my-stories-vault

[my-stories-vault]

Whatever This Is

Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Reader

You’ve been sleeping with Dean for weeks. You never established what you were doing, just going with the flow, until a vulnerable moment makes for an awkward tangent to ask and find out 2.3k words

Tags/Warnings: fluff, idiots in love, friends to lovers, miscommunication, menstruation, cramping, embarrassing moment for reader, lil bit of humour, Dean is unfazed and an absolute sweetheart, set somewhere in Season 3

Four AM and you’re freezing your tits off. Miserable. Cramping. You give Dean a petulant pout as he waits patiently on the sidewalk for you. Instant regret when you remember he’s currently the sweetest man on earth, navigating through your wrath in his stride, and doesn’t deserve whatever this is.

It’s not his fault your ovaries are punishing you for another successful thwart at reproduction. Not his fault your body is replicating a thousand knives, stabbing you at once in the same spot, even though you’ve had a dose of tylenol. 

Except it is.

He’s half to blame because he wanted the sex, too. There’s an IUD shoved up in there because you decided long ago that taking the pill was far too risky in this business, and he gets to go in without suiting up thanks to past you. 

You cannot have a kid right now. Not only are you both too young and this is far, far too new, but there’s the little detail about him being sentenced to hell to top things off. And you, stopping at nothing to stop it, when you’re not a whimpering puddle of hormones. 

You’re quite the pair.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” He pries your bundle of soiled clothes from your tight grip and offers out his other hand.

“I can manage from here,” you say, but he shakes his head. Pulls you out Baby’s door and through the one belonging to the laundromat, setting you down on the row of chairs in the middle without another word.

He drapes his leather jacket over your shoulders, wrapping you in warmth and whiskey. Sweats, also his, that had hung off your hips, now balloon at your sides.

He’s wearing what he went to sleep in. His hair, still road worn at the back as he feeds your laundry into the machine.  

Your cheeks are warmer. You were all for throwing a tonne of salt on your pjs and lighting them up, but his superhuman powers of simply existing had him rapping on the bathroom door before you’d so much as rinsed the evidence away under the faucet. 

He saunters back over to you and sits down with a groan. Makes a spectacle when he throws his arm over yours and kisses your temple. “You good?” he says, and all you can do is nod. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. S’only natural.”

You lean into him. Let his body further warm yours and your nostrils with the added fruity smell of Tide. “You didn’t bleed all over the place.” 

“Not this time.” He shrugs.

But you’re still not convinced. The blood on the motel sheets didn’t come from your arm or your leg. It came from your hoo-ha, and while he’s right, it’s nothing to be ashamed of because it is perfectly natural. It happened in the same motel room you were sharing with Sam. In the bed you were sharing with Dean. And it happened even though you’d been prepared.

Worst of all, he’d put his hand in it, and while he insisted it wasn’t an issue, you’ve only been sleeping with him for three weeks. Came about after a drunken confession that he was scared shitless ‘bout going to hell, and it kind of stuck. You don’t even know if he is that to you, which makes this ten times worse. 

“Hey.” He nudges you with his hip, squeezes his arm tighter. “We’re busting out of this place today. It’s not like they’ll even remember you if we stay here again.” He tries like that’s the problem.

You know it’s to make you smile, and you appreciate it, you do, but, “That’s not what I’m worried about,” you say. 

“Then what is?” 

He releases his hold on you. Leans forward and back at the same time. Finds the angle that works for him and narrows his gaze at you.

Green eyes pierce your mortified ones, because now you have to tell him, ask him, and you’re licking over your lips, trying to moisten them so the words have something to slip on.

You’re an adult. You got this. Asking what you are to him should be the easiest thing in the world, but there’s that stigma that you’re not worthy. Just a little girl who messes up her bed. Drags her guy friend out in the middle of the night to clean up said mess and watches on as he cleans it up. 

“This.” You splay your arm out in front of you. Wave it around the general expanse of the room you’re in. 

“What? The laundromat?”

“No.” It’s not the place you’re pointing out. Not the wall of washing machines ahead, thirteen of them empty, bar that one, top centre, tumbling your clothes through its big barrel. Not the driers on the other wall, just as big. 

It’s the being here with him. Him sitting here with you waiting. Him acting like boyfriend material, when you don’t know where you stand.

“This,” you say. “Us.”

“Me and you?” His brow furrows. Voice normal, because he still doesn’t get it. 

“Yeah. Us.” You exemplify the you-and-him part with your still flailing arm. 

“Me helping you with your clothes is the problem?” He sits up, though you still feel his eyes on you. 

“Yes.” 

Thank god he gets it now. Only, “How?” he’s asking next, and you could shake him. Why do guys have to be so dumb?

Your hand is moving back and forth between you. You’re stretching to sit up and match him, but it’s cramping your cramping and you’re trying desperately to calm yourself down before saying, “We’re just fooling around. But you’re helping me with my period? It’s a little—”

“You think I’m fooling around?” Dean stands, and though he doesn’t turn around, you don’t need to see his face to know he’s angry. His bowed legs are twitching like they do when he gets mad. 

“It’s not like you’ve asked me out,” you say, defensive. His hot-temper and the pain are a little too much to handle together, but it’s also a little too late to back off now. “We haven’t sat down and talked about this.”

“About us?” He turns, jaw cutting the air. Sharp lines cross his whole face, actually. His brows, the crease between them, his lips, and god those are perfect, and you’re about to lose whatever this was that allowed you to touch them. Taste them, and all you can do is nod.

“What were you expecting me to do? Take you out to some fancy five-star restaurant and buy you lobster?”

Your head rocks to the side. Cheeks rising to squish your lashes as you stare back at him and blink through it. If they were warm before, they’re as hot as the heat pack you’d used earlier during the night before all this occurred. 

“Why—”

“Saw it in a movie once,” he says, words coming out the quickest you’ve heard him speak. The usual gruffness dissipated like he’s de-aged a couple of years by simply standing there. “Snails look gross.” 

“Another movie?”

He nods. 

You wanna ask what the hell he’s been watching, but you’re more concerned by his unusual demeanor. His hands are fidgeting, smoothing his sides. His eyes have dropped to the floor and there’s the whole eating shell…fish thing?

“Look at me,” he says next, but you are. 

You’re seeing his tentative step forward. His arms splayed out like he’s showing you something more than what’s there, and that’s when you realise you’re the one that’s dumb. You’re the one that’s not getting it. 

He didn’t fuss once. Didn’t screw up his nose at you when he realised you weren’t hurt from the hunt like he originally thought. And you’re not saying all the men that have ever been in your life have been grossed out by periods and bodily functions, but Dean exceeded whatever expectation and stereotype you had. 

He’d insisted you stay at the motel while he came here for you, but you were too embarrassed to allow that. Too prudish to let the guy who’s seen all of you up close and personal do something even more intimate than even you’d prefer and now he’s standing there suggesting he’s not good enough? 

“I am looking at you,” you say. “Guess I wasn’t before, but I am now.” 

And even though it still cramps your cramps, you’re standing up and walking over to him. Feeling his jacket clip your sides where his sweats have fallen. You’re clinging to his shirt and pulling him in close so you can kiss those lips of his and taste. 

You’d put your all into it, but his hands are hovering at your waist and you know his eyes are wide open, watching. So you lean back, chew on your cheek, smooth the fabric of his shirt back from where your grip scrunched it up, and, “Sorry,” you whisper. You’re not sure what else to do, but what you’re apologising for is lost on you, too.

It’s not like it’s the first time. He’s kissed you plenty, and not just the peck on your forehead minutes earlier. His mouth has touched every inch of your body, and every inch of him has touched yours, so why is this so damn hard now?

Your chin drops like a scolded child. May as well have with the silence between you. Can’t say the same for the room, but the tumbling of the drum is only making things worse because the clicking of your clothes is acting like a countdown for the timer on the machine and whatever he’s going to do next.

Do you say something? Do you wait for him? Your cheek is going to have a hole in it soon if someone doesn’t say something and thank god, or not, his mouth opens to, but, “Forget I said anything,” you cut in. Shake your head and step away from his space. “I should’ve—”

“Would you just shut up?” His voice booms, and great, there’s that gruffness you were missing. 

Your nose tingles from his stare, and you’re opening your mouth again, but the look he gives you? Eyebrows to the heavens, green eyes looking more amber, like they’ve been lit by a flame? Yeah. You close it, chest heaving as you wait and listen.

“I just,” he says, and it’s quieter. “I thought we were on the same page.”

His fingers reach for yours and he pulls you back. If you were on a boat, you’d be dealing with motion sickness right about now, and truly, it’s how your stomach’s fairing. Just adding more to the discomfort of your middle, and why not? You’ve already given Dean a conniption. What’s one more grievance between the two of you?

“I’m no good, sweetheart. I’m going to hell.”

You want to interject with why that is. That it was a selfless act, but his thumb rubbing over the back of your hand, teed with the softness in his voice and the continual ‘I’m talking here’ glare keeps your lips tight. 

“Can’t say I’d be happy if I saw you picking up some other douchebag at the bar. Like to think I’m the only guy that gets to do your laundry. Least until,” he shrugs. Gives you a rueful smile, “y’know?”  

And you do know. You’re swallowing the ache in your throat, waiting just a little longer to make sure he’s finished before you try again. 

You nod, and it’s solemn, slow. You don’t want to think about it, but the truth is there, hanging over both your heads. An elephant in the room who’s laughing at you and your complaints. Where Dean’s going, he’s going to be feeling a lot more than any tylenol could alleviate, and it really puts things in perspective. 

So, “Yeah,” you say, and though you want to add you don’t want to pick up anyone else but him, ever, it’s a little too real, too involved than whatever this thing is now. You’d rather be trying that kiss again, but first you add, “As long as you’re not doing the same.”

“Cross my heart.” His mouth opens wide as he tugs your arm. Pulls you in and plants his mouth over yours.

It steals your breath away. The way he holds you. Wrapping his arms around your torso and squeezing, gentle enough to not cause you anymore discomfort, but present enough to soak in his warmth and solid form.

His tongue clips your teeth, spreads his morning breath and a taste that you know only from him over your lips. 

Your gut calms. The cramps overpowered by the tingles from his nose, his fingers, chin and arms surrounding you, touching you, and you don’t want it to end. 

But Dean lets go, only by a little. His face stays hovering inches from yours as he stares into your eyes. 

“So have I made myself clear?” he asks. Chuckles when you rap his shoulder. His hand lets go and swipes at a strand of hair that’s probably been sticking out since you woke. Tucks it behind your ear.

You’re a bigger mess than you’ve been letting on, but the gesture returns his grin. 

“Not fooling around?” you say, and he repeats it. Places a kiss on your forehead again, and drags you back to the seats. 

His arm wraps around your shoulders once more and your head leans into his. 

Four AM, and you’re no longer freezing your tits off. Cramping? A little, but the pouts, no longer there. There’s a warmth in your cheeks and one in your heart, though, and you’re sitting with the sweetest guy in the world.

You won’t label it. There’s no need. You know he’s hanging around, at least as long as he can. You just gotta find that loophole. Keep him here with you and Sam, and then who knows? 

Maybe one day you’ll leave this life of visiting laundromats at odd hours because you’ll have a place of your own. 

And then, the only red you’ll see will be the one you’re dealing with now, and the shade that crosses Dean’s nose when he says something real and important.

This started out as another idea for Couple Things involving Dean and his red gym teacher shorts, also at the laundromat, but it developed into what it is now. I’ll probably still write the other version as a part two to this eventually.

Dean Taglist #1

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

@hobby27 @aylacavebear @stellawritesstories @middleearthlife @yeehawgiddyup13

@redwinexsupernova @artemys-ackles @kimxwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @impala67rollingthroughtown

If you’d like to be added, you can add yourself HERE, or if you’d like to be removed, please let me know ☺️

[my-stories-vault]

hiii lovely, I hope you’re doing well 💙 i’m on the verge of sleep lol, but I have a fun question for youu :) in your opinion which jackles character likes to say “my wife” the most? 😗 (I mean i’m sure they’d all be down bad for their spouse lmao, but who do you think takes the cake? 🤣)

sidenote; I hope everything is going good for you !! If I remember correctly you had a lot goin on lately, I hope everything is settling smoothly <33

Hey, friend!! Sorry it's taken me a while to answer. I just started a new job this week, so my brain is all over the place. 🤪 (Thank you for asking! 💕) But I loooove this question lol. Let's say we're talking about the Big Four - Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy, and Russell Shaw.

HEADCANON: Who says "my wife" the most?

Yeah I feel like if they all got to the point of letting someone in that deep, all of them would be down bad for their girl lol. But I feel like it would go something like this:

Dean Winchester + Soldier Boy (Ben): Protective 👿

Not to say that Beau and Russell aren't protective bois too, but I feel like Dean and Ben are more likely to "say it" in that gut punch situation where they're about to tear someone a new orifice.

"Fuck off, asshole. That's my wife."

"That's my wife. Show her some fucking respect, before I break every limp-dick fucking bone in your body."

Beau Arlen + Russell Shaw: Playful 😘

I think Beau and Russ are more likely to "say it" more often, but in that playful, endearing, flirty teasing way.

"How's my lovely wife doing on this beautiful evening?" He wraps you up in his arms, fully knowing how late he is and trying to lighten up your glare. "Waiting three hours for her husband to get off work so we can actually make it to our anniversary dinner," you snip. "I managed to rechedule the reservation, but we've gotta move quick if we're going to make it in half an hour." He butters you up in any way possible, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek. "That's why I love you. You always think ahead." Rolling your eyes, but still smiling, you grab ahold of his tie. "All right, cowboy. Let's go."

"Ooh, I can't be seen with the likes of you, sweetheart. My wife would kill me." Cue a mischievous smirk. You shake your head in amusement. God. This man. You still let him slip his arms around your waist and pull you in close, so he can trail his lips up your neck, inhaling the alluring scent of your perfume. You giggle breathlessly. This is one of his favorite little games. The gold band on the ring finger of your left hand matching the one on his calls his bluff though. "She doesn't have to know," you purr. Your lips are just shy of a whisper near his ear. "This can be our little secret."

AN: @wvffles I hope this answers your question! 😘💓

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when more HCs drop! Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Russell Shaw Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[my-stories-vault]

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 14

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 6030

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Dean being Dean, Reader struggles with the unknown, Talk of claiming, Slight intimacy.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 14

Dean’s paws barely touched the ground as he raced through the trees, a streak of powerful muscle and golden-brown fur weaving through the early morning mist. His heart pounded—not from exertion, but from pure exhilaration.

He’d be claiming you tonight. His omega. His true mate.

The realization sent a fresh jolt of energy through him, making his limbs move faster, his breaths come quicker. His pack could feel it the moment he got close to where they had gathered—his excitement was a wildfire, and they were caught in the blaze.

Benny was the first to react, lunging out from behind a tree with a playful growl. Tag.

Dean swerved, dodging at the last second, his tail whipping behind him as he let out a sharp bark. Then he took off again, Benny hot on his heels.

A whoop of excitement rang out as Ellen and Jo joined the chase, their wolves darting between trees, trying to cut him off. Dean juked left, then right, his movements sharp and precise, his joy infectious. Sam, watching from a distance, just shook his head with a chuff of amusement, his ears flicking back briefly before he turned away. But even he couldn’t deny the way the air around them hummed with energy.

For the first time in a long time, Dean wasn’t weighed down by doubt or hesitation. He wasn’t caught in some constant tug-of-war between instinct and control. He just was—free, unburdened, whole in a way he had never felt before. 

Eventually, the game slowed, the pack gradually retreating to rest, but Dean’s energy didn’t fade. As the sky began to lighten, just before sunrise, he trotted up the steps of his cabin, shaking out his fur before shifting back.

The morning air kissed his skin as he stretched, rolling his shoulders before stepping inside.

Excitement still buzzed beneath his skin, making him move with a lightness he wasn’t used to. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he glanced around. Everything had to be right. Perfect.

He stepped over to the couch first, his gaze settling on the folded blanket you had given him. His fingers ghosted over the fabric, smoothing it out before setting it just so, picturing the two of you curled up beneath it, your warmth pressed into his side. The thought alone sent a pleasant shiver down his spine.

Next was the kitchen. He opened the fridge, scanning the shelves. Fully stocked. Good. The freezer—meat, plenty of it. The pantry—more than enough. Is it enough? He hesitated, then frowned slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You probably wanted options. More than just what I’d normally eat. He made a mental note to stop at Sam’s but quickly nixed that idea. Jess was there, and they’d be tangled in each other. He huffed, running a hand through his hair. No, it’ll be enough. 

Moving through the cabin, he straightened a few things here and there, fixing the pillows, adjusting the small things he normally wouldn’t bother with. The need to prepare was instinctive, a deep-seated drive that made his heart beat a little faster.

You were coming here. To his space. And that night, tonight, he would claim you. 

Dean let out a slow breath, then sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. His knee bounced with restless energy. He was eager, anxious, ready. Briefly, he wondered how you had felt when you had claimed him, nearly a month ago now.

You had taken on the role he was now in. That only steeled his resolve. 

One last glance around before he went to shower.

A few more hours, and he’d finally have you here.

—-------------------

Dean barely had the door of your cabin open before it hit him.

Your scent.

Faint traces of fresh rain, vanilla, but beneath it, something heavier. Unease. The same tension that had lingered in your scent for the last three nights, the one he’d tried to chase away with his touch, his warmth. 

It hadn’t faded. If anything, it was stronger now.

His wolf went still.

The restless energy from earlier—the giddy, weightless feeling of tonight’s the night—shifted, sharpening into something else. Something more aware. More focused.

The drive over flickered in his mind, moments he hadn’t given much thought to before. His fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm on Baby’s steering wheel. His grip tightening when the radio had shifted to something slow, something that reminded him of you. The way his wolf had paced—not in excitement, but anticipation. Something deeper.

Now, standing at your door, all those details he’d brushed aside settled into place. 

You were still scared.

Your shoulders were drawn tight, hands resting motionless on the keyboard. The way your eyes flicked up, meeting his, and in that split second—before you could school your expression—he saw it in your eyes.

Fear.

Not sharp. Not fresh. Something settled. Something that had been sitting heavy in your chest for more than just the past few days.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, his wolf pushing forward in the same breath, instincts locked in step.

You didn’t resist when he pulled you up, when he wrapped his arms around you. Your fingers curled into his jacket, and he let his hand settle at the back of your head, grounding you in the way he needed to.

“I’m scared,”  you whispered, barely audible.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “You won’t be alone, I promise.” You’d talked about this before—your fears. You’d shared pieces of with him over the past few nights when he was in wolf form. But now, for the first time, he could feel them, thick in your scent, raw and unguarded.

There were no words that could fix this. He knew that. So for now, he just held you, breathing with you, feeling the slow, uneven rhythm of your chest until it began to steady.

Part of him wanted to be selfish—to go through with the plans the two of you had made, to prove to you that there was nothing to be afraid of. But his instincts were stronger. 

“Sit with me,” he murmured, guiding you to the couch.

Once you were settled, he shifted closer, letting his warmth wrap around you. “We can wait, if that’ll help.”

It wasn’t what you expected him to say. The sincerity in his eyes cracked something open inside you, and before you could stop it, tears spilled down your cheeks. 

Wordlessly, you grabbed your laptop and set it in his lap. You couldn’t speak the thoughts spiraling inside you, but you could let him read them. 

Gesturing to the screen, you hoped he’d understand.

While he read, you fought to pull yourself together, wiping at your face, willing the tears to stop. But the unease was still there, tangled deep, leaking into your scent no matter how hard you tried to contain it.

Waiting wasn’t the problem. Not really. It had started as apprehension, but as the time drew closer, it had shifted—morphing into something heavier. Fear of the unknown.

And the worst part? It wasn’t going away.

Dean read every word, his brows drawn together, his fingers tightening slightly against the laptop’s edge.

Your fear wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about the bond itself. It was about not knowing—about stepping into something irreversible without being able to predict how it would change you.

And damn if he didn’t understand that better than anyone.

A little over a month ago, it had been him sitting in your place, caught between instinct and uncertainty. The way you had just been there for him. Soft. Gentle. A grounding presence of reassurance. 

He’d been scared, too. Had even told you so during the celebration.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of what it meant—giving himself over completely, no take-backs, no way to undo what had been set into motion.

That whole week after you’d claimed him, when he let you take care of him like an alpha would care for an omega. How sure you had been. The confident yet gentle way you looked at him, touched him, held him. 

Now, looking at you—at the way your hands trembled in your lap, at the way you kept your breathing controlled like you were afraid of letting it hitch—he saw himself.

Saw the weight of everything you couldn’t find words to say.

You didn’t want to wait. You wanted to have all those things your mutation kept from you. You just didn’t know how to let go of being scared.

Dean exhaled slowly, shutting the laptop and setting it aside. His hand found yours without hesitation, fingers wrapping around your trembling ones, steady and warm.

“How about you just come over, spend the night,” he murmured, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. 

A simple offer. No pressure. Just being there. 

What you didn’t know was that Dean had done his research—had read up on feline behavior more times than he’d ever admit, trying to understand you better. And one thing he’d learned? Cats didn’t handle too many firsts at once.

And tonight would’ve been a lot. His cabin. Winchester land. Getting claimed. Giving yourself fully to him.

Too much, too fast.

It wasn’t a solution. It wouldn’t erase the fear. But maybe, just maybe, it was enough to help you breathe—keep you grounded in the here and now, where you weren’t alone.

For a beat, you just stared at him, your mind still tangled in the weight of everything that had been spiraling inside you. But his words—his offer—slipped through the cracks, warm and steady, easing some of that tension.

Spending the night. Just being with him. No pressure. No expectations.

The tight knot in your chest loosened, just enough for you to take a full breath. Just enough for the fear to stop clawing at you quite so hard.

“...Yeah,” you murmured, squeezing his fingers. “I think—I’d like that.” Dean’s shoulders eased, and his grip on your hand tightened, just a little. “Good,” he said softly. “We’ll take it slow, okay? Just you and me.”

You nodded, the weight of his presence settling over you like a balm. You could do that.

Just be with him. Just let yourself breathe.

For the first time in days, the fear wasn’t quite so loud.

Dean grabbed your bag from where you’d set it on the far end of the couch, slinging the strap over his shoulder. But when he glanced back, his eyes landed on your laptop, still sitting on the coffee table.

You’d spent days writing on that thing. Pouring your thoughts into it when the words wouldn’t come out any other way.

Without a word, he carefully slid it into his case, making sure the charging cable and the mouse you always used were tucked in, too. He didn’t know if you’d want it tonight, but at least you’d have the choice.

The tension in the air had eased—not gone, but quieter now. And you looked more settled, your body language softer, looser. That was enough for now.

The drive back to Winchester land was quiet, but it wasn’t heavy. Just the low hum of the Impala’s engine, the familiar roads stretching ahead, and the warmth of your presence in the passenger seat.

Halfway there, your stomach let out a quiet but undeniable grumble.

Dean glanced over, arching a brow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “When’s the last time you ate?”

You hugged yourself, embarrassed. “...Last night.”

That earned you a sharp look before he turned back to the road. “Sweetheart.” It wasn’t scolding, not really—just a mix of concern and exasperation, the kind that came from someone who cared more than he had the words for.

He exhaled through his nose, making a mental note. First thing after getting her settled—food.

Something warm. Something easy. Something that might make you feel just a little bit more at home.

You didn’t argue. Just curled into the seat a little more, as if the rumble of the car and the steady rhythm of the road were finally lulling your nerves into something manageable.

And Dean? Dean just drove, already planning how to take care of you, ease your fear as much as you’d allow.

You knew he’d be upset if he found out that you hadn’t napped either, and the last thing you wanted was to do that. Your gaze drifted out the window, watching as the scenery passed by, but your mind was elsewhere, again. Even with as much as you’d written, you still didn’t have any answers. At least Jess would be there, on Winchester land, and no matter how much you hated the idea of taking time from Sam, you knew she’d be there for you.

Dean glanced over, catching the way your gaze stayed fixed on the window, unfocused. He knew that look—you were thinking too hard, turning things over in your mind until they tangled up, leaving you no way out. Hell, that same expression had been on his face for weeks before you had claimed him.

Without a word, he reached over, resting a warm hand on your knee. His thumb brushed once, twice—just enough pressure to pull you back without forcing you to talk. When you blinked, shifting just slightly toward him, he let his hand linger a moment longer before pulling away, giving you space.

The rest of the drive was quiet, filled only with the steady rumble of the Impala’s engine. And then, finally, he turned onto the familiar dirt road leading onto Winchester land, past the main cabin. The sight of it settling something in his chest. He gave a nod to Benny, who was on the porch as he drove by.

Your gaze shifted to the windshield, taking in the land for the first time in the daylight. The one and only time you had been here had been for the celebration, and even then, the darkness had kept most of it hidden from you. It was set up much like the Winter pack’s land. With it being the morning after the last night of the full moon, more pack members were moving about than usual. Most would be leaving in a few hours to go back to their homes in town.

“Sam’s cabin is just over that way,” Dean said, pointing to the left, down another dirt road. You could make it out in the near distance, his truck parked out front.

Dean eased the car to a stop, pulling your gaze forward again, shifting into park before cutting the engine. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, voice low, warm. “Let’s get you inside and fed.”

He moved without hesitation, grabbing your bags from the backseat before circling around to your door. You took his outstretched hand with a shaky breath, letting him help you.

It’s just a sleepover, nothing more. 

The thought allowed you to relax, the knot in your stomach giving way to hunger instead. Dean led you up the steps, his hand on your lower back, steady, grounding.

Stepping inside, the first thing you noticed was the warmth—not from the temperature, but from the space itself. It was simple, lived-in, yet undeniably Dean. The scent of pine and something faintly smoky lingered in the air, like how clothes smelled after being around a fire.

The open floor plan was familiar, similar to your own home, but without a second floor. The living room opened up just ahead, a worn-in couch taking center stage, dark fabric stretched over sturdy cushions that had clearly seen years of use. There, on the far cushion, the blanket you had given him three months ago lay folded, as if he had just set it down. A coffee table sat in front of it, a few coasters scattered across its surface, one of them carrying the ghost of a ring left behind.

To the right, the kitchen blended seamlessly into the space, separated only by a slight shift in flooring. Light countertops and wooden cabinets lined the wall, well-used but tidy, everything in its place. A single mug rested near the coffee pot—clean, waiting—evidence of the early morning before he’d come to pick you up. The scent of coffee still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with something distinctly homey.

Directly across from the door, a hallway stretched further into the cabin, leading to the rest of the space—his bedroom, a spare room, and a bathroom. Your gaze flickered that way for a moment, a sudden awareness settling over you at the thought of sleeping here, under his roof. Just a sleepover. Nothing more, you reminded yourself again.

Dean brushed past you with a quiet chuckle, nudging your arm slightly. “You gonna stand there and analyze my place all day, or you gonna get comfy?”

You blinked, forcing a small smile as you glanced up at him. He was watching you, something knowing in his gaze, but he didn’t push. Just offered you that easy warmth he always did.

“Kitchen’s over there,” he said, nodding toward it as he set your bags down by the couch. “Wanna join me while I make you some breakfast?”

You exhaled, some of the tension slipping from your shoulders. His space felt safe—steady—just like him. 

“Sure,” you said, stepping forward, following him into the kitchen.

You seated yourself at the table, watching him as he moved around the space with ease. It was much like he had moved around your kitchen when he cooked there. When he had mentioned how similar you had set up your place, you had partially thought he was joking. Now, seeing what he pulled from where, you realized he had been utterly serious. The thought settled somewhere deep, a quiet acknowledgment that his space felt almost as familiar as your own.

Breakfast was easy—simple, warm, filling. Dean had made scrambled eggs and toast, sliding a plate in front of you without any fuss, just a quiet, “Eat up, sweetheart.” And you had, the food settling in your stomach like an anchor, grounding you.

The unease still lingered, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. More like a whisper in the back of your mind, a weight that hadn’t quite lifted. Dean didn’t push. He just sat across from you, eating his own meal, filling the space with small talk that didn’t require much from you. It helped. His voice, steady and familiar, made it easier to stay present.

When you finished, you started to rise, already reaching for your plate, but Dean’s hand shot out, a gentle but firm press against your forearm, stopping you.

“I got it,” he said, already gathering the dishes before you could argue. “You relax. I’ll give you the tour.”

You hesitated, but the look he gave you left no room for debate. Not in a commanding way. Your breath hitched for a moment. It was the same way you had been with him, from the day you had claimed him, and the week after. The realization settled in, soft and certain. He’s taking care of me now.

So, you let him. 

He led you down the hallway, starting with the spare room. “Not much in here,” he admitted, pushing the door open. “Extra blankets, couple of pillows. Sam’s crashed here a few times when he didn’t feel like driving home.” It was simple, functional, but warm—just like the rest of the cabin.

Next was the bathroom. “Towels are in here.” He knocked a knuckle against the cabinet, then jerked his chin toward the sink. “Anything you need, just help yourself. Although—” a small, knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, “if I know you, you probably brought your own stuff.”

The teasing pulled a bashful smile from you, a flicker of something lighter passing between you both.

And then, finally, his room.

Dean nudged the door open, stepping inside first, setting your bags down near the dresser. The space was… unmistakably his. A large bed, neatly made, dark sheets and a thick comforter. A few personal touches were scattered around—his leather jacket draped over the chair, books stacked unevenly on the nightstand, an old watch sitting on the dresser.

He turned to you, watching your reaction carefully. Maybe waiting for hesitation. Resistance. But you just exhaled, your shoulders easing, the weight slipping just a little.

And he felt it too.

Just having you there, in his space, made it all feel complete, like you had been the missing piece all along. It had always been his, but now… now it felt like so much more. 

“Why don’t we watch a movie after you change into something more comfortable,” he suggested, his smirk softer now, inviting.

And just like that, the last of the tension in your chest loosened. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Okay.”

Dean headed out to the living room, that lightness from earlier back in his step as he set things up. 

You changed into something comfortable—a nightshirt, soft and worn just right. The fabric settled over your skin, the familiar weight of it grounding you further. For a moment, you lingered in Dean’s room, letting your eyes sweep over the space again. 

Something twisted in your stomach. This should feel like more than the space it was. You should feel it, but couldn’t. It should be filled with his scent, whatever that was, but you couldn’t smell it. There was just the scent of pine and leather mixing with his deodorant. Letting out a slow breath, you ran your fingers along the edge of the comforter before finally pushing yourself to leave, padding down the hall toward the living room.

Dean was waiting, just like you knew he would be.

The TV cast a soft glow across the space, some old familiar movie ready to play, something he knew you liked. He’d taken note of the movies back at your place, picking up copies of ones you told him you loved. He sat on the couch, his arm draped over the back, a casual ease to his posture that didn’t quite hide the way he was waiting for you. The blanket you’d given him months ago was pooled across his lap, already half-open, ready for you to settle in.

The second he caught sight of you, his eyes flicked over you—not in a way that made you self-conscious, just a quiet checking in.

You could see the shift in him before he even spoke.

“C’mere, sweetheart.” His voice was low, steady. A gentle invitation, not a demand.

You only hesitated for a fraction of a second, but he saw it.

The moment you curled up beside him, the warmth of his body settled against yours, his arm coming down to wrap around you without a second thought. The blanket was pulled over both of you, cocooning you in that same quiet, easy warmth.

And Dean… Dean felt it.

The way you relaxed, fully and without reservation. The way your scent softened. The unease hadn’t fully faded, but something sweeter wove through it now—comfort, trust, him.

Something in his chest eased.

This—this—was what being an alpha was supposed to feel like. Not dominance, not control, not possessiveness, but this. Keeping you close. Comforting you. Taking care of you in ways that didn’t need words.

His hand found your arm, fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes against your skin. Not asking for anything. Just… feeling you there. The same way you had done for him.

And you let him.

The weight of your worry slipped away, the sound of the movie blurring into the background. The steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him beside you—this was what mattered. It grounded you.

He’ll always be there for me, like I was and am for him.

The thought brought a small smile to your lips as your eyes grew heavy. It wasn’t long before it all lulled you off to sleep, your head having slipped down, resting on his thigh. Dean chuckled quietly, more to himself, seeing you like this. 

Dean let himself sink into the moment, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before resting his hand on your shoulder. Your breathing was steady, relaxed. Your lips slightly parted as your hand rested just above his knee. 

His gaze lingered on your neck, bared to him in sleep. His eyes fluttered shut as his mind wandered—drifting to a future he’d imagined more times than he could count.

You were doing the dishes, your hair up in a braid as the evening shades of the sunset filtered through the windows. He came up behind you, arms snaking around your waist, resting on the small bump where his pup was growing inside you. A hum slipped past your lips as you leaned into him.

He kissed over the mark on your neck, his mark. “How’s the rugrat treating you today?” he murmured against your skin.

“Rowdy, like his father,” you teased, a playful smirk toying with your lips.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You think it's a boy?”

Your playful laughter filled the kitchen. “Pretty sure a girl wouldn’t be doing karate, using my ribs and bladder as targets.”

You shifting on the couch pulled him from his daydream. He hadn’t even realized that his fingers had drifted to your neck, lazily brushing over your skin. Dean exhaled slowly, grounding himself as he settled his hand back on your shoulder.

She’s just spending the night. He tried to remind himself of that, of the fear and unease that still clung faintly to your scent. No matter what plans the two of you had made, your comfort came first. Dean knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to claim you, not until you showed him that you really were ready.

Dean let out a slow breath, focusing back on the movie that was only halfway over. His heart was pounding against his ribcage from his daydream, reality crashing against it. For a while, he just sat there, letting you sleep, using his thigh as a pillow, soaking in the peace it brought him. Near the end of the movie, he carefully eased himself off the couch, cradling your head in his palm before setting it onto the cushion. He looked down at you, something deeper than love wrapping around his chest, like a blanket on a cold winter’s day. For the first time in days, you finally looked peaceful.

Dean moved quietly, keeping his steps light as he grabbed the remote and flipped through the music options, settling on something low and instrumental. He knew how silence could be too loud sometimes, and the last thing he wanted was for you to stir too soon.

He glanced back at you once more, your body curled into the couch, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The sight of you finally getting some rest—after the long night, after everything—eased something in him.

In the kitchen, he pulled out a pan, deciding on something simple but filling. Steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and maybe some green beans. He worked without rushing, letting the soft clink of utensils and the occasional sizzle from the pan blend into the background.

By the time he was finishing up, the scent of meat and buttered potatoes had thickened the air. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, popping the cap off with a quiet hiss before setting it next to your plate.

The shift in the atmosphere must have reached you because, from behind him, he heard the quiet inhale—followed by the rustling of fabric as you shifted on the couch. 

“Mmm,” you hummed groggily, stretching before blinking sleep-heavy eyes toward the kitchen. You propped yourself up on one elbow, taking in the dim light, the soft music, the man at the stove.

Dean turned, smirking. “Look who’s alive.”

You rubbed your face, feeling that familiar prickle of guilt. “Didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

His smirk softened. “You were up all night with me, sweetheart. ‘Bout time you got some rest.” He nodded toward the plate at the table, beer beside it. “Figured you’d be hungry when you woke up.” Your stomach answered for you, the low grumble making Dean huff a quiet laugh. “That’s what I thought.” You swung your legs over the edge of the couch, yawning as you stretched again. That nap had helped more than you expected. Your limbs felt lighter, tension smoothed out by the warmth of sleep.

Dean grabbed the beer and held it out as you stood. “Here. Might help you relax a little more.” You took it with a grateful smile as he grabbed one for himself. “Thanks.” “There’s more. So, don’t be shy,” he said, nudging your chin playfully before guiding you to the table.

This wasn’t the first time he had cooked for you, just the first time in his home. Something about the simplicity of it, after waking up from a nap, made everything melt away. Even the faint unease that had lingered was gone. 

Over dinner, the conversation stayed light—nothing heavy. He even managed to get you to be playful with him, the two of you bantering back and forth. Dinner itself had you moaning in satisfaction, practically purring as the flavors danced on your tongue.

Dean had to shift in his seat, not wanting to let on what those sounds were doing to him. Thankfully, your eyes were closed as you savored another bite of steak. 

He smirked, shaking his head as he took a swig of his beer. “Damn, sweetheart. If I knew a steak would get those kinds of sounds out of you, I would’ve made you one a long time ago.” You opened your eyes, catching the way he was watching you—fond, amused, but with something else simmering beneath it. You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck as you reached for your beer. “It’s not my fault you’re good at this.” Then, under your breath, “And have different spices than I do.”

Dean hummed, twirling his fork between his fingers. “You always make noises like that when you eat, or am I just special?” You scoffed, nudging his foot under the table. “Shut up and take the compliment.” His chuckle rumbled low in his chest, but he let it go, focusing back on his food. The rest of dinner went like that—light teasing, easy conversation, the comfort of knowing neither of you had to be anywhere else but here.

After the plates were cleared, you leaned back in your chair, sighing contentedly. The beer had settled warm in your stomach, the food even more so. It was the most at ease you had felt in days.

Dean stood, grabbing both bottles and tossing them in the trash before turning back to you, hands resting on the counter. “You wanna throw on another movie? Or you feeling too old to stay up past ten?” You rolled your eyes, stretching your arms over your head. “Pretty sure you’re the old man here, Winchester.” “Oh, so that’s how it is?” He pushed off the counter, crossing toward you slowly, eyes playful but predatory. “I’ll remember that, sweethaert.” You grinned, pushing your chair back and standing. “Guess we’ll see how your stamina is later.” Dean didn’t miss a beat, letting out a huff of laughter, shaking his head before nodding toward the living room. “Go pick something, then. Nothin’ sappy.” You saluted him with a smirk before heading toward the TV, feeling lighter than you had in a long time. As you scanned over the movie titles, you wondered if he had caught on to what you’d said. But there was no way you were going to ask outright. 

You could feel Dean watching you. Not just glancing—watching. 

You selected Back to the Future and popped it on, grinning as you turned back to him. “Acceptable?” Dean smirked. “Classic. Good choice.” By the time you settled onto the couch, Dean was already there, arm draped over the backrest. Like before, it felt natural to curl up against him. His body was warm, solid, and when he shifted to rest his arm more securely around you, his hand brushed along your upper arm, fingers barely grazing your skin.

You swallowed. His touch felt… different. The way his fingers traced over your shoulder, slow and deliberate, like he was testing something, waiting to see if you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

Your heart beat a little harder in your chest. You tried to focus on the movie, but then his fingers moved higher, brushing against the side of your neck.

A shiver ran down your spine—not from cold.

Dean felt it. His fingers lingered at the curve of where your shoulder met your neck, the barest whisper of touch over your scent gland.

Your breath hitched.

He exhaled softly through his nose, his body relaxing a little more against yours. Encouraged. He did it again.

A slow, unhurried stroke along that sensitive spot, and this time, a heat curled low in your stomach—warm and welcoming. 

You inhaled, trying to steady yourself, but the problem was him—and the fact that no one had touched you so intimately before. Even when you’d claimed him, he had stayed away from your scent gland. 

But this? This was deliberate. Measured. And far from unwelcome.

Dean’s voice was low, barely more than a murmur. “You good?”

You nodded, pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips. “Yeah,” you managed, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted it to be.

Dean didn’t move away, but he didn’t push further, either. Just stayed close, fingers tracing slow, thoughtful patterns against your skin, letting you settle into it. He knew exactly what he was doing. He could smell it.

The fear of what would come after wasn’t there. Deep down, you knew he’d be there, every step of the way, just like you had been for him. Another shaky breath left your lips as his fingers ghosted over that spot again, your fingers gripping his shirt a little tighter.

A knowing smirk tugged at his lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You looked up at him, narrowing your eyes, but there was no real annoyance there. “You’re enjoying yourself far too much.”

Dean leaned a little closer, his fingers grazing your chin, tilting your face toward him. His voice dropped lower, thick with promise. “I’d rather be enjoying you, omega.”

The words sent a tremor through you. Your tongue darted out, wetting your lips, but it did nothing to ease the sudden dryness in your throat. The warmth of his touch, the slow, teasing caresses along your scent gland, the way his fingers traced along your jaw—it was all too much and not enough at the same time. Each stroke sent a ripple of heat through your veins, making your breath hitch and your fingers curl against his chest.

Dean was watching you. Reading you.

He leaned in, his nose skimming against your temple, your cheek, breathing you in like he was committing every part of you to memory. Yeah, the two of you had shared heated moments since you had claimed him, but this? This was different. More intimate. More deliberate. 

Dean placed a tender, lingering kiss on your forehead before he stood. You watched as he moved around the space, turning off the movie, then the light in the kitchen, leaving only the dim glow of a single lamp in the living room.

You shifted a little on the couch as he returned, standing before you, holding out his hand for you to take. Your breath hitched as the moment froze—it was just how you had done with him.

Your gaze went from his outstretched hand, up to his eyes. The way he looked at you—it was the same way you had looked at him that night. He didn’t need to say anything. You could see it in his expression. That night, it was you asking him to trust you. Tonight, he was asking you to trust him.

