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A Supernatural x Reader Story Chapter Thirty-Six: Sharp Teeth

Word count: 4552

ASxRS Masterlist

A/N: Some of these characters are from 12.06 and 12.20, but if you haven’t watched those episodes yet, it’ll still make sense, and there are NO SPOILERS in here for season twelve! Basically, Tasha Banes is a witch, and Max and Alicia are her twins (their age is never said, but I’m assuming early to mid twenties at this point). Max also practices magic, and Tasha raised them to hunt “bad witches.”

Speaking of which, I don’t actually know where the Baneses lived or if they lived together or if they even lived anywhere at this point in the show, so if they reveal something entirely different, please overlook it.

Max and Alicia burst through the front door of the Banes house, with you following close behind, all of you roaring with laughter at something Alicia said moments earlier.

A warm yellow glow, cutting through the grey light of the rising sun, emanates from the kitchen down the hall where the three of you pile in to see a tall, leather-jacketed woman standing at the counter.

“Mom, you’re home!”

Alicia charges toward her first, nearly knocking her over as she wraps her in a hug while Tasha laughs lightly.

“I just got back myself,” she says, embracing Max as well.

“Well, so much for those few minutes of peace, then,” you joke as she pulls you in.

She shakes her head. “How did the hunt go?”

“Couldn’t have gone better,” you say.

“You should have been there!” Alicia tells her. “(Y/N) zapped him –”

“And then we trapped him in the basement –” Max interjects.

“And Max finished him off,” you finish. “It was great. Hell, I’m keeping these guys.”

Alicia scoffs. “Yeah, like you have a choice after two months of saving our asses.”

You brush her off, but the buzzing of your phone cuts you off. “Duty calls,” you shrug as you turn into the darkened living room and answer.

“(Y/N), it’s Toby,” the deep, rough voice resonates from the speaker.

“Hey, long time,” you greet.

“Yeah, it has been a while. You should come by for a cold one someday,” he says. “Meantime, listen – I picked up Garth’s description on the police wire. Been missing for a few months now, hasn’t he?”

“Few more than a few. Where is he?”

“Grantsburg Memorial, up in Wisconsin. You anywhere near there?”

You don’t need to calculate the miles and hours to answer. “Very.”

As you thank Toby for the information, the muffled voices and giggles from the kitchen send a pang of guilt through you. Dread, too.

But you all know this was never meant to be permanent. They knew when you showed up on their doorstep they would have to say goodbye, and you knew you would have to face the boys someday, flying broom and all.

You tiptoe back into the kitchen, where Max shoves a beer bottle into your hands. “She’s back!” he says, clinking the glass with the bottle in his own hand. “Here’s to another successful witch hunt.”

You clear your throat and set the yours on the counter. “Actually, I’d better not. I’ve got to hit the road.”

“You caught a case? We’ll go with,” Alicia offers.

“It’s not a hunt,” you say. “Or maybe it is. I don’t know.”

“Whatever it is, we can help. We owe you that much,” Max suggests.

You shake your head. “You don’t owe me anything. Besides, I need to do this one on my own.”

The room deflates, silent.

“I get the feeling this might be it for a while,” you say, finally. “I want to thank you – all of you – for everything.”

Tasha steps forward and wraps her arms around you. “It was our pleasure.”

You laugh as she pulls away. “I ate your food and commandeered your couch.”

“You’re still the best hunter we’ve ever worked with. Far as I’m concerned, couch is a small price to pay,” Max says, pulling you into a hug. “If you ever need anything…”

“Call us,” Alicia finishes, embracing you as well.

You nod. “Same goes for you.”

The morning sun brightens the sky by the time you make it to Wisconsin. A wave of fatigue hits you as you trudge across the parking lot and into the hospital.

“Agent Kramer,” you introduce, flashing your badge to the receptionist. “I’m looking for a John Doe. Would have been here a few days – kind of wiry, looks like he could use some sun.”

She chuckles. “Room one-one-three. Though, you might want to consult with your colleague.”

As she nods the space behind you, someone clears their throat. You’d recognize even the short burst of air anywhere.

