched the ground, it all changed. The noise intensified, the flashes exploded around you like tiny fireworks, and suddenly you weren't just part of the background - you were the center of it. They were shouting your name. Asking about who you were dating. Calling you 'Maggie,' even though you weren't in costume. It was too much, too fast.

Your heart started pounding. The carpet tilted beneath your feet. You couldn't breathe. The crowd blurred into a mess of faces and lenses, and your chest tightened as if a weight had settled right on top of it.

"Hey," Jared said softly, already noticing. He leaned in close, worry in his eyes. "You okay?"

You barely managed to shake your head before your breath caught entirely. Jensen was at your side in an instant, stepping between you and the wall of cameras with protective force. "Give her a minute," he barked at the photographers, voice low and firm. Some of them backed off. Some didn't. But it gave you just enough space to stumble a step back into Jared’s arms.

He caught you easily, wrapping a steady arm around your shoulders and lowering his voice to something only you could hear. "Close your eyes," he murmured. "Block it out. You're okay. We've got you." So you did.

Behind your eyelids, the world slowed down. You could still hear the chaos, but it faded, softened by the sound of Jared's voice and the gentle rhythm of his thumb rubbing circles on your back. You heard Jensen joking with one of the security guards about how Dean Winchester would've driven the Impala through the barricade by now. The absurdity of it made you smile.

After a moment, you opened your eyes and breathed a little easier. "Sorry," you whispered. "I don't know what happened."

"You got overwhelmed," Jared said simply. "Happens to all of us."

Jensen gave you a crooked smile. "I told a reporter I was a Capricorn once. Spoiler: I'm not."

You laughed, the tension easing just enough for you to straighten up. "Thanks. I mean it."

Jared pulled you in for a quick side hug. "You don't have to thank us. You're family."

Jensen nodded, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "We’ve been through fake demonic possessions, apocalypses, and Jared's chili night. This? This is easy."

With them beside you, the red carpet didn't feel so daunting anymore. You walked together, Jared's hand gently guiding you forward, Jensen throwing sarcastic comments in your ear to make you laugh between camera flashes. And even though the lights still blazed and the voices still shouted, you weren't afraid. You weren't alone.

You were a Winchester.

And Winchesters? They always had each other's backs.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Learning on the Job

Dean Winchester x sister!reader Summary: Running away from the police is the best way to learn how to drive for the first time! No?

Note: this is my attempt to steer away from writing so much angst 😭 they're just so addicting

There was not one hunt that went smoothly this past month and you thought - you prayed - that this one would be the one to break the cycle. It almost did.

The day started off totally normal, which should've been your first clue that something was about to go very, very wrong. There should've been an argument or no food in the fridge for today to go nice.

Dean had dragged you and Sam out to investigate a haunted diner in Missouri. Sam had gone inside to interrogate the overly peppy waitress while you and Dean waited outside in the Impala, munching on curly fries like it was just another Tuesday.

That's when the cop pulled up behind the Impala. Lights and siren on.

Dean squinted in the rearview mirror, casually flicking a fry into his mouth. "Huh. That guy looks…suspiciously like someone I punched in a bar last week."

You glanced back. "Dean, that's a detective."

"Correction," Dean said, shoving the keys into your hand, "that is your driving instructor for today."

You blinked. "I- what?"

"Move over, Y/n. You're driving."

"WHAT?!"

"I got a warrant in this county!" he whisper-shouted as he climbed into the passenger seat, somehow without spilling his soda. "Go! Hit the gas! Pretend it's Mario Kart!"

"Dean, I've never driven before!"

"Perfect time to learn!"

You squealed, stomped on the gas, and the Impala lurched forward with a mighty vroom, throwing Dean back into his seat. He shouted something that sounded vaguely like "YEEE-HAW," which felt very unhelpful.

“I’m gonna kill you!” you yelled, gripping the wheel like your life depended on it. Because it did.

"You're doing great!" Dean said, trying to simultaneously cheer you on and hold onto his fries. "Okay, now go left!"

"I forgot my left and rights!"

"The one that's not right!"

"That doesn't help, DEAN!"

Behind you, sirens wailed. The cop was in pursuit, and gaining fast.

"I'm going to jail. I'm going to jail for learning how to drive from you!"

