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imtryingmyfuckingbe · 4 years

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Werewolf of Portland

Pairing: Dean x FBI!Reader

Word count: 10K

I’m not good a summaries, but I drew inspiration from anytime the boys give actual FBI Agents the “talk”, as well as that episode where Jody calls them out for using Bobby as their “supervisor”. This is a repost because I accidentally deleted the original, but it gave me time to edit it better. I’m thinking of doing a second part if I get enough feedback or requests for it, so please, please, please tell me what you think. I’m hungry for feedback haha. Also I know nothing about Portland or official FBI Badges so please keep that in mind as you read.

Warnings: Canon violence, profanity, and a plot twist I didn’t even see coming

Werewolf of Portland

The repugnant, putrid scent overcomes the clearing, spread by the gentle breeze. Despite the green grass littered with wild flowers, the unforgiving scent of rotten eggs clings to the workers’ hazmat suits. Flies buzz incessantly around the body, like that of an opaque blanket if adorned with beady eyes and veiny wings.

While the forensic cleaners work to gather the corpse’s remains for transportation, Agent Y/L/N stands at the edge of the control zone. Her day started at 4:39 in the morning, wherein she spent the next five hours scouring the field alongside her team. Even with her duties tended to, she refuses to leave the scene. The sparse clues yielded in the first examination plague her mind.

No fingerprints, no shoe prints, no footprints, no DNA; the list of what they don’t have extends further than what they do.

The body itself— what little the attacker left of it, at least— covered the majority of the scene. Torn to pieces, heart removed; remains scattered. She hopes the coroner can get something from her examination. The lacking evidence in addition to this being the fourth body found places an insurmountable weight on Y/N’s shoulders.

The public’s outrage cries for the FBI to put the criminal behind bars, but they’re no closer to identifying witnesses, let alone a culprit. Y/N signs, running her hand through her hair. No matter the amount of cases she faces, no matter how gruesome, she never lets it desensitize her. If she becomes numb to the pain of blood and guts, she fails to invest herself in solving the case.

Turning from the scene, she instead takes in the myriad official vans and workers putting about. Her partner speaks with forensics, gathering whatever helpful information they can provide. A small side glance her way and the lift of his hand by his side, he beckons Y/N over. However, her lead feet refuse to move. Still engulfed in the horror show behind her, she takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

Y/N struggles to keep her emotions in check. Rage courses through her veins at the heinous acts humans commit, to fulfill sadistic pleasure or cure one’s demons. Unfortunately, in the FBI, she must swallow her anger and sadness, replacing it with a monotone voice and calculated expressions. Taking a breath, she departs from the border and heads towards Agent Colt.

He finishes speaking with the worker, who leaves the partners in peace.

“They’ve got nothing. We’ve got nothing. Not for this one, not for the past three.”

She already knows this. A thought tickles the back of her mind, but she cannot name it. “All right. Maybe they got sloppy; maybe this time the coroner will get something. Anything.” Elijah rolls his eyes, pursing his lips and rubbing his chin. Y/N knows he’s saying We can’t base our investigation on maybe. Another sigh. “Fine, let’s run through this again.”

Elijah leads the way to their company car. “So, the heart. That’s the main focus. It’s missing.”

“Yes. This points to it being personal. It takes a lot of passion and hatred to rip through someone’s chest and remove their fucking heart. Which, another thing, the hearts aren’t just removed. They’re taken.”

“Right. Okay, haphazard blood splatter; no pattern. I’d say our killer is disorganized. Listless.”

“Not completely. I mean, there’s an even month between each murder. That leans more towards organized. There’s ritual. It’s not really first come, first serve, ya know?”

Elijah pauses at his door, fingers clasped tightly around its handle. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, staring off into the distance. Y/N knows that look. She’s seen it in herself, survivors and fellow agents. He’s not looking at the clearing, but trying to connect the dots. Perhaps the weight of solving this doesn’t rest solely on Y/N’s shoulders.

As Elijah returns from his reverie and yanks open the car door, Y/N hears a deep, raspy voice greet the local law enforcement. Her partner settles into his seat, staring at her with drawn eyebrows and pursed lips. She holds up a finger.

Casting a quick glance behind her, Y/N finds two suits mid-introduction with the sheriff. The pair hold up identification booklets, much like the one in her pocket. Their suits hang too loosely off of their bodies, their dress shoes too scuffed. The longer she watches their body language, the larger the pit in her stomach grows. She turns around to lean against the car, keeping focus on the men. They talk for a moment more before the sheriff nods in her direction.

Y/N watches their shoulders tense, standing taller from the rigidness. Yes, she muses, something is off.

The window she leans against pulls on her coat as Elijah rolls it down. “Hey, you coming?”

Pondering for a moment whether she should let him in on her instincts, Y/N decides against it. “Yeah,” she leans down, poking her head through the window. “I’m going to stay here, actually. I want to see if I can squeeze anything else out of the uniforms.”

Elijah chuckles. “We’re uniforms too, you know.”

She returns the laugh. “Right, well, you head back to the office. Make a fresh pot of coffee, too. I’ll meet you there.”

He holds two fingers to his forehead before dramatically sweeping them across his face. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Y/N stands as he rolls the window back up, patting the roof. Elijah peels off while she returns her attention to the still-gawking men. Their postures only straighten as she nears; if they stood any more rigid she’d swear they were wax figures. “Harold,” she acknowledges the sheriff. He nods. “How’s it going on your end?” Y/N keeps the men in her peripheral but focuses on Harold.

Harold’s eyes shift to the pair, then back to Y/N. “As I was telling your fellow agents—” at this statement, the men share a glance, “—still nothing.”

“Right, well I want to go over everything again. Give me a moment.” She finally turns to greet the supposed agents. “Gentlemen, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Scanning their faces, she studies them for any quirk of the lips or perspiration on the brow.

The taller one speaks first. “I’m, uh, Agent Pert and this is Agent Bonham,” he gestures next to him.

Pert and Bonham? Really? She refrains from rolling her eyes.

