thoughtfulangeltidalwave

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 19)

The house was dark when Dean stepped inside, save for the low glow of the kitchen light. It smelled like whiskey and stale perfume, and the second he shut the door behind him, he knew—something was wrong.

Abigail sat at the kitchen table, a half-empty glass in front of her, fingers tapping idly against the wood. She didn’t even look up when he walked in, just let out a slow, tired sigh.

“You’re late,” she said, voice detached.

Dean shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of a chair. “Yeah, well. Work ran over.” 

She finally looked at him then, her eyes hazy but sharp. “You’re always working late.”

He rubbed a hand down his face, already exhausted. “What’s this about, Abby?”

She swirled the whiskey in her glass before taking another sip. Then, as if the words barely mattered, she said, “I don’t want this anymore.”

Dean stilled. “What?”

“This.” She gestured around the kitchen, her ring flashing under the dim light. “This life. You. The kids. I never wanted it, Dean.”

His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to stay calm. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she said, her voice sharpening. “And you know it. You’ve always known it.”

Dean took a slow step forward, but she stood, pushing her chair back with a scrape. She wasn’t finished. “He’s leaving for Hollywood soon,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I’m going with him.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. “Who? Abby can we just—”

 “Charlie.” She smiled cutting him off, like she’d been waiting for him to ask.

The name meant nothing to him. Some man. Some dreamer with promises too big for his hands. But to her, he was an escape. A way out.

Dean let out a bitter laugh. “You really think he’s gonna make you a star?”

She glared. “He believes in me.”

“No, he’s feeding you lines, Abigail.” His voice was steel now, but underneath, there was something breaking. “We’ve got two kids upstairs, a baby on the way—”

She shook her head, cutting him off. “That baby’s not yours, Dean.”

The words were a bullet to the chest.

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Dean swallowed hard. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. “Say that again.”

Abigail lifted the glass to her lips, took one last sip, and set it down. “It’s not yours.” She said shrugging her shoulders.

He took a step back but felt unsteady, the floor shifting beneath him. She was so cold about it, so nonchalant. “And you knew?” His voice was hoarse now. “This whole time, you knew?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned, walking toward the hallway. “I’m packing my things.”

And then she was gone.

Dean stayed rooted in place, his breath coming sharp and shallow. His hands shook.  He should go after her. Stop her. But he didn’t want to. He braced himself against the counter, staring at the wood grain, trying to keep it together—but it was too much. The exhaustion, the betrayal, the weight of his children’s future pressing down on him, and somewhere in the back of his mind—

Y/N.

His vision blurred, and before he knew it, his knees buckled. He slid down against the cabinets, his hands gripping his hair, his chest rising and falling too fast. The house was too quiet now. No yelling, no crying. Just him. Alone.

And for the first time in years—he broke.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 18)

The dim light of the cell cast long shadows across the stone floor, the faint sound of the guards’ footsteps echoing down the hall.

Y/N sat at her desk, pencil in hand, a sketch of Mr. Jingles slowly coming to life on the page. Her thoughts, though, wandered elsewhere.

The door creaked open, and without a word, Dean stepped inside. He settled himself on the cot beside her, the weight of his presence familiar, comforting even in this place. He didn’t try to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter, and she appreciated that.

“Hey,” he said quietly, drawing her gaze from the sketch to him.

“Hey,” she murmured back, offering a faint smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

He watched her for a moment, his fingers fidgeting slightly, clearly unsure of how to begin. “You know… I’ve been thinking about the kids,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if the words carried more weight than he was used to sharing. “Lily’s been fussing a lot lately, always crying, and I just… I can’t help but want to give her the world, Y/N. To keep her safe. Danny too. He’s a handful, but he’s got such a big heart. I just… I’m scared I’m not enough for them, you know?”

Y/N could hear the sadness in his voice, the fear that came with being a father, even one as dedicated as Dean. She set her pencil down, her fingers tracing the edges of the paper as she thought about her own children.

“I get it,” she said softly, her voice distant. “I’ve had a lot of moments where I didn’t feel like I was enough for them. But we do the best we can. You’re doing the best you can, Dean. And that’s all they need, really. To know you love them.”

Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on her. “Yeah… it’s just hard, sometimes. My wife… she’s not exactly the most attentive. She’s got her own things to deal with, and I feel like I’m the only one holding it together. I just don’t want to screw them up, you know?”

Y/N looked at him, her heart aching for him. She could see the weight of it all in his eyes. She’d never really thought about how much Dean must carry every day. His family, his responsibilities, his own fears, all hidden behind that tough exterior.

“I don’t think you could screw them up, Dean,” she said gently. “You’re too good. You’ll figure it out. We all do, one way or another.”

He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile, as if even that small bit of reassurance wasn’t enough to ease the burden he carried. “I wish it was that simple.”

She shrugged, offering a small, understanding nod. “It’s never simple. But you’re not alone in it.”

He nodded, as if that small truth, shared between the two of them, could carry them both through the hard times ahead.

But as Y/N glanced down at her sketch again, the small comfort of their conversation started to wane. The weight of her own past—the ghosts of her children, the memory of her husband—crept in quietly, and she clenched her hands into fists.

“I miss them,” she whispered, barely audible.

Dean’s expression softened, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “Come here” he said softly, holding out one of his arms to her. 

Slowly she took it, moving from the desk to her cot where she lay with her head in his lap as he held her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this, but here even in her cell in his embrace she felt safe. 

“I know you miss them,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you didn’t do this. I know you didn’t, you aren’t a killer” he safe resting his head on her shoulder.

She couldn’t help but let the tears well up, though she kept them from spilling over. She was so tired of carrying the weight of everything alone. But there, in that small moment, with Dean’s words hanging in the air like a fragile thread between them.

“I am Dean,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

“I don’t believe you” he did didn’t say anything else, he just held her as tear fell down her face.

As the silence between them deepened, the weight of the moment bore down on them both. Y/N was being destroyed by her secrets and Dean felt powerless to help.

But just as Y/N was starting to feel courage to say something, the sound of the door sliding open broke the quiet.

“Y/N,” Paul’s voice came from the threshold, warm but with the usual undertone of authority. “Your sister’s here to see you.”

———————————————————————

Paul escorted Y/N to the meeting room. She’d been waiting for Sophie’s visit for a while now. Though she was grateful for the support, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of anxiety.

When she entered the room, Sophie stood up quickly from the table a look of defiant confidence crossing her face. “I’ll leave you two to talk, but I’ll be just over here if you need anything” Paul said in a low voice to her.

Y/N hesitated, her hand resting on the edge of the door frame, and then she stood tall, gathering her thoughts, trying to steady herself for what was to come.

Sophie walked over to her, her posture immediately stiff with purpose. She was the same as always—serious, but with a warmth in her eyes that made Y/N feel safe, even if it was hard to admit it aloud.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sophie greeted softly, walking over to Y/N and wrapping her in a brief hug. “How are you holding up?”

Y/N tried to smile but failed. “I’m making it,” she replied, the words feeling hollow.

Sophie pulled back, studying her face. “I’ve got some news. Good news, I think.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She tried to steady her breath. “What’s that?”

Sophie paused, her eyes flickering with a hint of hesitation, before she spoke. “I’ve been talking to John, Sebastian and his team in New York. They’ve been working on your case, trying to get a clearer picture of what happened with your husband. And, well… they’ve got a solid case, Y/N. They’re building it up, piece by piece. Your husband… he wasn’t the man he appeared to be.”

Y/N’s stomach clenched. She wanted to feel relieved, wanted to believe in the hope Sophie was offering her, but the memory of her husband—his anger, his cruelty—was still so vivid. It made her feel small, insignificant, despite everything she’d already been through.

“They’ve found evidence that he was an abusive alcoholic. Sebastian’s team they… they tracked down witnesses, people from the old neighborhood, and they’re pulling together enough to make a real case. You’re not the monster they tried to make you out to be, Y/N. Not even close.”

Y/N’s hands trembled, and she bit her lip, trying to keep herself together. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to be like that. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just—I wanted to protect my children.”

Sophie’s expression softened, and she took a step closer, her voice low and comforting. “I know. And that’s why we’re going to keep fighting for you. Because you did what any mother would do. You saved them.”

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes again, this time not from pain, but from a release she hadn’t realized she needed. For so long, she had carried the weight of everything, questioning her choices, her actions, even her worth. But now, there was a glimmer of something—hope, maybe—that she could finally hold onto.

“I’m scared,” Y/N admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that no one will believe me.”

Sophie reached out, gently resting her hand on Y/N’s. “They will. I promise you. This is just the beginning.”

As Sophie spoke, Y/N couldn’t help but glance over at Paul, who had quietly stayed in the corner, watching the exchange with a thoughtful look on his face.

Sophie noticed the look, following Y/N’s gaze. “You know, I spoke to that Mr Edgecomb before I came in. He’s got your back, Y/N, apparently all the guards in the Mile do. And you’ve got his. Don’t forget that.”

The words settled over her like a soft blanket, but Y/N still couldn’t shake the sense of being lost in this maze of memories, of guilt. She wanted to believe in the future Sophie was painting for her, but the past held too many shadows. Still, for the first time in what felt like ages, she allowed herself a small glimmer of hope.

“Thank you,” Y/N whispered to Sophie, the words carrying the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

Sophie gave her a small, knowing smile. “We’re not giving up, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 17)

The scratch of pencil against paper was the only sound filling the space between them.

John Coffey sat on his cot, hands resting on his knees, his broad frame somehow at ease in the cramped cell. His eyes—gentle, full of quiet knowing—watched Y/N as she worked, her hand moving steadily over the page.

She sat on the floor just outside his cell, one knee bent, the other stretched out in front of her, bracing the sketchpad against her leg. Her hands were stained slightly with lead, her wrist brushing over the paper as she shaded in the deep lines of John’s features—the slope of his brow, the curve of his cheekbones, the kindness in his tired eyes.

“You real good at that, miss,” John said softly, his voice like a low rumble of thunder in the distance.

Y/N glanced up, a small, almost shy smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve had a lot of time to practice.”

John nodded, as if he understood more than just what she was saying. “What you draw ‘fore you got here?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her fingers tightening around the charcoal. “People, mostly,” she admitted. “The ones I love. The ones I miss..”

John’s gaze softened even further. “Maybe they still with you. Even when you cain’t see ‘em no more.”

She swallowed hard, looking away before he could see too much. The sound of slight banging came from behind her in the restraint room, Billy had been acting up again and needed some time to reflect.

She went back to her drawing trying to focus but a shadow moved in her periphery, and she knew without looking who it was.

Dean shuffled over, hands in his pockets, lingering just outside the bars. He was quieter than usual, careful. Y/N hadn’t spoken much to him since their fight, and she knew he was giving her space, waiting for her to come to him when she was ready.

John smiled up at him. “Hullo, Boss Stanton.”

Dean let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “Just Dean, John. We’ve been through enough together, don’t you think?”

John gave a small nod. “I think so.”

YN glanced between them, watching the way Dean’s expression lightened as he talked to John. It was rare to see him like this—unburdened, if only for a moment. He was always so tense, so tightly wound, carrying more than his fair share of weight on his shoulders. But with John, he seemed… lighter. And she could understand why.

Dean tilted his head, peering at Y/N’s drawing. “That me?”

Y/N scoffed. “Yeah, because you’ve got shoulders like a damn house.”

Dean smirked, crouching down beside her. “Hey, I dunno. I work hard,” he said, rolling up his sleeve to flex his arm. “You’re tellin’ me that’s not impressive?”

John let out a deep chuckle, and Y/N shook her head, biting back a reluctant smile. “I think Mr. Jingles has got more muscle than you, Stanton.”

Dean clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me, darlin’.”

The pet name caught both of them off guard. Dean immediately cleared his throat, looking away, and Y/N went rigid, her grip tightening on her pencil. The moment felt too familiar, too easy, and she wasn’t ready for that yet.

John watched the two of them carefully, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. But if he saw something they didn’t, he didn’t say.

Instead, he looked back at Y/N’s drawing. “You do a real fine job, Miss Y/N. Make me look better than I am.”

Y/N smiled, the tension easing just a little. “You don’t need any fixing, John.”

John nodded, like he understood something she didn’t, and Y/N had the sudden feeling that if anyone on this Mile truly saw her, it was him. 

“Dean you’re making me nervous,” Y/N said looking up at him leaning her head against one of the bars of John’s cell.

“Well you do draw good Miss, it’s nice to watch” John reasoned.

“It’s just looked like you two were havin’ a bit more fun than them down there” he said pointing at Harry, Brutus, and Paul, who all looked slightly disgruntled as they went about their paperwork at the top of the Mile.

