Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“God dammit, Winch!” you shout as soon as you walk in the door.

The big German shepherd has a guilty look on his face, so you know he did it, but the thump of his tail tugs at your heart. So instead of yelling, you just groan and scratch behind his ears as you walk around the mess. Presumably, the mess started life as a roll of paper towels, but you can’t be sure, because it’s mush right now. Just mush.

“Dude, you gotta get a better hobby,” you say absentmindedly as you toss your keys into the bowl on the hall table and kick your shoes off. You reach behind you and untie the apron around your waist, pulling out your book and laying it on the kitchen table. You walk to the bathroom and toss the apron in the laundry basket, then walk back to the kitchen to get stuff to clean the mess.

The big dog follows you, his ears still laid back. You roll your eyes and wet a rag, turning to grab the broom on the way out. “Can the sad dog act, Winch,” you say mildly, “we both know you’re not in trouble.”

A happy bark booms down the hallway and you laugh. You can’t stay mad at Winch, you never can.

After cleaning up the hallway and explaining in excruciating detail why it’s a bad thing to chew up paper towels to Winch, you start to cook dinner. Normally you’re more of a pizza rolls and wine kind of girl, but the day has you feeling more like doing actual cooking.

You start the process to make homemade chicken Alfredo, whisking the sauce and humming. Winch lays right behind you, partially in case you drop something, but mostly because he loves you.

Halfway through cooking, you realize that you’ve made entirely too much food. You laugh. “Well, Winch, you’re eating well tonight, buddy,” you say down to him. His ears flick back to you, but he doesn't turn. The big dog is used to you talking to him, you do it all the time. You’re pretty much constantly chattering from the moment you come home to the moment you hit the pillow, and it’s always to Winch.

You live a pretty solitary life. You have a couple of acquaintances who you catch dinner with a couple of times a year, and your parents are too busy taking cruises and enjoying retirement to worry much about their only daughter. And the last time you had a boyfriend, there were still Harry Potter movies being released once a year.

It’s never bothered you, you enjoy your own company more often than not. The only constant companion you want is Winch. It makes it easier to move frequently, since you can’t really find a place that fits you very well, anyway. Month-to-month leases are life.

After dinner and clean up, you stash the leftovers in the fridge and grab your pack and lighter. “Come on, bub, last call for going out,” you say, motioning out the back door.

Winch jumps up and trots out the sliding glass door, and you follow closely behind. Lighting up, you inhale deeply and examine the pack. Your favorite brand had come out with a new flavor, and it was rather lovely. “Terrible habit,” you mutter, echoing the words your mother says every time she sees you light up. To spite her, or the idea of her, you take a deep drag.

Winch is sniffing around the yard, and you watch him affectionately. He’s big for a shepherd, but that’s why you picked him out. He’d been at the shelter, an unruly one year old, too big for small children or timid owners. Luckily, you don’t have children or a timid nature.

Soon after he’d come home, you’d fallen into a comfortable routine, and you had both been in love before you knew it. He’s a great dog, hugely protective, and smart as a whip. As a rule, the leash you walk him on is only a formality, he would walk beside you no matter where you went.

Case in point, he comes and curls around your feet when he’s done. You reach down and run a hand through his rough fur. “You’re a good boy, you know that, Winch?” An agreeing groan leaves his throat as he settles down to snooze while you smoke. “Only man I’ll ever need,” you say tritely, chuckling at your own wit. Fuck it, I’m hilarious.

The two of you walk back inside, locking the door behind you, then checking the windows and the front door before you head to bed. You dress quickly in a tank top and sweats, then curl into the bed with the big dog next to you.

The bed is really the only place you’ve spent good money. A huge iron headboard and footboard are at the ends, curved into intricate designs. An equally huge, extravagantly fluffy comforter graces the bed, done in lovely hues of green and blue. An exorbitant amount of pillows are at the top, and you push half of them off to make room for Winch and yourself.

Once the two of you are settled, you grab the remote and flick the TV on, clicking on to Netflix almost by memory. Supernatural queues up, and you pick up where you left off, sometime in the middle of season three. Dean’s going to hell, that poor, beautiful man, you think sleepily as you watch and doze.

Before the first episode, which you’ve watched dozens of times, is done, you’re fast asleep.

You come awake slowly, already running your hands through Winch’s thick fur. You crack an eye open and wince at the sunlight pouring through the bedroom. “Ugh, morning.”

You sit up carefully and stretch hard, relishing the feel of the muscles in your back flexing and relaxing. You swing your feet to the side of the bed and hop up. You turn and grin at the dog staring at you adoringly on the bed. “Come on, Winch, let’s go outside.”

An agreeable bark greets the statement and he jumps off of the bed. You frown a little, noticing the pep in his step. Winch isn’t getting any younger, he’s already six years old, and this is about the time he’ll start slowing down. You not ready for that, you’re not ready to accept that he’s not eternal.

But it looks like that situation is going to be further off than you thought. You’ve noticed him landing a little awkwardly for a few weeks when he gets off the bed in the mornings, but he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. “Well would you look at that,” you say mildly, following him. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You open the door to let the dog out, and you take your time making coffee. When he trots back in through the open door, you examine the German shepherd’s face, then smile. “Our day off, handsome, what shall we do with our stolen time?”

You make a cup of coffee and grab your pack, stepping outside for a morning cigarette. You don’t usually smoke during the day, it’s really just a nighttime routine for you, but something about today makes coffee and a cigarette sound absolutely divine.

You sit on the patio chair you have on your back porch and go to light up. You stop, frowning, looking at the pack. “What the fuck?” It’s a different pack than you had last night, you’re almost positive. It’s your normal brand, and the flavor you usually smoke, but you were sure you had one of the new flavors they’d just released last night. Right?

Winch starts barking and you jump, a little spooked. When you realize he’s barking at the neighbor’s Yorkie, Princess, you laugh out loud. “Get back over here, wuss!” you shout, waving at the neighbor genially.

He waves back and smiles. “Come on over here, Gerty!”

You frown again, mouthing “Gerty?” Gerty two months ago, right after you’d moved in. They have Princess now, a rescue.

“Weird morning,” you comment lightly, taking a drag off of your cigarette and snapping your fingers for Winch. He comes easily and sits next to you as you finish smoking, your hands absently rubbing behind his ears.

You go inside and grab your phone, a habit to check your emails before breakfast. But it won’t connect for some reason, just flashing a stupid ‘NO SIGNAL’ when you try to use it. “Fuck.” You don’t want to spend your day off at the cell phone store, but it looks like the universe has different plans.

You look down at Winch. “But not before breakfast, right?”

A bark answers your question, and you head to the kitchen to make breakfast.

You’re slipping the huge cinnamon rolls into the oven (why am I cooking so much lately?) when the doorbell rings. You jump, looking down at Winch. He usually raises holy hell when anyone even looks at the driveway, but he’s just looking at the door expectantly.

“Going soft in your old age, bud,” you say lightly as you make your way to the front door, wiping your hands on your apron.

You pull it open and feel your mind go completely and utterly blank.

Two of the tallest, most gorgeous men you’ve ever seen in your life are standing there, mouth-watering in suits, with expectant looks on their faces. Oh, dear, you think, your inner voice uncharacteristically mild.

“Ma’am?” the taller one asks, his voice sending awareness down your spine. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

“Are you Y/N?” the shorter one asks, and his voice is sending you straight into horny town.

“Um…” You stop as your brain starts firing again, and you realize exactly who is standing in front of you. Oh. My. Fuck.

You slam the door in their faces and turn to lean against it. You can feel the eyes bugging out of your head, and your heart is racing. What the hell are they doing here?

A knock at the door makes you squeak. “Ma’am?” The deeper voice. “Ma’am, everything okay?”

“What are you doing here?” You ask through the door, not willing to open it again.

“What?”

You groan, and turn to open the door a peek. “What are you doing here?”

Winch chooses that moment to push his way to the door and stick his nose out, sniffing the men standing on your front porch. A friendly whine comes from him, and he tries to push the door open further with his face. You glare down at him. “Winch, you traitorous fuck.” He ignores you, which is about par for the course.

You look up at the men, who are both blatantly staring at you. “What are you doing here?” you ask again.

“We’re from the FBI, and-”

“Cut the crap, Ackles,” you snap, and you almost die of embarrassment. I did not just call Jensen fucking Ackles by his last name. “I know you’re not FBI, so what the fuck are you doing here?”

Jared (Jared fucking Padalecki, oh my fuck) digs into his coat. “We have badges, ma’am-”

“I’m sure,” you say dryly, finally giving in to Winch’s struggles to get the door open. He steps out and starts sniffing the boys’ hands, his big tail wagging crazily. “Winch, dude, chill,” you say sharply. He comes back to sit in front of you, still eagerly staring at the men in front of him.

Jensen eyes the dog. “Good dog,” he says gruffly.

“The best,” you reply. Then you remember that you’re about to die of embarrassment and irritation combined. “Listen,” you say, looking down at Winch, avoiding looking at their ridiculously handsome faces. “I don’t know who put you up to this, and maybe they even had good intentions, but you seriously can’t be here.”

“What are you talking about?” Jared asks. You close your eyes as anxiety starts to claw at you.

“Listen, I’m really not the kind of fan who goes to conventions and takes pictures and talks to you. I am perfectly happy never talking to you, and you’re making that a real pain in the ass by being on my front porch.”

“Listen, lady-” Jensen growls, stopping quickly when Winch starts to growl back at him.

You place a hand on the back of the dog’s neck. “Come on, bud, it’s all right, they’re leaving,” you say soothingly.

Jared’s hands have gone up. “Ma’am, please, if we can just talk to you for a second-”

Anxiety is still clawing at your belly, an endless voice saying, you’re going to humiliate yourself, they’ll laugh at you when you leave, or worse, they’ll forget you as soon as they leave, and now you’re about to make a complete ass of yourself. You do your best to ignore it and look up hesitantly to Jared’s eyes. He’s the one you’re less intimidated by, Jensen’s good looks scare the crap out of you.

His eyes are kind. “Ma’am, my name is Agent Young, and this is my partner, Agent Angus-”

“Angus Young. AC/DC lead guitarist,” you say slowly. “What are you guys doing? The jig is up. I know who you are.”

“And who, exactly, do you think we are?” Jensen asks again. His voice sends more awareness down your spine, and your anxiety starts making you a little nauseous.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask softly, getting upset. Winch starts growling at the men again, responding to your dress, and you let him. Maybe it will make them go away.

“Doing what?” He asks again, irritated. Winch stands, his hackles up and his growl getting deeper. You place a hand on the big dog’s head, but don’t say anything. He’ll never attack someone if they’re not harming you, but he looks big and scary, and for now, it’s good enough for you.

“Okay, have it your way,” You snap, finally meeting those insanely green eyes. “You’re Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki. You have, for some reason, chosen an anxiety-ridden Supernatural fan to torment. Which is kind of a fucking bummer for me, because I really thought you guys were a little nicer than that, but whatever.” You sigh and push the hair that’s fallen down from your pony tail out of your face, tilting your head up to look at the sky. “Did I miss anything?”

The silence draws out long enough that you slowly lower your eyes to meet Jared’s. The confusion there only makes you more confused.

You turn to Jensen, and the anger there nearly kills you. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he snarls.

You frown, confusion drowning out your anxiety. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“What the hell is a Padalecki?”

You blink, and really study them. There are scars on Jared’s face that aren’t there in the show. His nose shows evidence of being broken, and he looks kind of… Skinny, honestly. Still muscular, but leaner and wirier than you’d think he’d be.

You turn to Jensen. He has less scars on his face, but they’re still there. He looks precisely like you’d think he’d look, strong and tall and a delight to look at.

But there are those scars…

You step forward, crossing your arms around your middle to calm your nerves. An absolutely ridiculous idea is taking root in your mind, and you can’t let it go. “Do you have tattoos?”

Jared blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Right here.” You point to the spot just under your collarbone, the place where the characters have the anti-possession symbol inked into their skin. “Do you have it? Let me see.”

Jensen stares at you. “Is this a come on?”

You roll your eyes hard. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, just let me see your damn chest!”

“Listen, you-” Jensen snaps, taking a threatening step forward.

He’s stopped by Winch forcing himself in front of you and snarling in earnest now. You blink in surprise. He’s never done anything like that before. “Winch, come on, bud, it’s okay,” you say softly, bending at your knees to place a soothing hand between his shoulder blades.

The dog ignores you and keeps growling at the man. “Winchester!” You snap. “Heel, Winchester, right this second.”

His ears lay back against his head and he backs up until he’s standing next to you again, then sits down. There’s still a growl deep in his chest, and his eyes aren’t moving away from ‘Jensen,’ but he’s sitting, so you’ll take it.

You look up at ‘Jensen,’ who’s staring at you again. You feel heat on your cheeks, and hate yourself for a second for blushing. “What?” You snap.

“What did you say that mutt’s name is?” He asks softly.

You blink, then feel the blood drain from your face. “Show me your chest and I’ll tell you,” you whisper, your heart beating fast.

It starts beating faster when he slowly undoes his tie, then the first few buttons of his white dress shirt. Your eyes widen when he pulls it down to show the anti-possession tattoo there.

“The actors never got the tattoo permanently,” you whisper. “They don’t have it.” You turn to ‘Jared.’ “Do you have it? The tattoo?”

He nods slowly.

You look between them, feeling your knees start to tremble. You swallow hard. “I, um… Oh, God, I got his name from the show Supernatural. It’s the last name of the main characters… Sam and Dean.” You look between their shocked and confused faces again. “Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Winch looks up and whines at you, his nose starting to bump your hip. “You’re Sam and Dean Winchester,” you say softly, reeling.

Sam looks at you, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely. Fucking. Not.” You snarl as your knees give out and you give in to the darkness threatening your vision.

Chapter Text

Winch’s deep growl wakes you up, followed by Sam’s soothing words. “Come on, Winch, it’s okay, I just want to see if your mom is okay.”

“Get the hell out of the way, mutt,” you hear Dean snap.

“Hey, keep your mouth off of my dog. He’s not a mutt, he’s a German shepherd, and he could take your nose off of your face before you knew what hit you.” You say, wincing when pain shoots through your head. Your keep your eyes shut. “He is also, apparently, the only man on this porch who cares that I hit my head.”

You try to lift your head, but it hurts, and hair tickles your nose. You open your eyes to see a big, furry chest in your way. You groan. “Winch, buddy, get out of the way.”

The big dog steps away and turns to lick you on the face and whine. You lay there and let it happen. “All right, buddy, all right,” you say, reaching up to stroke his soft face.

You sit up slowly, still keeping your eyes closed. “Ow,” you mutter as you sit up.

A warm hand on your face makes your eyes pop open. Green eyes are studying you intensely, and you’re glad you’re not standing, because oh my God it’s so unfair how fucking gorgeous he is.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks, his voice rumbling in his chest, which is also too close to you for comfort.

“N-none,” you stutter.

He nods. “You’ll be fine.”

You’re saved from answering by the oven beeping. “Shit,” you say mildly, gingerly getting to your feet. Winch circles you, pushing Dean out of the way, whimpering. “Come on, gentlemen,” you say dryly. “All three of you, breakfast is ready.”

“Did she just lump us in with the dog?” you hear Dean ask Sam, offended.

“Shut up, Dean, she’s freaking out.”

“I am not,” you say, trying to inject as much sarcasm in your voice as you can as you lead the three boys into the kitchen. “It’s just, you know, the two gorgeous main characters of my favorite show appeared at my doorstep today while I was making cinnamon rolls.”

When you turn back to look at them, Winch’s ears have come up, and Dean’s face lights up at the words “cinnamon rolls.”

You laugh, then stop abruptly when your head hurts again. “Ugh,” you grumble, grabbing an oven mitt and opening the door with one hand, pressing your other hand to the top of your head.

You place the pan on the counter and push the oven door closed with your hip. You turn the timer off and turn around to examine the men in your kitchen, pressing down on your head. “Okay, so what are you doing here?”

Your fear has dissipated somewhat from the pain, and you already fainted, how much more embarrassing can you get? They think you’re an idiot, the anxiety assures you.

“We’re looking for you.”

You shoot Sam a bitchface. “You’re kidding,” you deadpan.

Dean grins, and it warms you down to your toes. “We’re looking into a weird event here last night.”

You nod. “What kind of weird event?” you ask, turning to start gathering ingredients for cream cheese icing.

“We don’t really know, honestly,” Sam says. You pull the mixer down from the top shelf, wincing as the blood pounds in your head. “There was a series of crazy stuff that happened last night.”

“Such as?” you ask, unwrapping the cream cheese and slopping it into a mixing bowl.

“Um, three women and one cat gave birth prematurely, all babies and kittens lived,” Dean is counting off on his fingers. “A blind man was suddenly able to see, and any untold number of smaller weird things happened between now and then.”

You frown, turning the mixer on and whipping the ingredients together. “Hm, some weird things happened here, too,” you say loudly. “The neighbor called his dog the wrong name, my cell won’t work, and my cigarettes changed.”

The mixer turns off and you dump powdered sugar in. You notice that Winch has taken up post behind you, but he’s sitting now, watching the brothers, who are leaning in your doorway.

You blush hard and mix harder. Keep it together.

“Cigarettes changed?” Sam asks.

You nod. “Yeah, the flavor changed. I bought a new kind, and when I woke up, it had changed back to my normal ones.”

The icing is done, so you dip your finger into it and hold it down. Winch immediately leaves his protective post and stands to lick your finger happily. It’s habit, so you don’t even realize you’re doing it until you hear Dean make a disgusted noise.

You turn to look at the horrified faces the boys are making. “Oh, shut up,” you say with an eye roll. Your anxiety has never stretched to Winch. He’s the best damn dog on the planet. “You’re fine, his mouth is cleaner than yours.”

When Winch finishes cleaning your finger, you run your hand under hot water, then wipe your hand on your apron.

Sam is still eyeing your hand when he asks, “You said your cell phone didn’t work?”

You nod and point. “Yeah, it’s on the table.”

You turn back to the icing, pulling a knife out of the drawer to spread it onto the rolls.

“What the fuck?” You turn back around to see Sam staring at your phone. He looks up at you and holds it up. “Is this it?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong?”

He stares at you. “Y/N, what type of phone is this?”

You frown at him. “It’s a cell phone, Sam.”

His irritated look sets your stomach quivering. They hate you, they think you’re an idiot. You’re halfway in love with them and they hate you.

You turn quickly, smearing icing on the cinnamon rolls. “It’s an iPhone seven, um, I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Winch groans deep in his chest and bumps your hip with his nose. You put a hand on his head to steady yourself. “I’m okay, bud,” you whisper.

“Y/N,” Sam says slowly, like he’s talking to a child, which sends your anxiety and self-deprecation to new heights. “The newest phone out is an iPhone three.”

That shocks you out of the nasty thoughts swirling in your head. You turn slowly. “What? No, it’s not. It’s twenty-fifteen, Sam, God.”

Dean approaches you slowly. “Y/N, it’s two thousand nine.”

You look at him, starting to panic. “What? No, it’s not. What are you talking about?”

Sam pulls his phone out and shows you the date. September ninth, two thousand nine.

You fall back against the counter, and Winch starts growling at the boys again. “What?” you whisper, unable to look at either of them. “No, it’s twenty fifteen. It… It can’t be… That, that makes no sense.”

You sink slowly down to your butt, pulling your knees up. Winch whimpers and circles you, nuzzling and licking your face. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his coarse fur. “What’s happening to us, Winch?” you whisper.

“Y/N, hey, we’ll figure this out, okay?” Sam’s gentle words do nothing to calm you.

You can feel it. Your body is breaking out in sweat, your mind is racing, and you can’t breathe. You’re about to have a panic attack. And you are not about to have it in front of these two lovely men who have been through so much, and faced it so bravely.

You leap to your feet and snap your fingers. “Winch! With me!” You call as you sprint to your bedroom.

“Y/N!”

“Y/N!”

You ignore their shouts of your name as you slam your bedroom door and lock it behind Winch. You put your back against it, crying in earnest, trying to keep as quiet as possible. You slide down to your butt, wrap your arms around your knees, and cry like your world has been shattered.

Which it has.

Dean runs behind you and slams on the door. He knocks, and there’s no answer but sniffles and soft whimpers. He can hear the big dog whimpering, too, and he can only imagine what’s going through her mind.

“Dammit,” he swears softly, stepping back from the door.

He turns to Sam. Sam has always been better with crying women than he has. “Fix it,” he snaps at his brother.