"You're not going to jail,” Dean said, calmly dunking a fry in ketchup. "Because you're gonna lose him. Take the next right. Drift it."

"Drift it?! I don't even know how to turn properly!"

You yanked the wheel, nearly missed a mailbox, and definitely took out three garbage cans and a lawn flamingo. What kind of house has lawn flamingos in real life?

Dean whooped. "That's my girl!"

"Are you having fun?!"

"Only slightly more than usual. And by the way, your driving is better than Sam's."

"I will drive us into a lake."

Dean snorted, but then looked behind you. "Okay, he's still there. Time for Plan B."

"You had a Plan B?!"

Dean reached under his seat, pulled out a duffel bag, and dumped it on the seat in between you two.

"Smoke bombs," he said with a grin.

"WHY do we have smoke bombs?!"

"For educational emergencies! Like this one!"

You tossed one out the window just as the cop was getting close. A thick cloud of smoke exploded behind you.

"I think that’s illegal," you muttered.

Dean just smirked. "So is impersonating a rodeo clown, and yet here we are."

You skidded around another corner, heart hammering, palms sweaty. Somehow, miraculously, you weren't dead. Or handcuffed.

When you finally pulled behind an abandoned warehouse and killed the engine, you just sat there. Silent. Shaking. And possibly aged fifteen years.

Dean patted your back like you’d just finished a marathon.

"Kiddo," he said proudly, "you're officially a Winchester driver."

"I hate you."

He grinned. "You say that now, but wait until you're parallel parking in reverse down a mountain."

"I'm never driving again."

"You're driving us to Taco Bell."

"I am absolutely not driving to-"

"Too late. I already texted Sam to meet us there."

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Deja Vu

Dean Winchester x little sister!reader

Sam Winchester x little sister!reader

Summary: It's time to go to college but it's hard to say goodbye even though they can always come to visit.

So the hunting life didn't really work out that well. It weighed on you a little bit because you couldn't help out your brothers that much during hunts. Not on the front lines, that is, but you helped patch them up and find out the lore.

Dean didn't mind at all. It worried him less when you didn't have a gun or knife in your hand. He knows that you know how to use one but he doesn't know - or want to know - what the thing in front of you will do if you try to use the weapon on it. He didn't want to find out the hard way either.

Sam was thrilled that you chose the school route. "There are always other ways to help people." He used to say to you when you were growing up. So you set off to find your passion in those ways.

You did your best in school and that paid off with the amazing grades you got. Dean told you that you were a nerd like Sam and you took that well. You found pride in it. Sam got a full ride into Stanford when he was going so what would you get?

Letters after letters would come. Most of them were telling you to come to their school - the little universities that were spread out in the states. Some of them were big schools that you heard were good. But you were waiting for a specific one...

Today was the day. The letters of the colleges that you turned in an application for should be here. You could practically hear the blood pumping in your veins as you drove from school back to the bunker.

Once you parked the car in the garage, you walked as fast as you could to the front door. You passed the kitchen where you could hear Dean and Sam talking probably about some case.

Opening the heavy steel door and you were welcomed by the beautiful, firm envelopes and some junk mail. You picked the mail up and walked straight to your room after gently closing the front door. It was pretty loud so you didn't want to alarm your brothers.

You took long strides to your bedroom like you were on a mission. Which you were: open these letters and scream at the top of your lungs if you got accepted to the college you really wanted. Once you reached your room you closed it softly. Honestly, you wanted to surprise Sam and Dean if you got in. The thought of them seeing your reaction if you didn't get in was not something you wanted to make reality.

As you laid out the envelopes, your heart was trying to tear out of your chest with how hard it was beating. You took a deep breath and picked up the first one. It was from (your third choice of colleges)...

Accepted.

Yes! Okay. One down, two more to go.

The next...

Declined.

Oh well that's okay. You still got the third choice here and so many others. But here... here is where it all is.

The last envelope. Your dream university. If you get into this one. It's a done deal. No need any other options.

Your shaky hands ripped open the paper from its sealed position. You unfolded the clean sheet of paper and it read:

'Dear Y/N,

We are proud to announce that you have been accepted to attend this coming fall semester at....'

"HOLY SHIT!" Your hand pressed against your mouth in shock.

"What?!"

"Are you okay?!"