Instead, Y/N doesn’t respond, using the pressure of silence in her favor. Harold clears his throat, uncomfortable with the tension. She ignores him, keeping focus on the men before her. Most of her suspects break under her gaze; very few can sustain their façade in an encounter with her steely eyes and stiff posture. Harold excuses himself, unable to withstand her harsh eyes. The men continue to stare, neither willing to relent. Unfortunately, this renders them at an impasse. She, too, will not look away or speak.

Agent Pert concedes, taking the lead. “Right, well, we’re here from DC to investigate the murders. What have you got?” His voice imperceptibly wavers— if untrained, Y/N wouldn’t notice the quiver— the corner of his lip twitching.

Ignoring his request, she commands, “Let me see your badges, agents.”

Another conversation through a shared look before they hand them over. They’re good, the badges. A smidgen off center of authentic. If not for the incorrect serial code and too high insignia placement, Y/N would accept them at face value. She closes the booklets and pockets them, earning a small Hey of protest from the short one. Cocking an eyebrow, she dares them to challenge her.

“Impersonating a federal agent is a crime, I’m sure you know.”

“Impersonating a— call our superior and check! Let me see your badge!” Crew cut exclaims, indignant.

“I’ll lend my badge after I’ve talked to your superior officer.” She wonders how far they intend to take this rouse.

With their business card in hand, she retreats a few steps. As she dials the number the little whisper in the back of her head pesters her further. The questionable agents and unsolvable case remind her of… something.

“Agent Willis,” a voice grunts.

“Willis? What’s your outpost?”

“Headquarters. Who is this?”

“Agent Y/L/N. It appears I have two of your agents here; I’m sure some wires crossed when you sent them down? What were your orders for Agents Tyler and Grohl?”

“Who are you to question my authority, Agent?”

His growl pulls the pressing thought to the forefront of her mind. 2005, in Cincinnati on her first case. Similar to her case today: bodies piled up with no leads and peculiar circumstances. She ran into someone claiming to be FBI, too. Fresh from the academy with the weight of the world on her shoulders, she accepted his excuse of bureaucratic miscommunication; why don’t we work the case together?

She laughs. “Wait, hold on. I know you.”

“Noyoudon’t,” he spits out, too quickly.

“Yeah, I do. Fuck, what’s your name?” she mumbles, more to herself than him. “Singer! Ohio, we worked a case together. Culprit never caught and you went on your merry way.”

He blubbers, failing to produce a proper excuse. “I don’t know a Singer, Agent.”

She rolls her eyes, finally turning to face the men. The stricken look on their faces only further points to the truth. “All right, Willis. Even if that were true, you also don’t know your agents’ names. They introduced themselves as Pert and Bonham. Really, Singer? Rockstars’ names?” The humor of the situations drains, replaced with its severity. “All right, I’m taking your men in. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay put and wait for mine to come get you.”

“Wait— Y/L/N, right? Hear me out,” he pleads, urgency ringing clear in his voice.

“You have ten seconds.”

“Listen, they’re there to help. Your attacker ain’t what you think it is. I closed that case in Cincinnati, thanks to your help. But, it wasn’t a person. It was a vampire.”

She laughs again, this time wild and unbelieving. “Yeah, right. And this one is a fucking Chupacabra.”

“No, it’s not. We think it’s a werewolf.”

“You’re fucking nuts. No, I’m calling this in.”

“Y/N. Wait. Talk to them, please. People are still in danger. Their names are Sam and Dean. Winchester.” The desperation in his voice settles with unease in her chest. Her time on the force yields too much experience in discerning honesty from duplicity.

Rather than respond, she ends the call and returns to the newly named Winchesters. They stand unmoving, shoulder to shoulder; if not for the wind tussling the tall one’s hair, she’d think they were statues. “So.” They squirm under her gaze. “Which one of you is Sam and Dean?” Their eyes widen at her remark, startled by her knowledge of their true identities.

Crew cut juts his chin out and squares his shoulders. “I’m Dean. That’s Sam. Why don’t you tell us who you are and how the hell you know our names?”

“I’ll be the one asking questions, gentleman. I’ve half a mind to put you in cuffs. First, you impersonate a federal agent; second, your pal Singer brings up werewolves? Sounds like three peas in a pod headed for St. Christopher’s Asylum to me.” Neither respond. “Thirty seconds, boys. You have thirty seconds to make me believe you or the only way you’re leaving is in cuffs.” For emphasis, she pats her hip, whereupon the cuffs hang.

The pregnant silence leers on.

“25.”

Sam sighs, running his hand through his hair. “All right. There are things in this world that you don’t know about; that not many people know about. The bumps in the night, the clichés; most of them are real. Have you had anything happen to you that you can’t explain? Or had an unsolvable case?” He pauses for her answer, but she only looks on, hands on her hips.

Vampires? Werewolves? What the fresh fuck? Her mind reels with the implications of his statement; even still, it doesn’t feel wrong. A few cases come to mind instantly: the serial killer who left victims’ eyes burnt out, people torn to shreds in supposed animal attacks by nothing from these parts. How many victims faced the unknown rather than human wrath? She can handle psychopaths, serial killers, the insane. She knows that evil; deals with it regularly. But the supernatural? No.

“Right, well, we hunt those things. We take them out,” he gestures between himself and Dean.

Y/N’s hands drop from her sides, falling limp at her thighs. “Just you two?” She whispers, cold and disbelieving.

“No,” Dean speaks up. “Not just us. There’s a lot of us out there.”

“Listen, I’m going to need more than just your word. I don’t know you, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. What can you give me that will make me believe you?” Despite not wanting it, she needs proof. Plus, if they turn out to be nuts, she can lock them up and toss the key; no harm, no foul.

They nod once, curt but understanding. Sam takes a step forward, hand raised in her direction. “This’ll take a leap of faith, Agent…”

“Y/L/N.”

“Agent Y/L/N. Let us work on this with you,” Sam implores. “And if we’re wrong, you can book us yourself.”

“Sammy, hold up. Who’s to say we can trust her either? She’s just some Fed. Who’s to say she won’t cuff us anyway?” Dean protests, turning towards Sam.