Sam looks at him incredulously. “Dean, what the hell am I supposed to do? It looks like she’s… I don’t know, this whole thing is crazy. I have no idea what to say to her,” he whispers fervently.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. He doesn’t understand why he cares so much that Y/N is upset. But it’s tearing him up inside, and even if he doesn’t understand it, he wants to do something about it.

“Dean, maybe we should leave. Come back later?”

Dean shakes his head, never looking at his brother. “No.”

He raises his hand and knocks on the door gently. “Y/N?”

“Y/N?”

God, he’s persistent, you think, taking a moment to be annoyed before the panic overwhelms you.

You’re weak, you’re an idiot. They have been through so much, and you what? You’re confronted with something weird, and an hour later, you’re freaking out? Stupid. Pathetic.

Round and round your thoughts go, self-hatred chasing itself in your head. You’re crying like crazy, your chest heaving and your breath coming in huge gulps. Winch has settled next to you, his big body wrapped around yours, his head resting on the tops of your feet as you freak the fuck out.

You rearrange yourself until you’re lying next to him, your arms wrapped around him, sobbing into his neck. You can’t count the number of times Winch has been your touchstone through attacks like this, how many times his serene acceptance of everything that made up the person who is you had calmed you down.

It’s been a while, around half an hour, and there’s another knock at the door. “Y/N?”

You look up and sniffle. You were on your downward descent, and his voice threatens to send you back. You’re staring at the door, because it sounded like he was… Sitting?

“Y/N? How you doin’, princess?”

You snort and bury yourself back into Winch. He groans deeply in his chest and lifts his head to look at you. You look back at him, a smile twitching the side of your lips as you look at your big, beautiful dog.

Who immediately betrays you by standing up and scratching at the door. “Winch!” you hiss, glaring at him. He ignores you. Damn dog.

“Winch?” Dean asks from the other side of the door. “Hey, buddy, get your mom to open the door for me.”

The unbelievably irritating dog looks back at you expectantly. You glare at him and shake your head. “No!” you whisper. “Absolutely not, you horrible animal.”

He barks at you and scratches at the door again. You can’t believe this. “Traitorous fuck,” you mutter, standing and going to the bathroom that is attached to your bedroom.

When you look at your face, you wince. Your hair is a little wild, and your face is swollen. Your eyes are red and puffy. Yeah, that man is not coming into this room.

You look down at Winch, who’s looking at you and wagging his tail. “Dude,” you say softly. “He can’t come in here. Look at me. Absolutely not.”

Undeterred, Winch barks at you and bounces to the door, where he scratches at it again. You groan. “This is a rental!” you hiss, coming back out into the bedroom. “Stop it!”

He continues.

You narrow your eyes. “Winchester, I swear to God, if you don’t start behaving, it’s right back to the pound with you.”

He barks happily and bounces again. It’s an empty threat, it’s always an empty threat, and it always comes right before you give in to his crazy dog demands.

You sigh and go to the door. You swallow hard. “Um, Dean?”

“Yeah, princess?”

“Um, I need to let Winch out. Would you mind putting him in the backyard? He won’t go anywhere, he’s just being obnoxious. He doesn’t even need to go outside, he just wants me to get out of the room, because he thinks that if I leave, I’ll feel better. But, you know, what do you expect? He’s a dog, he has no idea that I can’t even begin to-” you stop yourself abruptly, realizing that you’re babbling, and realizing that Dean Winchester, of all people, does not care about your anxiety. “Um, anyway, can you let him out? Please?”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “Yeah, okay.”

You fight with yourself for a moment, then turn the lock and step behind the door to open it. Winch bounds out, and you shut the door quickly behind him. You slide back down to your butt, stretching your legs out in front of you this time, and you give yourself over to the panic.

The thoughts in your head are nasty, and not really what you always think of yourself. You’re funny, and smart, and you have been known to have moments of bravery. But when it gets like this, when your anxiety takes over, you can’t stop it. It’s easier to just let it happen.

Tears leak out your eyes, much more subdued than before. It’s always like this when Winch isn’t here. It will take longer to be all right again, much longer, but at least you’re on the downhill slope.

The knock at the door startles you. “Y/N?”

You jump. “What is it, Dean?” you ask softly.

“Can I come in?”

You shake your head, and then realize he can’t see that. Then you take a moment to be thankful he can’t. “Um, I don’t think so, I’m a mess.”

“Y/N-”

“I’ll be fine, Dean, just give me a minute.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “I, uh, I can’t.”

You frown. Jesus, I just need a minute. Chill, dude. “Excuse me?”

“Just let me in, all right? Whatever this is, we can figure it out, Sammy and I will fix it.”

His words bring tears to your eyes. “You can’t fix it, Dean. I mean, okay, whatever is going on in my life, yeah, you probably can, I mean, there’s nothing so far that you can’t fix, so I’m sure you can. But this, what’s happening right now, isn’t really fixable. I’ll be fine, I just need a minute.”

Another beat of silence, then, “No.”

The doorknob turns and the door pushes against your back a little. You panic, realizing that you didn’t lock the door behind you when Winch left. You scramble to your feet, your eyes on the ground and your hands held up.

You see his shoes come into the room, and it sends your panic higher. “Dean, please-”

He closes the door behind him, and your heart is pounding so hard you can practically see your pulse in your eyes. “Dean, I can’t, really, I appreciate you wanting to help, but I can’t, you can’t be in here.”

He turns around, which you only know because his dress shoes are pointed to you again. God, he’s beautiful.

“Why? What’s going on, princess?”

You close your eyes as tears start falling again, still refusing to meet his gaze. “I, just, I can’t look at you, okay? And you can’t look at me. I just can’t handle it right now, okay?”

You see his hands come up to his sides, and his body shifts so you know he’s looking up at the ceiling. “Why?”

You shake your head and give a sarcastic, nasty laugh. “Oh, no, no way, I am not telling you.”

He steps forward, and you take a step back. “Well, I’m not looking at you, and I assume you’re not looking at me. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“Dean, I-”

“Princess, if you don’t tell me, I’ll look you right in the eye, I swear to God.”

Ugh. Is he always like this? “Dean, it’s humiliating.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “When I was eighteen, I got crabs from a waitress in New Orleans.”

The change of subject makes your head spin. “What?”

He chuckles, which sends real warmth down through your body. “Yeah, she was somethin’. Tammi, with an ‘i.’ She had this red hair… Anyway, it was real annoying. And my dad was pissed. I mean, how many times are you told to wrap it up when you’re in high school? And it didn’t sink in until I had to use that damn shampoo to get rid of it.”

You find yourself starting to chuckle with him. “Well, that is… Um, that is something.”

“So,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I told you something embarrassing, so we’re on an even playing field.”

You shake your head. “We are so not on an even playing field, Dean. You’re... I mean, look at you. You’re freaking gorgeous, and I’m me. And right now, I’m a snot-covered crying mess who can’t even look at your face, so forgive me. We’re not on an even playing field.”

You’d spoken without thinking. You’re shocked that you spoke so much, that you told him, that that much of your lack of confidence had poured out of your mouth. And now you’re hoping that a spontaneous black hole will open up and fling you into nothingness. Oh, God.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Okay, so let’s pretend I never said that, and we’ll just move on. You go, eat breakfast, and I’ll be out in a while. Don’t let my dog have a whole cinnamon roll, the fatass knows he only gets half, but he’s going to try to con you, and you can’t let-”

You’re stopped by his hands on your shoulders. You squeak. “Dean!”

“Shh,” he says softly, “Come here, princess.”

You feel kind of dazed when he leads you back to the door that you’d been leaning against. Your eyes squeeze shut and you look upward when you see him start to crouch at the door. You listen to the rustle of his clothes, then his hand on your calf makes you jump again. “Come here, princess,” he says again, gently.

His hand guides you until you’re sitting next to him, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. The panic is beating at you again, but somehow, his arm around you beats it back a little. “Dean, you don’t have to-”

“Yeah, princess, I think I do,” he says genially.

Chapter Text

If you don’t say something, he’s going to think you’re a weirdo.

You’re talking to yourself. He already thinks you’re a weirdo.

Hmm. Good point.

Yes. Good talk.

Maybe talking to yourself isn’t the best coping mechanism for a walking wet dream wrapping his arm around you, but it’s what you’re going with. It’s probably only been a few minutes, but it feels like you’ve been snuggled up to Dean for hours.

It must be the same for Dean, because he shifts uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to stay here, Dean,” you say softly, embarrassed.

He turns to look at you. All of your emotions are so drained, you just look back, studying his perfect face. “You all right now?”

You shrug. “I could use a smoke.”

The three of you are sitting on the patio furniture on your back porch. You smoke self-consciously, but God did you need it. Terrible morning.

True to form, Winch senses your discomfort from across the backyard. He barks and trots up, standing in front of you with a soft whine. You smile and run your hand along his face. “Love you, Winch,” you say softly. He barks in response, and you smile.

It gives you the courage you need to look at them. “So, okay, um, now what?”

Sam sits forward, leaning his arms against the table. “Well, did something happen last night? Out of the ordinary?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I mean, I went to work, came home, made dinner, fell asleep watching Supernatural . Season three, episode thirteen. ‘Ghostfacers.’”

Dean cocks an eyebrow at you, and it damn near kills you. What with the blood rushing away from my head… “‘Ghostfacers?’” he asks.

You nod. “The Morton House.”

Sam blinks. “You… You know the episodes? There are… How many seasons are there?”

You blush. “Um, season twelve just premiered.”

Dean frowns. “And people watch this crap?”

You frown back. “Well, it’s not crap, so yeah.”

Dean shakes his head. “People, what? Get off on watching us get fucked over?”

Before you realize it, you’re a little miffed at him. This is something that you’ve always been passionate about, and when you insult a nerd’s fandom, you get the shit lectured out of you.

“Of course not,” you snap, glaring at him for the first time without any nervousness or anxiety. If there’s one thing you’ve never been shy about (besides your dog), it’s this. “We watch because you save people, and you make the world less dark. We watch because, through it all, no matter what, you guys fight it. Even when you did consider giving up, it was never an option.”

You lean forward, meeting Dean’s eyes, and then turning to meet Sam’s. “We watch, because the motherfucking Winchesters are motherfucking heroes.”

There’s silence, and for some reason, a lot of your base anxiety is gone. There. You’ve said it. The most embarrassing thing you could have said, you basically just declared your love for them, and they’re still here. So fuck it.

You sigh and pull another cigarette out of the pack, lighting it with the one in your hand before stamping the latter out into the ashtray. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”

Sam blinked, then shrugged. “Well, let’s go see what’s different and what’s not.”

Dean drives silently, catching glimpses of her in the rear view. Her words are ringing in his head. The motherfucking Winchester brothers are motherfucking heroes. He’s been called a lot of things. Cocky, a slut, reckless. But never a hero.

“What the fuck?” he hears her say softly, and he shakes his head to rid himself of his thoughts to look where she’s looking. She’s out of the car before it stops, and irritation snaps at him. “Dammit, Y/N!”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says softly, and they both look at her.

She looks so small, Dean thinks as he opens the door and slams it shut, walking around the car to her. He stands next to her, resisting the urge to put an arm around her. Pervert.

Her hands are at her mouth, and her eyes are wide. “Where is the bar?”

Dean frowns. “You work at a bar?”

She nods slightly, without looking at him. “Yeah, I’m a waitress. I… It’s… It’s gone.”

Dean looks at the building in front of them. It’s a farm supply store. “Was this what was there before you worked there?”

She looks at him and shrugs. “I don’t know, I just started a year ago.”

Sam has come around and is standing on the other side of her. He’s looking down at his phone. “It was. Or, I guess, it is.”

Silence reigns for a while. Dean turns to look at her, and is surprised when she’s already looking at him. “I want to go look at some other stuff.”

Dean nods. “All right.”

Two hours later, the Impala is back in your driveway, and you’re silent in the backseat, staring out the window.

Shock. I think this is what being in shock feels like.

Nothing is like it was yesterday. The grocery store is a different chain, the gas station you go to is different, your fucking job isn’t even there anymore.

Definitely in shock.

“Y/N?” You blink and look forward, seeing Sam’s concerned face turned around to look at you. “How you doing?”

You blink. “Really fucking terrible, Sam.”

Dean snorts and opens his door. “Come on, not gonna figure anything out here.”

You nod and follow the men to your front door. When you unlock it, Winch barks happily and dances around your feet. You smile and pat his head, then really look at him and frown. Right there in the doorway, you drop to your knees, bringing you to eye-level with him.

You can’t help but smile when he leans forward to lick your face, but it fades when you look at his lips. The flecks of white in his muzzle are gone.

“Sit, Winch.” His butt hits the floor immediately, and his ears come up to point at you.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” Dean asks, crouching next to you and reaching out to scratch behind Winch’s ears.

“A year and a half ago, Winch had to get stomach surgery. Idiot ate a chicken I had on the table, still had a fork in it,” you say as you hold your hands out to Winch. “Gimme some skin, Winch.”

He jumps up and puts his front paws in your hands, and you transfer both of his paws to one hand and lift them, running your hand along his belly. Oh, God, there’s no scar. He doesn’t have a scar on his belly.

You slowly set his paws down and stand, backing away from him. “Stay, Winchester.” His ears perk up and he sits perfectly still, worried brown eyes watching you as you walk away.

Nausea rolls in your stomach, and you slap your hand against your mouth as you turn and run to the bathroom. You have the presence of mind to slam the door shut and lock it before collapsing in front of the toilet and emptying your stomach.

Oh, God, my dog, whatever did this took my dog.

When you’re done, you sit back and groan. Winch, they took Winch.

“Y/N?” Dean’s worried voice comes through the door. “Y/N, are you all right?”

“No,” you say softly, fighting tears back again. God, I’m tired of crying.

Panic is crawling up your stomach, and you try to take deep breaths, but it’s got iron bands around your lungs, and you can’t.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Y/N, come on, open the door for me, princess.”

You want to answer, to comfort him, to assure him that you’re okay. But you can barely breathe, so talking isn’t even an option right now.

“Y/N? Talk to me, princess.”

Okay, a voice says in your head, sounding disturbingly like the man standing outside your door, and always has. Come on, do the five, four, three, two, one.

You nod, still gasping for breath.

Okay. Five things you can see. You open your eyes and look around. The toilet, the sink, the blue shower curtain, the green, mismatched towels, and the soap dispenser.

Four things you can touch. You reach your hand to touch everything. The cool tile floor, the wooden cabinet, the wall, the toilet again.

“Y/N? You still with me?”

Three things you can hear. Dean’s concerned voice, Sam’s low voice talking to him, Princess (or Gerty?) barking next door.

Two things you can smell. Your vomit (ugh, gross, clean before you leave this room), the air freshener plugged into the wall.

One thing you can taste. You place your finger on your tongue. Me.

“Y/N?” the doorknob rattles.

“I’m okay, Dean, I’m okay, just… Freaking out.”

“Yeah, I get that.” His voice has gotten lower, which tells you he’s sitting, or crouching, or whatever.

You stand and walk to the sink, running the water and splashing your face. Get it together, woman.

You’re a little nervous about opening the door, but you’re so completely drained of anything right now, and you’re so tired, that you just unlock the door and pull it open.

Dean was apparently leaning on it, because he falls back a little when you do it. You look down at him. “Sorry.”

He smiles, and your heart does a little stutter. “No problem, princess,” he says easily as he stands. He turns to you, making eye contact that would normally send you into a tizzy, but you’re so drained, you have no feelings left in you. “How you doin’?”

You shrug. “I’m tired,” you say softly. “But we need to figure this out, so let’s go back into the kitchen.”

He examines you closely. “Hey, if you need a second, you can take it. I can get Sammy out of here.”

You smile and shake your head. “No, let’s go do this.” His stomach rumbles loud enough for you to hear it, and you chuckle when he flushes. “And I can feed you.”

You walk to the kitchen, smiling at Sam when he sees you. “Hey, Y/N, how you feeling?”

“Completely overwhelmed and exhausted. But it’s lunchtime, so who wants leftovers?” you ask, bending down to pet Winch’s head when he bumps his nose against your hip and whimpers.

You pull out the chicken Alfredo from last night and set it on the counter. Was it last night? Or was it in the future? How is this happening? What’s happening? Ugh.

You shake your head and start putting food into two bowls for the guys. You feel like if you eat, you’re going to die. You stick one of them in the microwave and listen to the guys talk.

“Have you gotten hold of Cass?”

“No, he’s not answering. I don’t know where he is.”

“Have you tried praying?” you ask, turning around to lean against the counter.

Sam blinked. “Do you, uh, do you know who Cass is?”

You nod. “‘I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.’”

Dean was outright staring at you. “What?”

You smile. “Shut up, I’ve probably watched the show ten times. So, have you tried praying to Cass?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, no answer.”

“What about Bobby?” you ask, turning around when the microwave beeps and switching the bowls out.

“I, uh, I was about to call him,” Sam says slowly. Feeling like you’re missing something, you turn around and see them sharing one of those ‘we’re communicating without talking so we don’t have to include you’ looks. Okay, so that’s irritating.

“Guys, still in the room. Talk out loud,” you say.

Sam flushed, and Dean grinned guiltily. “Um, I’m gonna go call Bobby,” Sam says, standing and leaving the room with a shy smile.

“So, what was that about?” you ask, turning to pull the second bowl of food out of the microwave. You grab forks and put one bowl in front of Dean, and the other in front of the chair Sam just vacated.

“What was what about?” Dean asks, before promptly shoving his face full of food.

You laugh, then move to grab your cigarettes and snap at Winch. “Come on, bud, let’s let the guys eat in peace.”

Winch barks and moves from where he was, staring intently at Dean, and trots over to the door, then through it when you open it.

You sit at the chair and put your pack of cigarettes on the table and just lean back for a second, soaking in the sun. Winch, instead of wandering into the yard, comes to sit next to you, resting his head on your knees. You run a hand through his thick fur, seeking comfort. Maybe he’s younger, but he’s still Winch, the best damn dog who ever walked the planet, and if he was going to change, at least it’s to give him a few more years.

You’re like that for a while, eyes closed, savoring the warmth and peace of the moment. Even the sliding door opening doesn’t disturb you. Dean settles in the chair across from you, but remains silent. You smile a little. You’ve always liked men who could appreciate the silence in a moment.

“So, what’s next?” you ask without moving or opening your eyes. I am real tired of asking that.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers honestly. “This is a little different than anything I’ve ever dealt with. Sammy, either.”

You sigh. “Okay.”

“Hey,” he says, and you open your eyes and turn your head to him without lifting it. “Hey, we’re going to figure this out, Y/N.” His green eyes bore into yours, determination shining in them. “We’ll get you home.”

A ghost of a smile is on your lips. “I believe you, Dean.”

Chapter Text

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at the wall, trying to wrap your head around the day. It’s not working, but there’s nothing more productive to do, so you go ahead and give it the old college try, anyway.

You’d realized you were still wearing essentially pajamas, so you’d gone into your bedroom to change. You’re wearing a soft grey v-neck and a pair of skinny jeans, but you’re still in bare feet. You ran a brush through your hair, and it lays soft against your shoulder.

A knock at the door. “Y/N?”

“Come in, Dean,” you say softly.

He hesitates, then opens the door and peeks in. “How you holdin’ up, princess?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, I think I’m too tired to process.” You turn to look at him. “What did Bobby say?”

Dean pushes the door open the rest of the way and leans in the doorway. “He has no idea what’s going on, either. But we’ll head that way and figure out what’s up.” He looks at you closely, something unreadable in his expression. “Do you want to come with us?”

You nod silently. Something familiar, even if it’s Bobby’s house (which is only familiar through the show) seems like a good idea.

He nods back. “All right. We’ll probably head out soon, if that’s all right.”

“Okay,” you say softly, turning to look back at the wall. You listen as he walks back down the hallway.

You don’t know what to feel. Your world is different. Everything is different. You want to get back to your uncomplicated life, where you’re a waitress and you love your dog and you have your solitude and you watch maybe a little too much TV.

But… There is a little part of you that doesn’t want that. That little part of you wants to tell the guys that your life is boring, and you’ve been waiting for something like this to happen. You want to stay in this world, you want to fight beside them. You want to face leviathans, demons, Abaddon, and everything in between, because you love them, and you love this world.

And that is so not an option. Obviously. You’re not exactly “fit,” you’ve only fired a couple of guns a couple of times, at a shooting range, with proper ear and eye protection on. You don’t run, you’re a smoker, and your main personality traits are sarcasm and nerdy references.

So not a hunter.

You sigh, and then you do something you’ve been doing for years. It’s silly, it’s obviously not real, it’s just a TV show, for fuck’s sake. But you do it out of habit.

