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winchester-whiskey · 2 months ago

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OH MY GOD IT FINALLY HAPPENED!!!!

Chapter 18 - You Can Start to Make It Better

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Return of the swaggy Monster of the Week cases.

Chapter Title from Hey Jude by The Beatles

Word Count: 17.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You go home, and try to get back into a rhythm. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 17 - Chapter 19

Read on A03!

You have rules.

If you’re going to love Dean, you have to have rules.

To keep yourself sane, and to keep Dean safe.

To ensure that your priority can be making sure Dean stays alive. You can never, ever fail him again, because now that you have him, it will take a biblical tragedy to make you lose him again.

So you have rules.

The first rule comes before the drive home. You stay the night in Texas, but neither of you really sleep. For Dean, it’s so the stiches can set, and for you, it’s so you can feel Dean’s arms around you and hear his heartbeat near your ear, his hand splayed gently over your stomach to monitor the stitches. Then, before the dawn has even fully broken the sky, you go.

Together.

Dean asked you not to run, so now you means you and Dean, together.

He goes to pick you up some non-bloodstained clothing—you’d slept in his shirt, and you’d both silently agreed not to talk about it—as you get the coffee, and when you start to change he takes a tall, rigid stance facing the door. It’s almost adorable, how he’s fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket and glowering at the walls. Like he’s somehow trying to preserve your modesty.

“We’re taking my car.” Dean mutters, and you freeze with one leg in the sweatpants.

“Dean, I’m not just leaving the Firebird.“

“Yeah, you are.”

“You gave me that car-“

“I’ll send Sammy back for it.” He snaps. “He’ll bus down and drive it back up, and you’ll stay with me.”

You roll your eyes, standing up straight as you finish with the sweats. “You never let Sam drive Baby, why is my car different-“

“Because.” Dean grunts, shooting you a glare as you shuffle over to his side. “I am not letting you drive back to Sioux Falls by yourself after you just got fucking shot, Princess. We’re leaving the Firebird.”

“You can be really dramatic, Deano, you know that?”

His lips twitch slightly. “It’s not dramatic to make sure you don’t bleed out somewhere in Oklahoma, Princess.”

“See, you sound dramatic-“

“And you’re not driving yourself home. Give it up.”

You pout up at him, putting on your best, innocent, sweet expression. “But my car, De. Please-“

“I don’t give a shit about your car.” He grumbles, and that breaks you in a second.

You could see the clench of his jaw and fists, hear the resolve in his voice, and this wasn’t a fight you were going to win. If Dean is valuing you over the car, you’d lost before the conversation even started.

It wasn’t like you really cared either way. If it were up to you, you’d climb onto Dean’s body and never be peeled away from him again.

“What about your car?” You hum, just to selfishly press a little further, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“If that’s what it’s gonna take to get your ass back home, we’ll take the freakin’ Firebird instead. But,” he narrows his eyes at you. “I’m driving, and you’re resting, and that’s it.”

You stare at him, and it creeps right up to the edge of your tongue. You love him. So much. Desperately and eternally, because he cares. More than anyone. All the time. You’ve seen him almost shoot people for looking at the Impala wrong, he’s willing to leave it in fucking Texas for you, and you can see how serious he is in his Gold—solid and burning in his body—and you love him-

“Dean, you don’t need to-“

“I do.” He grumbles, starting to herd you out the door. “I’ll carry you home on fucking foot, if I have to. You’re more important-“

“Than a car?!”

Dean shoots you a glare, you offer him a soft, teasing smile, and he sighs. “And you’ve got the nerve to call me dramatic.”

“Bold words from the man who just said he’d carry me home on foot.” You hum, and Dean finally grins.

Wide and pretty and unrestrained, staring at you in the breaching light of the morning that’s somehow less golden than he is, and here. Alive.

Not yours, but with you.

And you love him.

“I missed you, Princess.” He mutters, and it’s a good thing you’re already half-pressed into his side. Otherwise, you would’ve fallen over.

“I missed you too,” you whisper, and Dean’s grin is beautiful, and there’s the first rule.

This can’t be about you. He’s too pretty and magnetic and Golden, and you love him, but if you’re going to keep loving him it can’t be about you.

“We can take Baby.” You mumble. “I- That was nice, though.”

“No problem.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, and you could swear there was a slight redness to his cheeks before he looked away. “I, uh- Yeah. C’mon.”

Dean half carries you to the car, because he’s an amazing idiot who really seems to think that if he takes his hand off your body for a second, you’ll vanish into thin air.

You understand the sentiment. It’s the same reason that, when you stop for gas after a few hours and he tells you to stay in the car, you shake your head and start to open the door.

“What are you-“

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, I told you to stay-“

“You’re not the boss of me.” You mutter, twisting to glare at him when his arm crosses your chest, pinning you to the seat. “I want a shitty gas station donut, Winchester. Let me go.”

He doesn’t move. “I’ll get you one, sweetheart, just stay-“

“Listen to me.” You snap, leaning forward with a scowl. “If you don’t let me out, I am going to break out, stab you, and sit on you while I eat my donut.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly, and a small smirk creeps onto his face. “Bossy, Princess.”

“Dean Winchester-“

“Chill out,” he drawls your name, his arm moving back and leaving an almost whining depression where he’d been touching you before. “I’m not looking to get stabbed today, you can get your own freakin’ donut.”

You smile at him in triumph, Dean snorts and shakes his head, and you really don’t give a fuck about the donut. You care about Dean, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, muttering low jokes in your ear as you wait in the shockingly long line, and grinning at you like there’s nobody else in the world.

Dean plays his music too loud in the car on the drive back, trying to get you to sing along and pouting whenever you refuse.

“You know, this isn’t very nice,” he grumbles after the fifth attempt. “I just came back from the dead, Princess, the least you could do is sing for me.”

You shoot him glare, the Silver whining in your body at the reminder. “The I was dead card isn’t going to work on me, Deano. I don’t think it’s funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” He shrugs. “C’mon. I think I’m making it work.”

“You’re not.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach, and Dean drops it like that.

You don’t know if he gets it. The toll his death took on you. And you’re going to do everything in your power to ensure he never knows—that’s just another burden you don’t want him to carry—but there are things you can’t keep him from seeing.

How you get quiet whenever he mentions it, because the numb feeling of nothing, Dean’s gone so there’s nothing, washes back over your body. The fact that you know you don’t look healthy, because even with the Silver humming once more in your body, you still have bruises from malnutrition and rashes on your wrists from where Ketch tied you up. There’s a gaunt quality to your skin that wasn’t there when he last saw you, and you might not be trying to force the Silver down anymore, but the habit of picking your skin raw is too deeply ingrained to go away.

You have gotten better at the healing, over the past four months. But the weakness from being held captive hasn’t faded away, and it means that you’re too tired to do most anything but rest, and talk to Dean.

You can always talk to Dean.

He’s keeping his voice softer than usual. Almost gentle, as your eyelids start to droop, and his word fade in and out of your head.

“I’m gonna pull over.” He mutters after another few hours. “Check your stitches.”

You hum, and don’t bother to do anything but wait for Dean to park the car and move so he’s kneeling on the grass before you, then let him maneuver your body, so your stomach is under the flashlight in his mouth.

All your effort goes into trying not to moan, when his fingers brush over your skin. Warm and broad and calloused, so careful when they touch you, like you’re something that could possibly be broken.

You don’t care if the Sky sees this. If it hates it, or doesn’t care because Dean’s keeping you safe and alive.

You’re for Dean. Nothing and no one else. He’s the one who sits you up carefully and presses a kiss to your brow, before making you drink water and settling you upright once more. Dean is the only person in the universe who, when he scoots back into the driver’s seat and slings his arm around your shoulders, you’d ever even consider leaning into.

Sleep comes easy and peaceful, on Dean’s shoulder, the music humming softly in the background and the Silver flowing softly through the world as Dean drives you home.

It’s twilight, when he wakes you up. Everything is cast in deep shades of blue, and the shadows have grown a little longer in the night, but there’s no pain or fear in your body at all.

It’s all still technicolor.

Dean’s still here.

And you’re curled right into his side, and you can hear his heartbeat, and everything is okay.

“You wanna go right to bed?” He mutters in your ear, and you blink up at him as sleep lingers over your brain.

“Huh?”

Dean huffs a soft laugh, looking at you with an odd gentleness you don’t understand, but are going to cling to for the rest of your life.

“De, I-“ You cut yourself off with a yawn, burrowing yourself a little further into his side because he’s warm and alive and you’re too tired to stop yourself. “What’s happening?”

“We’re back at Bobby’s, Princess.” Dean watches you carefully, his voice still so strongly low and soft. “And Sammy told me they’d wait up, if you wanted, but if you wanna go to bed, we can sleep in your room, or the room I’ve been using. If you, uh, if you want me in the bed, obviously. We can separate and I can take the couch if you want my room-“

You shake your head, moving your hand to press over Dean’s mouth.

He blinks at you, and you only stare at him through a slight daze.

“Slow down, Deano, you’re talking so fast.” Your voice sounds whiny to your own ears, but Dean doesn’t really look like he cares, and you’re so tired. “‘M tired, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Dean grabs your hand and slowly lowers it down, his eyes dancing with a soft light. “You’re tired, sweetheart?”

You nod, dropping your head to his shoulder, and he lets out a low chuckle that rolls through your body.

“Alright, you’re doing bed then.”

You frown against his body. “What’s doing bed mean.”

“Means you’re acting like you’re freakin’ drunk, ba- Princess.” Dean starts to shift you around until you might be in his lap—the world is all blurry color and Dean, so you can’t really tell—and sighs in your ear. “So Sam and Bobby will just have to wait till morning.”

“Sam and Bobby. Where are-” Your words die as you lean back, and Dean’s face is right there. A breath from yours, and pretty, and there’s so much life in his eyes—all beautiful and so focused on you—that you almost burst into tears.

“Wait, shit-“ Dean grabs your face with one hand, the other keeping you steady by your waist, and that’s enough. Your eyes start to sting, and a weak noise leaves your chest as the Silver pours out into the world.

You’re the easy wind outside the car, the gentle comfort of the Impala—warm and filled with love from Dean’s care—and the soft hope of a lightbulb outside, covered in moths and flickering but still holding out to draw something else into its light.

You’re not Dean, but you’re curled right against him, and when your eyes flick down to your hands they’re covered in gold, and Dean-

“Fuck, Princess, don’t cry- It’s- I didn’t mean to- Oof-“

You tackle your body fully into his, somehow finding force without movement, and Dean’s arms wrap tight around you in half a second as you sob.

“You died.” Your hands fist against his shirt, and there’s too much dizzy, sleepy fog over your brain for you to do anything else but sob and hold onto Dean. “You- you were gone, and you died, and I couldn’t- I tried but I couldn’t- And you- You were in Hell, and I didn’t-“

You cut yourself off with another strangled sound, and Dean’s hand starts to stroke through your hair.

“I know. But I’m good now.” he mutters in your ear, and it’s soothing. Like a lullaby that’s a little more. A promise. “I know, Princess I do, but you’re okay. We’re gonna get you to bed, sweetheart, you’re real tired and it’s- It’s okay.”

Dean pries you off his chest as you continue to sniffle, his thumb presses to the bridge of your nose, and it’s like a spell.

The Silver eases back into your body, and you’re out.

When you wake up, sunlight is filtering through the room. Your room.

You’re back in your own room.

It hasn’t really changed. Bobby seems to have cleaned up all your notes from the floor, and the sheets are fresh and changed, but everything else is as you left it, save for a slight coat of dust.

And Dean.

The last time you’d slept in this room, Dean had been at your side, but he’s not here now.

The only thing that keeps the Silver from bursting out of your body and ripping through the world to find him is the Gold. Bright and strong and covering your whole room, imprinted on the mattress and all across your clothing, a soft lining of it on the door knob and over the carpet.

Dean is alive. The Spiderweb is soft and iridescent in your body, so he’s still alive, and he’d been here because only Dean is Golden like that.

It wasn’t just a cruel nightmare or trick of your mind, that he’d come to get you, and-

Oh, fuck.

You’re not tired now, but god, you had been when you got home, and you’d fallen apart from nothing at all. Fragile and uncontrolled and sobbing into Dean’s arms when he was the one who fucking died.

And he’d held you, but you’d been far too close. If he hadn’t somehow eased you to sleep, you probably mumbled that you loved him, in your exhaustion. And he had so many other things to worry about, all far more important than you. Dean shouldn’t be responsible for soothing you whenever you lose your fucking mind-

But he had. Because he was amazing, and Dean, and has always had you when you lost your fucking mind.

You love him.

Second rule.

You can’t overindulge yourself.

If Dean volunteers to care for you, you’ll take it because you’ll never have enough will to not. But you can never ask for more, when he already gives so much. If you ask for more and he gives it, that won’t be love. It will be selfishness, and greed, and the monster in you hoarding him like the gold he is because you love him, and nothing should ever touch him again.

Instead you’ll be his beast. Snarling and marching in front of him and taking whatever scraps he throws to you. If Dean asks to keep sleeping in your bed, there’s no world where you say no. If he wants to carry you around and stitches up your wounds and hug you in his lap, you’ll keep pressing your face to his shoulder and drowning yourself in his Gold until he either shoves you away, or you start to infect him and you have to put yourself down.

Castiel said you’d already infected him. That you’d embedded yourself in him.

He’d seemed fine. There were all those new parts of the Gold, and the way that the rivers of Silver were glowing and secured through his body, but if that was what Castiel had been talking about, Dean didn’t seem to be fighting it or rejecting it from his soul.

That could be part of the no overindulging. What you’d planted in Dean seems to have grown roots, and there was no taking that back, but it ends there. With the only exception of saving his life, the Silver will never touch him again. Especially with how little control over it you still have.

When you see Castiel again, you’ll have to ask him what he knows about souls. He’s the first other not-person you’ve met who ca see them.

As your brain starts to fully kick back into its normal gear—devoid of weeks without sleep and months of being plagued by Dean’s voice on the wind—it hits you that you really need to talk to Castiel again. He’s a fucking angel. Angels are real, and one had saved Dean, and all the Hell dreams were real too, which has to mean something, but you don’t know what, and Castiel hadn’t seemed to know what either, but he was an angel, so he has to know something-

One thing at a time.

Too much is happening, and you’ll get through it—you always do—but you still had to go one thing at a time.

And you’re home.

You shuffle out of the bedroom on silent feet, and you can hear them before you can see them.

“I still don’t know why I have to go to Texas.” Sam’s voice mutters from the kitchen. “You’re the one who made her leave her car there-“

“She’d been bleeding out, Sammy, I wasn’t gonna just let her fucking drive-“

“But-“

“Sam.” Bobby’s voice grunts, and you can hear the exhaustion in it. You can’t really tell if the gnawing feeling in your gut is guilt of relief. “I’m with Dean on this one.”

“Thank you, Bobby-“

“Not cause you made the right call, ya’ idjit.” Bobby snaps, and you can very easily picture Dean’s dejected puppy look. “If you’d used your fuckin’ brain, you wouldn’t have taken off the moment Cas found her, and one of us coulda driven it back behind you.”

“But, uh, I still did the right thing with the stitches and driving-“

“Stop fishin’ for compliments. You’re lucky I don’t shoot you for only callin’ us two hours before you got back.”

“I was busy,” Dean mutters, Sam snorts, and you finally turn into the kitchen.

Dean sees you first, but Bobby’s close behind, and once they’re both staring at you, Sam follows their gaze with wide eyes.

“Hi.” You mumble, keeping one hand on the doorframe to steady yourself. “I- uh- sorry.”

It’s all you can think of to say.

And it turns out it’s all you need, because the words hang in the air for a fraction of a second before Bobby’s marching across the room and you’re pulled into a long firm hug.

You hug him back without a thought, and his grip tightens. You can almost feel all of Bobby’s anger and stress and relief pressing into your body, and you’ve been a really shitty daughter but he’s still hugging you, and there’s no urge to let go.

It’s the same way he’d hug you when you were a kid. When you’d make the house go haywire, then curl into a corner and cry for hours. The hug that meant, even though you’d made a huge mess for him to clean up, Bobby was just glad you hadn’t killed yourself in the process.

And you hadn’t.

But when Bobby speaks, his voice is still gruff.

“Don’t ever fuckin’ do that to me again, kiddo.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear, and he knows you don’t need to hear the rest of the lecture. About how you damn near killed him, and he doesn’t need to lose you and Dean, so next time you should just come home. You can feel it all in his hug, and that’s enough.

“I won’t.” You whisper, squeezing him a little tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bobby pulls back, scanning over you with a tight frown. “You gonna tell us what had you off the face of the damn earth and needin’ stitches?”

You nod, rubbing your wrists as you speak. “I will later.” You lean around Bobby to see Sam still gaping at you from his chair. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam pushes out of his chair without another word, and Bobby barely side-steps him before you’re in another death-gripping hug, Sam almost crushing you into his body.

“Did you get bigger?” You mutter into his chest, and Sam snorts.

“I’ve had a weird seven months.”

“Ah.” You lean back, and Sam stares down at you, but doesn’t let go. “Same.”

He swallows, and something flashes over his face that you don’t understand. “I, um- I’m sorry I didn’t look for you. Dean was gone, and I knew you’d take it worse than anyone, and you were kind of all I had left of him, so I really should’ve tried harder-“

“Sam.” You offer him a soft smile. “It’s okay. I didn’t make myself an easy person to find.”

He nods, taking a slow step back, and Dean clears his throat.

“Can I have a hug too, Princess?”

You give him a flat look. “I’ve hugged you three times already.”

“Yeah, but I also drove you home, I think that’s earning me another one-“

“I’m not running a hug-based economy, Winchester, they’re fucking free-“

Dean almost crashes into you, and you hadn’t realized how different Dean hugging you really was until you felt them all back-to-back.

Sam and Bobby had been firm, and almost strangling, but they hadn’t been trying to move you into their body. They hadn’t rested their chin on the top of your head, or moved your face to press into their necks, and you hadn’t tilted your head to try and hear their heartbeats.

Sam and Bobby had stepped back, after the socially allotted amount of time.

Even after Sam lets out a very loud cough, Dean still squeezes you one last time, and keeps his hand between your shoulder blades as he moves away.

That wasn’t overindulging. Dean had hugged you, and you’d only responded to the pace he’d set. You’d sunken a little further down, down, down into Dean because he’d given you to chance, and you’d curled your fingers at the nape of his neck because the situation called for it.

Still, you have to set another two rules.

Third, you can’t let it show on your face, where Sam and Bobby and anyone else who knows where to look can see. When Dean keeps talking—and he’s right next you, and you love him, and he’s so pretty—you can’t just stare at him with a stupid smile and soft, adoring eyes. It has to be business as usual, no matter what, where you love Dean and it’s kept locked in the Spiderweb.

Fourth, you can’t let it affect work. At all. You have to fucking pay attention as they fill you in on the seals, heaven and Lilith, some guy named Chuck wrote those books, and a girl named Anna who’s now a missing angel.

“Oh, wait, get this.” Sam leans forward, his eyes wide on yours. “Where’s the Blade and your book, there’s-“

You cut Sam off with a long sigh. “I lost them.”

“You- How?”

“Hunters.” You mutter, twisting the skin on your finger, and Dean’s eyes narrow.

“You got a clue where they are, Princess?”

“Yes.”

Dean opens his mouth to push it, but Sam cuts him off before he gets the chance.

“Well, alright, Dean says you can write in the language too-“

You frown. “What language?”

“Cas and Uriel called it Enochian.” Dean mutters, running his hand over his face. “Angel language.”

“Angel what?”

“You heard him, kiddo.” Bobby shrugs at you, and you must still be clouded with sleep, because there’s no fucking way-

“I speak angel?”

“Yeah, but,” Sam sighs, frowning at the air. “We don’t know why, so if you’ve got something-“

You shake your head. “I’m not an angel, Sam, if that’s where you’re-“

“It’s not. Anna was a secret angel, and that was worked out in a month.” Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s gotten really long, but—and he’ll never get to hear this—it suits him. “It’s just better than nothing, right? Did you find anything new on, you know…”

You huff a soft laugh as Sam trails off. “Yeah, I know. And sort of. It’s- I was sort of visiting a bunch of witches-“

Dean pushed off the counter with wide eyes. “You were what-“

“Calm down, Deano.” You give him a firm look, and he scowls, but shuts his mouth. “None of them hurt me. They all treated me like I was some sort of royalty. It was really fucking weird.”

Dean frowns, opening his mouth to say something that’s likely going to be adorable and unhelpful, but Bobby beats him to the punch.

“They give you anythin’ to go off of? If they were treatin’ you like that, they had to know somethin’-“

You shake your head with a long sigh. “They didn’t have a fucking clue either. One older one, like really old, said the name for what I was is lost, but-“ Your eyes widen. “Fuck.”

“What-“

You shake your head, and Sam cuts himself off as you stare ahead into nothing and rub your wrists, letting your brain turn over the chance. It’s lining up, and it’s less than a gamble and more of a risk, but there’s no fucking way it’s that easy-

Dean says your name in a low, careful voice. “What are you thinking?”

“You remember how I thought the soulweapons were solemn oath weapons? And you told me that solemn oath means soul?” You run your thumb against your palm, and Dean nods. “I thought that was just, you know, whoever wrote it being weird or something. But if it really is a different language-“

“It is.” Sam mumbles, and you sigh.

“Okay, but that means I’ve been translating in my head for some fucking reason, and what if I’ve been mistranslating other words like that?”

Sam frowns. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve been makin’ them literal.” Bobby grunts, giving you a small smile and nod, and you stand a little taller. “You thinkin’ of another word you need worked out?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Are you guys still kind of fighting with Castiel, or is he going to take a, uh, prayer?”

“He’ll take it if we say we’ve got something interesting. He’s nosy.” Dean starts to guide you to the table. “He’s kinda like a cat. Comes and goes. You’ll like him.”

You give Dean a sweet smile, biting down the words that you already met him, and he did seem a little like a cat. It’s not a lie. It’s an omission.

And that’s bad within itself, but at least until you see Castiel again—and he gets real fucking specific about what the angels have been waiting for means—you’ll have to keep omitting.

Even if Dean pulls out a chair and helps you into your seat, and the Silver twists because there’s still some muss in his hair from sleep, and he’s still touching you, and you love him.

“I can walk myself, you know.” You raise your brows at him, and he shrugs, dropping in the seat between you and Sam.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Princess.”

“We both know you won’t-“

“Sammy, can we have some paper?” Sam passes Dean a sheet from his notebook, and it’s slid in front of you with a pen.

You blink at Dean, and he sighs, grabbing the pen and moving it into your hands.

“Write down what you want Cas to look at.” He mutters, tapping the paper. “So when we call him, we’ve got something to show him.”

“Oh.” You whisper, glancing down to the paper. “Right. Smart.”

You could swear Dean sits a little taller, his face breaking out in an even wider grin, and the rest of breakfast slides by fast. You do some loose, more pointless catchup about the past months—Sam found some new books he can show you, Bobby’s being a butthead and won’t tell you if he’s been dating, and Dean won’t stop reminding Sam that he needs to get moving to Texas soon—and for long, beautiful seconds, it’s hard to remember that you were gone at all.

But there’s evidence. Proof only you can see that you’ve change. That you’ve all changed.

Dean’s soul is still Golden, even if parts of it are to clearly new and molten from being mended, and Bobby’s soul is still green—although a little more worn, which is going to keep eating at your stomach—but Sam is…

Different.

There’s more red, even when you give him a quick glance. It’s like blood seeping over his softer tissue and bone, and there’s certainly far less blue to his purple than before. It looks a little like an infection. It’s raw and malignant the same way the Darkness was, and the Silver doesn’t like it. It’s still setting off and keening to spread out over you in an almost chemical reaction. To burst and bubble and flow until all the red is gone, because it’s wrong.

You can’t really think of a good way to mention that to Sam. You’ve never told someone that their soul looks infected before.

A problem for a later.

Because right now, as you finish up with the word—it takes longer than you’d like, but you’ve never tried to write in Enochian, and it takes an odd amount of effort to separate it in your brain—and you take the time to look at their souls fully, you see it.

Bobby’s soul is firm and pact, like the soil of the ground. Unwavering and firm, but not cold like stone.

But Sam and Dean aren’t anything you’ve ever seen.

You’d noticed it, when Dean found you, but you’d been tired and chalked it up to exhaustion. Yet you’ve slept, and you’re looking with the intent of seeing, and they’re not anything.

Or they’re everything.

You can’t really tell.

But whatever they’re made of, it’s the same. It’s all light and shadow, shifting and turning like a star inside of them, and almost pure looking. Like it’s raw, but still made from something old.

You can’t stare. If you stare, they’ll ask questions that you don’t have an answer for. Whatever it is, they’ve been made of it their whole lives, so it’s not another change.