You turned around, jumping in surprise at your two brother's loud voices. Dean and Sam stood there with guns in their hands. Sam's eyes wide while Deans were narrow, ready to shoot whatever was going to be there.

"I got in!"

"What?" Sam asked immediately putting his pistol back into the waistband of his jeans. Dean more hesitantly copied his brothers moments.

"Into (Y/F/C)! I got in!" You excitedly extended the letter out for Sam to take it. Dean's eyebrows twitched at the words and he watched as Sam stepped closer and took the paper from your hands.

"No way..." Sam gasped as he continued to read. "Y/n, you didn't just get in. You got a full ride."

"Let me see that!" Dean snatched it from Sam's hand and you could see his eyes zooming down the page. "My little sister is going to college, holy shit. We're celebrating tonight! I'll make cheeseburgers and we can go get your favorite dessert."

Sam smiled widely as he brought you in one of his huge bear hugs which you happily accepted.

⛧

That was a few months ago. Now here you are packing boxes with what you want to take to your dorm. You didn't have much stuff so it was last minute packing. Move-in day was in two days on Friday and you could tell you weren't the only one struggling with the change that this decision brought to you and your family.

Sam was always asking if you got everything you needed, if you were sure about this school, if you liked your roommate, etc. You always said that you got it handled and you double checked everything. Dean has been quiet these past two weeks. You had a feeling he was just worried and that it'd past but it wasn't.

"Hey," Sam knocked on your doorframe before walking in. It was a habit picked up from all the times you would lock yourself in your room either studying or panicking about something that happened in a hunt. Just a little gesture he did so he didn't scare you.

You took off your headphones after taping down the last box full of your clothes and turned to face him as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Hey, what's up?"

"Nothing much. Deans cooking dinner right now and I'm taking a break from looking at cases." He said but something in his tone made you feel like he wanted to say more.

"Cool. Well I'm done packing so I'm free to do whatever now." You plopped down beside Sam finally glad to relax.

"Are you sure you want to go to college?" Sam blurted out. The air in the room must have changed because you barely took in any oxygen after those words.

"What?"

"Nothing. Nevermind." Sam shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. It's never nothing when he moves his hair like that.

"Why the sudden question?" Your voice was soft with a pinch of fear in it. The answer to this question could be one you weren't prepared to hear.

"Just... just wanted to make sure you're still doing what you want. You don't have to prove anything by going." He said hesitantly. Sam might've meant those words but you could tell they're not the exact ones he wanted to say.

You took a deep breath trying to process it and was about to say something in return when Dean called, "Hey gremlins! Dinner!"

You looked up to Sam hoping that he'll yell back at Dean to give you two a few more minutes. Instead, Sam gave you a weak smile and got up from your bed.

"Let's go."

You and Sam walked in the kitchen and you immediately knew what Dean cooked. "Grilled cheese, huh?" You smiled seeing the table all set up. Two plates on one side, yours and Sam's, and one on the other side.

"Yeah well you used to love them." Dean shrugged as if this was a casual thing. Sure making a grilled cheese is a normal thing to do but not right now. He's been making the foods he used to cook for you and Sam when you guys were growing up for the past 2 weeks. Just the timing of it seemed... odd.

Sam sat down with a beer at his plate towards the end of the table. You always had the inside seat of the table, next to Sam, and closest to the wall. It was a habit to sit in those same spots at every table since you were kids. Dean always said that because he's the oldest he gets the whole side of the bench or booth to himself.

You sat in your designated spot while Dean sat in his and handed you your favorite soda. As you and Sam dived into your food, you noticed that Dean wasn't. He was just looking at you two like it was his last day here. Or your last day here... which it was. At least it was going to be for a long time.

"You okay, Dean?" You asked with your mouth still full from the last bite you took.

He sighed running a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah. I'm good, Bug. Just thinking... you guys just reminded me of how you were when you were tinier."

Sam must've lost his appetite cause he put down the grilled cheese as he cleared his throat.

"You used to always ask for grilled cheeses and you must've learned those puppy eyes from Sam cause you used those all the time to get you that dang sandwich." Dean said in such a soft tone in made you freeze. You felt like you should've said sorry for the way Dean and Sam both looked right now.

Dean had a faint smile on his face as he remembered the past. You couldn't see Sam's face though. He had his head turned the other way when Dean started talking.