“Do you do any good drawin’ Boss Stanton?” John asked.

Dean laughed slightly and shook his head, “no, no, not a bit of artistic talent here,” he said holding his hands up slightly.

“You could try drawin’ me? I don’t thinks I’m too hard to draw” John offered.

Y/N was slightly amused at John’s insistence that Dean draw something. 

“Here Dean, why don’t you try?” Y/N said in a slightly smug way, holding out her sketchbook and pencil, looking up at him expectantly.

Dean looked from John to Y/N, quickly running his hand through his hair, “No, really, I don’t think—“ he stuttered.

“Well you either try drawing something for us or do whatever riveting work the others are doing” Y/N insisted.

Dean took a breath before caving, taking the sketchbook and pencil from Y/N, turning to a new page, looking at John intensely and drawing a few sharp lines on the page.

Y/N covered her face with her hand trying not to laugh as she looked at John, who seemed equally as amused.

“You know it’s easier if you balance it on something solid, like your knee” Y/N told Dean who still looked as though he was struggling.

“What like sit on the floor?” He asked slightly dumbfounded.

“Yes Dean, sit on the floor”

Dean took a few tentative steps towards her, “may I then?” he asked pointing to the space beside her.

“I suppose… that way I can give you notes” Y/N said shuffling closer to the bars as Dean slowly sat beside her. 

Dean slowly attempted to draw John as Y/N gave him a few pointers, and the there. 

Their quiet moment didn’t last long.

From across the Mile, Delacroix let out a delighted laugh causing both Y/N and Dean to look up as Mr. Jingles darted across the floor, the tiny spool clutched between his paws. The little mouse had always been a bright spot in this dark place, a reminder that joy could exist even here, even now.

Y/N watched with a small smile, feeling something warm settle in her chest—until the moment shattered.

Percy stepped forward, quick as a flash, his boot coming down hard.

The sickening crunch echoed through the Mile.

Del’s scream was immediate, raw with anguish. “NO! NO! YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!”

Y/N didn’t think. She reacted.

“Y/N STOP” Dean yelled.

She was on her feet before she even realized it, lunging at Percy, shoving him back with everything she had. “YOU MONSTER!” she screamed, her voice cracking with fury. “YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM JUST TO BE CRUEL!”

Percy staggered, caught off guard, but recovered quickly. His expression twisted in rage, and before she could move, his hand lashed out, striking her hard across the face.

The force of it sent her stumbling, pain exploding along her cheekbone.

She barely had time to react before Dean was there.

He was between them in an instant, grabbing Percy by the front of his uniform and slamming him back into the nearest wall. “You lay a hand on her again, and I swear to God, I will—”

“Dean!” Paul’s sharp voice cut through the tension, grounding them.

Dean held Percy there for a long moment, chest heaving, before shoving him away. Percy stumbled but didn’t fight back. He just glared at all of them, humiliated, before storming off, muttering curses under his breath.

Silence hung thick in the air.

Paul knelt down, carefully picking up the tiny, lifeless body of Mr. Jingles. Del sobbed into his hands, his whole body shaking.

John, who had been silent until now, looked at Paul with that same steady, knowing gaze. “Boss Edgecomb… I can help.”

Paul hesitated, glancing at the others. Slowly, he stepped forward, placing the mouse into John’s waiting hands.

Y/N wiped her sleeve across her cheek, ignoring the sting, and moved closer. She watched as John cupped the tiny creature between his palms, his lips parting as he took in a deep breath.

And then—

The room seemed to shift.

The air crackled, heavy and electric. A soft glow, almost imperceptible, surrounded John’s hands. Y/N felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, her breath caught in her throat.

John let out a deep, shuddering exhale, and when he opened his hands—

Mr. Jingles stirred.

A collective breath released. Del gasped, scrambling forward, tears still streaming down his face. “Oh—oh, mon dieu—he’s alive, he’s alive!”

Relief washed over the room. The guards exhaled, their bodies untensing. Paul gave a small, stunned laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. Even Harry, usually quick to crack a joke, could only blink in amazement.

Y/N stepped back, letting it all sink in. She felt the exhaustion settle deep in her bones.

Dean was beside her before she even realized it.

He hesitated for only a second before he pulled her into his arms.

She let out a shaky breath, gripping the back of his shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her hair, voice rough with emotion. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was angry and—God, I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes, the fight draining out of her. “I forgive you.”

Dean’s arms tightened around her, holding her closer. When they broke away he cupped her cheek, she winced but it didn’t hurt anymore.

“Come with me, I’ll take you to the medical wing” Dean said holding her hand.

“It’s fine… I’m fine, he hits like a child”

Y/N laughed slightly.

“Y/N please…”

“Dean… we can’t” she whispered. This broke Dean from his trance like state, he took a step back from her looking at the others. Thankfully for them, Paul, Brutus and Harry were still looking at John, completely unaware of Dean and Y/N.

“Alright” Paul said “enough gawking boys… let’s leave him.” Slowly all the guards left the  Mile, Dean being the last, his gaze lingering on Y/N who was still fixated on the little mouse who 5 minutes ago was dead, and who was now running around on Del’s cot.

——————

That night the Mile was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that settled deep in the bones, making it impossible to escape the thoughts creeping in with the dark.

Y/N lay on the cot in her cell, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come, not after what she had seen. Mr. Jingles had been gone—dead—and then he wasn’t. John had brought him back. She had seen it with her own eyes.

Her fingers curled into the thin blanket, the question twisting in her chest like a blade.

She turned her head toward John’s cell, his large figure barely visible in the dim glow of the lamps. He sat on his cot, shoulders heavy, hands resting on his knees. Even in the dark, she could see the weight he carried.

Y/N swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “John?”

His head lifted slightly, just enough to show he’d heard.

She hesitated, staring at the bars between them. “Can you bring people back?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable. Then, finally, he let out a deep breath, his head shaking.

“No, miss,” he said softly, his voice raw, heavy with sorrow. “I cain’t.”

Y/N’s eyes burned. She clenched her jaw, pressing her fingers against her lips to keep them from trembling.

She had known the answer before she asked. But some part of her had still hoped.

Her children.

John had saved a mouse, something so small, so fragile. But he couldn’t save them.

She turned onto her side, facing the wall. “Okay,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry,” John said, his voice barely more than a breath.

Y/N shut her eyes.

She didn’t answer.

She just lay there in the quiet, listening to the Mile breathe. At the other end, Brutus, who’d been listening to the whole conversation silently put his head in his hands. He knew it now without a doubt, Y/N didn’t belong here, she didn’t do what she was accused of, she couldn’t have, she’d soon be executed for a crime she didn’t commit, and there was nothing that he, or Paul, or even Dean as much as he wanted, could do about it.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 16)

Delacroix was still grinning as he stepped back onto the Mile. His eyes sparkled with childlike pride, his chest puffed out just a little more than usual. Mr. Jingles perched in his cupped hands, his tiny nose twitching, completely unaware of the weight of the moment.

The guards were already there, waiting. Paul clapped Del on the back, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

“You did real good, Del.”

Harry nodded. “Jingles, too. Put on quite the show I hear!”

Brutus gave a small smirk, arms crossed over his chest. Even Dean, still tense from the fight with Y/N, gave Del a quiet nod.

Del beamed, rocking on his heels. “You hear that, cher? You done so good.” He lifted Mr. Jingles up, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That man from Washington gonna tell the President ‘bout you.”

Y/N had stayed in her cell, keeping to herself since storming off. But now, as she took in the sight of Del practically glowing with happiness, she forced herself to shake off the lingering tension. Taking a slow breath, she stepped forward.

Del noticed her immediately, his smile widening. “You see that, ma belle? Jingles gon’ be famous.”

Y/N managed a small smile in return. “Yeah, I saw.” Her voice was softer now, the anger from before fading into something warmer. “You did real good, Del.”

He grinned, then carefully held out Mr. Jingles. “You wanna hold ‘im?”

She hesitated for only a moment before reaching out. The little mouse was warm and light in her hands, his tiny whiskers brushing against her skin as he sniffed curiously.

“You really are a special little guy, huh?” she murmured, stroking his fur with the tip of her finger.

For a brief moment, the Mile didn’t feel so cold.

Then Percy spoke.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping forward. “Gotta say, Del, I’m impressed.”

Del’s whole body stiffened, his grip on Mr. Jingles tightening just slightly as Y/N instinctively handed him back.

Percy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah… real good show. We’re all real proud!”

The moment stretched, thick with unease. Del’s wariness was clear, and Y/N could feel it too, an itch beneath her skin.

Then—

“Boo.”

Del let out a startled yelp, stumbling back. Mr. Jingles squeaked, clinging to his shirt.

Percy laughed. Loud. Too loud. But he was the only one.

No one else was smiling.

Paul’s expression darkened. Brutus shot Percy a sharp glare. Even Dean, who had been quiet until now, looked at Percy like he wanted to knock him flat.

Del swallowed hard, eyes darting around before he mumbled something in French and hurried back into his cell.

Y/N exhaled through her nose. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

She hated this place.

She was about to retreat back to her own cell when it happened.

Percy, still smug from his little joke, got too close.

Billy was faster than anyone expected.

His arm shot out between the bars, grabbing Percy by the collar. The fabric bunched in his fist as he yanked him hard against the steel. Percy let out a strangled yelp, his smirk vanishing instantly.

Y/N had been standing too close, too. Her body tensed as Percy’s free hand latched onto her wrist.

She jerked back on instinct, her whole body recoiling. But Percy’s grip was firm, his fingers like a vice around her skin.

“Hot damn,” Billy drawled, his lips curling. “Would ya look at this? Ain’t we all just gettin’ real friendly?”

Y/N stiffened, keeping her distance as much as she could, her stomach twisting at the way his fingers burned against her skin. The others had kept into action yelling at Billy.

“LET HIM GO BILLY!” Paul shouted.

Billy toyed with Percy, taunted him and after terrifying him then only letting him go just to laugh in his face. Percy shoved Y/N away desperately running and clinging to the bars of the cell on the other side of the Mile.

She stumbled back, her feet unsteady, but before she could fall, she hit something solid.

Dean.

His arms caught her immediately, steady and secure. He pulled her in, holding her close as he positioned himself between her, Percy, and Billy.

Y/N barely registered the way his hand pressed against her waist, grounding her. Her heart was pounding too hard, her as breathing uneven.

Then Percy wet himself.

And everything about the Mile became unbearable.

Y/N turned away, her stomach twisting in disgust—not just at Percy, not just at Billy, but at all of it. At what this place did to people.

Dean’s grip on her tightened slightly, his hand came up to cup her head holding it to his chest, as if trying to anchor her, trying to silently tell her she was safe.

But she didn’t want comfort. Not from him. Not from anyone. She wanted to leave the Mile. She wanted her children back. She wanted justice. 

Feeling overwhelmed she pushed against his chest, untangling herself from his arms. He let go immediately but didn’t move away, his brows knitting together as he watched her.

Paul was saying something, his voice firm, issuing orders. Brutus was moving Percy, dragging him away as the younger guard trembled, his face ashen. Harry muttered something under his breath, shaking his head at the whole mess.

Y/N barely heard any of it.

She turned on her heel and walked, fast, back toward her cell. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. The feeling of Percy’s grip, the heat of Dean’s hands, the sound of Percy’s shaking breath—

It was all too much.

She stepped inside, bracing herself against the desk, her breathing sharp and uneven.

Behind her, Dean hesitated in the doorway.

She felt him there, the weight of his presence.

But she didn’t turn around.

After a moment, she heard him exhale quietly. Then his boots scuffed against the floor as he turned and walked away, leaving her alone.

She sat down, staring at nothing.

And for the first time since stepping onto the Mile, she wished she could disappear.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 15)

The Mile was alive that morning as Delacroix proudly followed Paul out of his cell. Mr. Jingles was perched in his hands, tiny nose twitching, completely unaware of the weight of the moment.

Y/N stood outside her cell, arms crossed, watching as Del cradled the little mouse with careful hands. His face brimmed with pride as the rest of the guards murmured their good lucks, offering him small, fleeting smiles.

“He’s gonna love him, Boss Edgecomb,” Del said, his accent thick with excitement. “That man from Washington, he’s gonna see what a good boy Mr. Jingles is.”

Paul forced a small smile. “I’m sure he will, Del.”

Del nodded eagerly, as if trying to convince himself. “Gon’ put on a real good show, ain’t we, Mr. Jingles?”

The mouse let out a tiny squeak, as if in agreement.

Y/N kept her expression neutral, but inside, her stomach churned. Del was so hopeful, so eager to show off his beloved companion. He didn’t seem to realize that none of this would change what was coming.