And the changes all fit themselves—except for Sam’s, you’re a little worried about him—but they also still fit each other. You can see that too. How Sam’s soul is running with wisps of Bobby’s green, deeper coatings of gold that look a little like stitches over the redness, and a thin layer of silver that’s flowing through and off of him without leaving any scratches. The marks of silver are on Bobby as well, although a little brighter and further into the muscle of his soul, and then Dean-

Embedded.

You’re embedded in Dean. The rivers of silver as refracting with rainbow and have been almost buried in the Gold, and that’s what Castiel meant.

You don’t get to ask him about it when he arrives.

The introduction is quick. Dean says your name, Castiel—Cas is quicker, and suits him a little better—gives you a short nod, and you both stare at each other for a long second as Dean keeps talking.

“We just need you to take a look at it.” He taps the paper, and Cas’ eyes flick away from yours, down to the paper.

“That is it?”

You nod, glancing down to the words. Word. When you’ve focused on writing it in Enochian, it’s obviously one word, no matter how it keeps shifting off the paper into four. “I, uh, I might have been giving it a literal translation, because nobody ever actually taught me what I was writing. I didn’t even know I was writing in a different language.”

“Enochian is… very old and complex.” Cas mutters, moving to frown down at the paper. “I do recognize this word, but I’m afraid I don’t know what it means.”

Dean frowns. “How can you not know what it means, it’s your freakin’ magic language-“

“Do you know every word in the English dictionary, Dean?” Cas gives him a bored, pointed look, and you have to cover your mouth to hide your giggle.

“No.” He grumbles, shooting you a glare. “And you’re supposed to be on my side, Princess.“

“I am.” You shrug. “But that was funny.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and Cas keeps staring down at the paper.

"There are some things I will have to check before I give you an answer." Cas turns to look at you, his words slow and cautious. "But I warn you, what I find may not be what you wish to hear."

"As long as it's something." You mutter, leaning back in your chair. "I really don't give a fuck what."

It's a few more minutes where Cas lingers in the kitchen, talking about some new seal Lilith is trying to break, and telling you that—wherever he has to look for the direct translation of your word—it may take him a few weeks to do it undetected.

"Won't the angels want us to figure it out?" Sam asks, frowning down at your paper. "I mean, you told Dean that not even you guys really know-"

"None of my siblings within my rank know." Cas corrects, shaking his head. "It is not information that has been deemed necessary. Our only orders are to keep out of it.”

"Then what's got you suddenly all in on helping her?" Dean raises his brows, and Cas shrugs.

"I am... curious. My brothers and sisters are dying, and if this is what I think it may be-“ Cas sighs. “I am willing to bend things. For this alone. And as long as we are careful, and the seal is dealt with-"

"Your big bosses won't be all pissed.” Dean finishes, running a hand over his face. "I dunno, Cas, that douchebag at Chuck's didn't seem too flexible about things."

"Aw." You give Dean a soft, teasing smile before Cas has to respond. "You're worried about him getting in trouble."

Dean scowls. "Yeah, because they'll freakin' smite him or something, Princess. Then maybe try to get you too-"

"They cannot smite her.” Cas shrugs. “They’ve been very clear about that. It would not be effective.”

You swallow, but Dean relaxes. That opens up a million more questions, but Dean lets out a slow breath and presses his knee further into yours, and you almost say it again.

And you know that there has to be a last rule.

It’s most important of all.

You can never say it aloud.

It won’t bring Dean anything but more danger. More grief. Everything is only growing more and more complicated, and telling Dean you love him will only be cruel to you both. Telling someone else will force them to keep your secret, and that’s selfish.

It will have to live in your head. Where only you can hear. Not even the mirror can know, because the Sky might be listening, and you never want it to touch Dean.

You love him.

You’re going to have to find a way to tell yourself that in more silence, because it’s not helpful to repeat. You’re aware. It’s a given. You love Dean.

And you don’t know how you convince him to go without you for the seal case. It’s a lot of promises of phone calls and check-ins, plus the fact that Ruby’s going to be there, and Sam is—rightfully—under the impression that you’ll kill the moment you see her.

“She left me at the gas station. She’s the reason I didn’t get to Dean on time.” You hiss to Sam—Dean, Cas, and Bobby wrapping up in the kitchen—and he sighs.

“She got kicked out of her vessel by Lilith.” He mutters your name, and you scoff.

You don’t believe him.

More accurately, you don’t believe what Ruby’s told him.

But it’s still the right call to sit out the seal case. The angels are still hunting you. Cas is likely risking a fair amount by looking into the Enochian, and it’s better not to draw attention while things are still so fragile. You lie low at Bobby’s for a few days while Sam gets the Firebird, and you keep to your rules. Dean sleeps in your bed, but you only hold him when he holds you first. He hovers at your side like your stitches may rip open if you breathe wrong, and you keep your glances at him measured and controlled, your flush under complete control.

When Jo calls you with a case—bunch of deaths at an opera house, sounding like a lich—you agree to it in a second.

It doesn’t matter how the Silver howls at the idea of leaving Dean’s side. It can’t affect work, and you miss Jo, so even as Dean glowers at you when you hang up, you’re going to go on that hunt.

“I can’t just sit here, De.” You mutter before he can even open his mouth. “Cas said it could take a week, and if the angels are looking for me I shouldn’t be doing the seals-“

“You safer here.” He cuts you off with a grunt. “There are wards, and Bobby can watch you-“

“I don’t need watching. And you don’t get to fucking bench me-“

“I’m not- Son of a bitch.” Dean lets out a long breath, leaning forward and holding your gaze. “Just come with us. I really don’t give a shit if you kill Ruby, I’m all for it, but you just got back-“

“Dean.” You sigh, keeping your tone soft. “I’m not leaving. You and Sam will work the seal, and I’ll be with Jo the whole time.”

“But-“

“She asked me to help. I’m going to. And,” you give him a pointed look. “You can’t stop me. You can either go with Sam, or come on this case with me, but you’re not keeping me here.”

“Bossy.” Dean mutters, and you’ve won.

You want to lean forward and kiss him—at least on the cheek as a thanks—but that would be overindulging.

Sam’s back by that night, and when the morning comes, you split up once more.

“Call me if it goes south.” Dean mutters your name as you stand in front of the Impala, Sam already in the passenger’s seat.

“It won’t. I know what I’m doing, Winchester-“

“Yeah, I know, just-“ He sighs. “You heading out to New York?”

“Boston.” You correct. “Citizen’s Opera House. We’ll be fine, and you guys can join us if you finish first.”

Dean gives a tight nod and, right before he turns to climb into the Impala, he whips around and pulls you right back into a crushing hug.

You hug him back without a thought, and it’s not breaking a rule. He hugged you.

“Come with us.” He mutters in your ear. “Fuck the angels and Ruby, it’s safer together-“

“Not for this, De.” You force yourself to peel back, giving him a soft, sad smile. “And I’ll be with Jo. She’ll have a gun.”

Dean’s mouth twitches slightly. You’ll take it.

He presses a kiss to your brow before he takes off, and you really are a monster. A dragon. Taking every bit of Gold Dean gives you and only craving more. You can’t let it show on your face, but he’s driving away, and you want him to turn around.

He looks back. You see him glancing in the rearview mirror, and it’s all you can do to keep the Silver in your body as he vanishes down the road.

He’ll be fine. Sam won’t let him get hurt, won’t let him be taken away from you, even if Ruby’s there. And you did miss Jo—grinning at you from the motel sidewalk as you pull into the parking lot—but this might have been a mistake.

Because more than anyone, you want to tell Jo.

The biggest point of the case—at least to you—is to mimic some normalcy. Sam and Dean are trying to stop Lilith from something to do with flowers blooming at night, and if you can’t be with them, you can’t just do nothing. And lich are easy—up until the very end—so most of the case can just be you and Jo talking, like nothing in the world is wrong at all.

“It’s like a scavenger hunt.” You tell her over breakfast, flipping through the evidence she’s already found. “It’ll have a bunch of artifacts it’s tethered its lifeforce to, and once we burn all of those, we find the lich and burn it.”

Jo frowns. “Will it be easy to tell? If it’s a magic corpse?”

“It can illusion itself.” You shrug. “But it’ll just be an illusion, so-“ You pause, glancing down at Jo’s eggs. “I’ll tell you later.”

She grimaces. “It’s gonna be real freakin’ gross, isn’t it.”

“I think it’ll be better if I don’t answer that.”

“Great.” Jo sighs, poking at her plate with her fork. “Ya know, I didn’t think Dean was gonna just let you go off alone.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say nothin’-“

“Yeah, but I know where you’re going with it.”

“What?” Jo gives you a mockingly innocent smile. “That you two should save us all and start suckin’ face- Shit!”

You laugh as she barely manages to doge one of your apple slices, aim right at her head.

“Fuckin’- I just did my hair-“

“Well I warned you.” You stick out your tongue, a wide grin still splitting your face. “I told you to shut up, and you didn’t.”

“You just don’t want to hear the truth-“

“Because it’s not the truth.”

“God, you’re fuckin’ stupid for the smartest person I know.”

You scowl. “Hey-“

Jo cuts you off with raised brows. “How many times Dean called you, since you guys split up?”

You flush, and do the smart and mature thing.

Ignore her.

But it still scratches at your tongue. You want to tell Jo. To lean forward and whisper that you love Dean, like it’s not something complicated. Like you’re just two girls in your twenties, eating greasy diner food and gossiping about crushes and other pointless, normal things.

You’re not, though. The very next thing you do is grab your knife and a set of matches, then get in the car to go kill a magic corpse.

The first day really is just a scavenger hunt.

“This place is freakin’ fancy,” Jo mutters in your ear, adjusting the black cap on her head, and you hum in agreement.

“Just act like you belong.” You whisper, scanning over the lobby. “We’re new staff. I’m in hair and makeup, you do sound.”

“I don’t know how to do sound-“

“You don’t have to know.” You shrug. “We just need as much backstage access as we can get.”

“Right. Smart.”

You shoot her a grin. “I know.”

Jo scoffs. “Shut up. How are we gonna know what’s one of those life-objects?”

“The normal effort is a lot of cutting your hand and seeing if the object eats your blood-“

“Eats your blood-“

“But.” You raise your brows, and Jo sighs.

“You’ve got something else, don’t you.”

“Nope.” You give her a wide grin. “You’ve got me. And the life force is just a faded and split form of their souls. So…”

You spread your arms, and Jo just stares at you. “So what?”

“I can see souls, Jo.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right.” She gives you a grimacing smile. “I kinda forgot. Lot been happenin’ this year.”

“Yeah. That’s fair.” You let out a long sigh, rubbing your palm as you scan around the lobby. “Ready?”

Jo nods, and for such a fancy place, it’s shockingly easy to lie your way into a fake job.

“I didn’t know we had new people.” The small, pretty girl—sitting at the front desk with a bow in her hair—smiles between you and Jo, and you’ve never seen someone’s teeth be so white. “They never tell me anything, though, so don’t worry about it.”

“They didn’t tell us much either,” you give her an innocent nervous smile, glancing back to Jo over your shoulder. “Do you know where we’re supposed to go?”

The girl waves her hand. “Just walk into the stage. If someone yells at you, tell them to actually tell Lacy things instead of just expecting her to deal.” She pauses. “I’m Lacy, by the way.”

“I guessed that.” You glance to the doors. “Just walk inside?”

“Yeah, um, wait-“ Lacy slides two badges across the desk. “Take these, and uh, be careful. We’ve been having a lot of accidents.”

You blink like you have no clue what she’s talking about, passing Jo one of the badges. “Accidents?”

“There’s been a lot of crew deaths, right?” Jo jumps in with a perfect, fake-worried expression. “Is it gonna be affectin’ the jobs?”

She’s gotten really good at this.

You’re proud.

Lacy shakes her head. “No, bosses say it’s business as usual. Just really bad luck.”

Bad luck doesn’t usually end up making corpses look like they’ve been dead five years.

Lacy doesn’t need to worry about that.

“Jesus fuckin’ Mary.” Jo’s eyes widen as you step into the house, the stage large and shining ahead of you, rows of red velvet seats around you. “Can we actually just work here? For real?”

You snort. “After we kill the undead wizard, sure.”

“Right.” She gives you a teasing look. “You think Dean would wanna work mechanics, so you can stay together-“

“I’m going to push you off the balcony.” You say in a flat tone, marching up towards the stage, and Jo laughs before running after you.

“That’s fuckin’ rude!”

“I’m not listening!” You call over your shoulder, not bothering to hide your smile, and push yourself up onto the stage. “There’s nothing in here, by the way.”

“What’d you-“

“No souls.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jo climbs up to your side, frowning around the house. “You know, I can play a mean triangle. Maybe they’d take me. Or- Dean told me you can sing, we can run away with the circus-“

“This is the literal opposite of a circus.” You mutter, turning to scan over the stage. “And Dean’s never heard me sing.”

You’re walking before Jo can push it further, because every single mention of Dean is going to make you want to tell her, and you can’t let this distract you from the job.

Lich cases really are easy, when you know what you’re doing. The first thing you find is a delicate, old hand mirror in a dressing room—crawling and twisting with faded gray tendrils—and Jo throws it against the wall before you can stop her.

“That do it?”

You poke one of the shards with your foot, and let out a long sigh. “Yeah. Somehow it did.”

“Awesome.” Jo grins at you, turning around the room with her gun in hand. “Now we fight?”

“There are going to be like, two or three more you know.”

“Three?” Jo gapes at you, and you snort.

“Yep. Nothing else in here, though.” You start back towards the door, poking your head out the hall to check for other staff. “Jo?”

She sighs from behind you. “No more smashin’?”

You give her an apologetic look. “It’s kind of loud. And we can’t draw attention, or people will split us up.”

“But it’s fun, and it works-“

“You sound like Dean.”

“From you, I’m takin’ that as a compliment.”

You flush again, but you walked into that one.

You’re walking into most of these. The day passes quickly, and you manage to destroy another two artifacts—a comb and a fountain pen—before the building closes. There are no deaths when you leave for the night, but you really wish a stakeout was a plausible option, because most of the night is filled with Jo teasing about Dean.

Most of the whole next day is filled with teasing about Dean. You find a fancy gun with lifeforce, and Jo says you should give it to Dean. It doesn’t help that you would, if it didn’t need to be destroyed to kill the lich. It’s the exact type of gun Dean would like.

It wears off around the afternoon, though. Every single sweep of a room, you find another artifact, and it’s starting to drive you and Jo up the wall.

“You said three,” she grumbles as you drag another mirror into what you’ve deemed the destruction room. “This is more than three.”

You shrug, stepping back so Jo can smash, because she was right. It does work. “Yeah, well, this asshole must be strong.”

“How are we even gonna know when we’re done?”

“I’ll be able to see it, because all its lifeforce will be back inside its body.”

“So I don’t have to do the gross thing?”

You shake your head. “Once the objects are destroyed, you can’t do the gross thing.”

She frowns at you. “Which was?”

“Touching it.” You sigh, wiping your hands on your pants. “You’ll be able to. You know. Feel the deadness, right now.”

Jo wrinkles her nose. “But after?”

“It’ll make you the deadness.”

“Oh.” Jo blinks. “Fun.”

You hum, and move on to the next sweep.

It doesn’t take all the artifacts being destroyed to work out who the lich is, though. Jo works it out herself by day three.

“Who even wears a monocle anymore.” You mutter, chucking this one at the wall yourself, and Jo tilts her head.

“I’ve seen an old guy doin’ it. The one who waves his hands, while the orchestra’s rehearsin’.”

You frown. “The conductor?”

“Yeah, him.” She pauses, staring into the air for a long second before speaking with slow, careful words. “That was his dressin’ room. And I ain’t seen that monocle on his face before. You don’t think-“

“If you think.” You shrug. “I’m on board. Be careful of the conductor.”

Jo grins, and you’re really proud of her. She’s got this whole case under control, to the point that she barely even needs you at all. She figures out that—as you keep looking everywhere, finding less and less with each sweep—it’s likely that there’s an instrument you won’t be able to get until the orchestras rehearsing again, and that you’ll have to be ready to fight the moment it goes down.

The lich hasn’t been killing since you showed up, though. It’s probably worked out that you’re not just new staff. Figuring out that it’s the conductor puts you back on even ground.

Jo figuring out that it’s the conductor.

You hadn’t even looked at the name on the dressing room, because Dean had texted you, and you’d gotten distracted.

You let yourself off the hook for that one, though. It wasn’t your love for Dean messing with your focus. It was the fact that he’d been blowing up your phone with how he was gonna fucking shoot Ruby in the face.

“I think you should.” You tell him over the phone that night, and he laughs through the speaker.

“I’m this freakin’ close, Princess. I’m serious. She’s a fucking bitch-“

“Do you want me to tell you not to?” You grin into the night air, leaning against the outside of the diner. “Because that would be lying, De, and lying is a sin-“

He snorts. “You were just telling me about how you spent the whole day committing property damage-“

“Which is a crime. Not a sin.”

“So you’re a criminal?”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Nah, I wanna hear you admit it-“

“You’re gonna be waiting a long fucking time, Winchester.”

“Alright. I got patience.” You can hear his smile over the phone, and your fingers are still painted in his Gold. It’s going to drive you insane. “Oh, and text me the address of the motel you’re staying at. Me and Sammy are wrapping this up.”

You sigh, ignoring how the Silver start to riot at the very idea of Dean, here, holding you all day and through the night, and why did you suggest splitting up in the first place, you haven’t slept well all week, and all you do is dream of him anyway-

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“I know. But I’m gonna. And if you don’t text me, I’ll make Sammy do his computer magic to track you down.”

You sigh. You know he’s not lying, and that makes all of this harder. “You’re being dramatic again.”

Dean pauses, muttering something you can’t make out, but raising his voice before you can ask what. “C’mon. Do it for Jo, least she’ll be happy to see me-“”

“I’ll be happy to see you, De.” You cut him off with a frown at the air. “But the seal was all the way in Kentucky-“

“And I love driving.”

“I know, but-“

“Please,” Dean mutters, and that’s it.

He wants to. It’s not indulging if he wants to.

“Sam and Dean are coming to help.” You tell Jo as you slide back into the booth, and her grin is shit-eating.

“Aw, he wants to see you,” she hums when you hang up, and you flip her off without a word.

It’s not effective.

“You guys are so cute, runnin’ around after each other, and callin’ every night-“

“I got shot.” You mutter, tracing your fingers over your stomach. You haven’t tried to fully heal it with the Silver. At this point, it would be pointless anyway. “He calls to make sure I’m not dead.”

“Cause he loves-“

“Jo.” You shoot her a glare over the table, and she scoffs.

“Why don’t you think he loves you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this-“

“I do! He at least wants you!” She sighs, leaning forward and holding your gaze. “You’re supposed to be smart, you know. Whenever people ask me about you, they ask you know the smart girl that-“

Jo cuts herself off with a sudden, strange expression, and you narrow your eyes. “That what.”

“I don’t remember.” She mumbles lamely.

“Joanna-“

“You don’t wanna hear it.”

“Well now I have to-“

“That Dean Winchester’s obsessed with!” She blurts, giving you an apologetic expression, and the whole world stops for a second.

Obsessed with. And you’re embedded in him. And he’d apologized, on his knees, and put you to bed and let you crawl all over him and had never wanted you to leave-

“You were kinda all he talked about, before you got back.” Jo sighs. “I’m kinda shocked you ain’t together, after all that. I mean, everyone’s seen it, and if they ain’t seen it, they’ve heard about how you damn near died tryin’ to save him, and how he’s always smilin’ more when you’re at the roadhouse with him.”

“Jo.” You whisper, and the Spiderweb feels like it’s crashing down, down, down all while building and pulsing with light. “Please don’t. I- Everything is so complicated, and I-“

You can’t say it aloud.

And Jo only gives you a soft smile, reaching across the table and holding your hand. She’s such a pretty, soft blue, when you look over at her. Smooth and gentle like water, but still running and turning faster than any other soul you’ve ever seen.

“I know.” She mutters, and you feel a little like a child. “I just need you to know, cause, God, I ain’t gonna be able to handle another year of y’all starin’ at each other like lost puppies. You’re happier together, and he drove to freakin’ Texas for you, then begged you to come home.”

You sigh. “I shouldn’t have told you about that-“

“But ya did. And if a guy did that for me, I’d marry him.”

“I-“

“I’m not sayin’ you marry him now. I’m just saying thinkin’ he don’t at least want you is insane. But,” she leans back, shrugging and giving you a small smile. “We can talk about somethin’ else now. How’d you get shot, anyway?”

You pause, giving Jo a careful look. She’s really just moved on that fast, her brows raised as she takes a bite of her burger, and you let out a long sigh. “You can’t tell Dean.”

“Ooo, it’s a secret-“

“It’s not a secret, I just don’t want him to-“

“Worry?”

You flush, glaring down at your plate. “Shut up.”

“I’m teasin’.” Jo says your name, giving you a firm look. “When have I ever told one of your secrets?”

That’s a fair point. She hasn’t. And the Spiderweb is still raw in your body as the world grows more and more vibrant, so maybe your judgement is clouded, but maybe it’s just Jo. And you sort of trust her more than anyone in the world.

And you tell her everything. Studying witchcraft, and trying to look for ways to bring back Dean. How ever has been Silver since he died but it’s all still so painful and hard to control, and Ketch and Davis chasing you then holding you captive. The books—you need to ask them how that panned out, actually—and Enochian and the months on the road.

You leave out the Spiderweb and the Sky and Cas’ visit, for the same reason you won’t tell Dean you love him. That’s not their problems. You won’t make things more complicated than they already are.

But you do mention seeing Dean in Hell, mostly because you have to tell someone.

“Like- In Hell?”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “And I, uh- I don’t think it was a dream thing. It was really realistic, and I saw-“

“You still don’t want him to know about this, right?”

You frown at her. “Yeah, wh-“

“Cause I can see Dean right now.”

Jo nods over your shoulder, you twist in your booth, and she right.

Dean’s standing at the door, his hands in his pockets as he scans over the diner, and when his eyes land on yours, a wide, bright grin splits his whole face.

You love him.

You’re going to fucking kill him.

“We’ll finish later,” Jo whispers, and you give her a small nod right as Dean stops at your table.

He’s so fucking pretty, grinning at you as he drops into at your side without a word, forcing you to scoot back so he doesn’t end up half on your lap, and looping his arm around the back of the booth like this is the most casual thing in the world.

“What are two girls like you doing in a place like this, huh?”

“Dean.” You keep your voice firm, forcing yourself to ignore how he’s pressed his thigh right to yours without a thought. “You’re supposed to be in Kentucky.”

“Sammy’s got it. Rather be here anyway.” He shrugs like as if it’s nothing, already eyeing your fries because he’s a perfect idiot. “You ladies doin’ like a girls night or something?”

“We’re huntin’.” Jo says, crossing her arms and raising her chin, and you slide your plate over to Dean without a word.

He winks at you before he takes one.

You’re going to explode.

“I heard, kid. You know, extra hands never hurt-“

You snort. “Dean. What do you want.”

“Why do I have to want something.” His eyes flick right to yours, and he’s Golden, and you swallow. “Can’t I just be here-“

“What about Kentucky?” Jo pipes in, and Dean sighs.

“I already said Sam’s got it. What are we hunting?”

“We’re not hunting anything-“

“Lich.”

You shoot Jo a glare, and she just shrugs.

“We get to smash things,” she tells Dean, and he raises his brows.

“I can smash things, Princess.”

“Yeah, I know you can, De. Jo, if it’s just the instrument-“

“Then the lich is going to reveal itself.” She gives you a pointed look. “And the more people we have for that, the better.”

“Awesome.” Dean takes another fry, settling somehow further into the booth. Into you. “I’ll tell Sammy to call Bobby when he’s done, and we can gank this lich thingy.”

“Cool. But,” Jo shoots you a grin, and you’re going to kill her. “It’s funny you mentioned it, Dean, but we do have a girl’s night. You agree not to be a big whinin’ bitch about it, you can stay in our motel room.”

Dean pauses, glances over to you in a silent question, and death isn’t a firm enough fate for Jo. You’re going to leave her in a room with Bobby after you ask him about historical figures he thinks were secretly hunters or monsters.

You shouldn’t have trained her so well. It’s coming back to bite you in the fucking ass.

There’s nothing you can do but give Dean a small smile and nod—because he’s asking permission, but you split open the world if it meant not having to go another night without him on the other side of the bed—and mouth I hate you at Jo across the table.

She only laughs, and you’re not going to kill her.

The rest of the night is going to kill you first.

Because you can’t stop seeing it, now that Jo has said something. Dean doesn’t ever just press into people like this, or offer anyone else fries with raised brows. And he fucking pouts when you say no, then grins when you roll your eyes and snatch the fry from his hand. Whenever Jo’s talking he’s listening, but you can’t stop staring at him from the corner of your eyes, and he glances over at you so often. And he helps you out of the booth, and pays the bill—you’ve never seen him volunteer to pay a bill, not unless he was trying to make a dramatic point—and walks you to your car like you don’t have a fucking knife in your jacket.

The jacket that’s always been yours, but he held onto when he didn’t even know if he’d see you again. And the knife he gave you, because he was worried about you.