Oh, Castiel, please help me out, here. I’m freaking out, dude.

The fluttering of wings alerts you, and before you know it, you’re looking into truly ridiculous blue eyes.

So you do the only thing you can think of.

You scream.

Dean walks back down the hallway frowning. He doesn’t understand why he’s so upset that she’s upset. She’s a nice girl, but he’s met a lot of nice girls, and there’s no reason to want to comfort her this badly. Looking at her sitting on the bed, looking so tired and so sad, he had been itching to wrap his arms around her and assure her that it’s going to be okay.

“Makes no sense,” he mutters, walking back into the kitchen with Sam.

“What did you say?” Sam asks, looking up.

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing. She wants to come with us. I think we should head out soon.”

Sam nods. “All right.” Then, softer. “How is she?”

“She’s in shock, Sam. Wouldn’t you be?”

Sam nods again. “Of course I would be. She’s handling it all right, though.”

Dean nods, kind of proud of her, even if that makes no damn sense at all. “Yeah, she is. I think-”

Her scream has them sprinting to the bedroom, Dean’s heart in his throat as he draws his gun.

“Oh. My. Fuck.” You gasp, staring at the angel with wide eyes.

“Y/N.” Castiel says with that gravelly voice, that piercing gaze holding you where you are.

“You’re Castiel,” you say softly, not turning when the Winchesters come running into your room, guns drawn. Winch follows them, circling to stand at your side, staring at the man in the trench coat. “You’re Castiel, Angel of the Lord.”

He tilts his head. “You’re Y/N Y/L/N, waitress.”

A smile tilts your lips up. “Holy shit.” You’re full-on grinning soon. “Holy shit. You’re Castiel.”

He frowns, and you falter a little in your joy. “Why are you repeating yourself?”

“Don’t be a dick, Cass,” Dean snaps gruffly, coming to stand next to you. He looks down at you. “You all right?”

You look back and nod. “Yeah, I just got startled. He really does, just… Appear.”

He smirks, and your heart beats faster. “Yeah, it’s annoying.” He looks back at Cass. “Did you finally decide we’re important enough to answer?”

Without thinking, you smack him on the arm. “Be nice, Dean. Cass is going through a lot.”

He frowns down at you. “So are you.”

You roll your eyes. “But not, like, heaven and hell stuff. Just normal, boring, supernatural stuff.”

Cass is still looking at Dean. “No, I answered Y/N’s prayer. I imagine she has many questions.”

You blink, then blush. “I didn’t even realize… That is going to take some getting used to.”

Sam looks at you. “You prayed to Castiel?”

You shrug, looking down at Winch. “Just a habit I got into. Gonna have to quit that.” You look back at Cass, his words ringing in your head. “What do you mean, ‘many questions?’ Do you know what happened to me? Do you know how to get me back?” You ask, ignoring the little pang in your heart at the thought of leaving them.

Cass stares at you quizzically. “Of course I know what happened. You’re Dean’s soulmate.”

You blink. “What?”

Dean blinks. “What?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“You’re Dean’s soulmate. You were put in the wrong… Universe, so to speak. A clerical error. They don’t happen often, but they do happen. I don’t know how you got here, but it was known that you weren’t where you were supposed to be.” A fervent fire lights in his eyes. “I believe that God brought you here.”

Out of all the things you expected Castiel to say to you, that was not one of them. You’re completely uncomprehending. “What?”

“I believe that God brought you here. To be with Dean.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean growls next to you. Winch growls, too, on the other side of you, and the similarities between the main men in your life would amuse you if you hadn’t just gotten the world swept from beneath your feet.

Cass is looking at Dean. “I believe I was very clear.”

“We’re just a little… Surprised,” Sam says, looking at you with concern.

You shake your head. “I don’t understand,” you say softly, “I mean, what about my life? My parents?”

Castiel’s sudden shift to an uncomfortable demeanor tells you everything you need to know. You whimper a little, and lean into Dean when he places a big, warm hand on the small of your back.

“I did not find any other signs of divine intervention last night,” the angel says, “I do not think your parents were brought with you.”

You swallow hard. “What… What will they think happened to me?”

“Your existence will be erased. They will not remember you at all.”

You whimper again, and Dean wraps his arm completely around you, pulling you into his chest as he glares at Castiel. Sam’s glaring, too. “Jesus, Cass,” the younger brother snaps, “be a little more blunt, can you?”

Castiel looks confused. “I’m being very straightforward.”

“So, my job?” you interrupt them. “My friends? My life? It’s all gone?”

He nods. “Yes. You belonged here, anyway.”

You shake your head, leaning harder into Dean. “No, no, I really don’t.”

Castiel tilts his head and examines you. “Why don’t you believe you belong here, with your soulmate, Y/N?”

“Because that makes no fucking sense,” you say desperately, burying your face into Dean’s chest, and trying to keep your grip on reality. Dean’s warm, firm chest is both helping and not helping, but you’re not willing to give it up.

Winch is growling deep in his chest, and he stands to growl louder at the angel. Castiel looks at him, but Winch doesn’t back down until you reach a hand out and place it on his head. “Come on, bud,” you say gently, and your voice sounds distant to your own ears.

“It makes perfect sense,” Castiel says calmly.

You shake your head, ignoring everything but the warmth radiating off of Dean. “No, it really doesn’t. Because I…” You can’t say it. You can’t tell them how average you feel, how completely in over your head you would be in this world. No matter what that little part of you that wants to stay says, you can’t. Obviously. You smoke and you’re snarky and you’re the least athletic person you know and you’re not willing to leave your dog behind and why the fuck would he want you to stay with him when he looks like that and you look like you?

But you can’t say any of that. So you just shake your head and try to control the buzzing in your ears.

Dean squeezes you gently. “Cass, there’s got to be a way to get her back.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. I hardly know how she got here, but there is no way to get her back. It’s God’s will that Y/N is here.”

The buzzing becomes too loud, and black dots are dancing in front of your eyes. “Oh, good, I’m going to pass out again,” you say softly, ignoring Dean saying your name and gratefully giving into the good, welcoming darkness that swamps over you.

Dean catches her as she falls, scooping her up against his chest. He glares at Castiel. “What the fuck, Cass? Maybe go easy on her?”

Cass frowns. “It would not have been easy for her no matter what. Everything she knows is gone.”

Dean frowns again and places her gently on the bed, absentmindedly smoothing her hair away from her face as he does so. “Well, you’re still being a dick,” he snaps.

“Regardless, Dean, this is good news.” Castiel says.

Before Dean can even come up with a response that’s properly saturated in profanity, Sam frowns. “What the fuck are you talking about? Cass, Y/N’s life is destroyed. How the hell is that good news?”

Cass has the decency to look ashamed of himself. Which is good, because Dean feels a lot like decking someone, and the angel is looking like a pretty good candidate. “It means that God is here, and that he cares. Maybe he cares enough to interfere.”

Dean’s looking down at her again. “Maybe he’s interfered enough.”

Winch wakes you up again, but this time he’s whining, not growling.

Your head feels like someone’s driving a spike through it, so you do your best not to move. You’re enveloped in softness, which means you’re in your bed. It doesn’t matter who put you there, you’re just grateful, because it’s the only place that’s ever consistently felt like home.

You try to keep it together as you slowly replay your conversation with Castiel, but it’s impossible. Your whole life is gone. The couple of ‘friends’ you have, your job, your parents, all of it is gone. Locked in some other world, some other version of reality.

Sounds like a bad episode of Doctor Who.

As much as you want your sarcasm to bolster you, your face crumples. My whole life. Even if it feels like a dagger is slamming through your head, you turn and curl up on your side, covering our face with your hands to muffle the sounds you’re making. You’re so tired of crying, you keep it as quiet as possible.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice startles you, but you can’t stop. You just try harder to be quiet and hope that he’ll go away. He doesn’t need to see all of this.

“Y/N, I’m coming in,” he says softly, and you hear the click of the door opening.

You want to stop and tell him you’re fine, to give you a few minutes, but you can’t, which pretty much disproves all of the things you want to say. You’re crying for real now, so instead of speaking, you just curl tighter in on yourself and avoid looking at him.

Much to your surprise, Winch doesn’t growl when the bed dips with Dean’s weight as he sits next to you. The big dog just continues to whimper.

Dean’s rough voice brings you out of your own misery a little. “Y/N, fuck, I’m so sorry, princess. This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, I will find a way to get you home.”

The pent up emotions in his voice awaken something in you. The urge to comfort him is strong enough that it has you swallowing your tears back a little, wiping your face. “Dean,” you say softly, still not looking at him, “This isn’t your fault, so don’t blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong. And… And I don’t think there’s a way to get back to my life,” you finish softly, fresh tears spilling down your face.

To your surprise, the bed dips again, like he’s lying down next to you. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m so sorry,” he says again, gently.

The need to offer comfort has gotten overwhelming. Before you can really think about it, you turn over, ignoring the pain in your head, to bury your face into his chest. You sling an arm around his waist and tangle your legs with his, noting that he took his shoes off before he came in.

He doesn’t hesitate, either, to slip one of his arms under your head to use as a pillow and to put the other around you, pulling you close to press his lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry, princess,” he says softly against your skin.

You shake your head, looking up at him. “Stop apologizing, Dean, it’s not your fault.” You struggle to do it, but you keep your eyes on his. “You didn’t want this, you didn’t rip me out of my life.”

He’s looking down at you, and even though you’re devastated and overwrought and exhausted, it wakes some things downstairs up, sending heat coiling through your belly. “Y/N, it’s because of me that whoever did this brought you here. Because they think you’re…”

You blush, but you’re way too ensnared in that beautiful green to look away now. “Your soulmate,” you whisper, finishing his sentence, blushing harder. You shake your head, finally breaking eye contact. “You didn’t want this, Dean, so stop saying you’re sorry. You have nothing to apologize for.”

A gentle finger under your chin has your eyes widening as he brings your face up to look at you again. Your heart is thundering in your ears, and your tears have stopped completely as his intense gaze heats up a little. “I think I do,” he says softly, before leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.

Chapter Text

Your brain short-circuits when he kisses you. The moment stretches out into forever, with you frozen in shock and self-consciousness, and him kissing you gently.

Fuck it.

Your brain kicks into high gear, and suddenly you’re kissing him back hard. He responds to your fervor in kind, his big hand pulling you close, and the arm he has underneath your head hooked around, keeping you tight against him. You whimper and wrap your leg around his hip, pulling him in tight against your heat.

He moans and pulls away to start kissing his way down your jaw. “Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, and you shudder at the feel of his stubble against your soft skin.

At which point Winch, the cock-blocking motherfucker, stands behind you. Before you can stop him, he’s leaning over and running his big tongue up Dean’s face. Dean closes his eyes just in time, and you can’t help but laugh at the absolutely done look on his face.

“Moment gone,” you say softly, still giggling.

The heat in his eyes when he looks at you makes you a little dizzy. “Doesn’t have to be,” he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle your neck again.

You tilt your head back to give him more access, even as you protest. “He’s not going to stop, Dean.”

To prove your words, Winch starts trying to wiggle himself between the two of you. You laugh, and Dean gives out a reluctant chuckle as the dog finally settles down in the middle.

A knock at the door puts the final nail in the coffin of the moment. “Dean? Y/N?” Sam’s voice gives you the giggles, and Dean has to cover your mouth to stifle them. He winks at you as Sam continues. “We’ve gotta go, guys.”

“He’s coming with us.”

“That dog is not getting in my car.”

You’re arguing with Dean over the hood of the Impala. Sam is standing next to you, watching the two of you fight, clearly amused.

“Well, then I’m not either.”

Dean runs a frustrated hand through his hair, glaring at you. “Dammit, Y/N-“

You throw your hands up. “Dean, Bobby’s house is at least four hours away. What the hell am I supposed to do with him?”

He frowns. “Can’t somebody watch him?”

That hurts a little, but you raise your eyebrows and put your hands on your hips to hide it. “Ah, yes, the multitude of people who know me. The crowd of friends lining up around the block to help out. Oh, wait, I have none. No one knows who the hell I am here, Dean. Who would watch him?”

He winces at your tone. “Hey, I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine.” You smile tightly, wrapping your arms around your middle. “Look, I’ll just… Stay here. Call me if you find anything out.”

Sam frowns at you. “What are you going to do?”

You smile. “I’m a waitress, Sam. There’s always jobs for waitresses.”

You look back over at Dean, who looks mad. “Guys, it’s okay,” you say easily. “You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be all right. I was on my own for a long time before you guys showed up.”

Sam was still frowning down at you, the concern in his brown eyes warming your heart. “Y/N, it’s not really safe for you. I mean, who knows how many things already know you’re here? And if they know it’s because of Dean, you could be seriously hurt.”

You frown back at him, mind whirring. You really hadn’t thought of that. “Surely I’m not important enough to hurt,” you say uneasily. They’re just being paranoid.

“But I am,” Dean said firmly from the other side of the Impala. “I wouldn’t put it past any of the evil sons of bitches we hunt to come after you to get to me.”

You stare at him for a second, then turn and stare at Sam. “Okay, well what am I supposed to do? I mean, I was planning on coming with you today, but what about, like, my life?”

You stop for a second. “Wait, what life?” Everything you knew was back in the other world. Your parents, your job, your friends. Nothing else is here. “Oh, God,” you say softly, “You guys are the only people I know… Like, at all.”

Sam gives you a sympathetic look. “Just come meet Bobby. His house is safe, we can make a plan there.”

You look up at him for a long moment, wondering if he knows what he’s asking you to do. The pinched look on his face says he does.

He’s asking you to leave your life. Everything you own is in that damn house, and some instinct tells you that if you leave with the Winchesters, you’re not coming back. You’re going to be sucked up in their dangerous, terrible world, full of loss and pain and guilty, beautiful men. It isn’t romantic or exciting suddenly. It’s fucking terrifying.

On the other hand, it’s Dean and Sam.

“I’m gonna need to pack.”

You’re watching the landscape drive by. You guys are almost there, and your nerves have nothing to do with the men in front of you, or the man you’re about to meet. You made a decision in your driveway, you left your life back there, and it hasn’t sunk in. Surely you’re about to wake up, right?

But this seems real. The butter-soft leather under you is real, Winch’s head resting in your lap is real, the panic attacks you’ve had were certainly real, and the green-eyed hunter flicking worried glances in the rear view mirror is real.

Welp. Fuck me.

Winch whimpers softly, and you absent-mindedly rub behind his soft ears, still staring out the window. You had won the fight for Winch in the car by blatantly refusing to leave without him. When they’d argued, you’d said that he was the only person who knew who you were, and that had shut them right up.

Dicks.

When you see the Singer's Salvage sign, you smile a little. Yesterday, you would have been fangirling. Today, you’re grieving.

When the car stops, you take a deep breath and open the door. “Winch, with me,” you say as you step out of the car.

Bobby is sitting on the porch in his wheelchair, his sharp eyes examining you. You smile. “Hi, Mr. Singer. I’m Y/N.”

He nods. “I’ve heard.”

That would have made you panic five hours ago. Bobby has always been your favorite character, his approval would mean the world to you. But now, you’re too drained, so you just pull out your smokes and light up, walking with Winch as he sniffs around the yard.

You hear low muttering as soon as you’re out of earshot, and you’re okay with that. You just watch the sunset over the salvage yard, admiring the sunlight glint off of the broken windshields. You sit cross-legged on the ground, resting your hand on Winch’s back when he lays down next to you.

The crunch if his boots alerts you to his presence, and you know immediately who he is. “Hi, Sam.”

He sits next to you, on the other side of Winch. He puts a big hand on the dog’s head, and Winch groans in contentment from deep within his chest. “How are you holding up?”

You shrug. “I honestly have no idea at this point. This is all very… Surreal.”

He nods, watching you light up another cigarette. “That makes sense.” There’s a beat of silence, then, “So, in your… Reality… There are no monsters?”

You shake your head. “Nope, at least, not as far as I knew. If there were, they were pretty well-hidden. People who believed in them were considered crazy.”

He chuckles. “That hasn’t changed, at least.”

You smile. “Well, at least I’m weird here, too.”

He tilts his head. “Weird?”

You shrug. “I don’t have any friends, really. I spend most of my time working, or volunteering.” You smile down at Winch. “The pooch is registered as a therapy dog, so we go to kids hospitals and the kids get to hang out with him. And animal shelters and soup kitchens, that kind of thing.”

You sigh and take a drag. “I just… I’m pretty solitary, it’s just me and Winchester. So, I guess I’m glad I’m good at being on my own. I’ll be able to make it when I leave you guys.”

He frowns. “Leave?”

You shoot him a look. “Sam, I’m not cut out to be a hunter. I’m a fucking waitress, I watch too much TV, and I smoke.” You shake your head. “Even if I do belong in this reality, I don’t belong with you guys.”

He was silent for a while, then, “What about you being Dean’s soulmate?”

You give him another look. “Sam, just don’t. Look at Dean, and then look at me. Don’t,” you hold your hand up to keep him from speaking, “Don’t do that thing that men do. I know what I look like. I’m not, like, beat them with a stick when they walk down the street ugly. But I’m not the kind of woman who's on Dean’s arm, okay?”

He examines you closely, and you do the same back. Now that you’re looking, his nose definitely shows signs of being broken several times. There’s a scar above his left eye, which is more dashing than anything. Honestly, would anything make you two ugly?

“Y/N,” he says softly, “I think you should stay with us.”

You smile sadly. “Well, it’s not up to you, Sam.”

Dean watches Y/N sit at the table, her chin in her hand, her eyes glazed over. He’s worried about her. She’s been holding up all right, but he’d prefer her panic again than just sit there. But it’s not like he can talk to someone about bottling up their emotions.

“What’s the plan for the girl?” Bobby asks from behind him.

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, she’s in danger because of me.”

Bobby nods. “She could stay here until we figure something else out.”

Dean wrestles with himself. The urge to keep her with him is fighting with the urge to know she’s safe.

“I don’t know, Bobby-”

“You could ask me,” she says easily, not moving from her position. “As it turns out, I’m a person.”

Dean flinched at the deadpan tone in her voice. “Sorry, princess.”

She shrugs. “It’s what you do. You guys are used to being in charge. But I’m not going to stay here and be a burden.”

Dean frowns. “You’re not a burden.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, and the show of spirit warms him somewhere that he doesn't want to examine. “Dean, don’t be dense. I’m some random woman who you guys got saddled with.” She shakes her head. “No. I’m going to figure this out, and then beat feet. Y’all can visit.”

Something in Dean stills, but he’s used to hiding that shit. So he just shrugs.

You wake up the next morning in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room,  with a very familiar paw pushing into your face.

“Winch, move,” you say grumpily, sitting up and rubbing your face. My first full day in a fucked up TV world.

Despite your internal snark, you feel a lot better. Maybe it's a full night’s sleep, maybe it’s waking up with Winch next to you, just like normal. But whatever it is, you’re in a remarkably good mood for a woman whose life was upended yesterday.

You dress quickly and pad downstairs in bare feet. You’re the first one up, which you’re used to, so you think nothing of letting Winch out the back door and turning back to the kitchen.

You’d had a thought when you were falling asleep last night, and now you want to think about it. The best way to do that is to do something with your hands, so you quickly start making breakfast.

Bobby doesn’t have a lot here, but there’s enough for eggs, bacon, and coffee. So you start the coffee, then start cooking cheerfully after letting Winch back in the house.

His soft, happy bark alerts you to the fact that you’re not alone. “Morning, Dean,” you say happily, not turning around.

“Morning, princess. What are you doing?”

You turn and smile, a little surprised when he’s right behind you. “Breakfast.”

He smiles. “Smells good.”

You chuckle and stir the eggs again. “I’m a damn good cook, Winchester.” The dog whines and you pat his head. “You guys are gonna eat well while I’m here.”

“May have to keep you, princess,” he says casually as he turns to get coffee.

You’re grateful that he can’t see your blush.

Breakfast was not enough of a distraction. The men are in the kitchen, discussing the apocalypse, and you don’t know what to say,so you wander into the living room.

It’s bigger than it is on the show, but just as messy. Your interest is peaked when you see a small piano in the corner of the room. You clean the books and papers off of it carefully, then sit at the bench and run your hand along the keys. You wince, it’s a little out of tune, but it will make the perfect distraction.

You settle your hands on the keys and close your eyes, letting your fingers dance across the keys. Your brain is working overtime, so when you start to sing, it’s without thinking.

“Guess it's true, I'm not good at a one-night stand.

But I still need love 'cause I'm just a man.

These nights never seem to go to plan.

I don't want you to leave, will you hold my hand?”