“Agent,” he greets.

You turn to him, slowly, the breath still gone from your lungs.

Sam.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

You follow him to the opposite corner of the lobby, away from prying ears. Crossing your arms over your chest, you keep a safe distance away from him, remembering the reason you left in the first place.

“The angel’s gone,” he says, as if reading your mind. “It’s all me in here.”

A sigh of relief leaves your lips before you can stop it. You want to hug him and talk for ages and make up for two month’s worth of lost time, but you can only manage to choke out a few words.

“Sam, I’m sorry.”

He nods. “Thanks.”

You feel your heart deflate at the not-quite-forgiveness, though you expected much worse. You deserve much worse for lying to him all those weeks, and for leaving.

“Have you seen him yet?” you ask, nodding in the direction the receptionist pointed.

“No, I got here a few seconds before you did,” he explains.

“Where's Dean?”

You see the muscles in his jaw clench, his eyes darken.

“I'm not sure. We're taking separate vacations,” he says. “His idea. Something about needing space.”

“Oh.”

You wrack your brain for better words to say, but turn up empty.

He clears his throat and gestures to the door with 113 stuck on the glass. “Shall we?”

A green-jacketed figure looms over Garth’s bed as you step through the door, Sam following.

“Well, solved that mystery,” you tell him before turning to the other visitor. “Hey, Dean.”

“(Y/N), Sam,” he greets in a cold tone.

You busy yourself with examining Garth’s unconscious figure, the numbers on the monitor beside his bed.

Sam sighs. “Saw Garth’s John Doe on the police wire. You?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Where you two coming from?”

“New Mexico.”

“Duluth.”

Dean furrows his brow at you. “Duluth? That’s an hour away and you just got here? What, do they send police alerts by carrier pigeons out there?”

“Guess I’ve been out of the loop lately.” You don’t mean it as a shot at him, but he averts his eyes downward, guilty.

“I called,” he says.

“Well, ringing twice then hanging up isn’t calling,” you retort. “But it’s okay. I mean, I left, didn’t I?”

He raises his eyes to you, unconvinced. “Right.”

“You spoken to him yet?” Sam asks.

“No,” he admits. “Assload of painkillers. He’s been out since I got here.”

Your eyes land on the pair of handcuffs tethering Garth’s wrist to the rail of the bed. “How’d he end up in those?”

“Killed a cow,” Dean answers.

“Why?”

“That’s what I’m about to find out,” he says, uncapping a syringe of clear liquid.

“Whoa, hey,” Sam exclaims, holding out a hand to stop him. “What is that – adrenaline?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You trying to jump-start him or kill him?” he questions.

“I want some answers,” Dean says. “He walked out on Kevin. He walked out on us. So, if you got a better idea…”

Sam frowns at him before raising his arm and striking Garth across the cheek.

He shoots up, screaming. “Dean?” he gasps. “Sam? (Y/N)? What is this? A hospital? Wait… am I in heaven?”

“All right, take it easy, Garth,” Dean says. “You’re in Wisconsin.”

“And you’re here because you were hit by a car,” you add.

“Do you remember anything?” Sam asks.

“Vaguely.” Garth lifts his hand toward his head, but the cuffs clink against the rail. “What’s with the hardware?”

“You tell us,” Dean says. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you give us the lowdown on where you went AWOL for the past six months? Only way we tracked you down is that you offed a cow.”

Garth seems to barely register Sam picking the lock of the handcuffs. “Offed a… what? I was on a hunt.”

“Hunt for what?”

He makes it through one unintelligible syllable before turning a pale shade of green. “Oh, no,” he says, pushing off the covers and staggering off the bed. “Oh, get back.”

You, Sam, and Dean watch him as he gags, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Good thing I didn’t give him the adrenaline,” Dean comments.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

You and Sam settle into each of the chairs while Dean takes a seat on the edge of the unoccupied bed.

“Anything on Gadreel?” he asks.

Sam nods. “Turns out he left some grace in me before he bolted.”

“Wait a second – ‘Gadreel’?” you repeat. “What happened to Ezekiel?”