His hand stays on your lower back with every step.

This isn’t good.

Not when you can really never say it aloud.

Dean trails you back to the motel in the Impala, and while Jo had been exaggerating about girl’s night, you do have… rituals.

There aren’t a lot of other girl hunters. And you love the men you’ve surrounded yourself with, but the one most secure in his masculinity is Rufus, and it’s still not pseudo-sleepover-secure.

Because that’s a better description for this. Neither you nor Jo got real, stupid, fun sleepovers growing up, so it’s become a habit whenever you have a hunt together. A stupid game, or more stupid series of truth or dare—Dean is a banned truth topic for you, and get the most people to leave the bar is a banned dare topic for Jo after the fire incident—with snacks and a movie and-

“I am not doing a fuckin’ face mask.” Dean snaps at you, and you raise your brows as Jo snickers.

“You said you wouldn’t be a little bitch, Winchester.”

“I said whining bitch-“

“You’re still being a bitch.”

Dean scowls, eyeing the plastic in your hand like it’s a bomb set to go off. “What’s it even going to help with, my skin is fine-“

“Yeah, but it’s not-“ You glance down, having already forgotten which mask you chose. “Poreless.”

“I- I fuckin’ need my pores-“

“It’ll make you pretty, Dean.” Jo calls from her bed, and he flips her off.

You sigh. “Not helpful, Jo.”

“Sorry, mom.”

Dean snorts, and you whack his arm.

“Whose side are you on, Winchester?”

He shrugs. “Whichever side gets me out of that mask, Princess.”

“What if I say please?”

“Uh,” Dean sighs. “Maybe.”

“What if I say please,” you pout at him slightly, making your smile impossibly sweet. “And I promise not to stab you when you try to check my stitches later?”

“I wasn’t gonna-“ Dean cuts himself off at your pointed look, running a hand over his face. “Fine. But I get to actually check them, too.”

“Deal.” You lock your pinky with his quickly, shoving the mask into his hands before he can take it back. “Go wash your face.”

Dean doesn’t move. He only stares at you, and Spiderweb might as well be made of the Sun in your body, and your pinkies are still locked. His skin is rough, and warm, and feels right against yours, and he can’t look at you like that, or you’ll-

Jo coughs, and you pull yourself back together.

“C’mon.” You fold your fingers fully through Dean’s and pull him after you into the motel bathroom.

You sit on the sink for a better, and it’s a good excuse to touch him, as you smooth out the lines of the mask on his face. Taking more time than you need, with more careful fingers than necessary, because you just want to touch him a little longer.

“Be honest.” He mutters as you move around his eyes, continuing after you hum an agreement. “I look stupid.”

“That’s not a question, De-“

“So I do look stupid-“

“You look very handsome.” You let your fingers trail down to his cheeks. “Stoic. Debonair and heroesque-“

“Alright, alright. I get it.”

“Everyone looks stupid in a face mask.” You mumble, pressing the sheet onto his brow. “You’re still working it pretty well.”

Dean gives you an odd look. “You’ll look good.”

It’s a good thing you didn’t bother with the full overhead light. Dean doesn’t need to see how your flush is spreading down your neck. “Thanks.”

He just shrugs, and the silence stretches on without tension as you try to focus on the mask, you’re touching him because of the mask, not to trace his sharp jawline and slightly crooked nose-

“Dad would kill me if he saw me now.” Dean chuckles suddenly, and your hands still on his face.

“Because you’re with me?”

Dean shakes his head. “One of the reasons, yeah. Mostly cause I let Sammy talk me into ditching him for a girl.”

You frown at him. “Sam told you to go?”

“Apparently I was driving him insane.” Dean mutters. “He said he had it, and I should, uh, just freaking go to her.”

“Her?”

“You.”

You swallow, and he’s so close. You’re brushing over his lips as you keep holding his face, and the liquid of his mask is sticky, but you don’t really care.

“Is my face supposed to be tingling?” He mutters, and pulls a soft giggle from your throat.

“Yep. That means it’s working.”

Dean frowns, but lets you keep touching him. And he does look handsome with the mask. It’s insane, and unfair, and even when you finish up, he doesn’t move away.

Neither of you are trying to move away.

And things are always complicated. They’ve always been complicated, but when he’s gotten the chance, Dean’s always stayed, and you can’t tell him that, but you have to tell him something-

“I’m really glad you’re alive.” You whisper, and he beams at you.

Full and happy and so fucking Dean—handsome and Golden and not yours, but still making the Spiderweb catch light and throw it around your body until you’re a little dizzy—and nothing about this is easy, but it still feels it. Dean is here, so pain is somehow foreign.

You’re suddenly a little afraid of what you’d do to keep him safe, and away from the Sky, out of the angel’s reach.

“Yeah. I- I’m glad you’re alive, too.” He blinks, frowning into the air. “I mean- I’m glad we’re both alive. Uh, together.”

You smile at him, and in the low light of the bathroom, it’s a little like he has a halo.

You still don’t know what his soul is made of. You don’t really care.

It’s still Dean all the same.

“All the way down.” You take a careful step back, but you’re cruel to yourself, so you let your hand fall back into his.

It’s his gravity.

You’re never going to be able to pull away.

And if you could, you’d never able to bring yourself to try.

Because he grins, and says it back with a squeeze of your hand.

“All the way down.”

And you know. It doesn’t matter what Cas comes back saying you are, or what heaven or hell wants from you. You know what you are.

Dean’s.

You’ll be damnation or salvation or a whore or a monster for him. You’ll be wrathful god if that’s what it comes to. But you’ll be his.

All the way down.

——————

She’d fallen asleep on Dean’s chest.

At some point during the movie She started to lean into him, and Dean could never be strong enough to push Her away. When Her eyes had started to flutter shut and Her face had angled in his body, he’d pulled her a little closer. When she’d let out a small, soft sigh, he’d been certain that the world could crumble and collapse around them, but he would just stay right fucking here.

Jo had been giving Dean smug, pointed looks when Her arms had wrapped around his stomach. And when he’d carefully moved his hand to brush a little hair from Her face, he’d kept his words to Jo low.

He didn’t want to wake Her up. Not when She was sleeping this well.

“Don’t say a freakin’ word.”

Jo had let out a soft laugh, her gaze never moving from the chick flick on the TV. “I ain’t said nothin’.”

“If you tell Bobby, he’ll-“

“Like Bobby don’t already know.” Jo had scoffed. “He’s old, not blind and stupid.”

Dean had swallowed—Bobby couldn’t know, nobody really knew—but kept going. “Fine, but if you tell Sam about anything tonight-“

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep all the girly stuff you did to myself.”

“Okay-“

“But I am gonna tell him about this.”

Jo had waved a loose hand to Her and Dean—their bodies now fully curled together, Her breathing even and steady, one of Dean’s hand stroking carefully through Her hair—and Dean’s jaw had clenched.

The only thing that has kept him from yelling at Jo was Her. She’d stirred slightly as he tensed, and he couldn’t disturb Her.

And, selfishly, he couldn’t ruin this for himself.

This was the part of being Her shadow that he’d always wanted, but never dared to ask for. The part that was softer, and bloodless, and gave Her even more. Where he got to hold Her and touch her like no one else, and She was safe as long as Dean was at her side. The part that could maybe lead to his hands on bare, soft skin, to Dean being allowed to kiss a little more than Her brow when he could get away with it.

He didn’t know how to earn that. Hell, he hadn’t even earned this. He could never fucking earn it. She’d told him that She was what they hunted, but that was fucking insane because nobody in their right mind could want to hurt Her. It would take more than a monster to grab something rare and beautiful and destroy it, rather than orbit around it and follow it all the way to the edge of the earth, then down. Dean was the one who’d barely become better than a demon, but the very last fucking thing separating him from the black-eyed sons of bitches was that he still had things to defend.

No matter how Sammy was driving him insane with the Ruby bullshit, Dean still defended him because that was what he did. Sam was still a kid, and he was smart as shit but he could never handle all the blood and guts the same way Dean was crafted for them. It was the same way She fit so well into Dean, but She could never been made for the mud and darkness. Dean was Her shadow to keep as much of that from Her hands as he could.

She’d chosen to be here, with Dean. To come home and forgive him for things She shouldn’t ever have to know about, and the angels could forget all their fucking plans, because if She told Dean she wanted Lilith to open the seals and to let the world burn, he’d let it fall apart without a single fucking question.

And She wouldn’t do that. She was made of too many good things, and full of too much light to want the world to be ash. It wouldn’t be any place for Her, so Dean wouldn’t let it happen.

This was the place for Her.

At Dean’s side, where he could watch over Her and silently crave more until She decided he’d earned it. Because it would never matter what Dean had done until She said it was too far, then the last piece of him that Alistair hadn’t carved into would become the very ash he was trying to save Her from.

“You call her Princess, don’t you.” Alistair sneered, and Dean didn’t respond, only staring at the different weapons before him. “Answer me, boy.”

He hadn’t. It was one of the last lines Dean had for himself. He’d rip himself and a million other souls apart, but he’d never let Alistair touch on the fucking idea of Her or Sammy. It was his last apology to them. The last way he had to protect them, when—if they saw him now—he’d beg them to drive Ruby’s knife right into his ribs to save themselves.

His silence always ended with a little extra torment. Dean could live—or die—with that. It was what he deserved.

“I’ve warned ya.” Alistair hissed Her name in his ear after. “She’d got a special spot on my rack, when I drag her down here. I might not be supposed to hurt her, but I ain’t ever cared ‘bout the rules before. Nothing gonna fuckin’ stop me anyway.”

Dean had tensed, and Alistair had laughed in his ear.

“You think you’re gonna save her? That she’d want you to save her? Be your Princess’s shining white knight and sweep her away into the sunset? Here’s a new lesson for you, Dean. Nothin’ can save her, and if I’m bein’ honest, she might be better off down here, with me. I’m not man of god, and maybe,” Alistair’s breath had been hot over Dean’s face as he’d been yanked up by his hair. “That’s exactly what she fuckin’ needs. Maybe she’ll beg me to hurt her. I’ve heard what a little masochist that one is.”

Dean jolted awake in a cold sweat, the sound of Alistair’s laughter still echoing around his skull. It was just another nightmare. She was still right at his side. His hand was touching the bare skin of Her arm, and when he dared to draw small circles with his thumb, She hummed and let out a soft sound Dean would like to hear for the rest of his life.

Cas needed to hurry up on that translation. The sooner they had better idea of what She was, the sooner Dean could handle those certain nightmares better.

They’d never go away.

But at least he’d be able to wake up, look at Her, and know nothing would touch Her. That Lilith couldn’t grab Her and use her against them, and the angels might not want Her around, but they could never hurt Her, and She was—as long as he used all the sharper and bloodied parts of himself right—safe at Dean’s side.

Or across the room from him, or in his car, or holding his hand and pulling him into the fanciest fucking building he’d ever seen. Wherever he could see Her, and orbit around Her.

Maybe crash down to his knees before Her, because that had worked real well in his favor last time, and there was really no other proper response to Her when she looked like that.

She really was a fucking Princess. This dress was worse than the one last year. Silk, falling over Her body like it was made for Her—most of the world was—and showing Dean too much for him to properly, but still not enough to satiate him, because was a greedy son of a bitch.

He didn’t have a goddamn clue where She’d gotten such fancy outfits on such a short notice, but he knew his tie wasn’t strangling at his throat because She’d carefully adjusted it before they left the motel. Standing only a long breath away, every bit of Her blinding and beautiful as she chewed at Her lower lip, going over the plan one last time.

“There might be multiple instruments.” She’d said, glancing over her shoulder to Jo, who was working on balancing in her heels. “Once I find what they are, we have to move fast. Smash them, burn them, whatever you need to do. Then the conductor will be in raw form, and if I can see him, I’ll give you the all clear to burn him. Dean, we have to take separate cars-“

Dean had scowled. “No-“

“We’re about to burn a man alive at a public event.” She’d said with a flat voice. “Once we finish, we have to book it. And I am not making Sam take the bus again. Finally,” Her fingers had stilled on Dean’s chest, Her voice dropping to a soft, firm tone. “Don’t let it touch you. It’ll turn you into a puppet corpse.”

Jo had gaped at Her. “A what-“

“Puppet corpse.” She’d sighed. “It’ll kill you then use your body like a puppet.”

“Oh. Gross.”

Dean had cleared his throat. “Can we go back to the car thing-“

“No.” She’d turned on Her heels, tangled Her hand in Dean’s, and pulled him out the door.

And Alistair hadn’t been wrong that Dean wasn’t a white knight, but he was still Her’s. She was brilliant, and as long as it wasn’t putting Her in direct danger, Dean would do whatever the hell She asked. If She needed an army, he’d been a million fucking soldiers. If She needed a guard, he’d turn into a shield.

If She needed him to stand off to the side of a stage while a lady sang in loud, high sounds and She frowned the orchestra, he’d do that.

He was even allowed to keep his hand on Her lower back.

“De.” She whispered, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, and he glanced down to see Her attention fully fixed on the area below them. “It’s the harp.”

Dean followed Her gaze to the instrument. “You sure?”

She nodded, and Jo’s voice crackled in their ears. “Is there only one?”

“Yeah.” She whispered, scanning slowly over the area once more. “But- Shit, there are so many people here, Dean we’ve gotta-“

Dean nodded. “Jo, you’re in the sound booth thing, right?”

“Uh huh. I think I’m actually gettin’ the hang of this, too.” Jo hummed Her name. “Turns out I can do sound. You want me to steal more earpieces before we go?”

A small smile tugged at Her lips, and She gave Dean an amused look as she spoke. “We’ve already stolen three, and we’re about to totally ruin their performance. I think that’s enough.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jo paused. “Were you tryin’ to talk to me, Dean?”

She giggled, eyes dancing with amusement, and Dean couldn’t really be that annoyed if this was making Her so happy. “Yeah, I’m thinking you can cut all the sound to the audience, we can run out, get it done in the confusion, then get out.”

“That’s good,” She muttered with a nod, and Dean stood a little taller. “Maybe- Jo, can you just amplify the speakers? If you get them loud enough it’ll start a feedback loop, and we’ll get a good-“

“Cover?” Jo finished Her sentence, and Dean could hear the grin in the girl’s voice. “On it. You want a countdown?”

“One second.” She turned to Dean with a firm, determined look. “Go for the harp. I’ll take care of the conductor.”

There was no fucking way Dean was letting Her do the more dangerous thing. That was supposed to be what he was here for-

“And before you argue, if it’s not the conductor, I’ll be able to see who it is. You won’t.”

Son of a bitch, that was a good point. And She had that shining, fluttering look in Her eyes as Dean just glared at Her, the one where she knew She’d already won. “Princess-“

“Please, De.”

God fucking damnit. “Fine.”

She gave him a wide, sweet smile, and raised Her hand to her ear. “Ready, Jo. Turn it up.”

“Alright.” Jo hummed, and Dean’s fingers started to curl onto the bare skin of Her back. “Three.”

Dean didn’t like this. Something was tight in his gut, and She’d hunted these things before and been just fine alone—with Dean or Jo there to help Her—but this felt wrong-

“Two-“

He muttered Her name, and She gave him a smile, and it was only making him feel sick because something was off about this-

“Go.”

A loud, screeching noise echoed through the theatre, people started shouting as it pierced into their skulls, and Dean had to force himself not to grab Her and hold her to his chest until it all just passed.

None of this would pass unless he did his job.

Smash the harp. All Dean had to do was smash the fucking harp. Break it into pieces so She could burn this lich asshole.

Dean could break something. He really was good at breaking things, and breaking something for Her might be the easiest job he’d ever had.

He ran into the pit, shoving his way through the orchestra and ignoring people shouts of protest. His ears felt like they were going to fucking bleed, but he’d felt worse, so Dean pushed through it.

The harp was heavier than Dean had thought it would be, when he reached it.

It still broke easy.

Dean threw his whole body against it, the instrument fell to the floor, and when the first piece of wood snapped off, all hell broke loose.

People were screaming and running around—that had been a given, the rich idiots probably thought they were under attack—but over all of it, Dean could hear Her, shouting his name.

He turned right in time to see the conductor running right towards him, hands outstretched, and fuck-

Dean dodged as She screamed, and started to fumble in his pockets for his lighter, where was his fucking lighter, he was tripping over abandoned trumpets and seats as the conductor continued to swing at him, and where the fuck was his lighter-

There was another scream of his name, and Dean looked up to see the conductor only fucking inches away, and that couldn’t be good, but right before slightly shriveled hands closed around Dean’s face, the man stumbled back and screeched.

Loud, and echoing through the theater, his whole body writhing, seeming to flicker and wither and-

“Son of a bitch.” Dean muttered as the lich’s illusion fully faded, his body a sticky, browned and boned corpse. “You’re one ugly asshole.”

The lich only screeched again, and as it fell to its knees, Dean looked up to find Her standing on the edge of the stage.

Dean had only seen Her use her thing once, when Lilith had attacked them. And that had only been a primal, feral scream ripping through Her body as Lilith released him with a cruel laugh.

This was different.

There was no proper way to describe it, but She didn’t look like a human. Or a monster. Or a demon, or angel, or witch.

She looked like Her, turned up to a goddamn million. Everything closer to Her body was more colorful. Her hair was impossibly shinier, and Her skin seemed to be glowing, and Her eyes were fucking bright.

Her pupils weren’t black anymore. They were silver.

Dean had never seen anything more terrifyingly beautiful in his life. And when the lich turned to slime at their feet—sinking back into the floor and vanishing like there had never been anything at all—whatever had been amplifying Her seemed to collect back into Her body, her eyes focused right on Dean’s.

He almost fell to his knees again. This was the siren or goddess he’d been silently worshipping since he met Her. This was the royal, ethereal woman he wanted to serve for the rest of with worthless life. And it was just Her, but it was all of Her, and Dean wanted fucking all of Her-

He didn’t see it until it was too late.

The woman behind Her.

Not a woman. The illusion of a small young woman—white-teethed with a bow in her hair—vanished the moment the lich grabbed Her around the wrist.

There were two.

There were fucking two, and Dean wasn’t goddamn fast enough.

The only reason he could hear his roar over the blood in his ears was because it echoed around the theater. And She wasn’t even fucking fighting the thing, She’d gone slack and pale, and Dean was sprinting over the abandoned instruments to get to Her, yanking his gun from his jacket and aiming it right at the ugly bitch’s fucking face.

The shots didn’t kill it, but the lich released Her and stumbled back, falling right on the floor as Jo sprinted out from the backstage.

Jo’s lighter dropped, and the lich died with a scream.

But the fire didn’t slow or die. It only spread across the stage, and Dean was going to have to add arson to his rap sheet again, but he really didn’t fucking care.

All that mattered was Her, pallid and backed into the wall, rubbing at her wrists like she’d been branded.

Dean wasn’t sure if the whole corpse puppet thing was contagious.

That was another thing he really didn’t fucking care about.

“Hey,” Dean muttered Her name as he grabbed her face between his hands, forcing Her slightly glazed eyes onto his. “You’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay-“

“It touched me.” She cut him off with a whisper, and Dean’s grip tightened. “Dean, it touched me-“

“I know.” He grunted. “I know, Princess, but it’s- we’ll fix it.”

She shook Her head, still scratching at Her wrists and Dean did the only thing he could think of. He stroked his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until her breathing was relaxed, and she’d slumped forward into his arms.

“Dean?” Jo called from behind them. “I- uh, we should go before the building burns down.”

Dean nodded an acknowledgment, but She wouldn’t be able to run. She was too pale, shaking in his arms and starting to draw blood with Her nails-

He knocked Her hand away, She made a whining noise, and this was not allowed to be it. He was not fucking losing Her like this, he’d call another fucking demon deal or trap a million fucking angels until they performed a miracle, or-

Cas. He needed to call Cas.

But first, he had to get Her out before the building killed all three of them.

Dean pressed a quick kiss to Her brow, and hauled Her up bridal-style into his arms, and the moment Jo was at his side he was moving. Out the back into the cold air of an alley, down the streets until they were at the Impala and the Firebird.

“Here’s the plan.” He grunted, raising up to face a pale-faced Jo on the sidewalk. “You’re taking her car. Drive for forty minutes west, then stop at the first motel you see. Call Sam on the drive, tell him what happened.”

Jo nodded, catching Her keys with shaking hands. “What about- Dean, I’m- We thought there was one-“

“Jo.” He snapped. “Just fucking go.”

“Is she gonna be okay-“

“Yes. Go.”

Dean’s short, firm words got Jo to move, but he didn’t have a fucking clue if She was going to be okay. She wasn’t turning into a corpse, but She was still colorless and silent, and Dean was praying to Cas the whole fucking ride but they didn’t have a goddamn timeline on this, it might already be over-

It couldn’t be over. Dean had only just gotten Her back, and he’d meant it.

He wasn’t losing Her.

She’d know how to fix this. She knew everything, and She was a genius, so if Dean could get Her to speak, he’d do whatever she said needed to be done to fix this.

Jo met them right where she was supposed to, and Dean gave short orders for her to just keep fucking praying to Cas until he showed up.

“C’mon.” He muttered Her name, moving her to the edge of the bed and kneeling down, keeping his thumb running down her nose and scanning over Her slack face. “I need you to talk to me, I don’t have a fucking clue how to do this, Princess, I- I fucking need you, c’mon-“

Something was wrapping around Dean’s lungs. He wouldn’t fucking lose Her. Not like this. It was all his head could loop around because fuck, this would kill Jo, and he’d never be able to look at Bobby again, and he would’ve gotten Her back for barely a week just to prove Alistair right.

She was better anywhere without Dean. He’d do anything for Her, but anything wasn’t enough, and She’d survived all those months without him, but the moment he’d gotten back he’d killed Her, he’d fucking broken the one that had always seemed permanent, and he was a vile piece of shit from lower than the mud, and Dad should’ve killed him. Instead of threatening and hurting Her, Dad should’ve pressed a barrel to Dean’s head and shot him. It would’ve saved everyone a whole lot of grief if Dad had gotten some fucking clarity and killed Dean instead, or just let him die in that goddamn hospital-

“Dean.” She whispered, blinding eyes finally focusing on his. “You need to go.”

He stared at Her. “What.”

“Before it hits. I- I can’t feel it, but once it kicks in-“

“You’re going to be fine.” He snapped. This wasn’t a conversation he was going to have, because it wouldn’t matter when She was fine, and they were driving back to Bobby’s like nothing had happened at all. “Cas is coming, and I’ll grab whatever we need to slow this down-“

“There’s no slowing it down.” She gave him a small smile, and Dean’s heart might be trying to claw its way out of his throat. “It’ll be better to burn me. So nothing finds my body.”

“Shut up.” He grunted, his hands tightening on Her thighs. She wasn’t moving away, and maybe if he held tight enough, that would keep Her together. “We’ll fix this, there’s always a way to fix this-“

“Not here, De. I- I’m-“ She started to rub Her wrists, letting out a slow breath. “I could do it myself, but I can’t even feel it, I’d have to feel it to know what to fix-“

“Then maybe you’re fine-“

“I don’t want to risk it.” She mumbled. “Please go.”

“No.”

“Dean-“

“I’m staying right fucking here.” He hissed, rising up on his knees to look Her in the eyes. “And that’s it. You try to kick me out and I’ll come right back in, Princess, I did not spend so goddamn long waiting for you only to lose you-“

“You can’t lose me.” She whispered. “You’ve never been able to lose me. I-“

She swallowed, Her eyes starting to go glossy, and Dean wouldn’t let the sting in his own take over. There was nothing to mourn about, because She was going to be fine-

“I’m here.” She pressed Her hand to his chest, and he wasn’t breathing. “All the way down.”

Dean stared at Her.

He didn’t have enough words for Her beauty. He never had. He’d never been good at words, or saying the right thing, or knowing when to stop or how to keep something. And he’d let the world use him and beat him however it wanted—crawl right back onto Alistair’s rack or pick up only torture instrument until he was a demon—if he got to break that last pattern. Dean could replace words with actions, replace saying the right thing with doing the right thing, and replace knowing when to stop with going until his soul gave out.

He couldn’t replace Her. Keeping Her was the only option, if She’d have him.

But losing Her to something other than Her own will was simply not on the goddamn table.

Dean had prayed before. Since the angels had showed up, he’d been praying to Cas a lot.

But he’d never prayed to God.

And it was all he could do now. This wouldn’t be it. Nothing holy or good owed Dean any favors, but the fucking universe owed Her. It couldn’t let Her go, because She was too good for all of it, and Dean needed Her.

She was the universe. She was bigger and brighter than God, and wherever the hell that asshole was—if he was even real at all—he better be fucking listening because Dean needed Her, and maybe She was God and he just needed to pray and worship Her instead.

The thought moved through Dean’s whole body. He needed to tend to Her. That was what he could see. What he could know. What he’d always known.

He rose slowly, never breaking Her gaze. Giving Her time to move away as he inched closer, cupping one hand on Her face and bracing the other on the mattress, stopping where if he spoke, Dean’s lips would brush Her’s.