It was a song you’d learned a while ago as an easy piece to learn on the piano. You know more, but you don’t have to concentrate to play this one, so it’s pretty perfect for what you need.

You keep playing, singing thoughtlessly. You’re never going to win a Grammy, but your voice isn’t the worst.

“Oh, won't you stay with me?

'Cause you're all I need.

This ain't love it's clear to see,

But darling, stay with me?”

You’ve come to a decision, so you can concentrate on the song again. You sing softly, but with strength. You love this fucking song.

“Oh, won't you stay with me?

'Cause you're all I need.

This ain't love it's clear to see,

But darling, stay with me?”

You play the ending notes several times over, enjoying the way your hands move and stretch. And, out of tune or not, the clear notes dancing through the morning air are lovely.

You let the song end finally, feeling peace settle over your shoulders. You’ve made a choice. You’ve got a goal. I can do this.

You stand and walk back into the kitchen. You stop and blink when you come in and all three men are staring at you.

“What?”

“You play piano?” Sam asks.

“You sing?” Dean asks.

“What the hell kind of froufy shit you playin’ on my piano, woman?” Bobby asks.

You think, then toss your head back and laugh. You sit down in the free seat and ignore their questions. “I’ve come to a decision, gentlemen.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “And what’s that, princess?”

You smile. “We’re gonna need more coffee, and I’m gonna need some nicotine patches , because I’m going to save your asses.”

Chapter Text

Okay. That didn’t go like I planned.

Your grand statement, which you rehearsed, God dammit, is met with silence. Bastards.

“You’re going to what?” Sam asks, his forehead creasing.

“I’m going to… I mean… I’m going to save your asses.” You smile encouragingly, hoping that they will catch up soon.

“Save us from… What, exactly?” Dean asks.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you groan, leaning your head down and lying it on the table. Winch sits next to you and barks. “I know, bud, they don’t get it,” you say soothingly, rubbing behind his ears.

“Why don’t you explain it, then?” Bobby snaps.

You wince, glad you’re still facedown on the table, so they can’t see it. All you want is for Bobby to like you.

You look up, and now you’re nervous. “Look, I just mean that I’ve watched the show. If it’s accurate at all, I can pretty much spot on tell you what’s gonna happen for the next seven years.”

Sam looks at you, eyebrow furrowed. “What?”

You shrug. “I know stuff about you guys. I think I can stop what happens.”

Dean leans forward. “And what do you think you know about us?”

His attitude makes you want to hit him, but you look around instead. “Some of it is pretty personal. I don’t want to embarrass anyone.”

Dean smirks and leans his chair back on it’s back legs. “You couldn’t embarrass me if you wanted to, princess.”

Oh, that’s it. “When you were nineteen, you slept with a woman named Rhonda Hurley. She made you put-”

His chair comes down with a thud, his eyes wide. “Fuck, fuck, okay, okay. I believe you. Shut up.”

You laugh out loud. “Ha. See?” You look between Bobby and Sam. “Do we, uh, do we have to do this in front of everyone?”

Dean’s face is still tense with shock. “Sammy, go outside with Y/N.”

Sam glares at Dean, but stands. You blink and stand, too, Winch at your side. “Okay,” you say, irritated. You shoot Dean a glare as you follow Sam out the door.

He turns to you, smiling a little. “All right, hit me.”

You think for a second. “You had an imaginary friend named Sully as a kid. He wore a yellow t-shirt and rainbow suspenders. You played a game called ‘Ever Think.’”

Sam’s eyes are wide, staring at you. “How-”

You smile. “There was an episode about Sully. Eleventh season. It was, uh, intense.” You sigh, and wish you had a cigarette.

He blinks at you, processing. “Okay, I believe you. Maybe you can help.”

You smile again. “That’s the plan.”

He goes inside to get Bobby, and you turn to watch Winch sniff around the yard and bark at birds. You’re worried this isn’t going to work, that you won’t be able to change anything.

The screen door opens and Bobby joins you watching the Winch. “He’s a good dog.”

You nod. “Best dog who ever walked the planet.” You turn your head to look at him. “You love Tori Spelling.”

He looks up at you for a minute, shocked, then nods. “All right.”

Before you can turn back to the yard, water is splashed in your face. You blink as water drips off of your bags and eyelashes. “Okay,” you say dryly, “What the fuck?”

When you look back down at him, there’s a knife in his hand. You back away quickly. “Hey, hey, Bobby, what the hell?”

He shook his head. “We’ve got a soft spot for you somehow, especially Dean. We didn’t put you through any tests. Just come here, it won’t hurt much.”

You stop moving and roll your eyes as the Winchesters come running out onto the front porch. “Do you think you could just hand me the knife? Instead of slicing into me for no damn reason?”

He looks at you for a long moment. You’re backed up against the railing, hands up in a defensive stance. Honestly, even in the wheelchair, he’s still Bobby fucking Singer. He can stab you before you could do a damn thing about it.

Before anything else can happen, a deep, rather terrifying snarl explodes from your side. Winch leaps up over the railing, like it’s not even there, and takes up post in front of you. You’ve never seen him this upset, he’s growling, teeth bared, and he’s slowly advancing on Bobby.

“Winchester, chill. He’s not going to hurt me, bud, come on,” you say soothingly, stepping forward to put a hand on the big dog’s back. He stops moving, but doesn’t stop growling.

You look at Bobby and hold out your hand. “Just hand me the fucking knife, there’s no reason to cut me, Bobby.”

He considers you again, then flips the knife and hands it to you, handle first. You take it, then hold the blade against your arm. There’s no reaction.

You look back at Bobby. “We good? Need me to do anything else?”

Sam’s eyebrows go up, impressed.

Dean, however, has been quietly fuming. He brushes past Bobby, irritated. When he approaches you, Winch starts to growl again. “Shut it, Winchester,” he snaps. To your everlasting surprise, the dog stops making noise and sits down in front of you. Traitor.

Dean stands next to you, looking down into your face. “You okay?”

You nod, a little breathless from his proximity. “Yeah. He didn’t hurt me, Dean.” You start wiping the water from your face.

Dean nods and turns back to glare at Bobby. “God dammit, Bobby, she’s not a demon. Or a shifter, or anything. She’s human.”

You nod. “Yeah, I think only humans get anxiety attacks.”

Bobby ignores you to look at Dean evenly. “We shoulda done the tests last night, Dean. You know that.”

Sam nods behind him. “He’s right, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes are shooting sparks of anger, and his (truly, truly lovely) jaw is ticking. You hesitantly place your hand on his arm. “Dean?”

He looks down at you. You try a gentle smile. “Dean, it’s really all right. You guys probably should have checked.” You frown a little. “Although if you had come at me with a knife, I would have freaked out.”

He’s still studying your face. “You sure you’re all right, princess?”

You smile and nod, savoring the warmth spreading in your chest. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

Bobby, who had warmed to Y/N a little, had delicately suggested that Dean take her to town to get anything she needed. They’d been in a hurry when they had left, and she had blushed and agreed.

Now, Dean watches her walk slowly through the drugstore, part of him admiring her legs underneath the sundress she’s wearing, another part of him worrying.

He knows he should have done the tests to make sure she was human. It’s almost second nature to do the tests now. But for some reason, some deep part of him had known the tests would be unnecessary. Some part of him had recognized her as human the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

Which is ridiculous. And very true. And a worrisome point of evidence in favor that Y/N is actually his soulmate. It’s also probably the reason he reacted the way he did when Bobby tested her. Every protective instinct he had had set blaring alarms off in his head, telling him to get between her and the danger to her.

He watches her walk down the aisles, looking through everything, vaguely surprise that he’s not impatient with her. Normally, this shit drives him crazy. But with Y/N, it just seems natural to just follow her lead.

She looks back at him, and he’s struck by her again, like he was in her bedroom the day before. She’s… Really pretty.

“Earth to Dean,” she says with a smile. “You with me, Winchester?”

He internally shakes his thoughts away. “Yeah, yeah, what’s up, princess?”

“What do you want me to make for dinner?”

The thought of food has him perking up. “You’re cooking?”

She chuckles, and he feels it somewhere deep in his solar plexus. “Yeah, it’s the least I can do. I just dropped in on your lives, you guys didn’t ask for this. I’m only good at like four things, but cooking is one of them, so you guys should benefit from that.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow at her, intrigued. “What else are you good at, princess?” He pitches his voice low, hoping to fluster her.

Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, then she smirks and shoots him a wink. “Well, maybe if you behave, I’ll show you,” she says huskily, completely taking him by surprise. She leans forward and meets his gaze. “And you should know, I’m very, very good at them.” She turns and walks away, leaving his sight before he can think of an appropriate response.

I. Did. Not. Just. Flirt. With. Dean. Fucking. Winchester.

Your face is burning and your eyes are glued to the floor as you scurry down the aisle. You have no idea where that courage, had come from just now, but you do not have the oomph to back it up. Your mouth has definitely just written a check your ass can’t cash.

You hurriedly get the rest of ingredients for lasagna and head to the checkout line. Once you’ve paid, you look around for Dean, whom you’ve been avoiding, but it’s time to face the music.

He’s waiting for you at the door, and before he notices you, you take a moment to appreciate him, and fantasize. He’s gorgeous, and for a second you pretend he’s waiting to take you home, so you can have a romantic dinner, and then you two will go to bed and fuck for hours until neither of you can move.

You sigh and shake the thought away. One kiss does not love make, you remind yourself. And even if you are already halfway in love with the man, he is nowhere near your league, much less in it. Oh, well.

He sees you and smirks, and your mouth moves faster than your brain.

“I am so not that smooth, I don’t know where that came from earlier, so try not to hold me to that standard.”

He blinks at you for a second, then knocks his head back and laughed. Your heart stutters, and you fall a little more in love with Dean Winchester. Dammit.

After dinner, the guys agree to clean up so you can relax. You’re on the front porch swing, swinging back and forth with one foot on the ground, the other curled up beneath you. Winch is next to you on the swing, dozing after what you suspect was a rather rich bounty of food the three hunters fed him under the table while you weren’t looking.

You’re idly scratching at the nicotine patch on your arm when Sam comes outside. He smiles at you, and you find the smile you give him back is very natural. “Hi, Sam.”

He approaches you and leans against the railing. “Hey, how are you doing?”

You shrug. “All right. Worried that I can’t actually stop any of the bad stuff that’s going to happen. Worried about what will happen if I can.”

He smiles comfortingly. “Well, either way, we’ll deal with it, okay? No pressure on you.”

You chuckle. “Right, no pressure, but you’ve been given a chance to save the Winchesters, a fuckton of people, and on occasion, the world. You’ve been taken away from your reality and plopped in this one with no experience, training, or desire to become a hunter. But no pressure.”

He smirks. “Sarcasm, classy.”

“It’s a defense mechanism,” you say easily. “My bad.”

He shrugs. “It’s better than any of our defense mechanisms.”

You laugh. “Well, less self-destructive, anyway.” You turn to Winch, patting him on the side. “Off, bud, let Sam sit.”

Winch jumps down and Sam sits next to you, his arm stretched out behind you. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s gonna be all right, you know that, right?”

You smile up at him. “Whatever you say, Sam.”

He wraps his arm around your shoulders and hugs you. “Damn right.”

“What’s going on out here?”

Dean’s low, angry voice makes you jump, and Sam turns to frown at his brother. “We’re just chilling, Dean,” you say, starting to frown along with Sam. “Calm thyself.”

He looks at you both, anger rolling off of him in waves. “Didn’t know ‘chilling’ was so cozy.” He makes a point of looking at Sam’s arm around your shoulders.

Sam rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Dean-”

“Yeah, fuck you, Dean,” you snap, so mad you can barely see.

He stares at you for a minute, and you stare back. Soulmate or no, he doesn’t get to tell you what to do.

“Step off, Sam, let me talk to Y/N.”

You stand. “No, stay here, Sam, watch my dog.” You ignore Sam’s awkward stuttering to go forward and grab Dean’s arm. “Get over here, idiot,” you snap, dragging him off of the porch and towards the side of the house.

When you get out of Sam’s sight, you let Dean go and shove him against the wall. “What the fuck was that?”

He glares at you. “What the fuck was that?”

You throw your hands in the air. “It was comfort, you moron! I’m kind of panicking here, Dean, and Sam was being nice!”

He steps toward you, away from the wall. “Interesting that you go to Sam for comfort, Y/N!”

You stop for a second, trying to think through the haze of fury in your mind. “Are… are you jealous?”

He’s still glaring at you. “Of course not!”

Your eyebrows rise. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dean. I’m freaking out, Sam was trying to make me feel better.” You glare at him, your hands on your hips. “You do not own me, Dean Winchester. I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I want to go in there and sleep with Sam, I can do that, because I am not yours!”

He moves faster than you can think. He grabs your waist and twirls you to push you against the house roughly. His lips crash onto yours, and before you know it, your arms are wrapped around his neck, and you’re kissing him back desperately.

He nips at your bottom lip, and you open for him. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, making you a creature that only responds to touch.

He moves his hand from your hip up to the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair. He uses his grip to tilt your head back, moving his attention to the column of your neck.

“Listen here, princess,” he growls, sending shivers down your spine, “I know you don’t belong to me, but you’re mine. I’m the only one who’s kissing you, or touching you, or fucking you.”

His words are arousing you more than you thought possible, but you can’t just let his caveman attitude go. So you put your hands on his chest and fist them in his shirt before moving your hips hard, turning the two of you so his back is against the house instead.

You lean your weight into him and kiss him hard, savoring the low rumble in his chest. You pull away to glare up at him. “Listen, you. I will touch, or kiss, or fuck any damn person I want,” you say breathily, watching his lust blown eyes get darker somehow. You press your hips against his, shuddering when you feel the hard length of him against you. “So, if you want to be that person, you’d better make sure I’m properly motivated to do so. Got me, Winchester?”

He smirks and pulls you back against his chest. “Yes, ma'am,” he murmurs, leaning down to press kisses down your jawline.

You tilt your head back and smile. “Mmm, good Winchester.”

He hums against your throat in approval. Somebody’s got a praise kink, you think, stowing that information for later. You run your hand along the hem of his shirt, reveling in the warm skin there.

He bites your neck and sucks hard. Dean Winchester just gave me a hickey.

You tilt your head back and moan, waiting for your anxiety to take over. When it doesn’t, you’re a little shocked, but you tilt yourself completely into him, reveling in the freedom of the moment.

He spins you again to press you against the house, pinning you with his weight. One hand cups your face as he captures your mouth with his, the other trailing down to rest on your ribcage, just under your breast.

You whimper and release his shirt to move your hands down to his waist, pushing up under his shirts to run your hands along the warm skin along his waist. He shudders, making you feel powerful, and a little sexy.

He groans and pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, “we should find a bed.”

You’re breathing hard, but you smile. “Just any bed?”

He moves to whisper in your ear, “Princess, you’re lucky I’m not fucking you against this wall.”

You whimper a little, pressing your hips to his and shuddering at his words. “‘Lucky’ is a matter of opinion,” you mutter softly.

He smiles against your ear. “Let’s go inside before I show you how lucky we can get, Princess.”

Chapter Text

You’re sitting in Bobby’s living room, stressing the fuck out, and wishing you had a cigarette. Stupid nicotine patch. You’re sitting with the guys, who are trying to make sure that the stuff you know about their past is correct, because if it’s not, then that might change the future you guys are trying to prevent. At this point, you’re kind of hoping you find something off, because that would take the pressure off of you.

So far, no luck.

“The night Dean came and got me from Stanford,” Sam asks tiredly.

You sigh. “You went to a Halloween party. Jess was a nurse, you didn’t go as anything. You told a friend, I can’t remember his name, that you got a one seventy-four on your LSATs. Which is amazing, by the way.” You snap your fingers. “I lied. Jess told him. You were trying to be humble. Then you said, ‘we’re not exactly the Brady Bunch,’ he said, ‘we’re not exactly the Huxtables,’ and then he went to get drinks.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “That’s kind of scary.”

Dean, who’s sitting next to you, nods. “It really is.” The arm he has around your shoulder squeezes gently to take the sting out of his words, while simultaneously laying his claim. Again.

He’s been possessive and touchy-feely all night, and while it makes you and Sam roll your eyes, you let it happen without a word. Because, for one, at least he’s not shoving you up against a house and sticking his tongue down your throat to ‘mark’ you as his territory. This is more subtle. Not a lot more subtle, but at least you can get some work done around it.

And, for two, for fuck’s sake, Dean Winchester is laying his claim on you. Who the fuck says no to that?

Regardless, you scrub your hands up and down your face, trying to ward off the exhaustion. It’s well past midnight now, and it has been a long ass day, but this is so important that you don’t complain. “What else?”

Bobby looks up. “The Buru-Buru case.”

You lean your head back and think, savoring the warmth of Dean next to you. “Okay, Buru-Buru. Big guy in a warehouse, has a crush on one of the worker’s wives. Wife dies, big guy gets blamed, worker and his friends chain him to their car and drag him down the gravel road. When you guys get there, Dean gets infected, because he’s dabbled in being a douche. You guys save him by chaining the ghost up to the Impala and dragging it down the same gravel road.” You frown, but keep your eyes closed and your head leaned back. “That one sucked. There wasn’t a winner there.”

Dean shifts to pull your head gently onto his shoulder, so you’re resting completely on him now. You go willingly, because he’s warm and firm, and you’re tired and weak. “What else?” you ask softly.

Sam sighs. “I mean, we’ve covered damn near everything. Mom, Dad, Azazel, Dean’s deal, Castiel. I think we can reliably say that whatever you know is pretty accurate.”

“Whoo for me,” you say, opening your eyes to stave off sleep. “So what do we do now? Can we go to bed soon?”

Without thinking, you put your hand on Dean’s face, which is headed toward your neck again. “Down, boy,” you mutter softly. “I’m going to bed alone tonight.” You ignore the disappointed noise that comes from him.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Go to bed, kids. We’ll start planning in the morning.”

Dean’s lips are on your neck, his fingers are pumping in and out of you, and you’re writhing beneath him.

“Dean, please, Dean!” You’re crying out, his name a prayer on your lips. Lovely electricity is shooting through you, tightening the little ball of heat growing in your core. “Fuck!”

He smiles against your neck. “Come for me, princess, I’ve got you.”

Your world collapses in on itself, and you come on his hand, screaming.

“Dean!”

You wake up in bed, sweating and shaking, still coming down from your orgasm. It takes you a second to realize you’re in bed alone, and that you just had a fucking wet dream.

“What the fuck?” you mutter softly, wiping a hand down your face. You take a moment to be grateful that Winch is laying on the floor instead of his customary spot on the bed, because that would be awkward as hell.

You sneak down the hall and into the bathroom, clean yourself up, then hurry back to the bedroom. As you slide back into bed, you wonder if Dean’s having dreams about you.

Her perfect mouth is on his cock, and his hands are fisted in her hair, trying to restrain himself from pumping into her. She’s moaning, sending vibrations down through his length, and it’s driving him fucking crazy.

He finally uses her hair to tug her off of him, the maneuvers them and flips so he’s on top of her. He thrusts into her hard, savoring the soft cry she gives him when he bottoms out. “Good girl,” he murmurs into her ear, setting a fast, hard pace into her. “Wanna come for me, princess?”

Her gasping whine tells him everything he needs to know.

“Good, then do it,” he says roughly, and her scream, the way she tilts her head back, and her convulsing inner walls bring his own orgasm crashing through him.

Dean wakes up sweating and shaking, realizing that he’s just had the first wet dream since high school. What am I, a fucking teenager?

The girl was doing something to his thought processes.

Chapter Text

Winch scratching at the door wakes you up.

“Dude, stop it,” you mutter, turning to glare at him. His ears are perked up, and he’s dancing from foot to foot. “You do not need to go out that bad,” you snap. Despite your words, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand. You stretch and yawn, then run a hand through your hair and do inventory on your clothes. Tank top, sweats, you’re good.

You give Winch the stinkeye when you open the door, which he ignores to bound down the stairs with a happy bark. You follow at a more reasonable pace.

The reason for his enthusiasm has your eyes narrowing. Dean is standing in the kitchen, in all of his ridiculous, sleep rumpled glory, and Winch is sitting in front of him, tail still wagging.

“Hey, bud,” the hunter says softly, reaching down to rub Winch’s ears. “Where’s your mom?”

Something indefinable warms your chest, and you’re smiling when you walk into the kitchen. “She’s right here, and she’s irritated at her traitor dog.”

Winch barks happily and dances in front of the front door. You roll your eyes and let him out. Before you can turn around, Dean’s chest is pressed against your back, and his lips are softly brushing your neck. You sigh and tilt your head to the side, giving him more skin, without thinking about it.