As Del stepped through the front door, disappearing down the hall with Paul, the silence that followed felt suffocating. Y/N hated it. The waiting. The inevitability of it all.

Then, suddenly—

“Toot-Toot comin’ out!”

The shrill voice rang through the Mile, shattering the stillness. The office door swung open, and out strutted Toot-Toot, puffing out his chest like a performer about to take the stage.

Y/N furrowed her brows, confused, but before she could say anything, Toot-Toot bellowed, “Prisoner comin’ outta his cell!”

Brutus and Dean stepped out of the office behind him, arms crossed, shaking their heads but saying nothing.

Toot-Toot took a slow, exaggerated step forward and pointed towards Del’s cell. “Outta your cell, boy! Walkin’ the Mile, walkin’ the Mile—straight and true.”

Harry and Percy appeared as well, Percy smirking like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. 

“Best you stay scarce today, just some important routine work” Harry said lowly to Y/N as they passed her.

“Get right with Jesus,” Toot-Toot continued, still striding forward, mimicking the weight of chains on his ankles. “Gotta get right with Jesus.”

Y/N was dumbfounded, she had no idea what was going on or why Toot-Toot, the prison janitor she saw rarely, was yelling down the mile.

As the group of men disappeared through the office Y/N heard a dark chuckle from her side.

“Gettin’ ready to fry him now!” Billy smirked

Y/N froze in realisation of what was happening, and, choosing to ignore Harry’s words made her way towards the office.

She’d never walked down the corridor which led out of the guards office — hell she was rarely in the office — but she pieced it together when she stood just in the door of the execution room, watching the men preform their practice run.

When Toot-Toot reached the chair he slumped into it like it was a throne as he was strapped in by Harry and Brutus.

“Roll on one,” Percy said.

The guards barely reacted. Brutus was finishing the last few straps, Percy had his arms crossed with an almost smug expression, and Dean was staring straight ahead. None of them had noticed her yet.

Toot-Toot grinned, tilting his head back. “Any last words?”

Percy straightened, stepping forward. He placed a hand over his heart, drawing in a deep, affected breath before saying, with the same exaggerated cadence, “Any last words?”

And then—

Toot-Toot grinned. “Yeah, I wanna fried chicken dinner with gravy on the taters, I wanna shit in your hat, and I got to have Mae West sit on my face ’cause I am one horny motherf—”

“Alright here we go” Percy said loudly. 

“Sheeit,” Harry muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple, but he was smiling.

Dean exhaled through his nose, amused but reserved. “Y’all take this too far sometimes.”

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.

She wasn’t going to look. She told herself that. She should just walk away.

“Roll on two!” Percy announced, Y/N’s heart dropped as she watched the man in the chair writhe and jerk in the chair yelling and screaming. 

Brutus rolled his eyes, his voice lower but still audible. “Long as he dies clean.”

“Yeah. Long as he dies clean.” Harry agreed.

Y/N’s stomach turned. They talked about it like it was routine. Like it wasn’t a man they were talking about.

“How was that?” Percy asked turning to the rest of them as Toot-Toot continued to preform.

“Yeah just make sure you get that head strap good and tight cause he’s gonna buck” Dean explained, Percy listened to him nodding.

Her chest tightened. She felt like she was suffocating. When Too-Too finally stopped and they began to unstrap him her voice, cut through the room quiet but sharp.

“This,” she said, her tone cutting through the air like a knife, “is disgusting.”

A hush fell over the room.

Dean and Brutus turned, surprised to see her standing there. The other guards shifted uncomfortably. Even Toot-Toot, who had been so animated just moments before, sat there stunned before bursting out laughing, “did ya enjoy the show sweetheart! We gonna do it again if you wanna keep watchin’, or I can entertain you in other ways if you want!”

Y/N stared at them, her expression unreadable, then turned on her heel and walked back onto the Mile. She had barely taken two steps before she heard Dean’s voice behind her.

“Y/N.”

She ignored him, her blood still boiling.

“Y/N!”

His tone was firmer this time. She almost stopped but refused, she wanted to get as far away from that room as possible.

“Y/N” he snapped finally catching up to her grabbing her wrist and turning her to face him.

“WHAT?” she yelled.

Dean sighed breathing deeply, taking his hat off and throwing it on the table before running a hand through his hair. He stepped  closer to her.

“You can’t just storm off like that,” he muttered.

She scoffed. “And why the hell not?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Because this is still Death Row. You think this is the first time we’ve done a run like that?”

She clenched her jaw, her voice low and heated. “So that makes it okay?”

“It makes it necessary.”

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Jesus, Dean.”

“You don’t get to be angry at them for doing their damn jobs,” he snapped.

“Their job? Their damn job Dean?” She exclaimed stepping closer too. Her nostrils flared. “That wasn’t a job. That was a goddamn show” she snapped shoving him back.

“They were laughing, Dean. Laughing.”

Dean exhaled sharply, taking a moment to regain himself, but as soon as Y/N turned to walk away again he quickly stepped in front of her. “Do you think we like this? Do you think any of us enjoy what we have to do?”

She didn’t back down. “Sure looked like it.”

His jaw tightened. “You have no idea what it’s like.” He said as he pointed at her.

She slapped his hand away just as quickly, “And you have no idea what it’s like to be on the other side of that goddamn chair,” she shot back.

His eyes darkened. “You think I don’t know what kind of hell this place is?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “You sure as hell don’t act like it.”

Dean inhaled sharply through his nose, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

She turned to leave for the third time, shaking her head as she went.

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist before she could get away.

She spun back, yanking against his hold, but he didn’t let go. “Let me go, Dean.”

“Just listen to me.”

“No.” She pulled harder, her teeth bared.

Dean stepped closer, his height towering over her, his grip tightening. “Y/N stop!” 

But she wouldn’t, she was desperate to get away, away from Dean and the rest of them, away from the memories of her husband, away from it all.

She shoved him.

Dean stumbled back a step nearly falling, his eyes flashing with something raw.

“Don’t touch me,” she seethed.

His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re blind,” she shot back.

“Well why don’t you just go back to your cell where you belong” 

A beat of heavy silence. Her heart dropped… she couldn’t believe him.

Dean’s eyes flickered over her face, frustration mixing with something else—something deeper. But she wasn’t going to wait for him to figure it out. Without another word, she turned and stormed to her cell.

Dean let out a slow breath, running a hand down his face.

Shit.

He watched her go, his stomach twisted in knots. He hadn’t meant it like that. Hadn’t meant any of it like that.

But the way she slammed her cell door shut behind her told him she wasn’t going to forgive him anytime soon.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 14)

The Mile buzzed with tension that morning, a heavy charge hanging in the air as if the walls themselves anticipated trouble. Y/N leaned against the cool concrete of her cell, watching the guards. Paul and Harry were stationed near the office, murmuring quietly, while Dean lingered at the far end of the Mile, his watchful gaze flickering toward Billy’s cell. Brutus stood in his usual spot, arms crossed, the picture of silent authority.

It didn’t take long for the quiet to shatter.

A sharp, mocking laugh rang out, bouncing off the stone walls. Y/N turned her head just in time to see Billy Wharton gripping the bars of his cell, his grin feral and wild.

“Hey, Boss Harry!” he called, his voice sing-song and dripping with mischief. “Got somethin’ for ya!”

Before anyone could react, a stream of urine arced through the air, splashing Harry’s boots.

“Goddammit, Wharton!” Harry roared, stumbling back with a look of pure fury.

Billy doubled over in laughter, his cackles echoing down the Mile. “What’s the matter, Boss? Ain’t ya impressed?”

Harry turned on his heel and stormed off, muttering curses under his breath as he disappeared into the office.

Paul exhaled a long-suffering sigh and stepped toward Billy’s cell, his expression tight with frustration. “That’s enough, Wharton. You’re already neck-deep in trouble. Don’t dig yourself in any further.”

Billy leaned lazily against the bars, his grin unrepentant. “What’re you gonna do, Boss? Tie me up? Lock me away? I’m already in the damn cage.”

Paul’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, turning toward Y/N’s cell instead. He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache.

“He’s a real prize, isn’t he?” Y/N said quietly, her voice carrying a note of dry humor.

Paul let out a humorless laugh. “You could say that.”

She offered him a soft smile. “You’re doing as well as anyone could. Don’t let him get to you.”

For a moment, Paul’s stern expression eased, a hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Y/N glanced toward the far end of the corridor. “What’s in that room down there?”

Paul followed her gaze, his brow furrowing. “The restraint room. Haven’t used it in a long while… but maybe it’s time we did.”

The guards set to work that afternoon, clearing out the restraint room. Old furniture, crates, and dusty supplies were hauled away, leaving the space barren and ready.

When the room was prepared, Paul and Brutus approached Billy’s cell, the former holding a straightjacket behind his back.

“Oh, yeah! You come on in here!” Billy jeered, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’ll show you what I’m made of!”

Before he could say more, the office door swung open, and Harry reappeared, holding a large, pressurized water gun.

Billy didn’t notice at first, his laughter carrying down the hall. But when Paul unlocked the cell and Harry unleashed the first jet of water, Billy’s mocking turned into shrill yelps.

“HEY! HEEEEEEY!” Billy shrieked, flailing as the water soaked him through.

Dean, stationed near Y/N’s cell, struggled to keep a straight face, his hand clamping over his mouth to stifle his laughter. Y/N couldn’t help but smile, the sight of Dean’s barely-contained amusement lifting the heaviness of the day.

Billy, now subdued and soaking, was quickly strapped into the straightjacket and dragged into the restraint room. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, and the Mile finally settled—if only for a moment.

——————

By lunchtime, the chaos was brewing again. Billy’s shouts echoed down the hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of food splattering against metal.

“Take that, you sons o’ bitches!” Billy crowed, launching another handful of mashed potatoes through the bars.

Brutus, standing near the office, exhaled sharply and stepped forward. “That’s enough, Wharton.”

Billy lunged at the bars, grinning wildly. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

The guards sprang into action. Paul and Brutus moved to wrestle Billy out of his cell while Percy hovered nearby, smirking but offering no help.

Dean, who had been stationed at the far end of the Mile, turned instinctively toward Y/N’s cell. His voice was low but urgent. “You alright?”

Y/N’s heart raced, but she nodded quickly. “I’m fine. Go help them.”

Satisfied, Dean gave her a small, reassuring nod before rushing to assist. The scene was chaos, but Dean’s presence—steady and sure—reminded her that there was still a semblance of order amidst the madness.

Billy was dragged back to the restraint room kicking and snarling, but the guards managed to lock him in once more.

The Mile gradually quieted as the day wore on, though the tension remained, a subtle hum beneath the surface.

Paul stopped by Y/N’s cell later that afternoon, leaning against the bars with a tired expression. “How’re you holding up?”

She offered him a faint smile. “Better question is, how are you holding up?”

Paul let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “I think the jury’s still out on that one.”

“You’re doing good,” Y/N said softly, her voice steady. “It’s not easy, but you’ve got a way of keeping it all together. Even when it feels like it’s falling apart.”

Paul met her gaze, a flicker of gratitude softening the lines of his face. “Thanks, Y/N. That means a lot.”

Their conversation was cut short as Brutus approached, his expression grim. “Wharton’s locked up for now, but I doubt this’ll be the last we see of him.”

Paul nodded, his hand running over the back of his neck. “We’ll deal with it when it comes.”

Brutus glanced toward Y/N, his voice softening. “He didn’t get to you, did he?”

“No,” Y/N replied quickly. “It’s just… hard to watch.”

Brutus grunted in acknowledgment before heading back toward the office.

——————

It wasn’t until Dean approached her cell later in the day, a small tray in his hands, that she felt the weight of the day start to lift.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the tray down on the small table near her bars.

She glanced at it—mashed potatoes, cornbread, and a slice of ham—before looking back at him with a wry smile. “If this has Billy’s fingerprints on it, I might have to pass.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I made sure it didn’t.”

She picked up the cornbread, breaking off a piece before speaking again. “I bet it’s never been this bad before, huh?”

Dean exhaled, leaning against the bars. “Not like this. We’ve had our fair share of troublemakers, but Billy…” He shook his head. “He enjoys it. Most men that come through here are angry, scared, or just waiting to die. Billy? He’s different. He doesn’t care.”

Y/N chewed on her bite of cornbread thoughtfully. “Makes you wonder what made him that way.”

Dean frowned slightly. “I don’t know if I care to find out.”

She studied him, the flicker of something hard in his expression—disgust, maybe, or exhaustion. Dean was kind, gentle in ways she hadn’t expected, but she could tell Billy had pushed him to his limits today.