There was no mistaking what he was daring to attempt. No way for Her to miss it, and be caught off guard. A long, strained moment where Dean gave Her the chance to shove him away and curse his name back to Hell, and at least then he’d know. That he’d always be in Her orbit, but to Her, Dean was just another thing, trying to sit in Her light.

But She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were wide on his, yet She wasn’t looking away. Her fingers were curled on his shirt, and Her breath was heavy from her nostrils.

He licked his lips because he couldn’t fucking help himself, and She flushed, Her breath hitching, and Her mouth falling slightly open.

There it was.

Dean crashed down, and kissed Her.

And he’d never been good with words.

But this didn’t need any.

It was all movement and feeling. Her lips fit even better against Dean’s than he’d ever been able to imagine, and every single bit of desperation he threw into Her, she threw right fucking back. Dean bit at Her lower lip and She moaned, right down his fucking throat as She opened further for him, but when Dean got to press his tongue into Her mouth and have more, She pulled it between Her teeth and swallowed Dean’s groan with the best sound he’d ever fucking heard escaping from her throat.

She tasted like coffee and sugar and that fucking fruit, Dean could taste the fruit and he was going to get addicted, but there were worse fucking vices to have. At least this one had Her wrapping an arm around his neck and tugging at his shirt to get him closer, She wanted Dean closer and he’d have to be fucking insane to deny Her.

When he pushed deeper, moving Her down to lie flat on Her back and never fucking breaking the kiss, She let him. She let Dean have fucking all of it. He got to overtake Her quickly, and She was responding to all his silents pleas for more and shivering under his touch when he grabbed Her waist and trailed his fingers down, down, down, to the bare skin of Her thighs-

“Dean.” She gasped against him, arching slightly off the mattress, and if God didn’t take his prayer, Dean would put all his torture skills to some good fucking use until the son of a bitch promised to never let anything hurt Her again.

Until then he’d keep Her caged safely between the mattress and his body, devouring every single sound he was learning so fast to pull from Her body with only his mouth. They were all somehow better than last, and Dean had never felt this fucking high from just a kiss-

A foreign noise breached through Dean’s skull, and he sat up in half a second, pulling Her with him and burying Her tight into his chest. Anything that wasn’t Her or Dean was a fucking threat and-

It was Jo. When Dean twisted around with a deadly glower it was just Jo, and maybe he’d gotten a little too intense about that.

But She was still in danger. The lich had still touched Her.

“Dean." She shoved at his chest, Her words muffled in his body, and he loosened his grip until She could twist against him.

But She stayed against him. Small victories.

“How, uh-“ She swallowed, and Dean glanced down to see Her rubbing at her wrists. “How long have you been there?”

“Few minutes.” Jo mumbled, staring at the floor, and Dean realized the girl’s whole face was red. “I’m sorry, I just- I didn’t stop it cause I was happy for you, but then I realized it was just gonna keep goin’, and, uh, sorry-“

“Jo.” Dean muttered. “What-“

“Cas is here.” Jo gave Dean a nervous look. “I prayed to him.”

Dean sat a little taller. She would be fine. “Tell him to get his angel-ass in here and fix her-“

“There is nothing to fix.” Cas was very suddenly in the room, and Jo squeaked in surprise.

“Fuckin’ Christ-“

“My apologies.” Cas said with a small, grimacing frown. “You told me to wait until I was summoned, and Dean did just say to get my ass in here. My ass can’t be here without the rest of me, so-“

“Cas.” Dean gave him a flat look. “Focus. What’d you mean there’s nothing to fix-“

Cas said Her name slowly. “She is in perfect health.”

She frowned. “But the lich-“

“You are not in danger of any lich infection.” Cas shrugged. “It is not possible for your kind to succumb to any sort of preternatural disease, curse, or weapon. At most you will have felt a little sick, but it will have already passed.”

“My-“ She cut Herself off, setting up tall and straight, and Dean caught it.

What Cas had implied. .

“My kind?” She whispered, Her eyes wide. “Did you- You figured out what I am?”

Cas sighed, and nodded. “I cannot offer a full explanation- The word you gave me is ancient. Uncommon. I would not call it taboo, but it is mostly lost with purpose.”

Dean frowned. “You mean on purpose?”

“No, Dean. With purpose. It has been deemed better for mortals to know as little as possible. Even we are not fully able to comprehend it.”

“Cas.” She muttered, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “Please just say it.”

Cas let out a long breath. “You are the Magdalene.” He said Her name, watching her carefully as he continued. “They are the oldest and rarest breed of witch, although witch is a… crude term. You are made of the magic witches learn to harness.”

She swallowed, Her voice impossibly soft. “I- I’m a Magdalene.”

“No. You are the Magdalene.”

“Cas.” Dean grunted. “What the hell are you talking about.”

Cas sighed, still not moving from his place beside a wide-eyed Jo. “There is nothing in heaven’s record or knowledge about where Magdalene’s come from. They simply… are. Impossibly rare, and powerful. Dangerous. There is maybe one born every five hundred years, with the rare exception of two existing at once around the end of what your historians call the Common Era.” Cas said Her name again, and Dean was a little worried She wasn’t breathing. “You are the most powerful one recorded.”

“Oh.” She mumbled. “Cool. I- Doesn’t that probably mean whatever, um, Magdalene comes after me will be more powerful?”

Cas shook his head. “Heaven has monitored Magdalene’s since Lilith-“

Dean went rigid. “Lilith? What the hell does that bitch have to do with-“

“She’s a Magdalene, isn’t she.” Her words were still soft, Her attention still trained on Cas. “She said she was like me. That I was her descendent.”

Cas gave Her a grimacing, apologetic nod. “It is a biological trait, yes. There are complexities to it I do not think you’ll care to understand, but before Lilith was a demon, she was the first Magdalene. She had daughters, and they had daughters, and-“

“It led to me.” She muttered, and Cas nodded.

“The birth of a Magdalene has always heralded danger. Change. Lilith brought on demons, Avva, a goat-keeper in Sumar, brought on writing and calendars, and a consort in ancient China name Fu Hau introduced witchcraft to non-natural born-“

Dean sighed. “Man, we’re not here for a history lesson-“

“I am getting to my point, Dean.” Cas’ voice remained flat, his attention returning to Her. “The most powerful Magdalene’s before you were Cleopatra VII Thea Philopato, who brought about the Roman Empire, and Mary-“

“Magdalene.” She finished, Her eyes widening. “Is it- If it’s that old, how can it be named after her?”

“It isn’t.” Cas shrugged. “Magdala was the home of Lilith, as a human. It is simply what you would call coincidence.”

“Cas.” Dean grunted. “The point.”

Cas sighed. “Mary brought on the invention of the human religion, Christianity, which has been… impactful. Both her soul, and that of Cleopatra’s, had a sliver of the Magdalene power.”

Jo frowned, her voice small as she jumped in. “A sliver? How much is in a sliver?”

“My best estimate would be 2.159%.” Cas said. “Although I do not think Dean would want a math lesson on top of my history.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and She let out a soft laugh, even as Her nails started to dig into Dean’s skin.

Better than it being Her own.

“Cas?” She said carefully, and they were already looking at each other like there was a silent conversation Dean and Jo weren’t allowed to be a part of.

Cas said Her name, bowing his head slightly, and She swallowed.

“How much of my soul is… Magdalene.”

“Half.” Cas muttered, giving Her an apologetic look, and She was going to draw blood. “And from what I have found, that should not be possible.”

“Oh.” She was almost fully curling into Dean’s body. He chanced one arm snaking around Her side, and She held it there.

Small, horrible victories.

“It is likely why you were able to walk into Hell.” Cas said, looking only at Her, and Dean froze.

“What’d you mean, walk into Hell.” He hissed, looking between Her and Cas. “You’ve never been to Hell, Princess, and nobody just walks in-“

“I- I know, De, just-“ She shot Cas a glare. “You have horrible timing.”

Cas frowned. “I will- is that something to improve?”

“Yes. We’ll talk about it later.” She sighed, giving Dean a careful, soft expression that made something in him balk.

She couldn’t have walked into Hell. Something would’ve grabbed Her, Alistair would’ve known and seen Her and hurt Her, and Dean felt like a million fucking bricks were being pressed down onto his chest.

“I sort of,” She took a deep, long breath, and whatever it was, Dean kind of didn’t want to hear it. “Could see you, sometimes. In Hell.”

“See me.” He grunted, and She nodded. “When.”

“Every night.” She whispered. “I was- I saw Cas saving you. That’s how he knows.”

She wasn’t lying.

And there wasn’t a place low enough for Dean in the universe. She’d seen everything. And he’d be able to just beat himself and ignore the bruises if it hands only been his torture, but She’d seen parts of what he’d done. The souls he’d ripped and broken, and there had to be something worse than Hell, for things like Dean.

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled, and She wasn’t pulling away.

Dean didn’t know why She wasn’t pulling away. This was the reason. More than an out, a neon sign begging Her to take the exit door, yet She was still here.

He’d never understand Her. She wasn’t caving under any of this, just looking back to Cas and staying pressed to Dean, and She knew, She’s known, how has She known and not fucking left-

“What now?” She asked, and Dean had to focus.

It wasn’t about him, now. If he was going to keep doing the shadow thing right, it was about Her.

“You will need to be careful.” Cas said slowly. “There is more, that I was not able to access, and once it is known that you have reunited with the Winchester’s, precautions may be taken.”

“What-“

“I am not able to say, but mostly because I do not know. I have already lingered too long. Jo. Dean,” Cas gave them both nods, then said Her name with the same movement. “We will talk later.”

She blinked, something flashing over Her face that Dean didn’t understand, and Cas vanished.

None of them spoke. There was nothing to say. Too much had changed from the morning, and it was all so fucking complicated, and God, Dean really fucking hated that word.

But She was still in Dean’s arms. A hand over his on Her stomach, that fucking fruit smell invading his sense as She leaned slightly further into his body. Into Dean.

So as long as he could manage, Dean wasn’t going to let Her go.

End Note: The emotional whiplash Dean just went through... someone get him like a blanket or something. (Also 300k words to kiss. They're insane)

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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winchester-whiskey · 2 months ago

Text

touch starved.

OR dean winchester needs a damn hug! specifically from me, so of course i wrote about it! pretty much based off of my own headcanon that i wrote because this dean is canon— TO ME!

my masterlist

「 pairing 」 : touch starved ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 6.1 k (would y’all believe me when i say this started out as a drabble… faith be normal over dean winchester challenge level: IMPOSSIBLE!)

「 content / warnings 」 : late seasons soft!dean, vulnerability to da max, emotions, emotions, EMOTIONS. no smut (for once! everyone clap and cheer!), starts off kinda sad BUT HAS A HAPPY(ISH) ENDING I SWEAR! PLEASE PLEASE DON’T KILL ME I HAVE AN EXAM TOMORROW! AND ON THAT NOTE GOODNIGHT LMFAOOOO

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

AFTER CENTURIES IT’S FINALLY DONE! just saying once again thank you all so very much for 400 (+87 ?!?!?) followers! this fic is my gift to you! can’t believe over 400 of you want to see my bullshit (and unabashed horniness) on the daily but i love and appreciate every single one of ya! shoutout to my lovely mooties as well!

𖤐 ─────────────────────────

dean winchester knew he had something called a touch problem.

and he didn’t know exactly when it started, but after years and years of the only touch he received being hits, punches, the cold feel of steel from a knife or the heat from the barrel of a gun—he craved something gentle.

he needed it.

and goddamn, he was getting desperate.

at first, he usually just sought it out with one-night stands. whether it be holding their hand during it, or sticking around for longer just to lay in bed with whoever the fuck he’d met that night— that kept him at bay. that’s how he got the touch he needed.

but then he got greedy.

it had been a particularly rough hunt. you, dean, and sam were lucky to get out alive. you’d pulled into a town that had a vamp nest terrorizing its inhabitants, and when you saw the familiar hot faces of the winchester brothers at the only decent bar in a 30-mile radius, you’d decided to work together— as you’d all done a million times before.

but still, it was rough. you three each took a floor of the abandoned farmhouse— you on the highest, dean in the middle, and sam on the ground floor. you clambered down the stairs after you had finished clearing your floor, only to be met with two snarling vampires— which you quickly ganked with a schwing of your machete.

after verifying that no threats were coming your way, you started looking for dean— and the panic that flooded through your chest when you saw him crumpled over on the floor in one of the rooms almost made you freeze.

almost.

years of experience and split-second decisions snapped you out of it, immediately falling to your knees by dean’s side, turning him over on his back.

your hands were gentle but swift as you quickly flipped out the sides of his jacket, making sure there were no large gashes or wounds— and the sigh with the feeling of pure relief you let out when you realized he was just knocked out was a little more intense than you had expected it to be.

and you told yourself that was definitely normal.

right?

right.

“dean,” your hand had gone to the side of dean’s face, the other remaining on his shoulder as you shook it gently, trying not to startle him completely as you masked your worry. “come on ya lug, rise ‘n shine.”

despite your efforts, dean still woke with a start— but you caught his arm with the hand not on his face before he could do anything.

“hey— hey,” your voice was quieter, softer. because despite being one bad mother when you were hunting, your soft side came out frequently when it was needed, without fear of judgment and with absolutely no shame. it was one of the things dean wished he could do as seamlessly as you. “it’s jus’ me, alright? come on—”

you then proceeded to stand all six feet and some change of dean up with you, keeping a hand on his back and shoulders and giving him another once over when he stood over you again.

“you all good?” you murmur quietly, your hands resting on the sides of dean’s arms as you stood back, your eyes continuing to rake over him for a moment before looking up at his face— and the expression you were met with wasn’t anger, or even frustration from being knocked out.

no.

dean looked almost… sad.

you’d never been exactly ‘close’ with dean. of course you considered him a friend— for years now, but in all honesty, even that was a stretch sometimes, too. because he was a very closed off and mistrusting person.

but hell, you respected that. especially in this line of work. he did talk to you once in a while, though— on those lulls during a hunt or a case, or when he dropped some crazy lore about himself or his childhood, then going right back to his usual behaviors afterwards.

that being said, you knew dean better than he thought you did— because he didn’t have to say much for you to know what he was going through. despite what he thought, his emotions were always kinda just… written on his face.

but now, back to the farmhouse. back to the look dean had on his face right now. it was a look you saw only after he had consumed enough alcohol to kill a baby elephant, which is why it threw you off and made your usual easygoing attitude with him falter.

“dean,” you voice had gotten quieter, even softer, “w—” but before you could say or even do anything else, sam called from the floor below that it was all clear, snapping dean out of it, his expression hardening again.

in the days coming after, you didn’t ask dean to explain himself, or push about what had happened that night. you knew if he wanted to, he’d come to you about it— maybe not right away, but when he was ready.

little did you know how soon that would be.

you’d been living in the bunker for probably only a couple months at this point after the apocalypse world had opened up, and a bunch of hunters were living in the bunker too— but less than a week later after the vamp nest, both sam and dean embarked on solo hunts, sam in maine, dean in nevada. both brothers had warned you not to ‘burn the joint down’.

come on. like you would ever do that— on accident. besides, you had the bunker all to yourself.

which was fun—

for all of five minutes.

now, almost six days after sam and dean had left, you’re sitting in the library, surrounded by a scattered array of books, papers, and weapons alike on the tables in front of you— another late night of research and catching up on lore.

because there was always lore to catch up on.

you’d been lost in the words in front of you when you heard the unmistakable noise of the bunker’s door creaking open. you stiffened slightly, instincts on alert, lifting your gaze from where you were standing— but relaxed and went back to scanning the page when you realized it was just dean.

because here’s the thing: over the years, you’ve realized that it’s not a good idea to talk to dean after he’s fresh off a hunt— and especially knowing that he’s probably just drove almost or even over 24 hours straight to come home?

yeah. no way were you about to be running up to dean as he trudged down the stairs, doting on him. to your knowledge, he hated touching people, especially other people touching him.

besides, usually after a hunt, dean would just go to his room, the infirmary, or immediately hit the showers— and not look once in your direction while he did it, much less talk to you.

it hurt, but you understood that the reason he does it wasn’t exactly anything you were doing wrong— it was just what dean did.

but tonight was different.

dean was on his way to his bedroom (or actually, maybe the infirmary might be better so he could patch himself up)—

but then he saw you.

you were still stood at one of the tables, eyes scanning through books of lore you dug up from the bookshelves, illuminated by the golden lamps lining the wooden tables. god, you were pretty. even though you weren’t looking at him, he didn’t blame you. he wasn’t exactly the most cheerful after a hunt.

especially this one.

and because of that, dean’s feet were moving before he could even think twice about what he was doing.

you’d glanced up from the book you’d been completely engulfed in— and was a little surprised to find dean looking right back at you as he walked up the few steps to the library.

you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could even register what was happening, dean had already made it to you— and without warning, wrapped you in a tight embrace, slamming against you and holding you like you were the only thing that would keep him upright.

your eyes widen slightly at the feeling of dean’s arms around you before you could register the fact that he’d even crossed the threshold of the bunker— a little ‘oof’ sound escapes you completely involuntarily.

“hey,” dean let out a shaky breath against some strands of your hair and shoulder, his voice slightly raspy with…was that relief?

despite how caught off-guard you were, you don’t reject dean’s unexpected hug, though. you let your body adjust to him and your arms wrap around him too, returning the gesture right back. the faint smell of baby’s exhaust, something earthy along with the familiar scent of dean fills your lungs as your fingers ever so slightly grasp onto the back of his jacket, keeping him against you.

the muscles in dean’s shoulders relax the second your arms gently wrap around him. and oh god, he just really missed you—

“hi,” your voice is just as quiet when you greet dean in return, chin resting on his own shoulder. “how did it—”

you’re trying to ask how his hunt went, but before you finish, dean’s pulling you closer to him and squeezing the words from you. his hands slip more around your waist to hold you against him tighter, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. he just wants to feel you. you’re so warm, so soft— and goddamn, you smelled good, too. you always did. it was a little infuriating, actually.

dean knows he should probably let go, or at least respond, but he can’t find it in himself to let go yet— so instead he just holds onto you tighter. he still doesn’t respond to your unsaid question, simply standing there, holding onto you like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

you assumed something had happened on his hunt for dean to be acting this way— but you don’t press or force him to tell you what. you just wanted to be there for him right now.

“oh,” is what you end up softly replying with a little nod of your head against dean when he simply doesn’t answer your unfinished question. but you don’t let him go. hell no. you just pat your hand on the back of one of his shoulders, tightening your own grip on him in return. “sorry, de.”

and dean lets out a slow breath of… was that relief at your voice, at the nickname you’d had for him since the second (or was it third) hunt you’d ever worked on together? who the hell knows. he’s just so thankful you’re here, you’re hugging him, not pushing him away, you’re holding him— that you’re so close.

“no, it’s okay,” dean’s unusually soft voice, barely above a whisper, cuts through the silence.

“it— it was rough, that’s all," he mutters after a even longer while, his words tinged with a mixture of fatigue and… something else that you can't quite place.

you and dean were so close and pressed together with your combined tight grips— so much so that you swore you could almost feel his heartbeat. but it wasn’t uncomfortable. and it didn’t feel awkward. it never seemed to be with him. besides, by his (few) words, you could tell he needed this a lot more than he was letting on.

in all honesty, you were just glad dean was finally letting himself seek comfort for once in his goddamn life—

in you.

“yeah, i get it,” is what you reply with, just nodding against dean’s shoulder while tightening your own grip on him. without really thinking about it, you start to gently run one of your hands up and down his back while still wrapped up in him, palm and fingers trailing on the material of his jacket. “just glad you’re back.”

you can feel dean’s breath hitch at your touch— and for a moment, you hesitate your motions of your hand tracing along his jacket, but his grip on you unconsciously tightened, like he was clinging to you. so you continue doing it after that.

“yeah,” he murmurs, a faint huff of something like a laugh escaping him. “me too.”

and for a long while, dean just stands there wrapped up in you, his face still buried in your hair and part of your shoulder as he lets himself lean into that touch, absorbing its comfort. he grips onto the back of your shirt— and he could feel the tension start to melt away, the warmth mixed with the scent of you filling his senses and working magic on him.

dean stays quiet for several more moments, his face still buried deep in your shoulder, as if he was trying to hide himself from the outside world. his grip on you doesn’t loosen as he stands there, his body against yours. every breath he takes is deep, steady— like he’s grounding himself in this moment with you.

his words break the silence as a whisper against you after a while, the vulnerability clear in his low voice, his words almost like a confession.

“i… missed you.”

a small exhale you didn’t know you were holding releases when dean says that— and your hand falters. dean winchester, king of bottling up feelings and keeping them to himself just said he missed you. this was completely different than how he usually acted around you, but you didn’t mind.

“i missed you, too,” your own voice also quiet when you respond. it was only a few words, but you had understood what dean meant— in more ways than most would. which is why you don’t even attempt to tease him about it, replying with something between a sigh and a laugh at the realization. “like, a lot.”

dean’s grip tightens even further at your response, as if your words had a more profound impact on him than you could've ever imagined. he pulls you closer against him, the hardness of his body against yours should’ve been more uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

there’s a moment of silence as dean just holds you, face still hidden, his chest rising and falling right against yours. each breath he takes is deeper, almost shaky, and for a moment, you can feel the slightest tremble in his grip.

his voice are soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen from him. like he almost didn’t believe you.

“really?”

and you don’t falter your own grip for one second, despite the fact that this was completely out of character for him. you return the action, tightening your arms around dean before resuming running your hand up and down his back.

“yeah, really,” you nod against dean to confirm, letting out a soft exhale into his jacket. “i dunno, it was just… quiet here without you guys. always is.”

your words seem to soothe him— almost as much as your touch, your hug does. despite being strong both physically and mentally, dean seems to need this— and he doesn’t even really know why. he relaxes even more at your words, his body slumping against yours. it’s almost like he’s seeking every bit of comfort and warmth he can get from this— from you.

dean lets out a small, soft scoff, tinged with weary amusement. “yeah, i bet it was,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your . “must’a been like a vacation for you, huh?” there's a note of sarcasm there, like he’s trying to mask the intensity of the moment with something familiar— like he always did.

and you could have played along with dean’s attempt at lightheartedness— but honestly, you were too tired to make that effort right now. so you just shake your head a little against dean, voice much quieter than before.

“first day was nice,” you admit to dean, hands grasping the back of his jacket to keep him close to you before you close your eyes. “the rest were just…”

there’s a beat of silence as you trail off, and dean’s grip on you— if possible, tightens even further at your unfinished sentence, as if he was hanging on your every word, waiting for what you were going to say.

he lets out a small, soft breath, warm against your hair. “just... what?” he asks, his voice just as low as yours. there’s a hint of subtle unease at what you were going to say.

your arms don’t loosen when you feel dean’s grip grow just that much tighter— but you weren’t about to complain. you don’t answer right away, because the rest of your sentence was almost too embarrassing to admit.

but then again, you remind yourself: this was dean who you were talking to. he didn’t judge you for a lot of things you had once assumed he would judge you for. so you just huff out a quiet laugh into his shoulder that wasn’t really one at all— containing no humor and mostly self-deprecation.

“lonely.”

your admission hangs there between you both. it’s a simple word, but it hits dean harder than any blow he’s ever taken in a fight. because you get it. there’s a hitch in his breathing— the kind that gives away more than mere words ever could. he goes still for a moment, just letting your confession sink in, the quiet of the bunker feeling even more pronounced in that moment.

“yeah,” dean finally breaks the silence with a soft exhale against you, pulling you even tighter against him. “me, too.”

you relax a little after dean says that. it meant more than he knew. you weren’t sure how to explain it, but it felt like you and him… kind of supported each other, in a way. like the burdens you both carried separately, your own issues that you had, they seemed to be less overwhelming whenever you were even near each other. even if you and him didn’t actually know each other’s burdens.

there’s always been an understanding between you, a silent knowledge that sometimes words didn’t need to be said for the other to know what that person is thinking.

the atmosphere in the room feels different now, the silence less heavy than it was before, but the intensity and weight of the moment still weighs heavily in the air between you. it must be an interesting sight from the outside looking in— a six-foot hunter clinging onto you like you were the last thing on earth. but you didn’t mind. hell, it was comfortable.

dean’s grip on you remains just as tight— almost like he’s afraid to let go, afraid that you’ll slip away like some dream he only has once in a great while. he takes a deep breath, chest rising against you as he inhales, then exhales slowly. before he’d realized it, his fingers absentmindedly fiddle with a strand of your hair.

this level of closeness between you two was unfamiliar. of course, you’d hugged each other before and spent numerous times in close proximity—whether it be in the backseat of the impala when sam had to drive that one time or when you had to hide in a not-so-big broom closet from a wraith.

but this... this was different.

and you knew the uncomfortableness of seeking comfort better than most— but somehow, you never had an issue when you were the one who was comforting others. but still, this was new territory. you certainly hadn’t expected dean to hug you for this long tonight. truth was, you didn’t really didn’t want to let go. but you couldn’t say that to him. that would be too weird.

the library is silent, only the soft tick-tock of the old clock on the wall filling the air. there’s a vulnerability, an understanding greater than words in this moment that neither of you are used to— but strangely enough, it's also the most comfortable you’ve both felt in a long time.

and then, dean breaks the silence again— his voice so low, so quiet, that you almost miss it.