He hums in approval against you. “Why is he a traitor?”

You smile. “Because until he met you, he only ever liked me. He ships it, the traitorous bastard.”

His smile against your neck has your heartbeat racing. “What the fuck does ‘ships it’ mean?”

You blush, but lean back into his chest. You can’t believe how comfortable you feel with him. “It’s a nerd term. If you ship two people, it means you want them to get together.”

He pauses, then chuckles, and you feel the vibrations through your whole body. His hands come to rest on your hips, pulling you snug against him, and he nuzzles your neck again. “Well, then count me in.”

You roll your eyes and smile. “That’s because you want in my pants.”

He slips the fingers of one if his hands to rest just on the inside of your sweats, and you flush. “I’m not the only one who wants me in your pants,” he mutters into your ear, and you can’t help the soft moan as you tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder.

Winch barking at the door snaps you out of the trance that Dean’s hands and mouth have put you in. You laugh, embarrassed, and let the big dog back in.

You turn to look at Dean, and the heat in his eyes has your mind going blank for a second. You shake your head and smile at him. “Breakfast?”

“Y/N, hands up. If you don’t keep your hands up, your face is vulnerable.”

You groan and put your hands up, like Sam showed you. “I feel ridiculous, Sam.”

He smirks. “You’re going to feel more ridiculous when you get hit in the face.”

You’re sparring in the front yard of Bobby’s house. It’s Dean’s idea, he wants you to learn to protect yourself. It has become clear, however, that if he’s the one teaching you, he will pin you every chance he gets to make out with you shamelessly. Which you had no complaints about, but Sam put the kibosh on the idea after the third time.

So now you’re here with Sam, whose tonsils you have no urge to lick, and you actually have to learn stuff.

Ugh.

“Focus. You can do this.”

You sigh and keep your fighting stance. “When will I need this? You guys know how to do this, and your asses get handed to you all the time.”

He chuckles and starts circling you. You move with him, your body’s natural instinct surprising you. “Doesn’t matter,” Sam says easily. “It’s about your state of mind.”

You nod, already knowing what he’s talking about. Your mind is clear, your pulse slow and steady, and your body is thrumming with energy. You don’t know what is happening, you’ve tripped over flat surfaces, but you’re not gonna start questioning shit now.

You’re watching his tall frame, so you see him tense, and before he can hit, you move fast away from his reach. As soon as he’s too far to correct himself, you’re grabbing his wrist and pulling him along with his momentum, spinning as he falls to place your knee in the center of his back and pull his arm quickly up his back. You keep it up far enough to keep him down, but not far enough to hurt.

There’s a moment of shocked silence. “What the fuck?” you ask softly, standing and stepping away from Sam, blushing furiously. “What the hell was that?”

Sam stands with a grunt and frowns at you. “I thought you’ve never done this before?”

You nod. “I haven’t, Sam. I have no idea where that came from.”

“God has probably prepared you for a hunter’s life.” Castiel states behind you.

You squeak and jump away, glaring at the angel as you step back. Winch is immediately by your side, having stood from the place where he was sunning himself. He’s not growling, yet, but he’s on alert.

“Cass, dude,” you snap, “You’ve got to give a girl some warning.”

Sam comes to stand next to you, arms crossed. “What do you mean, prepared you?”

The angel looks between the two of you. “Y/N did not live a life that prepared her for the physical aspects of hunting. I would not be surprised if God gave her some expertise in the matter when he brought her here.”

You blink. “What?”

Sam, however, seems to be perfectly fine with the development. He nods. “That makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” You turn to see Dean approaching you, his lovely face creased in a frown while he takes in Cass standing in front of you. Dean comes to stand behind you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him.

“Y/N came pre-downloaded with fighting know-how,” Sam said casually, observing your easy acceptance of Dean’s touch.

“Fancy,” Dean says smartly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “What of it?”

Cass is watching all of this with those sharp blue eyes. “I came to ask you a question,” he says to you, ignoring the boys.

You blink. “Um, okay. What?”

“Did God speak to you when he brought you here?”

You shake your head. “No. I just… I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was here.”

“You’re sure? You’re certain he never spoke to you?”

You nod again. “I’m sure, Cass, I’m sorry.”

“She said she doesn’t know, Cass, lay off,” Dean snaps.

Without thinking, you smack Dean on the arm that’s holding you to him. “Don’t be a jerk, Dean. He was just asking.”

He hmphs. “Why are you always taking his side?”

“Because someone has to be willing to tell you when you’re being a jerk.”

He pulls you tighter against him. “Hush, woman.”

You chuckle. “Fuck you.”

He growls and wraps his other arm around your waist, nuzzling your neck again. You laugh and push him away. Surely necking in front of an angel will send you to hell, right?

“Did you need anything else, Cass?” you ask, looking at the angel and trying to fend Dean off.

“No,” he says evenly, then disappears.

You frown. “That’s annoying as fuck.”

Dean nods against your skin. “Yep.”

You’re in the kitchen a few hours later, after soundly beating Sam and Dean while sparring enough times that they both admit defeat. You’re humming as you cook, as happy as you can be under the circumstances. Winch is lying in a patch of sun on the other side of the room, watching you sleepily.

Dean wanders in and makes a beeline for you. Before you can protest, his arms are wrapped around you, and he’s mouthing at your neck again.

You smile and tilt your head back, but you refuse to stop washing vegetables. “Dean, I’m busy,” you murmur, tilting your head to give him more of your neck to caress.

Which he immediately takes advantage of. His hands move slowly upwards to rest on your ribcage, just below your breasts. “You could be busy with something else, princess,” he whispers in your ear, sending heat down to your core.

You moan softly, then lean your head back up and bat his hands away. “Dean,” you laugh, “Cooking. Don’t you have hunting to do?”

He ignores your batting hands to move his back down to your hips, pressing you into him again. “Nope, you’ve got all my attention, sweetheart.”

You smile and finish washing the lettuce, placing it on the counter and turning to face him. You wrap your arms around his neck and smile. “Lucky me.”

He wraps a hand around the back of your head and presses his lips to yours. You respond enthusiastically, moaning softly, pressing your hips to him. He crowds you against the counter, the hand not holding your head in place moving up your side to cup your breast tenderly. You whimper when he slowly thumbs your nipple, sending electricity down through you. “Dean,” you moan into his mouth. His answering growl makes you dizzy.

The door opening doesn’t sink through your lust-filled haze, but Sam’s disgusted noise does. “For fuck’s sake. In the kitchen? You’re mauling her in the kitchen.”

Dean raises his head, but doesn’t take his eyes from yours. “What makes you think I’m the one mauling her?”

“Experience,” Sam says dryly. “Listen, I think we have a case.”

You turn to Sam, but make no attempt to leave Dean’s embrace. You’d have to be crazy to want to leave the safe circle of Dean’s strong arms wrapped around you. “What’s up, Sam?”

He rolls his eyes. “A ‘bear’ mauled a man in Wellington, Ohio.”

Dean frowns. “So?”

Sam smirks. “The bear found him, busted through the front door, went up the stairs, and mauled him in bed. Does that sound like a bear to you?”

Recognition floods through you, and you grin. “No, no it does not, Sam.”

Chapter Text

“The trickster is what?”

You’re rolling your eyes as you say for the fiftieth time, “He’s the archangel, Gabriel.”

You’re sitting in the backseat of the Impala, on your way to what you know is the case where the boys find out that the trickster is actually Gabriel. You’re hoping to avoid all that… Nonsense.

Sam is turned around and staring at you. “But… What?”

You sigh. “He got tired of all the fighting between God and the angels, so he disguised himself as a trickster and dipped. But he’s still an archangel.” You look at Sam. “The whole ‘Mystery Spot’ thing took a lot of power. He’s one of the most powerful beings in the universe.”

Sam frowns as Dean asks, “Why the hell does he care about us then?”

You meet his eyes in the rearview. “I don’t think he does. I think he just wants you to give up and be the vessels for Michael and Lucifer, and let the apocalypse happen.” The thought sends a twinge of pain and trepidation through your heart. If you can help it, that’s not what’s going to happen. God wanted you in this universe, fighting with them? Then He’s going to have to deal with you saving them.

Dean’s eyes harden, and you can tell he’s thinking along the same lines. “Well, he’s not going to get that.”

You smile. “Damn right.”

Sam nods. “Okay, so how does he get us?”

You smile. “He sticks you in television shows. Like, uh, Dr. Sexy, MD.” You laugh out loud when the Impala jerks a little. Dean’s wide eyes meet yours in the rearview. “And, uh, CSI: Miami, a random sitcom, and a commercial for a herpes medicine.”

Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Herpes?”

You nod, still chuckling. “Herpexia.”

Sam chuckles, too. “So, what’s the point of all this? What’s the point of making us do all this?”

You sober a little. “It’s to get you to ‘play your roles.’ He makes you play along with these TV shows because he wants you to ‘play your roles’ out here in the real world, too.”

Dean frowns. “What a dick.”

Before you can respond, everything changes.

You open your eyes to find that you’re standing in the middle of nowhere. You look down to see yourself wearing a short dress, which you’re kind of okay with, but it is a little shorter than you’re strictly comfortable with. You’re also wearing sneakers and a sweater.

“I think the trickster got us,” you say thoughtfully, presumably to yourself.

You turn to see Dean standing a way behind you. He looks just as bewildered as you feel. And, you notice with irritation, his clothes haven’t changed a damn bit. Sexist angel bullshit.

Thunder rolls above you, and you look up to see the sky darkening with a storm. You look down at Dean, who’s already looking at you. “What do we do now?” he calls to you.

You think for a second, trying to figure out what movie you’re in. And then it hits you, and you groan. Rom com. Irritating.

On the other hand…

You grin and start running toward Dean as raindrops start to fall. “Get over here, Winchester!” you shout. “Play your role!”

He looks confused, then a smile crosses his face. He starts running toward you, and by the time you meet in the middle, rain is pouring down, hard.

You jump a little, and he catches you easily, sending warmth down to your core. You wrap your legs around his waist, smile and press your lips to his, relishing the heat radiating off of him and the contrast it creates with the cold rain beating down on your back.

“I can get behind this play your role thing if this is what we’ll be doing,” he murmurs against your lips.

You smile against him. “You know, I think I agree.”

He moans deep in his chest and runs his tongue along your bottom lip. You open for him, and whimper a little as he invades your mouth, grateful he’s holding you up because you’re quite certain your knees would be weak if they weren’t wrapped around him.

His hands are kneading your ass, and you give in to the urge to grind down on him, moaning into his lovely mouth. “Oh, God, Dean.”

As soon as it’s getting good, the scene around you blinks away, and it changes.

You open your eyes and you’re in a bed, in a truly hideous bedroom. You move to sit up, and realize that you’re just in a bra and panties. Scowling, you grab the sheet and wrap it around yourself, irritated. “God dammit,” you mutter, looking around the room.

The door is open a little, and you can hear the laugh track going. Wincing, you remind yourself that playing the role will get Gabriel to reveal himself, and you try to get into character while listening for your cue.

“Hey, uh, have you done your research yet?” You hear Sam ask. The laugh track plays.

“Oh, yeah. All kinds of research. All night.”

“Yeah? Hm. With Y/N?”

“What?” Dean sounds shocked. “No, no, of course not! We were researching… Separately.”

Here goes nothing. You open the door all the way and lean against the frame in what you hope is a seductive manner. “Dean, baby,” you purr, pitching your voice low.

Wolf whistles sounded from the crowd, but the look on Dean’s face is totally worth it.  You smile and crook a finger at him with the hand not holding the sheet up. “We have more… Research to do.”

His eyes widen, and he actually takes a step toward you before turning to look at Sam. Sam crosses his arms and glares at both of you. Dean turns back to look at you again, then looks out at the crowd. “Son of a bitch!”

The laugh track sounds again, and Sam walks over to you. “Y/N, could you put some clothes on, please? We have work to do.”

You smile up at him sunnily. “But we were doing work! In depth, hard work.” Cue the laugh track. You step into the bedroom and look around, finding clothes in a dresser. You pull on a t-shirt and jeans quickly, then step back out into the living room.

“Maybe forever?” Sam is asking. The laugh track sounded. “We might die in here.” The laugh track sounded again.

Dean glares out at the crowd. “How was that funny? Vultures.”

You walk and stand between them, arms crossed. You’re nervous, because maybe Gabriel will smite you for screwing with his plans (the three of you have gotten through these scenarios much quicker than he must have expected). Or, maybe he’ll have answers for why you’re here, why the mistake was corrected.

Or maybe, and this will probably be the worst of all, he’ll have no idea who you are or what you’re attempting to do, because you end up having so little impact.

The door opens, shaking you out of your thoughts. Castiel walks in, looking a little worse for wear.

Dean frowns. “You okay?”

“I don’t have much time.”

“Cass,” you say evenly, “We need holy oil. It’s Gabriel.”

His blue eyes widen. “What?”

You nod. “Trust me. Holy oil. Go!”

He disappears, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Which is short lived, because Gabriel quickly appears where Cass was just standing. “Hello!”

The crowd goes wild, and Dean subtly steps in front of you. “All right,” Dean snaps. “We get it. You can stop now.”

Gabriel smirks. “Yeah? Get what, hotshot?”

“You want us to play our roles, in here and out there. You want us to say yes to the archangels.”

Gabriel nods. “You guys are getting good! Let’s light this candle!”

Sam looks incredulous, but he’s also taking up position in front of you. “If we do that, the world will end.”

Gabriel turns his head. “Yeah? And whose fault is that? Who popped Lucifer out of the box, hm? Look, it’s started. You started it. It can’t be stopped. So let’s get it over with!”

You can’t contain your eye roll, which is a mistake.

Suddenly, you’re across the room with one of Gabriel’s arms slung around your waist, several feet away from the Winchesters. “Hey!” Dean shouts, but the angel holds up a hand and they’re both unable to move. “Let her go! She’s not part of this!”

Gabriel is examining you closely. “You’re new.”

You nod. “Yes.”

“From?”

“A different reality. Clerical error.”

He nods. “Makes sense. Why are you here? Takes some pretty major mojo to bring you here.” He looks over and cocks an eyebrow at Dean. “Kind of a desperate move to get laid, Dean-o.”

You shake your head. “I, uh, I don’t think it was them.”

He turns back to you. “Well, then who?”

“God,” Cass’s voice is behind him. Before either of you can properly react, Cass grabs you and pulls you away from the archangel, then drops a match. A circle of holy fire springs up around Gabriel, who’s grinning.

He claps his hands, and you’re all in a warehouse. Dean blinks, then quickly walks over to you and grabs you by the upper arms. “Hey, you all right?”

You smile. “Yes, nerd, I’m fine. He barely touched me, Dean.” You look down and wiggle your toes, suddenly very glad you’d gotten a pedicure the week before you were pulled out of your world, but irritated that you still seem to be in the clothes you dressed in in the sitcom. “I don’t have shoes, though, so that’s a bummer.”

He looks down, then presses a kiss to your forehead, making you all warm and fuzzy on the inside. Before you can protest, he bends down and picks you up, princess-style, keeping you away from the dirt and shards of glass on the floor. You squeal, and he hushes you, his attention already back on the scene before you.

“So, what? What’s the plan here, fellas?” Gabriel asks cheerfully.

“You’re Gabriel.” You say simply from Dean’s arms.

He blinks, then grins again. “Someone slip a mickey in your power shake, darlin’?”

You roll your eyes. “The jig is up. In the reality I’m from, Supernatural is a TV show. You’re Gabriel. You got mad because your brothers and your father wouldn’t stop fighting, and now you just want it to be over, but you don’t want to take sides.”

He sobers, staring at you intensely. “Why did Dad bring you back?”

You blink and shrug. “No idea.”

He stares at you silently for a long moment. You start to feel a pull, your intuition is telling you what to do. You pat Dean on the chest. “Let me down, hot stuff.”

He frowns at you. “Y/N, there’s glass everywhere.”

Cass flicks a hand and a path is cleared for you. He’s staring at you curiously, probably wondering how this will play out.

Dean sets you down reluctantly, growling your name when you walk toward the ring of holy fire. You meet Gabriel’s eyes again, their amber depths almost unreadable. Slowly, deliberately, you step over the line of fire, only barely surprised when it doesn’t burn you at all.

“Y/N!” Sam snaps, but you’re already in the ring with an archangel.

An archangel, you realize blatantly in the back of your mind, who might be peeved that you ruined his plan and trapped him.

Well, what’s done is done. You approach him slowly, until you’re standing right in front of him. You’re examining one another closely when he speaks.

“Why are you here?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

He nods. “You should be a little more cautious, sweetheart. I could be one pissed off angel right now.” He smirks.

You don’t. “I’m not scared of you.” You frown. “And don’t blame the Winchesters for this. This situation was completely preventable by you. If you hadn’t bailed, you could have changed things. So don’t go pointing fingers at them.”

He looks down at you carefully, and you stand your ground. A tiny part of you is afraid, but the rest of you is just mad that everyone seems to think it’s perfectly okay to play on the Winchester’s perpetual guilt.

He grins. “I like you, sweetheart.”

You chuckle. “Don’t call me sweetheart, and of course you do. I’m a delight.”

He knocks his head back and laughs. “All right, Y/N. So what’s the plan? We gonna sit here and stare at each other for eternity?”

You sober. “Are you going to help us stop this?”

He sobers, too. “I got out for a reason.”

You stare at him for a long time, disbelief thrumming through you. “You’re really going to let them do this?”

He scoffs. “I don’t let them do anything.”

You shake your head and turn away. You start toward Dean, but Gabriel grabs your arm and pulls you back to look at him. The three men outside the circle take a step forward, but none are willing to step into the trap. Wimps.

The angel who has your arm examines your face closely. “Y/N, this can’t be stopped. There’s nothing I can do.”

You pull your arm out of his grasp. “Save it,” you snap. You turn to walk away, but you look down as sneakers materialize on your feet. You turn back and look at his impassive face. “Thank you,” you say softly.

“Only fair, I stole yours.”

You let the hint of a smile cross your face, then turn and step back over the fire. Dean immediately puts an arm around you and pulls you away, giving you a look that promises a serious talking-to later, then turns to Sam. “Okay, we're out of here. Come on, Sam.”

Dean turns and walks away with you still tucked under his arm. You don’t argue, you just go. Suddenly, you don’t want to be anywhere near the archangel.

Gabriel clears his throat. “Uh, okay. Guys?”

You hear Sam start to follow you, and Cass quickly behind him.

“You’re just gonna… You’re gonna leave me here forever?”

Dean and you are at the door, and you turn with him when he looks back. “No,” Dean says quietly, dangerously. “We're not, 'cause we don't fuck with people the way you do. And for the record? This isn't about some prize fight between your brothers or some destiny that can't be stopped. This is about you being too afraid to stand up to your family.”

Dean pulls the fire alarm, and you wince as water starts raining down on all of you. Sam and Cass beat a hasty retreat, but you stay with Dean as he glares at the archangel. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

You’re in the back of the Impala, watching the landscape go by as Dean makes the way back to Bobby’s, lost in your thoughts.

It really just now has occurred to you that changing the way things turn out may very well piss a lot of really important people off. People like archangels. People like God.

You frown and sit up a little. God. Maybe…

“Hey, guys. You guys know Chuck Shurley, right?”

Chapter Text

Of course they know Chuck.

Which is good, you have some words for Chuck.

Luckily, “Chuck” just text Dean, saying that it’s a life or death situation. You know that it’s Becky who actually reached out, but you don’t say anything about that. You’re worried if you do, they won’t go.

And you really, really want to have those words with Chuck.

“So, any idea what we’re heading into?” Dean asks, meeting your eyes in the rearview.

You nod. “Brace yourselves, gentlemen. It’s a Supernatural convention, but there’s an actual haunting there.”

Dean frowns. “What the fuck is a supernatural convention?”

You smile. “For the books. It’s for fans of the Supernatural books to come together and talk about them.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “That sounds… Awful.”

You shrug. “It’ll be awkward, but you guys will be all right. Plus, it will be good for you guys to see what other people see you as.” Your eyes narrow. “And I have some things to discuss with Chuck.”

Dean frowns at you in the rearview. “What do you have to talk to Chuck about?”

You smile. “None of your concern, Winchester. Drive on.”

Dean catches glimpses of her in the rearview as they head toward the “convention.” She looks determined.

His heart had stopped when she’d walked into the ring of holy fire with Gabriel. Her bravery did not outweigh the sheer stupidity of the action, and he’s still irritated at her for it. But even if he is mad at her, he finds himself unable to look away from her for long. The way her hair falls on her shoulder, the way she moves when she walks, the fact he hasn’t been able to lay her down and have his way with her yet. These things are driving him crazy.