"Sweetheart, we're going to miss you when you go to college." Dean announced as if that sentence had weighed down on his chest for centuries. It made Sam turn back and you could see the red in his eyes. It made you see the tears Dean was holding back.

You could feel your heart tighten at the sight. "I... I don't have to go. I can choose a closer school."

"No. No, that's not what we're saying. You have to go to this school." Sam took over knowing where this was about to go. Dean took a long sip of that beer in hand. "It's your dream school and we aren't going to be the ones taking it away from you. It's just going to be very hard to leave you there."

"You can always come and visit me though. Right?" Now it was your turn for the water to brim up in your eyes.

Dean let out a huff of air. "Of course we're going to visit you. Every little chance we get, we'll take. We'll steal some if we have to." Sam nods in agreement.

"So... when you asked me if I still wanted to go to college earlier, did you want me to say no?" You asked Sam.

"You asked her what?" Dean's eyebrows raised a little.

"No. I was just making sure it's what you wanted." Sam answered you trying to ignore the glare his older brother was giving to him.

"I call bullshit." You crossed your arms and leaned your back on the wall, your whole body now turned to Sam. He ran a hand down his face taking in a deep breath.

"I'm scared, okay? I'm scared for you because we won't be able to protect you from anything." He admitted with a tear going down his cheek.

Guilt filled the pit in your stomach. Maybe you shouldn't have asked that question and pushed him to give you the truth. "Oh... Sam, I'm sorry."

You looked over at Dean for some help but you realized from him not making eye contact with you, he was thinking the same thing. You were only a little kid when you and Dean had to get Sam from college. You knew that one of the big demons killed someone he loved but besides that it was a blur.

You scooted closer to him and opened your arms for a hug which he took immediately. "I can protect myself, you know that. I was raised by the two best hunters in the world."

"I was raised by the two best brothers in the world too." You added as you rubbed his back. Sam's grip tightened around you just enough for you to feel it. You looked over and handed a hand out to Dean who sat there in silence. He took it, giving you a small smile and you responded with two squeezes trying to reassure him that it'll be fine.

⛧

Last night was rough. So rough that you all fell asleep on the couch together while watching a movie. Sure, your neck hurt from the position you woke up in but the pain was worth the time you spent with Sam and Dean.

Today was traveling day. The trunk was full of boxes leaving the back seat to be half full of them. There was still enough room for someone to sit back there. You closed the trunk with both brothers by your side. "Well that's everything." Those words left your mouth but hung in the air for a moment too long.

"We should double check," Sam offered. He was postponing getting in the car and you knew it. To be fair, you kind of are too.

"We've triple checked already, Sammy." Dean shifted his standing position and reached into his jean pocket. "Let's get this over with..."

Dean held up Baby's keys and smirked. "You wanna drive all the way there?"

"Are you being serious?"

"Deadly."

You never took the keys out of his hand so fast before. This was the last road trip and last time driving her for awhile. If you didn't have a big smile on your face and didn't take those keys then you wouldn't have been surprised if they threw holy water on you.

The car doors slammed shut as the three of you got in. Dean in the passenger seat with Sam in the back. It reminded you when they were trying to teach you how to drive. Hell of a time that was.

"Now call me selfish but I hope you crash the car so we don't have to go tomorrow." Sam said wiggling his eyebrows up like he was daring you to crash the car.

"Nope. Do it and I'll make sure you don't go to college at all." Dean pulled out his 'mom warning' tone which made you laugh a little.

"Yeah, Sam, sorry but if I did that we'll only be pushing the date out for a little." You softened your smile as you pulled out of the garage.

⛧

You all stood like champions at your finished side of the dorm. It was perfectly set up how you wanted it to and it already had a candle lit up. You even met your roommate and her family a few hours ago. When you and the boys arrived they were already done so they left to give you guys space.

This was all going so smoothly. So so so smoothly.

"Now what?" You asked wiping some of the sweat off your forehead. The silence spoke louder than the words would.

"When do your classes start again?" Sam cleared his throat as he started putting the tools back in the bag.

"Monday."

"Then we explore the city for the weekend." Dean said as if he was an old wizard giving a quest for the knight.