“I hope you don’t let him get to you too much,” she said after a moment.

Dean glanced up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Men like him… they want to make you angry. They want to pull you down to their level. You’re better than that.”

Dean’s lips pressed together, and for a second, he didn’t respond. Then he gave her a small, almost bashful smile. “You got a way of sayin’ things that stick, you know that?”

She smiled back. “Just returning the favor.”

For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence. The Mile was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of voices from the office.

Finally, Dean sighed. “You should eat. Get some rest. I doubt today was the last time Billy’s gonna cause trouble.”

Y/N nodded, picking up her fork. “You should do the same, Boss Stanton.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As he walked away, she watched him go, feeling a little lighter despite the day’s chaos.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 13)

The morning came quickly and the quiet hum of the prison could be heard through the huge windows of the mile. But inside 

Y/N’s footsteps were soft as she strolled the length of the corridor, her arms loosely folded in front of her. Brutus walked alongside her, his usual steady presence reassuring.

“I swear, that mouse is smarter than most people I know,” Brutus said with a chuckle, nodding towards Del’s cell.

Inside, Delacroix was crouched low, Mr. Jingles perched neatly on a threadbare piece of fabric that served as a makeshift stage. “Voilà!” Del exclaimed as the tiny mouse rolled a spool across the surface, his tail swishing behind him.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile, the sight momentarily lifting the heaviness that had settled in her chest since the day before. “He’s a natural,” she remarked, leaning slightly closer to the bars. “You’d think he was born to be in a circus.”

Del beamed at the praise, his chest puffing out with pride. “He’s amazin’, no? Ain’t no other mouse like ‘im,” he said, his accent thick with delight.

Mr. Jingles finished his trick and scurried up onto Del’s shoulder, his tiny nose twitching as if seeking approval. Y/N laughed softly, her gaze softening. “You’ve trained him well, Del.”

“Merci, ma chère. He’s my little miracle,” Del said, his voice quieter now.

Brutus cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Alright, enough showing off, Del. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Don’t you listen to him Del, one day he’s gonna be world famous,” Y/N smiled.

“Well if he do, I’d better be gettin’ a cut!”

Brutus exclaimed.

Y/N grinned at the banter, stepping back as they continued their walk. As the morning wore on, she found herself drawn to John’s cell. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his large hands resting on his knees. His serene expression was a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous day.

“Good morning, John,” she greeted softly.

He opened his eyes slowly, a gentle smile spreading across his face. “Mornin’, miss. You feelin’ better?”

“I am,” she replied, though the faint ache in her ribs told her otherwise. “Thank you for asking.”

John nodded, his eyes full of that quiet understanding she was beginning to recognize. “You brave,” he said after a pause. “But don’t forget to look after yourself, too.”

Before Y/N could respond, a loud, drawling voice interrupted them.

“Well, ain’t this a sweet little picture,” Billy sneered from his cell, his grin lecherous as he leaned against the bars. His eyes raked over Y/N, his intentions clear. “Bet you got a lotta fight in ya, sweetheart. Bet I could—”

“Watch your mouth.” Percy’s sharp tone cut through the air like a whip.

Y/N startled, turning to see Percy standing just a few feet away, his posture rigid and his eyes narrowing at Billy.

Billy’s grin didn’t falter, but he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need to get all jealous, boss man.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, and his hand twitched at his side as though itching for his baton. “You’ll show her respect, or you’ll regret it.”

The tension hung thick in the air. Y/N, though unsettled, offered Percy a small nod of thanks. She didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on her, before he turned on his heel and stalked away. Brutus had stood during the ordeal and as Percy walked by him going into the office, he looked as surprised as Y/N was, clearly left speechless of Percy’s actions.

—————————

Dean arrived not long after, looking as though he hadn’t slept a wink. His uniform was slightly rumpled, and the shadow of stubble dusted his jaw. Still, he managed a tired smile when his eyes met Y/N’s.

“Morning,” he said, his voice still rough from the events of the day before.

“Morning,” she replied, her concern evident as she stepped closer. “You alright?”

“I’ve been better,” he admitted, though his tone remained light. “How about you?”

She hesitated, her ribs reminding her of the impact against the bars. “Still standing,” she said with a small smile.

“Good,” Dean said softly, his eyes lingering on hers for a moment longer than necessary.

The familiar clatter of the front door opening broke the quiet. Paul entered with a basket in hand, the smell of fresh cornbread wafting through the Mile.

“Morning, everyone,” he called, his usual calm demeanor returning.

John’s face lit up as Paul approached his cell, holding out a piece of the warm bread. “Thought you’d like this,” Paul said, his tone kind.

“Thank you, Boss,” John said, his large hands accepting the bread with care. The two had a conversation in a low tone, indecipherable from where Y/N and Dean were at the top of the Mile.

Paul glanced toward Del’s cell, then Y/N. He walked towards Del and handed him a generous piece, “Courtesy of the gentleman across the hall.”

“Oh merci, merci beaucoup John! Thank you very much! Mr Jingles here says thank you too! So would my mama but she dead” he exclaimed shovelling the bread into his mouth. Paul gave a small smile and walked towards Y/N holding a piece to her too.

“John here thinks you might like some, too.”

“Are you sure?” She called down to him.

John nodded. “Ain’t right to keep somethin’ good all to myself,” he said simply.

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling at the gesture. “Thank you, John.”

“Hey hey hey! Don’t I get some too”

Billy scrambled to his bars as Paul handed the rest of the cornbread to John.

“I think I’ll just keep the rest,” John said, returning to his cot.

It had been a long time since Y/N had eaten anything homemade and the cornbread tasted delicious. She offered a piece to Dean, “trust me you want to try this” she smiled at him.

“Don’t you worry about me darlin’, you keep that” Dean said smiling and shaking his head slightly.

“Ok suit yourself, but it’s really good” she said popping another small piece into her mouth. 

Dean had endured another rough night at home. Abigail, his wife, who was about three months pregnant, had left their children unattended again, heading out to meet her friends for dinner. By the time he arrived, his five-year-old son, Danny, had done his best to keep Lily, the baby, calm, though the strain of the evening was clear on the boy’s face.

Dean was already exhausted and aching from his ordeal with Billy, the memory of Y/N getting hurt trying to help him gnawing at his mind. When Abigail finally returned, reeking of alcohol, he didn’t have the energy to confront her. The next morning, she’d dismissed his concerns, telling him he was overreacting. He left the house feeling defeated and disheartened, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders.

But now, standing on the Mile in this quiet moment of peace, he felt a small measure of ease again, as though the chaos outside these walls couldn’t touch him here.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 12)

The dim light of the evening cast long shadows across the Mile, the steady hum of the fluorescent lights now almost a comforting presence. The faint echo of footsteps signaled Dean’s approach. He carried a small tray, the clink of the metal dishes barely audible. As he stepped into her cell, his gaze softened when he saw 

Y/N sitting quietly on her cot, her posture a little less tense than earlier, though the bruising on her side still marked her.

“Hey,” Dean said softly, his voice gentle. “Got your dinner.”

Y/N looked up at him, offering a small smile despite the lingering pain in her chest. “Thanks, Dean.”

He set the tray down on the desk, glancing at her before sitting down on the chair next to her. There was a comfortable silence between them, the kind that felt different than before—a silence born of something deeper, something unspoken but understood.

Y/N took a deep breath, then gingerly picked up her fork. “Not exactly five-star dining, huh?”

Dean chuckled, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Nah, but it’s edible. Not bad for prison food, anyway.”

She shook her head, taking a small bite.

Dean let out a laugh, the sound warm and genuine. For a moment, it felt like they were in some other place—any place but the Mile. The world outside felt far away, and in this small corner of the ward, it was just the two of them.

“So…” Dean began after a moment, his gaze flickering to her bruises before returning to her eyes. “How’re you feeling?”

Y/N paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. She chewed slowly, then set it back down, her hands folding in her lap. “It hurts,” she admitted. “But I’ll survive. I’m tougher than I look.”

Dean looked at her, his expression softening. “I’m sorry you got hurt, Y/N. I never wanted you to—”

She raised a hand, cutting him off gently. “You don’t have to apologize. I chose to get involved, Dean. I couldn’t just stand there.”

Dean’s gaze fell, and he nodded slowly. “I know. Just… next time, don’t get hurt for me.”

Y/N tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’d do the same for me.”

He met her gaze then, his eyes dark but filled with something that made her heart beat a little faster. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I would.”

They sat in quiet for a while, the only sounds the occasional clink of her fork against the plate, the rhythm of their breathing. Finally, Y/N broke the silence.

“Do you ever think about what we’re doing here?” she asked quietly, her voice hesitant. “I mean, how did we get here?”

Dean leaned back in the chair, his gaze drifting away for a moment as if he were looking into a memory. “Yeah. I think about it sometimes. I guess… things don’t always turn out the way you expect.”

She nodded, chewing slowly. “I never thought I’d end up in a place like this,” she said softly. “But I guess life has a funny way of taking you places you never imagined.”

Dean watched her closely, his eyes scanning her face like he was trying to read her. “What happened? Before all this?” he asked gently.

Y/N looked down, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I had a life… once. A different life. I was married, had kids. It was supposed to be… good.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?”

She shook her head, the smile gone now, replaced by something harder, something she kept buried most of the time. “No, it wasn’t. It was a nightmare. But I couldn’t leave. I had children, they became my life.”

Dean was quiet, processing what she’d said, his mind no doubt filling in the gaps. “What happened to them?” he asked softly, though he clearly wasn’t expecting much of an answer.

Y/N’s voice trembled slightly as she answered, but her eyes stayed steady on his. “They’re gone. It was… it’s hard to talk about.”

Dean reached across the small space between them, his hand resting gently on her arm. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he murmured. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

Y/N took a breath, her chest tight, but she didn’t pull away. “I’ve spent so much time running from the past,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “But it’s still there, you know? It follows me.”

“I get it,” Dean replied, his voice low, full of understanding. “I’ve got my own demons.”

There was a heaviness in his tone that made Y/N look at him more closely. There was a sadness there, one that matched her own in a way. She gave a small, understanding nod.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. In the quiet of the room, there was a shared understanding that needed no words.

Finally, Y/N leaned back on the cot, stretching her legs out as best she could. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

Dean shook his head, standing and collecting the empty tray. “Don’t apologize, Y/N. You did what you had to do.”

She smiled, a soft, tired smile. “Yeah. I guess.”

Dean turned, his hand resting on the doorframe. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly, his voice full of something unspoken.

“Yeah,” she replied, her gaze lingering on him for just a moment longer before he stepped out of the room.

As the cell door closed behind him, Y/N lay back on the cot, her thoughts swirling, but for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 11)

The harsh lights of the hospital ward buzzed faintly overhead as Y/N sat perched on the edge of a cot, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The dull ache in her ribs had settled into a persistent throb, but she ignored it, her attention flicking occasionally to Dean sitting beside her on the next cot. He was hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, nursing a bag of ice against his bruised throat.

The doctor stood in front of Y/N, flipping through his notes on a clipboard. His voice was calm but clinical. “You’re lucky, ma’am,” he began, glancing up at her. “No broken ribs, but you’ve got some nasty bruising along your side and back. You’ll need to take it easy for a while—ice the area and avoid anything strenuous.”

Y/N nodded mutely, her focus drifting back to Dean. He wasn’t looking at her, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable.

“Anything else I should know?” Y/N asked, her voice steadier than she expected.

The doctor hesitated. “Honestly, it’s remarkable you’re not hurt worse after being thrown like that. But if the pain gets worse or you notice anything unusual, come back immediately.”

Dean’s hand tightened around the ice pack, his knuckles turning white. When the doctor glanced at him, Dean forced a thin smile. “Thanks, Doc,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and strained.

The doctor looked between the two of them, sensing the tension. “I’ll leave you two to rest for a moment,” he said before stepping out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

As soon as they were alone, Dean slammed the ice pack onto the cot beside him and stood, his movements jerky and agitated. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, his voice low but shaking with emotion.

Y/N blinked, startled by the sudden outburst. “Excuse me?”

“You could’ve been killed!” Dean gestured toward her, his frustration bubbling over. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved, Y/N. That wasn’t your fight.”

Her shock quickly turned to anger, and she stood as well, though the sharp pain in her side made her wince. “Not my fight?” she repeated, her voice rising. “Dean, he was killing you! What was I supposed to do? Stand there and watch?”

“Yes!” he shot back, his voice cracking. “Yes, because it’s my job to handle things like that—not yours! You’re not supposed to get hurt trying to save me!”

“Well, I did,” she countered fiercely, stepping closer to him despite the pain it caused. “And I’d do it again, Dean, because I’m not just going to stand by while someone I care about gets hurt!”