Woman is messing with my head.

When you pull up to the hotel that the convention is being held at, you barely wait for the Impala to stop before you’re out of the car and stomping up the stairs to Chuck.

“Dammit, Y/N!” You ignore Dean to stand in front of the small man, who’s eyeing you warily.

“Chuck,” you say coldly.

“Who are you?”

“Mhm,” you hum skeptically, grabbing his elbow and dragging him away from the guys. You turn to look at them. “I’m gonna talk to Chuck for a minute. Go find Becky.”

Sam pales. “Becky’s here?”

Her delighted squeal lets you know that the guys will be busy for a minute, so you continue dragging Chuck around the building. “Hey! Hey, I don’t even know who you are-“

As soon as you’re out of sight of the boys, you whirl and glare at Chuck. “The jig is up. I know who you are.”

He blinks at you. “What?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re God.”

He stares at you, and before you can speak again, you and Chuck are standing on a beach that you recognize from the end of season eleven.

He gives you a gentle smile. “I should have known you’d just come right out and say it.”

Part of you is freaking the fuck out. This is God you’re talking to. You’ve made it through this so far with pretty much just your snarky attitude with some reckless behavior sprinkled in, but this is God. Can you sass God? Do you go to hell if you sass God? Part of you suspects yes.

But you think of Dean, and how much he’s hurting. And how much he’s going to be hurt. You think of all of the moments you’ve just wanted to comfort him, both in the past and what is now the future. When Sam died, when Sam came back without a soul, when Sam was about to die through the trials, when Dean was healed from being a demon, when he wouldn’t let Cass heal him…

The thoughts of Dean bolster you. He’s your soulmate, and even if you don’t know if you can be with him, you can sure as hell fight for him.

So you glare at God and ignore the part of you that’s quivering in fear. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

He looks at you serenely. “You’ve been reunited with Dean.”

You roll your eyes. “We can’t be reunited when we were never united in the first place.” You shake your head. “No, I’m here for a reason. What the fuck is going on?”

He shrugs. “It was a clerical error?”

“No dice.”

He sighs. “Look, not everyone gets answers, okay? We shouldn’t even be here, I shouldn’t be humoring you.”

You put your hands on your hips. “You sure as fuck should be humoring me! You drag me away from everything I’ve ever known, with the exception of Winch, which I appreciate. You drop me here, where there are beautiful, heartbroken men and monsters and about fifty million ways to die, with no know-how or skills. You have someone tell me that Dean is my soulmate, we’re supposed to be together forever, or whatever, and now I’m just supposed to accept, ‘I shouldn’t be humoring you’ as an acceptable answer? Fuck that.”

He’s staring at you again, and some of your fire goes out. Am I about to be smote?

Then he smiles. “I always did like you.” He waves his hand. “Walk with me.”

You obey, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do, and walk with him, your hands in your jeans pockets, suddenly wishing Dean were with you.

“You know, I created soulmates because I’ve always liked the idea that two people should find each other,” he says conversationally. “It’s a really beautiful idea, that there’s someone out there for everyone. Of course, it’s kind of random, so your soulmate could be born fifteen years after you, or across the world from you, or any other number of terrible things.” He smiles. “But it’s still beautiful.”

You snort, and speak without thinking. “Yeah, unless you’re one of the unlucky ones. Then it just sucks.”

He nods. “Fair point. But in general, it’s a system that works.”

He considers you for a moment. “But your case was different. I’ve never seen so many things come together to screw up so colossally.” He looks forward again.

“For you to be put in the wrong reality... That’s messed up. I mean, there’s only a few hundred realities, anyway, and they’re pretty far apart. But you… Ended up in yours.” He grins. “At least you were in one where you could watch Supernatural.”

You frown. “Okay, but why am I here? Why not leave me where I was?”

He looks at you searchingly. “Were you happy? Honestly?”

When you think about it, you shake your head. “No, I guess I wasn’t. I was just going through the motions. But I was all right, I mean, that still doesn’t really explain why I was brought here.”

He sighs. “You know, I want to give you all the answers. But to get to where you need to be, you’ll need to find out some of them on your own.”

You frown. “That sounds like bullshit.”

He shrugs. “It might be. But you don’t get to know.”

You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “Look, can you at least tell me what I’m supposed to change? How am I supposed to affect things? Am I supposed to change anything at all? Am I just here as Dean’s, I don’t know, accessory?” Do not say fuck buddy in front of the Lord, you heathen.

He frowns and shakes his head. “Hey, no. You’re definitely not just ‘here for Dean.’ I mean,” he tilts his head back and forth a little, “he’s definitely going to need you. But you’re not just here to fornicate.”

You feel yourself blushing. “Did the Lord just tell me to keep it in my pants?”

There’s a moment of silence, then he tilts his head back and laughs. “No, no, jeeze, I don’t care what you do. You’re soulmates, go crazy.” He sobers a little. “But you are here to change things, Y/N. I can’t tell you what things, but I can tell you this: You’re going to save a lot of lives. You’re going to lose a lot of them, but you’ll save more. You can’t change everything, but you can change a lot of things.”

He looks at you kindly for a while, and you’re speechless. You’re still trying to process when he speaks again.

“You’re going to be a great source of comfort to Dean. He’s always been… A regret, of mine, if I can even be said to have regrets. And you’re going to help him through the rest of this.”

You look at him sadly, then nod. “Okay, I don’t understand at all, but okay.”

He nods, too. “Let’s go back then.”

“Wait!” You hold your hands up. “Am I going to remember any of this?”

He smiles. “Some of it.” He pauses, then, “Oh, and Y/N? Could you keep me being God on the DL? I’ve got some stuff I need to do, and I don’t need the Winchesters following me around while I do it.”

You nod. “Okay.”

His eyes narrow a little. “I’m… I’m just gonna go ahead and make sure, okay?”

Then darkness.

“So, any idea what we’re heading into?” Dean asks, meeting your eyes in the rearview.

You nod. “Brace yourselves, gentlemen. It’s a Supernatural convention, but there’s an actual haunting there.”

Dean frowns. “What the fuck is a supernatural convention?”

You smile. “For the books. It’s for fans of the Supernatural books to come together and talk about them.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “That sounds… Awful.”

You shrug. “It’ll be awkward, but you guys will be all right. Plus, it will be good for you guys to see what other people see you as.” You smile at their scowls. “And, calm down, there is an actual haunting, so we really do need to go.”

You’re excited to meet Chuck, he’s always been one of your favorite plot twists. And he’s a prophet! Maybe he can tell you why you were brought here.

“But you are here to change things, Y/N. I can’t tell you what things, but I can tell you this: You’re going to save a lot of lives. You’re going to lose a lot of them, but you’ll save more. You can’t change everything, but you can change a lot of things.”

You frown a little when the words clang through your head, accompanied by a bright, rather holy and lordly light.. That seems… Right? How would you know that? Did… Did God talk to you?

She’s laughing as they walk down the stairs to the hotel. “Well, that was easier than I thought it would be.”

Dean nods absent-mindedly, mostly focused on the way her ass moves when she walks. “What did you think of your first bona fide hunt, princess?”

She turns and rolls her eyes, stopping then in the courtyard. “It was hardly a real hunt, Dean. I knew who the ghosts were and where they were buried before we even got here.” She frowns. “Although I wish we had more time to go to the convention.”

Sam smirks. “Thought you said you don’t go to conventions.”

She smacks him on the chest. “Shut it, Winchester. It’s not for me, it's for you guys.”

Dean frowns, finally focusing on the conversation. “What? Why the hell would we want to go to a convention about how shitty our lives are?”

She turns to look at him curiously, and he fights the urge to squirm. She steps forward until she’s close enough to touch, gazing into his face. Dean barely notices Sam subtly stepping away.

“Because you need to see how much people admire you,” she says softly. “You’re a hero, Dean. You and Sam both. And you don’t believe it. Deep down, you can’t see how good you are. Maybe other people saying it will convince you.”

He looks down into her pretty eyes, reeling from her words. You can’t see how good you are.

He cups her face and pulls her close to press his lips against hers. She sighs softly and opens for him, her arms slipping around his waist to hold him close. He sweeps his tongue into her mouth, savoring her. She hums her approval, and he feels the sound down to his core.

She pulls away a little and smiles up at him with heat in her eyes. “Let’s get out of here, Dean.”

You sigh in relief when Dean finally pulls over. It was already late when you left the hotel, and now it’s ridiculous. You just want somewhere to sleep that isn’t the backseat of the car.

Dean gets out to get a room for you guys, and Sam turns back to look at you. “Doing all right back there?”

You smile and nod. “Yeah, just tired. Sitting in this backseat is hard work, Sam.”

He chuckles and looks back around. “There’s Dean.”

You look up and see Dean waving room keys and pointing to a door a few rooms down. You and Sam get out of the car and get the bags and meet Dean at the door. Dean waggles his eyebrows at you as you approach. “Separate rooms, princess.”

You smirk and grab the key from his hand. “Good, have fun bunking with Sam.”

You laugh at his crestfallen expression and you unlock your door, shooting him a wink and closing the door on the sound of Sam’s laughter.

You sit on the bed in the room and put your bag next to you. You bury your face in your hands as your bravado drains away from you and you’re left with nerves, exhaustion, a deep a tinge of loneliness.

What am I doing? Who the fuck says no to Dean Winchester sleeping next to them? He’s gorgeous, for some reason he clearly wants you, and you’ve been dreaming about this for years.

But… It’s Dean. What about you could be possibly want? You don’t know, but there’s an absolute and unshakable fear that he won’t love you like you love him. That he’ll be who he’s always been and leave you completely brokenhearted, with nowhere else to go.

You nod firmly. “That’s settled. No sleeping with the hunter.”

Even as you tell yourself you mean it, you know that you’re weak. A sideways glance from him is going to have you naked in bed in a heartbeat.

Weak.

You wake up to the sound of the door opening. You know who it is, so instead of panicking when he slips between the blankets beside you, you turn and bury your face in his bare chest, flinging an arm around his waist. “Hmm, glad you’re here.”

You hear Dean’s chuckle rumble through his chest. “You tried to keep me out.”

You shake your head and sigh softly as a warmer, better sleep than the one you had pulls you back down. “Didn’t latch the chain, knew you’d come,” you mumble into his warm skin. You press a gentle kiss there, a tingly happiness spreading through your limbs.

He slips an arm under your pillow and the other around your waist, holding you close. You feel him press a kiss onto your head, and you relax completely into sleep.

His voice is the last thing you hear. “Well, I’m here now, so go to sleep, princess.”

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night with Y/N’s softness pressed against him. He tries to still his racing heart, trying to rid himself of the last shreds of the nightmare without waking her.

It’s much easier than it usually is, and he knows why. It’s probably the first time in his life he’s woken up warm and happy, even in the midst of a nightmare.

He’s lying on his back with her head resting on his chest. He looks down at her, her long eyelashes, her lovely face, and a strange feeling enters him.

He wants her. He wants her so bad it’s killing him. He wants to touch her, take her into his mouth, learn the places that will make her moan and move beneath him. Part of him wants to do those things now.

But, in a moment that Dean will never admit to, even to her, he doesn’t. Instead he shifts them both a little, slowly, so she doesn’t wake up, until she’s on her side, her back pressed to his chest. He wraps an arm around her and buries his face in her hair.

And for the first time, that strange feeling of peace that she’s somehow able to give to him just by being there, that has been denied to him for so long, floods through Dean.

He sleeps soundly, and sleeps late, for the first time in years.

You wake slowly, trying to figure out where Winch is so you don’t kick him, and also fighting waking up. You’re warm, someone firm is pressed to your back, and you don’t wanna move.

When you realize that Winch isn’t in the bed, memories of the night before flash through you. You sigh and cuddle back into Dean’s chest, smiling a little when his arm tightens around your waist. This is how waking up was meant to be done.

And in a perfect world, you would get to stay there forever. But this is far from a perfect world, you’re well aware, and you have to pee. So you gently, slowly extract yourself from his arm, smiling when a little pout appears on his face. But he doesn’t wake up, so you can do what you need to do without worrying about him.

As you take a quick shower, you think about how right it feels to be getting ready for the day while Dean stays in bed. I could get used to this.

When you come out of bathroom, he’s still out like a light. It makes you wonder how much sleep the man actually gets. Poor thing, you think, rubbing the nicotine patch on your arm.

An idea comes to you, and you rifle through your bag for your sketchpad and pencils. You settle into a chair next to the bed, drawing your knees up and flipping to a clean page.

You lose yourself in sketching, doing your best to capture him. How relaxed his face is in sleep. The ridge of his eyebrows. His truly sinful mouth. The curve of his shoulder, the latent strength in his arm. The huge, muscular planes of his back.

You’re putting the finishing touches on it when a loud pounding startles you. Luckily, the pencil comes away from the paper instead of across it, so your work is safe. You glare at the door, but you start to chuckle when the voice on the other side speaks.

“Are you guys seriously fucking right now? We have to get back to Bobby’s today, he says he has news.”

You look back to the bed to see Dean staring at you through one bleary eye. “The fuck does he want?” he mumbles.

You smile and flip your book shut. “Us to wake up.” You stand and put your things on the floor next to the bed before coming to sit next to him. “Come on, hot stuff, time for breakfast.”

He moves quickly, and before you really understand how, he’s pinning you to the bed with his weight. The sheets are completely tangled around you, but Dean Winchester is on top of you, so you don’t complain. It feels perfectly natural to wrap your arms around his neck and hook your free leg around his waist, tucking him in close to you.

“I can think of other things I’d like to do,” he murmurs against your neck, making you shudder and heat spread lazily through your belly.

You lean up to kiss him, because of course you have to kiss him, and the way his hips press him to you already has you whimpering into his mouth. He smiles against you, and you feel a little light headed.

Another knock on the door startles you. “I swear to God, Dean, get your ass out here. You, too, Y/N.”

Dean pulls away and looks down at you. “Why does he always blame me?”

You laugh and lean up to press kisses down his jaw. “Because it’s mostly your fault. When I’m in bed alone, I wake up on time.”

He hmphs, cocking an eyebrow at you, and sweet Jesus, you didn’t know it was physically possible to be this turned on before he’s even touched you. “But at what cost?” He asks, and the way the low rumble in his chest sends vibrations up and down your body is making it difficult to think.

“Not worth it,” you said breathily, relishing the shudder that goes through him as you run your teeth lightly along his neck.

Another bang at the door. “Coffee is on me if you guys put clothes on and get out here.” Sam has resorted to bartering.

You laugh, and Dean smiles down at you. “If we keep him waiting, he’ll throw in breakfast,” he says cheerfully.

You laugh again and push at his (mouth-watering, perfect) shoulders. “Come on, hot stuff, don’t make Sam pay for everything.”

After breakfast, you’re on the road. And, with the exception of Winch not being with you, you think that this is what life should be.

Sam and Dean argue about the music, the route, the food, when to stop, and everything in between. You don’t try to get in between them, you just watch the way they interact. Because it’s not actually arguing. It has the air of well-rehearsed lines, like they’ve done it a million times before. It’s not fighting, it’s checking in. Making sure the other one is okay. It warms your heart to be able to bask in the love radiating between them, even if you’re not a part of it.

The drawing this morning had started an itch in you, so you pull your sketchpad out again and get to work. You love this angle, the world flying by in the windshield, the two of them in the front seat.

You’re trying to capture the little flip of Sam’s hair, so you don’t realize the music has stopped until the silence sinks through your brain. You look up and blink at Sam, who’s staring at you. “What?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your eyes widen and you blush. “Uh… Drawing?”

You meet Dean’s eyes in the rearview. “Drawing what?”

Oh, no. “Um… You guys?”

Sam grins. “Why?”

You give him what you hope is a quelling look. “Do you know how boring it is to sit back here? What else am I gonna do?”

Sam holds his hand out. “Can I see?”

You smile and hand it over, telling your anxiety to shove it when it assures you that you have no talent. “Sure, there shouldn't be anything R-rated in this one.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

You laugh. “Chill, there’s nothing in that one. I left my other one... “ You wince, and sadness shoots through the peace you were just been basking in when you realize your other sketchbooks were in the bottom drawer of your desk at home. “Uh, that one’s clean.”

Sympathy fills Sam’s eyes, and you ignore it to turn to look out the window. No matter how lovely waking up to Dean was, you’re starting to get homesick for the simple life you left behind.

There’s more silence while Sam flips through the pictures. “These are really good, Y/N.”

You smile at him, trying to banish your sadness. “Thank you, Sam.”

You lean up to rest your chin on your folded hands on the back of the front seat, watching as Sam turns the pages.

There’s Winch, sunning himself in your old kitchen. One of the kids from the hospital, laughing on Christmas, her face holding so much joy you barely notice the oxygen tubes in her nose. A pregnant woman at a park, smiling indulgently at the child holding her hand, who is absolutely smeared in chocolate ice cream.

Then you get to the nerdy pictures. A detailed TARDIS, the door slightly ajar. Buffy the vampire slayer, her hair spilling over her shoulder, kickass expression on her face. The round door of a hobbit hole, also slightly ajar.

And then the Winchesters. There’s Dean, pushing himself out from under Baby, an irritated expression on his face and a strip of flesh exposed at his waistband. Dean, turned back over his shoulder, the beginnings of a grin on his face. Sam, sitting at a table, laughing up at something. There’s one of Demon!Dean (who, even if he was sexy as fuck, scares the hell out of you in reality). Soulless!Sam, shirtless, looking across the room at someone.

You blush, wishing you’d kept the damn book in your bag. “All righty, well that’s a smidge embarrassing.”

Sam turns to the drawing you did that morning, ad even if you are blushing up a storm, you smile at the image. He just looks so… Peaceful.

Sam turns to you. “You did this this morning?”

You nod. “Before you knocked, yeah.”

Dean’s eyes flick over to the page, then widen. “Jesus, how early did you get up?”

You smile. “It only took me about an hour. It’s a pretty rough sketch.”

Sam looks at you incredulously. “A rough sketch? You’re calling this rough?”

You roll your eyes. “Please, it’s not Monet, it’s just a pencil drawing.”

Sam examines you closely. “Y/N, this is good. I mean, really good.”

Dean nods in agreement, and you feel all warm and fuzzy again. “Thanks,” you say softly, leaning back against the seat. Your low mood returns, and you let it.

No matter what you can do with a pencil, no matter how many handsome men you’re surrounded by, you still feel alone.

Dean is watching her in the rearview as they approach Bobby’s place, and he’s worried. Which is irritating, he hasn’t been this concerned about someone that isn’t Sammy since… Ever.

They pull up to Bobby’s, and Dean puts Baby in park. Before he can get out, deep, happy barking has him turning his head to see Y/N’s big dog bounding toward the car.

She smiles and jumps out, closing the door behind her just in time to turn before Winch runs into her. She’s grinning, and his tongue is lolling out of the side of his mouth, sitting in front of her, tail wagging.

Dean gets out of the car, as does Sam, watching her. She pats her own shoulders, and before a verbal command is even uttered, the big dog stands and puts his front paws where her hands had been. Dean’s eyebrows raise as it hits home again that her dog is fucking huge. Winch isn’t quite as tall as Y/N standing, but he’s damn close.

“Who’s a good boy?” she’s cooing at the dog, and Dean smirks when she’s rewarded with the tongue running up her face. She laughs, and it relieves some of the tension in Dean. Maybe she just needed to be around the dog.

You pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers, trying to stave off a tension headache. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t get the Colt, I’m saying that we can’t kill Lucifer with it.”

Sam is glaring at you from the other side of the room. “Why the hell not?”

“There are only a few things the Colt can’t kill, and he’s one of them.” You look up at him. “Trust me, Sam, it won’t work, and people will die in the process.”

“What if you’re wrong?” He asks, angry as hell.

You groan. You know that Sam is stubborn, but it’s really hitting home how goddamn hard headed the Winchesters can be.

Dean’s arm slips around your waist as he comes to stand next to you, and Winch’s nose hits the palm of your hand. Something that had been clenched inside you relaxes. Your boys are here, they believe you.

“She hasn’t been wrong yet,” Dean says slowly, squeezing you lightly.

“Please trust me, Sam, Jo and Ellen’s lives depend on it.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Jo… And Ellen?”

You nod, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Well what do we do instead?”

You shrug. “Well, getting the Colt isn’t a bad idea. It’s better than Crowley having it, for sure. But we’ll have to find some other way to ice the devil.”

Dean turns to look at you. “How did we do it in the show?”