While the two quietly argue, Y/N takes a step back. Running her tongue over her teeth in concentration, she ponders the options. Even if Sam offers her control, she knows their type: they won’t let her actually take the lead. Dean reminds her of her father, and that man never relinquished supervision. In order for this to work in her favor— seeking the truth, protecting the public— Y/N must fulfill the role as the dutiful public servant. Perhaps they’re not fucking lunatics, and this thing turns out to be real, she’d be way out of her element anyway. Still, she refuses to give up control.

Staring off towards the field, where the body once laid, she contemplates the little evidence recovered. Vics torn to shreds, no prints, no DNA. Local PD swears it’s a cougar, an animal indigenous to the area. Even still, animals are simpler than humans. They kill for sustenance or safety. The brutality of this kill, the length of the claw marks, lack of fur, ritual occurrences; it all points in the wrong direction. Y/N would quicker say some furry decided killing offers more sexual release over cosplay than call it a fucking cougar.

“If you expect me to try to trust you, or at least what you say, then I need your trust, too. This goes both ways,” she interrupts. The men cease their heated discussion, turning towards her. “I don’t like what you’re telling me. I don’t want to believe it. But… I trust my gut, and I think you guys are either great liars or telling the truth.” Sam smiles, but Y/N holds up a hand. “However, I will not put my eggs in one basket. I need insurance that you’ll hold up your end of the bargain. This means I’m taking point, and you guys are consultants. Anything you know, you tell me. Anything you find, you tell me. Anything you do, you tell me. Capiche?”

Sam nods before Dean, nudging his side to encourage his agreement. Dean tosses his hands in the air. “Fine. Where to next, Agent?” Venom drips with each word.

“I need to get back to the station. My partner, Agent Colt, will be—”

“Colt? Agent Colt? The irony.” Dean interrupts. Sam elbows him again, and Y/N chooses to ignore him altogether.

“I’m going back to the station. I’ll talk to the Uniforms and tell them to give you anything pertinent to this specific scene. Anything to do with the others can wait until tonight. Meet me at Carlton’s, off of Hamilton street. I’ll bring the files for the other Vics.” She hands Sam her business card, not trusting Dean to keep it.

“What about our badges?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, exhausted. “Fuck, man. I’m trying my hardest to ignore the federal crime you committed right in front of me. Prove you’re right and you’ll get them back. Until then, you’re consultants employed by the Bureau.”

She pushes passed them, heading towards Harold. Their boots crunch on the gravel as they lag behind her. He halts his conversation with one of deputies upon their arrival. “Sheriff, these two are fresh blood from the academy.” She juts her thumb over her shoulder. “HQ thought this would be a good case for them to learn on the job. Tell them anything you know and let them case the scene. I’m going back to the station to meet up with Elijah.”

“But—” Harold begins. Y/N levels him with sharp eyes and pressed lips, stopping him in his tracks. “Right. Okay. Follow me, Agents.” Sam and Dean shoulder passed Y/N, catching up to the Sheriff with a few long strides.

Y/N stands for a moment, hands in her jacket pockets, watching the two men. If this turns out to be a rouse— if she let two criminals onto the field with her permission— that’s her head. Shaking the thought away, she turns. She’s able to hitch a ride back to the station with the forensic profilers.

———————————————————————————————————

Elijah spared his questions when she returned, thankfully. Instead, he shoved a hot cup of cop shop coffee into her hands before continuing their earlier evaluation. “Right, can’t be disorganized, but he’s definitely passionate. That shows connection to the victims.”

Y/N sips her coffee. Forcing the bitterness down her throat, she also swallows her new knowledge. She must work this case like any other, for it might be. “You think it’s a man?”

Around the bite of an apple, he says, “Yes. Female offenders aren’t typically serial murderers; they’re passion killers. Black Widows, Angels of Death, you know the type.”

“I do, but Wuronous diverged from the typical female murderer.”

“Yeah, that’s one of many. Most other women utilized poison for their kills. The ME didn’t find any traces of cyanide, arsenic, or tetrodotoxin— nothing. Doesn’t fall in line with what we know.”

Y/N simmers. She knows this, of course. “Let’s keep the possibilities in mind.” She sifts through the crime scene pictures, lining up the photos of the different victims side by side. “Placement doesn’t seem to matter, so that leans away from obsessive compulsiveness. The offensive wounds support this, too.”

“Y/N, what are we reaching for? We don’t have a profile, a motive; nothing.”

“Not true. Let’s lay it all out, one more time. Hearts are taken, gruesome attack wounds, lower body left alone. Maybe these are passion killings, and the only thing in common with the victims is the killer. I mean, people come and go all the time here. Maybe they knew the Unsub outside of Portland. The ritualistic pattern of the murders makes me think the killer stalks the victims in the month down time; gets to know their schedule, comings and goings. They’re all aged between twenty-five and thirty-five. Maybe the killer is attracted to the ages rather than physical descriptions. Also—” Y/N stops, sighing.

Even as she tries to string everything together, she knows Elijah is right. Too much of the evidence contradicts any profile they could scrape up. Ritualistic but not obsessive, disorganized but keeps to a schedule, passionate murders between unrelated victims. Nothing points them in any definitive direction. They’re grasping at straws here.

Sam and Dean creep to the forefront of her mind. She downs her coffee in one go. It heats her stomach, and she blames her rising temperature on the beverage rather than brimming anger. Clenching her fists, she crushes the paper cup. Elijah reaches over to rub her shoulder, massaging her tense muscles. “It’s okay, Y/N/N. We’ll catch this son of a bitch,” he encourages, misunderstanding her frustration.

She rubs her eyes, forcing them open. Wordlessly, Elijah fills hands here a new cup of coffee, topping himself off as well. They sit in silence, pouring over their respective files. The victims must have connections; even if Y/N allows herself to believe the Winchesters, she can’t believe monsters don’t have rituals. Psychology reaches further than humanity— scientists observe it in animals. In order to keep hope and keep going, Y/N trusts in the knowledge that all things in existence operate off of some code.

Another sigh, another gulp. “One more time. From the first victim. Elijah, there has to be something.”

He purses his lips, clear indignation warring his exhaustion and winning. Even still, he nods. “All right, Vic One: Stephanie Lane, age 27. She worked at the local vet clinic on Broad Street. Usual nine to five, Monday through Friday. Killer got her leaving work Thursday night, July Fifth, around six p.m. Scratched her up, took her heart. Passerby found her body two days later.” He wets his lips, staring at her file.