With a small, soft smile, you reached out and took his hand, then let him lead you to his room.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 15

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007

@hobby27 @megs-gadom @cheekygirl2309 @mxtansy @ladysparkles78

@ambiguous-avery @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault

@maddie0101 @bettystonewell @whimsyfinny

Tag List: @nancymcl @lovelydisc @luahmeeks @alternativeprincess94 @kailalaland

@ladykitana90 @muhahaha303 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @suckitands33 @stoneyggirl2

[my-stories-vault]

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 13

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 4171

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Dean being Dean, Reader struggles with the unknown, Talk of claiming.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 13

You smoothed your hands over the fabric of Dean’s old flannel, the worn softness comforting against your fingertips. You had chosen something simple—jeans, a comfortable shirt, and that flannel, the same one he’d left with you that first night, three months ago. Back then, everything had been uncertain. You hadn’t known how things would play out. 

Now, you did.

Tonight, you were meeting him under the full moon—not just his wolf but all of him. The man and the wolf, together as one, able to shift back if he chose.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself against the rush of anticipation curling in your stomach. You weren’t afraid. If anything, you felt a quiet certainty, something deep in your bones that told you this was right. You’d spent so many nights speaking to his wolf, but tonight, it would be different.

You grabbed the pair of his sweatpants he’d forgotten to pack last time and tucked them under your arm. If he did shift back, he’d need them. It was a simple thing, but grounding. A small act of care, just like his flannel pulled over your shoulders.

The path to your meeting place was familiar, one you had walked for years. But this time, the man you had waited for was already there.

—--------------------------

Shifting while fully there was a whole new experience. The memories had been one thing, but feeling it—God, feeling it—was something else entirely. 

He stretched, muscles rolling beneath thickening fur. It was seamless, effortless, like breathing. But damn, the rush of it. The exhilaration of instinct flooding his veins, of the world sharpening into something more.

His pack was there, shifting beside him, the unspoken bond between them deeper like this. Words had never been enough for this connection. Every flick of an ear, every shift of a muscle meant something language could never quite capture. 

Sam nudged against him, a comforting press of warmth. Then the others followed, their scents mingling, their bodies moving in unison. They lifted their heads, howling to the moon. A song of welcoming, of acceptance, of family. 

Jess nudged against his side. Their song changed, shifting to weave her into it, an unspoken recognition. She was being welcomed, too.

Dean howled in return, then a short bark before he took off—toward their place. The place that has been as much a part of his life as shifting itself. Tonight, for the first time, he would get to see you through his wolf’s eyes. Experience it.

The night air carried the scents of home, woodsmoke and pine mixing with the subtle traces of the pack that had worked the land. He could still smell them in the disturbed earth, the faint musk of hands smoothing over freshly carved wood. The effort put into something that mattered.

The fence was gone.

The barrier that had once divided this place, the invisible line where he had stopped and you had stood just beyond, no longer existed. In its place stood an archway of intertwined wood, polished and sealed, its craftsmanship careful, deliberate. On either side, a bench sat with space between them—five feet, just enough to let a choice be made. Lanterns hung on either side, their glow casting flickering shadows over the clearing.

His wolf’s ears flicked forward, eyes scanning every inch of it, but his chest ached in a way that wasn’t purely instinct. This wasn’t just a place anymore. It was a piece of both your stories, shaped by hands that understood what it meant without ever being told.

A shift in the air made his breath hitch.

You were coming.

And for the first time, he saw you—all of you.

You moved through the trees, quiet but undeniable. But something deeper stirred in him as he watched, something that reached beyond the physical. 

Your form blurred, not in reality, but for his eyes only. Something held for your true mate, him.

Your wolf walked with you. Superimposed like a ghost, its coat the deepest black, darker than the night sky stretched above him. Its eyes—your eyes—burned with a blue so deep it felt endless, like the ocean at its most unfathomable depths.

Dean exhaled, slow and reverent.

She was always mine. I was always hers.

He had felt this bond before—the day he met you. But seeing you like this, both the woman and the wolf, woven together in a way he hadn’t known was possible, made something inside him settle. This was how his wolf had always known you, how it had always seen you.

He felt everything his wolf had every night the two of you had met before. The bond his wolf felt from the first night he shifted. But seeing your wolf with his own eyes…

God, you were breathtaking. 

And it only steeled his resolve of claiming you once this full moon descended for another month. Two more nights, that’s all I have to wait.

—----------------------------

Before you ever quite made it to that spot, the glow from lanterns caught your eye. The was… unexpected. You knew the pack elders had discussed removing the fence, but that was all you’d been privy to. As you stepped past the ancient stump, your breath hitched. 

The fence was gone. In its place stood a beautifully crafted archway, built from wood taken from both lands—woven together, seamless, like something that had always been meant to exist.  And beneath it, waiting, stood your mate. 

A sharp inhale stung your lungs, emotions surged too fast to separate—relief, joy, longing, something deeper you didn’t have a name for. Your throat tightened, but you smiled through it, letting a few quiet tears slip free.

His wolf no longer just beneath the surface, no longer something separate from him, but fully, completely part of him. His stance was the same, familiar and steady, but his presence felt… different. Stronger. More complete. His eyes—God, his eyes—were no longer just his own. Something deeper lived there now, something you could only describe as home. 

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, exhaling softly before whispering the words you had always greeted him with.

“Hi, wolf.”

Dean couldn’t move. His paws rooted in place, those two simple words settling deep in his chest, wrapping around his soul. A familiar lopsided grin spread across his open mouth, his tongue hanging slightly as he held your gaze.

You knelt on the earth before him, setting the sweats on the bench, but his eyes were on you.

Then, without hesitation, he licked your cheek, a warm, grounding touch before he pressed into you—his head tucking into the curve of your neck, his chest flush with yours. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, sinking into the embrace.

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours, in the comfort of each other, even if it wasn’t more than a few minutes. Then, Dean shifted back to human form, still holding you close. It was something his wolf had wanted to do on so many nights. 

When you tried to shift to reach for the sweats, he stopped you, his hand curling gently around your wrist. Your eyes met his, the weight of something unspoken passing between you.

“I wasn’t sure it was possible to love you more than I already did,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with emotion. He reached up, cupping your cheek, nuzzling his nose against the side of yours. “But seeing you tonight, under the full moon…”

Dean let out a shaky breath. It wasn’t the bond of being true mates. It wasn’t the bond from you claiming him. It was something more. 

It was the way that you had fallen in love with him without any of those things. He just wasn’t sure how to put that into words.

Dean exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing over the curve of your cheek before he finally pulled back just enough to take you in. His gaze flickered over to the folded sweats on the bench, something soft crossing his expression.

“You brought these for me?” he asked, reaching for them. His voice was quieter now, like the weight of everything was finally settling in.

You nodded, watching as he unfolded them, his thumb grazing the fabric. It was such a simple thing, but the care behind it hit him deep. No one had ever thought about moments like this for him before—not like you did.

He tugged them on, the warmth of the gesture lingering as he stood beside you. That’s when you took in the benches—new, sturdy, built for moments like this. Curiosity got the better of you, and as you lifted the seat, you found a couple of neatly folded blankets inside, with a few other miscellaneous things.

A surprised laugh left your lips. “Looks like they thought of everything.” Dean huffed a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah. Pretty sure that between our two packs, there’s nothing we can’t figure out.”

You pulled out a blanket and draped it over the two of you as you sat close together, the night settling around you. The silence stretched, not awkward, just… full.

Dean glanced over, something flickering behind his eyes. “Can you—” He hesitated for a beat before pushing through. “Can you talk to me?”

You turned to him, brows lifting in question.

“Like you used to,” he clarified, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “When I was—when it was just my wolf.”

The request sent a deep warmth curling through your chest.

So you did.

You spoke softly, just like before, about the things over the last month he hadn’t been there for. How you and Jess stayed up late, eating ice cream while she rambled about Sam, her words laced with a kind of teenage giddiness that made you tease her like sisters did. How you’d laughed together, but also how you’d struggled—how the weight of your mutation still pressed against you in ways you didn’t always know how to process.

Dean sat still, barely breathing, as if afraid that if he moved, the moment would slip away. His fingers curled over yours beneath the blanket, grounding himself in your presence, in your voice, in the feeling of finally hearing what his wolf had always known.

It wasn’t hard to share those things with him. This was different. The way he held you close, anchoring you as you did him, eased the tension from your body. It allowed you to lean into him more—let you breathe.

A shaky breath left your lips. “I’m scared,” you whispered, pausing as you tried to find the right words.

You weren’t scared of him. Not in the least.

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, but he didn’t push. He simply stayed, patient, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over your knuckles.

“Of how things will change for me,” you admitted, your voice quiet, distant—like the thoughts were unraveling in real time. “I’ve never had any sort of connection to my wolf. I’ve never shifted.”

Dean tightened his hold just slightly, placing a kiss on the top of your head, warm and reassuring. “I’ll be right there,” he murmured, voice steady, certain. “You won’t be alone.” 

The silence that settled between you wasn’t empty. It was full—of warmth, of unspoken understanding, of something neither of you had the words for but felt all the same. The night stretched on, the full moon casting its glow over the clearing, over the archway that stood where the fence once was, over the two of you wrapped together beneath the blanket.

Dean exhaled slowly, his grip on you steady but gentle. This—you—was what he had been missing all those years, and now that he had you like this, he wasn’t sure how he had ever convinced himself to not go figure out who you were years ago. The ache of all that lost time should have weighed on him, but it didn’t. Not really. Not now. Because for the first time, there was no distance. No waiting, no wondering if the wolf inside him would ever be whole. He was whole. And so was this.

His wolf had always known you. Had always loved you. And now, Dean understood.

He let out a quiet sigh, brushing his lips over your temple before settling his chin atop your head. “Feels like this is how it was always supposed to be,” he murmured.

You hummed softly in agreement, fingers still tangled with his beneath the blanket. Because it did. Despite everything that had changed—despite the shift in knowing, in understanding, in being—there was still something so familiar about it. Like finding your way back to a place you’d always belonged, even if you hadn’t realized you’d left.

You tipped your head slightly, just enough to glance up at him. “Still feels like you,” you whispered.

Dean smiled, something soft and easy, something that settled deep in his chest. “Still am me.”

But better. Stronger. Whole.

And with you beside him, he had everything he’d ever needed.

The night pressed on, but neither of you moved to leave, content to stay wrapped in this quiet, in each other, for as long as time would allow.

However, when the moon had dipped low, signaling the coming dawn, you let out a sigh. “It’s time.”

Dean groaned but couldn’t argue. He knew it would come eventually. Slipping the blanket off his shoulders, he stood, your gaze following. “You know,” he smirked, teasing the waistband of his sweats. “If you wanted to see me naked again, all you had to do was ask.”

Warmth flooded your cheeks as you ducked your head, instantly averting your eyes. He laughed, the sound deep and playful. 

The rustling of fabric was the only warning you got before something soft and warm smacked into your face. You yelped, flailing as you yanked the sweats off your head, only to find Dean grinning at you like a damned Chesire cat.

“You ass,” you huffed, chucking them right back at him. He dodged easily, his laughter rolling through the clearing like the last echoes of the night.

“You love it,” he shot back, still all smug amusement as he took a slow step back.

Your breath hitched, the playful moment slipping into something quieter, heavier, as his smirk softened into something more familiar—something knowing.

And then, right before your eyes, Dean let go.

You had seen him as a wolf plenty of times, but never like this. Never the moment of change, the shift between man and wolf. You weren’t even sure what you had expected—pain? Hesitation?—but there was none. Only fluidity, like a breath of wind, like the natural order of things aligning just as they should.

Bones reshaped, fur rippled into existence, and in the span of a heartbeat, Dean was gone. In his place stood a wolf, like you had always seen him, golden-brown fur illuminated by the dim glow of the lanterns, green eyes staring back at you, steady and sure.

Your lips parted, a stunned breath leaving you as the weight of it hit you. Jess had explained shifting to you before, but seeing it for yourself was something else entirely.

Dean’s wolf huffed, tilting his head slightly, that familiar teasing glint still dancing in his eyes.

And just like that, the spell broke.

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you crossed your arms, his sweats dangling from one hand. “Show-off.”

The wolf chuffed, then took a step closer, bumping his nose against your arm in something that was equal parts affectionate and smug.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips as your fingers found their way into his fur. “You should get back. They’ll want to hear about your night. Come by after.”

Your voice softened as you crouched in front of him. Then, just as you had every other night of the full moon, you placed a kiss on his muzzle. “Good night, wolf,” you murmured.

Dean huffed, a warmth lingering in his gaze before he did what he always did—licked your cheek with a quick swipe of his tongue, like a playful promise. Then, with one last lingering look, he turned and bounded off toward his pack’s cabins.

You watched him go, the smile still lingering on your lips. With a quiet exhale, you turned to tidy up the blanket, tucking it neatly under the bench before heading to your cabin in the opposite direction.

—----------------------------

Sunlight streamed through the cabin’s windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The air was cool, bringing the anticipation of fall. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, rich and familiar, but your mind was elsewhere. You curled your hands around the warm mug, letting the heat sink into your palms as you sat at the small table near the window, gaze unfocused on the tree line beyond.

Two days.

In forty-eight hours, Dean would claim you.

You swallowed, the thought settling deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. Not out of fear—no, there was no fear in this, no doubt, not when it came to him—but out of the sheer weight of knowing. The inevitability of it. The finality. The way it would change everything, even though you had been moving toward this moment since that night when you were fourteen, when you sang to the moon, and he had answered.

A shaky breath left your lips. You took a slow sip of your coffee, trying to ground yourself, to find steadiness in the warmth and ritual.

Jess was still with Sam on Winchester land, which meant you had the morning to yourself—to think, to process, to feel everything. You weren’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. Jess had a way of making things clearer, even if her bluntness sometimes made you want to chuck a pillow at her face.

Your fingers curled tighter around the mug as your mind drifted back to last night, to the way Dean had looked at you before he shifted. The raw openness of it. The trust. The way it had done something to you, something that made your lungs feel too small and your heart beat too fast.

It wasn’t even about the claiming process, of you giving yourself to him completely. That alone would have been enough to shake most people—being in their mid-twenties and never having been with someone, only to have the first time to also be the time they were claimed. 

It was everything else.

The scents—new and undiscovered. The ones you had never been able to perceive, the world that had existed beyond your reach for so long. Everyone had their own unique scent, and soon, for the first time in your life, you would truly know them. Not through logic or deduction, but through something primal, something instinctual.

Then there was her.

Your wolf. The part of you that had been silenced before she ever had a chance to be. The part your mutation had buried, forcing you to live as something else, something incomplete. She would wake up the morning after that, and you had no idea what that would mean.

What would my wolf feel? What would she think? Did she have memories of my life? Could she see everything, like being behind a barrier in my mind, only able to watch?

You exhaled slowly, curling your fingers around the mug, searching for the grounding its warmth refused to provide.

Another slow sip. Another deep breath. 

You weren’t afraid. You were apprehensive.

Far too many questions, and no answers. These were the things the files hadn’t contained. The things you needed to know. The things you would put in your book for others.

That thought was enough to pull you from your spiral. 

You stood, mug in hand, and moved toward the living room where your desk sat near a window. Sliding into the seat, you set the mug down on a well-worn wooden coaster and opened your laptop. Then, you wrote. 

You let it all spill onto the screen—every question that refused to leave your mind. Every worry. Every doubt.

Because knowing something wasn’t the same as experiencing it. And the worst part? The stories, the warnings, the things meant to prepare you… they only made it harder. Because now, they played on repeat in your head.

—---------------------

The next two days passed in a blur of keystrokes and quiet moments.

You spent hours at your desk, pouring your thoughts into the document—trying to process, trying to make sense of what was coming. Writing had always been a way to clear your head, to take something overwhelming and make it tangible. But no matter how many words you typed, nothing could prepare you for what you had never known.

Dean stopped by around the same time each morning, lingering in the doorway or settling onto the couch until you closed your laptop and joined him. He never pushed, never asked for more than you were willing to give, but his presence was grounding. Comforting in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

He could smell it—the quiet strain threatening through your scent. The subtle undercurrent of unease that clung to your skin despite your best efforts to keep it at bay. And though he never called attention to it, you could tell he was watching you closely. Making sure you were okay.

You did your best to be.

With Jess away on Winchester land, spending the full moon with Sam for the first time since they had claimed each other, the house felt quieter than usual. You missed her. Missed the easy conversation, the way she could fill a room with warmth just by being in it. But at the same time, you were happy for her. This was something she had waited her whole life for. Something you had never quite understood—wouldn’t understand, not yet.

The nights stretched long, spent with Dean at the archway, at the place that had always belonged to the two of you. For some of the night, he stayed in wolf form, the two of you just cuddling while you talked to him like you used to. He noticed it was easier for you that way—easier to say things out loud.

The other half of the time, he was in human form, holding you close, making quiet mental notes of all the little things he could do to help ease the stress you couldn’t quite keep out of your scent. The stress of the unknown.

“I’ll be by to pick you up around ten,” he murmured, mere hours before sunrise on the last night of the full moon.

You let out a shaky breath, trying to calm your nerves, as even his presence wasn’t enough anymore. “I’ll be ready,” you whispered, not trusting your voice not to break if you spoke any louder. 

Dean gave you one final hug, holding you close for a moment longer than necessary before pulling away. He smiled softly down at you, placing a tender kiss on your cheek. Then, he shifted before bounding back in the direction of his cabin.

Nervous goosebumps accompanied you on the walk back, the spiraling questions in your head refusing to settle. Even as you ascended the porch steps, pushed open the front door, and climbed the stairs to your room, they only got louder. 

Standing at the foot of your bed, the room still dark, you began packing, your movements slow. Typically, you would take a nap, get at least a little rest. But your mind wasn’t going to let that happen.

So you moved on autopilot, gathering your things. A few toiletries, comfortable clothes, your journal—just in case—and all those miscellaneous things on your mental list. 

This would be the first time you would be at Dean’s cabin. The first time you crossed that threshold, knowing you wouldn’t leave the same.

You swallowed hard, exhaling slowly as you ran your fingers over the strap of your bag, now fully packed and waiting. 

I should eat something.

Pushing past the tangle of thoughts, you grabbed your bag and carried it downstairs, setting it on the couch before heading into the kitchen. Another shaky breath and you were going through the fridge for something simple, but nothing looked even remotely appetizing. So instead, you made a fresh pot of coffee and sat at your desk, typing.

The sun rose, but you didn’t notice. 

The minutes stretched into hours, but you didn’t notice that either.

Not until the front door opened.

Dean cleared his throat, and the sound shattered the haze of your thoughts. Slowly, you looked up, meeting his eyes just as the emotions swelled, threatening to spill down your cheeks.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He was by your side in a heartbeat, gently pulling you up and against him. “I’m scared,” you whispered, fighting past the lump in your throat.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. “You won’t be alone, I promise.”

----------------------------------------- Chapter 14

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007

@hobby27 @megs-gadom @cheekygirl2309 @mxtansy @ladysparkles78

@ambiguous-avery @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault

@maddie0101 @bettystonewell @whimsyfinny

Tag List: @nancymcl @lovelydisc @luahmeeks @alternativeprincess94 @kailalaland

@ladykitana90 @muhahaha303 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @suckitands33 @stoneyggirl2

[my-stories-vault]

Missed how freakin' adorable they are ❤️❤️

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 12

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 3304

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Dean being Dean, light playful teasing.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 12

The next three days passed in a blur of warmth, quiet understanding, and something deeper than either of you could name.

Dean dreamed—every night, every time he closed his eyes. The fence, the full moons, the sound of your voice weaving through the dark. In those dreams, he was living them, feeling them as if they were happening now. The years collapsing into moments he finally understood.

You had spoken to his wolf like he was more than fur and instincts, like he was your friend. You had given him stories, pieces of yourself, whispered truths meant only for him. And now, with every dream, with every flicker of memory sliding into place, he realized he had always known you—long before he ever let himself believe it.

During the day, you cared for him the way an alpha would an omega, after a claiming—watching over him, grounding him when the emotions ran too high, when the weight of merging with his wolf threatened to pull him under. You made sure he ate, made sure he slept, steadying him without ever making him feel weak.

And Dean let you.

That was the difference.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t fighting. Not his wolf and not his instincts.

At night, he fell asleep with your body curled against his back, arm draped over his waist, holding him close. In the quiet hours of the morning, he let himself wake with his face pressed to the scent gland at your throat, breathing you in even though you couldn’t do the same.

When he woke that fifth morning, he felt different. He nuzzled his nose against your neck, breathing deeply before letting it out slowly. Home. The word not only echoed in his mind, but he felt it course through his entire being. Everything just felt… perfect. His arms tightened around you when he felt the vibrations of your gentle purrs. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, adoring how you purred like a cat and not a wolf. Dean could have stayed like that for hours if it weren’t for the grumbling of his stomach. He pressed a tender kiss to your cheek, then slipped out of bed without disturbing you.

Dean grabbed a pair of jeans, slipped them on, and headed down to the kitchen. You’d taken care of him for nearly a week. It was his turn to take care of you. 

The house was quiet, the early morning light filtering through the windows, casting a golden glow across the kitchen. It was the kind of peaceful he wasn’t used to. Not after years of restlessness, of feeling like a caged animal in his own skin.

He moved on instinct now, pulling open the fridge and scanning the contents. Eggs, bacon, leftover soup from the night before. His lips quirked at the memory—how you had practically forced him to sit and eat, how he had grumbled but secretly loved every second of it.

Shaking his head, he grabbed the eggs and bacon and set to work. The sizzling of the pan filled the quiet space, the smell of food curling into the air. It felt… good. Not like repaying a debt, not like balancing some unspoken scale. Just—good. He wanted to do this. For you.

Dean had barely finished plating the food when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He turned just in time to see you shuffle into the kitchen, sleep-heavy and warm, eyes blinking against the morning light.

“Makin’ breakfast?” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Does that mean you’re feeling better?”

Dean smirked, reaching for a mug and filling it with coffee before handing it to you. “Figured it was my turn. And yeah, I feel really good this mornin’.”

Your lips curled into a lazy smile as you took the cup, fingers brushing his. You took a slow sip, sighing contentedly before eyeing the food on the stove. “Smells good.” Dean ducked his head, a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. “Yeah, well… you took care of me. ‘Bout time I returned the favor.”

You set your coffee down and stepped closer, hands sliding up his arms before resting against his bare chest. He stilled under your touch, eyes searching yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“You don’t owe me anything, Dean,” you said softly. “You never did.”

Dean swallowed, his throat tight. But instead of arguing with you, instead of deflecting, he just leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I know.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

The corners of your lips tugged into a playful smirk. “Although…” you purred teasingly. “You do look good shirtless, moving around my kitchen like you belong there.”

Seeing him relaxed, whole—it was breathtaking. Seeing him blush like a teenager? Priceless. 

At first, he couldn’t help it. Then, that familiar smirk tugged at his lips, full of mischief and confidence. “Is that your way of asking me to move in?” The playful note in his voice sent warmth curling through you. He loved it when you got playful, but now, with all his wolf’s memories, it meant so much more.

There was no stopping the blush that spread down your neck, heat blooming under your skin. You ducked your head, grabbing your mug and bringing it to your lips, trying to hide your face.

“No,” you mumbled, flustered and embarrassed.

Dean chuckled, low and warm, finding you more adorable than he had before, if that was possible. “Uh-huh,” he drawled, amused as he set a plate down on the table for you.

You slipped into the seat, only glancing up at him for a moment, but then, couldn’t look away. For a beat, neither of you spoke. Because maybe… maybe the idea didn’t sound so bad.

“We can talk about that after you claim me,” you told him, managing to find an ounce of your typical confidence. He couldn’t stop smiling, and he was enjoying it, being relaxed with you. Dean grabbed his own plate and sat across from you. The two of you had talked about it, him claiming you, but before you had claimed him almost a week ago, he’d been wishy-washy about it. 

“After the next full moon,” he stated, his voice far more confident than it had been as his eyes met yours.

Your lips parted as butterflies danced around in your stomach. “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” you teased, tilting your head as you picked up your fork. “Before I claimed you, you were dodging the conversation like a pro.” Dean shrugged, taking a bite of his bacon, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “Yeah, well… I had a lot to work through.” His lips quirked. “And maybe someone reminded me that it’s okay to lean on others.”

You let out a small laugh, but your voice was sincere. “I did mention that, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” Dean’s eyes gleamed as he pointed his fork at you. “And I figured if you’re crazy enough to claim me, who am I to argue?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no missing the way your heart swelled at his words. 

Dean leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head in a way that was entirely too casual, entirely too smug. “Besides, I gotta admit, there are perks to being bonded to you. Like homemade soup and waking up to you.” He smirked, lowering his arms, his voice dropping to something warmer, softer. “And the way you blush when I flirt with you.” You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how he was watching you, how easily he could turn the tables on you. Two could play that game.

With an innocent hum, you took another sip of coffee before glancing up at him through your lashes. “Well, if that’s the case, maybe I should start walking around shirtless too.” Dean choked on his coffee.

You barely held back a laugh as he coughed, thumping his chest, his eyes going wide before narrowing in playful suspicion. “That’s not playin’ fair,” he rasped.

“Oh? And you’re allowed to flirt with me first thing in the morning, but I’m not allowed to return the favor?” You smirked, tapping your nails against your mug.

Dean cleared his throat, recovering quickly, but the way he shifted in his seat was enough to tell you he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be. “Okay, okay,” he conceded, smirking despite himself. “You win this round.”

Pleased with yourself, you leaned back, enjoying your breakfast as a comfortable silence settled between you. Dean watched you for a moment longer before shaking his head with a chuckle, mumbling something under his breath.

You arched a brow. “What was that?” Dean sighed dramatically, his smirk widening. “Just realizin’ I’m doomed.” You grinned. “Oh, you have no idea.”

He knew you couldn’t smell it in his scent, what you did to him. But, damn, if it wasn’t there. Joy. Contentment. A kind of peace he hadn’t felt in—hell, he wasn’t even sure how long. And yet, at the same time, you made him feel young again. Playful. Like a pup, like a teenager sneaking glances across a bonfire, stealing moments that felt like they’d last forever. And it wasn’t just one thing about you—it was everything.. 

Definitely claiming her after the next full moon.

The morning stretched on in easy comfort. You took your time finishing breakfast, lingering over coffee while Dean stole a few bites from your plate when he thought you weren’t looking. The conversation drifted between playful teasing and comfortable silence, and for once, there was no rush—just the quiet hum of a morning spent together.

Eventually, you gathered the plates and carried them to the sink, rolling your shoulders as you turned on the water. Warmth seeped over your hands as you scrubbed a dish, lost in thought—until you suddenly felt a solid warmth press against your back.

Dean.

His arms caged you in, hands bracing on the counter on either side of you as he leaned in, his breath teasing the shell of your ear. “So,” he drawled, voice rich with amusement, “this whole walkin’ around shirtless idea… you were serious about that?”

A pleased hum vibrated in your throat as you rinsed a plate, unbothered. “Mmm. I dunno. Maybe.” Dean’s chest rumbled with a quiet chuckle. “You’re dangerous, y’know that?” You smirked, setting the dish in the rack before tilting your head just enough to glance up at him through your lashes. “You knew what you were getting into.” He huffed a laugh, but his eyes flickered, that playful edge softening into something deeper, something that made heat curl in your stomach. His arms loosened, but he didn’t step away just yet. Instead, he leaned down, pressing the faintest kiss to your temple before murmuring, “Yeah. And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”

The morning rolled on with effortless comfort, the kind of slow, golden hours that made you wish time would just stop for a while. Dean stuck close, not in a clingy way—because let’s be honest, Dean Winchester would never admit to that—but in the way he always seemed to be near. Brushing past you, stealing sips of your coffee, dropping casual touches like they meant nothing.

They meant everything.

At some point, he leaned against the counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. His jaw flexed, that tiny muscle near his temple twitching in thought.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing over as you wiped your hands on a dish towel.

Dean exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his head before tapping out a message. “Just Sam. He’s been on my ass about headin’ home now that I’m all… y’know. Settled.” Your head tilted, trying to read the expression on his face. “Yeah?” Dean exhaled, setting the phone down before crossing his arms. “Yeah.” His gaze flickered to yours, something hesitant but sure in his voice. “Just…don’t really wanna go back. But I gotta. At least for a little bit.”

You nodded, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. “I get it.” You paused, searching his face. “How long?”

His arms dropped, his fingers finding your hips. “Couple of days, maybe a week.” He rolled his eyes, smirking. “Sam’ll probably start building a retrieval team if I don’t show my face soon.”

You huffed a small laugh, even if you weren’t thrilled about him leaving. But you knew he had to. He still had responsibilities—his job at the garage in town, for one. He’d already taken plenty of time off to be here with you.

Dean, as if sensing the shift in your thoughts, ducked his head until your foreheads nearly touched. “Hey,” he murmured, squeezing your waist. “Not leavin’ for good, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

His lips quirked. “And it ain’t like you won’t see me. You think I’m stayin’ away from you longer than I have to?” You smirked. “Better not.”

Before Dean could get another word in, the front door swung open. Jess never knocked when she was excited. She barreled past Sam, beelining straight for you.

“You—” she pointed, eyes glinting “—need to tell me everything.”

Your brows shot up before flicking to Sam, who merely smirked as he stepped inside, rolling his shoulders like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Dean, however, caught the scent radiating off both of them, his eyes darting between his brother and Jess before locking on Sam’s neck.

“No way,” he barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “No freakin’ way.”

Sam grinned, not the least bit guilty, as Dean reached out, shoving his shoulder.

“You let her claim you?” 

Sam shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

Jess snorted, linking her arm through yours. “Yeah, yeah, they had their big, dramatic moment. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m stealing her for girl time.” Dean scoffed, but his lips twitched. “Fine, take her. But I get her back.” “Duh,” Jess grinned, already tugging you toward the living room. That’s when you saw it—the claim mark on her scent gland—and your heart swelled for her.

Dean turned to Sam as the girls disappeared, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see the day, Sammy.” But he wasn’t just talking about Sam and Jess claiming each other. It went deeper than that. Their true mates were as close as the two brothers were.

Sam hummed, a knowing smirk on his lips. “Yeah, well. I think we both got a couple things we didn’t expect.” 

For Sam, it was realizing something similar—that the four of them were their own small pack within the larger one, even if Dean was waiting until after the full moon to claim you.

Dean didn’t argue. Because, yeah. That was the damn truth.

The two of them grabbed Dean’s two bags and wandered outside after a bit, falling into easy conversation. Neither of them voiced what had been circling their heads, but the thoughts ran parallel.

Two cabins. Connected in the middle, a shared space for the four of them. A place to raise their future pups, wherever that may be.

Neither had said a word about it to the other, but somehow, they were on the exact same page. It was just a matter of where.

—-------------------

A couple of days later, Dean leaned against the porch railing of Sam’s cabin, beer in hand, while his brother flipped through a stack of papers at the small outdoor table. The sun had barely begun its descent, casting a golden glow over the Winchester land. Crickets were just starting to stir, their chorus filling the quiet between them.

Dean exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “So, that whole cabin idea… you serious about it?” Sam glanced up, smirking. “You’re not?” Dean scoffed, taking a slow pull from his beer before setting it down on the railing. “Didn’t say that… just gotta figure out where.” Sam nodded, setting his papers down. “I was thinking somewhere in between. Close enough that neither of us are too far from our packs. A place where—” He hesitated for a beat before continuing, “—where it doesn’t feel like we’re just visiting.” Dean rolled his shoulders, chewing on that thought. Because, yeah. That’s what had been sitting at the back of his mind, too. It wasn’t just about a place to stay—it was about putting down something real.

“Been scouting some spots on the edge of Winchester land,” Sam continued, tapping the papers in front of him. “Close enough to Winter land that it wouldn’t feel like a trek.” Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “Jess help you with that?” Sam grinned, unashamed. “Obviously.” Dean nodded, gaze shifting toward the tree line. “Yeah. Let’s do it.” Sam’s smirk widened, knowing Dean well enough to recognize that this was as close to a sentimental moment as he was going to get.

—--------------------

The following two weeks passed in a rhythm that felt damn near natural. Dean would head to work at the garage, put in his hours, and the second he was free, he was back on the road to Winter land, to you. He never stayed away long—couldn’t. During the week, it was a couple of hours at your cabin after work, dinner together, lingering touches that turned into lazy conversations on the couch. But the weekends? Those were different. Those were his.

You filled your time with writing when Dean wasn’t there. So far, it wasn’t in any sort of format, just getting the thoughts and details out of your head for now. Like the things Dean went through after you had claimed him. Then there was the role you had taken, the role an alpha would typically take when claiming an omega. You also added your struggles with the experience, while making sure to note that seeing his progress made it all worth it.

The first weekend back, he showed up late Friday, bag slung over his shoulder, tossing his keys on the table like he’d always belonged there. He wasn’t in a rush to leave. By Saturday morning, he was already helping you with the little things around the cabin, fixing a cabinet hinge that had been loose, making himself useful.

The second weekend, you barely had time to open the door before he was stepping inside, pulling you against him like it had been weeks instead of just a handful of days. The two of you fell into your usual routine, the easy back-and-forth, the unspoken understanding that time apart only made being together feel all the more right.

And then, one evening, as the two of you sat outside on your porch, the sky a deep stretch of blue and the scent of pine thick in the air, Dean tilted his head toward you, a quiet sort of weight in his voice.

“Full moon’s coming up.” You nodded, tucking your legs beneath you. “Yeah.” His fingers brushed over yours, where they rested on your lap. “Meet me?” You turned to him, already knowing what he meant. Where he meant. Their place. The place where you had spent years talking to his wolf before you even knew him—before you knew that the warm, steady presence beyond the fence was the same man who now sat beside you.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. “Of course.”

Dean exhaled, nodding like something in him settled just hearing you say it. “I’ll be there.”

And just like that, it was set. The next time the two of you met under the full moon, it wouldn’t be you and just his wolf—it would be all of him. His wolf fully merged with him. Your claim mark fully healed on his scent gland. 

But to you, it was more than that. It was what would come after those three nights. He would claim you as his, and you’d go through a similar healing process he had. You weren’t afraid, exactly.  It was more like anticipation, a nervous energy that settled deep in your bones.

Dean wanted to experience firsthand what his wolf had for years—to see you through those eyes. He couldn’t explain why, not in words that made sense. Every time he tried, they slipped away, never quite enough to capture what this full moon meant to him. So, he kept it to himself, hoping that maybe, when the time came, he wouldn’t need words at all.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 13

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007

@hobby27 @megs-gadom @cheekygirl2309 @mxtansy @ladysparkles78

@ambiguous-avery @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @my-stories-vault

@maddie0101 @bettystonewell @whimsyfinny

Tag List: @nancymcl @lovelydisc @luahmeeks @alternativeprincess94 @kailalaland

@ladykitana90 @muhahaha303 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @suckitands33 @stoneyggirl2

[my-stories-vault]

Have you seen this https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP86CN7kx/? Since you do little headcanons of each character Jensen's played, what would their reactions be? Bonus if you could do Jensen too please?

Lol I'm not on TikTok much anymore, but this "hat on backwards, hand on the wall" trend is so cute and hilarious in reverse (the woman trying it out on her man). 😝 Love how she had to get up on a chair just to do it and still got him all flustered. 🤭

But as far as how Jackles characters would react...

HEADCANON: Turning the Tables

Pairings: Dean x Reader || Beau x Reader || Soldier Boy x Reader || Russell x Reader

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Sexy teasing, implied smut. Soldier Boy's got away from me a little bit lol

Dean Winchester

Dean's actually doing his due diligence in the library, flipping through a lore book for a case. There's a little stool nearby that Sam found for you when you need to reach the top shelves. A mischievous smile spreads across your face.

Sneaking up behind your boyfriend, you grab the stool and slide it over. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, but his eyebrows raise when you take the book out of his hands and shove it haphazardly back on the shelf.

"What? What's happening?" he says.

Biting your lip, you turn your baseball cap backward on your head, rest your elbow against the shelf above his head, and you draw Dean in with a hand on his cheek, sealing the deal with a slow, lusty kiss.

His furrowed brows of confusion relax a little. His hands find their way to your hips on reflex, grounding himself in the unfamiliar vantage point. When you eventually break away from his lips, you have to laugh at that half-frown, half-amused smile making your man look adorably confused.

"The hell's this?" he chuckles, glancing down at the stool, and how you're still towering over him with your tits in his face. (He doesn't hate it.) "You trying to pick me up, sweetheart?"

You stroke his prickly cheek with your thumb. "Did it work?"

It's his turn to grin, that devilish Dean grin that triggers a warning shiver down your spine. He gathers you up in his arms and picks you up from the stool, smirking even more at your squeal and the way you cling to his neck.

He carries you off to find that solid table in the War Room, finishing what you started.

Beau Arlen

"Are you gonna come down from there so we can hash this out?" Beau asks.

"No, I don't think so," you reply.

He sighs through his nose. "You really think that's wise, sweetheart?"

Your lips purse to hide your smile. You pause on the third rung of the stepladder, setting your paintbrush back in its bucket. Your husband stands there on the ground floor with his hands on his jean-clad hips, raising expectant brows.

You swipe a bead of sweat from your forehead, pushing your hair back when you adjust your baseball cap. Then you turn toward him. You lean over and rest your hand against the part of the wall that has yet to be painted, right above his head.

You grab his face with one hand and tilt his chin up to kiss you. Your lips swallow up his little sound of surprise, while your sensuous tongue lures him in, breaking down his authoritative resolve.

When you finally pull away, still holding his bearded cheeks between the press of your fingers, you find his slightly flustered face. Maybe even the start of a blush warming his skin. He clears his throat.

"I might be pregnant, but I'm not an invalid," you whisper against his lips, giving him one more kiss. "Now, you can let me paint this nursery in peace, or you can pick up a brush and help me. Your choice, Sheriff."

Soldier Boy (Ben)

The rhythmic pounding, timed with his grunts, a couple lines of sweat drawing down his neck, a fine sheen over every dip of flexing muscle, the lines of his back taut and slick...

This is the real reason you agreed to having a home gym built in the house.

You like watching your man work himself out, getting out his pent-up frustrations on the extra-fortified exercise equipment, instead of on the populace. You're mollified when he sets the barbell on the ground instead of tossing them this time, so the force of over 1,000 pounds doesn't crack the cement underneath the weight-absorbing mats.

Ben catches his breath, running slippery fingers through his damp hair and shoving the strands out of his eyes. He joins you by the dumbbell rack, looking amused at the little 8-pound weights you're using to do arm curls and squats.

"You gonna keep pretending to work out with those little baby doll weights?" he says, eying you in your tight yoga pants and fitted tank-top. He begins to unwind the sports tape from his right hand, first catching the end corner with his teeth. Then his left.

You snort. "Who's pretending? You're the one grunting like a gorilla over there. It's just you and me in here, old man. No need to throw your back out."

He shoots you a narrowed look, especially at that little smirk on your face.

"Oh, yeah? Watch it, sweetheart. This old man might just bend you over his fucking knee, see how many reps you can take," he says.

The smooth depths in his voice make you falter, your knees slightly wobbling on the last squat. Ben smirks. He leans against the wall while he watches you finish your exercise, grabbing your water bottle to refresh his thirst.

When you're done, you draw into his orbit so you can place the dumbbells back on the rack. He's still eyeing you with that lazy arrogance that somehow manages to get you hot and infuriated in equal measure. He always thinks he can get the last fucking word.

You grab the small towel out of his hand, the one he planned to mop up his sweat with, and you step up on the bench beside him. He watches you with some measure of surprise, but he doesn't stop you. Maybe you'll dote on him for a little bit, instead of running your fucking mouth as usual.

Planting your arm above his head, you give him what he wants. You slowly drag the towel across his forehead and down his cheek. But then you grab his chin, making him look up at your half-lidded eyes, and you tilt his head up for a kiss—deep, devouring, thorough.

His big hands grab onto your hips in a familiar iron hold, but his brows furrow. He's frowning when you pull away from his greedy lips. Only then does he truly notice the way you've basically cornered him against the wall, like he's the bitch in the steamy rom-com.

"The fuck is this?" he says gruffly.

You tease his bottom lip with a pointed finger.

"Nothing, sweetheart," you retort. You drop the towel, reach down, and slap his ass for good measure. "Now be a good boy and get me some water, would ya?"

Your smirk irritates him on sight, but it still makes his cock twitch.

His jaw ticks. His brow raises.

You bite your lip, knowing it's over. Or it's just fucking started.

He grabs you up before you can jump off the bench. You yelp and laugh and kick your feet, but he's already hauling you over his shoulder, his long, confident strides taking him out of the gym.

"Ben!" you squeal. Trying to get your balance, your nails bite fruitlessly into his shoulders through his sweaty shirt.

"Oh, you're gonna get it now, sweetheart. Time for the real fucking workout."