You haven’t told them, because you’re determined to stop it. And if you tell him, Dean will staple Sam to the basement to keep it from happening, and you really need both of them.

“You didn’t,” you say simply.

Dean’s eyebrows raise. “We lose?” He frowns. “What a shitty show.”

You smile wanly. “No, you win. Lucifer just doesn’t die.”

Sam looks at you closely. “Then what happens?”

You plaster a real smile on. “Doesn’t matter, because we’re not going to let it.” You turn to Dean again. “When are Ellen and Jo getting in? Do I have time to make lunch?”

He grins at you, and suddenly you’re nervous. “Actually, princess, you don’t.”

You’re walking out of the tattoo parlor with the little bag of aftercare supplies, a stinging burn low on your hip where you got the anti-possession tattoo. You smile when you see Dean. He’s leaning against Baby, looking down the street at something. You approach, and he doesn’t notice you until you speak without thinking.

“Fuck, you’re pretty.”

He turns and looks at you strangely for a moment, then he grins. You feel your cheeks heat up, and you spend a long moment wishing the world would swallow you into oblivion.

Then you level a finger at him. “Shaddup, Winchester.”

He grins and stands, easily wrapping an arm around you to pull you close. “You’re pretty pretty yourself, princess,” he says, still smiling so hard it has to hurt.

You roll your eyes. “All right, the tattoo is done.”

He looks you up and down. “Where is it?”

You smirk. “Like I’d tell you.” You go up on your toes until your lips are brushing his ear. “Maybe I’ll show you all of them someday,” you purr softly.

He shudders, and you grin and lean back. “You… You have other tattoos?” He asks hoarsely.

You smile. “Maybe.”

He growls a little and pulls your lips to his with a hand on the back of your head. You sigh and lean into him, opening for him when his tongue runs along your bottom lip. He puts his hands on your hips and holds you to him. You run your hands along his waist, pushing your fingers up under his shirts to touch the warm, firm skin there.

You lose track of yourself in him, in the scent of sun warmed leather and gunpowder, the taste of whiskey and Dean. When he pulls away, you whimper a little and glare at him when you see his smirk.

“Come on, princess, let’s go find a way to gank Satan.”

That night, you’re in a fitful sleep when Winch lifts his head. You hear the door click open, and you relax a little as soon as he’s in the room.

“Move, mutt,” he whispers.

You chuckle. “He was here first, Winchester.”

You can almost feel how offended he is. “What?!”

Winch stands and moves to the foot of the bed, sprawling there instead of his customary place right next to you. Dean grumbles and you giggle again, moving so he can slide in next to you. He wraps an arm around you and nuzzles your neck as he pulls you closer.

When one of his hands lands on your waist, his fingers starting to slip beneath your waistband, you put your hand on his arm and lean back. “Calm thyself, Winchester, you are not getting any tonight.”

He blinks and his hand comes off of your waist to rest on your hip. He’s looking at you closely, his lovely face inches from yours, and you’re reminded again how completely unmatched the two of you are.

“Wanna tell me why?” He doesn’t sound angry, which is good, because that would have been the end of it right there. He just sounds curious.

You look into those lovely green eyes, and a million reasons go through your head.

Because you’re going to break my heart.

Because if I can’t change anything, I don’t know if I can be with someone who dies so often, soulmate or no.

Because it wouldn't be casual, it would be earth shattering, but maybe just for me.

Because I think I’m in love with you already, and when you realize that I’m not smart or strong or powerful or pretty enough to stay with, you’re going to leave, and I don’t know if I want to put myself through that.

Instead of saying any of those things, you press a kiss to his jaw. “Because I’m tired, and we have a big day tomorrow, and my dog is laying on my feet.”

He smiles and kisses you, then pulls you close and tucks your head under his chin. “All right, princess,” he says softly, wrapping you close to him and tangling his legs with yours. You sling one leg over his unthinking and cuddle into him.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he says softly, and you think you must have imagined the soft emotion in his voice.

Dean’s not an idiot, he knows she’s lying when she says she’s “tired.”

She’s scared.

He doesn’t know what this television show showed her, but he’s guessing it wasn’t gentle with his sex life. And he’s honest enough to admit that he’s kind of a love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Maybe she’s scared of that.

And she has a right to be. He’s not looking to settle down, even if she does do strange things to his emotions and his state of mind. She’s a nice girl, and he likes her enough, but he’s not going to make any promises. He doesn’t want to be in a relationship.

He keeps telling himself as he commits the second first in his life in as many days. He wraps his arms around her and sleeps next to a woman, without having sex with her, for the second night in a row.

Chapter Text

Winch wakes immediately and opens his eyes, lovingly staring at his WOMAN. He loves the WOMAN. He loves it when she gives him treats, or speaks to him in her nonsense language, or lets him stand up and hug her. The WOMAN is the best WOMAN in the world, and he loves her. He would lay down his life for her, if the occasion called for it, and he would be proud.

He looks over at the MAN she lies next to. He likes the MAN very much.

Winch doesn’t know why he feels better than he used to, and he doesn’t question it. It is what it is. But he’s very glad that whatever brought them here brought them to the MAN. The MAN smells like violence, revenge, and anger, but his scent changes when he’s with the WOMAN. Winch knows that the man will soon feel about the WOMAN the same way Winch does. Which is why he likes him.

Winch is a happy dog, so he waits for the WOMAN to wake up, even though he usually wakes her up for her. He does need to go OUTSIDE, but he will wait.

Because his WOMAN and his MAN will be awake soon, and they’re the best when they’re awake.

You wake up on your back, with Dean on his side, his arm thrown across your waist, and Winch laying across your legs. You look up and Winch is awake, staring at you, but he’s not dancing to go outside. He seems content to just lay there, watching you sleep with Dean.

“You really do ship it, you dick,” you say mildly. You slowly move to get up, and Winch seems to pick up the need for gentleness, as he gingerly stands and hops off of the bed to wait for you.

You get out of bed and stretch, sighing. Another day, another life to save, probably another fight about the damn Colt.

Neither of them want you to go with them to retrieve the Colt. But, first of all, you will do whatever you damn well please, you do not need their permission. And, two, are you gonna pass up the chance to meet Crowley? Absolutely not.

You go downstairs, let Winch out, and start coffee. After thinking for a few minutes, you decide on cinnamon rolls again for breakfast. You made Dean go to the grocery store again, with a detailed list. He’d grumbled and bitched and moaned, but in the end he’d gone.

You let the dog back in and bake in contentment. Your life is all upside-down, the sexiest man on the planet seems intent on sleeping with you, and you’re facing an apocalypse that you’re in no shape to stop, but at least baking is still the same.

You turn when Bobby enters the kitchen, and you smile at him. “Morning, Bobby.”

He grunts in response, and you go to make him a cup of coffee. When you place it in front of him, he seems surprised, but grunts his thanks. You smile, because you have learned that Bobby is not a morning person, but Sam and Dean are pretty much awake as soon as their eyes open. The three of them are also not used to being served, or having someone take care of stuff like that without being asked.

You’re finish icing the cinnamon rolls, enjoying the comfortable silence, when Winch gets up and stands behind you. You turn to see Sam walk in, and you take a moment to be grateful that while the guys are knowledgeable in a lot of arenas, dog body language doesn’t seem to be one. Winch knows you and Sam were fighting, and he’s standing between you to keep Sam from you, which you suspect would hurt the younger Winchester’s feelings.

You smile. “Morning, Sam. Breakfast in ten, do you want coffee?”

He sits across from Bobby and nods. “I can get it myself, Y/N.”

You shrug and pour him a cup. “I’m already up, just chill out for a bit. Move, dog,” you say easily, nudging Winch with your foot. He looks up at you and groans deep in his chest, but moves out of the way.

“Thanks,” Sam says, accepting the cup. “All right, so, the Colt.”

You nod, unsurprised that Sam is already thinking about business. “Crowley wants you to have it. He wants you to kill Lucifer with it.”

“Which we should do,” Sam mutters into his coffee.

Your eyes narrow. “It won’t work, Sam. We’ve been over this.”

He sets his cup down. “I think it’s worth a shot, is all.”

You groan. “It’s not. I know that it won’t work. What is up with you? We’ll find another way to kill him.”

“What other way?” he asks loudly. You jump a little, because he’s right on the edge of yelling. You’re not scared of Sam, and if he yells, you’ll yell right back. But God, who the fuck is mad before breakfast?

“I don’t know, Sam,” you say evenly. “But there’s got to be something. He’s not invincible.”

“Which is why we should use the Colt!”

He’s yelling now, and before you can say anything, Winch is in front of you again, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Listen, Sam,” you say soothingly as you put a hand on the big dog’s back, “Why don’t we do this after we eat?”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” he snaps.

“What’s going on in here?” Dean asks sharply from the doorway. You notice out of the corner of your eye that Winch relaxes enough to sit in front of you.

You turn and give Dean a placating smile in the face of his frown. For someone who could start a fight with a paper bag, he sure doesn’t like it when other people argue. “Nothing, Dean. Just breakfast.”

“Y/N still thinks the Colt won’t work,” Sam says bluntly.

You roll your eyes. “Snitch.” You turn back to the pan on the counter, ignoring Dean’s pointed glare at you. “It’s fine, we’re just disagreeing.”

“Before breakfast?” Dean asks incredulously, coming over to drop a kiss on your shoulder and squeeze you around the waist before he joins the other men at the table.

You smile to yourself while you pull plates out of the cupboard to serve breakfast on. When you do, you see Winch sitting next to Dean, ears up, looking at Sam. Well, that’s something. With Dean in the room, apparently the shepherd isn’t as worried about you. Traitorous fuck.

You serve breakfast and conversation falls silent, which you enjoy. As much as you like being here, with them, silence is in short supply. For someone who is as solitary as you, that’s kind of a bummer.

Once the meal is over, the Winchesters go into the living room to argue some more. You’re tired of it, so you take the dishes to the sink and start washing.

Bobby rolls up next to you with a dish towel in his lap. Without questioning, you hand the clean plate to him, starting to hum as you work. Your brain is working overtime, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re going to do about Lucifer. As far as you know, the only thing that can kill an archangel is the angel blades, but the only person who tried that was Gabriel, and he died for it.

“You know, I believe you,” Bobby says casually.

You look down and smile. “Thanks, Bobby. Just gotta convince fuckface.” You’re irritated with Sam right now. Idiot.

He blinks, then laughs out loud, and it makes you happier than you could have thought. “He’ll come around,” he says, still chuckling. “Just give him time. They both have thick skulls.”

You smile. “Yeah, they do. I just hope I can save those thick skulls.”

You’re done with dishes, so you take your sponge to the table to start cleaning it. There’s a few moments of silence before Bobby speaks again.

“Y/N. Dean’s not being pushy, is he?” he asks gruffly.

You pause, completely blindsided. “Pushy is one of the main parts of Dean’s personality, Bobby. I’m gonna need a little more to go on than that.”

He sighs, and you’re terribly amused to see his face redden a little. “I mean, with this soulmate stuff.”

Your eyes widen in realization, and suddenly Bobby’s not the only one blushing. “Sex, you mean sex, oh God. Uh, no, no, he’s being very kind.” You say quickly, softly, kind of wishing you were anywhere else right now.

He nods. “Good. If that changes… You let me know, yeah?”

You smile at protective Bobby Singer and nod back. “Yes, sir.”

“It’s nice to know there’s something you’re not good at,” Sam says cheerfully.

You glare at him. “Shut up, Sam.”

He’s laughing. “Hey, everyone has their faults, Y/N. At least you could draw me a picture of the target.”

You eye him for a moment. “You know, you’re a much bigger target, and I’m feeling very motivated to shoot you.”

The guys want you to practice shooting a gun, and Sam’s right, you’re terrible. Dean left an hour ago, and you assume it’s because he sensed that if he laughed, he would be in trouble, which he would. So he left as soon as you’d proven that you are an unequivocally worthless shot.

You and Sam are headed back to the house, and you’re seriously considering tripping him because he won’t stop chuckling.

“Shut up, Sam.”

***

Jo and Ellen arrive later that day. They’re just as lovely as you thought they would be, and they accept your blunt explanation of who you are without question.

“I’m Dean’s soulmate, put in the wrong reality via angel bullshit, and brought to this reality via other angel bullshit.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Ellen nods. “Well, all right then.”

Jo nods, too. “That blows.”

You give them a tight smile as everyone gathers in the kitchen and starts talking about the plan for the Colt. You sit at the table, hand on Winch’s head, just listening, and watching Jo.

Your anxiety is back with enthusiasm, pointing out that she’s gorgeous and blonde and thin and already a hunter. Pointing out that if she's in the room, no man in his right mind is looking at you.

Stop it, you tell yourself desperately. Jo’s a nice person, and she’s smart, and you should be valuing her opinion, not wishing you looked like her.

She slides into the chair across from you and smiles. “So, Dean’s soulmate, huh?”

You nod. “That’s what they tell me.”

“That’s gotta suck.”

You smile. “At least he’s fun to watch be out of my league.”

Jo snorts derisively. “Please, he wishes. He’s been looking at you this whole time.”

Your eyebrows go up in surprise. “What?”

Jo nods and turns to look at Dean. When you follow her gaze, your eyes meet his, and you blush when he winks. “Oh,” you say faintly.

Warmth spreads through you, and while that anxiety is still telling you she’s prettier than you, he’ll never look at you, it’s much easier to tell that anxiety to suck it.

***

That night, Dean slowly crawls out of her bed, hoping that she’ll stay asleep. She does, turning over with a frown on her face, and he sighs in relief.

Which is short-lived, because then he meets the dog’s eyes. Winch is looking at him with what Dean would swear is disapproval. He glares at the big shepherd. “Shut up,” he whispers fiercely, “This is for her own good.”

Winch just continues to stare at him, and Dean realizes that he’s talking to the dog like she does, like a crazy person. So he shuts up and dresses quickly, shutting the door behind him as gently as possible.

When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, Bobby is looking at him evenly, with the same disapproval in his eyes that the damn dog had. “What?” Dean snaps.

“She ain’t gonna be happy about this.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably, but says nothing. Bobby knows why he can’t take her with them.

Bobby shakes his head. “Idjit,” he mutters. Then he shrugs. “Whatever, but she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out.”

Dean nods and winces. “I know.”

***

You wake up early the next morning to a cold bed. You sit up and push your hair out of your face, looking around for Dean. When he’s not there, suspicion settles in your stomach. “Oh, he did not.”

You stand and fling the door open, letting Winch run down the stairs before you descend them slowly. When you get there, Bobby is sitting at the kitchen table, just watching you process the fact that that bastard left you here.

“Did they…”

He nods. “Yup.”

“Without me?”

“Yup.”

You take a moment, then, “That bastard.”

Bobby nods sagely again. “Yup.”

You come and sit across from him at the table. “Did he tell you why?”

He sighs. “He doesn’t think he could protect you.”

That hits you hard, and you drop your head into your hands. Doesn’t need to protect Jo, does he? your anxiety asks slyly, and you agree. He doesn’t have to protect Jo. Jo isn’t useless, and neither is Ellen. They’re going to be just fine, and here you are, a burden.

That voice is rolling around in your head, assuring you that they all despise you, that they wish you would just leave, and that you would stop bossing them around.

You push it away forcefully, ignoring it. That voice might be right in some aspects, but you’re not mad about that. You’re mad because if he would just chill out and trust you a little, you could learn to not be useless. Plus, you’ve already got quite a bit of knowledge, what more do you need to do to prove that you can do this?

You look up at Bobby, who’s just staring at you. “I need a favor, Bobby.”

***

Late in the morning, Dean sighs when he thinks about the ass-reaming he’s in for when he gets back into the house. He’s only known Y/N for a few days, but she is going to be pissed.

“She’s gonna be pissed,” Sam says evenly in the seat next to him, echoing Dean’s thoughts.

Dean nods. “Yes, yes, she is.” He sighs heavily. “May as well get this over with.”

Something is off the moment he steps out of the car. He can’t figure out what it is, so he just goes to the front door, frowning. When he walks in, Bobby is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and not looking at them.

Dean holds his arms out. “All right, where is she? Let’s have it.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Bobby looks at Dean again. “She’s gone, idjit.”

Dean’s mind goes blank with panic, and his stomach rolls. “What?”

“Gone where?” Sam asks from next to him.

Bobby shakes his head. “None of your damn business.”

“Why would she go? Where would she go?” Dean starts to get angry. “God dammit, Bobby, how could you let her-”

“I didn’t let her anything, you moron,” Bobby snaps, “She’s a grown-ass woman, and she can go wherever the fuck she wants. And she decided that she doesn’t want to stay here anymore.”

There’s an empty feeling in Dean’s stomach. “Why?”

Bobby looks at Dean, then over to Sam. “Probably because you both treat her like a child.”

Dean frowns. “Bobby, she’s not a hunter. She’s a waitress, for fuck’s sake. She’s-”

“She’s an adult,” Sam says, wincing. “And she wants to be treated like one.” Dean watches his younger brother run a hand through his hair. “Oh, God, we did what Dad did. I did what Dad did. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Calm down, princesses. She’s fine. She said she’ll call in a couple of days to let us know what the plan is.”

The empty feeling in Dean’s stomach grows when he realizes what was wrong when he entered the house.

No one barked when he pulled up. Winch is gone, too.

Chapter Text

Dean is sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, worrying. He fucked up. He knows he fucked up. He was so busy trying to keep her safe that he forgot to make sure she knew why he wanted to keep her safe.

It would help if he fucking knew why, but all he knows is that he’s filled with this urgency to make sure that she’s protected. He wants to make sure she’s still around to call him out on his crap, to take care of her big ass dog, to cook and laugh and kiss and sleep next to.

Sam is somewhere, beating himself up, too, and for once Dean is gonna let him. Sam’s just as much at fault as Dean is, so he’s content to let his little brother stew for a while. Which is weird, because he’s normally not willing to let Sam take any blame whatsoever… But now, when it comes to Y/N, it makes sense to him. In a few days, she’s become just as important to him as Sam, and it doesn't make any damn sense, but he’s just gonna go with it, because fighting it hasn’t worked so far.

Which would have been great to know twelve hours ago, before he fucked up so bad that she left.

Well, fuck.

You’re sitting on the bed of a shitty motel room, Winch curled around you. You’re silent, just staring down at your knees, wondering if you’re making a huge mistake, or if you’re standing up for yourself.

But you know that if you stay at Bobby’s, Dean is going to continue to coddle you. And as much as part of you wants to hide at home forever, that’s not really an option. You don’t want to hide, you want to fight. Which means you have to learn to be a hunter, you have to learn to be strong. And if he’s not going to help you, you’ll do it by your damn self.

You sigh and pet Winch’s head, who’s looking up at you with his big, sad eyes. “I know, bud,” you say softly. “I miss him, too.” Ridiculous, but true.

You stand and stretch hard, then head toward the shower. It’s a terrible motel room, but it’s less than a hundred bucks for the night, and it will be even cheaper if you go week-to-week, if that’s what you decide.

Earlier, Bobby lent you a car so you could drive to town and go to a bank. Your account was open (you’re beyond questioning how the fuck any of this works), and it has about the amount of money you remember having a few years ago in it. You withdrew everything, closed the account, and walked out with a little over two thousand dollars.

You found a store and bought some basic necessities, including dog food and treats, a cheap laptop, and a cell phone. Once you had the cell phone programmed, you’d immediately sent Bobby a text, letting him know you were all right and that you’d call as soon as you had a plan. Then you’d driven around until you’d found this shithole.

You hate it, it’s dingy and dirty and kind of gross. Plus the manager said no dogs allowed. You don’t feel guilty at all about lying to him, he was a jerk, and he has it coming, in your opinion. Plus, Winch is the best creature alive, who wouldn’t want him in their stupid little crap room?

You take a quick shower, which makes you feel a little better. You come back out to the room and sit on the bed. Winch jumps up next to you again, and you savor his warmth as you set the computer up and start researching how to kill the devil.

A day later, Dean is sitting in his bedroom, silent and angry.

He can’t find her.

He drove around Sioux Falls for hours, but nothing. Oh, he found the car that Bobby lent her, but she wasn’t there. She parked it at a supermarket, and probably took a cab to where she’s staying. And he has to admit, that’s pretty damn smart.

He has no idea if she has an alias she would use, but her name hasn’t popped up anywhere. And no one has been able to tell him where a woman and her big dog would be.

He’s still stewing, having ideas and then tossing them, when his phone buzzes. He thinks about ignoring it, but old habits die hard, and he flips it open to read the text.