Y/N nods in confirmation, already well aware of the facts. With a fine-tooth comb, they revisit each victim after Stephanie Lane. Jonathan Grism, Marcus Kent, and, the most recent, Gabrielle Shaw. All with varying occupations and seemingly no connections, aside from enjoying the casual run or grueling hike. Despite their apparent love of nature, the Unsub chose to kill them in their daily routine.

On a whim, Y/N searches each date (July 5th, August 3rd, September 2nd, and October 1st) for any similarities in the dates, coming up short and further exasperated. Elijah keeps to himself while she abuses her keyboard, refusing defeat. Only on her fifth page of Google searches does she find anything worth noting; unfortunately it supports the Winchesters. Each murder occurred on a full moon.

She slams her laptop closed, finishing her coffee and crushing her cup. “I need a break, Elijah. Just some time to clear my head and get fresh eyes.” She stands, tossing her cup into the wastebasket. Elijah leans back, clasping his fingers behind his head. “I’m getting some sleep. You should too. You look like shit.”

Elijah laughs. “Thanks, Y/N/N. You don’t look too much better yourself.”

She shoves his shoulder as she passes, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. Elijah hollers something back, but she’s already out of the front doors. The crisp air helps the fog in her head, supplementing it with aches in her bones. Her boots crunch leaves with each step, and she forces her focus onto the noise.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Werewolves?

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The supernatural?

Crunch, crunch— smack.

A broad chest stops her, calloused fingers grasping her upper arm to steady her. Y/N looks up, palms pressing against a soft t-shirt, into effervescent green eyes. Dean grins down at her, the left corner of his lip tilted in an almost-sneer, if not for the mischief in his eyes. She rolls her eyes, pushing back against his firm chest. He releases her, hands up in mock surrender.

“Agent, fancy seeing you here.”

“Where? Outside of the station where I work? Must be kismet.” Sarcasm drips from her words like venomous honey, sickly sweet and sticky.

“Well, to be fair, you did say to tell you anything we find, so here I am.”

Her heart stutters, excited. They found something. This could be the end of the murders. Straightening her back and returning to Agent Y/L/N— locking Y/N into a tight box at the back of her mind— she faces Dean head on. “All right, what have you found?” Her voice lacks the previous emotion, all business and no play.

Dean sighs, a look flitting across his face and disappearing before Y/N can place it. “Walk with me.” He turns on his heel without awaiting her response, starting down the sidewalk.

She follows, despite the annoyance burning the bottom of her feet with each step. They continue down the street in silence, save for their steps and the seldom passing cars. While she wants answers, Y/N knows pestering delays the process. Dean seems like a man who has been through the ringer a couple times. If he shares similarities with herself, he won’t share anything until he’s ready— another form of control she wants to rip from his fingers.

By the time they reach the doors to the Sunshine Diner, Y/N must clench her fists to bury the frustration of unanswered questions. Dean holds the door, motioning for her to go in. In the back right corner of the restaurant sits Sam, typing furiously on his laptop. So. It appears Dean did search for her once they found something. Pleased at the notion, she lets some of the annoyance roll off her shoulders.

Dean settles in next to Sam, Y/N taking the opposing side of the booth. “So, get this,” Sam begins. “Your murders started four months ago, right? Well, turns out a small werewolf pack traveled from Washington to Portland because they drew too much attention to themselves. One of our connections in Seattle worked the case until they completely disappeared, no trace, no nothing. Within a month of leaving Washington, the Portland murders began.” He finished, peering at her through the too-long tendrils of his hair.

Y/N schools her face into indifference, despite her racing heart and sweating palms. He sounds so sure and calm, like they run into werewolves grocery shopping. Dean looks at her, too, sharp eyes searching for anything in her expression or body language.

For a moment of reprieve, the waitress approaches the table. Rushed and rough, the trio relay their orders: Sam an egg white omelet, Dean the Bacon Supreme, and Y/N another black coffee; she ignores her shaking hands and clammy skin. The server jots down their choices, rushing off to the next table.

Y/N clasps her fingers together, leaning forward. “That sounds like a nicely wrapped present with a bow on top. I need your process. How did you come to this conclusion? Who is this supposed hunter?”

Sam squints at her, mouth agape. “Those are your questions, really? Nothing about werewolves?” He turns to Dean, bewildered. Dean shrugs, looking all too comfortable for the topic of conversation.

The server returns with their drinks, setting the three coffees and one orange juice in front of the respective customers. As if purposefully slow, she takes her time to offer creamer or sugar, unaware of the tension. Dean taps one of his fingers on the surface of the table while Sam makes polite small talk with the waitress. Y/N continues to study the men before her. Finally, the server leaves once more.

“Listen, if I’m going to believe your bucket of crazy, then I’m going to believe it. So, no. I’m not going to ask about werewolves, I’m asking about the details of your research. I need to know how credible you are.”

This time, Dean leans forward, staring straight into her eyes and speaking low. “The hunter we know in Washington, Richard, kept track of them enough to know their comings and goings. He put out the word through the Hunter grapevine that he needed help with the… extermination of the pack, but by the time anyone could come to help, they migrated south. To here. We know it’s this pack because the victims share the same hobby: doing shit in nature. Runners, hikers, whatever. It makes them easy targets—”

“— Except they weren’t killed on hikes or runs. They were killed after work or errands or—”

Dean continues speaking, as if she hadn’t interjected. “—This specific pack only eats the heart, a common characteristic of werewolves. However, a lot of them eat more of the body, and depending on what they eat points to which pack is most likely to be the attacker. These sons of bitches blend in, except on the full moon, where they go apeshit for hearts. Richard identified the pack leader; Sam found where they’re holed up in. Good enough for you, Agent?”

She wants to slap the pleased look straight off of his plump lips and pretty green eyes. Instead, Y/N props her head up in her palm, keeping her eyes level with Dean’s, swallowing her ire and replacing it with feigned kindness. “Yes. When are we going to get them?” The thought of coming face to face with a monster rushes like winter water through her veins. She reminds herself she deals with monsters on the daily; hers only lack claws and fangs, and whatever else. The circumstances only vary slightly.