Dean froze, her words hitting him like a punch to the gut. His chest heaved as he struggled to find the right words. “You care about me?” he asked quietly, his anger dissolving into something softer, more vulnerable.

Y/N hesitated, her breath hitching. “Of course I do,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “You’re one of the only good things in this place, Dean. I couldn’t let him—” She broke off holding her hands to her mouth, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Dean closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hands gently gripping her arms. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, his voice raw.

She looked up at him, her anger fading as she saw the pain and fear etched across his face. “You scared me too,” she whispered.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them charged with unspoken words and emotions. Their breathing was heavy, eyes never leaving each others. Y/N threw her head up exhaling, tears threatening to fall, she tried to focused in anything, anything others than the man in front of her. Then, almost instinctively, Dean put his hands in her cheeks and lowered her head so she was looking at him once again. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender.

Y/N responded without hesitation, her hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as she kissed him back. The world seemed to fall away, the pain in her ribs and the weight of their surroundings forgotten as they poured everything they couldn’t say into that single moment. Her legs felt like they were buckling underneath her but Dean help her firm. deepening the kiss, bringing her body closer to his.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they tried to process what had just happened.

“Y/N,” Dean began, his voice barely above a whisper.

She shook her head, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t say anything,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

Dean nodded, his hands still resting lightly on her arms before enveloping her in a hug bringing her head to his chest and resting his head atop hers. For now, words weren’t necessary.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 10)

The sound of the van rumbling away faded into the distance, leaving the Mile unusually quiet. Paul had sent Dean, Percy, and Harry out to collect the new inmate, leaving Brutus in charge of the block.

Brutus leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his steady presence filling the room. Y/N sat on the floor near her cell, sketchbook propped against her knees. Del was perched on the edge of his bunk, whispering to Mr. Jingles, who darted between the bars of his cell.

“Looks like it’s just us today,” Brutus remarked, his voice breaking the silence.

Y/N glanced up from her sketch, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re not so bad.”

Del grinned, tilting his head to catch sight of her. “She say that now, Brutal. But give her a few hours, and she’ll be begging for some excitement.”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “I think I’ve had enough excitement to last me a lifetime, Del.”

John Coffey stirred in his cell, his large frame shifting as he moved closer to the bars. “I like it quiet,” he said, his deep voice calm and soothing. “Feels… peaceful.”

Y/N nodded in agreement. “Peaceful’s a rare thing in a place like this.”

Mr. Jingles chose that moment to dart toward the center of the Mile, his tiny paws skittering on the concrete floor. Del let out a delighted chuckle, clapping his hands lightly. “Look at him go! Fastest lil’ mouse in Louisiana, ain’t he, Brutus?”

Brutus shook his head with a faint smile. “If he’s not, he’s close.”

Y/N watched the little mouse with quiet amusement, her pencil pausing on the page. “He’s got more freedom than the rest of us,” she murmured.

Del’s grin faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, his voice taking on a playful lilt. “Maybe. But he ain’t got my charm, chérie.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her smile growing. “Is that so?”

Del placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You doubt me? Brutal, tell her!”

Brutus chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t drag me into this, Del.”

Their banter filled the space with a warmth that felt almost foreign on the Mile. Even John Coffey smiled, his large hands resting on the bars as he watched them.

Y/N turned to John, her voice softening. “What about you, John? What do you think about all this?”

John tilted his head, considering her question. “I think it’s nice. Folks laughing, talking. Feels like the world ain’t so heavy for a little while.”

Del nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “That’s the trick, ain’t it? Findin’ the little things. Like Mr. Jingles. Or…” He hesitated, glancing at Y/N. “Or a good drawing.”

Y/N blinked in surprise, then glanced down at her sketchbook. “You’ve been watching me draw?”

“Course I have,” Del said with a shrug. “You’re good, chérie. Better than good.”

She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing over the edge of the paper. “It’s just something to pass the time.”

“Maybe,” Del replied. “But it’s somethin’ beautiful in a place like this. And dat drawin’ you did of me and Mr Jingles was good! Don’t forget that.”

Brutus cleared his throat, his voice gruff but kind. “He’s right, Y/N. Don’t sell yourself short.”

The moment hung in the air, a rare pocket of calm amidst the storm that was their reality. Y/N glanced around at the three men—Del, with his quick wit and sharp tongue; John, with his quiet wisdom; and Brutus, their steady anchor.

For the first time in a long while, she felt… connected. Not just to them, but to something larger.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor, snapping them back to the present. Brutus straightened, his hand instinctively resting on his baton and heading out the front door.

Y/N tucked her sketchbook under her arm and rose to her feet, her gaze flicking toward the door. Whatever peace they’d found in this moment, she knew it wouldn’t last.

Paul entered the Mile looking slightly worse for wear, sweat beading on his brow as he muttered under his breath. The shrill ring of the office phone cut through the uneasy quiet, and Paul snatched it up.

“What?” he barked harshly, before slamming the receiver down again. His jaw was tight, his frustration palpable.

“Ca’ful, Boss… he’s a bad man,” John said softly from his cell, his deep voice carrying a note of warning.

Y/N looked warily between Paul and John, her unease growing. “He a bad man, Boss,” John repeated, his large hands gripping the bars tightly as he stared at Paul with somber eyes.

Paul exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “John, please,” he muttered before turning to Y/N. “Y/N, get back to your cell.” His tone was harsher than usual, but it was clear he was more exhausted than angry.

Y/N frowned, stepping forward tentatively. “Mr. Edgecomb? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Y/N,” he sighed, softening slightly. “I’m fine. Just… go back to your cell now. Everything’ll be alright.”

Reluctantly, she nodded and returned to her cell, setting her sketchbook on the desk. She had just sat down when the front doors opened, and chaos erupted.

A loud, mocking “Yeehaw!” echoed through the Mile, followed by scuffling, shouting, and the unmistakable sound of boots against concrete.

Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat as she rushed out of her cell, her eyes widening at the scene unfolding before her. A wild-eyed man—filthy and grinning like a madman—had Dean on the ground, his cuffs locked tightly around Dean’s throat.

“Dean!” Y/N screamed, her voice breaking with panic. She sprinted forward as Harry dove to intervene, trying to wrest the man—Billy—off Dean. But with a violent shove, Billy sent Harry sprawling across a nearby table, scattering papers and knocking over a lamp.

“Get off him!” Y/N shouted, grabbing Billy by the shoulders and attempting to pull him back. Her efforts distracted him just enough for his grip on Dean to loosen momentarily allowing him to pull himself free from Billy.

Dean coughed and gasped, struggling to suck in air. Before Y/N could reach for him, Billy spun around, his grin widening as he grabbed her arm with a cruel grip.

“Well, ain’t you a feisty one,” Billy sneered, his eyes glinting with malice.

“No” Dean yelled as best he could, reaching for her but falling short as his strength left him.

Billy swung her with alarming ease, slamming her back into the cold metal bars of a nearby cell. Pain shot through her ribs as she crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.

Before Billy could turn back to Dean, Brutus stormed in, his baton already raised. Without hesitation, Brutus delivered a sharp, bone-jarring blow to Billy’s head. The man dropped like a sack of stones, collapsing onto the floor beside Y/N, unconscious.

The sudden silence was broken only by 

Y/N’s labored breathing and Dean’s rasping coughs as he lay sprawled on the ground.

Paul and Brutus moved quickly, dragging Billy’s limp body toward his cell. “Get him locked up!” Paul barked, his voice shaking with anger as he shoved the cell door shut and turned the key.

Y/N ignored the pain in her side and scrambled to Dean’s side, her hands trembling as she knelt beside him. His face was pale, his breaths shallow and ragged.

“Dean,” she whispered, reaching for his collar. Her fingers fumbled as she unbuttoned it, loosening it to give him some relief. “Dean, look at me. Just breathe. You’re okay.”

Dean’s bloodshot eyes met hers, a mixture of gratitude and lingering fear in his gaze. “Y/N…” he croaked, his voice barely audible.

“Don’t talk,” she said firmly, her hands steadying his trembling shoulders. “Just focus on breathing.”

Harry stumbled back to his feet, wincing but determined, and joined them. “Dean? You good?”

“He’ll be fine,” Y/N snapped, her tone sharper than intended as she glanced at Harry. “But someone needs to get him a doctor”

Y/N stayed close to Dean, her hand resting gently on his chest. “I didn’t see him… I didn’t see him” Dean gasped.

“I know, I know Dean but please, don’t talk just breathe” Y/N said, tears in her eyes.

Eventually his breathing slowly evened out, though the bruises forming around his neck were already vivid.

Paul returned moments later, his expression grim. “He’s locked up,” he said tightly before crouching down beside them. His eyes softened when he saw Y/N hovering protectively over Dean.

“How’s he doing?” Paul asked quietly.

“Better,” Y/N replied, her voice soft but steady. She kept her focus on Dean, her thumb brushing lightly against his collarbone in a soothing gesture.

Dean managed a faint smile, his voice still hoarse. “Guess… that wasn’t the best first impression.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, tears stinging her eyes. “You idiot,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Paul sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y/N, you’re tougher than you look,” he said quietly. “But next time, stay back. That could’ve ended worse.”

She finally looked up, her expression defiant despite her exhaustion. “And let him get killed? Not a chance.”

Paul didn’t argue. Instead, he helped Dean to his feet while Brutus returned with a cold compress for his neck. Y/N stood as well, clutching her ribs but refusing to let anyone see how much pain she was in.

As the Mile settled back into uneasy silence, Y/N glanced toward Billy’s cell. He was slumped on the cot, his face twisted into a cruel grin even in unconsciousness. She shivered and turned away, her focus returning to Dean.

“You okay?” she asked him softly.

Dean nodded, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Thanks to you.”

“Alright Brutus you get Harry, Dean and, Y/N to the doctor. I’ll keep the mile” Paul said.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 9)

The Mile was its usual quiet, Y/N stood outside her cell, her steps slow and deliberate as she walked the Mile, Del was tending to Mr Jingles, and John… well he was lost in his own world . Dean and Brutus had been the ones to allow convince Paul to allow Y/N to freely walk the Mild, a quiet suggestion to him and the others that she’d earned their trust.

Her fingers trailed along the railings as she walked, pausing occasionally to glance at the empty cells or the faint scratches carved into the walls. Every detail seemed to fascinate her, as if she were cataloging the world outside her small space.

Dean leaned against the wall near the office, his arms crossed as he watched her. There was something calming about the way she moved, her quiet presence filling the space with an unexpected warmth.

“You like wandering, huh?” Dean asked, his voice breaking the stillness.

Y/N turned toward him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t get much chance for it these days. But I used to. Walking around the fields and forest around our house, sometimes with the little ones… it was freeing. But, well it’s not exactly the same in here”

Dean pushed off the wall and walked toward her, his boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Guess not. Still… it’s nice to see you out of that cell for a bit.”

She tilted her head, studying him with a curious expression. “Dean. Why are you so kind to me?”

Dean stopped a few steps away, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t look at me like the others do,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “You don’t see a monster when you look at me. You never did. I don’t know why”

Dean hesitated, searching for the right words. “I don’t think you’re a monster, Y/N. I think you’ve been through hell, and people just… they don’t see past what they’ve been told.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers curling lightly around the railing. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dean stepped closer,  he put his hands in her shoulders and she seemed to lean into him. He whispered lightly his tone firm but gentle. “They’re not. You’re not what they say you are.”

Her eyes met his then, and for a moment, the weight of her guilt and doubt was laid bare. “How can you be so sure? You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve don’t… what I’ve seen”

“Because I’ve seen it,” he said simply. “The way you care about the people here—even Del, even John. You’re not who they think you are. You’re more than that. You’re right, I only know as much as you let me.”

He took her face in his hands, her eyes glistening with tears, “but I know you didn’t do this, what they accuse you of. I can’t tell you how I know but I do” he said gentle but forceful. 

Y/N’s throat tightened, and she looked away, blinking rapidly. “You don’t know everything,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“I know enough,” Dean said, his tone resolute. “And I know you don’t deserve to be in here.”

The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She put her hands on his and gently lowered them before she turned away from him.

“You carry a lot, too, you know,” she said finally, her voice quieter now. “You act like it’s your job to fix everything, to carry everyone else’s burdens.”

Dean blinked, surprised by her observation. “Maybe it is,” he said, his lips quirking into a faint smile.

“It’s not,” she replied turning to him, her tone firm. “You deserve to let some of it go. You deserve to have someone look after you, too.”

Her words hit him harder than he expected, and he found himself at a loss for a response. There was something about the way she looked at him—like she saw past all the walls he’d built around himself, right to the heart of who he was.