Just to hear that little squeal again, he smacks your ass hard enough to sting through your spandex, hard enough to make your pussy clench on nothing, already pulsing, warm and wet. You blush hotly.

Goddamn it.

Just this once, you'll let him get the last word.

Russell Shaw

"Damn it," you mutter.

You watch the nail fall to the ground and roll away from you. You're trying to put up a new picture frame in the bedroom, using your vanity chair as a stepping stool so you can reach.

"Baaabe!" you call out.

"Yeah!" Russell replies.

"Can you help me with this?"

When your boyfriend enters the bedroom, he raises a brow at the way you're leaning heavily against the wall with your ass sticking out. But the frame is perfectly positioned between your hands. A hammer is tucked under your left arm.

"I have this thing right where I want it, but I lost the nail. Think it went under the bed," you explain.

Russell hums and roams his eagle-eyed gaze across the hardwood floor. Eventually he finds the nail hidden under the dark abyss of your bed. He not only gives you the nail, but holds the frame for you while you mark the wall where the nail is going. Then you hammer it in, and you take the frame from Russell, flipping it around so you can hang it.

You adjust your baseball cap higher and smile at your handiwork.

"Perfect!"

Russell smiles too, more in surprise. It's a recent picture, a rare and special night: you, Russell, Dory, and Colter out to dinner together, celebrating the eldest Shaw's birthday. You thought it would be the right moment to mark your boyfriend officially moving in with you, albeit with what little belongings he has.

"You like it?" you ask him.

"Yeah, it's nice," he says. Though he becomes a little contemplative as he crosses his arms.

"What?" you ask.

"Well, maybe we should put it in the living room. Not sure I want my brother and sister watching us, uh, you know. Do our thing," he says, gesturing at the new king-sized bed.

An incredulous snort bursts out from you. "Are you serious?"

"What? Sweetheart, this is where the magic happens. We can't mess with that," Russell says slyly. One of his hands slips up the small of your back.

A giggle bubbles up in your throat. "You know what, you're right. My apologies."

You twist your hat backward and lean your elbow against the wall, just so you can dip down and lure your man into a kiss. Your hand travels across his bearded cheek, then tangles into his hair. His hands move steadily down to squeeze your ass, a short groan catching in his throat.

He grabs you up by the back of your thighs and all but swings you into his arms, startling a yelp out of you.

"Russ!" You cling to his shoulders, quickly wrapping your legs around his waist. "Wait, wait!"

You grab the picture frame and take it off the wall. It'll probably look better in the living room anyway. You manage to lay it safely on the dresser before Russell walks you to the bed.

"Time to break this sucker in," he says with a grin, all to the tune of you laughing when your back hits the plush mattress.

AN: lol this was a fun one! Sorry, I don't write RPF (straight up Jensen Ackles fanfic), but I hope you liked these HCs! 💜

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when more HCs drop! Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Russell Shaw Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[my-stories-vault]

hiii lovely happy wednesday 🫶🏽:) random question while i’m on my 10 :D this kind of goes hand in hand with your coffee shop headcanons if you squint, but in your opinion what coffee shop pastry would the boys (your favorite jackles characters) choose? 🤎

if that makes sense, like I think beau would really like our dulce de leche cheese danish :p or like ben might like a jalapeño cheese bagel lmao

again I loveee your insights <3 it makes work more entertaining for sure cause then i’m thinking of your responses at random times lol 💗 + I hope you’re having a wonderful week !!🫂

Happy Wednesday, friend! 😘 Oh yay! I love your random questions, and I love coffee shop pastries. 🥐 ☕

Dulce de leche Danish sounds amaziiiiing. 😩 And thank you!! I'm flattered that you love my insights - and that my little rambles infiltrate your brain! lolol 🥰💜 Hope you're having a great week too, hun! Mine is ok so far. I have a lot coming up tomorrow, so this is a fun distraction until then! 😂

HEADCANON: Coffee Shop Pastry Orders

Dean Winchester

*snorts* You mean the human garbage disposal?

We all know Dean's not picky about food. Though since he's drinking an espresso in his coffee order headcanon, I think he'd go for something indulgent to fill his stomach, like a cheese Danish, a couple of donuts, or if they have it, a brookie. 😂

He's very happy to show it to you and Sam when he brings it over to your table, strolling over on those bowed legs. Sam, of course, wears that half amused, half judgy look of his.

"It's a cookie mashed up with a brownie, Sam. Best of both worlds."

Beau Arlen

Beau the basic latte guy needs a basic (but delicious) coffee shop confection to go with it, so I'm going to say he's into coffee cake.

He likes them crumblies on top and a nice, warm cinnamon swirl in his cake. 👌🏽

Just be warned. He's probably going to have you order him another slice of cake while he's still working on the first one.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Like Dean, this guy's not all that picky about food post-captivity. Of course he likes good food, but he's also highly indulgent in most respects.

"I like what I fucking like," as he often tells you with a smirk. That goes for food, drugs, and frisky women (of almost all ages).

That being said, since we paired him with a cold brew, he'll probably want something classic, like himself: a glazed donut or a slice of marble pound cake with that thin strip of icing on top.

However, I think he could be persuaded (by you) to order something a little adventurous. He'd be game enough to try a jalapeño cheese bagel, with hash browns, and that donut and/or slice of pound cake on the side...

And he'll probably tell them to pack him up an extra bagel for the road. 😂 🥯

Russell Shaw

Russell's another one who's highly self-indulgent lol. He ain't picky about food, that's for sure. He'll eat junk food just as easily as a five-course meal from a Michelin star restaurant.

But since he got paired with a flat white, I think he'd get the biggest cinnamon roll he can find. He'd ask if they could warm it up for him, get that icing all warm and running down the sides, sticky and sweet.

And he looks at you mischievously while he licks his fingers afterward. ✌🏼

(He's only satisfied when he makes you blush.)

AN: Do you agree with these? Got other pastry orders for these guys? 💜

I love working on these HCs every time, no matter how simple or complex the prompt is. 😂

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when more HCs drop! Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. 💜

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Russell Shaw Masterlist

Main Masterlist 

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[my-stories-vault]

CONNECTION

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Soulmate!Reader 

Summary: Beau saved you from your car nearly going over a rickety bridge, discovering he was your soulmate in the process. Now, the two of you enjoy a milestone date at the county fair.

AN: Finally, here’s the sequel to Over the Bridge! If I get more inspo for this in the future, I may come back to these two, make it a little soulmate storyverse. 💜 Plus, this also fulfills another square for @jacklesversebingo.

JVB Prompt: “Am I under arrest or not?”

Posted on Patreon: 5/07/2025

Word Count: 2K

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, lots of flirting and sexual innuendo, bits of spice, protective dad Beau, smidge of angst

Read Part 1 || Beau Arlen Masterlist

“Well, this is just theft of the highest order.”

You giggled around another (stolen) mouthful of rum raisin ice cream, complete with little praline pieces, all while screaming kids of all ages on the Tilt a’ Whirl zoomed by behind you and Beau.

Chaos filled the grassy fairgrounds from every corner, from the bleating goats and mooing cows at the nearby petting zoo, to the rigged carnival games posted every ten feet or so, creating a maze of color and noise.

The smell of fried food was thick in the air like invisible fog; greasy pizza and burgers, over-buttered popcorn, caramel covered apples, cloying cotton candy swirled with fried Oreos and other icing-covered confections, all priced at nearly triple they were worth.

Beau had spent a chuck of change just to get the two of you into the Lewis and Clark County Fair, along with Emily and two of her friends. She had run off an hour ago with his last $50 in cash. He was resorting to his credit card now, though he refused most of your offers to pay for food and drinks and games throughout the night.

He invited you, after all, and this was technically your fifth date. One month in.

Sometimes he found it hard to believe that he found you out on the Morelli Bridge, your car literally hanging on the edge. And then your thoughts ran through, sharp in his mind, a vice grip around his heart. Something deep inside him gave way, like the shifting of tectonic plates.

He felt you, and everything changed.

He'd pulled you out of that little Toyota, covered you with his body when bullets rained across the side of the firetruck partially giving you two cover. He escorted you to safety through the shootout before he and his team wrangled up the would-be thieves of a showhorse, Big Thunder. (The stallion had proved to be too much for his captors anyway.)

Now, you were stealing his ice cream.

“I just asked you to hold it for me, not take a chunk out of it,” Beau pressed his point, albeit with a chuckle at your embarrassed, yet somehow unapologetic face.

“I’m sorry, I just took a little bite!” you said, and handed him back his cone after he put his wallet away. Your smile turned sly. “I forgot which one was mine for a second.”

Punctuated by a generous tonguing of your ice cream cone, heavily laden with your own order of rocky road this time.

“Sure,” Beau snorted. He eyed you in suspicion, even though he was drawn to the way your pink tongue slipped around the soft tip of your ice cream. That, and the way you looked up at him through your lashes.

“I gotta call it like I see it, sweetheart. Petit Theft in the first degree,” he added. But his arm snuck around your waist and pulled you in close. Caging you in.

A smirk began to play on your lips. “Hmm. Okay, Sheriff. Am I under arrest or not?”

His mouth twitched. Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a pair of handcuffs strapped to my belt right now. 

His thought clearly reached you through the bond—the golden, thrumming thread that tied his soul to yours. Or at least, that's how he saw it in his mind whenever he closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of you. He was pretty sure his heart was following suit, especially when he could feel your flirty amusement, your flush of pleasure at his suggestion.

Joke’s on you, you shot back, all while you savored another lick of ice cream. I don’t mind being restrained.

Beau choked on a piece of praline. Your giggle reached his ears, but your soothing hand up and down his back is what made him preen like a dog getting scratched behind the ears.

You’re dangerous, he replied. He was smirking way too hard, his face getting warm as the suggested fantasy started to play itself out in his mind. He could tell that you noticed, mostly because he could feel your amusement through the bond. Now a month into this, it was getting easier to tell, and easier to control what he let slip through this little WiFi connection.

Your resulting smile was impish. Sexy as hell really. No one would ever know it by the look of you, a high school English teacher with sweet smiles and smart, encouraging words for his daughter about life, literature, and work ethic.

But Beau was already getting a much different education. He was learning fast too. You were a little wild cat hiding under pretty blouses, manicured nails, and sharp, teasing eyes.

He felt the edge of your nails grazing up and down his spine. A nice tingle trembled down and down, shooting right to his dick.

I thought you weren’t afraid of a little danger, you said, the words like a sultry caress in his mind, warm and effervescent in his chest.

Somehow, he managed to swallow past another dose of rummy caramel and a raisin chunk without incident. You gave him a taste of your rocky road as well to pay him back for your earlier theft.

“Dangerous and cheeky,” he muttered afterward, unable to temper a smile.

You just tipped your head back and laughed. It made your body shake and your eyes shine.

He couldn’t resist the compelling urge to bow his head to kiss you, capturing your lips, swallowing your giggles, warning you with a playful squeeze on your waist. You clung to the front of his buttoned-down shirt and dueled him for another taste of butterscotch, this time from his tongue.

After a couple more samples, you realized that the real ice cream was melting. You pointed out a bench to sit and finish your confections in peace, so he followed your lead. He still kept a casual arm around your waist.

He liked the feel of you in his arms. So far, you were a hell of a good fit.

He’d spent most of his life skeptical of the “cosmic bond,” of soulmates. He was twenty-five when he met Carla. They were barely a year in when she told him with teary, anxious eyes that she was pregnant. He thought he'd done right by marrying her, no matter what his mother said at the time.

A whole fifteen years later, and one hell of a year he'd tried to forget, Carla grabbed the whiskey bottle out of his hand long enough to tell him that she’d found her true other half, a man that wasn’t broken. A man that could understand her, support her—everything Beau just couldn’t do anymore. Maybe he never had.

That man bought a three-story house on a hill out here in Helena, Montana for just him, Carla, and Emily.

Beau moved out here along with them, but he was lucky if he got a full week with his daughter, especially after he admittedly almost got that smarmy crypto thieving bastard killed two summers ago. Now that was another one Carla hadn’t forgiven him for. Not that he blamed her either.

Believe it or not though, Beau wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. He was trying to learn from his mistakes too. He’d told you some of that long, long story, but not all. Some things were too difficult, and some things he wasn’t ready for…but he did want to be better.

You had no say in who you were saddled to on this soulmate thing, whether he liked it or not. (And there were times when it was both.) It didn’t mean you had to be with him, but it did mean that he wanted to try to be a man who deserved you.

“Okay,” you said, tapping his thigh. By now your cone was gone, and he was polishing his off. You were reapplying your lipstick. He liked that shade on you, like taking a bite out of a nice juicy plum. “What do you wanna do after this?”

“I’d like to find where my daughter ran off to.”

Beau had half his attention on you and the other half scoping out the fairgrounds. He’d been trying his damnedest to keep an eye on Emily, even after she ran off with her friends. She did check in every hour via text, but it wasn’t the same as putting his own two eyes on the girl.

Okay, maybe Beau was a little paranoid on the subject, but he felt it was immensely justified. After what happened two years ago, she was lucky all he did was start tracking her phone. 

You, however, had proven to be a major distraction.

But he had a lead. You'd told him that Em and Jake, some kid in your honors class, had been “talking.” Beau had even overheard his daughter talking with her little friends, something about meeting him by the Ring Toss.

“Where’s the Ring Toss again?” Beau asked. He took out the folded-up map from his back pocket and spread it out across his thigh. You leaned over and pointed it out, tapping a couple inches above his knee.

“Looks like it’s right around the corner from the Ferris Wheel.”

Hmm, of course, he thought. Without meaning to, it slipped through the Connection and reached you. You glanced over at him and noted that calculating look on his face. Your lips twitched upward.

“What?” you asked.

“I think she’s meeting ‘Jake from Statefarm’ over there,” he said dryly, complete with air quotes.

You tilted your head at him in amusement. “Hmm, interesting. What do you plan to do, Detective?”

Beau checked the app on his phone that tracked his daughter’s. Sure enough, it showed she was close by. He compared it with the map to try and figure out an exact location.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just gonna see if my daughter’s trying to pull a fast one at the quintessential make-out spot for generations of county fairgoers across America.”

You bit your lip and valiantly held in a snort. Though you just had to inject some reality into his little melodrama.

“She’s 18 years old, Beau. You think she’s never made out with a boy before?”

The man released a long and heavy sigh. He preferred to think of his daughter as his perfect little angel who still thought boys were “doodie-head dummies,” like she claimed when she was eight. However, he’d noticed her wearing a lot more makeup recently. More crop tops and tighter clothes too. He hoped it wasn’t Carla who was buying her that crap.

…But that wasn’t a rabbit hole he needed to travel down tonight. After a beat, Beau shook his head.

“Anyway, ready to go, milady?” he said, offering you his hand after he stood from the bench.

You quirked a brow at him, but you accepted the offer.

“If you’re going to try to get me on that big metal hamster wheel of death so you can spy on your daughter, I���m just letting you know right now that it’s not gonna happen,” you informed him.

Beau gave you a charming smile then, lacing his fingers with yours.

“Aw, come on, darlin’. It’s perfectly safe. I’ll be holding your hand the whole time.”

And more than that, if you let me, he teased. And he was satisfied at feeling the weight of your blush, the warm tendril of pleasure.

“Nuh uh. I’m not doing it, sorry,” you said, even as you fought a smile. “I’d rather make out in a haunted house than risk getting stuck a hundred feet up in the air.”

Beau could respect that. But, an idea struck him when he noticed the horse-drawn wagon up ahead. Now that’s worth $20.

“How about a hayride?” he suggested.

Your eyes followed the path of his pointed finger, and you smiled.

“Oh, now you’re talking.”

“Twenty minutes, takes you all around the grounds,” he said. “Potentially some exclusive spots.”

Cue a suggestive brow waggle.

You smirked. “Twenty minutes, huh?”

Let’s see how many bases you can run, cowboy. You squeezed his arm, no doubt pressing your tits against his bicep on purpose.

Beau shot you a look, half amused, half heat and warning not to tempt him too much. He didn’t need more than half the town catching him in flagrante, so to speak. He shook his head, even while a smirk once again pulled at his lips.

Fuckin’ dangerous, sweetheart.

Your unrepentant giggle could’ve done him in right there.

AN: lol I hope you guys like this little soulmate au! I haven't been to the fair in years, but for some reason I'm craving rum raisin and a candy apple lollipop. 😝

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

⋆˙⟡ Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story. 💜

JVB Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Beau Arlen Tag List:

@luci-in-trenchcoats @supernotnatural2005 @waynes-multiverse @gabavaldman @hobby27

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @everything-is-all-clear @suckitands33 @roseblue373

@globetrotter28 @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19

@rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @kmc1989 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @lacilou

@deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @iprobablyshipit91 @ladysparkles78

@deansbbyx @chernayawidow @syrma-sensei @tmb510 @k-slla

@mrlonelycat @mimaria420 @mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @cheynovak

@deanbrainrotwritings @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @my-stories-vault @siampie

@sanscas @kaleldobrev @angelbabyyy99 @spnwoman @pieandmonsters

@ultimatecin73 @nicksalchemy1 @onlyangel-444 @sexyvixen7

[my-stories-vault]

Serendipity

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader 

Summary: Now that you and Dean are married, you begin to live out the next phase of your dream. However, reality has to check in some time.

AN: Ready for some more Smoke Eater-verse? (AKA: firefighter Dean!) Here’s a little window into their little life after the first sequel story, Something Real. This also fulfills a square for my Round 2 masterlist for @jacklesversebingo.

JVB Prompt: Reminiscing

Posted on Patreon: 5/02/2025

Word Count: 1.2K

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship (finally married!), parental anxiety, and tooth-rotting fluff, let’s be honest.

Catch up on the SE-verse: ⤵️

🔥 Smoke Eater Masterlist

Exhaustion poured from every cell of your body. Four corners of white walls surrounded you while you laid in a hospital bed in recovery. You were sore and aching, sweat still clung to your skin and in your frizzy hair, and yet, you smiled softly.

You turned your head to watch your husband pace, one slow, gentle bouncing step after another with the bundle in his arms.

“Are you gonna keep hogging her?” you teased.

Dean looked over at you, smiling. “You got to carry her for ten months. Now it’s my turn.”

He lowered his gaze down to her, that perfect face finally sleeping peacefully. She was so small, so delicate. Just hours old. Ordinarily his sense of manhood wouldn’t allow him to talk like this, let alone think like this, but this baby girl had just carved out the widest hole in his heart and burrowed right in. It was a deep, fierce, protective love, greater than he could’ve ever imagined.

It fucking scared him to death.

Just holding her in his arms felt like holding an anvil of responsibility. And she was only seven and a half pounds.

Dean’s throat constricted again. He had to blink back the salty sting glossing in his eyes.

Your gaze softened knowingly. “Hey.”

His attention caught on you, on your hand raising from the bed to reach out for him. Dean went over and carefully sat on the edge of the thin mattress. He couldn’t wait to get you home in a real bed, so you could be more comfortable after nearly eighteen hours of labor.

He switched the baby over to his left arm, tucking her in the crook of it, the way Sam told him to. That way Dean could sweep a hand over your hair, caress your cheek. Your eyes closed at his touch.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you breathed. So tired. So very tired.

“Yeah, that sounds like Winchester fine,” Dean said with a smirk. He rested an elbow against your pillow so he could lay a kiss above your brow.

You giggled softly. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s okay.”

You gazed up at him, then down at your daughter. Your eyes filled with tears almost on reflex while you stroked her soft cheek.

“It’s almost too much, you know?” you said, your voice sticky with emotion. “Like…I love you. I’d take a bullet for you and everything. But when I tell you, I would kill for her?”

Dean’s burst of laughter threatened to shake both of you on the bed. He tried to keep it quiet for the baby’s sake.

“I’m talking itty bitty infinitesimal pieces that they’d have to find in Forensic Files, like 50 years later,” you sniffled. All the while, your fingers stroked your baby’s cheek and forehead, her little hands and sock-covered feet.

“I know the feeling,” Dean agreed. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, and you shifted to lay more against him than on the pillow. You both breathed together in that quiet, perfect space, where everything was good and right.

A knock on the door disturbed that peace.

You narrowed your eyes dangerously at the door. Dean noticed and hid a smile. You’d been a scary kind of pregnant lady.

“Yeah?” he called out at a moderate volume. It could be Sam and Eileen coming back. They’d waited in the hospital all night, but after getting to meet the baby, they left with their one-year-old son to go home and get some rest.

Or maybe it was Andréa and Benny. They’d just gotten back from their honeymoon yesterday, but they promised they’d be here soon.

It could’ve also been Meg and Cas, or even Ellen and Jo. So many people were already invested in this kid’s life. They’d been giving you and Dean support ever since you found out you were pregnant. (Six weeks to the day after your honeymoon. No, Dean’s “baby fever” did not abate.)

Despite your overwhelming happiness, you knew from that very day that the countdown had begun. You were eventually going to have to take a break from your catering business.

Dean would need more flexibility at the firehouse, and he’d been building up his side business as a mechanic to increase the money flow. Plus, starting a new family meant that soon enough, you would probably outgrow your two-bedroom apartment, no matter how much you both loved it there.

There was so much to think about that it made your head do more spins and summersaults than an Olympic gold medal gymnast, but—

“It’s me,” came the gruff reply from the other side of the door.

Dean smiled, sharing a glance with you. Your expression softened, and you nodded at him in agreement. He got up with the baby still carefully cradled in his arms and went over to open the door. There stood John Winchester holding a modest bouquet of flowers from the hospital gift shop. Dean knew because he’d just made a trip down there himself. The ribbon wrapped around John’s pink roses matched Dean’s yellow tulips.

“Hey, come on in,” Dean whispered.

“Yeah? Is it okay?” John asked, giving you a wave in greeting.

You smiled at your father-in-law. “Hey, John.”

“Of course, grandpa,” Dean replied to him. “Come meet your second grandbaby.” He clasped the man’s shoulder and welcomed him into the room. John smiled wryly on his way over to kiss your cheek.

“Yeah, you and your brother just wanna keep giving me gray hairs,” he remarked.

But his eyes softened the moment they fell on his granddaughter. His first one. Dean’s smile warmed as he brought her closer to his father.

“Wanna hold her?” Dean asked.

John cleared his throat. At your smile and encouraging hand on his arm, he turned and positioned himself to take the baby. Dean deposited her into his arms, then went over to sit beside you on your other side. You leaned into him with a contended sigh. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

Meanwhile, John held his granddaughter the same way he’d held Sam’s firstborn son; the way he held Sam himself as an infant; the way he held Dean, his firstborn son. Fatherly pride and a deep undercurrent of love welled up in his chest as he reminisced to himself, compelling him to clear his throat for a second time. His eyes shone glassy with that feeling.

“She’s beautiful. Just beautiful,” he said eventually, his voice deep and gruff. Though he glanced over at Dean with a certain smirk. “You know, they say when God gives a man a little girl, it’s payback for all the skirt chasin’ he did when he was young.”

Dean’s smile fell.

You snorted a laugh—so hard that your body shook with it.

Dean began to pout. You grabbed your husband’s chin playfully and shot him a sly look. 

“Then he really does have a sense of humor,” you said.

AN: My heart melts for Grandpa John lol, especially in the Smoke Eater-verse. It was fun to come back to these two for a hot minute. I can't believe it's already been almost two years since I wrote the main series! 😵❤️‍🔥

Next week, I'll be dropping a sequel to Over the Bridge! Then we'll be dipping back into the Break Me Down-verse for yet another adventure in pregnancy! Honestly, I didn't realize I was writing all these "baby" stories and sequel stories lately, but maybe I've got some baby fever? 🤣🤣 Which is kind of crazy, since I'm currently single and haven't really thought about wanting kids up until now. Maybe it's just the thought of Dean and Ben with kids that's got my fanning myself. 😮‍💨 ahem

Anyway. lol. Enjoy!~ ❤️

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

⋆˙⟡ Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story. ❤️

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaleldobrev

@globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @cheynovak @jollyhunter

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom

[my-stories-vault]

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in. 

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”  

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you right," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He laughed softly. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean smiled in amusement, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

⋆˙⟡ Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new chapter. ❤️

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories; send me requests, and more!

Dean Winchester One-Shots List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaleldobrev

@globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @cheynovak @jollyhunter

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom

[my-stories-vault]

Got a lil' update for y'all.

I know I haven't put up "coming soon" dates for either of my series yet. And I've been inactive in chating and tag games and what-have-you. Even behind on my reading list because I've basically almost abandoned my phone because every time I pick it up, I see the negative news.

I'm unsure who all of you are aware but an India-Pakistan War's going on. If you've read my bio, I live in India, and things have been pretty tense and ambiguous over here lately.

I'm safe, thank God, and my family's good, but everything's just . . . worrisome. So, with my mind anchored in reality, I haven't found it in me to tap into my imagination, as you can imagine (lol, sorry, my jokes are crap rn). But anyway, it might be a while before I'm regular again.

Thank you all for your cooperation and your patience, and I hope you understand. Stay safe and take care out there, please.

Tagging my tag list peeps here so you all know: @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog @bettystonewell @jollyhunter

[my-stories-vault]

I can't imagine loving anyone any other way now 🫠❤️.

A Dangerous Love

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Sam's POV of yours and Dean's relationship.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Implied smut, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and injury, poor Sammy! Dean being his typical over protective self, both of them are stubborn.

AN: Hey guys, I know I've been MIA for a lil while, but I'm doing okay, still getting there, although this isn't a full return, I just wanted to pop on and give you guys a little something, as well as catch up on some reading now I have a minute 😅. This was sitting in my drafts and finally touched it up. I tried something little different with It being from Sam's POV. But I enjoyed this one and I hope you guys do too! ❤️

Main Masterlist

They were fighting again.

Sam didn’t even flinch. He barely glanced up from his laptop as the sharp words echoed through the paper-thin motel walls—voices rising, footsteps pounding, another inevitable blowout brewing like a summer storm.

“You can’t just run in like that!”

“I had it handled!”

“No, you almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m not a child, Dean! I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me with the way you acted tonight!”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He’d heard this fight a hundred times—probably more. Same argument, different hunt. Dean being overprotective, you pushing back, neither of you knowing when to shut up.

Then came the inevitable—

“Go to hell!”

“Already been, sweetheart.”

Sam winced a second before a door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls. Right on cue, his own door flew open, and in stormed Dean—still fuming, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed with frustration.

Sam didn’t look up. He’d learned his lesson. Playing mediator between you two was about as effective as standing between two charging bulls. So, he kept his eyes locked on his screen, feigning deep concentration on the case he was researching.

A small town in Lincoln, Nebraska. Three bodies in a week, hearts missing. Probably a werewolf. Maybe a Rugaru. Definitely not as terrifying as the emotional carnage currently unraveling in the room.

Dean stalked back and forth like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam made the mistake of humming in vague agreement. That was all the opening Dean needed.

“Right? I mean, she just—she just goes in, no backup, no plan, like she’s got a damn death wish.”

Sam finally looked at his brother, eyebrows raised. “You mean like you do? All the time?”

Dean scowled. “That’s different.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, is it?”

But Dean ignored him, too deep in his rant to acknowledge logic.

“She doesn’t listen. Ever. I tell her to stay back, and what does she do? Runs straight into danger like she’s got something to prove.”

From the other side of the wall came a muffled, but unmistakably pissed-off voice: “I can hear you, jackass!”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Good!”

Sam sighed, long and suffering, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was his life. Not just the near-death experiences, not just the monsters and the ghosts—no, this. Being caught between his stubborn brother and his brother’s equally stubborn, equally reckless, equally loud girlfriend.

Dean, still grumbling to himself, flopped onto the opposite bed and crossed his arms like an angry child. Sam wisely said nothing. He knew the drill—Dean would rant, stew for a while, and eventually, in a few days—

Wait... Scratch that. 

A few hours later, Sam was rudely jolted awake by a very different kind of disturbance.

Something rhythmic. Repetitive. Suspiciously… breathy.

At first, his sleep-fogged brain struggled to make sense of it. A fight? No—too much giggling between the groans.

And then—

Oh. Oh, no.

Realisation hit like a freight train at full speed and his stomach churned.

The unmistakable sound of a headboard knocking against the wall. The low, hushed moans. And worst of all—

“Oh, God, Dean—”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Sam groaned, grabbed his pillow, and smothered his own face with it like he could suffocate the memories before they fully formed. How could he forget about the damn make-up sex? He should’ve known when Dean left the room and didn’t return that this is what would come of it. 

Burying himself deeper under the blanket, he contemplated driving to another damn state. Maybe exorcising himself. Was there a ritual for that? A way to erase the mental scarring?

Eventually, after a painfully long time, blissful silence returned, and with it, the symbolic, albeit fragile, truce between you and Dean.

The next morning, Sam nursed his coffee like a war veteran as he sat in the outdated diner, watching the two of you with equal parts fascination and whiplash.

You were nestled beside Dean on the other side of the booth, stealing bites of his pancakes with a smug grin.

Dean—who, under normal circumstances, would stab a man with a fork for even looking at his food—just smirked, all stupid heart eyes, letting you get away with it like you were some divine exception to the rule.

Sam squinted. Not even twenty-four hours ago, you two were about five seconds away from an actual homicide.

Now? Now, you were practically glowing, exchanging touches, finishing each other’s sentences, giggling like a couple of lovesick teenagers in a CW drama.

Sam exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

Every relationship expert on the planet would call this toxic. Hell, if he described it to anyone—the explosive fights, the impossible stubbornness, the complete disregard for self-preservation when it came to each other—they’d probably diagnose you both with something and slap you with a warning label.

But for as long as he could remember—even before you and Dean finally got together—it had always been like this. Back when you were just a couple of reckless teenagers, trading jabs and daring each other into stupid, dangerous situations. Before things got complicated with feelings and labels.

You and Dean were like flint and steel—constantly striking, constantly sparking, burning hotter than anything Sam had ever seen.

But the fire never went out.

It should have. By all logic, it should have burned itself to the ground a dozen times over. But instead, it just kept going, somehow forging you both into something stronger.

It was chaos. It was infuriating.

And, honestly? It was kind of impressive.

Even if it made Sam’s head want to implode.

But then there were moments that tore away all the noise, stripped everything down to the bare bones of what you and Dean truly were. Moments that left no room for doubt.

Because when it came down to it—when it really mattered—the two of you didn’t just care. Didn’t just love each other. You were willing to bleed for one another, break for the other, burn the whole damn world down if you had to.

And tonight? Tonight just proved that.

The hunt was supposed to be routine—get in, take care of the pack, get out. But the damn werewolves were faster, stronger. They had numbers. And somewhere between the chaos and the fighting, you made a split-second decision.

You saved Dean’s life. And you nearly lost your own in the process.

Dean caught you before you hit the ground. One second you were standing, the next you were collapsing, blood soaking through your shirt, pooling between his fingers as he pressed down hard against the gash in your side.

“No—no, no, no,” Dean’s voice was hoarse, raw with panic. “You're okay. I got you.”

Sam barely had time to react before Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Sam! Get the car!”

Sam was already moving, sprinting for the Impala as Dean held you against him, his flannel already stripped from his shoulders and bunched against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, his grip unrelenting. His fingers trembled against your skin, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “Just hang on. I got you.”

Sam skidded to a stop beside the car, yanking the door open. He turned back just in time to see Dean lifting you into his arms, his expression twisted in barely contained panic.

Sam didn’t miss the way his brother held you—not just with urgency, but with a kind of care that made his chest ache.

He helped ease you into the back seat with Dean, still pressing the flannel to your side. His voice was shaking, but his grip was steady.

"Step on it, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t argue. The second he was behind the wheel, he floored it, tires screeching against the asphalt.

The drive was a blur of traffic violations, but because it was nearing midnight, the roads were practically empty, making up for the reckless driving. The city flashed by in streaks of yellow and white, and in the rearview mirror, Sam could see Dean cradling you against him, his forehead nearly pressed to yours as he whispered every reassurance he could think of.

"Stay with me, sweetheart.”

"You’re okay.”

“I swear to God, you’re gonna be okay.”

But Sam heard the crack in his brother’s voice. Saw the way his hands were shaking. Dean wasn’t just worried. He was terrified.

By the time they crashed through the ER doors, shouting for help, Dean was covered in your blood.

The nurses barely had time to react before Dean was snapping at them to hurry, his voice sharp, desperate. And then you were gone—whisked away behind double doors, leaving Dean standing there, breathing hard, fists clenched, and your blood staining his hands.

Then came the waiting.

Dean couldn’t sit still. He paced the hospital waiting room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair over and over, jaw tight, eyes darting to every single doctor or nurse that walked by.  

The agitation built inside him like a pressure valve ready to burst, as Sam sat nearby, watching his brother unravel, feeling helpless.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he growled, throwing his arms up in frustration as his gaze stayed trained on the double doors they had wheeled you through.  

Sam let out a quiet sigh. He was just as worried, but kicking and screaming wasn’t going to make time move faster. “They’re doing everything they can, man. You have to let them do their job.”  

Dean clenched his jaw, his entire body rigid with anxiety, and Sam could see the cracks forming in his brother’s usual composure. Deannwas a lot of things—fearless, reckless, stubborn as hell—but right now? Right now, he just looked scared.

When the doctor finally approached them, Dean nearly jumped down his throat.  

"How is she? Is she okay?"

“She lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. “But we’ve managed to stabilize her. She needs plenty of rest, and we’ll have to monitor her overnight and go from there.”  

Sam let out a breath of relief. But Dean—Dean’s shoulders sagged, his lips pressing into a thin line as something unreadable passed through his expression.  

They had lied, of course. Told the doctors you’d been attacked by a bear because —“yeah, doc, she got slashed by a goddamn werewolf” — would’ve landed them in padded cells. Thankfully, the doctors didn’t ask too many questions.

When they were finally allowed to see you, Sam watched as Dean crumbled at the sight of you lying in that hospital bed.  

You looked so small. So fragile. The machines beeped steadily beside you, an IV hooked up to your arm, your face pale from the blood loss. It made even Sam’s heart twinge painfully to see you this way. You were not only his brother’s girlfriend. You were his best friend. His sister.

Dean approached cautiously, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he got too close. Then, without a word, he sat beside you and grasped your hand, his fingers brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that didn’t match the man who had just been almost punching walls in the waiting room.  

His throat bobbed. Then, wordlessly, he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering there as he exhaled shakily.

"You scared the hell outta me," he muttered, his voice thick, raw. “You’re gonna pull through this, you hear me?”

He swallowed hard, then softer, more broken— "cause' I can't lose you."

Sam swallowed hard against his own emotions. He knew this wasn’t just about saving you anymore. It was about Dean confronting the most terrifying thing he could ever imagine—the thought of losing you. And for a man like Dean, who was constantly worrying about this very thing, you'd think he'd be somewhat prepared for the real thing. Evidently not. It was crushing, breaking him into a thousand pieces.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the way Dean’s thumb traced gentle circles against your skin, but he saw the anger rise, predictable from his brother's guilt and fear as it continued to chip away at him the longer he looked at you. 

“Dammit, Y/N. Why didn’t you listen to me? I—“ Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he just closed his eyes, like he was trying to pull himself together.  

And then, as if on cue, you stirred. Your fingers twitched in his grasp, your eyelids fluttering, and Dean went still—his breath caught, his entire body frozen as he waited.

Slowly, your eyes opened, hazy with exhaustion and pain, but when they focused on him, you still managed a weak, lopsided smile.

"Worth it.” you murmured, voice hoarse.  

Dean closed his eyes like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time, because of course you’d have a comeback, even on the brink of death.

Sam huffed a small, teary laugh, shaking his head.

Because this was the two of you. Always on the brink of disaster. Always throwing yourselves in front of danger for each other. Always driving each other insane.

It was a deep love. A dangerous love.

But it was real.

And it was true.

AN: What started off as a Drabble, became a one shot lol. I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was fun to do. 😁💕 Also I am still working on part 2 of In The End , I'm sorry for the delay guys 😭

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

[my-stories-vault]

IF I STAY - Epilogue

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized!Reader

Summary: Your dream is to work with kids as an elementary school teacher. Dean is well on his way to becoming a firefighter, keeping things light and “strings unattached” as he goes. After a one-night stand you never saw coming, you and Dean are forced to deal with the consequences…and figure out if the connection between you is worth fighting for.

AN: By popular demand, I wanted to come back to these two for a hot minute, clear up some loose ends, and answer some questions Part 2 might have left behind for you. 😘

Song Inspo: “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” and “It’s Now or Never” by Elvis

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Major fluff, some spice, angst, hurt/comfort, family feels

❤️‍🔥 If I Stay Masterlist

Epilogue: Soul Surrender

The low familiarity of Arrested Development playing on the TV is the only sound filling your bedroom…other than your giggles. They come out in short bursts even though your body doesn’t stop shaking, twisting away from nimble fingers.

“Dean,” you plead. Your cheeks hurt from laughing but no matter how you try to escape, he follows you. His broad frame and strong arms curl around your waist from behind. His face buries into your neck, and you feel the shape of his smirk there while his fingers slip higher under your shirt and map a constellation across your ribs.

Well, it’s actually his shirt, the white buttoned-down hanging loosely from your frame. It barely covers your ass, and he likes it that way. All the better to tease you with a playful smack of a nice round cheek when the fabric rides up.

Your squeal morphs into more peals of laughter. Involuntary tears well up in your eyes, and one slides down into the pillow underneath your cheek.

“Baby, please—can’t fucking breathe,” you manage to say, panting and wheezing all squeaky-voice.

Finally, his long fingers fall still against your skin. His head perks up, and his smirk softens into a grin.

“Baby?” Dean repeats, quirking a brow at you.

You pause. While you catch your breath, your gaze lowers in an uncertain shade. You shift onto your back, where Dean is only better able to loom above you. Staring up at his handsome face like this still feels a little unreal. Just a couple of hours ago, you were a crying mess in this very bed.

Then there was a knock on your door. When you found Dean standing there looking stressed and desperate, you just couldn’t turn him away; nor could you deny what your heart had been trying to tell you for far too long.

“Uh, sorry, it just came out,” you say with a chuckle.

Before you can ask if it’s too soon for cute pet names, Dean leans down to capture you in a kiss. It’s slow and thorough, sparking a tendril of heat down your spine as his hand slides along your neck, framing your jaw. He thumbs at your chin after he pulls away.

“I like it,” he says. His eyes hold a cheeky gleam.

Your smile gradually reaches beaming proportions. He moves his hand down to your waist, and you squirm a little. You’re still sensitive from how much he teased you before. You grab his hand and bring it back up to your cheek instead.

“You’re more ticklish than Robbie,” Dean remarks. His smirk is back.

“He probably gets it from me,” you confess. Though your hands do some wandering of their own, slipping under the man’s arms and prodding a tuneless sonata along his sides. “But I’m thinking you’re just as bad, tough guy.”

Just as you suspected, Dean flinches and laughs on reflex. “H-Hey! Foul move!”

His deep voice runs higher, full of censure, but it just makes you grin harder. Seeing this big man crumple like a wad of wet paper has you mounting a full-scale attack of revenge. You manage to get Dean twisting over and onto his back, where you take full advantage of his weakness and straddle his lap.

He grabs you by the wrists and pins them together while he pants for breath. You grin down at him victoriously. He chuckles just at that look on your face.

“Think you’ve caught me, huh?” he says.

“I hope so,” you reply.

You soften at your own admission. Dean does too, releasing your wrists so he can get a comfortable hold of your thighs wrapped snug around his hips. You dip down to kiss him just as nice and slow as he treated you, sweet even.

You soon find yourself tumbled down to the bed, rolling to his left side. You huff a laugh at his manhandling, but you let him hold you close and savor the feeling of being here with him. It all happened. It’s still happening. He’s yours.

But…

“What do you think Robbie’s gonna say when we tell him?” Dean asks.

You pull back far enough to see his face, and you stroke his cheek. It’s a little prickly with stubble, but you don’t mind. Actually, the rasp of it against your fingers reminds you of other places it had tingled against your sensitive skin. Your cheeks begin to warm up.

You try to break out of those thoughts, concentrating on answering his question.

“Aw, he’s gonna be happy,” you say. The kid had already been asking the hard questions.

Why aren’t you and Daddy married? Why can’t we all live together? Is Benny gonna move in with us instead?

You do sigh though. “We have to think about how we’re going to tell him. Benny’s been in his life since he was born.”

Dean breathes deeply through his nose, and he nods. He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, a touch that returns the softer smile to your face.

“Dean, we need to do better,” you say. “From now on, we need to be honest with each other, or we’re not going to get through what comes next. We’re going to keep hurting the people we love, including each other.”

After a beat, he nods solemnly in agreement.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“So,” you grasp his hand in both of yours. You draw enough courage to ask the question that’s been burning in your mind, ever since the haze of fraught emotions, lust, love, and passion began to ebb from the forefront of your mind, calming into a resting state of happiness and content. You stare up into Dean’s eyes.