“We? There is no ‘we’, sweetheart. We kept you in the loop, like you asked, but you don’t know Jack from Shit about how the gank these fuckers. You do your job, and we’ll—”

Y/N raises her hand, silencing Dean. “Listen, sweetheart, I know the area. I’m guessing they’re staying at the Crest Apartments off of 205, right? Developers left it abandoned when the surveyors refused to clear it due to landslide likelihood. I know the woods, the city, everything. As for what I don’t know, you can teach me. I may not be trained in proper monster lore, but I know how to fight.”

Dean leans further forward, meeting her at the halfway mark of the table. He lowers his voice, speaking gruffly as if to admonish. “You might be an agent in the normal world, but to us you’re just a civvie. No matter what you think you can do, no matter what you think you know, you’ve never faced these things in real life. I’m not about to put your stubborn ass in danger just so you can prove a point.”

Y/N opens her mouth to retort, but Sam grabs Dean’s collar and pulls him back. “Enough with the pissing contest. I get it: you’re both badass,” he interrupts, at his wits end. “Listen, Y/N,” he begins, softer. “I’m sure you’re good at what you do. You got the location correct without any intel, save for what you know about your city. But Dean’s right. If you come, you’re more of a liability than helpful.”

Y/N closes her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it for five counts. When she exhales, she forces a smile upon her lips, albeit a bit sardonic, and opens her eyes. The men stare at her, awaiting her response. She stands, instead, straightening her jacket. “Gentleman, I’ll see you tonight. Bring an extra weapon, seeing as I’m sure normal bullets won’t kill a werewolf. Nine o’clock?” Rather than wait for a response, she nods her head and departs onto the street once more.

———————————————————————————————————

From the moment she stepped outside of the diner to the moment she parked her car behind Sam and Dean, her phone rang. Y/N assumed the alternating unknown numbers belonged to the brothers, likely wishing to dissuade her from joining their crusade. She ignored them, deleting any voicemails they left. She knows they’re right; she doesn’t know left from right when it comes to monsters. But it’ll be a cold day in Hell when she lets some terror run rampage in her city.

Instead, she chose to bide her time researching werewolf lore between several more cups of coffee. Luckily she came across a duo well versed in their knowledge: the Ghostfacers. Although they posted their most recent content a year ago, she assumes lore stays the same. Silver bullet, shot to the head or heart, werewolf down for the count.

Y/N alights from her car, closing the door. Sam and Dean stand at their trunk, rummaging through— an entire arsenal of weapons? Y/N still has half the mind to arrest them. First impersonating federal agents to knives and machetes and guns in a hidden compartment of their car? She forces anxiety down, instead choosing once again to believe Sam and Dean are not raging psychopaths. Every bone in her body screams to cuff them and book them; her entire career banks on capturing nuts jobs like these two.

Still, she makes her way to their car, stopping at her front bumper to lean on it. “So. Silver, huh?”

Sam turns to face her, loading his .45 absentmindedly as he takes in her appearance. Gone is her official suit, in its place jeans, boots, and a well-worn long-sleeve. Dean rummages through the trunk, ignoring her presence. “You researched,” Sam replies, more so a statement than a question.

“I don’t go in half cocked. Pun intended. Got any leftover bullets? I’ve got a .45, too,” she muses, patting her hip for emphasis.

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand, the other occupied with a magazine. “For the last time,” he begins, turning to face her, “I don’t want you here. We don’t want you here. If things get hairy in there, we can’t protect you, Y/N. You’re a liability. You don’t know—”

“— Jack from shit, yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, waving a hand. “Stow the crap, I’m coming. Now, do you want me going in defenseless or do you have silver to spare?” She stands straight, squaring her shoulders and holding her head high.

Sam covers a laugh with a cough, his attention trained on Dean. Y/N forces her unwavering gaze onto him, who in turn rolls his eyes. His shoulders sag in defeat as he returns attention to his trunk. Wordlessly, he passes her a simple pistol, already loaded. She adjusts her grip, searching for a comfortable hold.

“Thanks.”

Dean barely nods his head. Y/N leaves the pair for a moment, returning her own gun to the glove box and locking it.

Upon her return, Dean closes the trunk with a deafening slam, leaning against it. “All right, let’s get some things straight. We go in first, you follow. We’ll call clear and then we move forward as a group, understood?” Y/N wants to roll her eyes— Dean seems to forget she works raids on the regular— but she nods. “Good. We counted five. You see someone who isn’t us,” he motions between Sam and himself with his gun, “you shoot. Bullet to the heart will do the job.” He delivers a pointed look in her direction, awaiting confirmation.

“Got it.”

He looks at her for a moment, his eyes alight with enough fire to bore holes into her clothing. A familiar look hides behind his façade of rage; it rests on the tip of Y/N’s tongue. Perhaps a concoction of grief and hope. She sees it in herself when a case grows too heavy; grief for the pain and hope for the end. In this moment, Y/N feels like she knows Dean.

The moment breaks when he shakes his head and walks heavy footed to the building. Sam falls in line with Y/N, resting a hand on her shoulder to slow her. She cranes her neck to look him in the eye, skin burning whereupon his palm rests. “He doesn’t want casualties. He doesn’t have the best way of showing it, but Dean cares about people. He’s got enough blood on his hands.” Sam squeezes her shoulder, sparing a tight lipped smile, before dropping his hand.

A few long strides puts him next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder. Y/N hangs back, processing Sam’s vague confession. She understands the need to protect others. The most pressing motivation for joining the Bureau stems from this desire. These men fight in a war separate to her own, but not dissimilar. They’re two sides of the same coin, both Y/N and Dean aching to save, save, save.

She shrugs her shoulders, pushing the nerves building in her chest down to her toes. If Sam and Dean tell the truth of the awaiting horrors, she needs to ready herself. In matters of life and death, anxiety only increases the chances of death. Adrenaline only carries her so far before it peters out.

Dean stands at the front door, gun raised and legs parted. Sam stands to the side, hand on the handle. Y/N, as promised, stands back and behind Dean. With a nod from Dean, Sam pulls the handle, opening the heavy door. The brothers file in first, flashlights illuminating the unfinished floor and walls.