“don’t wanna let go.”

your gaze softens when dean says that— but you don’t loosen your grip on him. you weren’t sure exactly why he was so adamant on not letting go, or why he’d been hugging you like you’d almost died. but you don’t ask questions.

besides, dean’s been more vulnerable with you tonight than i’d ever seen or heard in all the years you’d known him. and when he admitted that? you knew you had to be there for him, in whatever way he wanted. so when you reply back, your words are just as quiet as his.

“well, you don’t have to.”

the words feel like a weight being lifted off dean’s shoulders. he clings to you even tighter, burying his face even deeper into your shoulder, like he was ashamed. he doesn’t say anything for a moment— instead, just taking deep breaths. because he’s struggling to keep his emotions intact.

finally, he mumbles into you again, his words muffled by your shirt.

“you promise?”

“yeah,” you echo back quietly, nodding your head against dean’s buried into you. “promise. we can stay like this as long as you want to.”

there’s no malice hidden in your words, or any hint of teasing— because it was nothing but the truth. you’d stay with dean for as long as he wanted you to. and you bury your face a little more into him when he does the same to your shoulder.

there’s another long moment of silence as dean holds onto you, his face still buried in your shoulder. normally, he’d be making some smartass comment by now, acting like his usual self— but he can't seem to find the words. or the energy.

dean huffs softly against your shoulder after a moment— the closest thing to one of his usual snarky remarks. but there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice when he speaks.

“what if i wanted to… all night?”

you’d half been expecting dean to brush off your words with a joke or at least something, but the tone of hesitation told you that he was being anything but that. you hesitate, but ultimately lift your head off of his shoulder— you don’t pull away fully, though.

and dean’s body visibly tenses when you pause and pull away slightly to look at him, and he’s almost immediately on the defensive— but relaxes a little when you don’t go far.

your gaze silently searches dean’s as you scrunch your eyebrows slightly. you knew that what he’d just asked you for was… different. and you didn’t have to ask him for clarification. you knew what he meant, why he was so hesitant. because this wasn’t going to be just hugging him anymore.

this would be all night.

and there’s a vulnerable look in his eyes when he lets his guard down just enough as you let your gaze linger on him. dean almost looks like a wounded dog right now, the exhaustion, the weariness making him drop his typical persona in favor of honesty— maybe even desperation, just this once.

from that look on dean’s face, he was not kidding about what he asked. the expression he had was one you hadn’t seen this intensely in a long time. you knew he wasn’t one to just ask something like this, either. not unless he needed it.

the thought of being so close to dean all night makes you a little nervous, but not as much to outright say no. so keeping his gaze, your voice is just as quiet as his was when you nod, breaking the silence of the library once again.

“then i’d say ‘get your pj’s on’.”

the way dean’s body relaxes in relief at your words is almost overwhelming. he’s still staring right into your eyes, the vulnerability almost raw. he manages to nod, searching your gaze. he’d been expecting a boatload of teasing with a side of humiliation— but he’d been proved wrong.

“yeah?” he almost whispers as he holds your gaze, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read your mind. like he’s unable to determine if this is real. if you’re real.

“yeah,” you nod in return, a pang of warmth hitting you again as you look at dean right back. you’re both still standing so close together— and the air felt different, thicker when you take another breath. “s’long as you don’t kick me.”

dean appreciated the break in seriousness, more than you would ever know. something resembling a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“no promises,” he murmurs back, something softer in his gaze as his eyes continue to rake over your face. “but i’ll try.”

“good,” you nod a little again, your own smile tugging on your face as your hands almost absentmindedly trail on dean’s arms— and his eyes literally almost flutter shut at the contact. “and you’re comin’ to my room. and you’re showering.”

dean raises an eyebrow and tries to ignore the warmth that stirred in his chest when you said that all authoritative-like— he swallows before he talks again.

“yes, ma’am.”

. • . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . 𖤐

dean knocked on your door before he entered your room not twenty minutes later— don’t ask him, but he showered faster than he ever did in his entire life. he wasn’t too keen on the why.

your head perked up from your pillows when you heard the knock, already under your blankets and— well, let’s be honest here: waiting for him you’d even already moved to the left side of your bed, so dean would have a spot.

a stupid, small part of you had doubts that dean would actually ultimately show up, but it was a little embarrassing how much relief you felt when you call out a soft “yeah”, signaling him to come in.

dean stepped into your room, the only light being from your barley-lit desk lamp. it doubled as a night light, so you didn’t trip over yourself after a midnight snack break.

dean might as well have been in heaven. or something pretty damn close.

of course, he’s been in your room before— but this felt much different than all the other times. because he was going to be sleeping here tonight.

everything felt heightened, more intense— but as dean shut your door, he also had an almost overwhelming sense of comfort. of home. like this is where he was supposed to be this entire time. he pushed those recurring thoughts and feelings he always felt when he was around you, but without first reminding himself that you had agreed to do this. the thought alone was almost enough to make dean’s heart do that thing it always did whenever he was around you.

he’d been lost in his own thoughts, barely even registering the fact that he’d made it to the edge of your bed. your bed. not his, not some old, dingy motel’s. it almost made him chicken out. until—

“as much as i’d like to see you stand there all night, i think you should probably lay down.”

there it was. your incomparable capability to snap dean out of his head, back to reality. he didn’t know how you did it— and to be honest, you didn’t really know, either. but you always could, even giving sam a run for his money.

dean doesn’t hesitate again. you’d already peeled back your covers for him, so he just lifted them up and got under them. like he belonged. as if he’d done so a million times before.

your bed, your sheets, your pillows— it was warm. and it smelled like you, tenfold. an equal blend of your fabric softener that only you used because dean said the teddy bear on the bottle looked at him weird and your shampoo that was way too expensive and you had to go to a separate store for.

dean knew you smelled good, that was no debate— but this was like he was wrapped in it. like he’d been earlier when he hugged you. and so close to how he’d always wanted to be wrapped up in you. yet he knew that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

besides, when was the last time dean winchester got what he wanted?

the answer was right now.

your eyes hadn’t left dean’s figure when he finally lays down next to you, both now facing each other— it was strange actually seeing him in your bed after years of restless nights wishing he was.

and you could smell him, too— the faint scent of the soap you’d gotten him for his birthday, along with the tea tree shampoo sam kept hidden in the back medicine cabinet (but not well enough, apparently). you decided right then and there that the pillow dean’s head was currently resting on was the one you were going to sleep on after tonight, just so you could smell him after he was gone.

“how you wanna do this?”

dean’s uncharacteristically soft voice broke your thoughts, and you met his eyes when he spoke. his expression looked softer, too— almost hesitant. like he was uncertain. it was a look you rarely ever saw on his face. to see it now, in this way, was bittersweet. then it clicked.

he was nervous.

“however you want to,” is what you reply with, voice just as quiet as his. you reminded yourself that dean had asked for this. in your mind, it was only fair that he get a say. “whatever you need.”

whatever you need. well, dean needed to kiss you silly if it was the last thing he did, but not tonight. not here. he wouldn’t be able to take it if you rejected him in that way.

but he had to take some sort of risk right now. he couldn’t deny himself of it— of you any longer.

so before dean can talk himself out of it, he wraps an arm around you, closing the remaining distance— and to your surprise, he buries his head right into your chest, nuzzling against your shirt.

your breath hitches, and you hope to god that he didn’t hear that. but you don’t reject him. you just wrap your own arms around him, accepting him and his touch just as you had done earlier in the library.

dean would’ve made some joke about basically burrowing his face into your boobs. he didn’t really mean to— but his eyes had fluttered shut, because you were so warm, and you smelled good, and you were so soft.

he’d always loved that about you. from a distance, of course. it didn’t matter how many hardships you’d gone through; you were soft in every sense of the word, both physically and emotionally. and once when he’d taken a shower in your bathroom since sam was hogging the main one in the bunker, the whole damn place smelled like you. he found himself wanting to drown in it.

and he wouldn’t even complain.

your free hand went into his hair at some point, and it took everything in him not to let out a noise. dean sighed a little into your shirt, his breath warm on your chest— he finally let himself relax. go slack.

and he was so grateful that you didn’t tease him, or point out the fact that all six feet and one inch of him was in your grasp and snuggling into you like some damn koala. like a little kid who had a bad dream. but then again, his life felt like a never-ending bad dream most of the time.

you were his one exception.

not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

you weren’t sure how long you both stayed like that, wrapped up in each other before dean breaks the warm blanket of silence— it could’ve been hours or seconds. but his voice is so low, so soft, you almost didn’t hear it.

“thanks.”

the word was spoken against you, dean still remaining unmoving. he didn’t think himself as weak at the moment, even though he thought he should— and he dared not to say it out loud, knowing that you’d immediately shoot his insecurities down.

but dean was finally letting himself get comfort. warmth.

something he’d had for a fleeting moment, then lost. something he had deemed too precious for a man as ragged and as sinful as him a long time ago. he didn’t deserve this. you.

he’d never be one to take something like this, to ask this of you, without any regard for how you felt. but you showed— all you ever showed to him was the love he thought he’d never receive. the love he’d given so much away, but it never got returned back to him.

because you made him feel like he actually meant something. like he was the hero people he’d saved described him as. like he wasn’t some piece on a chessboard, a punchline in someone’s story, a puppet on a string, or a cog in some eternal machine.

truth was? the big secret?

you made him feel normal. human.

it was almost overwhelming, how safe, comfortable he felt right now. the last time he felt this safe, he’d been a child. the last time he felt this comfortable in himself was before hell.

when it was just monsters of the week, the only big goal being finding his dad. staying at bobby’s. you visited that summer. he can still remember your laugh echoing off of the wallpaper and the piles of books. before demons.

and the only angel he saw daily was you.

it was in the way the light shone in through the stained glass of one of bobby’s kitchen windows and hit your face, you making him coffee without being asked. when you smiled at him just because.

you treated him like a real friend. like family. like an equal.

sometimes, when everything in his head was too loud, dean missed it. when the only thought of lucifer he had was when he saw the cartoon on the bottle of the devil’s hot sauce at that barbeque place in texas. when everyone he loved and cared was still alive. when the world wasn’t ending. when you kissed his cheek after not seeing him for a while.

you still did that last one, though.

“anytime, de.”

dean had flinched a little, but didn’t open his eyes after you replied—he had been too lost in the comfort. in you. he could die right now instead of sleeping, and honestly? it’d be a good way to go out. he’d prefer it over going down swinging any day, he decided.

dean got most of what he wanted tonight. maybe someday he’d get it all. but for now, he’d just dream of it, like he always did.

the only difference?

he was actually in your arms this time.

───────────────────────── 𖤐

you have one ( 1 ) more new message from the author ! ↓

i know i said it already, but i need to hold this man so so so BADDDDD 💔💔💔 he deserves everything and more like that’s my shayla ☹️ my baby my world my everything (he’s a murderer and monsters fear him)

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winchester-whiskey · 2 months ago

Note

Saw this one tumblr post about a soulmate AU where people age until they reach 18 and then stop aging until they meet their soulmate so they can grow old together🥺

I wanted to ask how your take on this idea would be with your favorite spn character

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ til i saw you,

summary. you stop aging at 18, until you reunite with your happily ever after.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff ; soulmate au

wordcount. 1080

notes / warnings. very brief mention of sex / this idea is honestly too cute!

You stop aging at eighteen.

Everyone does.

It’s the first thing they teach you in school, right after the alphabet. Right after how to count to ten.

"You will age until your eighteenth birthday," the teacher says, "and then you’ll stay that way until your soulmate touches you. That’s when time will start again. For both of you."

You remember wondering what that touch would feel like. Would it burn? Would it glow? Would the world shift on its axis?

But that was... a long time ago. And you're still here. Still eighteen. Still waiting. Twenty-seven birthdays later.

You wake up on the same mattress in the same little apartment you’ve been calling home for a decade now. Skin smooth, eyes clear, a body that never aches. On paper, you're one of the lucky ones. Immortality is soft on your bones. But it’s hard on your heart.

There’s only so long you can pretend you’re just a late bloomer. People stop asking after a while. They start to look. Whisper. Wonder. You lie. A lot. About your age, about where you’re from, about why you never seem to change.

And maybe the worst part—maybe the cruelest—is how easy it is to fall in love with the wrong people along the way. You’ve done it. Twice. Maybe three times, if you're being honest. But no matter how close they get, no matter how much you want it to happen, nothing changes.

No touch restarts your clock.

Until him.

It’s late when he walks into the gas station. Midnight and humming, the fluorescent lights above your head buzz like insects. You’re chewing gum and half-asleep behind the register when he strolls in, tall and broad and all leather jacket and swagger. He has a look in his eyes that says he’s seen too much and still hasn’t stopped looking.

You barely glance up when he drops a handful of items on the counter: beef jerky, a bottle of whisky, pie.

“Quiet night?” he says, voice deep and rasped, like he’s been singing with gravel in his throat.

You nod. Then look up.

And something... shifts.

It's not a sound, not a spark, not the glowing halo you used to imagine when you were little. It's a feeling. A pull. Your chest tightens like someone’s wrapping a thread around your ribs and tugging—just once. Gently. But enough to make your breath hitch.

He notices. Freezes.

The pie falls from his hand, lands with a soft thud against the counter. You both stare at each other like someone just flipped the universe upside down.

“You feel that?” he asks. And it’s not a line. It’s not casual. His voice is rougher now. Almost afraid.

You nod. Whisper, “Yeah.”

He lifts a hand slowly. Gives you time to step back, to say no, to deny it. But you don’t.

When his fingers touch yours, it’s instantaneous.

Like heat waking in your veins. Like time exhaling. Your heart stutters and then races, faster than it’s beat in years. You feel your skin come alive—blood rushing, lungs expanding, every cell remembering how to move.

And from the way he sways, the way his eyes widen and mouth parts, you know he’s feeling it too.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “I thought—I thought I’d die before this ever happened.”

Your lips curve. “You’re old, then?”

He barks out a laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve been eighteen long enough to miss rotary phones.”

You grin. “I’ve never used one.”

He leans closer. “Wanna come with me?”

You blink. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” A pause. “Everywhere.”

That’s how it begins.

A duffel bag. A backseat. The open road. Dean Winchester drives like it’s a religion and swears like it’s punctuation. He flirts without meaning to, laughs like he’s been starved for it, and kisses you like the world might end at any second.

The first time he makes you come, it’s in a motel room somewhere outside of Denver.

You’re both breathless from running—something about vampires, or maybe ghosts; you didn’t ask, too drunk on adrenaline and the way he’d looked at you in the dark. Like you were already his.

He kisses you soft at first, like he’s afraid he might break you. But his hands are anything but shy. They trail up your thighs, parting them like he already knows what’s underneath. When he finally pushes inside you, it feels like you’ve waited centuries for this exact kind of stretch, that kind of fullness, the kind of groan he makes when you clench around him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps into your neck, voice hot and hungry. “You feel like heaven.”

You arch under him. “Then don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

Being with Dean is nothing like you imagined.

He’s not soft. Not exactly. But he’s gentle in the ways that matter. He makes coffee in the mornings, leaves the radio on your favorite station, kisses the inside of your wrist like a promise. He reads you bedtime stories in Latin just to make you laugh. He teaches you how to shoot a gun and then buys you a strawberry milkshake after because he says it’s “important to balance the badass with the cute.”

And maybe it’s not perfect. You still fight. He still shuts down sometimes, still carries the weight of the world in the slope of his shoulders. But now, when he breaks, you’re there to hold him. And when you tremble, he’s already pulling you into his chest, pressing kisses into your hair, reminding you that he’s not going anywhere.

Not now. Not ever.

Months pass. Then years. You both start to age.

Little things at first. A crinkle at the edge of his eyes when he smiles. The slight ache in your hips when you ride him too long.

But it’s beautiful, this slow unraveling. This proof that it’s real. That you found each other. That time is moving again—together.

He touches the first silver strand in your hair like it’s a miracle.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he says, voice thick with feeling.

You cup his cheek. “What? The wrinkles?”

He grins. “No. You.”

And maybe you’ll never know why it took so long. Why fate made you wait. But when he holds you at night, when his breath is warm on your shoulder and his arms are wrapped tight around your waist, you finally stop wondering.

Because your clock is ticking.

And so is his.

And you’ll grow old.

Together.

Just like you were meant to.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

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winchester-whiskey · 2 months ago

Text

They’re back, they’re back, I repeat THEY ARE BACK 😆

Chapter 17 - You Come Back

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I fear my “every action in this story must have a consequence” is coming back to bite us in the butt this chapter. Also Dean middle name just dropped. It’s an owie.

Chapter Title from This Love by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 17.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean has some hard conversations, and you destroy a building and make a friend. Extra warning on blood/injury.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 16 - Chapter 18

Read on A03!

A week.

Dad was going to be gone a week.

It was less than last time. More than the time before that. And Dean had been alone for longer—part of him was pretty damn sure he’d simply been alone his whole life, and everyone else that passed around him knew that he’d be temporary better than he did—but it never made the pit smaller.

“Are you sure you don’t need extra hands-“

“I’ve told you, Dean. This ain’t a family bondin’ hunt, it’s a real hunt. Gotta be me alone.”

Dad alone.

At least he’d be alone by choice.

And he could’ve kept Dean with him, but Dean wasn’t Sammy. Dad wanted Sam—the only person who’d ever left Dad alone on purpose—and Dean couldn’t be Sam if he tried.

It was for the best. Someone had to take the heat, be the grunt.

But the whole fucking point of that was that Dean was supposed to be a good hunter, too. Nothing out there in the real world to offer him comfort, just himself, the pit, Dad, and a siren-like voice is his ear that he could never get rid of.

And he was still being benched. It was a ‘real hunt’ and Dad didn’t trust him, or want him, or something, so Dean was being benched in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, and he was going to be alone.

“I could just handle the lore,” Dean offered, one last time, because this pit was gaping in the cavity of his chest, and he really didn’t want to be alone. “I’d use one of the baby pistols for defense, I wouldn’t even leave the motel room-“

“Well, good news, son. Since you’re stayin’, you can leave this motel all you damn want.”

Dad wasn’t moving on this.

And Dean wouldn’t want to hunt with himself, either.

So he dropped it, and Dad vanished. Simply turned into something like mist and faded from the room, leaving Dean stranded.

Alone.

In real life, he’d been alone barely a day. Dean had found a body a little warmer than his hands, and he’d let it sway him into bed, then he’d spent the night staring at the ceiling. Listening to that beautiful, haunting voice call his name.

There had been an itch in his hands. A tug from just to the right of his heart, telling Dean that he had to go. Had to move and never stopped until he crashed into something, until the pit in him was tended to and lined with silver and flowers. He hadn’t been able to sit still for the whole damn night, the night air had smelled like an unnamable fruit when he’d gone outside, and he’d been driving himself out of his damn mind.

It had been sunrise when he’d grabbed a newspaper, started circling different stories, and found a case about people going mad with dancing just a few towns over.

And it had been a little before noon when-

“Dean?”

He turned, and She was there. He was still in the motel room, but She was fucking there. And beautiful, and bright, and almost seeming to literally glow in the low light of the morning.

Maybe the morning.

The sky outside the motel blinders was shimmering, and made of a million soft colors. There was a moon but no stars, and the sun was still hung on the horizon—making the whole world seem almost golden—and none of that really mattered anyway, because She was there.

With Dean.

“De-“

“Hey, Princess.” He gave Her a smooth, slightly crooked grin, and had a brief and terrifying thought that She could feel his heartbeat through the whole world. “You’re, uh- I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

She raised Her chin at him, eye narrowing, and there She was.

More commanding over the world than anyone should have the right to be. Gorgeous and ethereal—turning the world colorful where Dean could’ve sworn it had been muted shades of brown—and just out of Dean’s reach.

Always just out Dean’s reach.

“You don’t get to tell me where to be, Winchester.”

“I think I got some right, given this is my motel room.”

She flushed, and Dean wanted to grab that color and paint it over the sky. “Yeah, but-“

“You just gotta ask me, sweetheart.”

“Ask-“

“To be here.”

To stay.

Dean wanted Her to ask him if She could stay.

And She was rubbing the scar on Her palm, glancing around the room, and when She broke the silence it must be because this was Dean’s dream. Or memory. Or whatever.

It was Dean’s head, so he could have whatever he wanted.

“Can I please stay?”

Dean grinned at Her. “Yeah, you can. Good work on the manners-“

She rolled Her eyes. “Shut up-“

“That’s not very nice,” Dean drawled Her name, and side-stepped Her shove. “And here I was, missing you all the time-“

“You miss me?”

Dean paused, and there was suddenly something incredibly open and nervous about Her features.

She was made of all Dean’s thoughts. This version of Her, at least, should know that Dean missed Her more than he was pretty freakin’ sure he’d miss his heart, if it just fell out of his chest.

“Course I miss you.” He shrugged. “Always missed you.” Dean paused, frowning at the door. “Even today, I think. I really missed you today.”

“Today-“

“Texas. That pagan douchebag you helped me gank-“

She scoffed, and Dean wasn’t sure when She’d gotten right to his side, but he wasn’t about to complain. “Fuck off, De, that was a team effort-“

“I got the kill-“

“I worked out the whole case. And you’re the one who called us a team.”

He had done that. Shit.

She was too pretty to fight with. And Dean missed Her too much to try.

“Yeah, well, I’m also the one who found you.” He looked down at Her carefully, and if this really was a fantasy, this was the part where She should smile at him and kiss him. Tell Dean that he’d always find Her, and they’d always stay together, all the way down.

But instead She tilted Her head at him, Her voice soft, and the whole universe glowing in Her eyes.

Dean still wouldn’t want Her any other way.

“You did, didn’t you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning down a little further. Just to be a little fucking closer to Her light. “Wish I could do it again, Princess.”

She gave him a small, sad smile, and for a brief second, She shifted. Glitched. Became covered in blood and bruises and cuts, Her shiny hair tangled and hanging over Her almost battered features, one of Her eyes swollen and a large gash on Her arm and puffy mark on Her cheek, and Dean wanted to reach out and grab Her—keep Her safe however he could, maybe trade himself to whatever was hurting Her, or wrap his body over Her’s so nothing could ever hurt Her again—but he couldn’t fucking move-

“You’ll find me,” She hummed, and the words didn’t sound like they were for Dean. “Or maybe I’ll find you.”

Bobby’s house was quiet, in the early morning. It was why Dean’s groan seemed to split through the air, his brow furrowing at nothing when he felt the stiff mattress of the guest room, and knew that if he reached over, the other side of the bed would be cold.

He hadn’t found Her. He’d sworn he would, snapped at Sammy that he had to, and he’d made himself a lying son of a bitch because he couldn’t. He was back at Bobby’s because—after three weeks of running around and calling numbers and looking for cases Dean knew She'd be drawn to—he'd ended up exactly where he'd goddamn started.

"You ain't gonna be able to keep this shit up, Dean."

Bobby's words over the phone had been clipped. Tired.

Dean really hadn't wanted to hear them.

"I told you, I'm not coming back until-"

"What? 'Till you find her? You got a single fuckin' lead?"

He'd scowled. "No, but there's a case of some weird shit going on up in Maine, exact type of case-"

"I know what cases she likes, boy. I'm asking you to use your damn brain for five seconds, and think about where she'd be headed to first, moment she got back to the states-"

"We don't know that she's not in the states." Dean had muttered, running a hand over his face. "Maybe she's trapped, Bobby. Maybe she's in fucking trouble, and she's got no one to help her because you and Sam just let her run off-"

"Dean." Bobby's voice through the speaker had been low. Gruff. A warning. "You know damn well we didn't let her do a damn thing. I've told ya', we got back to the house and she was just fuckin' gone-"

"You should've looked." Dean had hissed, and Bobby had scoffed.

"You think I didn't? She didn't want to be found Dean, so there was no fuckin' way I was gonna find her-" Bobby had cut himself off, the exact same moment the words had sunken in, and twisted into Dean's gut.

She didn't want to be found.

Maybe Dean hadn't been able to find Her because She didn't want to be found.

But She'd said she'd come back home. She'd pinky promised him, over the phone, that She'd come back. That Dean would be able to see Her soon, and hold her, and know that it was real.

That She wasn't just a ghost or a demon, that he was really alive, because something like Her could never exist in Hell.

But maybe She'd heard it in his voice. How that pit inside of him had been slashed further and further open, and how there was goddamn gaping void where all the redeemable parts of him used to be. Every bit of pain he'd inflicted on others, staining him and rotting him and making him a little more than a wet dog, at Her feet in the mud. Dean had turned himself into something fucking ugly, and mangy and horrid and undeserving of Her light, and she could've heard it and decided that She'd made promises to the Dean from before Hell, and she owed whatever he'd become after nothing at all.