“You said that you’ve loved me for a long time,” you say. “If that’s true, why were you with Lisa so long? Why didn’t you ever talk to me about this sooner?”

Dean hums low in contemplation, almost a rumble. He squeezes your hand, and he sighs.

“Aw, sweetheart. I was so fuckin’ stupid,” he chuckles half-heartedly. Your lips twitch.

“I was, what, twenty-six when we met?” he says. “You were even younger.”

“Twenty-two,” you supply knowingly. You and Sam had just graduated from college with Eileen and a couple of your friends. Sam had been about to start law school, with you starting at your first elementary school as a first-grade teacher.

“Yeah. In my case, young and dumb,” Dean says, with a shake of his head. He pauses in contemplation. Finally, he finds the courage to meet your eyes.

“All right, here it is,” he says. “After I thought you turned me down the first time, I met Lisa. Sam had mentioned some things that started to turn my head around on how I was living, all the hookups, the boozing, that kind of thing. I knew I’d screwed up with you, not calling you after we had our thing. So, I wanted to see if I could try something steady with someone, you know?”

He takes in a deep breath. “But after you told me you were pregnant, it all just fucking hit me, the way I’d totally changed your life, and mine. I was reckless. It made me want to grow the fuck up, I guess.”

You begin to rub his arm in comfort. “I was there too, you know. It wasn’t all on you.”

He smiles at you a little. You know he sees your point, even if he still feels responsible for knocking you up.

“The more I tried to make it work with Lisa, the harder it was.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Well, that part you know. Looking back, it was probably because I still wanted you. But every time Lisa and I broke up for some stupid shit, I felt like more of a fuckup. And every time I thought of you and me, and what that could be like, I uh…I guess I was afraid of being turned down again. Or worse, afraid of fucking up your life even more.”

Your frown trembles, with the sting of fresh tears in your eyes. Dean gives you a rueful smile.

“Vicious cycle, huh?” he says. “When you got with Benny, I thought I lost my chance for sure. So I guess I just…gave up. Settled for where I was.”

Another sigh falls from your lips, along with a couple of tears that bubble over and slip down your cheeks. You sit up in bed and take Dean’s face into your hands, a gentle hold, but a meaningful one.

“Well, first of all, I want you to understand something right now. I’ve said it before, and I’m going to say it one more time so you don’t forget it.” You look deep into his eyes. “You didn’t screw up my life. I’ve never looked at it that way, and I never will. Our son is best thing that could’ve happened to me, and I’m thinking to you too.”

After a moment, he nods. “Yeah.”

You nod as well. Glad to have that settled, you let go of his face so you can wipe the tear from your cheek.

“The last few years haven’t been perfect for me either,” you say. “But I love you, Dean. I want this to be the real deal, more than anything.”

Dean grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze. He’s tempted to drag you down for a heated kiss and a hell of a lot more—maybe a nice sequel for what you guys did on the couch, and two more times in your bed an hour ago. However, something you said strikes a small bell in his mind.

“You mean to tell me it wasn’t all Brady Bunch with Mr. Rogers?” Dean says, only half joking.

You give him a censuring look. “Hey, Benny doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve…any of this.”

Dean sobers. He knows you’re right, even if he has to stamp out a stab of jealousy. He feels sorry for his friend too…even if part of him selfishly can’t feel that sorry about getting to be with you.

But you rub at your forehead, a fresh load of guilt dumping over your shoulders. You know you’ll have to talk to Benny too. As incredibly happy as you are right now, you still feel horrible for how this all shook out. You never meant to hurt him or lead him on. From the beginning, you had really appreciated his help so much after Robbie was born.

“In so many ways, he was the kind of man I wanted. Kind, reliable, honest,” you say. Dean sits up with you now against the headboard. He listens intently, no matter how his stomach twists.

It takes you time to find your words, but you begin to explain.

You had loved Benny. You still do. But you realize now, only much too late, that you hadn’t been in love with him.

While your relationship with him had always been supportive and perfectly pleasant, a secret part of you had craved more. He wasn’t one to open up so easily about his day or his work, no matter how much you tried to coax it out of him. In fairness, you know he sees a lot of things on the job that aren't meant for civilian ears, but there are only so many monosyllabic answers you can deal with.

You, on the other hand, are a talker. You always have been. You just got the feeling, sometimes, that Benny was zoning out on you when you tried to connect with him. He even admitted once that you were a bit "too much" for him.

So you talked less. You bottled most of your thoughts inside…until they eventually spilled out with Dean. It’s always been easy to talk to him. On the whole, he’s seemed interested in your stories, even the ones from school. You feel comfortable sharing all the little things about your students that have made him smile, or laugh, or furrow his brows when you admitted your concerns or your fears for them, and especially for Robbie. Even if he was fixing your leaky sink or patching up a hole from when your son attempted some indoor practice with a slingshot made out of Lego and a tube sock, Dean listened.

He understands you. You appreciate that about him.

However, you know that you’ve been unconsciously comparing him and Benny in your mind.

No relationship is perfect, you often tried reminding yourself over the past three years, even through some of the tougher moments.

…Like in the bedroom. Benny was a patient man, and a generous lover. Of course there had been sparks between you two, certainly in the beginning.

However cliché it is though, you’d just never felt…fireworks. Electricity under your skin. The Godfather Thunderbolt kind of sexual connection that sunk into your blood and made your insides quiver.

Kind of like now. You’re blushing down to your neck trying to explain this part of it to Dean. He has a hand resting casually on your thigh, but once he works past his jealousy of even the thought of you and Benny between the sheets, the reality of what you’re saying finally hits him. A smirk slowly grows across his lips.

The way he brushes a thumb back and forth across your sensitive skin—it makes the hair on your arms raise and elicits another tingle down your spine.

“So what you’re saying is,” Dean says, his voice deepening like black velvet as he draws closer. “No one makes you come like I do.”

You snort, biting your lip in blushing embarrassment, as well as the prickle of arousal trembling in your core. Wetness blooms between your legs just at the sound of his voice. You can’t quite bring yourself to answer him, but it doesn’t matter. Your eyes give him all the confirmation he needs.

Dean lures you back into his arms, and into his kiss. He guides you onto your back and blazes a sensuous trail down your body, mapping every lush curve all over again with his mouth, tongue, and fingers, until you’re a writhing mess beneath him.

The next day, Robbie is confused when you and Dean go together to pick him up from your parents’ house. You called them ahead of time for a very important reason.

You sit Robbie down in the living room there in front of your parents, who are trying not to give away the punchline with their smiles (your mom stifling her tears). You take the spot beside him on the couch.

“What’s wrong?” Robbie asks, looking from you to Dean. There’s wariness and confusion in the boy’s eyes, just a couple shades of green off from his father’s. You and Dean share an amused look. The kid is so intuitive.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dean says. He kneels down in front of him so that he’s eye-level with his son. “You know that your mom and I care about each other, right?”

Robbie quirks his head, but he nods. “Yeah. You’re friends.”

“Well, turns out…” Dean shares another look with you, this time a gentler smile as he takes your hand in his. “We realized that we want to be more than just friends.”

Robbie blinks a few times. He takes the information in faster than you would expect for a six-year-old, giving you his furrowed brows of confusion, suspicion…and hope?

“O-Oh. Really? Buuuut what about Benny?” he asks.

Again, smart kid. Dean looks over to you for guidance on this one.

You proverbially step in with a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. You take a steadying breath, but you explain in terms you know he’ll understand.

“I know how much you love Benny. I care about him too. I care about him a lot, actually…but he just wasn’t the guy for me,” you admit. You glance over at Dean, squeezing his hand. “Your dad is the guy.”

Robbie sits with his hands in his lap and visibly processes, his little face scrunched in thought. You don’t blame him for being confused, but you remain patient, softly smiling while you rub his back. You give Dean a guiding look, warning him with your eyes to wait for Robbie to ask whatever question he has next. You can see it brewing.

“Wait, so you guys like each other?” Robbie asks. “Like, like boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “To start with. I’m thinkin’ more like husband and wife.”

Your face falls into shock. Dean bites the inside of his lip. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it’s already out of his mouth. Can’t put that toothpaste back in the tube, can I?

Robbie gapes at his dad, and then his mom. He looks at your joined hands.

Uh oh, Dean thinks. Did we break him?

Suddenly, Robbie’s lower lip wobbles, and he starts to cry. Your eyes widen further in surprise, and now dismay along with Dean.

…Until Robbie surges forward into his dad’s arms. Dean immediately wraps his arms around his son and soothes a hand over his head.

“What’s the matter, buddy? What’s wrong?” he asks.

Robbie sniffs. “Does this mean you’re gonna come live with us?”

Dean’s worry breaks—into abject relief. He smiles. When he looks up, he finds you smiling in relief as well, albeit with tears in your eyes. He holds Robbie closer and presses a kiss on the top of his head.

“You want that, huh?” Dean asks. “Want me to come live with you guys?”

Robbie nods, burying his face in Dean’s shirt. But there’s no hiding the way his little body shakes with quiet sobs. Dean’s own eyes are suspiciously glassy, even though he smirks at the way your lower lip wobbles too. He beckons you over with a hand.

You slip off the couch and kneel on the floor too, allowing yourself to get pulled under Dean’s arm. You rest your cheek against his shoulder and bury your weeping face into his neck. This moment is everything—everything you could’ve asked for.

Your parents come around the couch as well, with your mom lovingly squeezing your shoulders and your dad resting a fatherly hand on Dean’s.

Dean can’t help but smile, so hard that it nearly cracks his face. He didn’t think his heart could ever be this full.

Well. For once, that went better than I thought.

You tap your fingers around the wide cappuccino mug nervously. You sit in what you think is the most secluded corner of the café, a strategic choice. Your eyes flit to the door again when it jingles open, but it’s just a young blonde woman with a little Pomeranian tucked under her arm. She makes her way to the barista and places her order of a lavender matcha latte and an unglazed donut.

An unglazed donut? What’s the point? you think.

You shake your head and force yourself to expel a deep breath. You wish you could’ve done this over a week ago, but you respected Benny’s wishes. He’d needed more time, and really, that was the least you could do.

A few minutes later, the little bell above the door chimes again. The familiar footfalls of heavy boots alert you to the even more familiar black jacket and jeans combo. Benny comes into view, his eyes finding you across the room in mere seconds. His face remains stoic as he approaches you.

Even now, you have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he going to be icy toward you and not say a word? Is he going to shout at you, berate you, accuse you of wasting three whole years of his life? You would probably just sit here and take it, whatever it would be. You feel like you deserve it.

Instead, he just lowers into the chair opposite you at the table. He takes a breath and rests his elbows on the table. For a moment, he just stares back at you and takes you in, from your face, lightly done with makeup, to your pretty blouse, jeans, and ankle boots.

“You look good,” he says, his tone rueful. “You don’t gotta be scared though. Not like I’m gonna start cussin’ you out in front God and everybody.”

Your lips hint at a smile. His dry brand of humor briefly lightens you.

“You know me. Overthinking is my thing,” you say. Biting your lip, your gaze lowers to the way you toy with your fingers in your lap. “Look, Benny. I wouldn’t blame you for being angry with me. You can even hate me if you want.”

Benny crosses his arms on the table, contemplating. He eventually gives you a wry, melancholy sort of smile. “Part of me’s still mad at you, I won’t lie…but there’s no use in it. Not even hating you.”

He shakes his head, and he sighs.

“Truth is, Dean and I think a lot alike,” he says. His blue-eyed gaze meets yours. “Because the moment I met you, I liked what I saw. I just had the bad luck of him getting to you first.”

Your face burns with a blush. Once again, you bite your lip.

Benny huffs a wry chuckle. “This week, I’ve been thinking…maybe I shoulda seen this coming.”

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Believe it or not, I noticed things. Things, I didn’t want to at the time,” he says. His eyes fall away from you after a moment. “You remember when you were pregnant with Robbie, and you came to the firehouse with some cookies for everybody?”

You blink at that. “Yeah, sure.”

That was the day you thought that…well, you got a hint that Benny might like you. You’d dismissed it at the time because you were so damn pregnant, waddling and sliding around like a parade float. You had wanted to test out your latest recipe of chocolate chip cookies on Dean, and the rest of the guys at the firehouse.

“Well, I knew you went there looking for Dean,” Benny says. “I saw the way your eyes lit up when he finally came by. And I saw the look on his face when he saw it was you and me together, laughin’, havin’ a good time.”

He shakes his head. “I saw that look again when I went to visit you at the hospital, the day Robbie was born… Come to think of it, this all could’ve ended that day.”

You leaned forward in your seat, now hooked on his every word. A frown pulls at your lips, while a wry one tugs at his.

“If a man wants something, he fights for it. That’s something I’ve learned, what I’ve always known to be true,” Benny says. “I thought I’d lost my chance with you before then. But when you told me you were afraid of being alone, and I saw the way Dean was all wrapped up with Lisa…I thought, shit, I could be the man you leaned on. Why not me?”

The man pauses, as if sorting back through the catalogue of memories, feelings, thoughts. He meets your sad gaze.

“But I was selfish,” he admits. “I should’ve gone to my friend and knocked some goddamn sense into him, tell him to talk to you if he really wanted you. To be the man you needed him to be. To truly be there for his family. Now, here we are.”

You fold your hands in front of your lips as you process all of this, trying to figure out what to think, let alone what to say. You do know that this is the most you’ve ever seen Benny open up.

“So if I blame you, ‘cher, I gotta blame myself just as much. At this point, all we can do is move on,” Benny says. He becomes contemplative, rubbing his bearded chin. “I gotta ask though. How’s Robbie doin’ with all of this?”

You brush a couple of tears away from your cheeks, swiping under your eyes for good measure. God, when will I be done with all this damn crying? But you take a sip of your coffee just for something to delay your answer. You knew the question would come eventually, but it still hurts you, knowing it’ll probably hurt the man in front of you.

“He misses you,” you say.

And it’s true. Your son loves Benny too—a strong, solid presence in his life since the beginning.

“You’ve told him…everything?” Benny asks. “About you and Dean too?”

You nod. “We told him last weekend.”

Benny snorts. “Y’all didn’t waste no time.”

“We didn’t want to keep it a secret. I think that would’ve been worse.”

“Nah, I get it,” he says. He drums his fingers on the table in contemplation. After a while, his blue eyes meet yours. “The kid’s happy though, isn’t he?”

You nod, giving him an honest answer. Dean is already living with you. He’s just in the process of moving his stuff out of his and Lisa’s apartment. She’s going to finish off the lease in a few months, then move out of there herself.

However, through all of the adult chaos and logistics, Robbie is all beaming smiles and excited chatter when his dad comes home. The three of you eat dinner as a family. You and Dean get to tuck in your son together at night, and wake up together the next day, sharing more than just a bed and a morning cup of coffee.

“He is,” you say. “But look, you can come by and see him, if you want to.”

“I’d like that,” Benny nods. “Just to say goodbye.”

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” you say. Once again, guilt threatens to eat you alive. “You and Dean were friends long before I came into the picture.”

Benny’s lips hint at a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That might well be,” he says, “but there are some things that are best left put to rest.”

You know then that he means more than just your relationship.

After a beat, he stands from the table. You attempt to take in a steadying breath as you get to your feet along with him.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

“Me too, sweetheart,” Benny says. He takes your hand and gives it one final squeeze. Neither of you say goodbye.

It may not be the last time you see each other. It’s a small town, after all. But there’s a good chance that this will be the last time you and Benny will speak for a good long while.

A few weeks later, Benny’s cart crashes into something solid in the spirits aisle of the grocery store—another cart.

That bumps into a young woman’s ass, making her yelp as she loses her balance. The merlot she was considering slips out of her hand and shatters in a plummy spill across the linoleum.

“Aw shit,” she grouses. Her head swivels over her shoulder to find a wide-eyed Benny with a glare. “Bro! Are you serious?”

He snaps out of his reverie and immediately goes over to try and help. He pushes his own cart away goes over to her, mindful of the glass under his boots.

“I’m sorry, 'cher. My bad,” he says, reaching out a hand to her. Shards of glass surrounds her in her heeled wedges. They go nicely with her blue slacks and crème-colored blazer…which is now flecked with wine.

She accepts his helping hand, albeit with a raised brow. “Cher? What, the 'do believe in life after love' lady?”

Benny pauses, but embarrassment isn’t the only thing that makes him falter. He can’t help but notice her smooth, bronze skin, her hazel eyes, her shiny brown hair coiled in a soft wave. She’s beautiful. Her clothes are expensive. She’s entirely out of his league.

“Uh, no, ma'am. Just a token of where I’m from,” Benny says. He gestures to the spill at their feet while she manages to step away from it. “Here, I’ll pay for that bottle, plus another one for you.”

Her lips twitch upward. Cocking her head, she turns and points at the price tag under the bottle she’d grabbed up.

“You wanna buy me a $50 bottle of wine?” she says. Plus the one he spilled.

Benny smiles. “And dinner to go along with it, if you want.”

She blinks, her mouth parting in surprise. But he finally wins her smile too. She takes a $15 bottle off the shelf instead.

“Believe me, this one’s better,” she says. “Where are you from, exactly?”

“Louisiana,” Benny replies.

“Hmm, interesting,” she says.

He arches a curious brow. “You?”

Her eyes take on a playful gleam. “Greece. Yes, I’m new in town. Yes, there’s a semi-interesting story behind it. We’ll save that for dinner though.”

Benny chuckles. “Well, all right.”

When a grocery store employee comes over to assess the damage, Benny promises that he’ll cover it. He and the young woman make their way to the checkout together with their carts.

“So, uh, what’s your name?” Benny asks.

She glances at him with a smile. “Andréa.”

Six months later, Eileen tearfully accepts being your Maid of Honor. You go about asking her cautiously, knowing Lisa is still her best friend. Eileen is gracious though. She admits to you that she advised Lisa to break things off with Dean more than once in their “five-year rollercoaster.”

“She just had an idea of what she wanted for her life, you know? And she’s stubborn about it. She thought Dean was the One,” Eileen tells you that afternoon. You two sip from your wine glasses on her sofa while Robbie and his three-year-old cousin are with Sam and Dean, out at a baseball game.

“I told her that Dean seemed…well, divided. At least when it came to her,” she says. “But Lisa swore that he just needed time. Time to get the hang of balancing his job, Robbie, and his relationship with her. As much as I love Lisa, I just think she didn’t want to see the signs that he wasn’t in love with her. Not enough to make him stay.”

You feel conflicted for more than one reason. On one hand, you do feel sorry for Lisa. On the other hand, you wish she would’ve just let Dean go after the first time they had that blowout argument that got them kicked out of the local Denny’s.

You hesitate before you ask, “How is she doing?”

Eileen smiles, and she signs as she speaks, knowing you’ve been practicing your ASL.

“She’s good actually. She met a guy at a yoga retreat out in Sacramento. She’s moving there in the fall. Not really for him, but because she wants a fresh start.”

“I could see that,” you nod. It’s hard to move on with your life in a small town like Lawrence, Kansas, where everybody knows your business. You’re honest when you say, “I hope she finds what she’s looking for.”

Eileen nods in agreement. Then, her eyes shift with a conspiring gleam.

“So, did you hear about Benny?”

Your eyes widen. “No, what? Is he okay?”

“Oh, I can’t believe you don’t know.”

“Girl, what?!”

“He eloped with that girl from Greece. Sam told me. They’re on a plane right now, headed to meet her family in Kalamata!”

You gasp, covering your mouth with both hands. You laugh, mostly out of shock. Eileen laughs just at the look on your face. The two of you giggle and finish your gossip along with a bottle of wine.

You’ve never met Benny’s girlfriend…excuse you, wife. Your shock turns into concern, just for a hot minute. But the more you think about it, you know that the man isn’t impulsive. It’s not in his blood. So you also have to believe that he hasn’t made this decision lightly.

From the bottom of your heart, you’re happy for him.

You almost choke on a laugh when Dean doesn’t quite get the whole chunk of complimentary chocolate into your mouth.

“Come on, baby. I know you can open wider than that,” he teases.

You laugh harder, covering your mouth so you don’t drop anything. You have to set down your champagne glass on the edge of the tub, however precarious that might be.

“Babe, if you make me get anything on this dress, I may just have to kill you,” you say. Though your threat doesn’t have much effect with your shoulders shaking with laughter.  

You wiggle your toes in the hot water that’s risen up to your ankles in the tub while you and Dean sit on the edge. You’re severely regretting having a winter wedding, or at least just the part where you had to trudge through the snow on the way to your husband’s ’67 Chevy. Thank God it had just been a few minutes to the hotel.

For the sake of unfreezing your feet, the white satin and lace of your dress is bunched up high on your thighs, since you’re not quite ready to take it off yet. Dean has his slacks rolled up halfway to his knees while his feet warm up beside yours.

He looks edible himself. His suit jacket lies strewn across the edge of the king-sized bed, leaving his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. His tie is gone too, leaving quite a few buttons by his collar left open, and a tantalizing strip of tanned skin visible to your wandering eyes.

“What does it matter? Are you really ever gonna wear this again?” he says as he fingers the soft hem of your skirt. He then brushes the back of his hand against your arm, your shoulder, your cheek. You smile and lean into his hand.

“’Course I am. Whenever I wanna feel all pretty and bride-like,” you say.

Dean’s smile crinkles the corner of his eyes. He cups your cheek and brings you closer, but he stops just shy of your lips.

“Well, for one thing, you’re already beautiful. Two, you’re always gonna be my bride.” He punctuates that uncharacteristic cheesiness with a kiss that warms you down to your toes. You grab ahold of his collar and breathe into it, humming softly.

You part from him, just to tell him something that’s been burning on your heart.

“Can you promise me something?”

His thumb brushes against your lower lip, flashing you a little smirk. “Depends.”

Your lips press together, but you can’t help the smile trying to break through. You catch each button on his shirt with your nails to undo the rest of them, one by one.

“No matter what comes next, whatever arguments, fights, drama, all of it, promise me that you’ll remember right now. Tonight,” you say. “Remember that you’re my best friend. My love. The father of my kid. None of that ever changes.”

Dean pulls you in even closer by your waist. His long fingers run along the small round buttons lacing down your spine. Already he’s calculating how he’s going to pop every one of them open without ruining your pretty dress.

“It’s a promise, sweetheart,” he says. And just like the vows he made in that chapel, he means these words with every conviction. “None of it ever changes.”

Well, there are some things that change. They have to, after all.

One of the biggest ones happens almost a year to the day after your winter wedding. Your daughter is born on January 25th at exactly 12:05 A.M.

Dean calls her the best belated birthday present he’s ever gotten.

He wipes at his watery eyes when his brother steps into the hospital room, where only Dean and your mom had been allowed in during the delivery. (He wanted to avoid the clusterfuck of commotion that happened the first time you were in labor. You had wholeheartedly agreed.)

While Eileen stays behind for now with their son, Sam guides Robbie inside by his shoulders. The kid had been ambivalent about the new arrival when you and Dean first told him you were going to have another baby, but in the nine-ish months since, the eight-year-old has begun to come around to the idea of having a little sister. He approaches your bedside, encouraged by your tired smile.

“Hey, baby. Meet the baby,” you joke.

Dean welcomes Robbie over with a hand on his shoulder, squeezing warmly. Robbie hesitates, but he leans up on his toes to peer at the bundle wrapped in your arms. He considers her little face peeking out of the downy crème blanket. She wears a little pink cap to keep her newborn head warm.

“She’s beautiful,” Sam says, giving you a kiss on the cheek.

“She’s so tiny,” Robbie says. 

“You were just like that,” Dean says, “’til you sprouted up outta the ground like a stalk a’ wheat.”

Robbie gives his father an indignant look. “I didn’t pop outta the ground!”

You shush him softly, despite your shoulders shaking with laughter. Sam thumps his older brother’s back. The two share a look that’s suspiciously shiny, full of nostalgia.

Dean soothes a hand over Robbie’s head.

“You’re a big brother now, son,” he says. “It’s a big responsibility. Think you can handle it?”

Robbie looks a little uncertain. His gaze leaves his dad and falls on the baby. The more he stares at her peaceful sleeping face, the more she looks kinda cute to him. He smiles.

“Yeah,” he says.

He reaches out and gently touches her cheek. Her skin is soft and delicate. His fingertips are slow and careful.

You and Dean glance at one another. Your eyes blur over with tears, but your husband is there to lean in and press a kiss to your forehead.

“We still gotta decide on a name,” he whispers.

That, you know. It hasn’t been any easier picking your daughter’s name than it was your son. Sue you if you refuse to name your child after another rocker, no matter how badass Stevie Nicks is. 

You bite your lip, leaning your head on Dean’s shoulder as a giddy laugh pours out of you.

“Game on, baby.”

AN: And there we have it! We went a little deeper into some things that were implied and touched on in Part 2, but hopefully it feels like a more complete ending to this version of Dean and the reader's story, along with everyone else in between! ❤️❤️‍🔥❤️

In a couple of weeks, for those of you who read Smoke Eater, there will be a little sequel drabble that sees that version of firefighter!Dean getting another big piece of his dream...

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaleldobrev

@globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @cheynovak @jollyhunter

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @redhoodieone

[my-stories-vault]

TASTE

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Vampire!Reader

Summary: It’s a devastating hunger. He finds you, at his own risk.

AN: Surprise! Here’s a short drabble for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! (Moodboard created by Liane!) 💜🖤❤️

Word Count: 900

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, spiciness, set circa season 6, little twist ending…

A tease, a whisper of heated breath, a soft streak of cherry red lipstick drawing a lazy path to his ear; your lips brush against his jawline.

“Dean.”

His breath hitches. Perhaps it’s a reaction to the way you say his name, a sultry beckoning and a plea all at once, like a heady sip of Merlot somehow scarring down the throat.

Perhaps it’s the way you’ve caught him. He clears his throat.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart,” he intones.

You can hear every uptick beat of his heart while his big hands find an achingly familiar stronghold on your parted thighs. You’ve always admired the strength in his hands, and the way he can move you even without their talents—with just his lips, his voice, his eyes.

He’s found you in this hovel. Deep down, you knew he would eventually. You have him trapped beneath you on this dingy couch, your long nails biting into chipped leather instead of his skin. You’re the one who’s stronger now. And no matter how many warnings blare like a fiery lashing in your mind, you can’t help yourself. You want him more than ever.

It’s a devastating hunger.

For every cell that no longer bleeds red inside you, there’s a demand for more. You crave his taste, now in more ways than one. It scares you. This scares you, more than you’ve ever been scared of anything—even though you’re the one who’s in control, grabbing his face with a slender hand. Your fingertips press into his jaw, digging firmly enough into his stubble-covered cheeks to have the jade of his eyes solely on you.

Your eyes are different now. Darker, sharper, a phantom haze of violet and crushed roses. You see the way he takes in your face, trying to find something recognizable in you besides your body.

“You shouldn’t have,” you finally reply, though there’s hesitation in your voice. Conflict. Pain. Need. A small vulnerability, slight tremble. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And yet, that deep pit of empty, vicious craving deep in your core compels you to move, to take what you need.

“I think we both know I can handle it,” Dean says. His grin is cocky and familiar in its teasing, but his eyes hold the weight of more. He can’t just let you go. His grip tightens on your thighs to deliberately shift you against him, guiding your clothed pussy against the generous, straining bulge in his jeans. You feel the warmth of him already. You utter a soft moan, your brows knitting together.

Fuck. It’s only been days, but you’ve missed him.

Just a taste.

A threat of a kiss against his lips devolves into hungry devouring. A grunt and a groan loosen from the back of his throat. His fingers delve into your hair and slip around the strands, the same way you suck his tongue into your mouth.

Your hand slips around his back to pull him closer. Your nails rake down his spine, gripping the red flannel of his shirt. He hisses at the red lines likely carving across his skin, but his eyes open to you. They’re wild, alive in a way you can’t be.

The scent of his blood is earthy, rich, tantalizing—too much to set aside. What your flesh wants is secondary to the kind of lust that courses through you, black ink of nightshade in your veins.

Your fangs descend on reflex.

Your head moves fast, but your heart manages to win out the slightest bit; your sharp teeth nearly break the skin of his shoulder instead of tearing at his jugular, the way your instincts demand. A visceral cry for blood is trapped painfully in your throat. Your heart tears even more when you realize that you’ve failed. You couldn’t keep yourself away. You couldn’t stop yourself from—

Dean’s grip tightens in your hair, but he doesn’t bother to try and pull you back.

He just jabs the needle into your neck.

A full dose of dark crimson liquid seeps into your sluggish veins, making you gasp in pure shock. Though, you really should’ve known. Dead Man’s Blood.

Your limbs quickly fall beyond your control, and you slump against his shoulder. Your eyes begin to close, no matter how hard you fight to flutter them open. You can still hear his heart beating wildly, even as he holds you.

“Thought you were gonna take a chunk outta me, huh?” he remarks, with a flash of his wry smile. “Well, it’s been tried.”

Still, there’s more tenderness in his calloused hand when he sweeps your hair away from your cheek. He looks down at you with a note of devastation, apology, regret…but also determination. It furrows his brows and presses his lips into a line.

He sits up with you gathered in his arms, and he swiftly carries you out of this terrible old shed. It was the only place you could find in the city to hide yourself, to keep you away from living, breathing, movable feasts.

“It’s okay, baby. We found the cure,” he says. His voice is firm, reassuring, if holding the remnants of grit. “We’re gonna fix this. Just hold on…”

Your eyes have closed against your will, but his voice manages to move your heart that one inch. Hope.

Just hold on…

AN: Finally something short from me, right? 😂 Though it's actually the first time I've written a vampire reader. Felt like that's where the moodboard was leading me. 👌🏽

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories; send me requests, and more!

Dean Winchester One-Shots List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaleldobrev

@globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @cheynovak @jollyhunter

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom

[my-stories-vault]

Thank you for the reblog! ❤️🥰

Chapter 13 ~ The Supernatural Wars.

Pairing: English Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N

Blurb: When the residents of this Earth found out that they were but a draft in God's numerous stories, they decided to make noise in hopes that their creator would return. Nothing can be louder than the begs of the powerless, the cackles of the ruthless, or the unending destruction left in the wake of the most merciless wars any universe can ever see—here the bloodshed never ends. So, tell me how can two young soulmates, then, find love's shade of red under all this crimson gore?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, gore, violence, major and minor character deaths, thoughts of suicide (not graphic), substance abuse (alcohol and cigarettes), mentions of wars (I mean, it's in the name).

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 13: A Walk In The Flood.

Dean's eyes itched from the dust, and he couldn't see too far out into the sudden smog; it didn't help that it was pitch black out.

He'd only had enough time to scramble for the front door to shield his head when the ceiling started raining down on him. He couldn't surface until the whole structure was rubble.

His ears were ringing, suspicious of the silence. His eyes blinked, watering heavily because of the polluted air. Near him was a thick black cloud of smoke, snaking all the chemicals towards the sky; it made him cough and gag on reflex.

'Y/N?!' his voice sounded parched, and not loud enough.

His eyes tracked up towards the onyx sky, which was alive with shooting stars or meteors or . . .

'Angels,' Dean realised. 'Fuck.'

He pushed the house off of him, his terse eyes scanning the ruins of the lodge more alertly, finding you nowhere. Out of his periphery, he could spot that the illusion that hid other people was now shattered, and he could see all the other humans. His sense of hearing finally latched onto the agonised screaming and desperate shouts, and if he concentrated, he could make out the wails of the bereaved.

Thinking ahead, he grabbed the blanket that had been covering you two's bed. And he unearthed the metal bottle placed on his nightstand; by sheer luck, he also found a torch and his phone. He couldn't find a first-aid kit or a weapon, though. This would have to be enough somehow.

His chest trembled, waiting to cave in at a sight that would sear him forever.

The sky rumbled with angry thunder. His brows furrowed in confusion as sudden clouds started moving, slowly, but as if they were being shuffled around by some unseen entity—they were all corraling together so that no inch of sky was visible, and inevitably, no one could see where the next angel might fall from.

He decided to start with the most obvious place, the lodges next to yours. He shone his flickering torchlight in all directions, taking your name.

'Help!' rasped a new voice when he hadn't gone much farther.

Dean was detoured towards the voice. His searching, wild eyes found a six-year-old kneeling next to a pile of plaster, tugging on a dead hand, the human having been crushed under the fallen ceiling.

'Hey, kid,' he tried to be soothing.

'My mom—' he sobbed, unable to finish.

Dean's jaw clenched, and he had to swallow past his lump. He crouched next to him. 'Are you alone?'

The child's eyes locked with his, crazed with anxiety and foreboding. He couldn't speak a word, but he shook his head, tears wading down his dust-speckled cheeks.

'Where's the rest of your family?' Dean asked.

The child's head turned to the forest, eyes haunted as he searched for nothing visible to him. And then he looked down back to the cold hand he was clutching against his chest.

He croaked. 'My sister—' he stared fearfully at the forest again.

The child had had two options, the open stormy sky or the forest, and he must have been scared of the great forest.

But it was dangerous out here.

You'd shown him a documentary on Heaven and Hell by some prophet named Kevin Tran, and if it was right, then the angels would be falling from the sky all night, incinerating all that clashed with them. The storm was new but one fucking disaster at a time.

'Alright, buddy,' Dean said, grasping the lad's shoulder. 'I'm going to help you find your sister, okay?'

'My Mom—!'

Another angel soared over their heads and snapped the first tree of the forest in sight in half. Dean used his body to shield the child; the heat from the explosion licked down his spine, and his whole body warmed as if he had been standing under the radioactive sun all day.

'We'll come back for her!' Dean assured him, over the noise. He checked the hand for the faint chance of a pulse though, disheartened when he found none.

'C'mon!' he ordered, gripping the child's shoulder, gentle but firm, and leading him into the trees. He decided the trees were worth searching for you, too; if you were conscious, that's where you'd have run to for shelter, or you could've been thrown there . . .

He had rolled the blanket around his arm socket as if it were a hose he was carrying, and he asked the boy to call for his sister while Dean did the same for you. The boy had opted to cling to Dean's hand, much to his surprise.

'Lana!' the child tore from Dean's side and rushed to a prone form on the floor. Dean's longer strides caught up with the kid, and he crouched next to the teenager. The age difference between the siblings seemed to be around ten years. The girl will be memorable to Dean for her long hair: they came to her knees in two plaits; at first, Dean had thought that they were snakes surrounding her.

'She's alive,' Dean delivered, two fingers on Lana's erratic pulse. He shook Lana, who stayed unresponsive. He sprinkled a few drops of water on the girl's face.

Lana grimaced awake.

'Slate,' groaned she, recognizing her little brother. 'Where's Mom?'

Slate stared up at Dean, helpless. Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head dully for Lana's understanding. Lana's face contorted with devastation and tears pressed into her eyes.

'I'm sorry,' was all Dean could offer.

The young woman choked back a gasp, the noise stifling in her throat when her brother climbed to her side and started crying again, just because he saw her in pain.

She hid his face in her chest. 'It's okay,' her own maternal instincts kicked in for her kid brother. 'We're okay.'

Dean wasn't even sure the child, Slate, understood what exactly had happened to their mother. And the girl, Lana, was barely holding onto any form of composure. His heart broke for them.

'I need to get him to safety,' Lana demanded, clucthing her brother possessively. Her eyes turned sharp and met Dean's with challenge and determination.

'I can help you,' Dean replied, solemn. 'The Druids have got a bunker down west for emergencies.'

She nodded, standing up, and slinging a tight arm around her little brother.

'Let's go.'

'I need to find my . . . friend first,' he said. Just the word "friend" tasted wrong in his mouth.

'Are they a hunter?' the girl quirked a brow. 'Can't they take care of themselves?'

'I just need to check on her,' Dean responded.

'Dude, if she's an adult, she can take care of herself,' the surly teen snapped. 'Or she's dead. Either way, she doesn't need you.' Her features were riven with anger and agony. 

'Or she's hurt,' Dean said alternatively.

'Mister, listen—'

'No, you listen,' he adopted an edge of scolding. 'I'm going to take you to safety, but you better pipe that attitude down.' He was about to leave no one behind.

Her tiny face hardened, but she obviously had no choice. Dean ushered them deeper through the forest.

Your heartbeat was unusual. Your thinking was surrounded by nothing but pain; pain that radiated from your upper right side, where your right lung should be. You were standing very still, knowing movement could hurt you more than help, but your knees were protesting because they were bent as if you were sitting down on an invisible chair, your hands on your knees.

All you wanted to do was slide down, but you could sense a roughly circular object that had nailed your right lung to the tree - you thought it was a broken branch, about two inches. You were vaguely aware of the warm blood trailing down in rivulets inside and outside of your night shirt; the crimson was pooling and soaking into your sleep shorts.

But the worst sensation was the itching, for some reason, the place where the tree had pierced you felt like it was a red-hot iron poker covered in itch powder used for pranks and not a cold branch on what quickly seemed to be a stormy night.

Your face and body were extremely rigid. Earlier, when you'd awoken to a world of pain, you'd quickly deduced that groaning or crying out in pain only made the pain in your lungs worse. Your options were an occasional whimper and tears steadily streaming down your face. Other than that, you feared twitching a single muscle lest it make the pain unbearable.

You tried to count the fallen leaves on the floor; you would rather spend your minutes awake in pain and aware of your fate than be unconscious and clueless. Helplessness was intolerable, unlike a physical ailment like this.

You could also detach yourself from the branch, but it posed the risk of the darkness towing you under. Plus, it would bleed more, and you would have no means to stem the flow.

You concentrated on your other fears— the lightning was cackling in the sky. It made you want to crawl underground after digging a hole with your bare fingers and never resurface.

'Y/N!' Dean's gravely baritone jolted your brain into excitement again. 'Are you here?'

Earlier, you'd heard his voice (minutes after you'd been volleyed from the lodge into the trees in quite a straight line) and you'd hoped he would come straight for you. Instead, his calls had drifted off in another direction, and you regretted not yelling back. This time, you wouldn't make the same mistake, even if it hurts like - to quote Dean sometimes - a son of a bitch.

'Dean!' It was a half-yell, and a half-cry of shock. 

Your entire body complained against that move, even brought claret to your throat for your efforts. You coughed it out, spitting it out to the side. It fell atop the roots of the tree you stood against. To your horror, the blood sizzled after a few seconds of contact.

You were once again brought to the present by Dean's shouting. He seemingly hadn't heard you.

A sob built in your throat, mostly out of anger and frustration. But you grit your teeth - you're not dying like this.

'Dean!' 

Your screech was long.

This time, you only had time to turn your head to the side before you vomitted more blood. Your ears were ringing, and your eyes were leaking more. You rubbed your mouth against your left shoulder.

'Please stop hurting,' your breath hitched as you fruitlessly begged your body. 'Stop hurting, stop hurting, stop hurting.'

Your organs were as stubborn as you; they refused to listen, snapping their pain to the brain through your writhing nerves. It built more cries in your chest, making you want to bawl like a baby. But you bit your lip and closed your eyes, letting the salt in your eyes free-flow down your cheeks and neck where it met the blood and sweat.

Dean called your name again, much closer. He was the only thing keeping you grounded, yet you hated him for making your scream over and over again - that's it, you decided, I'm adding red flares to my pile of sleep weapons.

Currently, you have a sliver-iron switchblade, a double-edged knife, in your pocket, and the Colt. Dean liked to keep his weapons under the pillow because he thought it granted easier access that way, but you deserved points for this one.

'Just scream for me one more time, darlin'!' his voice pleaded, apologetic at the same time as if he understood your silences just as well as your screams.

You gritted at him, filling your lungs with unwanted air, and knowing it'd be too much to handle already.

Dean'll save me, assured your logic. Yes, you won't be helpless with Dean.

'DEAN!'

It was blood-curdling, followed by thunder as if it was fucking competing against you.

You only registered as much before your eyes rolled into your head.

It felt like it had been a minute. You thought you were unconscious, but then why would your body be feeling like it's decomposing?

You wishfully hoped for a long second that this is all just a bad dream and you were still in bed with Dean, but that delirious thinking was dispelled when Dean's voice called for you; this time the closest, and saturated with relief—before you heard him curse.

You heard the sound of cloth ripping, but your eyelids were too heavy to lift anymore.

Your skin was too hot—where was all the fucking sweat coming from? And the metallic taste of your RBCs graced your tongue and nose, it made you want to cringe, but your brain refused to trust your judgments about reactions after you made your body make that last sound.

Your face jerked to life when two hands lifted your head, but their texture was all wrong.

The callouses you'd become accustomed to in Dean's hands were missing, and it lacked warmth of his skin. Even though the touch was as gentle as his.

Your eyes peered up at a masked man, his lower face covered with white cloth. You would have flinched and tried to get away from the touch if you hadn't noticed the forest greens. The thunder whipped the sky and lit his orbs with golden specks. Those were the same eyes you'd spent hours memorizing; even in your half-dead state, you knew them.

Belatedly, you realised that he was tying a similar cloth around your face. You arched your brow at him, unable to utter an actual sound.

'The tree is Manchineel,' he explained.