Their footsteps echo as they clear each room, a foreboding cadence through the empty halls. Dean looks back at Y/N, ensuring she still follows. She keeps her gun pointed to the ground and her senses open. At the first corner, Dean holds his arm out. Sam and Y/N flatten themselves against the wall while Dean looks around the corner. He nods, stepping out into the open once more.

A crunch from the right hallway drags Y/N’s attention from the brothers proceeding to the left. Peering down the corridor, she finds it empty. Just as she turns to catch up, another crunch sounds, followed by a squelch and a footstep. Looking behind her, Y/N finds Dean and Sam halfway down the hallway. “Dean!” she shouts as quietly as she can. He doesn’t turn. “Dean. Sam!”

Nothing.

She sighs, frustrated. One side begs her to run down the hallway to warn them; the other implores her to follow her gut and the noise. Another wayward glance in their direction and Y/N turns right. She steps carefully, avoiding debris. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

The further she travels down the hallway, the darker it gets. Footsteps and low voices grow closer as she reaches another left or right turn. She presses against the left wall, sparing a glance down the right corridor. Empty. The left hallway, however, offers cover to three silhouettes crowding in front of a closed door. She startles back, heart hammering against her ribs.

Y/N holds her breath, calming the relentless anxiety in her chest. Breathe in, hold four seconds, breathe out. Rinse and repeat. She looks back to where she last saw Sam and Dean; they’re gone. Great. Now she's truly dug herself an early grave.

With one last breath, Y/N turns the corner, aims and shoots. One of the people— werewolves— yowls in pain, collapsing to the ground. Yellow eyes glow in the dark, the only light from their end of the hall. Guttural growls roll from their chests as they stalk towards Y/N. She fires again. It hits the plaster, sending dust and shards flying.

“Fuck.”

The monsters pick up speed, running full force in her direction. She fires one more time, hitting one in the leg. It crashes to the floor, knees hitting the ground with a sickening crack. The other continues. Y/N whips around, running down the hallway towards Sam and Dean— she hopes. Her feet thump with each step and she pays little mind to the trash and tools on the ground.

A foolish mistake, it seems, as she stomps on an empty chip packet. Her right foot slips from beneath her, sending her careening to the ground. The side of her head smacks against the concrete. Her vision blacks for a moment before the pain spreads in webs from her cheek to her neck, down her back. The heavy footfalls of her pursuer sound muffled compared to the needling throbbing in her head.

With a groan, she pushes herself onto her hands and knees. A hand on the wall stabilizes her, she clambers to her feet. An unfortunate time to do so; the werewolf runs full force into her, slamming her onto the ground once more. Autopilot takes over as she raises her palms to the man’s chest, pushing as hard as she can.

He snarls, snapping his teeth as he tries to reach her neck. Y/N blocks his throat with her forearm, using her spare hand to blindly search for her gun. Instead of the handle, she grasps a wrench. Good enough. With as much force as she can muster, she clobbers the werewolf’s head. He falls off of her, a hand pressed to his bleeding forehead.

In the second of reprieve, she spots the pistol a few feet away. She throws herself through the air, grabbing the handle before turning onto her back, the gun pointed towards the monster.

He dives after her. Bang. The shot rings out through the hallway. His body tenses before relaxing completely, eyes half lidded and empty. Y/N rolls out of the way as it collides with the floor. Her breaths come ragged and short, but the fight persists. The unforgiving footsteps of her aggressors afford little time to catch her breath; she pushes herself up once more.

Panting, but not yet done, she turns towards the thundering steps. Sam and Dean race towards her, guns at the ready. “Oh, thank God.” She drops her guard and lowers her pistol to her side, leaning against the wall to catch her breath.

Dean reaches her first, fire in his eyes and coating his words. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you to stay with us, Y/N!” He grabs her chin, calloused fingers tilting her face to get a better look at her wounds. He pulls back, lifting and examining each arm. Y/N, too spent, lets him search for whatever he wants to find. She feels the welting of a bruise on her right cheek and a trickle of blood from her forehead.

“I got— I got three,” she gasps, watching Sam turn the werewolf over.

Dean releases her, shaking his head. She touches her cheek, wincing at its sensitivity. “Oh, how nice. You also almost got yourself killed. I swear to—”

“—Dean,” Sam warns. “There are two more. We can worry about this later.”

“I got— I killed one of the others, but the third one I just hit in the knee.” Admitting to killing something, despite it being a monster, settles heavily in her stomach. She presses her hand to her lips, forcing her lunch to stay put.

No time to puke, Y/N, she scolds herself.

Shaking her head, she compels herself to focus. She nods at Sam and Dean, who take their positions at the front once more. This time she has no intentions of abandoning their protection. They stalk forward, albeit not as carefully as before; the ruckus certainly alerted the rest of the pact to their presence. Turning the corner, they find the werewolf Y/N shot first. A trail of blood leads the room they convened outside of, the door open this time.

The trio step lightly and quickly to the room. Dean peers in before entering. Inside, the wounded werewolf leans against the wall, a hand pressed against his thigh. Dean shoots him on the spot, wasting no time. Another body lies in the corner, torn the shreds. Aside from the two corpses, the room yields no tell-tale signs of the rest of the pack. Even still, Sam and Dean survey every nook and cranny. Y/N hovers by the door, working on slowing her breath and calming her heart.

She peaks out into the hallway, just in case. The darkness limits her view, but she can’t hear anything either. Her ears ring, a relentless low buzzing from hitting her head and firing her gun too closely. Dean places a hand on her lower back as he passes, alerting her to his presence. The warmth spreads through her body, even when he lets go and walks ahead.

“Do you think they left?” she wonders aloud. It’s what she would do, but packs could think differently than humans.

Sam walks next to her, looking at her in his peripheral. “Maybe. But we want to clear the whole building, no stone left unturned and all that.”

She nods, instantly regretting it. Her brain tumbles around her head, hitting the walls and throbbing. Y/N rubs her temple, but says nothing. Lord knows Dean would already have a smartass retort on the tip of his tongue. Instead, she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

They clear the first floor easily, no signs of the last two. Dean leads them back to the front of the building to the stairwell. The door refuses to open, no matter how much force they use. The handle turns, but something on the other side blocks its pathway. Sam and Dean brace their backs against the door, plant their feet on the ground, and push as hard as they can. It budges slightly, only enough for them to see inside.