“I don’t think I’d know how to let go,” he admitted, his voice quiet.

She smiled faintly, her eyes soft. “Maybe you just need someone to remind you.”

They stood there for a long moment, the silence between them filled with an unspoken understanding. Dean’s hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach out to her again, hold her, comfort her, take her away from this place of confinement and death.

“Dean.”

He turned to see Brutus approaching, his usual no-nonsense expression tempered with curiosity. “Everything all right?”

Dean cleared his throat, stepping back. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Brutus glanced at Y/N, then back at Dean, his brow raising slightly. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?” Dean asked, feigning ignorance.

“The one that says you’re thinking too much,” Brutus said with a small smirk.

Dean shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe.”

As Brutus moved on, Y/N turned back to Dean. “He’s right, you know,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement.

Dean chuckled softly. “Yeah, well, thinking’s about all I’m good for these days.”

“Not true,” she said, her gaze steady. “You’re good at a lot of things. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

He looked at her, her words settling over him like a quiet reassurance. For the first time in a long while, he felt seen—not as a guard, not as a man carrying the weight of responsibility, but as himself. 

————————————

That evening, the mood on the Mile shifted. The air felt heavier, the lights harsher against the growing shadows. Percy lingered near Y/N’s cell, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“You know,” he said, leaning against the bars, “you’re different from the others.”

Y/N didn’t look up from her sketch, her pencil scratching softly against the paper. “That so?”

Percy’s grin widened, his voice lowering. “Yeah. There’s something about you—something dark. I can see it. And I gotta say, it’s… fascinating.”

She stopped drawing, her hand tightening around the pencil. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his, her expression calm but cold. “What do you want, Percy?”

Percy tilted his head, his grin taking on an unsettling edge. “Maybe I just want to understand you. See what makes you tick.”

Y/N’s gaze didn’t waver. “Careful what you wish for.”

Percy chuckled, though it sounded forced. “You don’t scare me.”

“Maybe you should be. Haven’t you read my file?” she said softly, her voice carrying an eerie calm.

For a moment, Percy faltered, his confidence slipping. But he quickly masked it with a laugh, stepping back. “Guess we’ll see. Won’t we?”

As he walked away, Y/N exhaled slowly, her grip on the pencil relaxing. She turned back to her sketch, but her focus was elsewhere now, her thoughts swirling with the weight of his words.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 8)

The day began with a rare kind of stillness on the Mile. The usual tension in the air seemed to ease, and for once, it felt like the weight of the walls wasn’t quite so suffocating. Paul, Brutus, and Dean had made a quiet decision the night before: Y/N could walk the Mile, unshackled and unguarded. It wasn’t protocol, but in their eyes, she’d earned their trust.

Y/N’s first tentative steps outside her cell felt surreal. She kept close to the walls at first, as though afraid to take up too much space, but the freedom, however small, was a relief she hadn’t realized she needed.

Brutus was watching from his desk, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just don’t go making me regret this,” he teased.

Y/N glanced back at him with a soft smile. “I’ll be good. Promise.”

Her steps grew bolder as she walked the length of the Mile, her fingers brushing lightly against the bars of the cells. She felt eyes on her—Del watched her curiously, while Harry pretended not to notice. But it was John Coffey’s voice that broke the silence.

“You walk real quiet, Miss Y/N,” John said, his voice low and warm.

Y/N stopped by his cell, turning to face him. There was something about John that always set her at ease. “Guess I don’t have much practice,” she said with a small smile.

John tilted his head, studying her with those impossibly kind eyes. “You see things, don’t you?”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You see the little things. The pretty things most folks don’t stop to notice.”

Y/N leaned against the bars, her arms folding loosely. “I guess I do. It’s easier to focus on those than… everything else.”

John nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. “That’s a good thing, miss. World’s got a lot of ugly in it. Gotta hold on to the pretty when you can.”

They talked quietly for a while, their conversation touching on simple, almost childlike joys: the way sunlight filtered through leaves, the sound of birds in the morning, the scent of rain. It was a connection born not of shared tragedy but of shared appreciation.

John’s presence was grounding, and for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt like she wasn’t carrying her burdens alone.

Later that day, Y/N was sitting at the desk, sketching again. The guards had let her keep the pencils and paper Brutus had given her, and she’d been quietly working all afternoon.

Dean entered the block, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. He paused when he saw her, her head bent over the page, her fingers smudged with graphite.

“You’re getting spoiled,” he said lightly, leaning against the doorway.

Y/N looked up, a playful smile on her lips. “You think so?”

Dean nodded, stepping closer. “First pencils, now you’re walking the Mile like you own it. What’s next? Gonna take over my desk?”

Y/N laughed softly, setting her pencil down. “I wouldn’t dare. Your desk is a mess.”

He grinned, crossing his arms. “Fair point.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, Dean watching as she resumed her sketching. He couldn’t see the page from where he stood, but he didn’t need to. There was something calming about the way she worked, her focus unbroken.

“You ever think about showing these to someone?” he asked after a moment.

Y/N shook her head. “They’re just for me. Keeps my mind busy.”

Dean didn’t press, but he found himself wishing she’d let someone else see her work. It felt like a piece of her—something honest and unguarded.

Before he could say more, Brutus called out from the other end of the block, pulling him away. Dean glanced back at Y/N as he left, a small smile lingering on his face.

That evening, as the shift wound down, Brutus and Dean sat in the small office, finishing up paperwork. The quiet hum of the Mile filled the space as the two men worked side by side.

Dean glanced toward Y/N’s cell, where she sat quietly, her sketchbook open on her lap. He hesitated, then leaned back in his chair, his voice low. “She doesn’t belong here, Brutal.”

Brutus didn’t look up, his pen scratching against the paper. “Don’t go soft on me, Dean. You know what the court said.”

“I know,” Dean replied, his tone firm. “But I’m telling you, something about her story doesn’t sit right. She’s not like the others.”

Brutus finally looked up, his eyes meeting Dean’s. There was skepticism there, but also something softer—an understanding that Dean wasn’t speaking lightly.

“You’re not the only one thinking it,” Brutus admitted quietly. “But it’s not our place to decide, is it?”

Dean leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “No, it’s not. But I think she deserves more than this. Someone’s gotta see it.”

Brutus sighed, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. He glanced toward Y/N’s cell, watching as she carefully tucked her sketchbook under her pillow. “She’s got a calm about her. Don’t see that often in this place.”

Dean nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. “That’s what I’m saying. She’s not who they think she is.”

Brutus didn’t respond, but the silence between them was heavy with unspoken agreement.

The lights dimmed for the night, and as the guards made their final rounds, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Y/N’s presence on the Mile was changing things—not just for her, but for all of them.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 7)

In the morning the Mile was as quiet as it ever got. The dull hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle of feet echoed in the hallways. Brutus had just begun his rounds when he noticed something unusual—Y/N was sitting at the corner of her cell, her hands stained with dark smudges of charcoal. She was sketching on a small scrap of paper, her movements slow and deliberate.

Brutus raised an eyebrow, noticing how the marks on her fingers had begun to spread, a little bit of every stroke staining her skin. He couldn’t help but smile a little—she had a natural way with her hands, even with the most basic tools.

“Y/N,” he called out, his voice gruff but kind. “You got a little something there.” He motioned to her fingers.

Y/N glanced down at her hands, surprised by how much mess had accumulated “Guess I’m not a clean artist,” she giggled with a half-smile.

Brutus chuckled. “Why don’t you come up to the office? I got some real pencils. If you promise to be good and not start drawin’ on the walls or anything.”

Y/N hesitated but then nodded, the flicker of gratitude in her eyes. “I’d appreciate that.”

Brutus unlocked her cell and led her to the office where Harry was shuffling through paperwork. “What you got here, Brutus?” Harry asked, eyeing Y/N with the same cautious but slightly warmer look he’d been giving her lately.

“I told her she could use the good stuff, but only if she promises to keep it on paper,” Brutus said, giving her a wink. “Now, what should she draw?” He asked, rummaging around the office collecting all the pencils he could find.

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical about Y/N’s talent. “I dunno… maybe she should draw something easy, like you, Brutal. You’ve got all that roundness in your face, not too many sharp lines, fairly easy to draw wouldn’t you say?”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, and Harry, despite himself, grinned. “Nah, I ain’t no model.” Brutus laughed “But… you could draw Harry. I think you could do it all that old wisdom he’s got, makes for an interesting subject I’d say.”

Y/N’s eyes widened a little, surprised by his request, but laughed along with the other too.

“Hey, less of the old. I’d still be able to take you in a fight” Harry said.

“Yeah if you was ‘bout 2 feet taller maybe” Brutus laughed. Y/N couldn’t help but burst out laughing at this, trying to cover her face with her hands only to realise she’d smudged charcoal all over her cheeks. The laughing was contagious and all three of them were close to tears by the time they’d calmed down.

Harry gave her a small handkerchief from his pocket which she gladly took to clean her face. Even Harry, the most by the book guard on the Mild had clearly more comfortable with her than before.

“Go on, then,” Harry said with a slight grin, “Draw me and my ‘old wisdom.’ Let’s see what you can do.”

Y/N smiled and took the pencil, her fingers still a little stained but moving fluidly now as she began sketching Harry. She focused on the lines of his face, capturing the weariness in his eyes and the subtle hint of a smile on his lips. When she finished, she showed him the sketch, and Harry studied it for a moment before nodding appreciatively.

“Not bad,” he said, surprising himself with how much he liked it. “I look… good in that one.” He gave a half-hearted chuckle.

——————

Dean entered the prison with a sigh, the weight of his thoughts from last night still heavy on him. As he made his way down the hallway toward E-block, he heard Percy’s voice carrying from outside, his tone filled with self-satisfaction.

“Hell, I’m the best there is at this job,” Percy was bragging to a group of guards standing nearby. “No one runs things like I do. Ain’t no one even close.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He didn’t need to hear it. Percy was always full of himself, making sure everyone knew just how important he thought he was. The only nephew of the governors wife, an only child, hell everybody had been telling him how amazing he was since the day he came into the world, grown up knowing his way is the only way, thinking that he’s better than everyone and can do no wrong. The worst part was that some of the others seemed to be buying into it. It grated on Dean’s nerves. 

He continued down the hall, irritation building. He couldn’t stand the way Percy carried on—so self-assured, so smug, like he was the king of the Mile. Dean knew better than to let it show, but he couldn’t help the annoyance that bubbled up. It didn’t help that the other guards seemed to eat up every word Percy said, eager to hang on his every boast.

But as soon as Dean stepped into E-block and saw Y/N sitting at the desk. Not in her cell… in the guards office with Harry and Brutus taking barely any notice of her. His initial confusion shifted when he saw what she was doing. Her focus entirely on her drawing, her head was bent over the page, her fingers stained with charcoal as she brought the image of Harry to life. The look of concentration on her face, the slight crinkle between her brows—Dean felt a warmth spread through him that pushed the irritation away.

She looked… peaceful. More than he had ever seen her since she arrived. There was something about her, something more than just the woman in the cell. It was like she was trying to capture a piece of life, something beautiful, despite everything.

Dean couldn’t help but smile, the annoyance over Percy’s bragging melting away. There was just something about the way Y/N worked—her quiet intensity, the way she made something simple into something worth looking at.

When Y/N noticed Dean standing there, she gave a small, shy smile. “Morning” she said to him.

He was lost for words, he felt like he was coming undone, he could just stand there breathing. He realised he’d been standing for too long when Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly.

“Dean, nice of you to finally join us” Brutus said, standing up to give him a hard pat on the back while laughing slightly before grabbing his hat and going out onto the Mile

Dean looked back to Y/N and stepped closer, glancing at the sketch. He saw Harry, with all the little details captured—a depth in his eyes that made him look more alive than he had in years. Dean felt a pang of something—an understanding, maybe, of the weight Harry carried.

“You did a good job,” Dean said, surprising himself with the softness in his tone. “Better than he deserves, I think.”

“Boy get out!” Harry snapped pointing at Dean and then the door. Dean had to turn his head   looked back down shaking his head but still slightly amused.

“Best not poke the bear” Dean whispered to Y/N offering her his hand. He led her back out onto the Mile and she sat down at the desk while he closed the door to the office behind him.

“I don’t think he thought, it was as funny as we did” Y/N laughed.

“No I think you’re right! But I was just bein’ honest, you made him look about five years younger!” He remarked.

But just as Dean was about to speak again, Del’s voice interrupted. “Well now, I reckon you gonna make me feel left out if you don’t draw me next.”