And that's exactly what you guys did for the next two days. You woke up early determined to spend the full day together and no matter how tired you guys got, you all woke back up the next morning energized. Besides Dean, of course, he needed he coffee/wake up time.

You guys visited the zoo which led to Dean hitting on multiple single moms there. Unfortunately, he didn't get anyone's number. Not surprising though, he probably looked like a creep.

You guys went to one of the popular museums in the city which was fun. You and Sam made sure there were hands on things for Dean to mess around with so he wouldn't get bored.

The food in the new city was great. You guys hit some of the bakeries, bbq joints and some food trucks. For the last two nights, you made sure to stay up to watch movies while eating pie and candy with Sam and Dean.

However, all of this had to come to an end on Sunday night. The boys made sure to walk you to your dorm. They wanted to make sure you remembered how to get there but you were pretty sure that they just didn't want to leave and make sure nothing was waiting inside to kidnap you. And to your luck, your roommate wasn't there yet.

"So this is it." Sam's voice was softer than usual. It carried the weight of a goodbye he'd been trying not to say since the day you got that letter. He stood by your door, arms crossed tight over his chest like if he didn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart. Dean stood on the other side of you, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the hallway like maybe something would give him an excuse to delay another five minutes.

You gave a small nod, heart pounding a little harder now. "Yeah... this is it."

Dean didn't say anything at first. He just stared at the wall behind you. His silence had always said more than his words. But now, when you needed him to say something - anything - he was still holding it all back.

You looked between them. "I'm not dying, you guys. It's college. I'm gonna call. I'll text. We'll FaceTime. You can send Sam with one of those flash drives of cursed lore and I'll still help from afar."

Sam smiled faintly, eyes misty. "You better. I've got a backlog of Latin I'm saving just for you."

Dean let out a sharp breath. "You better not forget where you come from. Don't start drinking some almond milk crap and wearing ironic sweaters and forget how to load a shotgun."

You scoffed, trying to blink the tears away. "I'm not gonna forget, Dean. I’ll still be me."

"Good." He nodded, then reached into his leather jacket. "Cause... I got you something."

He held out a small, square box. Inside was a silver charm on a chain with an anti-possession symbol, like the one they both wore inked on their chests.

"I know you don't want a tattoo for professionalism or whatever," he said quickly, eyes darting to your face like he was afraid of your reaction. "So... I figured this could be your version of it. Keep it on you. Just in case."

Your throat closed up. You took the necklace, fingers brushing over the edges of the symbol. It was cool, solid. Comforting. "Thanks, Dean... I love it."

He nodded once, sharply, then pulled you into a hug so sudden and tight it stole your breath. You froze for a moment, and then melted into it, gripping the back of his jacket like it was a lifeline.

"I’m proud of you, Bug," he whispered. "So damn proud."

When you finally let go, Sam was already there, wrapping his arms around you like he always did - with everything he had. He smelled like the bunker, like books and cologne and safety.

"You're gonna do amazing things," he said. "You've already made it further than I ever imagined when we were kids."

You smiled against his chest. "You imagined it. You always believed I could."

He kissed the top of your head, then pulled back, wiping his eyes without shame.

Dean cleared his throat. "Alright, alright, this is starting to feel like the end of a Hallmark movie. We better get out of here before I start baking cookies or something."

You laughed, and it cracked a little at the end.

Sam looked reluctant, but he nodded. "We'll see you soon, okay?"

"I'll see you soon."

They both turned, walking slowly down the hallway. Dean turned back one last time, tossing the keys to the Impala into the air and catching them with a wink. "Don't forget how to drive, nerd."

You smiled, hand curling around the necklace.

"I won't."

You stood in the doorway, watching them disappear down the corridor - your brothers, your guardians, your best friends. The only two people who have never left your side even with the ups and downs along the way.

When you stepped back into your dorm, you flopped onto your bed with some tears falling out of your eyes but despite the pain you felt right now you were happy.

⛧

Sam and Dean let out heavy sighs as they slid back into the Impala, which sat parked across from your dorm building. Dean didn't even reach for the keys right away.

"We're sticking around for another week just to make sure everything's safe, right?" Sam asked, breaking the silence.

"Yep," Dean replied, the final p sharp and certain.

They sat there a moment longer, eyes fixed on the building, like they were waiting for a reason to stay. Then Dean finally turned the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life as they pulled away back to motel.