Dean glances across at his brother again before turning back to you. “He, uh, wasn’t who he said he was.”

You pause. “So, the only desperate fallen angel who answered your call for help had his own agenda?” you say, your tone biting. “Go figure.”

Coughing, retching sounds continue to echo from the bathroom.

“Just breathe, Garth,” Dean calls, halfheartedly.

As he leans forward on his elbows, his sleeve rides up to reveal a mark, almost like a branding.

“What happened to your arm?” Sam asks before you can say anything.

“It’s a gift from Cain,” Dean sighs, frowning at it.

You step toward him now, examining the symbol you recognize from a book.

“Like… the wrestler?” Sam says.

Dean chuckles, though his words sound heavy. “I wish. That would be awesome.”

“Cain,” you repeat. “As in Cain and Abel. As in Old Testament. Tell me this isn’t the literal freaking Mark of Cain.”

You glance up at him, but he only turns his head down, giving you your answer. “Dean, what the hell did you do?”

“He gave me a way to eighty-six Abaddon once and for all,” he argues. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You run it by us! You do some research, you wait for Kevin to come up with something from the demon tablet. You don’t take on the… What?”

He slumps his shoulders and studies his shoes under your gaze. You look to Sam for an explanation, but he doesn’t meet your eyes either.

You recall your words. Were they too harsh? Did you hit a sore spot without knowing it?

It takes you longer to realize than it should. You don’t want to believe it.

“Kevin?” you murmur, though you don’t need an answer.

“(Y/N), I’m sorry,” Dean chokes.

You open your mouth to answer him, but your lungs feel empty. You bite down on your lip to keep it from trembling as you force stinging tears away from your eyes.

You swallow back the tightness in your throat, but your voice still cracks. “How?”

Silence.

You almost feel relieved not knowing before Dean speaks. “Gadreel…”

He doesn’t continue. He doesn’t need to.

You barely remember leaving the room. Only stumbling to find air as your mind struggles to wrap around Kevin being… gone? It can’t really be true, can it? He’s just a kid.

Was a kid.

No, when you get back to the bunker, he’ll be in the shooting range, flashing you that proud smile he gets when he hits the very center of the target. Because you told him target practice would keep him safe. You promised him you would get him out of this life. You were supposed to…

You lean against a red brick pillar outside the hospital’s entrance. At first, you think nothing of the gowned figure dashing across the parking lot.

When you see Garth’s face, though, as he loses the gown and turns to slip into the passenger seat of a station wagon, you snap out of the daze and back to your job.

He doesn’t seem to spot you as the blonde woman driving the car pulls out of the driveway and you switch the ignition of your own car. You consider following them until they reach their destination, but Garth is still a hunter. He would catch you before you got that far.

Instead, you floor the gas pedal as you approach their car, waiting for a shoulder lane before you pull in front of them, your tires squealing.

The woman stops just in time to keep from hitting you, her eyes wide.

You climb out into the grassy area as Garth does.

“Going somewhere?”

• • • • • • • • • • • •

They lead you to their apartment in the next town over, where Garth convinced you would be more private.

You barely wait until the door closes behind you to turn on him.

“You want to tell me what the hell’s going on with you?” you yell.

“Of course I do,” he says, his tone soft. “Let’s all just calm down and talk about this.”

Though you don’t address her, the woman who drove flinches at your words, hiding behind Garth as a child would hide behind a parent.

“Bess? It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs to her. “(Y/N)’s not going to hurt you.”

You begin to ask why she thinks you would hurt her, but your mind catches on something else. The murdered cow, his disappearance, why he would run from you in the first place.

Without warning, you pull an object out of your pocket and toss it in his direction. By reflex, his hand darts out to catch it, and he yelps at the sound of searing flesh, the silver bullet dropping to the ground with a plink.

By the time you turn back to the woman, her eyes glow yellow and pointed teeth protrude from her mouth with a roar.

You pull your gun from its holster and aim it at her, but she doesn’t charge. Instead, Garth jumps in front of her.