Maybe in Her time away, She'd found her way back to somewhere heavenly and bright—filled with luxuries Dean could never offer Her—and decided She'd rather stay there than return the mud.

Mud that was now boiling and toxic, and made of all Dean's sins. She should stay away from it. She never should've been cursed with it—with Dean—in the first place.

And he was being selfish, wanting Her to return to his side. She'd deserved better than him before, and Dean sure as shit hadn't made himself worthy.

But he still wanted Her back.

He'd never stop wanting Her back.

And if he found Her, he'd tell Her that he was ugly, but he'd still be Her shadow. He didn't need to be good for that. He just had to keep doing what he'd always done. Wanting Her, following Her, protecting Her and holding Her the way no one else could.

Maybe She'd found someone who could hold Her the way Dean did, but without all the tragedy and horror of it being Dean.

The thought made him fucking sick.

And he still wanted Her back. He was a selfish piece of shit, and he wanted Her home.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dean.” Bobby had muttered through the phone. “I’m sayin’ that when you were gone, she ran. Ran far. Off the face of the damn earth, and it’s gonna take her a minute to find her way back.

Bobby had said that like She was finding her way back.

And son of a bitch, Dean was clinging to that. Bobby was the only person who knew her just as well—if not better—than Dean, so if he said She was coming back She had to be.

There was a chance She’d look at Dean, and everything that he’d been afraid she’d hear, she’d see. Right over Dean’s soul, all that ugliness visible to Her, until she couldn’t bear to look at him and She left.

At least then Dean would know She was safe. Alive, and safe, just wanting nothing to do with him at all.

He wouldn’t bother to try and hate Her for it. It wouldn’t work. It never had.

There was always a sliver of a chance that She’d stay. She’d stayed before. And it would mean the same thing for Dean no matter what.

She’d said all the way down. And even if that had been temporary—something She’d said before, that she’d never be able to promise him now—Dean would sit at the bottom for Her until she returned.

Or until She didn’t.

He’d gone to Bobby’s because they had angel shit to deal with, and chasing empty cases and weak leads wasn’t going to help him find Her. Sam had given him a grimacing, sympathetic smile, and said nothing of it for the first few days. None of them had even mentioned Her name, focusing on the crazy chick, and Cas and Uriel’s bullshit, and all the millions of other fucking problems it was their responsibility to fix.

“You know this is the first place she’ll go.” Sam had broken the silence in the kitchen, not looking up from his laptop as he spoke, and he hadn’t need to say who.

Dean knew. There was no other She that mattered.

“She might be heading here now-“

“Sam.” Dean had grunted, picking at the label of his beer. “Don’t.”

Sam had sighed, glancing up with a heavy gaze. “She’s probably fine, dude. Nothing’s gotten to her before-“

“She had us before.”

“She has us now-“

“Not in goddamn Brazil, she doesn’t.” Dean had narrowed his eyes, and every word had fucking hurt. “And don’t tell me it’s a long drive again. She should’ve been back by now, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but, it’s- She’s fine, Dean.” Sam’s voice had dropped under his breath, and he’d shaken his head at his screen. “She’s got to be.”

And Sam was, at least, right about two things.

She had to be fine. She likely wasn’t, but if Dean ever wanted to sleep or look in a mirror again, she had to be.

And Bobby’s was the very first place She’d return to.

It was Her home. She grew up here, and She’d have to known they were all waiting for Her.

That Dean passed by Her room every day, and had to force himself not to open the door. And that on the weaker days—when he really deserved a little extra punishment—he would look up and down the hall before he caved, and looked inside.

Bobby hadn’t moved anything. The only thing different from when Dean had left was the little bit of tape on the door, leftover from his note.

The note was gone though. Bobby mentioned they’d never found it in the trash, but maybe She’d crumpled it up and stomped it into the mud.

Or She could be holding onto it.

Dean wasn’t lucky enough for that to be true. Not important enough for Her to cling to a paper, just because he’d touched it.

He still liked the idea that She was. Lying to himself had always made this easier and harder, all at once, the exact same way standing alone in the middle of the room was torture and relief.

It was evidence. Proof She’d existed at all. That She wasn’t just a collective hallucination, and that Chuck hadn’t included Her because She’d simply never been real.

She had been.

Was.

She was real.

Clothing Dean had seen Her wear was in the drawers. All of Her indecipherable notes about demons and deals were still scattered on the floor, and sometimes Dean would glance to the bottom of the wall and think he’d find Her curled against it, bags under Her eyes and a stub of a pencil in her hand. That he’d get to kneel before Her, talk until she looked at him, and when She did, the whole world would become good again. No demons, no Hell, no angels, no weird, impossible mysteries.

Just Her and Dean. And She’d lean into his touch, and let him lead Her to bed, and he’d wake up the way he wasn’t allowed to anymore.

With Her at his side.

He had things to do. The morning was crawling in, and they had a lady in the basement, and Dean needed to get up and be useful.

It still took another minute of staring at the ceiling. Of warding off thoughts about, how if She wasn’t okay, if She needed Dean, he didn’t have a goddamn clue how to find Her.

She’d come home.

She had to come home.

And if Dean had to wait a million years—until the house was covered in vines and he was just a pile of bones and ash—he would.

But now he had to move.

Sam was already at the kitchen table, bent over a newspaper with his laptop pushed off to the side.

“Coffee’s on.” He said, not looking up from whatever the hell he was doing. “Bobby’s going to town, getting groceries. Said he wasn’t expecting to feed four people or something.”

Dean grunted. “Any updates on the angel shit?”

“Anna’s still in the panic room.” Sam shrugged. “And I’m looking for a new psychic, but none of these guys seem legit. I can’t tell the real deal would be more or less expensive.”

“What about Pam?”

“I’d rather not bother her after last time,” Sam muttered, grimacing slightly. “At least try to find someone we didn’t blind.”

“Maybe put out an ad online?” Dean dropped at the table, not bothering to put any life in his tone. He was too fucking tired. “Three men, looking for someone to read the mind of the woman we locked in our basement?”

Sam shot him a dry look. “She volunteered to go in our basement.”

“Yeah, the cops are gonna buy that.”

“Not helpful, Dean.”

He shrugged, glaring at his coffee. “Not trying to be.”

He knew this was important. That this meant things even Bobby hadn’t fully been able to understand, and that people weren’t just casually hunted by angels and demons, but all it made him think of was Her.

She’d know how to fix this. She’d look at Anna and solve the puzzle in two seconds flat, then give Dean a smug, blinding grin that could probably part the ocean or bring an army its knees.

But She still wasn’t here.

So they were stuck running in circles, trying to find answers to problems they didn’t even fully understand.

“Online ad thing isn’t a bad idea, actually.” Sam frowned between his paper and the laptop. “I mean, we’ll get a lot of false leads and, uh, less than stable people responding, but it can’t hurt.”

“Cool.” Dean muttered. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks.” Sam’s tone was dry as he nodded to the fridge. “Can you take Anna her food for me?”

Dean frowned. “You do it yourself-“

“I’m working on this.”

“Nobody freakin’ told you to do that-“

“Dean.” Sam sighed. He’d been doing that a lot, lately. “Please. The sooner I get this done, the sooner we can figure out what’s going on with Anna, and the sooner this whole thing is done.”

The sooner Dean could go back to looking for Her.

It was a false promise. Deep down, Dean knew—and he was pretty damn sure Sammy did as well—that this thing wasn’t going to just be done. The angels hadn’t raised him from Hell just to find and turn over a redhead. Lilith wasn’t running around breaking seals just for the shits and giggles of it all. They’d still have work to do.

And She’d still be missing.

But Sam had said please. And Dean hadn’t really caused anything but fucking problems since he’d been brought back, so the least he could offer was walking some toast and coffee down the stairs.

“Fine.” He grunted, pushing out of his seat with a scowl. “But you better find that damn psychic.”

“I’m trying.” Sam muttered, glaring at his laptop. “Why do people think it’s fun to pretended to have these powers? Don’t they have anything better to do with their lives?”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that. The only people he’d known with the real deal were Missouri—who hadn’t seemed that bothered by it, but also didn’t allow bullshit—and Her.

And She’d hated it. Whatever She was, she’d despised it. Didn’t even entertain the thought of using it. She said it hurt Her, Dean had seen it hurt Her, and he couldn’t imagine someone wanting to have that kind of power if it made them pick their skin raw and choke the air from their own lungs.

Dean’s stomach twisted, and an image of Her curled on the floor of a motel—Her body tensed and features panicked, Her own hand wrapped around her throat—burned its way through his skull. She could’ve hurt herself. There was always a chance no monster would be able to touch Her, but she’d snap her own neck to try and keep Her power under control, and Dean wouldn’t be there to stop Her-

He must make a face, every time he thought of Her, because Sam cleared his throat and said Her name.

Carefully.

Like just the sound of it might make Dean crush the mug in his hand.

“It’s- I know you’re worried about her-“

“Save it.”

“Dean-“

“I mean it, Sam.” Dean shot him a glare, grabbing Anna’s food from the counter. “I know everything you’re going to say.”

Sam shook his head. “You don’t-“

“I do. I promise you, Sammy, I know exactly the type of fuckin’ lecture you’re gonna give me, and I’m not hearing it.”

Dean didn’t wait for a response before he was walking away. Sam wanted him to bring down the food, he’d bring down the fucking food, but one more speech about how She was probably okay and safe and Dean worrying wasn’t going to help Her, and he’d lose his goddamn mind.

Worrying wasn’t going to help Her, but it was better than just sitting on his ass and not thinking about Her. And it made him feel better. Part of Dean’s head was convinced that—if he worried about Her loudly enough—the angels would hear and bring Her back, just to shut him the hell up.

They wouldn’t. And Dean wasn’t exactly in heaven’s favor right now, between the whole Chuck thing and Anna not being turned over to the angel police.

Dean would be a lying asshole if he said that, for half a second, he hadn’t considered turning Anna over in trade for Her. But the angels couldn’t be trusted with that type of deal, Dean hadn’t hit that big of an evil, awful low, and She’d never forgive him for that. Christ, Dean would never forgive himself for that. Anna was sweet, and she’d been nothing but patient with all their bullshit, and trading lives was the exact type of shit Dad would have done.

And Dean couldn’t really stomach that thought anymore. The idea of what would Dad do felt a little too much like one of Alistair’s weapons in his hand. Fitting, but wrong, and full of fucking hate just for Dean to get his own way.

Dad would’ve turned Anna over. Dad never wouldn’t have considered the thought to be a moment of bitter, exhausted, horrible weakness—born from Dean really fucking missing her, and never sleeping enough, and still have half a foot in the door of Hell—and would’ve gone through with the idea in a heartbeat.

Dean didn’t doubt for a second that, if the angels had told Dad to trade some random girl over for Mom back, Dad would’ve even hesitated.

But Dean couldn’t. He was a hell of a lot fucking weaker than Dad, but for Her, he didn’t want to be anything like Dad.

Dad had only ever hurt Her. Driven Her away. And She wouldn’t make the trade, because She was smarter than Dad and Dean combined, and She’d insist that there was another way.

She’d say there was always another way.

And She wouldn’t like Dean being Dad. She’d want him to be Dean.

And Dean wouldn’t turn over Anna. So he didn’t.

Anna seemed to appreciate it. The angels seemed to be pissed off about it.

That made it, almost certainly, the right call.

“Delivery.” Dean’s voice was flatter than he wanted as he pushed open the door, but Sam also hadn’t let him finish his coffee. “Got you breakfast.”

Anna looked up from the panic room’s cot, offering Dean a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Don’t.” He muttered, passing it into her hands. “Looks like Sammy burnt the toast, and I spilled a whole lot of the coffee coming down the stairs.”

That got a gentle laugh, but Anna still hummed a soft thanks as she took the food. “Sam said you were going to try and find me a psychic?”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean shifted on his feet, glancing around the mostly empty panic room. Filled with signals and concrete, so unbelievably cold. Later, he should bring Anna a sweater. “He’s putting an ad online, seeing if we get any real hits. Right now it’s just a lot of crazies.”

Anna frowned. “What’s wrong with the crazies?”

“They’re frauds.”

“Oh.” She paused, looking between Dean and her toast, and maybe if he walked away now he could avoid a conversation- “Thank you for your help, Dean. I know you have other things to be worrying about besides me.”

He did. He’d have to be an even bigger asshole to say that out loud. “’S fine.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Dean shrugged, and Anna paused, frowning at the air for a long second before she spoke.

“Am I… the first?”

“Uh, the first what?”

“Girl. That you’ve kept in here.”

Dean was lost. “Yes?”

“Are you-“

“Sweetheart, we don’t just keep girls in panic rooms-“

“Then whose are these?”

Anna nodded down to her side, and Dean realized that she’d been doing something, before he’d arrived. Scattered over the cot were torn pieces of paper, all scribbled on in slightly faded paper, all written in-

Son of a bitch.

“Where the fuck did you get those.” He grunted, and it was a harsher than he meant it, but that was Her goddamn handwriting, in that odd code only she seemed to understand. “Anna-“

“Ruby said they belonged to the girl before me.” Anna’s words were slow. Cautious.

Dean was really fucking sick of being treated like a rabid dog, about to attack.

She’d never treat him like that.

“Ruby said that.” Dean’s lip curled into a sneer, and he had to have a long talk with Sam about Ruby just being allowed to wander around Bobby’s house. “You showed these to her?”

Anna nodded nervously. “I- I just wanted to know if she knew who’d made them. They’re… incredibly intricate. And confusing.”

Dean’s gaze shot up from the notes as Anna’s words sunk in. “Can you fucking read them?”

“Yes?” Anna frowned back down to the notes. “I’m not sure how, and it- It makes my head hurt, but I can.”

“What does it-“

“I’m honestly- I don’t understand most of it. Whoever wrote this, they weren’t in a good state of mind. It’s a lot of… ramblings? And ideas?” Anna gave him an odd look. “Do you know? Who wrote them?”

“Yeah.” Dean muttered. He might not have a clue what those notes said, but he’d recognize anything of Her’s blindfolded. “It- You just found those things in here?”

“I did. Over there.”

Anna pointed to the other side of the room, at a large pile of old, woven blankets, and Dean marched over without a glance over his shoulder.

The blankets were cold. Tangled and itchy, and—when he moved them, rifling through them for any further sign of what he was already pretty damn sure was the truth—smelling of an unnamable fruit.

She’d been in here. Dean didn’t know how long ago, but She’d been in this panic room, wrapped in these blankets, and She left all those fucking notes that Anna-

Anna could read the notes. The girl who could tune into angel radio could read the same language She wrote in, the one that big tome had been written in, and that had to mean something but Dean didn’t have a damn clue what-

“Dean?”

He grunted, his hands still fisted in the blankets, and Anna cleared her throat.

“I- The girl who wrote these-“

Dean snapped Her name, because She wasn’t just a girl. He was getting really damn tired of people making Her just a girl, and not the most important and bright and awesome person in the universe. “She wrote those. That’s her handwriting.”

“Oh.” Anna paused, repeating Her name slowly. Dean didn’t hate how she said it, but it there wasn’t enough awe or glory in the tone. Anna didn’t seem to be appreciating the fact that they were all lucky to be blessed with even knowing of Her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, it’s just- This is-“ Anna sighed, and Dean glanced back to see her frowning back down at the notes. “I’m not sure how to describe it. I just know that these are made of a really, really old, dark… something.”

Dean raised his brows. “Something. What’d you mean, something.”

“I mean that magic isn’t a strong enough word.”

Of course it wasn’t. It was Her. No word was ever strong enough.

His girl could never make anything and simple.

He missed Her more than he’d missed the sun in Hell.

Dean grunted Her name, and he always said it right. Like it was a prayer. “She- It’s complicated.”

Anna blinked at him with confusion. That word was always fucking unhelpful.

So Dean tried again.

“She’s got a complex past-“

“Don’t we all?” Anna asked, and the question was innocent, but Dean still had to bite down a snarl.

“Not like her, we don’t. None of us do.”

Anna frowned. “I don’t know who I am, Dean. And I’m being hunted by demons and angels, and locked in a panic room-“

“You asked to be locked in the panic room-“

“Yes, but I just don’t think we should turn our suffering into a competition.”

That was a fair point. And if Dean thought about it for a few more seconds, he could acknowledge that maybe Anna would know a little about Her, and relate to what She’d been through.

But it felt different. Anna got to have them help her solve all her problems, while She was missing, and fighting for herself. Anna had some clues for what she was, and they had some leads they could follow. Every single thing they learned about Her—and whatever the hell She was—just offered more damn questions.

And Anna didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Anna hadn’t been tormented by pain her whole life, as far as Dean knew. Anna’s parents had been normal, and up until all this shit, she’d lead a nice and easy life.

Anna had never had to listen to Dad ask a demon to kill her. And if she had, Dean was pretty damn sure she’d run for the hills.

But She’d stayed. Against all reason and odds, despite Dad doing everything to keep Her away from Dean, She’d always come back.

And nobody got act like they knew Her. No matter how kind and well-intentioned they were, nobody got to fucking speak about Her if it wasn’t with care and reverence.

“It’s not a competition.” Dean kept his voice low and even, and he was pretty sure he was going to throttle this blanket. “But if it was, we would even be in her fucking heat.”

Anna frowned at that, but Dean kept going before she could push back.

“All these wards, keeping you safe? She made them. Half the books in Bobby’s library are there for her, and she knows the lore better than anyone, and all this angel shit, she’d work it out like it was freakin’ breathing.”

“I-“

“Demons are afraid of her.” Dean snapped, and something was wrapping around his throat. “And she can kill anything. Doesn’t hunt with a gun because she doesn’t need it, been hunting since she was barely a fucking teenager, and all the angels should count themselves lucky she’s not here, because she’d kick their asses.”

“I know.” Anna’s voice was soft, and a lot of the fire died in Dean very quickly. He was being an asshole.

But he fucking missed Her.

Missed Her smile and voice and laugh, missed Her sparring with him and never backing down, because—despite all previous evidence—She always seemed to trust Dean to not properly hurt Her. To have Her back. To be in Her wake and carry her to safety when she fell apart. Dean missed Her looking at him like he was worth something. Like Dean, just Dean, was enough for Her. Like She could see the gaping pit inside of him, see just how deep and tragic it was, and always seemed to decide that it was never too deep for Her to walk away.

It might be too deep now. He was snapping at girls he’d locked in basements, and he could still always slightly taste the metallic blood he’s spilled in Hell, and She might want nothing to do with him now.

But Her spitting in his face would always be better than anyone—Sam or Bobby or fucking Anna, who barely even knew him—looking at Dean with pity. Soft, cushioning fucking pity that he hadn’t earned, and didn’t deserve.

“You know.” He muttered, giving Anna a flat look. “What, angels having a little chat about my-“ Dean cut himself off with Her name, and prayed Anna hadn’t caught his slip.

Anna just shrugged and hummed.

He was probably safe.

“The angels don’t… Every mention I’ve heard of that name, they’ve been confused. Like even they’re not sure to make of her.”

Dean swallowed, and something chilled over his bones. “But they talk about her.”

“Yes. A lot. Ruby said-“

“You talked to Ruby about this?”

Anna had the decency to blush with slightly shame, but it didn’t stop Dean’s hands from curling into fists.

“The fuck did Ruby say about her,” he grunted, and Anna sighed.

“That she was a distrusting, paranoid, self-important bitch. That I shouldn’t bring her up around you, because your judgement about her is, um.” Anna swallowed, tucking some hair behind her ears. “Clouded.”

Dean was going to fucking kill Ruby. Sam could cry about it all he wanted, Dean was going to fucking kill her.

“Ruby,” Dean grunted through his teeth. “Is a fucking liar.”

“She’s been kind to me-“

“Because you trust her.” He snapped Her name, and Anna’s mouth snapped shut. “She and Ruby never got along, and Ruby doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. I fucking told you, my girl, she’s a fucking fighter, and Ruby’s just never liked that she won’t go along with whatever the fuck the bitch says. Ruby hates that she’s not in control.” Dean said Her name again, and something to the right of his heart was pounding. “She’s not fucking self-important. She just doesn’t let people fucking walk all over her, and she fights for what she wants. She fought for me, and I-“

He’d died.

He’d left Her, and now she was gone.

And Anna’s head was bowed, and Dean felt like a dick, but he’d do it again. She wasn’t self-important. She’d damn near let herself waste away, just for Dean. And She’d done it right until the very end.

And he missed Her.

“I-“ Anna’s voice was barely a whisper. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Dean let out a long breath, running a hand over his face. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Anna nodded, meeting Dean’s gaze with a small frown. “She sounds like she’s… really important to you.”

“Yeah. She is.”

And there weren’t enough words for it in the world for it. For how much he missed Her. How much he wanted Her. How there was something just to the right of his heart of that would never rest until he knew She was safe, and would ache for Her every single second until She was at his side again.

Anna let him take the notes back upstairs, and Dean gave another mumbled half-apology that didn’t even sound sincere to his own ears.

He’d try again later. When there was less to deal with, and his head wasn’t spinning faster than he could keep up with.

Because Anna could read the language. And the rituals She made were from an old, dark something—not a helpful description at all—but in a language that existed outside of just Her insane family.

There was a chance She could hear angel radio, too. Maybe she wasn’t coming home because She could hear all the angels shit talking Her, and saying things about Dean he’d wanted to tell Her—She’d find out on Her own if he didn’t, She was too smart and important to hide things from—but she’d now heard from feathered douchebags who weren’t going to be able to explain to Her why. If Dean told Her everything, he’d be able to sink to his knees and ask Her to stay with him anyway. To tell Her that he’d never let anything hurt Her again, if She let him be her shadow. That he was broken and evil, but he was still Her’s, if She’d have him.

He’d never be brave enough to say it like that.

But he still wanted to.

And knowing his life, Dean never got what he fucking wanted. So the angels had probably told Her of how he’d become barely better than a demon, and She’d run, because who wouldn’t.

Maybe if Dean solved this puzzle for Her, figured out what She was, with this odd lead was clutched in his hands as he climbed back up the stairs, She’d smile at him one last time.

He could figure this out.

For Her, Dean could do anything.

Bobby was back from the grocery store. Standing at the fridge and talking to Sam in a low voice about something Dean really didn’t fucking care about.

He slammed the notes down on the table, and Bobby and Sam both looked over to him with wide eyes.

“Dean, are you-“

“You got some explaining to do, Bobby.” Dean cut Sam off with a hiss, shoving the notes across the table.

“Explainin’?” Bobby raised his brows as Sam pulled the notes forward. “Boy, I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you-“

Dean snapped Her name, and Bobby tensed. “Those are her’s. And Anna found them in your panic room-“

“Dean,” Sam muttered, examining the notes with a frown. “These- Isn’t this the same language as that book she stole from her family?”

“Yes. Not the point, Sam-“

“I mean, it’s not a real language, and if it’s a code I can try to break it after I find the psychic-“

“It’s not a code.” Dean grunted. “It’s like- A magic language. Anna can read it, but-“

“Anna can read it?” Sam was gaping at him. This really wasn’t the fucking point. “What- how?”

“I don’t know. Bobby-“

“Dude, what if Anna knows what-“

“She doesn’t. Says the angels don’t either. I-“

“That’s not right.” Sam frowned back down to the notes. “At Chuck’s, that bald guy obviously knew, and maybe, uh, Cas might know too-“

“Cas doesn’t know. And even if he did, it’s not like we’re on chummy terms with him right now-“

“Yeah, but maybe-“

“Sam,” Bobby grunted, watching Dean far too carefully. Like he already knew what was about to happen. “Now ain’t the time.”

“Bobby, you should be on this, it’s-“

Bobby said Her name with a sigh, and Dean whole fucking body whined. “I know, that’s why I think we should hear about whatever the hell is buggin’ your brother that’s got him slammin’ on tables and shoutin’.”

Dean scowled. He was not shouting. He was talking firmly.

“You got somethin’ you want to say to me, Dean-“

Dean said Her name, holding Bobby’s firm gaze. “You were locking her up in your panic room.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Bobby, those blankets fucking smelled like her-“

“Why do you know what she smells like, Dean?” Sam’s grin was shit-eating, and it was going to get knocked off his fucking face with all his teeth. Sam knew Dean thought about how She smelled, he knew why Dean thought about it, he was being an asshole-

“Shut your face, Sam-“

“No, Dean.” Bobby’s tone was deadly. Dean should’ve brought his gun. “Why don’t ya’ explain why you got my little girl’s smell memorized?”

“I- This isn’t about that!” He regained his fury and footing, every word spat through his teeth. “This is about why the fuck you were locking her up-“

“I told ya, I wasn’t-“

“You were!” Dean roared. “You fucking were! And now she’d fucking gone, and you never bothered to fucking look for her-“

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice was a careful warning. Dean barely heard it over the blood in his ears, and on his hands, and chocking his breath because they’d lost Her, they’d fucking lost Her and now Dean couldn’t find her-

“None of you fucking cared about her! You’re letting Ruby run around and shit-talk her, and you’re locking her up like a fucking animal, and Dad tried to have her fucking killed-“

“Dean Adam Winchester.” Bobby snapped, and Dean’s whole body went rigid. Braced for something that never came, as Bobby only glowered at him from across the kitchen.