One of the railings torn from the stairs leans against the door, while another, wedged between the railing on the door and the first step of the stairs, holds it in place. They’d have to get in there to open the door. The brothers try once again, opening it a smidgen further.

As Sam and Dean discuss the next step, Y/N formulates her own plan. She knows the boys, Dean in particular, won’t like it. Stepping closer to them, she chooses to stand next to Sam, hoping for his support.

“Listen,” she interrupts. Both brothers run their attention to her, Sam’s eyebrows raised and Dean’s drawn down. For a moment, she wonders if they have other facial expressions or if they always look this perturbed. “I can fit in there,” she motions to the opening in the door, a crack about a foot wide. Dean opens his mouth to disagree, but she holds up a hand. “I’ll get in there and move the railings so you guys can get in too. Quick and simple. Won’t go off on my own, promise.”

Sam and Dean meet eyes, silently coming to an agreement. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Fine. Be quick.” He sets his steely gaze upon her face. “And, I fucking swear, Y/N— if you go off by yourself I will kill you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, you will.”

She shoves passed him, knocking his shoulder on purpose. He grumbles something under his breath, but moves out of the way. A deep breath in, Y/N sidles through the opening. She barely makes it, struggling to get around the railing. Once inside, she grasps the leaning railing, using her whole body to pull the steel from where it’s wedged. Inch by inch, she gets it out of the way.

It hits the floor with a reverberating clang, settling in the alcove beneath the stairs. The other falls to the ground, closing the door with its force. Y/N sighs, throwing her head back in frustration. Fists bang on the other side of the door, Dean shouting her name along with profanities.

“I’m fine, you oaf. Give me a second,” she yells back, exasperated.

“Hurry up, Y/N.”

She groans, sinking to her knees for more leverage. Breathlessly, she retorts, “I. Am. Trying.” With a grunt, she pushes the steel into a vertical position. “All right, you should have enough—”

“Need a hand?” a low voice taunts from above.

Y/N looks up. An unassuming woman stands at the platform of the first level, hands on her hips and an all teeth grin baring her lips. “Dean?” she yells, urgent and frightened. The door opens with enough room for Sam and Dean to squeeze through.

Dean barges in first, gun raised. He casts a glance at Y/N, following her gaze to the landing. Mechanically, he pulls the trigger. The woman falls with a thud. Y/N lets out a breath, hands white knuckling the railing and eyes trained on the body. Sam grabs the metal while Dean pries Y/N’s fingers off, more gently than he’s been with her all day.

She looks at him, eyes wide. As much as she wants to act fearlessly, she’s seen more people— things— die in front of her today than in her entire life. Dean nods, as if to say It’s okay, we get it. She steps back, letting him take the railing. Together, the brothers shift it to rest upon the other.

Y/N closes her eyes, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her nails dig crescents into her palms, the stinging centering her. Okay. Okay. I can do this. Her skin burns under the gaze of Sam and Dean, even if she can’t see them herself. Opening her eyes, she focuses on the men before her.

“You good?” Dean asks, warm and low, a hand reaching out to her.

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go.” She motions before her, allowing them to take the lead again.

Four down, one to go, Y/N reminds herself with each step. The task seems less daunting with the odds in their favor at three against one. On the second platform, they exit into the hallway. The builders didn’t get so far as to hinge a door to the opening, thankfully. The trio stalk down the corridor, straining to hear anything out of place.

The end of the hallway yields a wall and two doors opposite of each other— one opened and one closed. The brothers broach the entryway of the open room, clearing it with a quick sweep. Similar to how they entered the building, Dean stands in front of the closed door while Sam grasps the handle. Pushing it open, Dean rushes in, Y/N and Sam following closely behind.

The door slams shut behind them. Y/N whips around, ready to fire and finish the job. She stumbles, lowering her weapon, jaw dropped. Dean steps in front of her, half blocking her from— “Elijah?” Dean looks back at Y/N, brows furrowed and lips parted. Sam rests a hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” he taunts, almost as if scolding her. “I see you’re running around with scum. I thought you were better than that.”

She shakes her head, struggling to wrap her head around the man before her— her friend— being a monster. “What— how…”

He rolls his eyes. “Wah-how? Blah, blah, blah. You were always so naive.” He twirls a knife between his fingers, a small smirk dancing on his lips. Y/N looks away, unable to handle Elijah being the culprit she sought so long to capture. “When they came to town all those months ago, I caught one of them. I was ready to cuff ‘em and book ‘em, like we’re trained. But Eddie, the one you shot in the leg, Y/N, presented an offer I couldn’t refuse.” His voice glides like silk over her skin. It takes everything not to vomit.

“Only downside is once a month I’d get a little craz—”

The shot rings clear in the air, stopping Elijah’s tirade. Y/N’s head shoots up in time to watch him crumble to the ground. He settles with a soft finality, folded over himself. Dean turns around, saying something, but she can’t hear him. She shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her knees give out, collapsing. Sam falls with her, softening the blow.

She pushes off of him. “Get off of me, get off of me,” she screeches, banging her fists into his chest until he releases her. He holds his hands up in surrender as she scrambles a few feet away.

Y/N rests on her knees, forehead touching the cool ground as if in prayer. Dirt and dust grind in her wound, she knows, but she can’t feel it. She can only replay Elijah’s fall. The separation of the man she knew and the man who he became felt too small. She never noticed a difference. He acted the same: kind, funny, a good agent. A good friend.

Her sobs wrench in her chest, burning her throat. She wants to scream, but it comes out strangled, reverberating from the ground back to her— furious and despairing and inconsolable. Running her fingers through her hair, she grips the roots needing something to hold. Everything feels new in a terrible, sickening way. Just yesterday she believed she and Elijah would put the murderer behind bars. Now, she knows monsters exist. She fought one. She knew one.

Y/N breathes in, steeling herself. The man she knew died four months ago. She pushes herself onto her hind legs, wiping her tears. The burn of her fingers against her wounds calm her. Dealing with physical pain numbs the emotional. She presses her fingers to the bruise, hissing but reveling in the tenderness.