“Please,” he gasps. “Don’t hurt her.”

You take your finger off the trigger, piecing together the story.

“You were bitten,” you try.

He nods. “Bess – she found me. She saved me, and her family took me in as one of their pack.”

As you lower your gun, he pulls her – now human-featured – around to his side, wrapping an arm around her.

“That’s why I went after that cow,” he continues. “Anything to keep away from human hearts.”

Maybe it’s the fear in her eyes, maybe the familiar desperation in his, that convinces you to tuck your gun back in its holster.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “I checked it all out – everything’s kosher. If you don’t believe me–”

“I believe you, Garth,” you concede. “It’s just… you get bitten, you call me, and I’ll help you. You don’t just take off. We thought you were–”

Your voice breaks off at the thought of losing someone else today.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I really am,” he says.

“I know. And I get it. Believe me, I do,” you add when you see the disbelief in his expression. “And I’m glad you’re okay, relatively.”

You look around at the cozy apartment, at the new life your friend has built. So what if it’s with werewolves? Who are you to judge after spending the last two months practicing magic?

“Um, it’s Bess, right?” you ask, holding out a hand to her. “I’m (Y/N).”

She only hesitates a moment before shaking your hand. “It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N). I’m sorry for the… circumstances.”

“Me, too,” you admit. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, but–”

Almost as if on cue, Garth holds out a hand to stop you as he sniffs the air.

“The boys?” you say.

He nods.

When they break through the door, you defend the couple, which is how you end up at the barrel of Dean’s gun.

You think he might shoot. When he doesn’t, you think of how easily he could, and you reconsider ever revealing your own secret.

He moves around you to aim at Bess, but you block his shot again. “Just hear him out.”

• • • • • • • • • • • •

“What am I doing here?” Dean gestures to his spot in the passenger seat of your car.

“You want to drive, next time play something other than scissors,” you say.

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, why are we going to bible group with a pack of werewolves?”

“Because it’s Garth’s pack. You know better than anyone, not all monsters are killers.”

“But all monsters are monsters,” he mutters.

You focus your eyes on the road, trying not to let your face show that each of his words crushes your heart a little more.

“Why do you care so much anyway?” he questions.

Maybe because I am a monster.

“It’s Garth, man,” you shrug. “If it came down to it, could you really kill him? I mean, he's–”

“Don't– don't say he's family. He didn't call, he didn't write. He left us in the dark for months and became a werewolf. That sound like family to you?”

You don’t answer as you turn off the dirt road and into the driveway of a classic house, its white paint aged to a light tan, in the shadow of several tall trees.

You and Dean walk across the freshly cut grass, along tall, manicured bushes when you hear a piano and a… choir?

He has already turned to you, brows furrowed, when you shrug at him, gesturing to the porch.

A woman in a floral-printed blouse opens the door, greeting you both with a wide smile. “You must be (Y/N) and Dean. I’m Joy, Garth’s mother-in-law,” she says. “Well, stepmother-in-law, which I always thought sounded so silly. Please, come in. We’re just finishing up.”

Dean begins to take a step backward, but you nudge him forward with a hand on his back, giving the lady a warm smile. “That’d be great.”

As she leads you inside, the singing becomes headache-inducingly loud. Dean raises his eyebrows at you, as if to say, Really?, but you roll your eyes and prod him further into the house.

In the living room, a dozen people or so gather around a piano, where Garth sits and plays off-key, each holding a songbook.

“Bringing in the sheaves,” they sing. “Bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.”

As they finish the song, an older man in a grey wool sweater who seems to lead the congregation dismisses the group with the promise of church service on Sunday. Children rush past you, while the adults shuffle to follow them out the door, each with a pleasant smile on their face.

Garth spots you and Dean and slides off the piano bench to meet you at the doorway. “So, what’d I tell you? It’s all good right?”

You watch two children straggling behind the others on their way out.

“Everyone here’s a wolf?” Dean asks, following your gaze.

Garth shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, not all good.”

Bess finds Garth’s side from where she stood at the piano. You give her a friendly smile, and she offers you a shy one in return.