Bobby hadn’t know about Dad’s deal with Azazel. Dean could it all over the fury on his face, that She’d hidden it from everyone, Bobby included. For Her own, fucking insane reasons, She’d lied to everyone about it. And Dean had fucked up. He never knew how to stop, and he’d fucked up, and he was lower than the mud-

“I didn’t lock her up.” Bobby grunted, and there was something in his voice that could probably send an angel running for the hills. “She started lockin’ herself up, after she fuckin’ chased you to the goddamn hospital when you were dyin’, then came back cryin’ and tellin’ me she needed to start runnin’ again. I thought she was runnin’ from the pain, but it turns out you got some news for me.”

“He didn’t know, Bobby.” Sam mumbled. “Neither of us did until Chuck told us-“

“Told you what. That your Daddy tried to fuckin’ kill my kid?”

“Azazel.” Dean muttered, something very deep in his muscle tissue shriveling away. “Dad asked Azazel to kill her.”

Bobby’s jaw ticked. Dean was going to get shot. “You two are fuckin’ idjits-“

Sam swallowed. “Bobby, we didn’t know-“

“And I don’t give a flyin’ pig’s ass what you knew. I care that you, Sam are lettin’ me take all the fuckin’ heat for losing her when you’re the one who ran off with a damn demon the moment your brother kicked it. And you,” Bobby turned to Dean with a sneer, and now Dean was going to get shot. “I am not your fuckin’ father. I’ve known that girl’s somethin’ special since she grabbed my face and told me that the flowers like how I sing. You’ve heard me sing, I sound like shit, but she said the flowers liked it and hell, I believed her.”

Dean understood that. It was just how loving Her was. She said something, and it was true, and there was no room for questioning it because they truest law of the universe was whatever the hell She said it was.

“That girl is the light of my fuckin’ life,” Bobby hissed, still holding Dean’s gaze. “And if I had been smarter I woulda stayed with ‘er when you two went chasin’ Lilith. She runs Dean, and she’s damn good at it, and no one ain’t ever been fast enough to catch her. But if you think for one fuckin’ second I don’t leave my porch light on every night just in case she needs to open the door, you’re a hell of a lot more stupid than I thought. Just cause John tried to get her away from you don’t mean the rest of us are to fuckin’ blame for it, Dean. And that includes you.”

There was a long, heavy silence as Bobby just glared at him, and Dean felt something crushing his ribs. Someone had to be to blame. There needs to be something he could fight, someone who could bleed, because She was lost and everything in Dean was hurting, and there had to be something he could punch and beat into the concrete to make this better-

“Go walk it off.” Bobby grunted, and Dean shook his head. Weak. He was fucking weak.

“Bobby, I-“

“I know you- I know what she is to you. Same as I know what you are to her. Jesus, Dean, the only reason you ain’t gettin’ kicked out to sleep it off is cause I know that if she do come back tonight and you ain’t here, we’ll never fuckin’ see her again.”

Those words might have hit deeper in Dean’s body than Bobby had meant it. It might have snapped something in him then fused it back, all in half a second, and Dean-

He needed to walk it off.

It was dark outside. Dark and cold, and the wind was biting at his skin, and the last time he’d been out here at night had been-

He didn’t want to think about that. If he thought about that his legs might give out, and he might roar loud enough that the engines in the junkyard would howl back, and the whole world would stop turning for just a second, all to join in on the demand that She was safe.

Not even home, just safe. Not in the hands of Lilith, or being hunted by angels or Hell’s Assassin’s, or, son of a bitch, Alistair was top side, and knew about Dean’s… care for Her.

He’d taunted him about it, when Dean was still on the rack. Told him words that had to be lies, but hurt all the same. That Dean had always been right, thinking She deserved better, but he’d also been right thinking that he was the only one who knew how to hold Her right. That without Dean, She was going to go on and settle down with some rich Hollywood douchebag, and they’d have a happy little apple pie life, and she’d never look back to see if Dean was behind her again. That her husband would neglect her, and she’d keep having episodes that made the whole world bend into her, and then one day she’d implode on herself and join Dean down here.

“And I’ll make you watch, of course.” Alistair had hummed, turning over a blade in his hands. “That can be your new torture, for a few thousand years. Watching your Princess get carved up, watchin’ me touch her everywhere you were too much of a little fuckin’ pussy to, and listening to her curse your name. Oh, she’ll hate you, Dean. Hate that you left her to kill herself, even though we all knew it would happen eventually. To think you could’ve saved her, if you hadn’t let her destroy herself in your pathetic, unimportant name-“

Dean had spat on him, but the words had hurt more than the knife in his skin, the very next second.

And if Alistair had Her, there was someone who could bleed, but-

There might not be anything left of Her to retrieve.

“Dean.”

He didn’t even bother to shout at Cas for popping up without warning, or doing it when Dean felt like was about to goddamn cry. Dean just rubbed his face with a hand, and tried to not let his words be as empty as he felt. “Cas, now’s not really a good time, try again when you’re not looking to kill innocent girls-

“I am not here about Anna Milton.”

That got Dean to turn around, and Cas was a few feet away, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

And there was something behind it.

Dean just didn’t have a damn clue what.

“You gonna elaborate, dude?”

Cas said Her name. Slowly. Like he’d been practicing. “I have located her.”

“Cas, if this is some sort of twisted fucking joke or play to get Anna-“

“It is neither.” Cas titled his head, the odd expression deepening. “I believe you’d call it a peace offering. I wish you no harm, Dean, and this is meant to show that.”

Dean’s heart might not be beating. Time may not be moving. “And what, you think we’re just going to be buddy-buddy again because you might have found-“

“I did find her.” Cas said with a frown. “It is… Not possible to replicate or possess her.”

“So why aren’t you running back to your big bosses in the sky, telling them-“

“Because of the peace offering.” Cas said, like it was fucking simple. “I am afraid I am not able to bend on Anna, but this- I am under no orders to find her. This is of my own volition.”

“So you just, what? Combed over the earth until you found her?”

“No, I didn’t use any type of brush-“

“It’s a- Never mind.” Dean glanced back to Bobby’s house. To the flickering light on the porch. “How sure are you that you-“

“Positive. As of exactly three minutes ago, she is checked into a motel in Mission, Texas, United States of America.” Cas paused, watching Dean carefully. “Dean, if you are to… retrieve her, it may go badly for you both. Many of my brothers and sisters do not understand what she is, but we have been told that she cannot be allowed to interfere with our work.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Well, I hate to break it to you Cas, but your bosses might count this as interfering-“

Cas shook his head. “The area around her is scrambled. She is an anomaly of our knowledge, and she had quite an odd effect on our grace.”

“Then how’d you-“

“I cannot linger, Dean.” Cas sighed, glancing up the sky. “Being near her has given me a brief amount of cover, but it will wear off soon. We will be back soon for Anna. I hope you and Sam come to your senses and that you,” Cas paused, and let out a long, slow sigh. “Make the right choice.”

Cas vanished, and Dean didn’t care if he was talking about Anna.

The only right choice was going after Her.

And he knew there was a world where She’d seen his soul and hate him. Know what Dean had done, and despise him for it.

But he’d rather—selfishly, weakly, fucking pathetically—see Her one last time. If She cast him down and away, spit on him and left him to rot, at least he would seen Her, and known that she was okay. If She’d come to her senses about him while he was gone, at least he’d had Her, just in a fleeting moment before She returned to whatever Heaven she was made for, and Dean crawled back to the mud knowing he’d been smiled at by a god.

He’d give Her his fucking heart and whatever shreds of his soul were left, and even if She threw them away, at least Dean would have made his offering.

At least She’d know that Dean was still with Her, all the way down.

——————

Your guts are in your hands. You’re going to have nightmares about this for the rest of your life.

And you wouldn’t call yourself safe.

But at least you’re fucking free.

You’d started driving the day Dean came back. The phone had hung up, you’d looked up to the sky, and it had flickered in warning. But your silent words had been an oath. You were going to get home, and if the Sky had a fucking problem with that, it could come down and try to restrain you itself.

Even then it wouldn’t work.

You were going back to Dean.

You’d wanted to go straight back to him. To drive and drive until you pulled into Bobby’s yard, and you could burst through the door, and he would be there, in the kitchen. You’d fall into his arms and his body would be warm because he was alive, then you’d cling to him until the world was Silver in a way that wasn’t painful, and all of Dean’s Gold was stained on your shirt and pants and skin. Until it would take a tidal wave to wash him away.

A tidal wave you’d never let touch you, or Dean. You’d be home, and you’d be able to keep him alive. This time you wouldn’t fail him. If Lilith came for him, you wouldn’t hesitate to crush Her with the Silver. If Dean—the beautiful, amazing, clever dumbass—made another demon deal, you’d wipe it off his soul then strangle him for doing that to you twice.

Then you’d hug him, and hold him, and he’d be fucking alive.

You might have traded the whole world just to be allowed to hold Dean. Sooner, and forever. To be permitted to crawl into his lap, and wrap your legs around his torso, then just fucking stay there. The Sky wouldn’t see you, and nothing would hurt Dean because you’d be there, and monsters never hurt you.

Monsters never hurt you.

Humans did not have the same reservations.

You’d been distracted. Ketch and Davis only caught up to you because apparently, whatever was funding their fancy suits was also funding their fucking planes and cars. You’d been driving the Firebird, and it was a beautiful car that you wouldn’t give up for anything, but no amount of Dean’s mechanical skills could make a car that was older than you were faster than a plane.

The distraction had come from the combination of the Silver—rocketing around your body and the world, restless until you could look at Dean and know he was safe—and the fact that you’d been rushing. Sloppy. Careless. Half your body had been coffee and off-brand energy drinks, and the other half had been gas station slop that would’ve made Dean proud, but only made you a little sick.

You hadn’t been eating much before he came back. You could barely stomach healthy food without feeling like you were going to vomit. And Dean may be alive, but the light that was spinning and humming and refracting through the Spiderweb couldn’t repair months of damage to your body.

And if it could, you hadn’t had the energy or power or time to find out.

You’d needed to get home. And if sleeping four hours every other day—a small part of you still rotting with fear that you’d fall asleep, and dream of Dean in Hell once more—and only eating sparsely when you stopped to refill your gas got you home faster, so be it.

It hadn’t been healthy. You’d known that.

But knowing had never helped. And you’d just really fucking wanted to get home to Dean.

So your body had been weak. And the Silver had been suffering from your neglect as well, and the world had been slightly blurry, and Ketch and Davis had gotten the fucking jump on you.

They must have known they’d only get one shot. That once they showed that they’d been tracking and following you—with their cryptic fucking ways—you would fortify. Account for it, and adjust, and the chance would slip through their fingers.

It hadn’t.

They’d found you in Monterrey, Mexico. A few hours from the border. So fucking close.

The Firebird had been left in the motel. They’d told you that.

Maybe not told you.

But you’d heard it.

“What should we do about her car?” That had been Davis, off to one side as they transported you like fucking cargo. Iron cuffs around your wrists, a cloth gag in your mouth—they still didn’t seem to fully grasp that gagging you really didn’t do fucking shit—and your legs bound as you’d been laid in the back of the van.

They’d at least given you a pillow.

That had likely been Davis. And you’d bet a lot of money it was Ketch who’d knocked you out with a blow to the back of your head before the Silver could pick up on a threat and riot.

It had at least given you an advantage.

They hadn’t known you were awake and listening.

“Leave it. It’s a scrap of shit from the 70s, we won’t even be able to sell it for a proper gain.” Ketch’s voice had been dismissive. Bored.

You’d had to fight the urge to sit up, spit out your gag, and hiss at him that it wasn’t a scrap of shit, it was an amazing car that Dean had made for you, and only about forty-five percent of it was actually from the 70s, because Dean was fantastic with cars and he’d made this one with a million different modern parts, so Ketch could suck your fucking dick.

You hadn’t done that. It wouldn’t have done you any favors, and this way, you’d been able to keep that in the back of your head.

They’d left your car in the lot. And it was old, so no one would try to steal it.

If they did, you’d track it down and take it back. It was your car, and there was no fucking way you were going back to Dean only to tell him you’d lost his gift. He might say it was fine, and he’d just build you another one, but you didn’t want him to have to do that. You wanted to have some sort of proof to show him that you had been waiting, and missing him, and loving him, and you would’ve spilled blood for that car because it was a little piece of Dean that got to be yours, so you’d cared for it.

Saying that the car was still there had been their first mistake.

The second had been keeping you in Mexico. Where you could get back to your car, once you broke out.

Because there had been no fucking way you weren’t going to break out. Ketch and Davis could tie you up where the fuck they wanted, and starve you and torture you and weaken you further, but you were always going to break out.

The only reason it had taken so long was that the state they’d been keeping you in hadn’t done your exhaustion any favors.

“We’ve learned better than you try and ship you over, after your little display in Bolivia.” Ketch had drawled, sitting a carefully distance away and watching you with a smirk. “But our doctors are quite… fascinated by you.”

You’d rolled your eyes, and kept your mouth shut. They’d taken off your gag, but entertaining Ketch’s mocking might be worse torture than anything.

“You know, if you behave, we might offer you a partnership. A little tit for tat. You’re an American, we have limited ability to work in America, and you’re obviously far more disciplined than their dogs of hunters-“

That had gotten you to narrow your eyes, and Ketch had caught it.

“Interesting. Would you consider yourself a hunter? Even with your affliction?”

No entertaining him. You couldn’t entertain him, if only for your own dignity.

“Do the other American hunters know of what you are? Do you know what you are?”

You’d bitten down on your tongue until you tasted blood, and Ketch had sighed.

“You know, darling, it doesn’t matter if you won’t speak to me. Once our experts get here, they will ensure you’re cooperative.”

He’d got up and left, and if you could’ve, you would’ve laughed in his face.

In a way, you had.

Their experts had arrived the next afternoon. You’d been tied to the same chair, Davis across from you with a small frown, trying to get you to talk to him.

“You know, you are the first case that’s required me to have a gun.” He’d hummed, and you’d blinked at him. “I am not usually put on these types of missions, but you have fascinated us. Witches are usually quite easy. They go down fast, with a dirty fight, but you have evaded us longer than anyone. And I do not believe you are a witch.”

You’d only stared at him, and he’d pressed further.

“I went back to retrieve your possessions, yesterday.” Davis had watched you carefully, and you’d forced your face to remain neutral. “You have very few personal belongings.”

That had been true before Dean’s death. And everything you hadn’t had on you the day you left was still at Bobby’s.

You really hoped these douchebags didn’t find out about Bobby. Or Dean. Or Sam.

Especially Sam. Given the whole special child thing, they wouldn’t treat him well, and whatever partnership Ketch had been implying earlier likely wouldn’t extended to a boy with demon blood.

“Please tell me if I missed anything,” Davis had continued, pulling out a small notepad. “Your bag continued a flask filled with water, and I’m afraid we had to empty it for precautions, but the flask itself remains intact.“

You’d scowled at that. That had not been fucking water, and it had taken you a whole fucking day to get it.

“There was also a book.” Davis had frowned at you, and the curiosity on his face had almost been genuine. “It is not something I’ve seen before, which, I hope you understand, is quite rare. I have to ask, are you capable of reading it? Do you think you could provide me with a translation to English?”

That had gotten a reaction. You’d sat up straighter with an obvious confusion all over your face, because that copy was English. It was made of all the same, slightly floating and shifting words that were on the Blade—that spelled out woman of the high—but they were in English. You could only read in English, and—after your time in South America—some shoddy Portuguese and Spanish.

You’d been able to read that book since you were a kid. It had been one of the reasons you’d been yelled at, by your grandfather, because you couldn’t just go around claiming to know what you did not understand.

And Davis had seen your obvious reaction, but he’d misread it. Taken it for defiance, and let out a long sigh before moving all.

“I suppose now isn’t the best time to be make offers. I did tell Arthur you’d be more cooperative if we didn’t treat you like an animal, but he- Never mind. We’ll discuss it later. Now,” he’d looked back down to his list. “Your jacket was on the bed, and I found a little note from DW in one of the pockets.” Davis had raised his brows and you, and the Silver had bucked pathetically in your chest.

The pain of the possible concussion Ketch had given you, combined with your exhaustion, had been holding it down. But the mention of Dean had made the Spiderweb flare, and had jolted the Silver, and your gag had disintegrated in your mouth.

Davis’ eyes had widened. “How-“

“What else did you find in my jacket.” You’d snapped, and he’d shaken his head.

“Ah- Just two knives. But-“

“Did you touch them?”

“No, that would go against protocol-

“Good.” You’d muttered, rubbing your palm, your hands still tied behind your back. “Don’t.”

Davis had frowned at you. “I-“

Ketch had burst through the door with a woman whose soul was a flat, slate-like color—almost nothing under it, made of the same parts of the earth where life could never grow—and Davis had been dismissed.

He’d given you one last odd look, before he left, and you think Sam would’ve liked him, if he hadn’t chosen whatever this was as a career. They both had a habit of asking too many questions at all the worst possible times.

And you were grateful, because now you’d known about their third mistake.

They’d taken your stuff. The stuff Dean had given you, that you’d do anything to get back.

The first week had continued to pass. It had been long, and tedious, and painful, but you’d spent your whole life drowning yourself in pain. No matter how weakened you’d made yourself, there was nothing they could do to you that you hadn’t already done to yourself.

It wasn’t like you could answer their questions, even if you fucking wanted to. You had maybe less answers than they did.

“Would you consider yourself a witch?”

You’d shrugged at the cold woman, keeping your voice bored. “I dunno. Would you?”

The woman’s jaw had ticked. “This is not a conversation. Answer my question.”

You’d only hummed, swinging your feet a little off the floor. “Witch is such a loaded word, right? I mean, between Salem and the persecutions with Protestantism, there’s just such a complex history. And what is magic if not science that the general public doesn’t get to know about-“

“Arthur.” The woman had snapped, and Ketch had moved in a flash.

You don’t think they knew that the only reason you hadn’t killed them all by then was because of the torture. Because that external pain was great enough for the Silver to balk and whine, and you were too weak and tired to drag it to the surface.

“Let’s try again,” the woman had hummed when Ketch finally backed away, your skin cold and dripping wet, your breaths coming in ragged, shallow sounds. “Would you consider yourself a witch.”

“No, but I’d consider you one- Sorry.” You’d given her a soft, sweet smile. “I meant bitch, that’s my-“

The rag had gone back over your face.

But you didn’t break easy.

“If you’re not a witch,” Davis had asked a few days later, when Ketch and the Bitch had left for the night. “What would you consider yourself?”

You’d shrugged in your binds. “Not sure. But I am taking suggestions.”

“Suggestions?” Davis had repeated, watching with a frown. “You are… Aware of what you are?”

You’d given him a grimacing smile—there really was no point in lying—and he’d given you a curious look.

“Interesting.”

If he’d passed it on to the Bitch and Ketch, their methods and questions hadn’t changed.

“Are you a witch?”

“Yes, but only when I need a last-minute Halloween costume.”

“How did that book come into your possession?”

“Technically, it’s not in my possession.”

“You know what I am asking, you snide little creature-“

“Do I?”

Dean would be proud of you.

You missed him.

But he was alive. The whole time, nothing in you really broke because Dean was alive, and nothing could really break you more than his death had. Where the Silver was whining and howling for him, the Spiderweb kept you peacefully tethered. You didn’t have the luxury of exploding fully—there was a possibly unfounded, but entirely certain fear that, after weeks and weeks of build-up, you’d explode and hurt a little more than the assholes keeping you locked up—but you were still alive.

And the woman had gotten frustrated quite fast. You like to think you’d learned to drive her insane from years of watching Dean talk in circles around people, just like this.

He really would’ve been proud. Once he got past being pissed about the whole kidnapped and tortured thing, he’d be proud.

And then there was mistake four.

One of the agents—you’d thought it was just the three who never seemed to have anything better to do than talk to you, but apparently, they had a whole operation going on in Mexico—had been a fucking idiot, and touched the Blade.

The Silver had flared, when they’d told you. You’d never let anyone touch it. It had just been an instinct in your body, of no one should hold the hilt but you. When Sam had examined it, you’d made him wear Bobby’s kitchen mitts, or use a cloth. You’d slapped Dean’s hand away countless time, apologizing for the hit but knowing you’d do it again in a heartbeat, because no one should touch it. Ever. It’s yours. Made for you, only for you, and nobody else.

“Are they okay?” You’d whispered, and Davis had blinked at you.

You don’t think he expected you to actually care. But that instinct didn’t come from nowhere, and if whatever soul stuff was going on with you really was forbidden as Letitia had implied, that agent might be-

“He’s gone mad.” Davis had said, and you’d swallowed.

Better than dead. But only a bit.

“The doctor and Arthur will return soon.”

“Cool.” You’d shrugged, had Davis had sighed.

“They are not pleased with you,” he’d said your name gently, and you’d snorted.

“Well, they can get in line.”

“You are a remarkable woman, I am sure if you cooperated-“

“Look,” you’d raised your chin, holding Davis’ gaze. “I’m not interested in cooperating, and I cannot emphasize enough how little I care about your operation, and questions, and torture.”

“Our methods have been… ineffective.” Davis had muttered under his breath. “May I ask who trained you to withstand such proven tactics?”

“I did.”

Davis had blinked at that. His words turning slow and measured. “Is there anything we could do? To sway you in our favor?”

You’d given him a flat look. “Stop torturing me.”

“That’s not unreasonable.” He’d nodded, and if you didn’t think you’d cough up blood, you would’ve laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

What he could do ended up amounting to them feeding you. The woman didn’t cease her questions—if anything, they increased, becoming harsher and more specific—and Ketch became, somehow, more of an asshole, but you were eating.

It was their fifth mistake. The moment you weren’t on the brink of starvation, the Silver started to grow comfortable again. Started to settle and build, and you were more than fucking ready to go home.

“Mick thinks you’d be a good addition to our forces.” Ketch had hummed, when it was just you and him in your carpeted prison. “I think he has a soft spot for intriguing things. You’re lucky you’re not his type, or he might be proposing every time you confused him.”

You’d gotten really sick of rolling your eyes, so you’d just sighed. “Yeah, well, he’s not my type either. And I tend not to accept proposals from people holding me prisoner.”

Ketch had given you a wolf-like smile. All teeth, no light, crawling over your skin. “And what is your type, darling?”

You had one type. Pretty green eyes and messy short hair, an infuriating and boyish smile, leaving Gold everywhere he went and holding your hand in a way that made you certain you’d kill something with your teeth so you never had to let go.

“I don’t think I have one.” You’d shrugged, twisting the skin on your finger, your hands still tied behind your back. “And if you’re building up to a proposal, I’d like to remind you of my prisoner rule.”

Ketch’s grin had grown. “And if I wasn’t keeping you prisoner?”

You’d been unable to stop your snort. “Dude, you can’t be serious-“

“You must know how beautiful you are,” Ketch had hummed, and the Silver had hissed and boiled in your chest. “Even if they don’t have mirrors in America, you must have spent a lifetime fending off suitors.”

“We have mirrors.” You’d said, your tone flat. You wouldn’t entertain this. And if Ketch was smart, he’d have dropped it there.

But he hadn’t.

Sixth mistake.

You could feel the Silver coiling. Tightening.

Getting ready to burst.

“You seem to have been running for a while,” Ketch had said your name, and it had sounded wrong. Too soft, too simple, barely even a word. “I’m sure you’d want to rest, and we have far more luxury to offer you than any brutish, American hunters ever could.“

Seventh mistake.

Your lips had curled in a tight smirk, and you hadn’t bothered to hide the venom in your voice as you spoke.

“Maybe not,” your smile had grown impossible full-lipped and sweet. If Ketch had used his brain, he would’ve seen it for the warning it was. “But at least they’ve never had to tie a girl up to talk to her.”

Ketch had laughed. “Oh, I’m sure they’re fun for a night, darling, but if they knew what you were? They’d kill you in a heartbeat. No offers of making use of your curse.”

For a half a second, an image of Dean holding you right to his chest as you sobbed had crashed through your head, his voice ringing in your ears.

Come home.

Dean knew what you were. And he was alive, and he wanted you to come home.

It sparked over the Spiderweb. A righteous fury—born of them daring to keep you from Dean, then act like he wasn’t the best thing in the fucking universe—overtaking your body. That there might be American hunters that would kill you, but you still had Bobby and Rufus and Sam and Jo and Ellen and Dean, and they’d do more than make use of you.

They’d hold you.

And these fuckdicks had been keeping you from them.

Then, right as the Silver started to almost swell, humming and running under your skin, clawing to be set out, to set you free, Ketch made the eighth mistake.

The last one.

Ketch’s hand had cupped your face, and it was sweaty and clammy, and then you were everything.