You shook your head. 'Only in America,' you mumbled. You didn't know the tree specifics like how to recognize them, but you know where most of them grew and what they could do.

His eyes seemed to harden, 'The Druids have magic, they grow all trees here and enhance their capacities. This one's used to line their perimeter to kill their enemies.'

Okay, made sense why your back was feeling inflamed and why it felt like someone was evaporating your organs, starting with your right lung—the Manchineel tree is the deadliest, one of the most toxic trees known to mankind.

You have been poisoned.

You scoffed weakly. 'Should've taken that tree course at Treexcel, huh?'

Europe offered far more detailed courses on trees than any other Continent; just like your once tree skills, your tree knowledge lacked.

He didn't answer to that, eyes focused. His hands were wrapped in a similar cloth as his face, tied with . . . were those rubber bands?

'I'm going to have to pull you out,' Dean warned. 'We need to stop your exposure to its toxicity.'

You nodded, dazed at simply the idea.

'Hold my shoulders,' he instructed. He came down to hover above you, putting his hands on your back, below and above your point of injury. You heeded his advice, filled with trepidation.

He must've moved you an inch forward when you whimpered pathetically. The irritated skin around your wound made it feel like you were rubbing salted sandpaper on it.

Dean froze, but he couldn't stop much longer. Maybe this will have to be like ripping off a bandage, but then if he was too fast and if a piece of the tree snapped and entered your bloodstream, you'd be much worse off.

'Do you trust me?' he quietly asked.

You nodded feebly. 'Please help,' you gritted back a sob. 'It hurts.'

Your tear-stricken face felt like someone was boxing his heart with knives.

'I'm not going to let anything happen to you,' he affirmed. 'D'you understand me?'

You nodded, inhaling a shaky gasp. 'Make it stop.'

'Soon,' he promised.

He leaned to kiss the tears on your cheeks (besides the shape of his lips, you only felt the cloth that wiped your tears). Though, it lured your mind away from the pain and towards the intimacy of his gestures.

'Hold on,' he requested.

He started tugging you out again. His whole body tensed, and his jaw clenched as the trees echoed your horrible scream; he'd remember it.

By the time he'd gotten you off the branch, your knees had buckled under your weight and the redness oozing from your strengthened. You slumped into his arms, and it's with effort that he hefted you up in a cradle-carry.

He brought you back to the safer tree zones where Lana and Slate had been witnessing the whole thing.

Dean released his hand from the torn blanket and handed back Lana her scrunchies; without them, she looked the definition of a ghost whose hair flew with the wind.

Dean used water to wash your wound so the effects of the poison would slow down. He tore a few more clean portions of the long blanket and placed one of them, balled up, as a packing against your wound to stop the blood, and tied a longer piece over your left shoulder and under your right arm. Lastly, he made a thin and sturdy sling to put your right hand in.

He was dripping water past your lips when you stirred again.

'The winds are picking up,' Lana said nervously. She was hugging her brother so his face was in her abdomen, and she didn't want the child to see any of the gore.

Dean had felt it; the dead leaves had started swirling in small rotations, making and breaking mini tornadoes. He realised that it was going to be one of the worst storms that hit the world.

He needed to get you to the bunker.

'There are people out there,' you said, eyes hazy and tired, head swimming in shock and body rejecting coherence.

'Let me get you to safety first,' he replied, lifting you once more in his embrace.

'The fuck are you talking about?' Dean growled.

He felt aggressive enough to grab the doctor by the collar and bang her head against the wall—he fisted his hands instead, allowing his nails to draw blood from his palms.

The four feet tall Druid was old and experienced. She eyed him with wariness but kept her voice levelled with a clinical tone.

She repeated her words in a simpler format. 'Mr Winchester, Ms L/N has suffered from severe poisoning; her right lung has completely necrosed, and her left lung as well as her heart are slowly dying. We've given her the antidote, but it doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning for the medicine to take full effect.'

She let that sink in.

Dean shook his head adamantly. 'Fuck that, okay? You're the mystical creature. Lay your mojo on her! Give her a voodoo cocktail!'

'Our magic has limits. If she'd been brought in earlier, we may have been able to reverse the necrosis or at least stop its spread . . . .'

Dean was late. The throb in his arms and legs became more prominnet, telling him that he did run with you in his arms for three miles, making it back in twenty-five minutes instead of the usual hour it would've taken; but his mind rejected that argument, demanding for his heart to sink into his stomach where the unbearable guilt churned. His face was blank, his muscles didn't know how to react anymore.

The doctor let some sympathy bleed into her manner. 'We've gave her several litres of blood, hoping a full blood swap would reverse the poisoning, but it didn't work. We've put her on a magical potion that'll act as a ventilator and pump her with oxygen, but that'll only last so long. We're sorry—'

'Don't be fucking sorry!' he roared. The people in the hallway paused; Dean and the Druid were standing right outside your room, which was located on the uppermost floor of the underground bunker that went numerous floors deeper; Dean had literally put you in the first bed he could find. 'Show me some fucking results! Go in there and heal her!'

She shook her head persistently. 'You're welcome to see her, if you'd like.' And she walked away.

'Come on! Come on!' Dean kept mumbling as he dialled someone, pacing the length of your room.

You could only assume that he was told what the petite doctor told you: your death sentence. And in a very Dean-ish manner, he refused to give up on you, yet you couldn't imagine what solution he'd come up with to save the day. 

'Cell phone towers are down,' you gently told him, cringing at how raspy your voice was.

'Told the Druids to save one tower with their magic,' he off-handedly said, putting the phone to his ear again. 

'Who are you calling?'

'Jack,' he said while having a staring match with the wall. 'He must have a connection, I think. Got to, right? Magic and all.'

Before you could answer, he hung up. 'Dammit, pick up!' he gritted to himself and re-dailled the number. 

'Dean?'

'Yeah?' But he wouldn't look up. 

You decided to unclench your jaw and utter a guttural groan (wasn't hard considering you'd been holding it back for his sake) that drew his attention to you. He rushed to your bedside, putting his phone away and his frantic hands traced the air an inch above your body as if he was afraid to touch you. 

'What's wrong?' he asked with note of panic. 'How can I help?'

'It hurts,' you breathily gasped. 

'I know, I know,' he licked his bottom lip, his hand finally graced your slick hair, and he soothingly stroked you. 'I can get you those piankillers.'

You shook your head. You wanted to be awake for the rest of your life, you wouldn't let painkillers conk you out for whatever hours you have left. 

You purposely mouthed something so he would have to lean in, and you could swipe his phone from his pocket.

'Could you repeat that, darling?'

You mouthed again. 

'I'm sorry,' he leaned in further so his ear was over your lips. 'One more time?'

'I'm sorry,' you whispered properly this time, and flung out your arm on your injured side.

The phone shattered against the wall with moderate precision, and you groaned loudly in pain, panting from your effort while Dean was dumbfounded for a solid fifteen seconds. 

'What the—What the fuck did you just do?' he straightened, staring at you like you'd grown a green skin. 

'You can't call Jack,' you said. 

'Why the fuck not?' he glared at you incredously. 

'There's a reason why he's shut off prayers from the human faction, Dean,' you explained what he already knew. 'Too many humans die every year. He can't keep healing all of them.'

'Well, you're different!' he said. 'You're a Leader.'

You didn't even make the "I-am-a-Temp" argument - as history had it, Dean tended to go ballistic whenever you brought up your non-tenure. 

'What example would I be setting if I healed and the hundreds here died?' you patiently said. 

'So this is about your reputation?'

Dean's anger had melted into pure icy hatred. You'd sidestepped a landmine to walk onto another. 

Having a great day here, thanks for asking, you sarcastically thought.

You sighed. 'I know you don't care about my reputation or—' 

'You're right, I don't,' Dean snapped. 'I'm not going to argue with you about the goddamn media while you're on your deathbed.' He rounded the said bed, 'I'm going to borrow a phone and then I'm calling Jack,' he said with a full stop. 

Except, 'What was Jack's phone number again?'

Dean froze midway to the door. Your phones had everyone's numbers - yours was lost, you broke Dean's.

'Oh, right,' you said. 'I remember and you don't.'

You remembered your family's, the Leaders' and your team's phone numbers, along with a few very resourceful Governors'. And Dean knew you'd remembered it all because he often teased you about it.

You resisted the urge to grin like a Cheshire cat—you did enjoy riling the man up. 

His chin fell to his chest in defeat. He turned sharply with thinly veiled rage. 'Give me the phone number, Y/N.'

'Nope,' you popped the p.

If you weren't dying, he would've strangled you.

'I won't ask you again, Y/N,' he said with dangerous stillness in his tone. 

Even pale and sickly, you narrowed your eyes. 'Then you won't have to hear "no" again.'

'Do you want to die!?' he burst out. 'Do you want to die?'

'No—'

'Because from where I'm standing it looks like you've given up!'

This situation seriously sucked and you were seriously done. 'Then grab a chair,' your lip curled into a sneer. 'And fucking look again.' You cleared your throat when the scratchiness got too much.

'Don't be a fucking child, alright?' Dean tried again. 'Just gimme the fucking number, or I swear on the Universe—'

'You'll do what?' you scoffed. 'What we're having is a battle of stubborness—I can be stubborn. I can do this all my life - literally!'

He deflated with an expression of betrayal; he wiped a hand down his face but the look wouldn't go - you had to avert your gaze because that look stung.

Dean sat beside you again, taking your hand in his, prompting you to look back up. Your eyes were shining with brand-new tears, and you were shocked to find . . . so were his.

'I'll take the blame,' Dean said. 'We'll tell them you were unconscious and I called Jack. I don't care about my reputation. Please just give me—'

'Dean,' you sighed. 'This isn't just about your reputation or mine,' you retrieved your hand. 'See to reason, you'd be staking Jack's life.'

He blinked as if it hadn't occured to him. If he'd only let you finish earlier: you would've given him the real reason why Jack was a bad idea.

'I-I don't—'

'Closing of Heaven Gates bars angels from Heaven,' you said. 'The archangels and the angels stationed on Earth remain unaffected.'

'Thus, the storm,' Dean's shoulders slumped. 'Micheal and Lucifer are up there, creating the storm because whoever shut the Gates, pissed them off.'

'Yep. And, as you know, Jack's tuned the angel radio off,' you said. 'And made Australia a dome so he wouldn't ever be kidnapped by his own damn father—'

'And the storm's across the world,' Dean completed. 'Like the Druids said. He flies and he'll be on their radar. He'll be—'

'Captured,' you finished.

Dean fell into a silence that was too depressive for your tastes.

'He probably shut his phone off,' you said, nodding like you did during small talk.

'I-I need some air,' and he left like the room was on fire.

'You're poisoned?' Selina skrieked over the phone.

'It's okay, they've given me the antidote,' you answered casually, even if your voice was unhealthily low.

You squeezed Dean's hand, wishing he would snap out of his daze; he hadn't spoken a word since he re-entered the room and dragged a chair next to your bed. You took his hand, trying to get him to talk; but he'd picked a point on the wall and was staring at it, in shock and probably denial.

All he did do, was give you the phone. You think he did so you could say your goodbyes - though, if you were being honest, you would rather not distract anyone with sad goodbyes - they can grieve you when people are better.

'That's good. When are they doing the surgery?'

'The what?'

'They'd have to remove the dead tissue in your lungs,' Selina said. 'Before it spreads.'

You were regretting calling your team medic for this. You should've called Boa, at least he wouldn't ask too many questions, or figure out your ill-concealed lie about your healing process.

You'd only even thought about contacting the Palace because one, Dean wasn't in a condition to. And two, you wanted to see how things were running there; your pager had been blowing up and there wasn't a thing you could do about it.

The world was ensued in a single, largest thunderstorm the planet had ever seen. If the Druids hadn't offered you a bit of magic, you could've never called - most of the towers (those unprotected by magic) and all the transportation was down.

You sighed through your nose. 'Selina,' you said, using her name to make sure she knew the weight behind your words, 'I suppose I'm saying that you'll need a new Maid Of Honour.'

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a single tear track down Dean's cheek. His eyes were red-rimmed and his glare had sharpened, his face had stilled into the statue of a tortured man.

So he was listening.

You didn't have the slightest idea of how you'd console him after you hung up with her. You felt the most useless you had in the entirety of your life, and you'd been made to feel useless plenty.

'If that's a joke, you're not fucking funny.'

You closed your eyes, exhausted from all the talking. Your breathing was too shallow for you to be wasting it on so many words.

'My lungs have given up,' you informed her.

'There's always a cure!' she defied. 'I-I mean, Sal had . . . I remember. . . He would go on about . . . His research might have something!'

Dean's face flickered with hope for the first time, his body twitched to life.

'You think?' you asked, sceptical of that plan.

Sal hadn't exactly proven to be trustworthy. He's the one who got Jessica killed . . . At the same time, his research had saved plenty of lives back in the day.

'Call me in an hour,' demanded Selina.

She was gone before you could get a word in edgewise.

'Do you think she's right?' Dean wondered, his voice thickened to the point of suffocation.

You nodded, albiet hesitantly. 'Ms Doll goofs about medicine almost never.'

'Geez, sound less confident.'

'I'm just worried that the solution might not be available to us,' you stated practically. 'I don't want—' you shook your head. Telling Dean that he wasn't in a position to handle hope might only aggravate him.

'What?' he pried.

'I guess I'm sorry,' you said, changing the topic.

'Why?'

'Our date was going well until I impaled myself on a poisonous tree,' you said with bemusement.

You traced his knuckles with a featherlight touch, hoping you could improve his mood somehow . . .

'I should've gotten you here sooner,' he blurted, tense all over.

That's all he could think about. Besides all the people he'd lost . . . Of all the people he'd failed to save: Cole, Mary, John, Jessica - these were ones he remembered. And now, you.

'Excuse me?' It hadn't even occured to you that Dean might be blaming himself because it simply wasn't his fault.

His hand retreated from yours to run down his face; his blank mask went with his hand and naked remorse stared back at you. He looked at you as if he'd been the one to take the branch and shove it into your lung; like a accidental murderer staring at their victim.

'This is not on you,' you said before he could explain.

'I couldn't protect you,' he refuted a dissolvent for his misery. 'And I brought you here.'

It struck a chord in you. For the first time since this shit happened, you were able tocompare your situation to the one where John and Mary had died . . . Or the one where Jessica had passed away. At 10.23 p.m., you could still hear the time of death.

'Oh, darlin', come here,' you shifted to the edge of your bed, patting the space you left for him.

He frowned, 'I don't want to hurt you more—'

Your frowned at him. 'You can join me, or I can climb out to you.'

Dean was familiar with the tenacious twinkle of your eye. He went with the option acceptable to him and perched on the edge of your bed, not touching a single part of you. You pulled him by his shoulder - well, you kept your hand on him, and he went because your strength was a joke right now.

You manuvered him till he was backed into your pillows, to your left, and then you curled into his side into the cuddle of your bet.

'Y/N,' he said in protest.

You firmly brought his hand around your waist, taking his other hand to have you circled. His hold on you was still fragile though; you glanced up at him in annoyance - only to be met with teary eyes.

'I'm trying to show you that it's not your fault,' you desperately said. You wished you could shout it from the rooftops if that'd get into his head, but you were keeping your voice low and your breaths shallow to save oxygen.

He rolled his eyes, looking away.

'Why would I let you close to me if I thought you had hurt me?' you persisted. 'I'd want you gone, if you had,' you said.

'I should go,' he said.

You let out a sound of frustration, and cuffed him on the head. Surprise made his head turn to you.

'You took that from what I said?' you scoffed. 'Are you a born idiot, or did you lose your mind in that?' you gestured to the ceiling where the thunder constantly boomed; you'd probably be hiding under the blanket if Dean wasn't here.

Dean's chest arched inwards, as if trying to cave on him. There weren't words he could use to explain how he'd witnessed two men he'd admired the most in the world, lose their soulmates, in front of him, and how he'd seen them . . . give up.

Mary had died first, and so had Jess. He couldn't imagine a worst pain in the world than what he'd seen in John's and Sam's eyes and now, he was about to experience it in a few hours' time. So, yes, he might be losing his mind.

All those sentences crowded in his throat and they died on his tongue.

'Dean, if it had been your fault, the other eleven people you saved wouldn't have lived!' you pointed out. While he was taking you to the Bunker, he'd adopted eleven more persons on the way.

'Don't do this,' he said. He doesn't deserve to be consoled. Especially when you were his . . . he couldn't think it, if he thought the word in corelation to you, he'd break.

'Then see some sense,' you offered. 'You put out all warrior Druids to harbring the rest of the survivors—you saved so many lives.'

He only did that so he'd be nullified of his responsibilities and then he could fret over you. A plan you crushed along with his phone.

'I'm so proud of you,' you said with a soft smile.

He had to blink his tears back, but his arms finally tightened around your torso. He lifted you carefully and placed you between his legs so you could easily sleep on him, instead of leaning into his side.

You smiled faintly, turning your head to drop a kiss over his heart, and sigh as you let him envelope you completely. You remained unaware of half the crap Dean was thinking . . . And unless Selina pulled though, he'd never be able to tell you all of it.

At least she'll go happy . . . His breaths scratched his neck as if the oxygen wanted to stop interacting with his windpipe as soon as you were gone - as if you were the element that made this world breathable.

'I see the appeal of cuddling you,' you broke his train of thought. Your fingers curled fingers into his chest and closed your eyes with a sigh. 'I'm never felt more comfortable. Or safe.'

'Too bad I kept losing the bet, huh?' he said, too low, so his voice wouldn't break.

You hummed. 'Too bad,' you smiled wider, looking up. 'I'd've enjoyed the privilege of sleeping in the arms of the strongest man more.'

'I'm not nearly as strong as you think,' he broke it to you, along with a tiny break in his voice.

'Well, that doesn't look very��friendly,' said a new voice that made you jump, Dean's hands protectively pulled you closer before they relaxed.

'What the hell?' he said. 'This is a private room. Get out!'

Your eyes drifted to the young girl in the door. You vaguely remembered her from her hair, that were now tied into a single long plait which come over her shoulder down to her knees.

'Relax, old man,' she said. 'I just came sto see her.'

You were stuck between calling her out on her audacity, and being fakely polite as you were used to with strangers.

'What would you want from me?' you decided to say.

'You're Dean Winchester,' she crossed her arms. 'Knew I recognised you from somewhere.'

'Good on you. Now, get out.'

'And you're Leader Y/N L/N,' she continued, turning to you. 'I don't trust your celebrity memory, but still - do you remember me?'

You exchanged a look with Dean; he stayed where he was, no point in moving now that she'd already seen you two.

Without the earlier bluriness in your eyesight, you got the feeling that you had seen this child somewhere. If you assessed her features right, and if you were thinking her age correctly . . .

'Lana Sanderson,' you recalled. 'Aren't you the one from the Survivalist Camp who said you wanted to be Cupid for a career path?'

She raised her chin defiantly. 'That's right; color me impressed. Just FYI, I've changed my mind. I want to work for you now.'

You pursed your lips. 'That's a generous offer, I'm sure,' you flattered, 'but however do you think you'll be of use?'

'A botanist. I'm good with plants,' she responded, stepping closer to your bed. 'It's why our mother brought us to this place. For me,' her voice wobbled. 'And now she's . . . .'

You caught on. There was an emotion in her that you'd noted in Dean these past few minutes.

You tried to answer her diplomatically, sensitive of her loss: 'My condolences, dear. But I'm afraid this is a bad time for us—'

She just took a deep breath and marched on though. 'The Purgatory Flower will cure you. The Druids have it here.'

Your forehead creased. 'Have you heard of it, De—Mr Winchester?' you cleared your throat. You didn't know how to conduct your discussion with him when he held you at such an intimate position in front of a complete stranger.

'I can keep your secret,' she waved a hand, almost reading your mind. 'Even if you don't give me a job - because I will have earned that on my merit,' she said, confidently.

But Dean was already distracted. 'We should call Selina,' he said, grabbing your phone from you.

She offered more information to make it concrete: 'I don't know if this other person knows; the Purgatory Flowers are rare. They grow in, surprise-surprise, Purgatory; the good monster souls in there, which are extremely infrequent, come back as the flowers when killed. They are such a unique growth that one flower can cure a hundred. The Druids have some in stock - as of recently, when one of the younger Universe Travellers decided to give Purgatory a shot and returned with his discovery.'

Dean chatted with Selina for the next few minutes and relayed every little detail the little child mentioned.

'Then, that's it!' Selina said, gleefully. 'I've never heard of the plant being practically used, and I didn't think either of you would have access to Purgatory, but that flower is known to have magical properties!'

Dean scowled at the phone. 'Then why would the Druids lie to us?'

The Three Elders of the Druids and the Doctor who treated you crowded your room. Dean stood beside your bed along with Lana, who was just trying to become a wallflower at that point.

'As the ones who rent out this establishment,' the meek and middle Elder said, 'it was our duty to send out recruiting forces, Mr Winchester, to bring them to the Bunker. We cannot ask of our people to risk their own lives for someone who's already inside.'

You suppose you could understand that. While you nodded though, Dean bristled.

'You're fucking kidding me, right?' he barked, his glare deadly.

Even you were intimidated slightly. You latched onto his wrist, as if that would hold back this bulky man.

'We are sorry for the losses,' the Doctor said, stressed. 'But it's not our right to swap a life for a life.'

'And what do you think I'm here for?! I'm a hunter, your fucking Leader,' he returned. 'You're frigging morons if you think I'd have preferred to sit back and watch people lose their lives!'

'It's flooding outside, Mr Winchester,' said the squeaky Leader to the right.

'Then we go by the trees,' he affirmed.

'The Flowers are locked in a special locker that only opens by our retinal scan,' the third and the youngest Leader said. 'I would go if you're ready to.'

The Druids protested but the younger one waived their concern off, his face grim but set. 'Druids are capable of sacrifice as humans are. I'm ready if you are.'

'Can't we wait till the morning?' you interjected. 'After the storm recedes?'

'What are you doing?' Dean snapped at you.

'It just feels like a suicide mission!' you hissed at him.

'You don't have all night,' he countered.

'Very well,' the bravest Druid said. I'll meet you at the door in ten minutes, Mr Winchester.'

Dean came to see you one last time after he'd laid himself with weapons and other essentials; Lana took a hint and announced for a coffee, leaving you alone with him.

He leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, resuming his seat at the edge of your bed. He ran a hand down your head, ending up cupping your cheek.

'Stay alive for me, will you?' he said.

'Look, I know you're a hunter,' you began, 'and you have a right to choose the hunts, but this feels impossible!'

'Thought you thought I was the strongest man in the world,' he teased you lightly.

'You're not going up against a monster,' you reminded him. 'It's a full-blown storm.'

'Weapons of angels, as you'd once put it.'

'Stop acting like it's a walk in the fucking park,' you reprimanded. 'You're taking a walk in the flood!'

'What else do you want me to do, Y/N?' he scoffed. 'There's no other solution.'

'Dean, you don't have to do this for me,' you tried to persuade him, 'if you are. I don't want to swap my life for someone else's.'

He looked at you as if you were crazy. 'Did you think I was lying the other day?'

It felt so long ago when he told you he'd be willing to risk his life for you.

You frowned at him. 'You're a nice guy, Dean,' you tried another angle. 'While it was soothing to hear the depths of your care, you are allowed to break your word.'

'Would you?' he asked suddenly; it wouldn't change his decision, but he wanted to know if you said it for the sake of it.

You genuinely gave it a thought, and found no trace of a lie in your promise. You shook your head at him in answer.

'I'm just worried about you,' you bit your lip.

It wasn't Dean's mistake that you got hurt, but he was heading out into a storm, for you. You won't ever be void of guilt if he lost his own life while trying to save yours.

He swiped a thumb over your jaw, tipping your head back to lay another lingering kiss to your forehead. You sighed, clucthing his elbow, wishing he wasn't leaving you alone.

'I'll be back,' he whispered. 'And I'll be fine as long as you are. Just don't give up on me, okay?'

'Never.' You implored him, 'Be careful, please.'

Your heart was like an anxious bowling ball that was trying to break the pins of your ribcage. You lay on your pain-free side, staring at the door Dean left from. You were overthinking way too much to sleep like the little Druid Doctor had adviced you to.

In a split moment of concflict, you dialled a number from your memory.

She picked up on the fifth ring, and you were relieved that it was her.

'Hello, Mother,' you said, placing the phone on speaker because your fingers were too brittle to hold anything.

'Oh,' she said, in somewhat surprise. 'It's you. It didn't have a Caller ID, I was just so surprised a phone was working.'

You tried not to read too much into that.

'Do you have a good reason for calling?'

Except paralysing fear, nothing much. You had tried to hide it in front of Dean, and it was much too easy to focus on his plight than yours; but you were terrified of what could happen.

This is not the literal hill you'd want to die on.

'I'm . . . kinda dying,' you said, rigid and awkward. You would've called your brother if you could, but you didn't want to worry the man.

'Unfortunate,' she sighed. 'But you're just one of many,' she continued. 'You're not famed yet, Y/N, why should one find a loss in losing you?'

Perhaps you'd been expecting a more motherly reaction from her; maybe a gasp - what would you not give for a fucking gasp . . . But why didn't you expect this?

You let not the sting in your eyes drop across your cheeks.

'I-I never thought of it that way,' you said timidly.

'Honey, you should stop spending your time and mine in a wasteful call like this. I'd've been happier if you worked. You have a cell phone connection - miraculously - put it to good use.'

'Y-Yes, ma'am,' you said.

Why was this cutting you deeper than literally all the other similar conversations you'd had with her in your whole life.

'There's my good girl.' She changed the topic, 'Is Dean around?'

For the first time, that question angered you, coming from her.

'He's gone to bring me a cure,' your features twisted with pain and fury.

'Ah, always the busy bee. It's too bad he focuses his energies the wrong way; he'd be much happier if he didn't correct others' mistake,' she said, subtly hinting that you weren't doing enough, and that it was your own fault for not being good enough. Your shoulders slumped inwards and you brought the blanket closer to your chest.

Thunder cackled more, laughing at your foolishness.

'Even your Dad and brother are working,' she continued. 'Tough times - with the gates closed.'

'Are you okay?' you asked tentatively. 'I'm worried about you too.'

'Except for the bad mood, and, as you children say, shitton of work? Good.'

Your lips quivered, and you forced your voice to stablaise. 'Good. Is . . . Can I talk to Dad?'

You hoped that that conversation might go better. You'd be remiss if you died before you could hear both of their voices - the people to whom you'd dedicated your entire life to.

'I just said he's working, Y/N,' she said impatiently. 'Not everyone has the luxury of being bedridden and using cell phones,' she laughed as if she was making an intelligent point. 'You always had a special gift of weasling out.'

That felt like a rubber band snapping back into your heart which stuttered on her words.

'I've never weaseled out of work,' you suddenly said. She'd said that millions of times, and all those times, you'd managed to laugh - but somehow, this time, you couldn't let it go.

'Lighten up, dear,' she chided. 'I just said I was in a bad mood! Your sensitivity has always been your flaw.'

Your fuse short-circuited.

In the past few months, you hadn't talked to your parents; maybe that's what changed - her comment startled you. You were being too sensitive? How could she even imply that when you hadn't shown a single emotion to the outside world before it?

Did your mother even know you at all?

'Anyhow, I shall get back to work,' she said, casually, 'I do hope for your sake that you make it. What a shame it would be to our family if you died without making a good reputation.'

You didn't have to end the call.

You simply stared at the silent phone with the most loathing you'd ever given to anything. Your heart felt shattered in it's place, and its shards were slicing you on the inside. You had to run your hand over your face to stave off the tears.

What the hell was wrong with you? This shouldn't be bothersome. You should have expected this. Why did you hope for something better? Why did you hope that she might have changed too, as you had?

You didn't have the energy or the state of mind to call your father separately, or your brother or your sister-in-law.

Your brain was computing some facts that were somehow mind-blowing to you—your own family didn't care if you survived but Dean, a person who had no previous relation to you, was endangering himself to save you?

It was as if your brain was rebooting because of this.

You didn't hear the knock or see the child peeking in until a young boy came up to you and extended a blueberry muffin.

You stared at him like he was an alien until a taller figure came up behind him, placing her palms on his shoulders, a grimacing smile on her face.

'Slate, this is the Mr Winchester's girlfriend.'

Your face jerked in shock and you had to sit upright with some effort. 'Girlfriend?'

'Oh, don't lie to me,' she said, crossing her arms. 'I caught you two red-handed.'

'Oh, we haven't—no, we aren't—he's not my boyfriend!'

She whistled lowly. 'Harsh, lady. Don't let him hear that. You realise he's out there embracing literal disasters for you, right?'

You narrowed your eyes at her. You were not going to argue with a teenager. You glanced at the young boy who was still holding the muffin up for you.

'And what's your name, dear?'

'Oh, nice. Deflect.'

'I'm Slate,' the young boy said, showing you the muffin again. 'Mommy says that good food will heal you.'

'I . . . She sounds like a wise woman.' You cleared your throat of your heartbreak. 'Why . . . are you both here?' you settled on.

Lana raised a brow. 'It's rude not to visit your boss in the hospital.'

You would have smiled if you had been feeling better. In fact, just for that sass, you would've like the girl.

'Thank you,' you said. 'Though you should eat it, kid. I'm saving my oxygen to breathe, eating will only utilise some of it in digestion.'

The child peered up at his sister with thinly hidden hope. She nodded at you, 'Smart,' before, 'go ahead,' she told her brother.

He happily flounced onto your bed, near your feet and started munching hungrily on the food. Lana took the seat Dean had earlier and sat next to your bed.

You were confused with this scenery; what was the protocol for handling stranger children who barge into your room while you sit poisoned and weaponless? (The Druids changed your clothes into a hospital gown, and your weapons went with your pajamas.)

'Are you going to ask why I wanted to be Cupid and now I don't?'

' . . . You don't have to talk to me,' you hinted. It was kind enough that she was accompanying you; it took your mind off things.

'I'm still going to,' she quipped, giving you a sly smile.

Fair enough.

'My parents were going through a nasty divorce,' she tried to muster non-chalance, but you could see the thread of trauma in her young irises. 'Bringing me here, to the Plant Central was mom's way of making me choose her, of winning custody.'

That would make sense. Girls needed to prove that they were worthy, boys just got things. It was a supremely annoying fact of your world.

'You wanted to plink them with arrows so they'd love one another?' you guessed.

'Bulls-eye,' she made the pun.

It brought a laugh from you. 'I could've helped you—'

'You are the greatest marksperson,' she grinned.

'I try,' you shrugged.

'For the record,' she said. 'My mom is . . . was at least nice. Lesser of the two evils.'

You didn't have a good answer to that. She didn't need one either.

'But your mother is a downright bitch,' her random jab jolted you.

'Excuse me?' your eyebrows touched your hairline.

'I wasn't eavesdropping,' she said. 'I just happened to hear you on a call, and I didn't make an effort to move from the door.'

'I don't think it's any of your business,' you said, voice razor-sharp.

She raised her hands in apology, the only one you realised you'd get.

'Just sayin',' she mumbled, watching her younger brother lick the wrapper, peacefully oblivious. 'My Dad used to physically and mentally torture us—I know the difference between a good parent and a bad one. I don't know if you know—maybe you never had someone good to compare notes with.'

'For a person as young as you, you're quite the blabbermouth,' you snapped defensively.

Although, you could now see her in a new light; her desperation for a job, so she wouldn't have to return to her alive father, and where she couldn't go to her dead mother. Where she was being a responsible sister.

It made you weirdly long for a familial connection like that; and the longing immediately resolved when you understood that . . . maybe you're just looking in the wrong place for it.

Sebastian's words came back to you - when he said that your parents didn't need your loyalty . . .

She snickered at that. 'It's my one move; I'm at that cute age where I get away from stuff.'

You couldn't supress your smile even if you wanted to. You had to admit, she was reminding you of your younger version; before the diplomacy kicked in.

'You'd fit right in at the castle,' you realised.

It was only now that you could begin to see the stark difference between your pervious life and this new one; thodd old Palaces where everything was political, and this new straightforward one where "life is too short to play games with".

It was becoming clearer to you, which one your favored.

Dean wore goggles that had a flashlight; even then, he could only see about three feet out. The water was winded and harsh, every branch was slippery and the droplets seemed to be slapping his face. He was chilled to his bones despite the windshield he had donned over his night clothes that was only a pair of track pants and a black undershirt. The Druid he was traveling with was named Elder Yew, who was the personification of a Yew tree deep in the forest somewhere.

He pointed towards the right, and Dean couldn't make out any tree there; he had been blindly swinging, and only barely balancing when he did reach the other side. This was the hardest climb he'd ever made.

He set his jaw, and jumped with the rope. He went sailing across to the other end, noticing the other tree's thick bark in time to prevent his nose from flattening into his face. He hugged the tree so that his wobbly feet won't betray him.

A second later, the Elder came hurtling towards him and Dean's muted grunt went unheard in the stormy night as he stablised the other, shorter man.

This went on for a long while. Dean had been checking his watch, but it wasn't waterproof so it died quick. He couldn't tell where the sun or moon were in the sky. He didn't know how much time he was passing away from you, when this very well could end in failure.

But I have to try.

Upon the mark of forty-five minutes, they finally reached the tree where the treehouse with the storage should've been.

'Where is it?!' bellowed Dean over the raging winds. It was pointless to speak, no one would be able to hear anything over the howls of the rattling breezes, he only spoke out of habit.

The Yew was inspecting the river next to the tree they stood on; his better eyes had already spotted the broken branch the treehouse used to be on. His hand rose and a shaky finger signaled to the broken house that was merrily streaming away with the river flow, and heading for a waterfall where everything would be lost.

Dean's curses could've awed a pirate.

The sight of the river was slightly better since there weren't any leaves to obstruct anything. It was mostly open with the sky unleashing cats and dogs. Currently, the treehouse was stuck against some uneven ground, progressing very slowly towards the abrupt downstream.

Dean climbed down from the tree, the Yew followed. The water reached his thighs, and the Yew's chest. He unraveled a rope and slung it around the tall, sturdy tree, tying fast knots to make an anchor. He fastened the other end around his own lean waist. Without a word, he shouldered the Yew who yelped and clung to his muscular frame.

Then, Dean dived into the tumultous and overflowing water that had broken across the banks and was infiltrating the forest, killing the smaller shrubs and rippling with boundless superiority.

Elder Yew touched a magical spell on Dean's flashlight so it managed to glow underwater. They both held their breaths so that Dean could swim better, away from the perturbed surfaces, and in the compatitively calmer underwater. There were vortexes in the water that pulled at Dean's skin, his body ached while he tried to fight them. He could see how many things were being ripped away into the water, being smashed against the stones, and being thrown off the cliff.

He surfaced thrice for air, and to relocate the fallen house. He dodged many floating and viscious branches that could plummel his sinews and muscles, but some snagged him anyway.

At long last, he touched upon the treehouse. The friction it recieved from the banks was the only thing keeping it from cruising downwards where it would shatter into a million fragments. But as the water level rose, the house became that much more threatened.

'Go, go, go!' he yelled at the Yew who scrambled atop Dean and used the man as a handhold to stand on the house which had fallen sideways, so he was really standing on the front wall of the house.

The Yew blasted the wall and jumped inside after taking a deep breath.

Dean pulled himself up with a strain and panting, and fell on the housewall. His eyes strayed to the edge of the water, there was only ten feet between him and his doom now.

That reality motivated him to crawl to the entrance the Druid had created. His light shone inside the wrecked house where half the things had drowned. The Elder Yew was swimming frantically, diving occasionaly, and Dean could spot that he now carried a bounty bag.

Dean's mind diverted when he heard a loud clash of water. His body tensed and his eyes searched the horizon, the place where all the water was coming from.

With no small amount of horror, he saw a ten foot wave of flood was headed their way.

'HURRY!' he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The Elder Yew dived once again, surfacing with a bunch of flowers in one hand and the other hand with the bag.

Dean jumped in and grasped the desk of the treehouse. He pushed the table out the hole, then manhandled the Yew out, and lastly pulled himself up. He placed the Yew on the upside down table, and the smaller man clung to one of the wooden legs, eyes widened with fear, trained on the mounting water five feet away.

Four feet, three feet, two feet . . .

Dean adjusted himself on it as well before he threw the wooden surface into water, hoping that would surf up to the surface in somewhile, or it would at least sheild them both from harmful stray objects in the water.

There was a moment where they both were submerged completely.

Dean had bent his body around the Elder Yew to protect the little man and the ingridients. His goggles helped him pull with the rope; it dug into his palms, taut with strain. Dean's strength was tested and he let a loud agonised scream under the water as he pulled them all closer to the surface.

At some point, one of the table legs broke behind Dean's back and gifted him with a long deep scar, making him yell in pain, and making him swallow seemingly gallons of water as a result. He would have lost the grip on his rope, which would have soon snapped under pressure, had it not been for the Elder's magic.

Something about the wooden table shifted and it grew to curl around them, a faint green glow soothed Dean; they were pulled back and forth by the current for the long minute like the wagging tail of a dog, as the rope stretched and it's strands came undone

His head breached the surface; it was also when the vindictive waters smashed them into the nearest tree on the banks. Their makeshift surfboard broke but at least it had been buoyant enough to tailspin them into the nearest tree; Dean hardly had time to sling one arm around the tree's bark and other to cling to the Yew who almost got captured by the mean-spirited water.

Dean gritted his teeth, his body stretched to its limit as he bought the Yew in front of him who gratefully climbed the tree they were at.

Dean didn't even realise he had been coughing until all the water sprayed out from his burning lungs, he retched weakly, his sore arms clutching the bark, his cheek rubbing harshly to leave behind rashes. While he heaved, he climbed a few steps upwards, his limbs felt like jelly but at least then the water beating down on him painfully, reduced. His glance to the side told him that they were at the second-last tree from the ledge of the waterfall that would have killed them in the thousand foot drop.

He contemplated letting go, and just falling - which would be so easy - as the water beat down on his thighs mercilessly. But it occured to him that his job wasn't done - he needed to get the Yew back safely - he used the last of his energy to climb the tree he was at, too exhausted to feel even relief.

The Elder Yew temporarily healed his injury back on-site itself so at least he wasn't bleeding while he swung back in the pitch black; he gave Dean a single leave of the Flower to chew on: he had felt like someone had shoved acid down his gullet, but he chewed it until his wound healed and then he was ordered to spit it out. Or well, since he hadn't been able to hear what the Yew said, the Old Tree Man had to retrieve his used leave from his mouth; it had made Dean grimace in disgust. The Yew himself had gotten a branch to his kidney, but he simply waved a hand, and the wound hardened into a tree scar.

The Yew explained to him when the winds swirled down a little into vague calmness (the storm was dissipating very gradually): the Yew only had powers of a tree, which meant healing and floating, he shared why a human's presence had been necessary for the trip when Dean demanded why the man just didn't go by himself if he had all those cool powers. He'd needed the human for tree-climbing, and someone who'd be willing to keep going when the Yew got scared.

Dean's wound began to unseal again as they approached the Bunker; it was every bit as painful as the first time, only more prolonged.

'What the hell!' he moaned, his hands coming away with blood when he touched his back.

'Oh, yes,' the Yew said, contemplative, on the first step of the Bunker. 'That happens. The Flower shouldn't be swallowed raw, but without it you aren't cured.'

'How are you going to heal the others?' he demanded, his voice ruined and scratchy. Too rough for it to be okay.

'We'll make a potion,' the Yew said. 'Get bandaged, you will get it in an hour,' he confirmed. But the Yew paused, making Dean bump into his back. He turned and smiled a secretive smile on his face, 'Congratulations though,' he said. 'You did the impossible.'

He grew bashful at that. 'It's fine,' he downplayed. 'Just get the damn cure ready.'

The Yew shook his head. 'Only a resilient soulmate could do that.'

Dean watched him walk off, his mouth agape. How the hell were people figuring that out? Where were the fucking signs?

Dean had got his wound checked and changed into something that wasn't wet; the shirt he found was three sizes too large, and his pants too.

'You look like crap,' greeted Lana when he stepped into your room.

'What the hell are you still doing here?' he arched a brow at her.

She shrugged. 'Had nowhere else to be.'

He frowned at her; she made it hard to be mad at her. Slate was asleep in the armchair in the corner of the room while she sat next to your bed.

Your s/c was much too pale from your usual colour, and you were breathing shallowly. His eyes strayed to the clock on the nightstand: the green numbers told him it was seven in the morning.

It doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning.

'She passed out,' Lana said. 'I don't think she realises it; drifting in and out of conversation.'

He didn't know what to do with that.

'She wanted to be awake for you,' Lana added, getting up from the three-legged stool. She walked around your bed towards Slate and picked him up with ease. She moved to the door, facing Dean one last time.

'Just FYI,' she said. 'She was staring at the door like a kicked puppy the whole time and her heartbeat hasn't been normal once.'

His mouth parted to be a wisecrack but somehow his mouth didn't take his command right; 'Thanks,' he surprised himself.