Y/N turned to see Del leaning against the bars of his cell, a relaxed grin on his face. Mr. Jingles sat perched on his shoulder, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“Oh please mademoiselle ,” Del said, his voice low and calm. “Draw me and the little guy here. Let’s see what you can do.”

Dean watched, a smile tugging at his lips as Y/N picked up the pencil again. She set to drawing Del and Mr. Jingles, capturing the familiar, easy bond between them. The tiny rat perched perfectly on Del’s broad shoulder, and Del’s expression was soft, calm.

Dean didn’t speak, but he was watching closely, feeling that moment of warmth settle in his chest once again.

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 6)

Dean pulled into his driveway just after sunset, the sky a muted palette of grays and purples. He sat for a moment in the quiet of his truck, hands gripping the steering wheel as he watched the warm light from the living room filter through the curtains. Home. It should have been a place of peace, but lately, it felt like a second battlefield.

With a deep breath, he stepped out, his boots crunching against the gravel. As he entered, the familiar sounds of the household greeted him—his infant daughter crying upstairs, his son asking endless questions about something or other, and his wife’s sharp voice cutting through it all.

“Dean? Is that you?” she called, irritation already thick in her tone.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he answered, shrugging off his coat and hanging it by the door. He walked into the kitchen, where she stood at the counter, her arms elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing furiously at a pan. Her hair was tied back hastily, and her face was tight with exhaustion.

“Dinner’s cold,” she said without looking at him. “I told you to call if you were going to be late.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, guilt pooling in his stomach. “Sorry, got caught up at work.”

Her laugh was short and bitter. “Of course you did. Meanwhile, I’m here all day with these kids, losing my mind. Maybe next time you can ‘get caught up’ with that, too.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but the baby’s piercing wail from upstairs interrupted him. His wife groaned and threw the sponge into the sink. “There she goes again. I swear, that kid cries more than she breathes.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Dean said quickly, already heading for the stairs.

“You always do,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for him to hear.

Dean climbed the stairs, his jaw tight, and entered the nursery. His six-month-old daughter, tiny and red-faced, was writhing in her crib, her cries echoing off the walls. He gently scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. Her wails softened slightly as he rocked her, murmuring soft reassurances.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he whispered, his large hand supporting her small head.

Behind him, he heard a rustle and turned to see his son, a wide-eyed five-year-old with messy hair, standing in the doorway. He clutched a toy car in one hand and looked up at Dean with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Why’s Lily crying, Daddy?” he asked.

“She’s just fussy,” Dean said, bouncing the baby gently. “Probably hungry or tired.”

“Mommy said Lily’s always fussy,” his son replied innocently. “She said she doesn’t like babies.”

Dean’s stomach clenched at the words. He forced a smile for his son. “Babies can be a lot of work, but we all love her. Even Mommy, okay?”

His son nodded solemnly. “Okay. Can I help?”

Dean smiled, his heart softening. “How about you sing her a song? You’re good at that.”

The boy grinned, proud, and began to hum a simple tune. Lily’s cries quieted as she stared at her brother, her tiny fists clutching at Dean’s shirt. Dean sat down in the rocking chair, letting the rhythm of his son’s voice and the gentle motion of the chair soothe them both.

He thought about Y/N and her children—three little ones, all gone in the blink of an eye. He couldn’t imagine the kind of love it took to bear that kind of loss and still carry on, even in the smallest way. She’d loved them, that much was clear.

“Dean?” His wife’s voice cut through his thoughts as she appeared in the doorway, her expression hard. “You’re just encouraging him. He’ll never go back to bed now.”

Dean sighed. “He’s helping calm Lily down. It’s fine.”

She folded her arms. “Well, she’s quiet now, so put her down and come eat. Or don’t. I’m going to bed.” She turned and walked away without waiting for his response.

Dean clenched his jaw, his gaze lowering to his son, who looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Mommy’s tired,” Dean said softly, more for himself than anyone else. “Why don’t you head back to bed, buddy? I’ll tuck you in.”

“Okay, Daddy.” His son hesitated, then leaned in to kiss Lily’s forehead before shuffling back to his room.

Dean sat there for a long time, the baby now dozing against his chest, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The house was quiet now, but his mind was anything but.

Y/N’s face flashed before him—the haunted look in her eyes, the way her voice shook when she spoke of her children. He’d seen plenty of inmates who claimed they were innocent, but there was something about her story that didn’t add up.

He thought about her husband, the details of the case he’d skimmed over when she first arrived. A butcher. Well-liked in their small Louisiana town. But if Dean had learned anything in his years on the Mile, it was that appearances could be deceiving.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder: what if Y/N wasn’t lying? What if she hadn’t killed her children? What if she’d been running from something far worse?

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 5)

Dean stood at the end of the Mile, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched Y/N sitting quietly in her cell. Her sister’s visit had clearly left a mark on her—there was something lighter in her posture, though her face still carried that haunted look he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t easy to survive on the Mile, not with the weight of death hanging over you like a storm cloud, but she was holding on.  

He saw her reach for the folded sundress Sophie had brought. She handled it gently, like it was made of glass, smoothing out the fabric with trembling hands. For a moment, she just stared at it, her lips moving as if she were saying something to herself.  

Dean felt an ache in his chest watching her. That dress wasn’t just a piece of clothing—it was hope. A reminder of a life that didn’t revolve around cold steel bars and the oppressive march of time.  

She hesitated before stepping toward the bars, clutching the dress to her chest. Dean tensed as he saw her lips part, her voice barely audible. “Could I have a moment? To... change?”  

Percy’s laughter rang out before Dean could respond. The little weasel was standing a few cells down, leaning lazily against the wall. “Privacy? Here? You think this is a five-star hotel or somethin’?”  

Dean’s jaw tightened, and he stepped forward. “Knock it off, Percy,” he said, his voice low but firm.  

Percy grinned, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Why? She’s just gonna die in that dress anyway. What’s the point?”  

Dean’s temper flared. “The point is, she’s still a human being. You don’t have to act like a damn animal every chance you get.”  

Percy straightened, puffing out his chest like a rooster. “I’m just followin’ the rules, Stanton. You got a problem with that?”  

Dean stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Percy could hear. “I got a problem with you makin’ this job harder than it already is. Let her have her dignity, or I’ll make sure Paul knows exactly how you’ve been runnin’ your mouth. You want him breathin’ down your neck?”  

Percy glared at him but didn’t say anything. After a long, tense moment, he threw up his hands. “Fine. Whatever. Let the princess have her little moment.” 

Dean turned back to Y/N and walked to her cell taking the keys to the cell with him. He slide the door open with a clang and ushered for Y/N to follow him. Being out of her cell was always a relief, the air just felt fresher out of it. Both Brutus and Harry were sitting at the front desk, hats of looking more relaxed and less rigid that she’d ever seen them.

Dean motioned to the door of the small washroom, used by the guards on the mile. “Here, you’ll have all the privacy you need,” said Dean as he opened the door. “Take your time. We’ll give you some space.” He motioned to Brutus, who was watching the exchange with a look of quiet approval.

---

Y/N closed the door behind her and clutched the dress to her chest, her heart pounding. Percy’s words still echoed in her ears, sharp and cruel, but Dean’s intervention had silenced them, at least for the moment.

She unfolded the dress, her fingers trembling as she traced the soft fabric. It felt like a piece of another world, one she barely remembered. Sophie had always loved floral prints. This dress—with its white fabric and delicate blue flowers—reminded her of the summers they used to spend together, laughing under the Louisiana sun.  

Slipping out of the drab prison uniform, she pulled the dress over her head, the fabric cool against her skin. It fit perfectly, hugging her body in a way that felt both comforting and foreign. She ran her hands down the skirt, smoothing it out, and for the first time in a while, she felt... herself.  

Her eyes filled with tears as she caught her reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her, but for a fleeting moment, she wasn’t the broken person locked away for crimes she didn’t commit. She was Y/N—the woman her children had loved, the woman who still had a right to exist.  

---

Dean heard the soft rustle of fabric and a faint sniffle from the washroom. He exchanged a glance with Brutus, who gave him a small nod before turning to patrol the other end of the Mile while Harry still sat at the desk shuffling through his paperwork.

When Y/N finally stepped out, Dean couldn’t help but stop and stare. The dress transformed her—it wasn’t just the way it fit or how the color brightened her face. It was the way she stood, a quiet dignity replacing the usual slump of her shoulders.  

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.  

Dean nodded, his throat tight. “You look nice,” he said, his tone gentle but sincere.  

Y/N’s lips curved into the faintest smile, and for the first time since she arrived, he saw a spark of life in her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.  

---

Dean sat in the break room, nursing a cup of coffee as Paul walked in. “You all right?” Paul asked, taking a seat across from him.  

Dean shrugged. “Just thinkin’.”  

Paul gave him a knowing look. “About her?”  

Dean hesitated, then nodded. “She’s got more fight in her than I thought. And I can’t help but wonder... what if we’re wrong about her? What if she really didn’t do it?”  

Paul sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We’re just here to do our jobs, Dean. You start askin’ too many questions, and you’ll lose sight of what you’re supposed to be doin’.”  

Dean didn’t respond, his mind still on Y/N—on the way she looked in that dress, on the way her voice had trembled when she said thank you.  

He couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t like the others. And no matter how much he tried to remind himself of his duty, he couldn’t help but want to protect her.  

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 4)

Sophie pulled Y/N into her arms, and for a moment, Y/N couldn’t hold back anymore. She buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, the tears she’d tried so hard to keep hidden spilling out in quiet, desperate sobs. Sophie held her tightly, her hands trembling as they stroked Y/N’s hair, whispering soothing words that barely registered over the storm of emotion between them.  

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” Sophie murmured, her own tears falling freely. “We’re gonna fix this. I promise, Y/N, we’re gonna make this right.”  

Y/N clung to her, the warmth of her sister’s embrace thawing something frozen deep inside her. It felt like the first truly human contact she’d had in what felt like years. The sterile walls of the prison faded for just a moment, replaced by the comforting familiarity of home.  

When they finally pulled apart, Sophie cupped Y/N’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears. “You look so tired,” she said softly, her voice heavy with concern. “Are they treating you all right?”  

Y/N nodded, though her throat felt tight. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse.  

Sophie didn’t look convinced, but she let it slide, taking Y/N’s hands in hers. “I brought you something,” she said, her tone gentler now, as if she were trying to lift the weight pressing down on them both. 

From the small bag she’d brought with her, Sophie pulled out a worn sketchbook. Y/N’s breath hitched as she recognized it immediately. The cover was faded, the edges frayed from years of use, but it was unmistakable—her sketchbook. The one she used to fill with drawings of her children, her family, and the little moments of life that had once seemed so ordinary, so precious.  

“I found it in the house,” Sophie said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought... I thought you might want it. There’s still room in the back for new pages.”  

Y/N’s hands trembled as she took it, her fingers brushing over the familiar texture. When she opened it, her heart twisted painfully at the sight of the sketches inside—Henry playing with his toy soldiers, Mary holding a flower she’d plucked from the garden, James curled up with a book on the porch.  

“They’re beautiful,” Sophie said, her eyes glistening as she looked over Y/N’s shoulder. “You captured them so perfectly.”  

Y/N nodded, unable to find her voice. Her throat burned with the weight of her grief, but there was something else there too—a flicker of warmth, of love.  

Sophie reached into the bag again and pulled out a small bundle of charcoal sticks wrapped carefully in cloth. “I know they wouldn’t let me bring pencils,” she said with a faint smile, “but I thought you might be able to use these.”  

Y/N stared at the charcoal for a long moment before taking it, her fingers brushing against Sophie’s. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper, her voice cracking.  

“There’s more,” Sophie said, her smile widening just a little. She reached into the bag one last time and pulled out a dress—a simple white sundress with blue flowers. It was soft and delicate, like a memory of another life.  

Y/N’s breath caught. She ran her fingers over the fabric, the touch of it almost surreal in the harsh reality of the prison.  

“I thought you might want something to wear... that’s yours,” Sophie said quietly. “Something that feels like home.”  

Y/N couldn’t stop the tears this time. She pressed the dress to her chest, holding it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “Sophie...”  

“I’m not giving up on you,” Sophie said firmly, her hands resting on Y/N’s shoulders. “Sebastian went to New York to get his brother—John. He’s a lawyer, and he’s well-connected. He’s going to help us fight this.”  

Y/N’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Sophie, I—”  

“Don’t,” Sophie interrupted gently but firmly. “Don’t say you don’t deserve it. You do. You deserve justice, Y/N. And if no one else will fight for you, I will.”  

Y/N swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. The weight of her sister’s love was almost too much to bear. She didn’t feel worthy of it, not after everything that had happened, but she couldn’t bring herself to push it away either.  