“Come on, Dean. You’ve just gotta meet them,” Garth says, and points to two men in the opposite corner of the room, who nod at you both. “That’s Russ and Joba, Bess’s first cousins on Sister Joy’s side. And that’s Pastor Jim–” he points to the leader of the group – “Bess’s dad. Leader of the pack and a good man.”

The pastor makes his way to you. “‘(Y/N),’ is it? And ‘Dean’?”

You nod, and shake his hand. “Welcome,” he says. “Jim Meyers. Folks around here usually call me–”

“Reverend Jim. Yeah, I got it,” Dean interrupts. He doesn’t take the extended hand.

“Oh, uh, my bad,” Garth chuckles. “Dean’s got this crazy fear of germs.”

The reverend doesn’t acknowledge the excuse. “I understand your apprehension, Dean. Hunters and our kind don’t have the best history together.”

“But I think you’ll find we’re not much different from you,” Joy adds.

“Oh, sister, I highly doubt it,” Dean remarks.

The reverend continues. “Why don’t we break bread and see?”

As the reverend and his wife leave the room, you fix your glare on Dean with a hushed shout. “What the hell was that?”

“What?” he says.

“Will you just… try to be civil?”

He shrugs. “Why?”

• • • • • • • • • • • •

While the werewolves – no, lycanthropes – ate from their plates of bloody, chewy-looking hearts, you and Dean were both served what you hoped was steak. It was dry and bitter, and the smell of blood in the dining room made your stomach turn, but you picked at it politely, more concerned with giving Dean warning glances and nudges when his comments came close to stepping out of line.

With every one of his remarks, you feel a twinge in your chest. Maybe you’ve been using today to warm him up to the idea of befriending the supernatural, but as the day wears on, it proves to be a failed attempt.

“I don’t know what else you want to hear, Dean,” you tell him on the drive to meet Sam on the other side of the farm.

“Come on, the singing, the flowery placemats – none of that seems off to you?” he asks.

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Or maybe it’s just been that long since either of us have had a family dinner.”

He huffs out a sigh.

You don’t trust them, not completely, but you can’t let him know that. You chalk it up to your years of hunting, years of constantly looking over your shoulder for creatures like them. Besides, you trust Garth.

“(Y/N),” Dean breaks the silence. “Look, I’m sorry.”

You pry your eyes away from the road to glance at him, brows furrowed.

“I should’ve been there for him,” he says.

Kevin. You tried to keep the thought away from your mind the whole day, tried to keep the sinking feeling from your stomach.

Dean holds the weight in his eyes, though, as they peer at you.

“No, you were right before. I should have stayed,” you say. “Hell, I should’ve been there to talk you out of it in the first place.”

“Hey, everything that went down with Kevin – that’s on me,” he insists.

“I’m not saying it’s not,” you sigh. “I’m saying he was our responsibility. We let him down.”

Though you don’t seem to have convinced him, he doesn’t argue.

You should tell him now, you think. If you were honest with yourself, of both the boys, you feel the most nervous about telling Dean you’ve taken up witchcraft. Telling him here, with no one around to witness the explosion, seems like the way to go.

You swallow against your dry throat, your mouth filling with cotton, and you can barely hear your own voice. “Dean, I need to tell you–”

“I don’t care how clean it looks. Something fishy’s going on,” he says.

You snap your head in his direction, sure you must have accidentally let it slip without meaning to. “What?”

“Garth’s pack of do-gooder werewolves back there,” he comments.

“Oh,” you sigh.

Despite your efforts to convince him not all monsters are bad, he still suspects them. But now, you realize, you were so preoccupied that you didn’t notice the bad feeling you got about the place.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you mumble. “Maybe we should check it out.”

The next morning leaves four werewolves dead. Dean was right, but he says nothing on the drive back to Bess’s family’s house.

Only she, Garth, and Reverend Jim remain.

“I’m sorry this happened,” you tell her. “How’s your dad holding up?”

She glances over to where her father sits at the dining table, staring at the air in front of him.