'You saved my brother and I,' she said. 'We're even,' she smirked with an edge to her that most adults never carry. 'You better pick us at my room in a few hours. It would suck to show up at your Palace for my new job by myself.'

'Does your father know?' Dean asked. He wasn't about to take home a child like that and commit a crime.

She got a guarded look about her. 'I'm sixteen, I've decided my career, he can't interfere.'

'What about your brother?' he scowled.

'Leaders have to protect all citizens who show up at their Palace,' she invoked. 'Just consider us runaways.'

He wasn't convinced.

'Lady Y/N agreed,' the child said, challenging Dean to contradict you.

He sighed, too tired to be thinking with clarity. 'Okay,' he said, giving in. He'd debate it with you later; right now, he was just taking a win: you both were alive at the same time: a huge victory.

'Awesome!' the kid cheered, leaving the room to both of you.

Dean paced without really thinking about it. He glared at the clock in a predatory way, as if he wanted to kill Time itself, and that would save you.

According to the nurse, who came to jack up your herbs which were keeping oxygen in your body, the herbs lost their affect over a short period of time as the human body built a higher tolerance to it, an immunity—after a certain amount of dosage, it would stop working on you altogether. And the nurse said that the dose she injected you with a half an hour ago would be your last; and it would work for an hour.

He'd already flagged three Druids in the last thirty minutes; it was eight forty-five now; your literal deadline was nine-fifteen; Dean's skin was crawling and his heart was in overdrive. He had too much adrenaline to rest.

You'd woken once during his unrelenting pacing but you had been too weak to open your mouth. You'd smiled faintly, and raised your hand for him to hold, staring at him for a while before you lost consciousness again.

He hadn't been able to keep holding your hand after that; it was too firgid, it scared him.

He was about to storm out and hold another Druid by the collar on the nine o'clock mark when the door pushed in. Elder Yew came with a saline stand and a bag filled with the revolting kale-green liquid. He also had a goblet in his other hand, half-filled with the same.

'About time,' Dean gritted out. 'What took you so long?!'

But inside, the clenching in his chest was easing a great deal. It was like he was getting his lungs back.

The Yew needled you with a smile, unbothered by Dean's anger. 'She'll be just fine in a few hours, Mr Winchester.'

'I'd hope so,' he mumbled, retaking his seat at your side, his hands finding yours unconsciously. He wished for their sake that you got cured; otherwise he was already (unhealthily) imagining the ways he'd take down this place.

'There,' the Yew said, pleased with his work. 'Now your turn.'

Dean drank his potion sans complain but it did taste like feet; yet, it was better than the raw flower he ate.

He gasped when the drink worked immediately. Outside of rain, he could actually feel his injury disappearing this time. Soon, he could feel that his bandages were pressed against nothing but a scarless skin. His other smaller scratches and cuts also vanished.

'Orally, this drink works best,' Yew explained. When Dean's glance went to your I.V., he added, 'In Ms L/N's case, we didn't want to risk it not going down her foodpipe. But do consider her out of danger.'

Dean could only nod, his mind reeling. His shoulders relaxed, and he felt like melting into the ground out of sheer tiredness; there wasn't a worry to keep him up now.

'Thank you,' he addressed the man. The last few hours have been hell for him; he's just happy it's over.

'You can sleep, Mr Winchester,' he said kindly. 'You've achieved a feat beyond our beliefs.'

He didn't have the power to be away from you, so the armchair was out and he couldn't sleep on the stool. He made space on your bed and curled around your body instead, very aware of your right hand where your medicine was entering your system. He didn't need much preamble to soon be snoring.

That's the first thing you heard when you woke up. Your body was still a touch too warm but you attributed that to the man clinging to you like a koala bear to its bamboo; the clarity of your mind astounded you, you were reminded of how much you depended on your body and without its support, how weak you had truly grown. You took in a celebretory lungful of air, your smile fluttering into place.

All thanks to Dean, said a voice.

His head was on your chest, his straight hair prickling your chin slightly. His left hand and leg were thrown over you, caging you in; your left hand was numb from being still under him for too long.

You raised your other hand with the needle and carressed the side of his face, 'Dean?'

His mouth closed for a moment, swallowing; but he turned his face away from your hand and buried it deeper into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed your neck and his beard tickled your shoulder. He was like your own personal heater; your cold sweat was gone, and now your were sweating for real.

'Dean?' you tried again. 'Darling, wake up,' you said, blushing a little because you'd never used that word before today but you just thought it might be about time. 

He was your . . . you didn't even know.

A swell of emotion tided in your chest. Whoever he was to you, he set out like that for you; everytime you thought of it, more gratefulness surged in you, and you simply didn't know what to do with all that new and spare emotion.

'No,' he whined, running away from your fondling again, making you guffaw. He could be too delightful sometimes.

'Okay, can I just take my hand out then?' you offered.

He gave you wiggle room to bring it out; you also used the opportunity to roll to your side: your healed right side - you could feel not a dredge of pain any more, your saline was almost empty. The clock told you it was ten in the morning, you don't remember when you'd slept. You also don't know where the Sanderson siblings went or when Dean came in.

Dean's hold on you tightened, as if you were prohibited from going away from him. You saw the appeal of being pressed upto your man like that all over again, your bodies curving to one another so perfectly; maybe you didn't need those pillows Dean detested after all; he could be your one giant body-pillow.

You aligned your hand to his that was curled around your torso. He let his face nuzzle into your hair again, seemingly unaware that you'd woken up at all.

You couldn't explain the undisrupted happiness in your chest on feeling him alive and well. Since when did you care so freaking much about another human's well-being?

You've cared, but this was a new level.

'I was so scared when you were gone,' you murmured.

'I'll have the coffee later,' he replied indistinctly. 'Five more minutes.'

You had a feeling he wouldn't remember this when he woke up next; it made you take the chance you did.

'I believe,' you hesitated, 'this is a new thing I'm feeling,' you nervously conveyed. 'But I find no other explaination to it,' you admitted. 'Perhaps, I'm falling for you.'

There was silence and you wondered if he'd heard you. But then he snored, and you sighed in relief.

'I'll tell you again one day,' you promised.

A/N: They're progressing . . . 🙃. What'd you think of the (fl)angst 👀?

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

@bettystonewell @jollyhunter

[my-stories-vault]

Thank you for the reblog - means a lot ❤️🥰!

Chapter 13 ~ The Supernatural Wars.

Pairing: English Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N

Blurb: When the residents of this Earth found out that they were but a draft in God's numerous stories, they decided to make noise in hopes that their creator would return. Nothing can be louder than the begs of the powerless, the cackles of the ruthless, or the unending destruction left in the wake of the most merciless wars any universe can ever see—here the bloodshed never ends. So, tell me how can two young soulmates, then, find love's shade of red under all this crimson gore?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, gore, violence, major and minor character deaths, thoughts of suicide (not graphic), substance abuse (alcohol and cigarettes), mentions of wars (I mean, it's in the name).

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 13: A Walk In The Flood.

Dean's eyes itched from the dust, and he couldn't see too far out into the sudden smog; it didn't help that it was pitch black out.

He'd only had enough time to scramble for the front door to shield his head when the ceiling started raining down on him. He couldn't surface until the whole structure was rubble.

His ears were ringing, suspicious of the silence. His eyes blinked, watering heavily because of the polluted air. Near him was a thick black cloud of smoke, snaking all the chemicals towards the sky; it made him cough and gag on reflex.

'Y/N?!' his voice sounded parched, and not loud enough.

His eyes tracked up towards the onyx sky, which was alive with shooting stars or meteors or . . .

'Angels,' Dean realised. 'Fuck.'

He pushed the house off of him, his terse eyes scanning the ruins of the lodge more alertly, finding you nowhere. Out of his periphery, he could spot that the illusion that hid other people was now shattered, and he could see all the other humans. His sense of hearing finally latched onto the agonised screaming and desperate shouts, and if he concentrated, he could make out the wails of the bereaved.

Thinking ahead, he grabbed the blanket that had been covering you two's bed. And he unearthed the metal bottle placed on his nightstand; by sheer luck, he also found a torch and his phone. He couldn't find a first-aid kit or a weapon, though. This would have to be enough somehow.

His chest trembled, waiting to cave in at a sight that would sear him forever.

The sky rumbled with angry thunder. His brows furrowed in confusion as sudden clouds started moving, slowly, but as if they were being shuffled around by some unseen entity—they were all corraling together so that no inch of sky was visible, and inevitably, no one could see where the next angel might fall from.

He decided to start with the most obvious place, the lodges next to yours. He shone his flickering torchlight in all directions, taking your name.

'Help!' rasped a new voice when he hadn't gone much farther.

Dean was detoured towards the voice. His searching, wild eyes found a six-year-old kneeling next to a pile of plaster, tugging on a dead hand, the human having been crushed under the fallen ceiling.

'Hey, kid,' he tried to be soothing.

'My mom—' he sobbed, unable to finish.

Dean's jaw clenched, and he had to swallow past his lump. He crouched next to him. 'Are you alone?'

The child's eyes locked with his, crazed with anxiety and foreboding. He couldn't speak a word, but he shook his head, tears wading down his dust-speckled cheeks.

'Where's the rest of your family?' Dean asked.

The child's head turned to the forest, eyes haunted as he searched for nothing visible to him. And then he looked down back to the cold hand he was clutching against his chest.

He croaked. 'My sister—' he stared fearfully at the forest again.

The child had had two options, the open stormy sky or the forest, and he must have been scared of the great forest.

But it was dangerous out here.

You'd shown him a documentary on Heaven and Hell by some prophet named Kevin Tran, and if it was right, then the angels would be falling from the sky all night, incinerating all that clashed with them. The storm was new but one fucking disaster at a time.

'Alright, buddy,' Dean said, grasping the lad's shoulder. 'I'm going to help you find your sister, okay?'

'My Mom—!'

Another angel soared over their heads and snapped the first tree of the forest in sight in half. Dean used his body to shield the child; the heat from the explosion licked down his spine, and his whole body warmed as if he had been standing under the radioactive sun all day.

'We'll come back for her!' Dean assured him, over the noise. He checked the hand for the faint chance of a pulse though, disheartened when he found none.

'C'mon!' he ordered, gripping the child's shoulder, gentle but firm, and leading him into the trees. He decided the trees were worth searching for you, too; if you were conscious, that's where you'd have run to for shelter, or you could've been thrown there . . .

He had rolled the blanket around his arm socket as if it were a hose he was carrying, and he asked the boy to call for his sister while Dean did the same for you. The boy had opted to cling to Dean's hand, much to his surprise.

'Lana!' the child tore from Dean's side and rushed to a prone form on the floor. Dean's longer strides caught up with the kid, and he crouched next to the teenager. The age difference between the siblings seemed to be around ten years. The girl will be memorable to Dean for her long hair: they came to her knees in two plaits; at first, Dean had thought that they were snakes surrounding her.

'She's alive,' Dean delivered, two fingers on Lana's erratic pulse. He shook Lana, who stayed unresponsive. He sprinkled a few drops of water on the girl's face.

Lana grimaced awake.

'Slate,' groaned she, recognizing her little brother. 'Where's Mom?'

Slate stared up at Dean, helpless. Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head dully for Lana's understanding. Lana's face contorted with devastation and tears pressed into her eyes.

'I'm sorry,' was all Dean could offer.

The young woman choked back a gasp, the noise stifling in her throat when her brother climbed to her side and started crying again, just because he saw her in pain.

She hid his face in her chest. 'It's okay,' her own maternal instincts kicked in for her kid brother. 'We're okay.'

Dean wasn't even sure the child, Slate, understood what exactly had happened to their mother. And the girl, Lana, was barely holding onto any form of composure. His heart broke for them.

'I need to get him to safety,' Lana demanded, clucthing her brother possessively. Her eyes turned sharp and met Dean's with challenge and determination.

'I can help you,' Dean replied, solemn. 'The Druids have got a bunker down west for emergencies.'

She nodded, standing up, and slinging a tight arm around her little brother.

'Let's go.'

'I need to find my . . . friend first,' he said. Just the word "friend" tasted wrong in his mouth.

'Are they a hunter?' the girl quirked a brow. 'Can't they take care of themselves?'

'I just need to check on her,' Dean responded.

'Dude, if she's an adult, she can take care of herself,' the surly teen snapped. 'Or she's dead. Either way, she doesn't need you.' Her features were riven with anger and agony. 

'Or she's hurt,' Dean said alternatively.

'Mister, listen—'

'No, you listen,' he adopted an edge of scolding. 'I'm going to take you to safety, but you better pipe that attitude down.' He was about to leave no one behind.

Her tiny face hardened, but she obviously had no choice. Dean ushered them deeper through the forest.

Your heartbeat was unusual. Your thinking was surrounded by nothing but pain; pain that radiated from your upper right side, where your right lung should be. You were standing very still, knowing movement could hurt you more than help, but your knees were protesting because they were bent as if you were sitting down on an invisible chair, your hands on your knees.

All you wanted to do was slide down, but you could sense a roughly circular object that had nailed your right lung to the tree - you thought it was a broken branch, about two inches. You were vaguely aware of the warm blood trailing down in rivulets inside and outside of your night shirt; the crimson was pooling and soaking into your sleep shorts.

But the worst sensation was the itching, for some reason, the place where the tree had pierced you felt like it was a red-hot iron poker covered in itch powder used for pranks and not a cold branch on what quickly seemed to be a stormy night.

Your face and body were extremely rigid. Earlier, when you'd awoken to a world of pain, you'd quickly deduced that groaning or crying out in pain only made the pain in your lungs worse. Your options were an occasional whimper and tears steadily streaming down your face. Other than that, you feared twitching a single muscle lest it make the pain unbearable.

You tried to count the fallen leaves on the floor; you would rather spend your minutes awake in pain and aware of your fate than be unconscious and clueless. Helplessness was intolerable, unlike a physical ailment like this.

You could also detach yourself from the branch, but it posed the risk of the darkness towing you under. Plus, it would bleed more, and you would have no means to stem the flow.

You concentrated on your other fears— the lightning was cackling in the sky. It made you want to crawl underground after digging a hole with your bare fingers and never resurface.

'Y/N!' Dean's gravely baritone jolted your brain into excitement again. 'Are you here?'

Earlier, you'd heard his voice (minutes after you'd been volleyed from the lodge into the trees in quite a straight line) and you'd hoped he would come straight for you. Instead, his calls had drifted off in another direction, and you regretted not yelling back. This time, you wouldn't make the same mistake, even if it hurts like - to quote Dean sometimes - a son of a bitch.

'Dean!' It was a half-yell, and a half-cry of shock. 

Your entire body complained against that move, even brought claret to your throat for your efforts. You coughed it out, spitting it out to the side. It fell atop the roots of the tree you stood against. To your horror, the blood sizzled after a few seconds of contact.

You were once again brought to the present by Dean's shouting. He seemingly hadn't heard you.

A sob built in your throat, mostly out of anger and frustration. But you grit your teeth - you're not dying like this.

'Dean!' 

Your screech was long.

This time, you only had time to turn your head to the side before you vomitted more blood. Your ears were ringing, and your eyes were leaking more. You rubbed your mouth against your left shoulder.

'Please stop hurting,' your breath hitched as you fruitlessly begged your body. 'Stop hurting, stop hurting, stop hurting.'

Your organs were as stubborn as you; they refused to listen, snapping their pain to the brain through your writhing nerves. It built more cries in your chest, making you want to bawl like a baby. But you bit your lip and closed your eyes, letting the salt in your eyes free-flow down your cheeks and neck where it met the blood and sweat.

Dean called your name again, much closer. He was the only thing keeping you grounded, yet you hated him for making your scream over and over again - that's it, you decided, I'm adding red flares to my pile of sleep weapons.

Currently, you have a sliver-iron switchblade, a double-edged knife, in your pocket, and the Colt. Dean liked to keep his weapons under the pillow because he thought it granted easier access that way, but you deserved points for this one.

'Just scream for me one more time, darlin'!' his voice pleaded, apologetic at the same time as if he understood your silences just as well as your screams.

You gritted at him, filling your lungs with unwanted air, and knowing it'd be too much to handle already.

Dean'll save me, assured your logic. Yes, you won't be helpless with Dean.

'DEAN!'

It was blood-curdling, followed by thunder as if it was fucking competing against you.

You only registered as much before your eyes rolled into your head.

It felt like it had been a minute. You thought you were unconscious, but then why would your body be feeling like it's decomposing?

You wishfully hoped for a long second that this is all just a bad dream and you were still in bed with Dean, but that delirious thinking was dispelled when Dean's voice called for you; this time the closest, and saturated with relief—before you heard him curse.

You heard the sound of cloth ripping, but your eyelids were too heavy to lift anymore.

Your skin was too hot—where was all the fucking sweat coming from? And the metallic taste of your RBCs graced your tongue and nose, it made you want to cringe, but your brain refused to trust your judgments about reactions after you made your body make that last sound.

Your face jerked to life when two hands lifted your head, but their texture was all wrong.

The callouses you'd become accustomed to in Dean's hands were missing, and it lacked warmth of his skin. Even though the touch was as gentle as his.

Your eyes peered up at a masked man, his lower face covered with white cloth. You would have flinched and tried to get away from the touch if you hadn't noticed the forest greens. The thunder whipped the sky and lit his orbs with golden specks. Those were the same eyes you'd spent hours memorizing; even in your half-dead state, you knew them.

Belatedly, you realised that he was tying a similar cloth around your face. You arched your brow at him, unable to utter an actual sound.

'The tree is Manchineel,' he explained.

You shook your head. 'Only in America,' you mumbled. You didn't know the tree specifics like how to recognize them, but you know where most of them grew and what they could do.

His eyes seemed to harden, 'The Druids have magic, they grow all trees here and enhance their capacities. This one's used to line their perimeter to kill their enemies.'

Okay, made sense why your back was feeling inflamed and why it felt like someone was evaporating your organs, starting with your right lung—the Manchineel tree is the deadliest, one of the most toxic trees known to mankind.

You have been poisoned.

You scoffed weakly. 'Should've taken that tree course at Treexcel, huh?'

Europe offered far more detailed courses on trees than any other Continent; just like your once tree skills, your tree knowledge lacked.

He didn't answer to that, eyes focused. His hands were wrapped in a similar cloth as his face, tied with . . . were those rubber bands?

'I'm going to have to pull you out,' Dean warned. 'We need to stop your exposure to its toxicity.'

You nodded, dazed at simply the idea.

'Hold my shoulders,' he instructed. He came down to hover above you, putting his hands on your back, below and above your point of injury. You heeded his advice, filled with trepidation.

He must've moved you an inch forward when you whimpered pathetically. The irritated skin around your wound made it feel like you were rubbing salted sandpaper on it.

Dean froze, but he couldn't stop much longer. Maybe this will have to be like ripping off a bandage, but then if he was too fast and if a piece of the tree snapped and entered your bloodstream, you'd be much worse off.

'Do you trust me?' he quietly asked.

You nodded feebly. 'Please help,' you gritted back a sob. 'It hurts.'

Your tear-stricken face felt like someone was boxing his heart with knives.

'I'm not going to let anything happen to you,' he affirmed. 'D'you understand me?'

You nodded, inhaling a shaky gasp. 'Make it stop.'

'Soon,' he promised.

He leaned to kiss the tears on your cheeks (besides the shape of his lips, you only felt the cloth that wiped your tears). Though, it lured your mind away from the pain and towards the intimacy of his gestures.

'Hold on,' he requested.

He started tugging you out again. His whole body tensed, and his jaw clenched as the trees echoed your horrible scream; he'd remember it.

By the time he'd gotten you off the branch, your knees had buckled under your weight and the redness oozing from your strengthened. You slumped into his arms, and it's with effort that he hefted you up in a cradle-carry.

He brought you back to the safer tree zones where Lana and Slate had been witnessing the whole thing.

Dean released his hand from the torn blanket and handed back Lana her scrunchies; without them, she looked the definition of a ghost whose hair flew with the wind.

Dean used water to wash your wound so the effects of the poison would slow down. He tore a few more clean portions of the long blanket and placed one of them, balled up, as a packing against your wound to stop the blood, and tied a longer piece over your left shoulder and under your right arm. Lastly, he made a thin and sturdy sling to put your right hand in.

He was dripping water past your lips when you stirred again.

'The winds are picking up,' Lana said nervously. She was hugging her brother so his face was in her abdomen, and she didn't want the child to see any of the gore.

Dean had felt it; the dead leaves had started swirling in small rotations, making and breaking mini tornadoes. He realised that it was going to be one of the worst storms that hit the world.

He needed to get you to the bunker.

'There are people out there,' you said, eyes hazy and tired, head swimming in shock and body rejecting coherence.

'Let me get you to safety first,' he replied, lifting you once more in his embrace.

'The fuck are you talking about?' Dean growled.

He felt aggressive enough to grab the doctor by the collar and bang her head against the wall—he fisted his hands instead, allowing his nails to draw blood from his palms.

The four feet tall Druid was old and experienced. She eyed him with wariness but kept her voice levelled with a clinical tone.

She repeated her words in a simpler format. 'Mr Winchester, Ms L/N has suffered from severe poisoning; her right lung has completely necrosed, and her left lung as well as her heart are slowly dying. We've given her the antidote, but it doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning for the medicine to take full effect.'

She let that sink in.

Dean shook his head adamantly. 'Fuck that, okay? You're the mystical creature. Lay your mojo on her! Give her a voodoo cocktail!'

'Our magic has limits. If she'd been brought in earlier, we may have been able to reverse the necrosis or at least stop its spread . . . .'

Dean was late. The throb in his arms and legs became more prominnet, telling him that he did run with you in his arms for three miles, making it back in twenty-five minutes instead of the usual hour it would've taken; but his mind rejected that argument, demanding for his heart to sink into his stomach where the unbearable guilt churned. His face was blank, his muscles didn't know how to react anymore.

The doctor let some sympathy bleed into her manner. 'We've gave her several litres of blood, hoping a full blood swap would reverse the poisoning, but it didn't work. We've put her on a magical potion that'll act as a ventilator and pump her with oxygen, but that'll only last so long. We're sorry—'

'Don't be fucking sorry!' he roared. The people in the hallway paused; Dean and the Druid were standing right outside your room, which was located on the uppermost floor of the underground bunker that went numerous floors deeper; Dean had literally put you in the first bed he could find. 'Show me some fucking results! Go in there and heal her!'

She shook her head persistently. 'You're welcome to see her, if you'd like.' And she walked away.

'Come on! Come on!' Dean kept mumbling as he dialled someone, pacing the length of your room.

You could only assume that he was told what the petite doctor told you: your death sentence. And in a very Dean-ish manner, he refused to give up on you, yet you couldn't imagine what solution he'd come up with to save the day. 

'Cell phone towers are down,' you gently told him, cringing at how raspy your voice was.

'Told the Druids to save one tower with their magic,' he off-handedly said, putting the phone to his ear again. 

'Who are you calling?'

'Jack,' he said while having a staring match with the wall. 'He must have a connection, I think. Got to, right? Magic and all.'

Before you could answer, he hung up. 'Dammit, pick up!' he gritted to himself and re-dailled the number. 

'Dean?'

'Yeah?' But he wouldn't look up. 

You decided to unclench your jaw and utter a guttural groan (wasn't hard considering you'd been holding it back for his sake) that drew his attention to you. He rushed to your bedside, putting his phone away and his frantic hands traced the air an inch above your body as if he was afraid to touch you. 

'What's wrong?' he asked with note of panic. 'How can I help?'

'It hurts,' you breathily gasped. 

'I know, I know,' he licked his bottom lip, his hand finally graced your slick hair, and he soothingly stroked you. 'I can get you those piankillers.'

You shook your head. You wanted to be awake for the rest of your life, you wouldn't let painkillers conk you out for whatever hours you have left. 

You purposely mouthed something so he would have to lean in, and you could swipe his phone from his pocket.

'Could you repeat that, darling?'

You mouthed again. 

'I'm sorry,' he leaned in further so his ear was over your lips. 'One more time?'

'I'm sorry,' you whispered properly this time, and flung out your arm on your injured side.

The phone shattered against the wall with moderate precision, and you groaned loudly in pain, panting from your effort while Dean was dumbfounded for a solid fifteen seconds. 

'What the—What the fuck did you just do?' he straightened, staring at you like you'd grown a green skin. 

'You can't call Jack,' you said. 

'Why the fuck not?' he glared at you incredously. 

'There's a reason why he's shut off prayers from the human faction, Dean,' you explained what he already knew. 'Too many humans die every year. He can't keep healing all of them.'

'Well, you're different!' he said. 'You're a Leader.'

You didn't even make the "I-am-a-Temp" argument - as history had it, Dean tended to go ballistic whenever you brought up your non-tenure. 

'What example would I be setting if I healed and the hundreds here died?' you patiently said. 

'So this is about your reputation?'

Dean's anger had melted into pure icy hatred. You'd sidestepped a landmine to walk onto another. 

Having a great day here, thanks for asking, you sarcastically thought.

You sighed. 'I know you don't care about my reputation or—' 

'You're right, I don't,' Dean snapped. 'I'm not going to argue with you about the goddamn media while you're on your deathbed.' He rounded the said bed, 'I'm going to borrow a phone and then I'm calling Jack,' he said with a full stop. 

Except, 'What was Jack's phone number again?'

Dean froze midway to the door. Your phones had everyone's numbers - yours was lost, you broke Dean's.

'Oh, right,' you said. 'I remember and you don't.'

You remembered your family's, the Leaders' and your team's phone numbers, along with a few very resourceful Governors'. And Dean knew you'd remembered it all because he often teased you about it.

You resisted the urge to grin like a Cheshire cat—you did enjoy riling the man up. 

His chin fell to his chest in defeat. He turned sharply with thinly veiled rage. 'Give me the phone number, Y/N.'

'Nope,' you popped the p.

If you weren't dying, he would've strangled you.

'I won't ask you again, Y/N,' he said with dangerous stillness in his tone. 

Even pale and sickly, you narrowed your eyes. 'Then you won't have to hear "no" again.'

'Do you want to die!?' he burst out. 'Do you want to die?'

'No—'

'Because from where I'm standing it looks like you've given up!'

This situation seriously sucked and you were seriously done. 'Then grab a chair,' your lip curled into a sneer. 'And fucking look again.' You cleared your throat when the scratchiness got too much.

'Don't be a fucking child, alright?' Dean tried again. 'Just gimme the fucking number, or I swear on the Universe—'

'You'll do what?' you scoffed. 'What we're having is a battle of stubborness—I can be stubborn. I can do this all my life - literally!'

He deflated with an expression of betrayal; he wiped a hand down his face but the look wouldn't go - you had to avert your gaze because that look stung.

Dean sat beside you again, taking your hand in his, prompting you to look back up. Your eyes were shining with brand-new tears, and you were shocked to find . . . so were his.

'I'll take the blame,' Dean said. 'We'll tell them you were unconscious and I called Jack. I don't care about my reputation. Please just give me—'

'Dean,' you sighed. 'This isn't just about your reputation or mine,' you retrieved your hand. 'See to reason, you'd be staking Jack's life.'

He blinked as if it hadn't occured to him. If he'd only let you finish earlier: you would've given him the real reason why Jack was a bad idea.

'I-I don't—'

'Closing of Heaven Gates bars angels from Heaven,' you said. 'The archangels and the angels stationed on Earth remain unaffected.'

'Thus, the storm,' Dean's shoulders slumped. 'Micheal and Lucifer are up there, creating the storm because whoever shut the Gates, pissed them off.'

'Yep. And, as you know, Jack's tuned the angel radio off,' you said. 'And made Australia a dome so he wouldn't ever be kidnapped by his own damn father—'

'And the storm's across the world,' Dean completed. 'Like the Druids said. He flies and he'll be on their radar. He'll be—'

'Captured,' you finished.

Dean fell into a silence that was too depressive for your tastes.

'He probably shut his phone off,' you said, nodding like you did during small talk.

'I-I need some air,' and he left like the room was on fire.

'You're poisoned?' Selina skrieked over the phone.

'It's okay, they've given me the antidote,' you answered casually, even if your voice was unhealthily low.

You squeezed Dean's hand, wishing he would snap out of his daze; he hadn't spoken a word since he re-entered the room and dragged a chair next to your bed. You took his hand, trying to get him to talk; but he'd picked a point on the wall and was staring at it, in shock and probably denial.

All he did do, was give you the phone. You think he did so you could say your goodbyes - though, if you were being honest, you would rather not distract anyone with sad goodbyes - they can grieve you when people are better.

'That's good. When are they doing the surgery?'

'The what?'

'They'd have to remove the dead tissue in your lungs,' Selina said. 'Before it spreads.'

You were regretting calling your team medic for this. You should've called Boa, at least he wouldn't ask too many questions, or figure out your ill-concealed lie about your healing process.

You'd only even thought about contacting the Palace because one, Dean wasn't in a condition to. And two, you wanted to see how things were running there; your pager had been blowing up and there wasn't a thing you could do about it.

The world was ensued in a single, largest thunderstorm the planet had ever seen. If the Druids hadn't offered you a bit of magic, you could've never called - most of the towers (those unprotected by magic) and all the transportation was down.

You sighed through your nose. 'Selina,' you said, using her name to make sure she knew the weight behind your words, 'I suppose I'm saying that you'll need a new Maid Of Honour.'

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a single tear track down Dean's cheek. His eyes were red-rimmed and his glare had sharpened, his face had stilled into the statue of a tortured man.

So he was listening.

You didn't have the slightest idea of how you'd console him after you hung up with her. You felt the most useless you had in the entirety of your life, and you'd been made to feel useless plenty.

'If that's a joke, you're not fucking funny.'

You closed your eyes, exhausted from all the talking. Your breathing was too shallow for you to be wasting it on so many words.

'My lungs have given up,' you informed her.

'There's always a cure!' she defied. 'I-I mean, Sal had . . . I remember. . . He would go on about . . . His research might have something!'

Dean's face flickered with hope for the first time, his body twitched to life.

'You think?' you asked, sceptical of that plan.

Sal hadn't exactly proven to be trustworthy. He's the one who got Jessica killed . . . At the same time, his research had saved plenty of lives back in the day.

'Call me in an hour,' demanded Selina.

She was gone before you could get a word in edgewise.

'Do you think she's right?' Dean wondered, his voice thickened to the point of suffocation.

You nodded, albiet hesitantly. 'Ms Doll goofs about medicine almost never.'

'Geez, sound less confident.'

'I'm just worried that the solution might not be available to us,' you stated practically. 'I don't want—' you shook your head. Telling Dean that he wasn't in a position to handle hope might only aggravate him.

'What?' he pried.

'I guess I'm sorry,' you said, changing the topic.

'Why?'

'Our date was going well until I impaled myself on a poisonous tree,' you said with bemusement.

You traced his knuckles with a featherlight touch, hoping you could improve his mood somehow . . .

'I should've gotten you here sooner,' he blurted, tense all over.

That's all he could think about. Besides all the people he'd lost . . . Of all the people he'd failed to save: Cole, Mary, John, Jessica - these were ones he remembered. And now, you.

'Excuse me?' It hadn't even occured to you that Dean might be blaming himself because it simply wasn't his fault.

His hand retreated from yours to run down his face; his blank mask went with his hand and naked remorse stared back at you. He looked at you as if he'd been the one to take the branch and shove it into your lung; like a accidental murderer staring at their victim.

'This is not on you,' you said before he could explain.

'I couldn't protect you,' he refuted a dissolvent for his misery. 'And I brought you here.'

It struck a chord in you. For the first time since this shit happened, you were able tocompare your situation to the one where John and Mary had died . . . Or the one where Jessica had passed away. At 10.23 p.m., you could still hear the time of death.

'Oh, darlin', come here,' you shifted to the edge of your bed, patting the space you left for him.

He frowned, 'I don't want to hurt you more—'

Your frowned at him. 'You can join me, or I can climb out to you.'

Dean was familiar with the tenacious twinkle of your eye. He went with the option acceptable to him and perched on the edge of your bed, not touching a single part of you. You pulled him by his shoulder - well, you kept your hand on him, and he went because your strength was a joke right now.

You manuvered him till he was backed into your pillows, to your left, and then you curled into his side into the cuddle of your bet.

'Y/N,' he said in protest.

You firmly brought his hand around your waist, taking his other hand to have you circled. His hold on you was still fragile though; you glanced up at him in annoyance - only to be met with teary eyes.

'I'm trying to show you that it's not your fault,' you desperately said. You wished you could shout it from the rooftops if that'd get into his head, but you were keeping your voice low and your breaths shallow to save oxygen.

He rolled his eyes, looking away.

'Why would I let you close to me if I thought you had hurt me?' you persisted. 'I'd want you gone, if you had,' you said.

'I should go,' he said.

You let out a sound of frustration, and cuffed him on the head. Surprise made his head turn to you.

'You took that from what I said?' you scoffed. 'Are you a born idiot, or did you lose your mind in that?' you gestured to the ceiling where the thunder constantly boomed; you'd probably be hiding under the blanket if Dean wasn't here.

Dean's chest arched inwards, as if trying to cave on him. There weren't words he could use to explain how he'd witnessed two men he'd admired the most in the world, lose their soulmates, in front of him, and how he'd seen them . . . give up.

Mary had died first, and so had Jess. He couldn't imagine a worst pain in the world than what he'd seen in John's and Sam's eyes and now, he was about to experience it in a few hours' time. So, yes, he might be losing his mind.

All those sentences crowded in his throat and they died on his tongue.

'Dean, if it had been your fault, the other eleven people you saved wouldn't have lived!' you pointed out. While he was taking you to the Bunker, he'd adopted eleven more persons on the way.

'Don't do this,' he said. He doesn't deserve to be consoled. Especially when you were his . . . he couldn't think it, if he thought the word in corelation to you, he'd break.

'Then see some sense,' you offered. 'You put out all warrior Druids to harbring the rest of the survivors—you saved so many lives.'

He only did that so he'd be nullified of his responsibilities and then he could fret over you. A plan you crushed along with his phone.

'I'm so proud of you,' you said with a soft smile.

He had to blink his tears back, but his arms finally tightened around your torso. He lifted you carefully and placed you between his legs so you could easily sleep on him, instead of leaning into his side.

You smiled faintly, turning your head to drop a kiss over his heart, and sigh as you let him envelope you completely. You remained unaware of half the crap Dean was thinking . . . And unless Selina pulled though, he'd never be able to tell you all of it.

At least she'll go happy . . . His breaths scratched his neck as if the oxygen wanted to stop interacting with his windpipe as soon as you were gone - as if you were the element that made this world breathable.

'I see the appeal of cuddling you,' you broke his train of thought. Your fingers curled fingers into his chest and closed your eyes with a sigh. 'I'm never felt more comfortable. Or safe.'

'Too bad I kept losing the bet, huh?' he said, too low, so his voice wouldn't break.

You hummed. 'Too bad,' you smiled wider, looking up. 'I'd've enjoyed the privilege of sleeping in the arms of the strongest man more.'

'I'm not nearly as strong as you think,' he broke it to you, along with a tiny break in his voice.

'Well, that doesn't look very friendly,' said a new voice that made you jump, Dean's hands protectively pulled you closer before they relaxed.

'What the hell?' he said. 'This is a private room. Get out!'

Your eyes drifted to the young girl in the door. You vaguely remembered her from her hair, that were now tied into a single long plait which come over her shoulder down to her knees.

'Relax, old man,' she said. 'I just came sto see her.'

You were stuck between calling her out on her audacity, and being fakely polite as you were used to with strangers.

'What would you want from me?' you decided to say.

'You're Dean Winchester,' she crossed her arms. 'Knew I recognised you from somewhere.'

'Good on you. Now, get out.'

'And you're Leader Y/N L/N,' she continued, turning to you. 'I don't trust your celebrity memory, but still - do you remember me?'

You exchanged a look with Dean; he stayed where he was, no point in moving now that she'd already seen you two.

Without the earlier bluriness in your eyesight, you got the feeling that you had seen this child somewhere. If you assessed her features right, and if you were thinking her age correctly . . .

'Lana Sanderson,' you recalled. 'Aren't you the one from the Survivalist Camp who said you wanted to be Cupid for a career path?'

She raised her chin defiantly. 'That's right; color me impressed. Just FYI, I've changed my mind. I want to work for you now.'

You pursed your lips. 'That's a generous offer, I'm sure,' you flattered, 'but however do you think you'll be of use?'

'A botanist. I'm good with plants,' she responded, stepping closer to your bed. 'It's why our mother brought us to this place. For me,' her voice wobbled. 'And now she's . . . .'

You caught on. There was an emotion in her that you'd noted in Dean these past few minutes.

You tried to answer her diplomatically, sensitive of her loss: 'My condolences, dear. But I'm afraid this is a bad time for us—'

She just took a deep breath and marched on though. 'The Purgatory Flower will cure you. The Druids have it here.'

Your forehead creased. 'Have you heard of it, De—Mr Winchester?' you cleared your throat. You didn't know how to conduct your discussion with him when he held you at such an intimate position in front of a complete stranger.

'I can keep your secret,' she waved a hand, almost reading your mind. 'Even if you don't give me a job - because I will have earned that on my merit,' she said, confidently.

But Dean was already distracted. 'We should call Selina,' he said, grabbing your phone from you.

She offered more information to make it concrete: 'I don't know if this other person knows; the Purgatory Flowers are rare. They grow in, surprise-surprise, Purgatory; the good monster souls in there, which are extremely infrequent, come back as the flowers when killed. They are such a unique growth that one flower can cure a hundred. The Druids have some in stock - as of recently, when one of the younger Universe Travellers decided to give Purgatory a shot and returned with his discovery.'

Dean chatted with Selina for the next few minutes and relayed every little detail the little child mentioned.

'Then, that's it!' Selina said, gleefully. 'I've never heard of the plant being practically used, and I didn't think either of you would have access to Purgatory, but that flower is known to have magical properties!'

Dean scowled at the phone. 'Then why would the Druids lie to us?'

The Three Elders of the Druids and the Doctor who treated you crowded your room. Dean stood beside your bed along with Lana, who was just trying to become a wallflower at that point.

'As the ones who rent out this establishment,' the meek and middle Elder said, 'it was our duty to send out recruiting forces, Mr Winchester, to bring them to the Bunker. We cannot ask of our people to risk their own lives for someone who's already inside.'

You suppose you could understand that. While you nodded though, Dean bristled.

'You're fucking kidding me, right?' he barked, his glare deadly.

Even you were intimidated slightly. You latched onto his wrist, as if that would hold back this bulky man.

'We are sorry for the losses,' the Doctor said, stressed. 'But it's not our right to swap a life for a life.'

'And what do you think I'm here for?! I'm a hunter, your fucking Leader,' he returned. 'You're frigging morons if you think I'd have preferred to sit back and watch people lose their lives!'

'It's flooding outside, Mr Winchester,' said the squeaky Leader to the right.

'Then we go by the trees,' he affirmed.

'The Flowers are locked in a special locker that only opens by our retinal scan,' the third and the youngest Leader said. 'I would go if you're ready to.'

The Druids protested but the younger one waived their concern off, his face grim but set. 'Druids are capable of sacrifice as humans are. I'm ready if you are.'

'Can't we wait till the morning?' you interjected. 'After the storm recedes?'

'What are you doing?' Dean snapped at you.

'It just feels like a suicide mission!' you hissed at him.

'You don't have all night,' he countered.

'Very well,' the bravest Druid said. I'll meet you at the door in ten minutes, Mr Winchester.'

Dean came to see you one last time after he'd laid himself with weapons and other essentials; Lana took a hint and announced for a coffee, leaving you alone with him.

He leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, resuming his seat at the edge of your bed. He ran a hand down your head, ending up cupping your cheek.

'Stay alive for me, will you?' he said.

'Look, I know you're a hunter,' you began, 'and you have a right to choose the hunts, but this feels impossible!'

'Thought you thought I was the strongest man in the world,' he teased you lightly.

'You're not going up against a monster,' you reminded him. 'It's a full-blown storm.'

'Weapons of angels, as you'd once put it.'

'Stop acting like it's a walk in the fucking park,' you reprimanded. 'You're taking a walk in the flood!'

'What else do you want me to do, Y/N?' he scoffed. 'There's no other solution.'

'Dean, you don't have to do this for me,' you tried to persuade him, 'if you are. I don't want to swap my life for someone else's.'

He looked at you as if you were crazy. 'Did you think I was lying the other day?'

It felt so long ago when he told you he'd be willing to risk his life for you.

You frowned at him. 'You're a nice guy, Dean,' you tried another angle. 'While it was soothing to hear the depths of your care, you are allowed to break your word.'

'Would you?' he asked suddenly; it wouldn't change his decision, but he wanted to know if you said it for the sake of it.

You genuinely gave it a thought, and found no trace of a lie in your promise. You shook your head at him in answer.

'I'm just worried about you,' you bit your lip.

It wasn't Dean's mistake that you got hurt, but he was heading out into a storm, for you. You won't ever be void of guilt if he lost his own life while trying to save yours.