The smooth exhaustion of the lights they’d been keeping on for weeks, right over your head. The itch of the carpet and the wear of the chair and the tension of the walls, too fucking tired from holding up the ceiling.

You could relieve them. The same way you could relieve the chair of your weight.

Ketch had gone flying across the room, and you hadn’t bothered to look at him as you’d—rubbing your wrists where the bounds had fallen away—stepped over his dazed body.

The wall deserved a break. And they relaxed just enough to cave in the room, and trap Ketch inside.

He’d be fine. They’d dig him out later, once you were long, long gone.

It had taken a minute to find where they’d been keeping your possessions, and you’d barely open the box—marked with your first name in neat, little cursive letters—in the storage room when the alarms began. Blaring and deafening and pair with flashing lights and fuck, they’d been loud-

But you’d almost been free.

And the Silver was still burning you into everywhere in the world.

So you’d shrugged on your jacket, grabbed your knife and flask and keys, and felt a little of the earth shake beneath your feet when you’d realized what was missing.

The Blade and the Book.

Fuck.

There wasn’t enough time to look for them, or find them, and god fucking Christ, all these assholes were British, maybe they’d fucking shipped your shit across the fucking ocean-

A problem for you in a week. When you were home, with Dean.

When someone wasn’t bursting through the door, and aiming a gun at your chest.

You didn’t have the Blade, but you had your knife.

You’d be fine.

It was easier than it maybe should’ve been, to fight your way out. The halls had been dark, and you’d still been so fucking tired, but you hadn’t stopped moving for a second and by the time the second agent fired right over your shoulder, the blur kicked in.

These people were just a different kind of monster.

And you were really fucking good at fighting monsters.

Your knife had spun in your hands—the world flashing and fading in and out of focus around you—and didn’t aim to kill. Every cut had been measured to cause harm, but not death. The worst was a man who grabbed you by the neck, and ended with a gash from his cheek to the base of his neck.

And you could see the daylight, and you were so fucking close, and-

The air had been hot and flat. If the jacket around your body wasn’t one of the only things you owned that was yours, you would’ve had to leave it on the sidewalk.

Instead you’d run. Ignored the stares of pedestrians, prayed no one called in a sighting of a woman covered in blood, staggering down the streets with a knife, and kept fucking running until-

Somehow, after almost a month, your car was still there.

The headlights were bashed in.

You should’ve killed Ketch while you had the chance.

But the Firebird had started—when you see Dean again, you’re going to buy him so much pie he’ll fall in love with you—and you’re fucking gone.

It’s only when you’d cross the border—with falsified papers, but that’s maybe your least severe crime of the afternoon—that the blur had fully faded. They won’t follow you into the States. You’d heard Davis and Ketch mentioning a lot about jurisdictions before.

You’re safe.

Safer.

Because the blur fades and you feel a little faint. And when you glance down for half a second, you see it.

Blood seeping through your clothing, hot and sticky.

Fresh.

Yours.

Fuck.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

You just have to get through this, and then you can go home.

There’s just enough money on your card to get you a motel room for the night. It’s a shitty, creaking floorboard and concrete shower motel, but it’s got a bed.

The woman behind the desk surveys you with raised brows as you lean against the wall, and you offer her a weak smile.

“Roleplaying convention.” You mumble, twisting the skin on your finger. “We like to be realistic.”

You’re not sure how she buys it, but you get the key, no other questions, and no cops come knocking on your door.

It takes a minute to heal the wound. It was a bullet shot, right to your abdomen, and your head is still spinning with dehydration and exhaustion and the weight of the past months crashing into you.

Dean’s alive, and you’d promised him you’d come home, but then you hadn’t.

And what if he thought that you weren’t. That you’d decided to leave him, and you simply weren’t worth the effort of looking for. What if he was looking for you, and he was putting himself in danger for it, and before you ever even saw him again you’d feel the Spiderweb go dark once more, and you would’ve missed your chance, and the Sky was still watching, but it hadn’t bothered to rescue you, so what the fuck was it even for then-

Dean wouldn’t just give up on you like that. He was a stubborn asshole, and even if he didn’t love you, he would never just abandon you.

But he didn’t know what you’d done. What you’d become, while he was gone.

He might walk away once he learned. It would be for the better. You were still sick, still incurable. And you’d embraced it, when you should’ve been fighting it.

Dean wouldn’t be looking for the monster. She was what he’d find, when he found you, but until then you’ll cling to the idea that you’re going to knock on Bobby’s door and Dean would only hold you. Only tell you he missed you.

You’ll torture yourself with that thought later.

Right now, you’re still bleeding out on the motel floor.

The shot went through your body, and when you bite down on your tongue and carefully press on the wound with the palm of your hand, the Silver flowing into a soft, easy harmony as you focus on Dean.

He’s not here, but he’s alive. Safe. You’ll see him soon, and even if he pushes you away, you’ll get the chance to wash yourself in Gold. To have him with you all the time, just a little longer.

You love him. You don’t know how you’re going to tell him, when you see him. You might not.

He deserves more than to be loved by something wrong and dark and sick. That doesn’t stop you from loving him, but it does remind you that he’s been through enough, and you don’t need to give him the extra burden of gently turning you down.

And it would make things awkward, between everyone.

It might be better if you just never-

A low hiss pushes between your teeth, and the Spiderweb is straining at the thought of Dean turning you away, making the Silver flicker and weaken, and the wound opens up-

Shit.

Only good things. You’re going to see Bobby again soon, and you’ll make him slightly burnt pancakes as an apology for leaving, which he’ll accept it with a grunt when you bring out the whipped cream. You can tell Sam about all the monsters you found in South America, and talk to Jo about anything but hunting so you can both feel a little more normal, and Dean-

You’ll be able to touch him. And there will be color in his cheeks and heat in his body, and he’ll look at you. After months of nightmares, Dean will look at you. And he’ll say your name, and everything will maybe be okay.

You love him.

And if you have to, you’ll learn to do it in silence.

But you’ll still love him. The Silver will bloom until there’s a jungle of flowers and vines and shimmering water living along all your vital organs, and they’ll all be illuminated by the Spiderweb, and made of Dean. You love Dean. He’s alive, and you love him, and you can keep a small, secret world safe for him in your body because you love him, and there should always be something beautiful for Dean.

The wound stops bleeding—your skin and tissue mending itself with a slight sting—but doesn’t heal, yet your head drops back against the wall.

You need sleep. Proper sleep, where you’re not tied to a chair and you don’t know you’re going to wake up to annoying accents and more insane fancy people, trying to get you to be something you’re not, that you’ve never been.

You barely even know what or who you are now.

The world begins to fade in and out, catching you right between restless, pained sleep and real peace, and a voice you don’t recognize says your name.

Your full name.

With the proper, given last name.

Your eyes shoot open, your body bracing for the blur to kick in, but it never comes.

But there’s still a strange man in your motel room.

He’s tall—just an inch shorter than Dean—and dark haired, pale skinned, blue eyed, and his soul-

Your mouth falls open.

This man doesn’t have a soul. He’s not possessed, either.

He’s concentrated. Made of packed down, shimmering, nuclear power. Millions of eyes molded into two, a thousand hands made the same, and an unnamable amount of colors—shifting, wrathful rainbows that run over his body like flames licking along his ribs—all being burned into a neon, electric blue.

But the other colors aren’t hidden. They’re more like television static. Turning and flowing over the blue, which is simply the strongest color among the countless others.

It’s like staring at lightning, being fractured through a prism.

And he’s just staring right back. Watch you carefully, like you may explode.

When you find your voice. It’s soft. Hoarse.

“You’re…” You swallow, holding his gaze and curling a little further into your own body. “Colorful.”

The man blinks. “You can see me.”

“I- Yes?” You take a slow breath, hugging your knees to your chest. “Should I not be able to?”

“I am not sure.”

“Oh.”

There’s a long moment of silence as you only watch each other, and you finally clear your throat with slow, careful words.

“Can you see me?”

The man tilts his head at you. “Yes, I am looking at you right now-“

“No, I mean me.” You tap your chest, right over the core of the Silver. “My soul.”

“Yes.” The man says, a small frown on his face. “Although you are… brighter. Then any other human I’ve encountered.”

You sit up a little straighter at that. “So I am human-“

“There is part of you that is human, yes.”

Part.

That’s not helpful.

“But you do know who I am?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, and silence falls once more. The longer you look at him, the more certain you are that you recognize him. Not the man, but him. The thing inside the vessel, powerful and furious and-

“You.” Your eyes widen as it hits you, and your hand moves to your knife—resting at your feet—on instinct alone. “I- I’ve seen you before, you were in Hell.”

The man doesn’t seem fazed. His frown only deepens. “You remember.”

“Yeah, you- You fucking, you attacked Dean-“

“I saved Dean.” His correction is gentle, but firm as you push to your feet. “I was given order to raise him from Hell, and I executed them.”

“Orders-“

“From heaven.”

You blink at him. “What?!”

“I- Oh. My apologies, I forgot you didn’t know.” The man dips his head slightly, still holding your gaze. “I am Castiel. Angel of the Lord.”

This has been a long fucking day. Maybe whatever you were shot with had a hallucinogenic. Maybe you’re just finally fucking losing it.

But it makes sense. You can see him, and he can see you, and fuck, that means angels are real and they-

They’d wanted Dean.

And you don’t trust it.

“Why?”

Castiel frowns at you. “I am not sure. It is simply how I was made-“

“No,” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “I mean why did raise Dean from Hell?”

“Because that is what I was ordered to do.”

You pause, spinning your knife in your hand as you turn over his words. Ordered. He hadn’t saved Dean by personal choice, he was simply the angel ordered to. That implied a hierarchy, that there was someone or something that-

“Did…” You let out a long breath. Stranger things. “Did God order you to get him?”

Castiel shakes his head. “God has not been seen of thousands of years. I was instructed to retrieve him by my superiors.”

“Your superior… Angels?”

Castiel nods, and you rub your face, scratching slightly at your skin.

“Sure,” you mutter. “Why not.”

“I do not understand the question.”

“It’s not a question.”

Castiel hums, watching you with an almost curious frown. “You are reacting better than Dean did. Have you met one of our kind before?”

“No, I just- Might as well be, right? I’ve seen stranger shit, and I guess-“ You cut yourself off as a lot of thoughts slam into you at once.

You had met him before. In Hell. And he remembers it, so that was real. You’d really seen Dean in Hell, every night, and-

Oh, God.

You stumble to the bathroom, and over the sound of your own retching, you don’t hear Castiel following you.

“Dean is in good health.” He says from the doorway. “My resurrection was successful.”

“I know.” You mutter, wiping a little bile from your mouth. “I just- I wasn’t sure it was real. What I saw.“

“Of course it was real. It caused many angels to be quiet… concerned.”

“Huh.” You take a long, shaking breath. “Have you been ordered to find me, then?”

“No. That is not my division.”

You glance up at him, trying to focus on the man rather than the angel burning inside of him. “Then why are you here?”

“It is… I am not sure.” Castiel frowns at you, but it’s not the under the microscope frown the Doctor gave you. It’s almost openly, innocently curious. “You are nothing I have seen before.”

“Yeah, I know I’m not human-“

“It is more than that. You are unique. I have never seen my brothers and sisters unable to find someone, let alone one woman.”

You pause, twisting to fully face him, but staying near the toilet. Just in case. “Then how did you find me?”

“I did not find you.”

“Wha-“

“You are covered in the stains of Dean’s soul.” Castiel mutters, and you feel your face heat. “I am the only angel who has touched him, and it has given me an… extra affinity. To locate him.”

You nod slowly. “Like a hound dog?”

“I- Yes, actually.” Castiel mirrors your nod. “Like a hound dog. It is not exact, I had to… comb the Gulf of Mexico to locate you.”

“Oh.”

“I am not here to harm you.” He adds. “I do not believe I would be able to. My superiors, they have forbidden us from allowing you to interfere, but they have also told us no harm may come to you.”

“Awesome.” You mumble, and Castiel takes a careful step forward.

“You are also very important to Dean.”

“I-“

“You are embedded in him. More I have ever seen any human bond with another.”

That wakes you fully up again. Embedded. You’re embedded in Dean, and you’ve seen all the additional, flitting colors on other people’s soul, but Castiel says you’re embedded in Dean-

“I don’t-“

“I cannot stay.” Castiel continues like he’d said nothing at all. “I simply wanted to… see you. I have never heard of any being simply walking in and out of Hell by whim, let alone remaining undetected-“

“I wasn’t really there-“

“You touched Dean.” Castiel says, the words sounding almost simple. “I could sense it, as I touched him. It felt like life.”

You swallow, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, Castiel continues.

“You do not seem to be the damnation my siblings fear you to be. You are remarkably human, incredibly flawed-“

“Gee, thanks-“

“You are welcome.” Castiel incline his head, and part of you wants to laugh. “But you are not only human. You are bright. It is- You may be all we have been waiting for.”

There’s another long second of silence, and you can’t think of a single possibly word or response. It’s been too long a day. Week. Month. Year.

And you really don’t fucking care about the angel and Hell and damnation, you’re only looping around embedded. You embedded in Dean but that may have hurt him, what if you had hurt Dean-

Castiel scans over you—frozen on the floor and blinking up at him like an idiot—and lets out a slow breath. “If you do not go with Dean, and I trust you will not understand this to be an insult, I hope that I never hear of you again. And in the likely case that you do, I will see you soon. I would wipe your mind of our interaction, but I do not think it would take.”

Your eyes widen again. At this rate, they might pop out of your head. “Wipe my mind?”

“It is better for both of us that we pretend this never happened. As I said, I have brothers who are not fond of you, and I am… bending many, many rules to even speak to you. Be careful,” Castiel says your full name once more, offering you a slight nod, and before you can ask even one question, he’s gone with a rush of wind through your hair and a heavy beating sound in the air.

You’re left alone on the cold bathroom floor, and you need rest but your head is turning too fast because, at the end of the day, you’re nothing. You’re not the damnation or salvation Azazel called you, you’re not what the angel have been waiting for, and you’re not a good addition to any forces or possible partner to anyone-

But Dean.

You’re his partner. That had been the first deal. Safer together.

And you’ll be a lot of other things for Dean before this—whatever this is—is over. You’ll be bright if it guides him home. You’ll be the fucking monster to keep him alive, and you’ll be the answer if it keeps him from ever being locked in Hell again.

You’ll be damnation for anything that tries to take him away from you again, and you’ll be salvation if he lets you.

You’ll take him any way he allows you to. You’ll grow so sick you rot into the dirt, and it will be the earth that keeps Dean always on steady feet. If Bobby burns your body, you’ll become the flame to keep him warm. If you’re frayed and snapped and disintegrated by something nuclear, you’ll follow Dean around so he always has some air to breathe.

If you drown, kept in another warehouse or in a cage, tied with chains that aren’t Dean’s—although he would never bind you like that, he doesn’t have to, you’re wired to have him refracting and strong in your body—until you suffocate, you’ll turn yourself into his blood so that his heart keeps beating.

You love him.

And he can never know. Nothing can ever hurt Dean again, nothing can ever use him or tell him what to do like a dog, because he’s more than that. Smarter. Better.

Dean’s the best thing in the world.

You won’t let yourself be the thing that makes him feel more pain. Not for you.

So you’ll go back to him, but if he turns you away, you’ll go without a fight, and if he lets you stay, you’ll grab him and never let go, in the name of a silent love he’ll never have to hear-

There’s a knock on your door. Cutting through your thoughts and stilling your heartbeat for half a second, because the world is technicolor.

And when you push to your feet and stumble to the door, the Spiderweb is leading you more than your brain. Pulling you like a magnet until you’re fumbling with the handle and yanking it open, not balking at the blast of hot air because-

He’s more Golden than before. He was always so gold, but this is…

Every gash and cut and scar and bubbling wound that had been ripped and carved into him in Hell is gone. Replace by more gold, stronger and harsher but also more Dean. Protective and resilient, and you could move it if you touched it right. It still starts to the right of his heart and spreads out, and it’s still underlaid with that glowing river of Silver from before, and the sealed, firm, new parts of him see to wrap around the river. To shield it from the world. And he's not made of any element you’ve seen before, but you don’t care because it’s Dean, he’s here and alive and in front of you-

He grins at you, crooked, a little soft, and amazing. “Hey, Princess. You miss me?”

A weak, choked sounds escapes your throat, and Dean’s eyes widen right as your legs give out.

You don’t know if you throw yourself onto him, or if he catches you before you hit the ground. It doesn’t really matter. The end result is the same.

Dean half carries you to the carpet of the motel room before sinking down to the floor, and you wrap yourself around him like maybe, if you really fucking try, all the gentle and healing parts of you—the bits that had been the White—will move into him, and he’ll never have to hurt again.

If he minds how you’re holding him, Dean doesn’t show it. His arms are tight around you and his fingers brush through your hair, and he’s muttering likely soothing words over your sobs that you can’t really hear, because everything in you is fixed in on the sound of Dean’s heartbeat.

Right by your ear.

Steady.

He’s alive.

“Dean-“ Your voice is soft, when you finally find a breath to speak. “I- I don’t-“

“I know.” He mutters, and you don’t ever want to hear another sound but his voice again. “I- I’m gonna explain it all when we get home, but there’s a lot going on. Got pulled out by angels, and they’re kinda assholes, but it’s we’re handling it. You’ll see.”

You don’t tell Dean you know he got pulled out by angels. You don’t want to lie to him—it’s always only made you sicker—but Castiel said it would be better if no one knew.

And you’re going to go with Dean. Anything that tries to take you away will have to kill you, and even then, you think you’d work out how to let the Silver raze through the world until there was a strong, clear path back home. Back to Dean.

So you’ll see Castiel again.

And some instinct in your body, designed and forged from years of knowing what to say and who to attach yourself to in order to survive, is telling you that it will be important to keep him near you. It’s the very same, nameless, often thoughtless instinct that told you trail after Sam and Dean when John was trying to kill you—separate from the pull to Dean’s gravity, made more of this is a safer place than most to be favored—and that allowed you to not run when Bobby found you on the highway.

So you just lean back, and offer him a small smile. “I’ll see?”

“Yeah, you’ll- son of a bitch.” Dean’s eyes are trained between your bodies.

On your not-fully-healed gunshot wound, and the blood seeping through your shirt.

“What the fuck- Up.”

You blink at him. “De, I’m okay-“

“No. Up.” You don’t move, and Dean scowls. “C’mon, Princess, just-“

He hauls you up his body with a grunt, moving you to the edge of the mattress and setting you down with slow, almost precise ease.

“Shirt.” He orders, frowning around your motel room. “You got a kit in here?”

“No, it’s in my car-“

“Mine probably better stocked.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “Stay here.”

You gape as he stands straight up. “Dean Winchester-“

“I’ll be right back.” He grunts, and when he glances over his shoulder, his face makes it look like he’s the one in pain.

“De-“

“I missed you.”

The door closes behind him, and he’s gone a total off three minutes, but you miss him every fucking second, and he looks so handsome when he stomps back inside with a medkit, but God, you’re going to strangle him-

It’s about halfway through your stitches—your back flat on the mattress as he kneels at the edge of the bed, and his knuckles brushing against your bare skin and leaving little, soft fires in their wake and that’s really not the fucking point—when Dean breaks the silence.

“What happened.”

“I got shot.” You mumble, and he lets out a long, audible breath.

“I got that, Princess. Who shot you.”

“Same people who bashed my headlights.”

“I’m not kidding around,” he says your name, and his voice is firm and deep and commanding, and he’s mad but you want to crawl back around him and never let go. “Who did this.”

You let out a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling. “Hunters.”

It’s not technically a lie, so Dean doesn’t catch it. His fingers still curl slightly against your skin. “Who.”

“Nobody you know.”

“So why-“

“They were hunting me, De.” You mumble, and his movement stills all together.

“What.”

“I- You know what I am.” You squeeze your eyes shut, even as one of your hands moves to hold Dean’s against your body. “That I’m not… You know. And some other people found out, and. Yeah.”

Dean’s words are slow. “So you’ve been out there, being hunted.”

“Dean-“

“Why the fuck did you leave.”

You squeeze your eyes tighter, the Silver rolling around through your body. Not to hurt Dean. Never to hurt Dean.

Maybe to hurt you. Maybe to hurt the Sky for not saving Dean before, or for watching you but never fucking doing something.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t. If you used your goddamn head for a second instead of just running off, nothing would’ve been fucking hunting you-“

“It’s-“ You shake your head, biting on the inside of your cheek as the stitches resume. “I couldn’t stay there, I-“

“You didn’t have to stay there! You just had to be fucking- God, at least in the goddamn states!” Dean’s jaw is clenched when you risk a glance at him, but the last few stitches are remaining neat. Careful. “I couldn’t protect you when you were in fucking Brazil-“

“You couldn’t protect me at all, Dean!” You’re screaming, and this isn’t even a real fight, but you’re so tired. You’re being sealed and remolded and cared for and picked apart all at once, and you’re too much and it’s all Dean’s and you can’t tell him that and he was- “You were fucking dead! You were gone, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t fucking stay anywhere that reminded me of you, and everywhere-“

You let out a loud, pathetic sound like a wounded animal, and Dean says your name softly, but you just keep going.

“I- I couldn’t stay. And I had to do something, because I promised you I wouldn’t die, and I- I just- I wasn’t good, Dean. I went to Brazil, and Peru, and Bolivia and Columbia and Argentina and Panama because I couldn’t be here, and I wanted to learn. I fucking tried, I tried so hard to bring you back, and I- You couldn’t have protected me. Not from this. Being hunted is what we do.” You let out a shaky, dry laugh. “And I’m the prey, Dean. They’re hunting me because I’m the prey.”

He’s finished the stitches. And when Dean speaks his voice is rough and strained. “Did my dad tell you that?”

You blink at him, a lot of the world seeming to do a stutter-stop, halting then speeding up, everything flipping upside down, because never in a million fucking lifetimes would you have guessed that to be Dean’s response.

“Did he?” Dean repeats, hold your gaze. There’s that floodlight. The one that’s showing you all the world, kept and vibrant in Dean’s eyes, and a little darker than the last time you saw it, but as if it’s being covered by a storm.

Storms always pass.

And you said all the way down.

So you nod, your voice barely a whisper. “He was right-“

“No, he wasn’t.”

This might be worse than getting shot. A least with being shot, you know what to expect. “Dean-“

“No. We all did things in these past few months, Princess. Bobby got drunk off his ass, and Sammy started hanging out with Ruby all the damn time, and I wasn’t exactly a boy scout while I was hanging out in Hell.”

You open your mouth to protest—what, you’re not really sure—and Dean gives you a firm look that shuts it in a second.

“Dad wasn’t a fucking saint. None of us are. That’s not this life, this world, and he never-“ Dean shakes his head, bowing it until it’s rested on your knee. “You’re- You’re the fuckin’ best, Princess, and if you run from me, I’ll catch you.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I dunno. Sounded less creepy when Bobby said it.”

“Bobby said he’d catch me?”

“No it’s- Never mind.” Dean props his chin up, his hands moving to hold you by your waist, and this is worse than getting shot.

And better. And more. And Dean-

“Stop running.”

“I-“

“I ran first, Princess. I know I fuckin’ did, but I’m asking you to be better than me. You’re always fucking better than me-“

You sit up, until you’re sitting right at the edge of the bed and Dean’s knelt between your legs. “Dean-“

“And I never should’ve left you, ever, on that first hunt or any of the times when it was just us, and I should’ve grabbed you when Dad made that shit fucking deal with Azazel and told him to shove it up his ass cause you were staying with me, all the way down. You shoulda always stayed with me, and I- Son of a bitch, I don’t want to you to go. Never want you to go, just, I like it when you’re here. Stay here, this time. I’m so fucking sorry, for dying and leaving you, and letting you think you’re not- I’m sorry.”

You have too many things to say to him. That you’re not better—you’re mostly just his—and he wasn’t a boy scout in Hell but that wasn’t his fault. That you never want him to go either, and you didn’t even know that you going was an option on the table, but he deserves something simpler and easier and stronger. That if he’ll have you, you’ll stay all the way down, and you need him, and you want him, and you love him.

But it’s easier to slide off the bed. To sink to your knees until you’re right on Dean’s lap, and wrap your arms around his torso until you folded into his body.

And it’s hot outside, and Dean’s a fucking furnace, but you could die of heatstroke, and you’d be happy, because it’s Dean.

He holds you back, and you can hear his heartbeat again.

You might split the Sky in half to keep it near you. To keep Dean.

“How did you know about Azazel?” You mumble into his body.

“You’ve missed a lot of stuff,” Dean mutters, his voice rolling through your whole body. “Sammy’s gonna have a field day catching you up.”

“Dean-“

“Come home.” He says your name, and you fall a little further down. “Just- come home.”

“Okay.” You whisper, burying your face deeper in his shirt, and you could swear he lets out a small sigh of relief.

You’ll follow him back down to hell, then further.

But you don’t need to go home.

Dean’s arms tighten around you, and you’re already there.

End Note: They did it. They resolved a fight with a conversation. They’re so strong.