“He’s in shock. We all are,” she says.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You’ve done more than enough,” she answers. “You all have. We never would have known about my mother’s… stepmother’s plan until it was too late.”

You nod. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I have Garth,” she says. “And I have my faith. I can’t ask for more than that.”

You smile at the thought of this family, clawed and sharp-toothed as it may be. It gives you hope.

As you walk toward the front door, Garth releases Dean from a hug, and Dean follows Sam outside.

“Well –” you clap Garth on the shoulder – “take care of yourself.”

“You, too, (Y/N),” he says, then lowers his voice. “For what it’s worth, I think you make a good witch.”

You shift your weight from one foot to another with a sigh. You’d held onto the irrational hope no one noticed you flinging Joy halfway across the barn with a few words of Latin last night, giving Dean enough time to shoot her.

“Hey, I'm not here to judge,” he says. “You caught me off guard is all.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” you mumble, rubbing the back of your neck.

“No worries so long as you, you know, be good.” He doesn't give you time to respond before pulling you in for a hug.

“You, too,” you chuckle. “If you need anything… you know the drill.”

You meet the boys in the motel parking lot, where they stand across the Impala from each other, Sam half-turned to Dean, half-turned to his blue Dodge Dart.

“…I’m saying, if you want to work, let’s work,” he tells Dean as you climb out of your car. “If you want to be brothers… well, those are my terms.”

Dean studies him, checking for any hint of a waver in his hard stare, but Sam’s gaze remains steady. Dean nods.

They turn to you as you approach.

“So, the boys are back in town?” you comment.

“Kind of,” Dean shrugs.

“Right,” you say. “Well, we have to talk.”

Sam takes a step closer, gesturing to Dean, then to himself. “Look, I know you hate this, but it’s better this way.”

“Believe me, if there’s anyone who wants to see you two back in the groove, it’s me,” you say. “But I think taking a breather might be best for everybody. So, if you don’t mind?”

They nod for you to continue.

You train your eyes on the pavement, your hands shaking. You can hear your heart thudding in your ears, even over the breeze, and you know it shakes your voice as you recite the speech you’ve been rehearsing.

“These last couple months, I’ve been staying with a hunter friend of mine–” you clear your dry throat– “who’s also a natural witch.”

You raise your eyes to Sam’s widened ones. He seems to understand what you mean, but you can’t read his expression.

“And I’ve been studying under her,” you continue. “She uses magic to hunt witches, and so do her kids. It’s completely kosher.”

You glance across at Dean, who creases his brows. “You know who else thought everything was kosher?” he says. “Garth. And look how that turned out.”

“You mean how he’s dealing with turning into something we hunt? How he’s not hurting anyone, and how he’s found love and a family?”

“He found a cult,” Sam says. “A cult that wanted to start an apocalypse and take over the world, right under his nose, and he had no idea.”

His remark catches you off guard. Of them both, you thought Sam would, if not support you, understand why you went down this path.

Dean narrows his questioning eyes at his brother, taken aback as you are, before turning back to you. “(Y/N), we just want you to be careful.”

Sam scoffs and shakes his head, ignoring the puzzled glance his brother shoots him.

“Look, I don’t know why, but it feels right,” you admit. “It feels like I’m helping people. Like maybe whatever’s in me doesn’t have to be this awful thing.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. You know every instinct he has splits between defending his family and sending a bullet through your brain. To your surprising relief, his fingers don’t even twitch toward his gun.

Sam still won’t meet your eyes.

“If you want me out of your hair, I’m gone,” you say. “But I would never risk putting you two in that kind of danger, and I think you know that.”

Dean’s face softens, and even through the hardened gaze, you think you glimpse contemplation in Sam’s eyes.

You use them both to go on. “So, I’m asking you. Give me a chance?”

Fair warning: chapters may be published a bit more sporadically from now on. Sorry.

#Supernatural #Supernatural x reader #Spn x reader #Spn #Spn 9x12 #Sharp Teeth #Tasha Banes #Alicia Banes #Max Banes #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Garth Fitzgerald IV #A Supernatural x Reader Story #series #writing is hard

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