He swiped a thumb over your jaw, tipping your head back to lay another lingering kiss to your forehead. You sighed, clucthing his elbow, wishing he wasn't leaving you alone.

'I'll be back,' he whispered. 'And I'll be fine as long as you are. Just don't give up on me, okay?'

'Never.' You implored him, 'Be careful, please.'

Your heart was like an anxious bowling ball that was trying to break the pins of your ribcage. You lay on your pain-free side, staring at the door Dean left from. You were overthinking way too much to sleep like the little Druid Doctor had adviced you to.

In a split moment of concflict, you dialled a number from your memory.

She picked up on the fifth ring, and you were relieved that it was her.

'Hello, Mother,' you said, placing the phone on speaker because your fingers were too brittle to hold anything.

'Oh,' she said, in somewhat surprise. 'It's you. It didn't have a Caller ID, I was just so surprised a phone was working.'

You tried not to read too much into that.

'Do you have a good reason for calling?'

Except paralysing fear, nothing much. You had tried to hide it in front of Dean, and it was much too easy to focus on his plight than yours; but you were terrified of what could happen.

This is not the literal hill you'd want to die on.

'I'm . . . kinda dying,' you said, rigid and awkward. You would've called your brother if you could, but you didn't want to worry the man.

'Unfortunate,' she sighed. 'But you're just one of many,' she continued. 'You're not famed yet, Y/N, why should one find a loss in losing you?'

Perhaps you'd been expecting a more motherly reaction from her; maybe a gasp - what would you not give for a fucking gasp . . . But why didn't you expect this?

You let not the sting in your eyes drop across your cheeks.

'I-I never thought of it that way,' you said timidly.

'Honey, you should stop spending your time and mine in a wasteful call like this. I'd've been happier if you worked. You have a cell phone connection - miraculously - put it to good use.'

'Y-Yes, ma'am,' you said.

Why was this cutting you deeper than literally all the other similar conversations you'd had with her in your whole life.

'There's my good girl.' She changed the topic, 'Is Dean around?'

For the first time, that question angered you, coming from her.

'He's gone to bring me a cure,' your features twisted with pain and fury.

'Ah, always the busy bee. It's too bad he focuses his energies the wrong way; he'd be much happier if he didn't correct others' mistake,' she said, subtly hinting that you weren't doing enough, and that it was your own fault for not being good enough. Your shoulders slumped inwards and you brought the blanket closer to your chest.

Thunder cackled more, laughing at your foolishness.

'Even your Dad and brother are working,' she continued. 'Tough times - with the gates closed.'

'Are you okay?' you asked tentatively. 'I'm worried about you too.'

'Except for the bad mood, and, as you children say, shitton of work? Good.'

Your lips quivered, and you forced your voice to stablaise. 'Good. Is . . . Can I talk to Dad?'

You hoped that that conversation might go better. You'd be remiss if you died before you could hear both of their voices - the people to whom you'd dedicated your entire life to.

'I just said he's working, Y/N,' she said impatiently. 'Not everyone has the luxury of being bedridden and using cell phones,' she laughed as if she was making an intelligent point. 'You always had a special gift of weasling out.'

That felt like a rubber band snapping back into your heart which stuttered on her words.

'I've never weaseled out of work,' you suddenly said. She'd said that millions of times, and all those times, you'd managed to laugh - but somehow, this time, you couldn't let it go.

'Lighten up, dear,' she chided. 'I just said I was in a bad mood! Your sensitivity has always been your flaw.'

Your fuse short-circuited.

In the past few months, you hadn't talked to your parents; maybe that's what changed - her comment startled you. You were being too sensitive? How could she even imply that when you hadn't shown a single emotion to the outside world before it?

Did your mother even know you at all?

'Anyhow, I shall get back to work,' she said, casually, 'I do hope for your sake that you make it. What a shame it would be to our family if you died without making a good reputation.'

You didn't have to end the call.

You simply stared at the silent phone with the most loathing you'd ever given to anything. Your heart felt shattered in it's place, and its shards were slicing you on the inside. You had to run your hand over your face to stave off the tears.

What the hell was wrong with you? This shouldn't be bothersome. You should have expected this. Why did you hope for something better? Why did you hope that she might have changed too, as you had?

You didn't have the energy or the state of mind to call your father separately, or your brother or your sister-in-law.

Your brain was computing some facts that were somehow mind-blowing to you—your own family didn't care if you survived but Dean, a person who had no previous relation to you, was endangering himself to save you?

It was as if your brain was rebooting because of this.

You didn't hear the knock or see the child peeking in until a young boy came up to you and extended a blueberry muffin.

You stared at him like he was an alien until a taller figure came up behind him, placing her palms on his shoulders, a grimacing smile on her face.

'Slate, this is the Mr Winchester's girlfriend.'

Your face jerked in shock and you had to sit upright with some effort. 'Girlfriend?'

'Oh, don't lie to me,' she said, crossing her arms. 'I caught you two red-handed.'

'Oh, we haven't—no, we aren't—he's not my boyfriend!'

She whistled lowly. 'Harsh, lady. Don't let him hear that. You realise he's out there embracing literal disasters for you, right?'

You narrowed your eyes at her. You were not going to argue with a teenager. You glanced at the young boy who was still holding the muffin up for you.

'And what's your name, dear?'

'Oh, nice. Deflect.'

'I'm Slate,' the young boy said, showing you the muffin again. 'Mommy says that good food will heal you.'

'I . . . She sounds like a wise woman.' You cleared your throat of your heartbreak. 'Why . . . are you both here?' you settled on.

Lana raised a brow. 'It's rude not to visit your boss in the hospital.'

You would have smiled if you had been feeling better. In fact, just for that sass, you would've like the girl.

'Thank you,' you said. 'Though you should eat it, kid. I'm saving my oxygen to breathe, eating will only utilise some of it in digestion.'

The child peered up at his sister with thinly hidden hope. She nodded at you, 'Smart,' before, 'go ahead,' she told her brother.

He happily flounced onto your bed, near your feet and started munching hungrily on the food. Lana took the seat Dean had earlier and sat next to your bed.

You were confused with this scenery; what was the protocol for handling stranger children who barge into your room while you sit poisoned and weaponless? (The Druids changed your clothes into a hospital gown, and your weapons went with your pajamas.)

'Are you going to ask why I wanted to be Cupid and now I don't?'

' . . . You don't have to talk to me,' you hinted. It was kind enough that she was accompanying you; it took your mind off things.

'I'm still going to,' she quipped, giving you a sly smile.

Fair enough.

'My parents were going through a nasty divorce,' she tried to muster non-chalance, but you could see the thread of trauma in her young irises. 'Bringing me here, to the Plant Central was mom's way of making me choose her, of winning custody.'

That would make sense. Girls needed to prove that they were worthy, boys just got things. It was a supremely annoying fact of your world.

'You wanted to plink them with arrows so they'd love one another?' you guessed.

'Bulls-eye,' she made the pun.

It brought a laugh from you. 'I could've helped you—'

'You are the greatest marksperson,' she grinned.

'I try,' you shrugged.

'For the record,' she said. 'My mom is . . . was at least nice. Lesser of the two evils.'

You didn't have a good answer to that. She didn't need one either.

'But your mother is a downright bitch,' her random jab jolted you.

'Excuse me?' your eyebrows touched your hairline.

'I wasn't eavesdropping,' she said. 'I just happened to hear you on a call, and I didn't make an effort to move from the door.'

'I don't think it's any of your business,' you said, voice razor-sharp.

She raised her hands in apology, the only one you realised you'd get.

'Just sayin',' she mumbled, watching her younger brother lick the wrapper, peacefully oblivious. 'My Dad used to physically and mentally torture us—I know the difference between a good parent and a bad one. I don't know if you know—maybe you never had someone good to compare notes with.'

'For a person as young as you, you're quite the blabbermouth,' you snapped defensively.

Although, you could now see her in a new light; her desperation for a job, so she wouldn't have to return to her alive father, and where she couldn't go to her dead mother. Where she was being a responsible sister.

It made you weirdly long for a familial connection like that; and the longing immediately resolved when you understood that . . . maybe you're just looking in the wrong place for it.

Sebastian's words came back to you - when he said that your parents didn't need your loyalty . . .

She snickered at that. 'It's my one move; I'm at that cute age where I get away from stuff.'

You couldn't supress your smile even if you wanted to. You had to admit, she was reminding you of your younger version; before the diplomacy kicked in.

'You'd fit right in at the castle,' you realised.

It was only now that you could begin to see the stark difference between your pervious life and this new one; thodd old Palaces where everything was political, and this new straightforward one where "life is too short to play games with".

It was becoming clearer to you, which one your favored.

Dean wore goggles that had a flashlight; even then, he could only see about three feet out. The water was winded and harsh, every branch was slippery and the droplets seemed to be slapping his face. He was chilled to his bones despite the windshield he had donned over his night clothes that was only a pair of track pants and a black undershirt. The Druid he was traveling with was named Elder Yew, who was the personification of a Yew tree deep in the forest somewhere.

He pointed towards the right, and Dean couldn't make out any tree there; he had been blindly swinging, and only barely balancing when he did reach the other side. This was the hardest climb he'd ever made.

He set his jaw, and jumped with the rope. He went sailing across to the other end, noticing the other tree's thick bark in time to prevent his nose from flattening into his face. He hugged the tree so that his wobbly feet won't betray him.

A second later, the Elder came hurtling towards him and Dean's muted grunt went unheard in the stormy night as he stablised the other, shorter man.

This went on for a long while. Dean had been checking his watch, but it wasn't waterproof so it died quick. He couldn't tell where the sun or moon were in the sky. He didn't know how much time he was passing away from you, when this very well could end in failure.

But I have to try.

Upon the mark of forty-five minutes, they finally reached the tree where the treehouse with the storage should've been.

'Where is it?!' bellowed Dean over the raging winds. It was pointless to speak, no one would be able to hear anything over the howls of the rattling breezes, he only spoke out of habit.

The Yew was inspecting the river next to the tree they stood on; his better eyes had already spotted the broken branch the treehouse used to be on. His hand rose and a shaky finger signaled to the broken house that was merrily streaming away with the river flow, and heading for a waterfall where everything would be lost.

Dean's curses could've awed a pirate.

The sight of the river was slightly better since there weren't any leaves to obstruct anything. It was mostly open with the sky unleashing cats and dogs. Currently, the treehouse was stuck against some uneven ground, progressing very slowly towards the abrupt downstream.

Dean climbed down from the tree, the Yew followed. The water reached his thighs, and the Yew's chest. He unraveled a rope and slung it around the tall, sturdy tree, tying fast knots to make an anchor. He fastened the other end around his own lean waist. Without a word, he shouldered the Yew who yelped and clung to his muscular frame.

Then, Dean dived into the tumultous and overflowing water that had broken across the banks and was infiltrating the forest, killing the smaller shrubs and rippling with boundless superiority.

Elder Yew touched a magical spell on Dean's flashlight so it managed to glow underwater. They both held their breaths so that Dean could swim better, away from the perturbed surfaces, and in the compatitively calmer underwater. There were vortexes in the water that pulled at Dean's skin, his body ached while he tried to fight them. He could see how many things were being ripped away into the water, being smashed against the stones, and being thrown off the cliff.

He surfaced thrice for air, and to relocate the fallen house. He dodged many floating and viscious branches that could plummel his sinews and muscles, but some snagged him anyway.

At long last, he touched upon the treehouse. The friction it recieved from the banks was the only thing keeping it from cruising downwards where it would shatter into a million fragments. But as the water level rose, the house became that much more threatened.

'Go, go, go!' he yelled at the Yew who scrambled atop Dean and used the man as a handhold to stand on the house which had fallen sideways, so he was really standing on the front wall of the house.

The Yew blasted the wall and jumped inside after taking a deep breath.

Dean pulled himself up with a strain and panting, and fell on the housewall. His eyes strayed to the edge of the water, there was only ten feet between him and his doom now.

That reality motivated him to crawl to the entrance the Druid had created. His light shone inside the wrecked house where half the things had drowned. The Elder Yew was swimming frantically, diving occasionaly, and Dean could spot that he now carried a bounty bag.

Dean's mind diverted when he heard a loud clash of water. His body tensed and his eyes searched the horizon, the place where all the water was coming from.

With no small amount of horror, he saw a ten foot wave of flood was headed their way.

'HURRY!' he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The Elder Yew dived once again, surfacing with a bunch of flowers in one hand and the other hand with the bag.

Dean jumped in and grasped the desk of the treehouse. He pushed the table out the hole, then manhandled the Yew out, and lastly pulled himself up. He placed the Yew on the upside down table, and the smaller man clung to one of the wooden legs, eyes widened with fear, trained on the mounting water five feet away.

Four feet, three feet, two feet . . .

Dean adjusted himself on it as well before he threw the wooden surface into water, hoping that would surf up to the surface in somewhile, or it would at least sheild them both from harmful stray objects in the water.

There was a moment where they both were submerged completely.

Dean had bent his body around the Elder Yew to protect the little man and the ingridients. His goggles helped him pull with the rope; it dug into his palms, taut with strain. Dean's strength was tested and he let a loud agonised scream under the water as he pulled them all closer to the surface.

At some point, one of the table legs broke behind Dean's back and gifted him with a long deep scar, making him yell in pain, and making him swallow seemingly gallons of water as a result. He would have lost the grip on his rope, which would have soon snapped under pressure, had it not been for the Elder's magic.

Something about the wooden table shifted and it grew to curl around them, a faint green glow soothed Dean; they were pulled back and forth by the current for the long minute like the wagging tail of a dog, as the rope stretched and it's strands came undone

His head breached the surface; it was also when the vindictive waters smashed them into the nearest tree on the banks. Their makeshift surfboard broke but at least it had been buoyant enough to tailspin them into the nearest tree; Dean hardly had time to sling one arm around the tree's bark and other to cling to the Yew who almost got captured by the mean-spirited water.

Dean gritted his teeth, his body stretched to its limit as he bought the Yew in front of him who gratefully climbed the tree they were at.

Dean didn't even realise he had been coughing until all the water sprayed out from his burning lungs, he retched weakly, his sore arms clutching the bark, his cheek rubbing harshly to leave behind rashes. While he heaved, he climbed a few steps upwards, his limbs felt like jelly but at least then the water beating down on him painfully, reduced. His glance to the side told him that they were at the second-last tree from the ledge of the waterfall that would have killed them in the thousand foot drop.

He contemplated letting go, and just falling - which would be so easy - as the water beat down on his thighs mercilessly. But it occured to him that his job wasn't done - he needed to get the Yew back safely - he used the last of his energy to climb the tree he was at, too exhausted to feel even relief.

The Elder Yew temporarily healed his injury back on-site itself so at least he wasn't bleeding while he swung back in the pitch black; he gave Dean a single leave of the Flower to chew on: he had felt like someone had shoved acid down his gullet, but he chewed it until his wound healed and then he was ordered to spit it out. Or well, since he hadn't been able to hear what the Yew said, the Old Tree Man had to retrieve his used leave from his mouth; it had made Dean grimace in disgust. The Yew himself had gotten a branch to his kidney, but he simply waved a hand, and the wound hardened into a tree scar.

The Yew explained to him when the winds swirled down a little into vague calmness (the storm was dissipating very gradually): the Yew only had powers of a tree, which meant healing and floating, he shared why a human's presence had been necessary for the trip when Dean demanded why the man just didn't go by himself if he had all those cool powers. He'd needed the human for tree-climbing, and someone who'd be willing to keep going when the Yew got scared.

Dean's wound began to unseal again as they approached the Bunker; it was every bit as painful as the first time, only more prolonged.

'What the hell!' he moaned, his hands coming away with blood when he touched his back.

'Oh, yes,' the Yew said, contemplative, on the first step of the Bunker. 'That happens. The Flower shouldn't be swallowed raw, but without it you aren't cured.'

'How are you going to heal the others?' he demanded, his voice ruined and scratchy. Too rough for it to be okay.

'We'll make a potion,' the Yew said. 'Get bandaged, you will get it in an hour,' he confirmed. But the Yew paused, making Dean bump into his back. He turned and smiled a secretive smile on his face, 'Congratulations though,' he said. 'You did the impossible.'

He grew bashful at that. 'It's fine,' he downplayed. 'Just get the damn cure ready.'

The Yew shook his head. 'Only a resilient soulmate could do that.'

Dean watched him walk off, his mouth agape. How the hell were people figuring that out? Where were the fucking signs?

Dean had got his wound checked and changed into something that wasn't wet; the shirt he found was three sizes too large, and his pants too.

'You look like crap,' greeted Lana when he stepped into your room.

'What the hell are you still doing here?' he arched a brow at her.

She shrugged. 'Had nowhere else to be.'

He frowned at her; she made it hard to be mad at her. Slate was asleep in the armchair in the corner of the room while she sat next to your bed.

Your s/c was much too pale from your usual colour, and you were breathing shallowly. His eyes strayed to the clock on the nightstand: the green numbers told him it was seven in the morning.

It doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning.

'She passed out,' Lana said. 'I don't think she realises it; drifting in and out of conversation.'

He didn't know what to do with that.

'She wanted to be awake for you,' Lana added, getting up from the three-legged stool. She walked around your bed towards Slate and picked him up with ease. She moved to the door, facing Dean one last time.

'Just FYI,' she said. 'She was staring at the door like a kicked puppy the whole time and her heartbeat hasn't been normal once.'

His mouth parted to be a wisecrack but somehow his mouth didn't take his command right; 'Thanks,' he surprised himself.

'You saved my brother and I,' she said. 'We're even,' she smirked with an edge to her that most adults never carry. 'You better pick us at my room in a few hours. It would suck to show up at your Palace for my new job by myself.'

'Does your father know?' Dean asked. He wasn't about to take home a child like that and commit a crime.

She got a guarded look about her. 'I'm sixteen, I've decided my career, he can't interfere.'

'What about your brother?' he scowled.

'Leaders have to protect all citizens who show up at their Palace,' she invoked. 'Just consider us runaways.'

He wasn't convinced.

'Lady Y/N agreed,' the child said, challenging Dean to contradict you.

He sighed, too tired to be thinking with clarity. 'Okay,' he said, giving in. He'd debate it with you later; right now, he was just taking a win: you both were alive at the same time: a huge victory.

'Awesome!' the kid cheered, leaving the room to both of you.

Dean paced without really thinking about it. He glared at the clock in a predatory way, as if he wanted to kill Time itself, and that would save you.

According to the nurse, who came to jack up your herbs which were keeping oxygen in your body, the herbs lost their affect over a short period of time as the human body built a higher tolerance to it, an immunity—after a certain amount of dosage, it would stop working on you altogether. And the nurse said that the dose she injected you with a half an hour ago would be your last; and it would work for an hour.

He'd already flagged three Druids in the last thirty minutes; it was eight forty-five now; your literal deadline was nine-fifteen; Dean's skin was crawling and his heart was in overdrive. He had too much adrenaline to rest.

You'd woken once during his unrelenting pacing but you had been too weak to open your mouth. You'd smiled faintly, and raised your hand for him to hold, staring at him for a while before you lost consciousness again.

He hadn't been able to keep holding your hand after that; it was too firgid, it scared him.

He was about to storm out and hold another Druid by the collar on the nine o'clock mark when the door pushed in. Elder Yew came with a saline stand and a bag filled with the revolting kale-green liquid. He also had a goblet in his other hand, half-filled with the same.

'About time,' Dean gritted out. 'What took you so long?!'

But inside, the clenching in his chest was easing a great deal. It was like he was getting his lungs back.

The Yew needled you with a smile, unbothered by Dean's anger. 'She'll be just fine in a few hours, Mr Winchester.'

'I'd hope so,' he mumbled, retaking his seat at your side, his hands finding yours unconsciously. He wished for their sake that you got cured; otherwise he was already (unhealthily) imagining the ways he'd take down this place.

'There,' the Yew said, pleased with his work. 'Now your turn.'

Dean drank his potion sans complain but it did taste like feet; yet, it was better than the raw flower he ate.

He gasped when the drink worked immediately. Outside of rain, he could actually feel his injury disappearing this time. Soon, he could feel that his bandages were pressed against nothing but a scarless skin. His other smaller scratches and cuts also vanished.

'Orally, this drink works best,' Yew explained. When Dean's glance went to your I.V., he added, 'In Ms L/N's case, we didn't want to risk it not going down her foodpipe. But do consider her out of danger.'

Dean could only nod, his mind reeling. His shoulders relaxed, and he felt like melting into the ground out of sheer tiredness; there wasn't a worry to keep him up now.

'Thank you,' he addressed the man. The last few hours have been hell for him; he's just happy it's over.

'You can sleep, Mr Winchester,' he said kindly. 'You've achieved a feat beyond our beliefs.'

He didn't have the power to be away from you, so the armchair was out and he couldn't sleep on the stool. He made space on your bed and curled around your body instead, very aware of your right hand where your medicine was entering your system. He didn't need much preamble to soon be snoring.

That's the first thing you heard when you woke up. Your body was still a touch too warm but you attributed that to the man clinging to you like a koala bear to its bamboo; the clarity of your mind astounded you, you were reminded of how much you depended on your body and without its support, how weak you had truly grown. You took in a celebretory lungful of air, your smile fluttering into place.

All thanks to Dean, said a voice.

His head was on your chest, his straight hair prickling your chin slightly. His left hand and leg were thrown over you, caging you in; your left hand was numb from being still under him for too long.

You raised your other hand with the needle and carressed the side of his face, 'Dean?'

His mouth closed for a moment, swallowing; but he turned his face away from your hand and buried it deeper into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed your neck and his beard tickled your shoulder. He was like your own personal heater; your cold sweat was gone, and now your were sweating for real.

'Dean?' you tried again. 'Darling, wake up,' you said, blushing a little because you'd never used that word before today but you just thought it might be about time. 

He was your . . . you didn't even know.

A swell of emotion tided in your chest. Whoever he was to you, he set out like that for you; everytime you thought of it, more gratefulness surged in you, and you simply didn't know what to do with all that new and spare emotion.

'No,' he whined, running away from your fondling again, making you guffaw. He could be too delightful sometimes.

'Okay, can I just take my hand out then?' you offered.

He gave you wiggle room to bring it out; you also used the opportunity to roll to your side: your healed right side - you could feel not a dredge of pain any more, your saline was almost empty. The clock told you it was ten in the morning, you don't remember when you'd slept. You also don't know where the Sanderson siblings went or when Dean came in.

Dean's hold on you tightened, as if you were prohibited from going away from him. You saw the appeal of being pressed upto your man like that all over again, your bodies curving to one another so perfectly; maybe you didn't need those pillows Dean detested after all; he could be your one giant body-pillow.

You aligned your hand to his that was curled around your torso. He let his face nuzzle into your hair again, seemingly unaware that you'd woken up at all.

You couldn't explain the undisrupted happiness in your chest on feeling him alive and well. Since when did you care so freaking much about another human's well-being?

You've cared, but this was a new level.

'I was so scared when you were gone,' you murmured.

'I'll have the coffee later,' he replied indistinctly. 'Five more minutes.'

You had a feeling he wouldn't remember this when he woke up next; it made you take the chance you did.

'I believe,' you hesitated, 'this is a new thing I'm feeling,' you nervously conveyed. 'But I find no other explaination to it,' you admitted. 'Perhaps, I'm falling for you.'

There was silence and you wondered if he'd heard you. But then he snored, and you sighed in relief.

'I'll tell you again one day,' you promised.

A/N: They're progressing . . . 🙃. What'd you think of the (fl)angst 👀?

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

@bettystonewell @jollyhunter

[my-stories-vault]

Thanks for the reblog, lovely! ❤️🥰

Chapter 13 ~ The Supernatural Wars.

Pairing: English Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N

Blurb: When the residents of this Earth found out that they were but a draft in God's numerous stories, they decided to make noise in hopes that their creator would return. Nothing can be louder than the begs of the powerless, the cackles of the ruthless, or the unending destruction left in the wake of the most merciless wars any universe can ever see—here the bloodshed never ends. So, tell me how can two young soulmates, then, find love's shade of red under all this crimson gore?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, gore, violence, major and minor character deaths, thoughts of suicide (not graphic), substance abuse (alcohol and cigarettes), mentions of wars (I mean, it's in the name).

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 13: A Walk In The Flood.

Dean's eyes itched from the dust, and he couldn't see too far out into the sudden smog; it didn't help that it was pitch black out.

He'd only had enough time to scramble for the front door to shield his head when the ceiling started raining down on him. He couldn't surface until the whole structure was rubble.

His ears were ringing, suspicious of the silence. His eyes blinked, watering heavily because of the polluted air. Near him was a thick black cloud of smoke, snaking all the chemicals towards the sky; it made him cough and gag on reflex.

'Y/N?!' his voice sounded parched, and not loud enough.

His eyes tracked up towards the onyx sky, which was alive with shooting stars or meteors or . . .

'Angels,' Dean realised. 'Fuck.'

He pushed the house off of him, his terse eyes scanning the ruins of the lodge more alertly, finding you nowhere. Out of his periphery, he could spot that the illusion that hid other people was now shattered, and he could see all the other humans. His sense of hearing finally latched onto the agonised screaming and desperate shouts, and if he concentrated, he could make out the wails of the bereaved.

Thinking ahead, he grabbed the blanket that had been covering you two's bed. And he unearthed the metal bottle placed on his nightstand; by sheer luck, he also found a torch and his phone. He couldn't find a first-aid kit or a weapon, though. This would have to be enough somehow.

His chest trembled, waiting to cave in at a sight that would sear him forever.

The sky rumbled with angry thunder. His brows furrowed in confusion as sudden clouds started moving, slowly, but as if they were being shuffled around by some unseen entity—they were all corraling together so that no inch of sky was visible, and inevitably, no one could see where the next angel might fall from.

He decided to start with the most obvious place, the lodges next to yours. He shone his flickering torchlight in all directions, taking your name.

'Help!' rasped a new voice when he hadn't gone much farther.

Dean was detoured towards the voice. His searching, wild eyes found a six-year-old kneeling next to a pile of plaster, tugging on a dead hand, the human having been crushed under the fallen ceiling.

'Hey, kid,' he tried to be soothing.

'My mom—' he sobbed, unable to finish.

Dean's jaw clenched, and he had to swallow past his lump. He crouched next to him. 'Are you alone?'

The child's eyes locked with his, crazed with anxiety and foreboding. He couldn't speak a word, but he shook his head, tears wading down his dust-speckled cheeks.

'Where's the rest of your family?' Dean asked.

The child's head turned to the forest, eyes haunted as he searched for nothing visible to him. And then he looked down back to the cold hand he was clutching against his chest.

He croaked. 'My sister—' he stared fearfully at the forest again.

The child had had two options, the open stormy sky or the forest, and he must have been scared of the great forest.

But it was dangerous out here.

You'd shown him a documentary on Heaven and Hell by some prophet named Kevin Tran, and if it was right, then the angels would be falling from the sky all night, incinerating all that clashed with them. The storm was new but one fucking disaster at a time.

'Alright, buddy,' Dean said, grasping the lad's shoulder. 'I'm going to help you find your sister, okay?'

'My Mom—!'

Another angel soared over their heads and snapped the first tree of the forest in sight in half. Dean used his body to shield the child; the heat from the explosion licked down his spine, and his whole body warmed as if he had been standing under the radioactive sun all day.

'We'll come back for her!' Dean assured him, over the noise. He checked the hand for the faint chance of a pulse though, disheartened when he found none.

'C'mon!' he ordered, gripping the child's shoulder, gentle but firm, and leading him into the trees. He decided the trees were worth searching for you, too; if you were conscious, that's where you'd have run to for shelter, or you could've been thrown there . . .

He had rolled the blanket around his arm socket as if it were a hose he was carrying, and he asked the boy to call for his sister while Dean did the same for you. The boy had opted to cling to Dean's hand, much to his surprise.

'Lana!' the child tore from Dean's side and rushed to a prone form on the floor. Dean's longer strides caught up with the kid, and he crouched next to the teenager. The age difference between the siblings seemed to be around ten years. The girl will be memorable to Dean for her long hair: they came to her knees in two plaits; at first, Dean had thought that they were snakes surrounding her.

'She's alive,' Dean delivered, two fingers on Lana's erratic pulse. He shook Lana, who stayed unresponsive. He sprinkled a few drops of water on the girl's face.

Lana grimaced awake.

'Slate,' groaned she, recognizing her little brother. 'Where's Mom?'

Slate stared up at Dean, helpless. Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head dully for Lana's understanding. Lana's face contorted with devastation and tears pressed into her eyes.

'I'm sorry,' was all Dean could offer.

The young woman choked back a gasp, the noise stifling in her throat when her brother climbed to her side and started crying again, just because he saw her in pain.

She hid his face in her chest. 'It's okay,' her own maternal instincts kicked in for her kid brother. 'We're okay.'

Dean wasn't even sure the child, Slate, understood what exactly had happened to their mother. And the girl, Lana, was barely holding onto any form of composure. His heart broke for them.

'I need to get him to safety,' Lana demanded, clucthing her brother possessively. Her eyes turned sharp and met Dean's with challenge and determination.

'I can help you,' Dean replied, solemn. 'The Druids have got a bunker down west for emergencies.'

She nodded, standing up, and slinging a tight arm around her little brother.

'Let's go.'

'I need to find my . . . friend first,' he said. Just the word "friend" tasted wrong in his mouth.

'Are they a hunter?' the girl quirked a brow. 'Can't they take care of themselves?'

'I just need to check on her,' Dean responded.

'Dude, if she's an adult, she can take care of herself,' the surly teen snapped. 'Or she's dead. Either way, she doesn't need you.' Her features were riven with anger and agony. 

'Or she's hurt,' Dean said alternatively.

'Mister, listen—'

'No, you listen,' he adopted an edge of scolding. 'I'm going to take you to safety, but you better pipe that attitude down.' He was about to leave no one behind.

Her tiny face hardened, but she obviously had no choice. Dean ushered them deeper through the forest.

Your heartbeat was unusual. Your thinking was surrounded by nothing but pain; pain that radiated from your upper right side, where your right lung should be. You were standing very still, knowing movement could hurt you more than help, but your knees were protesting because they were bent as if you were sitting down on an invisible chair, your hands on your knees.

All you wanted to do was slide down, but you could sense a roughly circular object that had nailed your right lung to the tree - you thought it was a broken branch, about two inches. You were vaguely aware of the warm blood trailing down in rivulets inside and outside of your night shirt; the crimson was pooling and soaking into your sleep shorts.

But the worst sensation was the itching, for some reason, the place where the tree had pierced you felt like it was a red-hot iron poker covered in itch powder used for pranks and not a cold branch on what quickly seemed to be a stormy night.

Your face and body were extremely rigid. Earlier, when you'd awoken to a world of pain, you'd quickly deduced that groaning or crying out in pain only made the pain in your lungs worse. Your options were an occasional whimper and tears steadily streaming down your face. Other than that, you feared twitching a single muscle lest it make the pain unbearable.

You tried to count the fallen leaves on the floor; you would rather spend your minutes awake in pain and aware of your fate than be unconscious and clueless. Helplessness was intolerable, unlike a physical ailment like this.

You could also detach yourself from the branch, but it posed the risk of the darkness towing you under. Plus, it would bleed more, and you would have no means to stem the flow.

You concentrated on your other fears— the lightning was cackling in the sky. It made you want to crawl underground after digging a hole with your bare fingers and never resurface.

'Y/N!' Dean's gravely baritone jolted your brain into excitement again. 'Are you here?'

Earlier, you'd heard his voice (minutes after you'd been volleyed from the lodge into the trees in quite a straight line) and you'd hoped he would come straight for you. Instead, his calls had drifted off in another direction, and you regretted not yelling back. This time, you wouldn't make the same mistake, even if it hurts like - to quote Dean sometimes - a son of a bitch.

'Dean!' It was a half-yell, and a half-cry of shock. 

Your entire body complained against that move, even brought claret to your throat for your efforts. You coughed it out, spitting it out to the side. It fell atop the roots of the tree you stood against. To your horror, the blood sizzled after a few seconds of contact.

You were once again brought to the present by Dean's shouting. He seemingly hadn't heard you.

A sob built in your throat, mostly out of anger and frustration. But you grit your teeth - you're not dying like this.

'Dean!' 

Your screech was long.

This time, you only had time to turn your head to the side before you vomitted more blood. Your ears were ringing, and your eyes were leaking more. You rubbed your mouth against your left shoulder.

'Please stop hurting,' your breath hitched as you fruitlessly begged your body. 'Stop hurting, stop hurting, stop hurting.'

Your organs were as stubborn as you; they refused to listen, snapping their pain to the brain through your writhing nerves. It built more cries in your chest, making you want to bawl like a baby. But you bit your lip and closed your eyes, letting the salt in your eyes free-flow down your cheeks and neck where it met the blood and sweat.

Dean called your name again, much closer. He was the only thing keeping you grounded, yet you hated him for making your scream over and over again - that's it, you decided, I'm adding red flares to my pile of sleep weapons.

Currently, you have a sliver-iron switchblade, a double-edged knife, in your pocket, and the Colt. Dean liked to keep his weapons under the pillow because he thought it granted easier access that way, but you deserved points for this one.

'Just scream for me one more time, darlin'!' his voice pleaded, apologetic at the same time as if he understood your silences just as well as your screams.

You gritted at him, filling your lungs with unwanted air, and knowing it'd be too much to handle already.

Dean'll save me, assured your logic. Yes, you won't be helpless with Dean.

'DEAN!'

It was blood-curdling, followed by thunder as if it was fucking competing against you.

You only registered as much before your eyes rolled into your head.

It felt like it had been a minute. You thought you were unconscious, but then why would your body be feeling like it's decomposing?

You wishfully hoped for a long second that this is all just a bad dream and you were still in bed with Dean, but that delirious thinking was dispelled when Dean's voice called for you; this time the closest, and saturated with relief—before you heard him curse.

You heard the sound of cloth ripping, but your eyelids were too heavy to lift anymore.

Your skin was too hot—where was all the fucking sweat coming from? And the metallic taste of your RBCs graced your tongue and nose, it made you want to cringe, but your brain refused to trust your judgments about reactions after you made your body make that last sound.

Your face jerked to life when two hands lifted your head, but their texture was all wrong.

The callouses you'd become accustomed to in Dean's hands were missing, and it lacked warmth of his skin. Even though the touch was as gentle as his.

Your eyes peered up at a masked man, his lower face covered with white cloth. You would have flinched and tried to get away from the touch if you hadn't noticed the forest greens. The thunder whipped the sky and lit his orbs with golden specks. Those were the same eyes you'd spent hours memorizing; even in your half-dead state, you knew them.

Belatedly, you realised that he was tying a similar cloth around your face. You arched your brow at him, unable to utter an actual sound.

'The tree is Manchineel,' he explained.

You shook your head. 'Only in America,' you mumbled. You didn't know the tree specifics like how to recognize them, but you know where most of them grew and what they could do.

His eyes seemed to harden, 'The Druids have magic, they grow all trees here and enhance their capacities. This one's used to line their perimeter to kill their enemies.'

Okay, made sense why your back was feeling inflamed and why it felt like someone was evaporating your organs, starting with your right lung—the Manchineel tree is the deadliest, one of the most toxic trees known to mankind.

You have been poisoned.

You scoffed weakly. 'Should've taken that tree course at Treexcel, huh?'

Europe offered far more detailed courses on trees than any other Continent; just like your once tree skills, your tree knowledge lacked.

He didn't answer to that, eyes focused. His hands were wrapped in a similar cloth as his face, tied with . . . were those rubber bands?

'I'm going to have to pull you out,' Dean warned. 'We need to stop your exposure to its toxicity.'

You nodded, dazed at simply the idea.

'Hold my shoulders,' he instructed. He came down to hover above you, putting his hands on your back, below and above your point of injury. You heeded his advice, filled with trepidation.

He must've moved you an inch forward when you whimpered pathetically. The irritated skin around your wound made it feel like you were rubbing salted sandpaper on it.

Dean froze, but he couldn't stop much longer. Maybe this will have to be like ripping off a bandage, but then if he was too fast and if a piece of the tree snapped and entered your bloodstream, you'd be much worse off.

'Do you trust me?' he quietly asked.

You nodded feebly. 'Please help,' you gritted back a sob. 'It hurts.'

Your tear-stricken face felt like someone was boxing his heart with knives.

'I'm not going to let anything happen to you,' he affirmed. 'D'you understand me?'

You nodded, inhaling a shaky gasp. 'Make it stop.'

'Soon,' he promised.

He leaned to kiss the tears on your cheeks (besides the shape of his lips, you only felt the cloth that wiped your tears). Though, it lured your mind away from the pain and towards the intimacy of his gestures.

'Hold on,' he requested.

He started tugging you out again. His whole body tensed, and his jaw clenched as the trees echoed your horrible scream; he'd remember it.

By the time he'd gotten you off the branch, your knees had buckled under your weight and the redness oozing from your strengthened. You slumped into his arms, and it's with effort that he hefted you up in a cradle-carry.

He brought you back to the safer tree zones where Lana and Slate had been witnessing the whole thing.

Dean released his hand from the torn blanket and handed back Lana her scrunchies; without them, she looked the definition of a ghost whose hair flew with the wind.

Dean used water to wash your wound so the effects of the poison would slow down. He tore a few more clean portions of the long blanket and placed one of them, balled up, as a packing against your wound to stop the blood, and tied a longer piece over your left shoulder and under your right arm. Lastly, he made a thin and sturdy sling to put your right hand in.

He was dripping water past your lips when you stirred again.

'The winds are picking up,' Lana said nervously. She was hugging her brother so his face was in her abdomen, and she didn't want the child to see any of the gore.

Dean had felt it; the dead leaves had started swirling in small rotations, making and breaking mini tornadoes. He realised that it was going to be one of the worst storms that hit the world.

He needed to get you to the bunker.

'There are people out there,' you said, eyes hazy and tired, head swimming in shock and body rejecting coherence.

'Let me get you to safety first,' he replied, lifting you once more in his embrace.

'The fuck are you talking about?' Dean growled.

He felt aggressive enough to grab the doctor by the collar and bang her head against the wall—he fisted his hands instead, allowing his nails to draw blood from his palms.

The four feet tall Druid was old and experienced. She eyed him with wariness but kept her voice levelled with a clinical tone.

She repeated her words in a simpler format. 'Mr Winchester, Ms L/N has suffered from severe poisoning; her right lung has completely necrosed, and her left lung as well as her heart are slowly dying. We've given her the antidote, but it doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning for the medicine to take full effect.'

She let that sink in.

Dean shook his head adamantly. 'Fuck that, okay? You're the mystical creature. Lay your mojo on her! Give her a voodoo cocktail!'

'Our magic has limits. If she'd been brought in earlier, we may have been able to reverse the necrosis or at least stop its spread . . . .'

Dean was late. The throb in his arms and legs became more prominnet, telling him that he did run with you in his arms for three miles, making it back in twenty-five minutes instead of the usual hour it would've taken; but his mind rejected that argument, demanding for his heart to sink into his stomach where the unbearable guilt churned. His face was blank, his muscles didn't know how to react anymore.

The doctor let some sympathy bleed into her manner. 'We've gave her several litres of blood, hoping a full blood swap would reverse the poisoning, but it didn't work. We've put her on a magical potion that'll act as a ventilator and pump her with oxygen, but that'll only last so long. We're sorry—'

'Don't be fucking sorry!' he roared. The people in the hallway paused; Dean and the Druid were standing right outside your room, which was located on the uppermost floor of the underground bunker that went numerous floors deeper; Dean had literally put you in the first bed he could find. 'Show me some fucking results! Go in there and heal her!'

She shook her head persistently. 'You're welcome to see her, if you'd like.' And she walked away.

'Come on! Come on!' Dean kept mumbling as he dialled someone, pacing the length of your room.

You could only assume that he was told what the petite doctor told you: your death sentence. And in a very Dean-ish manner, he refused to give up on you, yet you couldn't imagine what solution he'd come up with to save the day. 

'Cell phone towers are down,' you gently told him, cringing at how raspy your voice was.

'Told the Druids to save one tower with their magic,' he off-handedly said, putting the phone to his ear again. 

'Who are you calling?'

'Jack,' he said while having a staring match with the wall. 'He must have a connection, I think. Got to, right? Magic and all.'

Before you could answer, he hung up. 'Dammit, pick up!' he gritted to himself and re-dailled the number. 

'Dean?'

'Yeah?' But he wouldn't look up. 

You decided to unclench your jaw and utter a guttural groan (wasn't hard considering you'd been holding it back for his sake) that drew his attention to you. He rushed to your bedside, putting his phone away and his frantic hands traced the air an inch above your body as if he was afraid to touch you. 

'What's wrong?' he asked with note of panic. 'How can I help?'

'It hurts,' you breathily gasped. 

'I know, I know,' he licked his bottom lip, his hand finally graced your slick hair, and he soothingly stroked you. 'I can get you those piankillers.'