She struggles to her feet, all too aware of the aches in her legs, and turns to face Sam and Dean. They stand by the door, leaning on the border. In her moment of desolation, they moved Elijah somewhere. Out of her sight. Not wanting attention, or Are you okay’s, she pushes past them, avoiding contact. Silently, they follow her to the stairwell and out onto the street. The cool air dries her tears and fills her lungs. For the first time since peering around that godforsaken corner, she can breathe.

Sam and Dean keep a respectable distance, letting her lead them to the cars. Wordlessly, Y/N returns the gun to Dean’s grasp, leaning against her front bumper. She tilts her head back to gaze at the waning moon.

“You good?” Dean asks, settling next to her.

She looks at him, really looks at him, for perhaps the first time. The green of his eyes highlight the bags beneath them. His laugh lines contradict the exhaustion heavy on his lips. His shoulders hang low, weighed down by the knowledge of darkness and pain.

Y/N sighs, accepting the beer he offers her. “I’ll be all right.” She means it. Maybe her monsters don’t have fangs and claws and familiar faces, but they’re monsters all the same. “You know what’s funny?” Dean raises an eyebrow, taking a swig of his El Sol. “I’ve seen worse,” she giggles.

Dean looks away, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Yeah? Like what?”

She sips her beer, too, thinking of a good story. “One time there was this weird inbred family that captured people and hunted them down. Had a barn with cages and shit. They kept their victims cars in a junkyard-graveyard thing, and—”

Sam and Dean share a look before busting out laughing. She glances between them, offended at their mockery. “All right, I’ll keep my stories to myself, then.”

“No,” Sam gets out between bursts. “No, we, um— we hunted those guys. Thought they were monsters. Turned out to be hicks with too much time on their hands.”

It’s Y/N’s turn to laugh. “No fucking way! Must’ve just missed each other.” She shakes her head, taking another sip.

“Small world,” Dean whispers into his bottle.

They settle into a comfortable silence, the tension from the day drained. Y/N lets her mind wander— from meeting these men to now, and everything between. She tries to think back to before all this; before yesterday. The person who stood on the outskirts of the caution tape versus the person who sits on the hood of her car are miles apart.

“Oh, that reminds me.” She pushes off of her bumper, unlocking her car. From the inside door she grabs two small booklets. Y/N passes the fake badges to the respective users. “A few tips: don’t use famous names. That’s the first thing that gave you away. Secondly,” she takes Dean’s badge back, opening it up. “Your official federal insignia is too low. It should be square with your picture. And your serial code is the wrong date. The first number—sometimes letter— is the year this was manufactured. We get new badges every two years, alternating between numbers and letters. Right now,” she says, opening her own booklet, “we are on letter Q.” She passes the badge back to Dean, who pockets it.

Sam nods, “Thanks for the information.”

“Yeah, I just love helping people—”

“— impersonate federal officers,” Dean and Sam interrupt, saying it in unison.

She laughs. “I’m glad you guys didn’t turn out to be crazy.”

In another pocket of silence, they finish their beers. Dean grabs the empty bottles, tossing them into a beat up green cooler while Sam turns to rest on the side of the Impala. Y/N readies herself to say goodbye, ignoring the ache in her chest. She refuses to admit it aloud, but she wishes she met them under different circumstances. She wishes she met Dean under different circumstances.

Despite only knowing him for two days, Y/N can see herself in Dean. He bears the same weight she bears. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that his eyes remind her of fresh cut grass at the beginning of fall. Paired with his smell of cinnamon and gunpowder (a scent she knows all too well), she can’t help but want to know him. If they had met in a bar, she would definitely have taken him home.

Dean returns to her side, this time shoulder to shoulder. “You think you can handle that?” he inquires, pointing to her forehead and cheek.

She touches it gingerly. “Yeah, I think so.”

He nudges her shoulder with his, and she looks up at him. “You did well, tonight. Better than I thought you would, honestly.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Yeah, that’s what you get for doubting me.”

He looks ahead again, and she does, too. The sky brightens as the sun returns for its reign. The fatigue from the last twenty-four hours settles in, and, without much thought, she rests her head on Dean’s shoulder. He tenses for a moment, and she feels him look down at her, but he lets his shoulders sag again. He places a hand on her thigh, squeezing it gently, as if to say I’m right here. I’ve got you.

At least, she hopes that’s what he means.

The sun finishes its creep into the sky and the stars fade into a blanket of pink, orange, and purple. Y/N and Dean hop down from the hood of her car and Sam meets them between the bumpers once more. Sam dips down to hug Y/N first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing tight. She fights not to groan when his grasp aggravates the aches in her bones. He releases her, casting a smile in her direction.

“Thank you for your help, Y/N. Here,” he passes her a torn piece of paper with two numbers scrawled across. One has an “S” next to it, the other a “D”. “These are our numbers. Call us if you run into anything else.”

She nods, grinning too. “The same applies to you guys. It doesn’t hurt to have someone on the inside.”

He pats her arm before taking his leave, settling into the passenger seat. Y/N turns to Dean. He doesn’t look like much of a hugger, so she extends her hand for a shake. Rolling his eyes, he grabs it, but wraps it around his waist. Dean envelopes her in his arms, holding tighter than Sam with one hand in her hair and the other barred across her shoulders. This time, she welcomes it, in spite of the pain.

He lets her go, but keeps his hands on her shoulders. “I mean it, Y/N.” His voice is low and sinful. “If you need anything, call us. Call me.”

“Anything?” she drawls playfully. He nods, regardless. “Even just to talk?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” His right hand travels up to her neck. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, not entirely sure of his intentions but welcoming anything. He pulls her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Get home safe, Y/N,” he mumbles upon releasing her.

“You too, Dean.”

She waits for him to get in his car before she clambers into her driver’s seat. Her bones creek as she settles. Twisting her keys in the ignition, she rolls the windows down and heads home. Werewolves of London blares across her speakers, and she laughs. Yeah. She’ll be all right.

Taglist:

@angelicthreads

#dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #fbi!reader #supernatural #supernatural fic #SUPERNATURAL AU #werewolf of portland

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