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.  

Sophie reached out and squeezed her hands. “We’ll get through this. Together.”  

---

The visit felt far too short, and when the guards came to take Y/N back to her cell, she didn’t want to let go. But Sophie hugged her tightly one last time, whispering words of hope and strength before stepping back.  

As Y/N walked back down the Mile, clutching the sketchbook and dress to her chest, she felt a strange sense of calm. The prison walls were still cold and unyielding, but for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel entirely alone.  

Back in her cell, she sat on the cot and opened the sketchbook again, her fingers tracing the lines of her children’s faces. Slowly, carefully, she picked up one of the charcoal sticks and began to draw.  

The lines came easily, as if her hands remembered a part of her she’d thought she’d lost. She drew Henry’s toy soldiers, Mary’s curls, James’s quiet smile. And as the images came to life on the page, she felt a small, fragile spark of hope.  

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep her going. For now, that was all she needed.  

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 3)

The dream always started the same way—soft and sweet, like the echo of a distant memory. Y/N was in the kitchen of their little house, sunlight spilling through the window, casting a warm glow on everything. Her children’s laughter rang in her ears—Henry giggling as he played with his toy soldiers, Mary shrieking in delight when she knocked them over, and James’s quiet chuckle as he sat at the table, coloring.  

Y/N could feel the joy of the moment, the kind of warmth that filled every corner of her heart. Her chest swelled with love so fierce it hurt. But then it turned cold, like ice sinking through her veins.  

The laughter twisted into sobs. The sunlight flickered, replaced by the cold, sterile buzz of fluorescent lights. She was running—no, stumbling—toward the freezer. Her heart pounded in her chest, her legs heavy, as if something was dragging her down.  

Her voice cracked as she screamed their names, her body moving on instinct, as she neared the freezer. Her hands trembling, she pulled open the steel door with a desperate force.  

And there they were—her babies, lifeless, huddled together in the icebox, their small bodies frozen in a twisted embrace.  

She collapsed to her knees, a wail rising in her throat. The cold of the freezer washed over her like a wave, a suffocating reminder of the moment she’d never escape. The dream blurred around her as she reached for the knife—her husband’s blood on her hands, his voice still echoing in her ears.  

A scream tore from her chest, and just as quickly, she was awake. The cold air of her cell hit her like a slap, her skin damp with sweat, her heart still racing.  

Y/N gasped for breath, clutching the thin blanket to her chest. The nightmare still gripped her, leaving her shaken, her mind swimming with the images of her children’s final moments.  

It was just a dream. But it wasn’t.  

---

The sound of boots tapping on the Mile snapped her from her thoughts. The heavy tread echoed down the long hallway, steady and insistent. Y/N was sitting in the corner by the bars of her cell facing the end of the Mile so she couldn’t see who was approaching her.

Dean appeared outside her cell, his figure framed by the harsh light of the corridor. His voice was low, a touch softer than usual. “Mornin’, ma’am, sleep ok?” he said, sliding a tray of food through the slot.  

Y/N rubbed her face, still feeling the weight of the dream pressing down on her. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples. “Fine,” she whispered, barely meeting his gaze.  

Dean didn’t buy it. He crouched down, his eyes gentle as they met hers through the bars. “You doin’ all right?”  

She nodded, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine.” The words felt like a lie.  

Dean didn’t seem convinced, but he gave her a reassuring nod. “If you need anything, just let me know.”   His voice was kind, no strings attached, and as Dean walked away, Y/N felt the warmth of his words linger in the cold confines of her cell. 

The weight of years spent in silence and fear had made her forget what it felt like to receive kindness with no strings attached. No hidden agenda, no expectation—just a simple act of human decency. It was almost too much for her to process.

She turned to face the wall, her hand unconsciously resting over her heart, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. The heavy silence of the cell had never felt so welcoming before. Dean’s voice echoed softly in her mind, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Y/N didn’t feel alone.

After a long moment, she heard his footsteps fade away down the hallway. Before she could fully settle into the strange calmness, she whispered, “It’s Y/N.” Her voice, quiet yet filled with meaning, carried through the empty room.

Dean, who had only just taken a few steps back toward the corridor, paused. His head turned sharply toward her, and he stepped back into the cellblock, brow furrowed. “Beg your pardon?” he asked, a look of confusion mixed with curiosity.

“My name, it’s Y/N,” she repeated, this time a little louder, her words feeling as foreign as the air around her. “I just don’t like being called ma’am all that much.”

Dean stepped closer, crouching down to her level again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ma’am just makes me feel so old, like I’m some cooped up housewife who can’t stop goin’ on about how back in her day things were this and things were that, and what people nowadays need is to return to the God-fearin’ ways of ye olden times.” She chuckled softly, surprised by her own words.

Dean was taken aback. That was the most he’d heard her speak, the first time she’d truly laughed. It caught him off guard in the best way, and he couldn’t help but laugh along with her, the sound of their shared moment filling the space between them. His hand instinctively reached for the bars, offering it to her as if this moment, so rare and genuine, deserved to be acknowledged in a way they hadn’t yet.

“Well alright then,” he said after a pause, still chuckling, “Y/N it is. And I guess if we’re dropping those formalities, you can just call me Dean. Mr. Stanton or Officer Stanton makes me feel like old Harry or Brutus. Been on the Mile so long, they can’t remember life before it!” He grinned, clearly amused by his own words.

Y/N looked from his hand to his face. There was something so disarming about his kindness—like he wasn’t just doing his job, but connecting with her in a way that felt personal, real. She took his hand without hesitation, the warmth of his touch sending a strange but comforting shiver down her spine.

“Dean,” she said softly as she let his hand go. 

“Y/N,” he replied, tipping his hat slightly in respect before standing upright again. “I hope you enjoy the breakfast. Lord knows it’s not the finest, but it’s not half as bad as what the rest of the Block gets. And just holler if you want any more.”

Y/N nodded as he turned and made his way back toward the front of the cellblock, leaving her alone with the food tray in hand. She sat down slowly, feeling like she was in a world of her own for a moment, untouched by the heaviness of the prison walls. For the first time in a long while, she felt... almost human.

As she picked up the tray, a faint smile crossed her lips. She found herself thinking about Dean and, without realizing it, catching herself smiling like a giddy schoolgirl. It was a strange sensation—like the world had paused just for her. For a fleeting moment, she forgot her pain, her grief, her fears. She was just... happy.

The weight of the day ahead seemed lighter now. And for the first time in so long, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could find some peace here, even if only for a little while.

---

The next time Y/N saw Paul Edgecomb, she hesitated. The Mile was quiet, the usual clatter of guards and prisoners muffled by the thick walls. Her voice was barely a whisper as she called to him.  

“Mr. Edgecomb?”  

Paul stopped in his tracks, turning to face her. His eyes were still kind, but his professional demeanor didn’t slip. “Yes, ma’am?”  

Y/N shifted uncomfortably on the bench in her cell, feeling the weight of the question pressing on her. “Has there ever been another woman here? On the Mile?”  

Paul’s face softened a little, and for a moment, he almost seemed to remember something long forgotten. “Once,” he said, his tone distant. “Beverly McCall. She was here before I started working the Mile. A harmless lady, if you ask me. Much older than you are now, though I reckon you’d’ve gotten along just fine.”  

“Really?” Y/N’s voice broke slightly as she leaned closer to the bars, eager for any connection to the past. “What happened to her?”  

Paul’s lips twitched with a half-smile, though it quickly faded. “She wasn’t executed. No, ma’am. She wasn’t even supposed to be here, if we’re bein’ honest. A little off, but harmless. We let her out of her cell sometimes, let her sit in the sun or knit. Gave her some space to feel human, you know?”  

Y/N nodded, a strange sense of relief washing over her. She wasn’t the first woman to walk this path, but the knowledge didn’t seem to ease the weight of it all.  

---

As the day wore on, Y/N found herself looking into Delacroix’s cell again. She hadn’t spoken to him much, but the faint sound of his voice caught her attention.  

“Hey, miss!” Delacroix called cheerfully from his cell, leaning out to wave a hand in her direction.  

Y/N paused. “Yes?”  

Del grinned widely, clearly unbothered by the constraints of his cell. “You wanna meet Mr. Jingles? He’s the smartest mouse in the world.”  

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy. She glanced toward the little matchbox at Del’s feet. A mouse peered out, its tiny face twitching in curiosity.  

“Mr. Jingles?” she asked, her lips twitching into a hesitant smile.  

“That’s right,” Del said, puffing up with pride. He spoke to the mouse in a gentle voice, and the creature immediately scurried up to Del’s shoulder before jumping down and weaving through a maze of blocks arranged carefully on the floor.  

Y/N laughed softly. “Well, I’ll be. He’s got some moves.”  

Del’s smile grew wider, as though her approval meant the world. “He likes you,” he said. “Don’t he, Mr. Jingles?”  

The mouse gave a small squeak, and Y/N found herself laughing again, the sound almost foreign in the silence of the Mile.  

“Ma’am” came a hesitant voice from the cell furthest down the corridor, a voice she remembered as John Coffey. She had seen him earlier, of course, but today something about him felt different.

“Yes, John?” She asked moving to the bars of her cell. She couldn’t see him but she felt some sort of calmness that radiated from him, a stillness that was almost soothing.  

“They’re safe,” John said softly, his voice carrying a strange, comforting weight.  

Y/N stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. “What?”  

“Your babies,” John said. “They’re laughin’ and playin’. They’re safe.”  

A chill ran down her spine. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about her children. How could he know?  

But the words hung in the air, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N almost believed him.

Before she could collect her thoughts, Percy’s shrill voice cut through the moment as he waltzed onto the Mile.  

Delacroix immediately recoiled back onto his cot, picking up the matchbox with Mr Jingles inside and clutching it to his chest. Y/N was water of Percy, she had been since she first laid eyes on him — while it was only a short time ago she knew she’d never forget the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach from their first interaction.

“What a fine mornin’ it’s turnin’ out to be! Isn’t it Del” he asked smugly coming to a stop outside Del’s cell looking down on him. Del wouldn’t meet his eyes and kept shrinking back on his cot, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Percy scoffed, straightening his hat and turned to face Y/N, it was silly of her to think that he’d only be satisfied belittling Del and leave, of course it was her turn next.

“And what about you missy? Have a good night?” He inquired slowly walking towards her cell. 

Y/N wouldn’t look at him in the eyes, she murmured a quick “yes, thank you” to the floor and turning to sit at her desk, focusing on anything, the cracked brown wood, the dusty floor, the paint chipping off the wall, anything except the looming figure at the bars of her cell.

“What’s the matter, miss? Can’t handle a little friendly chat?” 

Y/N stiffened, but she said nothing, turning her back to him as he stepped closer.  

Percy’s sneer grew wider, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Bet you’re missin’ your little ones, huh? Or maybe you’re glad they’re gone. Makes your life easier, don’t it? Bet maybe you even liked it a little” he said leaning nearer his eyes boating into her.

The words were like daggers, each one sharper than the last. Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, but she swallowed them down, determined not to show him weakness. 

“Yeah, maybe you did, you’re not all that innocent, you gotta dark side to you. I see it”

“Enough.”  Dean’s voice was firm, his body a solid wall between them in an instant, taking Percy by the shoulder and lightly but forcefully pushing him away. He glared at Percy, his jaw clenched tight. “Go find somethin’ else to do, Percy.”  

Percy scowled, his eyes narrowed with resentment, but he turned and stormed off.  

Dean’s expression softened as he turned to Y/N. “You all right?”  

Y/N nodded, her throat tight. 

---

The day was drawing to a close when Paul came by again, his expression a mixture of professionalism and kindness. “Y/N,” he said, “your sister’s here to see you.”  

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. It hadn’t been long since she’d last seen her sister, maybe a few days but it felt like an eternity. Through this whole ordeal it had been her sister, Sophie, who had kept her going, kept her sane; the only one who believed her side of the story, that Y/N’s husband had been a wicked cruel man, that Y/N loved her children more than anything, that she was innocent. A flood of emotions crashed through her—guilt, fear, longing—and she suddenly felt small again, like the young woman she used to be.  

Dean, Paul, and Brutus escorted her to the visiting room, her pulse racing with every step. When they reached the door, Paul stepped aside, and Y/N was met with the sight of her sister standing on the other side.  

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her knees nearly buckled as she looked at the face she thought she may never see again.  

“Oh Y/N” Sophie’s voice trembled, a small sob breaking through the silence, her arms outstretched towards her little sister.  

Y/N took a tentative step forward, tears blurring her vision. The door closed behind her, and the past and present collided in a quiet storm.