You shook your head. You wanted to be awake for the rest of your life, you wouldn't let painkillers conk you out for whatever hours you have left. 

You purposely mouthed something so he would have to lean in, and you could swipe his phone from his pocket.

'Could you repeat that, darling?'

You mouthed again. 

'I'm sorry,' he leaned in further so his ear was over your lips. 'One more time?'

'I'm sorry,' you whispered properly this time, and flung out your arm on your injured side.

The phone shattered against the wall with moderate precision, and you groaned loudly in pain, panting from your effort while Dean was dumbfounded for a solid fifteen seconds. 

'What the—What the fuck did you just do?' he straightened, staring at you like you'd grown a green skin. 

'You can't call Jack,' you said. 

'Why the fuck not?' he glared at you incredously. 

'There's a reason why he's shut off prayers from the human faction, Dean,' you explained what he already knew. 'Too many humans die every year. He can't keep healing all of them.'

'Well, you're different!' he said. 'You're a Leader.'

You didn't even make the "I-am-a-Temp" argument - as history had it, Dean tended to go ballistic whenever you brought up your non-tenure. 

'What example would I be setting if I healed and the hundreds here died?' you patiently said. 

'So this is about your reputation?'

Dean's anger had melted into pure icy hatred. You'd sidestepped a landmine to walk onto another. 

Having a great day here, thanks for asking, you sarcastically thought.

You sighed. 'I know you don't care about my reputation or—' 

'You're right, I don't,' Dean snapped. 'I'm not going to argue with you about the goddamn media while you're on your deathbed.' He rounded the said bed, 'I'm going to borrow a phone and then I'm calling Jack,' he said with a full stop. 

Except, 'What was Jack's phone number again?'

Dean froze midway to the door. Your phones had everyone's numbers - yours was lost, you broke Dean's.

'Oh, right,' you said. 'I remember and you don't.'

You remembered your family's, the Leaders' and your team's phone numbers, along with a few very resourceful Governors'. And Dean knew you'd remembered it all because he often teased you about it.

You resisted the urge to grin like a Cheshire cat—you did enjoy riling the man up. 

His chin fell to his chest in defeat. He turned sharply with thinly veiled rage. 'Give me the phone number, Y/N.'

'Nope,' you popped the p.

If you weren't dying, he would've strangled you.

'I won't ask you again, Y/N,' he said with dangerous stillness in his tone. 

Even pale and sickly, you narrowed your eyes. 'Then you won't have to hear "no" again.'

'Do you want to die!?' he burst out. 'Do you want to die?'

'No—'

'Because from where I'm standing it looks like you've given up!'

This situation seriously sucked and you were seriously done. 'Then grab a chair,' your lip curled into a sneer. 'And fucking look again.' You cleared your throat when the scratchiness got too much.

'Don't be a fucking child, alright?' Dean tried again. 'Just gimme the fucking number, or I swear on the Universe—'

'You'll do what?' you scoffed. 'What we're having is a battle of stubborness—I can be stubborn. I can do this all my life - literally!'

He deflated with an expression of betrayal; he wiped a hand down his face but the look wouldn't go - you had to avert your gaze because that look stung.

Dean sat beside you again, taking your hand in his, prompting you to look back up. Your eyes were shining with brand-new tears, and you were shocked to find . . . so were his.

'I'll take the blame,' Dean said. 'We'll tell them you were unconscious and I called Jack. I don't care about my reputation. Please just give me—'

'Dean,' you sighed. 'This isn't just about your reputation or mine,' you retrieved your hand. 'See to reason, you'd be staking Jack's life.'

He blinked as if it hadn't occured to him. If he'd only let you finish earlier: you would've given him the real reason why Jack was a bad idea.

'I-I don't—'

'Closing of Heaven Gates bars angels from Heaven,' you said. 'The archangels and the angels stationed on Earth remain unaffected.'

'Thus, the storm,' Dean's shoulders slumped. 'Micheal and Lucifer are up there, creating the storm because whoever shut the Gates, pissed them off.'

'Yep. And, as you know, Jack's tuned the angel radio off,' you said. 'And made Australia a dome so he wouldn't ever be kidnapped by his own damn father—'

'And the storm's across the world,' Dean completed. 'Like the Druids said. He flies and he'll be on their radar. He'll be—'

'Captured,' you finished.

Dean fell into a silence that was too depressive for your tastes.

'He probably shut his phone off,' you said, nodding like you did during small talk.

'I-I need some air,' and he left like the room was on fire.

'You're poisoned?' Selina skrieked over the phone.

'It's okay, they've given me the antidote,' you answered casually, even if your voice was unhealthily low.

You squeezed Dean's hand, wishing he would snap out of his daze; he hadn't spoken a word since he re-entered the room and dragged a chair next to your bed. You took his hand, trying to get him to talk; but he'd picked a point on the wall and was staring at it, in shock and probably denial.

All he did do, was give you the phone. You think he did so you could say your goodbyes - though, if you were being honest, you would rather not distract anyone with sad goodbyes - they can grieve you when people are better.

'That's good. When are they doing the surgery?'

'The what?'

'They'd have to remove the dead tissue in your lungs,' Selina said. 'Before it spreads.'

You were regretting calling your team medic for this. You should've called Boa, at least he wouldn't ask too many questions, or figure out your ill-concealed lie about your healing process.

You'd only even thought about contacting the Palace because one, Dean wasn't in a condition to. And two, you wanted to see how things were running there; your pager had been blowing up and there wasn't a thing you could do about it.

The world was ensued in a single, largest thunderstorm the planet had ever seen. If the Druids hadn't offered you a bit of magic, you could've never called - most of the towers (those unprotected by magic) and all the transportation was down.

You sighed through your nose. 'Selina,' you said, using her name to make sure she knew the weight behind your words, 'I suppose I'm saying that you'll need a new Maid Of Honour.'

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a single tear track down Dean's cheek. His eyes were red-rimmed and his glare had sharpened, his face had stilled into the statue of a tortured man.

So he was listening.

You didn't have the slightest idea of how you'd console him after you hung up with her. You felt the most useless you had in the entirety of your life, and you'd been made to feel useless plenty.

'If that's a joke, you're not fucking funny.'

You closed your eyes, exhausted from all the talking. Your breathing was too shallow for you to be wasting it on so many words.

'My lungs have given up,' you informed her.

'There's always a cure!' she defied. 'I-I mean, Sal had . . . I remember. . . He would go on about . . . His research might have something!'

Dean's face flickered with hope for the first time, his body twitched to life.

'You think?' you asked, sceptical of that plan.

Sal hadn't exactly proven to be trustworthy. He's the one who got Jessica killed . . . At the same time, his research had saved plenty of lives back in the day.

'Call me in an hour,' demanded Selina.

She was gone before you could get a word in edgewise.

'Do you think she's right?' Dean wondered, his voice thickened to the point of suffocation.

You nodded, albiet hesitantly. 'Ms Doll goofs about medicine almost never.'

'Geez, sound less confident.'

'I'm just worried that the solution might not be available to us,' you stated practically. 'I don't want—' you shook your head. Telling Dean that he wasn't in a position to handle hope might only aggravate him.

'What?' he pried.

'I guess I'm sorry,' you said, changing the topic.

'Why?'

'Our date was going well until I impaled myself on a poisonous tree,' you said with bemusement.

You traced his knuckles with a featherlight touch, hoping you could improve his mood somehow . . .

'I should've gotten you here sooner,' he blurted, tense all over.

That's all he could think about. Besides all the people he'd lost . . . Of all the people he'd failed to save: Cole, Mary, John, Jessica - these were ones he remembered. And now, you.

'Excuse me?' It hadn't even occured to you that Dean might be blaming himself because it simply wasn't his fault.

His hand retreated from yours to run down his face; his blank mask went with his hand and naked remorse stared back at you. He looked at you as if he'd been the one to take the branch and shove it into your lung; like a accidental murderer staring at their victim.

'This is not on you,' you said before he could explain.

'I couldn't protect you,' he refuted a dissolvent for his misery. 'And I brought you here.'

It struck a chord in you. For the first time since this shit happened, you were able tocompare your situation to the one where John and Mary had died . . . Or the one where Jessica had passed away. At 10.23 p.m., you could still hear the time of death.

'Oh, darlin', come here,' you shifted to the edge of your bed, patting the space you left for him.

He frowned, 'I don't want to hurt you more—'

Your frowned at him. 'You can join me, or I can climb out to you.'

Dean was familiar with the tenacious twinkle of your eye. He went with the option acceptable to him and perched on the edge of your bed, not touching a single part of you. You pulled him by his shoulder - well, you kept your hand on him, and he went because your strength was a joke right now.

You manuvered him till he was backed into your pillows, to your left, and then you curled into his side into the cuddle of your bet.

'Y/N,' he said in protest.

You firmly brought his hand around your waist, taking his other hand to have you circled. His hold on you was still fragile though; you glanced up at him in annoyance - only to be met with teary eyes.

'I'm trying to show you that it's not your fault,' you desperately said. You wished you could shout it from the rooftops if that'd get into his head, but you were keeping your voice low and your breaths shallow to save oxygen.

He rolled his eyes, looking away.

'Why would I let you close to me if I thought you had hurt me?' you persisted. 'I'd want you gone, if you had,' you said.

'I should go,' he said.

You let out a sound of frustration, and cuffed him on the head. Surprise made his head turn to you.

'You took that from what I said?' you scoffed. 'Are you a born idiot, or did you lose your mind in that?' you gestured to the ceiling where the thunder constantly boomed; you'd probably be hiding under the blanket if Dean wasn't here.

Dean's chest arched inwards, as if trying to cave on him. There weren't words he could use to explain how he'd witnessed two men he'd admired the most in the world, lose their soulmates, in front of him, and how he'd seen them . . . give up.

Mary had died first, and so had Jess. He couldn't imagine a worst pain in the world than what he'd seen in John's and Sam's eyes and now, he was about to experience it in a few hours' time. So, yes, he might be losing his mind.

All those sentences crowded in his throat and they died on his tongue.

'Dean, if it had been your fault, the other eleven people you saved wouldn't have lived!' you pointed out. While he was taking you to the Bunker, he'd adopted eleven more persons on the way.

'Don't do this,' he said. He doesn't deserve to be consoled. Especially when you were his . . . he couldn't think it, if he thought the word in corelation to you, he'd break.

'Then see some sense,' you offered. 'You put out all warrior Druids to harbring the rest of the survivors—you saved so many lives.'

He only did that so he'd be nullified of his responsibilities and then he could fret over you. A plan you crushed along with his phone.

'I'm so proud of you,' you said with a soft smile.

He had to blink his tears back, but his arms finally tightened around your torso. He lifted you carefully and placed you between his legs so you could easily sleep on him, instead of leaning into his side.

You smiled faintly, turning your head to drop a kiss over his heart, and sigh as you let him envelope you completely. You remained unaware of half the crap Dean was thinking . . . And unless Selina pulled though, he'd never be able to tell you all of it.

At least she'll go happy . . . His breaths scratched his neck as if the oxygen wanted to stop interacting with his windpipe as soon as you were gone - as if you were the element that made this world breathable.

'I see the appeal of cuddling you,' you broke his train of thought. Your fingers curled fingers into his chest and closed your eyes with a sigh. 'I'm never felt more comfortable. Or safe.'

'Too bad I kept losing the bet, huh?' he said, too low, so his voice wouldn't break.

You hummed. 'Too bad,' you smiled wider, looking up. 'I'd've enjoyed the privilege of sleeping in the arms of the strongest man more.'

'I'm not nearly as strong as you think,' he broke it to you, along with a tiny break in his voice.

'Well, that doesn't look very friendly,' said a new voice that made you jump, Dean's hands protectively pulled you closer before they relaxed.

'What the hell?' he said. 'This is a private room. Get out!'

Your eyes drifted to the young girl in the door. You vaguely remembered her from her hair, that were now tied into a single long plait which come over her shoulder down to her knees.

'Relax, old man,' she said. 'I just came sto see her.'

You were stuck between calling her out on her audacity, and being fakely polite as you were used to with strangers.

'What would you want from me?' you decided to say.

'You're Dean Winchester,' she crossed her arms. 'Knew I recognised you from somewhere.'

'Good on you. Now, get out.'

'And you're Leader Y/N L/N,' she continued, turning to you. 'I don't trust your celebrity memory, but still - do you remember me?'

You exchanged a look with Dean; he stayed where he was, no point in moving now that she'd already seen you two.

Without the earlier bluriness in your eyesight, you got the feeling that you had seen this child somewhere. If you assessed her features right, and if you were thinking her age correctly . . .

'Lana Sanderson,' you recalled. 'Aren't you the one from the Survivalist Camp who said you wanted to be Cupid for a career path?'

She raised her chin defiantly. 'That's right; color me impressed. Just FYI, I've changed my mind. I want to work for you now.'

You pursed your lips. 'That's a generous offer, I'm sure,' you flattered, 'but however do you think you'll be of use?'

'A botanist. I'm good with plants,' she responded, stepping closer to your bed. 'It's why our mother brought us to this place. For me,' her voice wobbled. 'And now she's . . . .'

You caught on. There was an emotion in her that you'd noted in Dean these past few minutes.

You tried to answer her diplomatically, sensitive of her loss: 'My condolences, dear. But I'm afraid this is a bad time for us—'

She just took a deep breath and marched on though. 'The Purgatory Flower will cure you. The Druids have it here.'

Your forehead creased. 'Have you heard of it, De—Mr Winchester?' you cleared your throat. You didn't know how to conduct your discussion with him when he held you at such an intimate position in front of a complete stranger.

'I can keep your secret,' she waved a hand, almost reading your mind. 'Even if you don't give me a job - because I will have earned that on my merit,' she said, confidently.

But Dean was already distracted. 'We should call Selina,' he said, grabbing your phone from you.

She offered more information to make it concrete: 'I don't know if this other person knows; the Purgatory Flowers are rare. They grow in, surprise-surprise, Purgatory; the good monster souls in there, which are extremely infrequent, come back as the flowers when killed. They are such a unique growth that one flower can cure a hundred. The Druids have some in stock - as of recently, when one of the younger Universe Travellers decided to give Purgatory a shot and returned with his discovery.'

Dean chatted with Selina for the next few minutes and relayed every little detail the little child mentioned.

'Then, that's it!' Selina said, gleefully. 'I've never heard of the plant being practically used, and I didn't think either of you would have access to Purgatory, but that flower is known to have magical properties!'

Dean scowled at the phone. 'Then why would the Druids lie to us?'

The Three Elders of the Druids and the Doctor who treated you crowded your room. Dean stood beside your bed along with Lana, who was just trying to become a wallflower at that point.

'As the ones who rent out this establishment,' the meek and middle Elder said, 'it was our duty to send out recruiting forces, Mr Winchester, to bring them to the Bunker. We cannot ask of our people to risk their own lives for someone who's already inside.'

You suppose you could understand that. While you nodded though, Dean bristled.

'You're fucking kidding me, right?' he barked, his glare deadly.

Even you were intimidated slightly. You latched onto his wrist, as if that would hold back this bulky man.

'We are sorry for the losses,' the Doctor said, stressed. 'But it's not our right to swap a life for a life.'

'And what do you think I'm here for?! I'm a hunter, your fucking Leader,' he returned. 'You're frigging morons if you think I'd have preferred to sit back and watch people lose their lives!'

'It's flooding outside, Mr Winchester,' said the squeaky Leader to the right.

'Then we go by the trees,' he affirmed.

'The Flowers are locked in a special locker that only opens by our retinal scan,' the third and the youngest Leader said. 'I would go if you're ready to.'

The Druids protested but the younger one waived their concern off, his face grim but set. 'Druids are capable of sacrifice as humans are. I'm ready if you are.'

'Can't we wait till the morning?' you interjected. 'After the storm recedes?'

'What are you doing?' Dean snapped at you.

'It just feels like a suicide mission!' you hissed at him.

'You don't have all night,' he countered.

'Very well,' the bravest Druid said. I'll meet you at the door in ten minutes, Mr Winchester.'

Dean came to see you one last time after he'd laid himself with weapons and other essentials; Lana took a hint and announced for a coffee, leaving you alone with him.

He leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, resuming his seat at the edge of your bed. He ran a hand down your head, ending up cupping your cheek.

'Stay alive for me, will you?' he said.

'Look, I know you're a hunter,' you began, 'and you have a right to choose the hunts, but this feels impossible!'

'Thought you thought I was the strongest man in the world,' he teased you lightly.

'You're not going up against a monster,' you reminded him. 'It's a full-blown storm.'

'Weapons of angels, as you'd once put it.'

'Stop acting like it's a walk in the fucking park,' you reprimanded. 'You're taking a walk in the flood!'

'What else do you want me to do, Y/N?' he scoffed. 'There's no other solution.'

'Dean, you don't have to do this for me,' you tried to persuade him, 'if you are. I don't want to swap my life for someone else's.'

He looked at you as if you were crazy. 'Did you think I was lying the other day?'

It felt so long ago when he told you he'd be willing to risk his life for you.

You frowned at him. 'You're a nice guy, Dean,' you tried another angle. 'While it was soothing to hear the depths of your care, you are allowed to break your word.'

'Would you?' he asked suddenly; it wouldn't change his decision, but he wanted to know if you said it for the sake of it.

You genuinely gave it a thought, and found no trace of a lie in your promise. You shook your head at him in answer.

'I'm just worried about you,' you bit your lip.

It wasn't Dean's mistake that you got hurt, but he was heading out into a storm, for you. You won't ever be void of guilt if he lost his own life while trying to save yours.

He swiped a thumb over your jaw, tipping your head back to lay another lingering kiss to your forehead. You sighed, clucthing his elbow, wishing he wasn't leaving you alone.

'I'll be back,' he whispered. 'And I'll be fine as long as you are. Just don't give up on me, okay?'

'Never.' You implored him, 'Be careful, please.'

Your heart was like an anxious bowling ball that was trying to break the pins of your ribcage. You lay on your pain-free side, staring at the door Dean left from. You were overthinking way too much to sleep like the little Druid Doctor had adviced you to.

In a split moment of concflict, you dialled a number from your memory.

She picked up on the fifth ring, and you were relieved that it was her.

'Hello, Mother,' you said, placing the phone on speaker because your fingers were too brittle to hold anything.

'Oh,' she said, in somewhat surprise. 'It's you. It didn't have a Caller ID, I was just so surprised a phone was working.'

You tried not to read too much into that.

'Do you have a good reason for calling?'

Except paralysing fear, nothing much. You had tried to hide it in front of Dean, and it was much too easy to focus on his plight than yours; but you were terrified of what could happen.

This is not the literal hill you'd want to die on.

'I'm . . . kinda dying,' you said, rigid and awkward. You would've called your brother if you could, but you didn't want to worry the man.

'Unfortunate,' she sighed. 'But you're just one of many,' she continued. 'You're not famed yet, Y/N, why should one find a loss in losing you?'

Perhaps you'd been expecting a more motherly reaction from her; maybe a gasp - what would you not give for a fucking gasp . . . But why didn't you expect this?

You let not the sting in your eyes drop across your cheeks.

'I-I never thought of it that way,' you said timidly.

'Honey, you should stop spending your time and mine in a wasteful call like this. I'd've been happier if you worked. You have a cell phone connection - miraculously - put it to good use.'

'Y-Yes, ma'am,' you said.

Why was this cutting you deeper than literally all the other similar conversations you'd had with her in your whole life.

'There's my good girl.' She changed the topic, 'Is Dean around?'

For the first time, that question angered you, coming from her.

'He's gone to bring me a cure,' your features twisted with pain and fury.

'Ah, always the busy bee. It's too bad he focuses his energies the wrong way; he'd be much happier if he didn't correct others' mistake,' she said, subtly hinting that you weren't doing enough, and that it was your own fault for not being good enough. Your shoulders slumped inwards and you brought the blanket closer to your chest.

Thunder cackled more, laughing at your foolishness.

'Even your Dad and brother are working,' she continued. 'Tough times - with the gates closed.'

'Are you okay?' you asked tentatively. 'I'm worried about you too.'

'Except for the bad mood, and, as you children say, shitton of work? Good.'

Your lips quivered, and you forced your voice to stablaise. 'Good. Is . . . Can I talk to Dad?'

You hoped that that conversation might go better. You'd be remiss if you died before you could hear both of their voices - the people to whom you'd dedicated your entire life to.

'I just said he's working, Y/N,' she said impatiently. 'Not everyone has the luxury of being bedridden and using cell phones,' she laughed as if she was making an intelligent point. 'You always had a special gift of weasling out.'

That felt like a rubber band snapping back into your heart which stuttered on her words.

'I've never weaseled out of work,' you suddenly said. She'd said that millions of times, and all those times, you'd managed to laugh - but somehow, this time, you couldn't let it go.

'Lighten up, dear,' she chided. 'I just said I was in a bad mood! Your sensitivity has always been your flaw.'

Your fuse short-circuited.

In the past few months, you hadn't talked to your parents; maybe that's what changed - her comment startled you. You were being too sensitive? How could she even imply that when you hadn't shown a single emotion to the outside world before it?

Did your mother even know you at all?

'Anyhow, I shall get back to work,' she said, casually, 'I do hope for your sake that you make it. What a shame it would be to our family if you died without making a good reputation.'

You didn't have to end the call.

You simply stared at the silent phone with the most loathing you'd ever given to anything. Your heart felt shattered in it's place, and its shards were slicing you on the inside. You had to run your hand over your face to stave off the tears.

What the hell was wrong with you? This shouldn't be bothersome. You should have expected this. Why did you hope for something better? Why did you hope that she might have changed too, as you had?

You didn't have the energy or the state of mind to call your father separately, or your brother or your sister-in-law.

Your brain was computing some facts that were somehow mind-blowing to you—your own family didn't care if you survived but Dean, a person who had no previous relation to you, was endangering himself to save you?

It was as if your brain was rebooting because of this.

You didn't hear the knock or see the child peeking in until a young boy came up to you and extended a blueberry muffin.

You stared at him like he was an alien until a taller figure came up behind him, placing her palms on his shoulders, a grimacing smile on her face.

'Slate, this is the Mr Winchester's girlfriend.'

Your face jerked in shock and you had to sit upright with some effort. 'Girlfriend?'

'Oh, don't lie to me,' she said, crossing her arms. 'I caught you two red-handed.'

'Oh, we haven't—no, we aren't—he's not my boyfriend!'

She whistled lowly. 'Harsh, lady. Don't let him hear that. You realise he's out there embracing literal disasters for you, right?'

You narrowed your eyes at her. You were not going to argue with a teenager. You glanced at the young boy who was still holding the muffin up for you.

'And what's your name, dear?'

'Oh, nice. Deflect.'

'I'm Slate,' the young boy said, showing you the muffin again. 'Mommy says that good food will heal you.'

'I . . . She sounds like a wise woman.' You cleared your throat of your heartbreak. 'Why . . . are you both here?' you settled on.

Lana raised a brow. 'It's rude not to visit your boss in the hospital.'

You would have smiled if you had been feeling better. In fact, just for that sass, you would've like the girl.

'Thank you,' you said. 'Though you should eat it, kid. I'm saving my oxygen to breathe, eating will only utilise some of it in digestion.'

The child peered up at his sister with thinly hidden hope. She nodded at you, 'Smart,' before, 'go ahead,' she told her brother.

He happily flounced onto your bed, near your feet and started munching hungrily on the food. Lana took the seat Dean had earlier and sat next to your bed.

You were confused with this scenery; what was the protocol for handling stranger children who barge into your room while you sit poisoned and weaponless? (The Druids changed your clothes into a hospital gown, and your weapons went with your pajamas.)

'Are you going to ask why I wanted to be Cupid and now I don't?'

' . . . You don't have to talk to me,' you hinted. It was kind enough that she was accompanying you; it took your mind off things.

'I'm still going to,' she quipped, giving you a sly smile.

Fair enough.

'My parents were going through a nasty divorce,' she tried to muster non-chalance, but you could see the thread of trauma in her young irises. 'Bringing me here, to the Plant Central was mom's way of making me choose her, of winning custody.'

That would make sense. Girls needed to prove that they were worthy, boys just got things. It was a supremely annoying fact of your world.

'You wanted to plink them with arrows so they'd love one another?' you guessed.

'Bulls-eye,' she made the pun.

It brought a laugh from you. 'I could've helped you—'

'You are the greatest marksperson,' she grinned.

'I try,' you shrugged.

'For the record,' she said. 'My mom is . . . was at least nice. Lesser of the two evils.'

You didn't have a good answer to that. She didn't need one either.

'But your mother is a downright bitch,' her random jab jolted you.

'Excuse me?' your eyebrows touched your hairline.

'I wasn't eavesdropping,' she said. 'I just happened to hear you on a call, and I didn't make an effort to move from the door.'

'I don't think it's any of your business,' you said, voice razor-sharp.

She raised her hands in apology, the only one you realised you'd get.

'Just sayin',' she mumbled, watching her younger brother lick the wrapper, peacefully oblivious. 'My Dad used to physically and mentally torture us—I know the difference between a good parent and a bad one. I don't know if you know—maybe you never had someone good to compare notes with.'

'For a person as young as you, you're quite the blabbermouth,' you snapped defensively.

Although, you could now see her in a new light; her desperation for a job, so she wouldn't have to return to her alive father, and where she couldn't go to her dead mother. Where she was being a responsible sister.

It made you weirdly long for a familial connection like that; and the longing immediately resolved when you understood that . . . maybe you're just looking in the wrong place for it.

Sebastian's words came back to you - when he said that your parents didn't need your loyalty . . .

She snickered at that. 'It's my one move; I'm at that cute age where I get away from stuff.'

You couldn't supress your smile even if you wanted to. You had to admit, she was reminding you of your younger version; before the diplomacy kicked in.

'You'd fit right in at the castle,' you realised.

It was only now that you could begin to see the stark difference between your pervious life and this new one; thodd old Palaces where everything was political, and this new straightforward one where "life is too short to play games with".

It was becoming clearer to you, which one your favored.

Dean wore goggles that had a flashlight; even then, he could only see about three feet out. The water was winded and harsh, every branch was slippery and the droplets seemed to be slapping his face. He was chilled to his bones despite the windshield he had donned over his night clothes that was only a pair of track pants and a black undershirt. The Druid he was traveling with was named Elder Yew, who was the personification of a Yew tree deep in the forest somewhere.

He pointed towards the right, and Dean couldn't make out any tree there; he had been blindly swinging, and only barely balancing when he did reach the other side. This was the hardest climb he'd ever made.

He set his jaw, and jumped with the rope. He went sailing across to the other end, noticing the other tree's thick bark in time to prevent his nose from flattening into his face. He hugged the tree so that his wobbly feet won't betray him.

A second later, the Elder came hurtling towards him and Dean's muted grunt went unheard in the stormy night as he stablised the other, shorter man.

This went on for a long while. Dean had been checking his watch, but it wasn't waterproof so it died quick. He couldn't tell where the sun or moon were in the sky. He didn't know how much time he was passing away from you, when this very well could end in failure.

But I have to try.

Upon the mark of forty-five minutes, they finally reached the tree where the treehouse with the storage should've been.

'Where is it?!' bellowed Dean over the raging winds. It was pointless to speak, no one would be able to hear anything over the howls of the rattling breezes, he only spoke out of habit.

The Yew was inspecting the river next to the tree they stood on; his better eyes had already spotted the broken branch the treehouse used to be on. His hand rose and a shaky finger signaled to the broken house that was merrily streaming away with the river flow, and heading for a waterfall where everything would be lost.

Dean's curses could've awed a pirate.

The sight of the river was slightly better since there weren't any leaves to obstruct anything. It was mostly open with the sky unleashing cats and dogs. Currently, the treehouse was stuck against some uneven ground, progressing very slowly towards the abrupt downstream.

Dean climbed down from the tree, the Yew followed. The water reached his thighs, and the Yew's chest. He unraveled a rope and slung it around the tall, sturdy tree, tying fast knots to make an anchor. He fastened the other end around his own lean waist. Without a word, he shouldered the Yew who yelped and clung to his muscular frame.

Then, Dean dived into the tumultous and overflowing water that had broken across the banks and was infiltrating the forest, killing the smaller shrubs and rippling with boundless superiority.

Elder Yew touched a magical spell on Dean's flashlight so it managed to glow underwater. They both held their breaths so that Dean could swim better, away from the perturbed surfaces, and in the compatitively calmer underwater. There were vortexes in the water that pulled at Dean's skin, his body ached while he tried to fight them. He could see how many things were being ripped away into the water, being smashed against the stones, and being thrown off the cliff.

He surfaced thrice for air, and to relocate the fallen house. He dodged many floating and viscious branches that could plummel his sinews and muscles, but some snagged him anyway.

At long last, he touched upon the treehouse. The friction it recieved from the banks was the only thing keeping it from cruising downwards where it would shatter into a million fragments. But as the water level rose, the house became that much more threatened.

'Go, go, go!' he yelled at the Yew who scrambled atop Dean and used the man as a handhold to stand on the house which had fallen sideways, so he was really standing on the front wall of the house.

The Yew blasted the wall and jumped inside after taking a deep breath.

Dean pulled himself up with a strain and panting, and fell on the housewall. His eyes strayed to the edge of the water, there was only ten feet between him and his doom now.

That reality motivated him to crawl to the entrance the Druid had created. His light shone inside the wrecked house where half the things had drowned. The Elder Yew was swimming frantically, diving occasionaly, and Dean could spot that he now carried a bounty bag.

Dean's mind diverted when he heard a loud clash of water. His body tensed and his eyes searched the horizon, the place where all the water was coming from.

With no small amount of horror, he saw a ten foot wave of flood was headed their way.

'HURRY!' he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The Elder Yew dived once again, surfacing with a bunch of flowers in one hand and the other hand with the bag.

Dean jumped in and grasped the desk of the treehouse. He pushed the table out the hole, then manhandled the Yew out, and lastly pulled himself up. He placed the Yew on the upside down table, and the smaller man clung to one of the wooden legs, eyes widened with fear, trained on the mounting water five feet away.

Four feet, three feet, two feet . . .

Dean adjusted himself on it as well before he threw the wooden surface into water, hoping that would surf up to the surface in somewhile, or it would at least sheild them both from harmful stray objects in the water.

There was a moment where they both were submerged completely.

Dean had bent his body around the Elder Yew to protect the little man and the ingridients. His goggles helped him pull with the rope; it dug into his palms, taut with strain. Dean's strength was tested and he let a loud agonised scream under the water as he pulled them all closer to the surface.

At some point, one of the table legs broke behind Dean's back and gifted him with a long deep scar, making him yell in pain, and making him swallow seemingly gallons of water as a result. He would have lost the grip on his rope, which would have soon snapped under pressure, had it not been for the Elder's magic.

Something about the wooden table shifted and it grew to curl around them, a faint green glow soothed Dean; they were pulled back and forth by the current for the long minute like the wagging tail of a dog, as the rope stretched and it's strands came undone

His head breached the surface; it was also when the vindictive waters smashed them into the nearest tree on the banks. Their makeshift surfboard broke but at least it had been buoyant enough to tailspin them into the nearest tree; Dean hardly had time to sling one arm around the tree's bark and other to cling to the Yew who almost got captured by the mean-spirited water.

Dean gritted his teeth, his body stretched to its limit as he bought the Yew in front of him who gratefully climbed the tree they were at.

Dean didn't even realise he had been coughing until all the water sprayed out from his burning lungs, he retched weakly, his sore arms clutching the bark, his cheek rubbing harshly to leave behind rashes. While he heaved, he climbed a few steps upwards, his limbs felt like jelly but at least then the water beating down on him painfully, reduced. His glance to the side told him that they were at the second-last tree from the ledge of the waterfall that would have killed them in the thousand foot drop.

He contemplated letting go, and just falling - which would be so easy - as the water beat down on his thighs mercilessly. But it occured to him that his job wasn't done - he needed to get the Yew back safely - he used the last of his energy to climb the tree he was at, too exhausted to feel even relief.

The Elder Yew temporarily healed his injury back on-site itself so at least he wasn't bleeding while he swung back in the pitch black; he gave Dean a single leave of the Flower to chew on: he had felt like someone had shoved acid down his gullet, but he chewed it until his wound healed and then he was ordered to spit it out. Or well, since he hadn't been able to hear what the Yew said, the Old Tree Man had to retrieve his used leave from his mouth; it had made Dean grimace in disgust. The Yew himself had gotten a branch to his kidney, but he simply waved a hand, and the wound hardened into a tree scar.

The Yew explained to him when the winds swirled down a little into vague calmness (the storm was dissipating very gradually): the Yew only had powers of a tree, which meant healing and floating, he shared why a human's presence had been necessary for the trip when Dean demanded why the man just didn't go by himself if he had all those cool powers. He'd needed the human for tree-climbing, and someone who'd be willing to keep going when the Yew got scared.

Dean's wound began to unseal again as they approached the Bunker; it was every bit as painful as the first time, only more prolonged.

'What the hell!' he moaned, his hands coming away with blood when he touched his back.

'Oh, yes,' the Yew said, contemplative, on the first step of the Bunker. 'That happens. The Flower shouldn't be swallowed raw, but without it you aren't cured.'

'How are you going to heal the others?' he demanded, his voice ruined and scratchy. Too rough for it to be okay.

'We'll make a potion,' the Yew said. 'Get bandaged, you will get it in an hour,' he confirmed. But the Yew paused, making Dean bump into his back. He turned and smiled a secretive smile on his face, 'Congratulations though,' he said. 'You did the impossible.'

He grew bashful at that. 'It's fine,' he downplayed. 'Just get the damn cure ready.'

The Yew shook his head. 'Only a resilient soulmate could do that.'

Dean watched him walk off, his mouth agape. How the hell were people figuring that out? Where were the fucking signs?

Dean had got his wound checked and changed into something that wasn't wet; the shirt he found was three sizes too large, and his pants too.

'You look like crap,' greeted Lana when he stepped into your room.

'What the hell are you still doing here?' he arched a brow at her.

She shrugged. 'Had nowhere else to be.'

He frowned at her; she made it hard to be mad at her. Slate was asleep in the armchair in the corner of the room while she sat next to your bed.

Your s/c was much too pale from your usual colour, and you were breathing shallowly. His eyes strayed to the clock on the nightstand: the green numbers told him it was seven in the morning.

It doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning.

'She passed out,' Lana said. 'I don't think she realises it; drifting in and out of conversation.'

He didn't know what to do with that.

'She wanted to be awake for you,' Lana added, getting up from the three-legged stool. She walked around your bed towards Slate and picked him up with ease. She moved to the door, facing Dean one last time.

'Just FYI,' she said. 'She was staring at the door like a kicked puppy the whole time and her heartbeat hasn't been normal once.'

His mouth parted to be a wisecrack but somehow his mouth didn't take his command right; 'Thanks,' he surprised himself.

'You saved my brother and I,' she said. 'We're even,' she smirked with an edge to her that most adults never carry. 'You better pick us at my room in a few hours. It would suck to show up at your Palace for my new job by myself.'

'Does your father know?' Dean asked. He wasn't about to take home a child like that and commit a crime.

She got a guarded look about her. 'I'm sixteen, I've decided my career, he can't interfere.'

'What about your brother?' he scowled.

'Leaders have to protect all citizens who show up at their Palace,' she invoked. 'Just consider us runaways.'

He wasn't convinced.

'Lady Y/N agreed,' the child said, challenging Dean to contradict you.

He sighed, too tired to be thinking with clarity. 'Okay,' he said, giving in. He'd debate it with you later; right now, he was just taking a win: you both were alive at the same time: a huge victory.

'Awesome!' the kid cheered, leaving the room to both of you.

Dean paced without really thinking about it. He glared at the clock in a predatory way, as if he wanted to kill Time itself, and that would save you.

According to the nurse, who came to jack up your herbs which were keeping oxygen in your body, the herbs lost their affect over a short period of time as the human body built a higher tolerance to it, an immunity—after a certain amount of dosage, it would stop working on you altogether. And the nurse said that the dose she injected you with a half an hour ago would be your last; and it would work for an hour.

He'd already flagged three Druids in the last thirty minutes; it was eight forty-five now; your literal deadline was nine-fifteen; Dean's skin was crawling and his heart was in overdrive. He had too much adrenaline to rest.

You'd woken once during his unrelenting pacing but you had been too weak to open your mouth. You'd smiled faintly, and raised your hand for him to hold, staring at him for a while before you lost consciousness again.

He hadn't been able to keep holding your hand after that; it was too firgid, it scared him.

He was about to storm out and hold another Druid by the collar on the nine o'clock mark when the door pushed in. Elder Yew came with a saline stand and a bag filled with the revolting kale-green liquid. He also had a goblet in his other hand, half-filled with the same.

'About time,' Dean gritted out. 'What took you so long?!'

But inside, the clenching in his chest was easing a great deal. It was like he was getting his lungs back.

The Yew needled you with a smile, unbothered by Dean's anger. 'She'll be just fine in a few hours, Mr Winchester.'

'I'd hope so,' he mumbled, retaking his seat at your side, his hands finding yours unconsciously. He wished for their sake that you got cured; otherwise he was already (unhealthily) imagining the ways he'd take down this place.

'There,' the Yew said, pleased with his work. 'Now your turn.'

Dean drank his potion sans complain but it did taste like feet; yet, it was better than the raw flower he ate.

He gasped when the drink worked immediately. Outside of rain, he could actually feel his injury disappearing this time. Soon, he could feel that his bandages were pressed against nothing but a scarless skin. His other smaller scratches and cuts also vanished.

'Orally, this drink works best,' Yew explained. When Dean's glance went to your I.V., he added, 'In Ms L/N's case, we didn't want to risk it not going down her foodpipe. But do consider her out of danger.'

Dean could only nod, his mind reeling. His shoulders relaxed, and he felt like melting into the ground out of sheer tiredness; there wasn't a worry to keep him up now.

'Thank you,' he addressed the man. The last few hours have been hell for him; he's just happy it's over.

'You can sleep, Mr Winchester,' he said kindly. 'You've achieved a feat beyond our beliefs.'

He didn't have the power to be away from you, so the armchair was out and he couldn't sleep on the stool. He made space on your bed and curled around your body instead, very aware of your right hand where your medicine was entering your system. He didn't need much preamble to soon be snoring.

That's the first thing you heard when you woke up. Your body was still a touch too warm but you attributed that to the man clinging to you like a koala bear to its bamboo; the clarity of your mind astounded you, you were reminded of how much you depended on your body and without its support, how weak you had truly grown. You took in a celebretory lungful of air, your smile fluttering into place.

All thanks to Dean, said a voice.

His head was on your chest, his straight hair prickling your chin slightly. His left hand and leg were thrown over you, caging you in; your left hand was numb from being still under him for too long.

You raised your other hand with the needle and carressed the side of his face, 'Dean?'

His mouth closed for a moment, swallowing; but he turned his face away from your hand and buried it deeper into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed your neck and his beard tickled your shoulder. He was like your own personal heater; your cold sweat was gone, and now your were sweating for real.

'Dean?' you tried again. 'Darling, wake up,' you said, blushing a little because you'd never used that word before today but you just thought it might be about time. 

He was your . . . you didn't even know.

A swell of emotion tided in your chest. Whoever he was to you, he set out like that for you; everytime you thought of it, more gratefulness surged in you, and you simply didn't know what to do with all that new and spare emotion.

'No,' he whined, running away from your fondling again, making you guffaw. He could be too delightful sometimes.

'Okay, can I just take my hand out then?' you offered.

He gave you wiggle room to bring it out; you also used the opportunity to roll to your side: your healed right side - you could feel not a dredge of pain any more, your saline was almost empty. The clock told you it was ten in the morning, you don't remember when you'd slept. You also don't know where the Sanderson siblings went or when Dean came in.

Dean's hold on you tightened, as if you were prohibited from going away from him. You saw the appeal of being pressed upto your man like that all over again, your bodies curving to one another so perfectly; maybe you didn't need those pillows Dean detested after all; he could be your one giant body-pillow.

You aligned your hand to his that was curled around your torso. He let his face nuzzle into your hair again, seemingly unaware that you'd woken up at all.

You couldn't explain the undisrupted happiness in your chest on feeling him alive and well. Since when did you care so freaking much about another human's well-being?

You've cared, but this was a new level.

'I was so scared when you were gone,' you murmured.

'I'll have the coffee later,' he replied indistinctly. 'Five more minutes.'

You had a feeling he wouldn't remember this when he woke up next; it made you take the chance you did.

'I believe,' you hesitated, 'this is a new thing I'm feeling,' you nervously conveyed. 'But I find no other explaination to it,' you admitted. 'Perhaps, I'm falling for you.'

There was silence and you wondered if he'd heard you. But then he snored, and you sighed in relief.

'I'll tell you again one day,' you promised.

A/N: They're progressing . . . 🙃. What'd you think of the (fl)angst 👀?

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

@bettystonewell @jollyhunter