“Your next case is from a guy named Martin, one of your dad’s old friends? He’s in psych hospital, I don’t remember where. It’s a wraith, you’ll meet her first, she’s a pretty nurse with dark hair.”

His stomach drops when he realizes who the text is from. He immediately hits the “call” button and holds the phone up to his ear.

It rings several times, then goes to a pre-recorded voicemail message. He flips his phone shut and tries to control his temper. In the end, he can’t, and he flings the bedroom lamp against the wall.

God dammit.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at the phone that just stopped ringing. Winch is looking at you, a low whine in his throat, but you can’t tend to his distress right now.

Why wouldn’t you have expected him to try to call you? Obviously he was going to try to call you. He’s Dean Winchester, and he probably wants to tell you what an idiot you’re being.

You ignore your inner voice that’s telling you you’re being overdramatic, and turn back to your laptop, determined to find a way to ice Lucifer. You have a plan for damn near everything, but killing Lucifer is a new one.

Hours later, you’re still researching, and ignoring the repeated calls on your cell phone, when you fall asleep, laptop on your belly, Winch by your side.

Winch’s deep, angry growl wakes you up in a panic.

“Hello, pet,” a smooth, English voice purrs.

You sit straight up, eyes wide, looking at Crowley. Crowley. He’s standing in your crap motel room, looking for all the world like he belongs there.

“Oh. My. God.”

He smirks. “Bit South of God, I’m afraid, dear. Name’s-”

“Crowley,” you interrupt. You’re freaking the fuck out, because the future King of hell is standing in your goddamn room.

You slowly get off of the bed, never taking your eyes from the demon in front of you. You place a hand on Winch’s head. “Hush, bud, he’s not here to hurt us.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise. “Awfully confident for someone in your position, ah… I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Y/N, my name is Y/N,” you say softly, still in awe. “You’re Crowley. A crossroads demon.”

He smiles. “And how do you know that, pet?”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no offense, but I’m gonna go ahead and not tell you a damn thing.” You look down at Winch. “Guard, Winch.”

He takes up a stance in front of the demon, alert and tense. Crowley looks down at him, amused. “And what, exactly, do you think I’m going to do that I need to be ‘guarded’ by a mutt?”

“German shepherd,” you snap, picking up your cell phone. “He’s a German shepherd, not a mutt, what is it with you people?” Before you open your phone, you look back at him. “What are you doing here in the first place?”

He smirks at you again, and you realize how annoying his smug demeanor actually is. “A little birdie told me you’re the one who told the Winchesters not to use the Colt on Lucifer, that it wouldn’t work.” He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Thought I’d come see the girl who thinks she knows better than a demon what would kill the devil.”

“Ah,” you say softly. “Okay, that makes sense. And it won’t kill him, by the way.”

He examines you closely. “And why would you think that?”

You smile and shake your head. “That’s for me to know, and you to go fuck yourself.” You liked Crowley well enough as a character on a TV show, but this is your life now, and it wouldn’t do well to show the future King of hell all of your cards.

He smirks again. “Very well, then, the hard way it is.” He goes to take a step forward, Winch growls, and Crowley is forcefully stopped. He scowls upward at the devil’s trap you painted with spray paint just a few shades different from the color of the ceiling. He looks back down at you, and his eyes are sparkling with amusement and irritation. “Ah, so you’re the smart one now.”

“Definitely,” you say with confidence you don’t feel. You flip your phone open and dial, then hold it up to your ear.

“Y/N!” Dean’s urgent voice is soothing to your absolutely freaking the fuck out nerves, and even if you’re worried that he’s going to be mad, part of you is relieved that he’ll be here soon.

“Hey, Dean. You will never guess who came to see me.”

The sound of the Impala’s engine has you running to unlock the door. As you pull it open, Dean is striding toward you, his jaw ticking and his whole body tense with anger. A part of you quails in the face of that anger, but you don’t show it. You don’t have time to be anxiety-ridden now, there’s the small business of a demon in your bedroom.

Winch, apparently, has no qualms about showing how he feels. He bounds toward the hunter, barking and whining happily.

It throws Dean off-balance. He looks down and a smile quirks the side of his mouth. “Hey, Winch.” The dog barks in response, sitting in front of Dean and wagging his tail so hard his whole body is moving.

The sight warms you, even if your dog is a traitorous wretch. “Winch, come back in, bud,” you say softly, “Don’t want to get caught.”

Winch barks at Dean again, then trots back to you. Once he figured out that Crowley couldn’t move from his spot, Winch relaxed completely. Hence, his reaction to Dean.

Dean starts approaching again, and your eyes widen as instead of walking inside, he stops in front of you. He glares down at you for a second, and you stare back up defiantly, remembering all of the reasons you bailed. He can’t tell you what to do. Don’t give in to him just because he’s beautiful, that’s a terrible precedent to set.

Before you can speak (hopefully to tell him to go to hell, but probably to confess your undying love, or something stupid like that), he yanks you toward him and crashes his mouth onto yours. You sigh and wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him back with abandon. Okay, I can get used to angry kissing Dean.

Sam’s disgusted noise has you smiling against Dean’s mouth. “Jesus, Dean, could you not? There’s a demon in there.”

“Yes, hello, boys,” Crowley says, amusement coloring his tone. “As much fun as the show is, does anyone mind letting me out? Since, you know, I’m trying to help you?!”

You wince at his shout, and Winch stands in front of you and growls. Dean also growls a little, pushing you behind him and glaring at Crowley. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Sam is looking around. “Seriously, what is he doing here? I thought you said you had him in a devil’s trap?”

You nod and point up. “Spray paint on the ceiling. It’s a slightly different color than the ceiling, so I don’t have to paint over it.” Both of the boys are staring at you, and you roll your eyes. “Seriously, guys, devil’s traps do not have to be painted in red.”

Sam flushes, but Dean grins at you. “But they look so much better in red.”

You smile back. “But the demons can see it in red.” You point to the ceiling again. “He didn’t know about it until he tried to walk toward me.”

Dean whips around to glare at the demon. “Speaking of, what the fuck are you doing here?”

The humor has left Crowley, and he’s just straight up glaring at Dean. “I thought I would find out why you backed out of our deal. You know the one, to kill Lucifer? To our mutual benefit?”

You roll your eyes. “Is there a reason no one believes me? Is it because I’m a woman? It won’t work. I promise. But,” you say sweetly, “by all means, Crowley, take the Colt and try.”

He stares at you evenly. “You have a mouth on you, pet,” he says softly. “You should watch it.”

Winch growls again, and Dean takes up stance in front of you again. “Don’t talk to her, asshole,” He snarls. “I will exorcise you so fast your head will spin.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “If I promise to leave the pet alone, may I leave? I have matters to attend to, such as finding someone who’s not too afraid to fight Lucifer.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but you put a hand on his arm and look at the demon. You examine Crowley closely, then nod. “Okay.”

Ignoring Dean and Sam’s hissed protests, you stand on the bed and hold out your hand. “Knife.”

Dean glares at you. “No.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine.” You get off of the bed and step close to him, putting a hand on his warm chest. Your plan almost derails right there because he’s so firm, and warm, and when did he get so warm? But you know what you’re doing, so you lean close and gaze up at him. His eyes are wide, and he’s still as he stares at you

Before he can protest, you pull the knife from his belt and jump back. “Ha, easy,” you say cheerfully as you step back up onto the bed. You ignore his irritated grumbling as you reach up and scratch at the off-colored paint until the trap is broken.

Crowley stays still until you’re back on the ground, knife in hand. “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” you say evenly, keeping the knife.

He smirks at you. “You’re the one who trapped me, pet.”

You smile and cross your arms, careful to avoid cutting yourself. “You’re the one who invaded my bedroom.”

He smiles for real this time and tips his head. “Very true, madam.” He straightens and looks at the boys. “Well, hopefully we never see one another again,” he says genially. Then he looks at you. “But I have a feeling that we will.”

In between one blink and the next, he’s gone.

You take a deep breath, and let it out explosively. “Well, that was fucking weird.”

Sam’s looking at you, eyebrows raised. “Hey, good job with the devil’s trap. That’s impressive.”

You smile. “Thank you, I thought so.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, and you start to blush, which irritates you, which makes the problem worse. God dammit.

You clap your hands. “All right, gentlemen, go away now. I’m going to bed, so you can go. If you leave in the morning, you can get rid of that wraith before she hurts anyone else.”

Sam looks pained. “Y/N, come back with us.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m staying here. You guys go.”

Dean is glaring at you, and the part of you that was nervous comes back in full force. You fight the urge to shut down completely, settling for just glaring back at him.

“Come back with us.”

“No.”

“God dammit, princess, it’s not safe here.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m fine, Dean.”

He throws his hands in the air. “There was a demon in your room three minutes ago!”

“No, there was a demon in a devil’s trap three minutes ago!”

Winch is whimpering, looking between you and Dean. You hold your hand out, and he comes to lick your palm. You notice Sam quietly slip out of the room.

Dean ignores all of that. “Y/N, I can’t keep you safe if you’re not with me.”

You fight the urge to scream. “You don’t have to keep me safe, Dean, I’m not a child. I can take care of myself, at least for a while.” You sigh. “Look, I’m staying here, whether you like it or not. So you can either accept that now and go back, or we can yell some more. How does that sound?”

He glares at you for another minute, then turns on his heel and walks out the door. You wince as it slams shut behind him. You expected him to leave eventually, but you kind of thought he’d fight you a little more for it.

Why? You’re just some woman he’s stuck with, he doesn’t actually need you around. Not when he has women like Jo.

You sigh and put a hand on Winch’s head. “Just us again, buddy.”

The door opening back up surprises you. You squeak a little, staring at Dean, who is pointedly not looking at you. “What are you doing?” He ignores you and grabs the keys to Bobby’s car, then walks out the door again.

“What’s happening?” you ask an empty room.

He comes back in, still not looking at you. He shrugs his coat off to drape it over one of the chairs, then meets your eyes. “I’m staying here.”

Your eyes widen as he toes his boots off and pulls off the flannel he’s wearing. The layers these guys wear, it’s ridiculous. “What?”

He rolls his eyes and walks towards you. You squeak and step back a little. “I’m staying here. With you.”

“What did you do with my car?”

“Bobby’s car,” he corrects, “and I sent Sam with it.”

You glare at him and put your hands on your hips. “God dammit, Dean, this is the reason I’m not coming back. This macho, alpha male, she’s-a-woman-so-she-can’t-make-her-own-decisions bullshit. What if I don’t want you here?”

He’s glaring back at you, and he takes another step toward you. This time, you’re so angry you take a step forward yourself, so you’re almost touching. “Why wouldn’t you want me here?”

“Because you’re a macho, alpha male dick, and you’re going to keep following me around and trying to ‘protect’ me, which is really just another way of saying you don’t trust me.”

He groans and runs a hand through his hair, which has a naughty part of you perking up. You tamp that bitch down, because she cannot be trusted, and try to focus on your anger.

“No,” he says softly. “No, it’s not because I don’t trust you.” At your disbelieving snort, he groans again, and you fight the horny part of yourself to keep your anger at the front of your mind, because she just wants to jump him. 

“It’s… Look, Y/N, I do want to keep you safe. But it’s not that I don’t trust you, I mean, hell, that devil’s trap was enough to show you can take care of yourself, and the way you evaded me. I just…” He takes a deep breath and meets your eyes, and you drown a little in their green depths. “I just need to be here.”

Your heart starts racing, and you’re finding it hard to concentrate. “Why?” you ask softly.

He reaches up and cups your face in his big hand, and you find yourself tilting your head into his touch. “I don’t know,” he replies, “I just do.”

You examine him closely, trying to keep your emotions out of it. It’s impossible, he looks so bewildered, and a little sad, that before you can think, you step forward and wrap your arms around his waist. You bury your face in his chest and sigh deeply. “Okay, you can stay.”

He brings his arms up and holds you close, resting his head on your chin. There are a million unsaid words in the air, questions and answers and declarations and confessions. But you ignore them, concentrating on the heat of him wrapped around you.

You look up at him, comforted by his proximity. “Did you guys get the Colt?”

He nods, bringing a hand up to brush the hair out of your face, which does weird things to your heartbeat again. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Bobby has it.”

You smile up at him. “Well, then, let’s find out how to kill the devil.”

Dean is leaning back against the headboard, with Y/N sitting between his legs and leaning back against his chest. He has his arms loosely around her waist, and he’s just waiting to make sure she’s asleep so he can shut the laptop and settle them into bed.

Something that was tight and painful in his chest when he didn’t know where she was is gone now, and he buries his face in her hair gently to breathe in her scent. The smell of smoke that she had about her is almost gone now, and she is starting to just smell like her, which is incredibly comforting.

A few minutes later, when her breathing has been slow and even for a while now, he slowly leans forward and shuts the computer in her lap. He picks it up and puts it on the floor next to the bed, then presses his lips to her ear. “Come on, princess, time for bed,” he whispers.

She groans and cracks an eye open. “‘Kay,” she agrees, standing up. He smiles when she owlishly blinks at him, then closes her eyes again.

His smile disappears when she casually strips her shirt off and tosses it onto the floor. She’s wearing a black bra, and he’s fairly sure his heart isn’t beating as he devours her with his eyes. The dramatic curve of her hip, the pale skin he’s certain will feel like silk under his fingers and his tongue, the swell of her breasts.

She sleepily turns and walks to the bag on the table. She gets out a long t-shirt and sets it down. Dean tilts his head when he sees the tattoo on her left shoulder, trying to read it before she puts the shirt on.

“It says, ‘She alone wields the strength,’” she says sleepily, yawning widely.

Dean blinks. “What?”

She pulls the shirt on, then she’s slipping her jeans off, and he gets distracted by her legs for a second, so he almost misses her words.

“My tattoo, you were trying to read it,” she says softly as she crawls back onto the bed. “It says, ‘She alone wields the strength.’” She slips between the blankets and looks up at him sleepily.

He stands to strip his own shirt off, smirking when her eyes darken as she watches him. He shows off a little for her as he undoes his belt, watching her subtle reactions. “What does that mean?” he asks as he pushes his jeans off.

She smiles ruefully and meets his eyes, and he knows that she knows he caught her staring. “It’s from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. It’s part of the prophecy, and I’ve always liked it.” He slides into bed next to her, savoring the way she automatically melts against him, cuddling into him. He wraps his arm around her and presses a kiss to her forehead as he slips his other arm under her head. “I’ve always wanted to be strong,” she mumbles against his chest, already half asleep again.

He frowns down at her. “I dunno, you’re doing a pretty good job of being strong now.”

She shakes her head a little, a soft sigh on her lips. “Not yet I’m not, but you’ll be proud of me soon.”

He’s trying to think of a response to that when he realizes that she’s asleep. The bed dips when Winch jumps up and stretches out behind her, and Dean feels his lips tilt up in a smirk when it hits him that this way of falling asleep is growing on him.

Chapter Text

You wake up to Dean’s off-key singing, and you can hear that he’s in the shower. You smile and burrow deeper into the blankets, unwilling to wake up yet.

When you remember Winch, you do sit up, rubbing your eyes and looking for him. You raise your eyebrows when you see him lying peacefully between the bed and the bathroom door. He’s not dancing, or whining, he just lifts his head and thumps his tail when you sit up.

“Hey, buddy, do you need to go out?” you ask as the shower turns off.

“No, he doesn’t!” Dean shouts through the wall. “I already walked him.”

You blink, then tears come to your eyes. He walked my dog? If that’s not the sweetest thing that anyone’s ever done for you, you don’t know what is. Some unidentifiable emotion is welling up in you, making you all squishy on the inside when you think about the tall, green-eyed man in your bathroom walking your dog in the morning.

You wipe your eyes and run a hand through your hair, hoping you look halfway presentable. Winch jumps up on the bed next to you, and you automatically run a hand down his back.

And it’s a good thing you have a touchstone, because when Dean walks out shirtless, all of the blood rushes from your brain and down to your core. He’s perfect. Every muscle is clearly defined, his shoulders are strong and broad, and your mind has gone completely and utterly blank.

You want to trace every ridge of his stomach with your fingers, then with your tongue. You want those hips in your hands, and between your legs, you want to watch him tilt his head back into the pillow in pleasure as you take him into your mouth.

Your wide eyes travel up to his face, and his knowing grin has you blushing and jumping out of bed. “Oh-kay,” you say cheerfully, avoiding his gaze, “I’m gonna go take a shower, and then we can head out to get the wraith.”

You grab your bag and run to the bathroom, narrowly avoiding crashing into Dean, who’s still grinning, the jerk, and you slam the door behind you.

Okay, cold shower for you, you tell the naughty part of you, who is currently a drooling mess on the floor, then we have to hunt. Mind out of gutter.

It turns out, that’s easier said than done.

“I can do this.”

“God dammit, no, not an option.”

You are going to kill him. It’s a shame, it will be quite the loss to lose that face, but it’s the only thing you can think of. After all that big talk about “maybe you can take care of yourself,” Dean fucking Winchester is still trying to get you to sit this one out.

You press your fingers to your temples, trying to control your temper. “Sam?”

Sam’s eyes are wide, he’s been watching the exchange silently. He turns back to look at you from the front seat. “Yeah?”

“Are you going to kick me out if I shoot your brother?”

Sam grins. “No, I get it.”

You ignore Dean’s indignant noise to look at the younger hunter. “Will Bobby?”

“Bobby definitely understands the urge to shoot Dean.”

You nod and smile. “Good.” You turn back to the grumbling driver. “Dean, I’m going to have to hunt at some point. You may as well let me do it now, so we can really start getting stuff done.”

He glares at you through the rearview. “What do you even know about wraiths?”

You stroke Winch’s big head as you count on your fingers. “They’re stronger than humans. They feed on brain fluids, which they get by using the spike in their wrist. Brains flooded with dopamine seem to be their favorite, so they tend toward psychiatric hospitals, like the one we’re going to now. Mirrors will show their true form, and they’re weak to silver, so a silver blade to the heart will kill them.”

Sam’s grinning, admiration shining in his eyes. Dean is still grumbling, but you can sense that he’s going to give in.

Jackass.

They’re filling up at a crappy little gas station on the way to the psychiatric hospital. Dean is watching her walk the dog, observing again the easy way Winch walks on a leash. Good dog.

“Dean, when are you going to stop arguing with Y/N about hunting?”

Dean turns to his younger brother. “When she stops wanting to jump into this shit lifestyle.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I doubt she wants to be a part of this. But she’s trying to help.”

Dean shakes his head, frustrated. Sam doesn’t get it. If she does this, she’ll be in danger. The thought of her being hurt makes his chest ache. No way.

“What are we talking about?”

Dean jumps a little and spins, glaring at her. She’s standing there with wide eyes, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. She’s wearing tight jeans, a tank top, boots, and a leather jacket, and he’ll be damned if she doesn’t look like a hunter. A sexy hunter, but a hunter nonetheless.

Which makes him frown a little. “Nothing.”

She rolls her eyes and walks around him to let the dog into the car. “Please, you were talking about me. For men who hustle pool for a living, you guys have terrible poker faces.”

Dean glares down at her when she comes to stand next to him, trying not to be distracted by her proximity. “I have an excellent poker face.”

She laughs. “Whatever you say, hot stuff.”

That night, you’re at the motel with Dean. You’re still irritated, but a full day in the backseat with Winch has given you some time to think.

You get where Dean is coming from. He’s being an asshole about it, but you get where he’s coming from. Plus, you’re not sure he has any other mode than asshole.

When he comes back inside from pouting by the car, you smile. You’re hoping for peace, you’re tired of arguing with him. “Hey,” you say softly.

He grunts in response. Drama queen.

You roll your eyes. “So you’re not talking to me? That’s how this is gonna work?”

He just looks at you with raised eyebrows in response.

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts to talk to him. Winch is by your side and moves to rest his head on your knee, his big brown eyes flicking back and forth between you and Dean.

“Dean, you can’t use the fact that you want me to be safe against me.” He frowns, but you ignore him. “It’s not fair. It’s, like, actually killing me with kindness.”

He comes to sit next to you on the bed, and you suddenly find looking at him a little overwhelming, so you look down at Winch when Dean speaks.

“Y/N, we’re in a war. This isn’t just a regular hunt. It’s a battle, and I… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That has you looking back up into his eyes, but this time you’re a little irritated. “Dean, do you think I want you to get hurt?” He just blinks at you. “I’m just as worried about you as you are about me,” you continue, “So why is it that you get to go out and fight, and I have to just stay here and wait for you?”

“Because I’m a hunter, Y/N, and you’re not.”

“I could be, if you’d teach me how.”

His frown deepens. “Y/N, this life… Fucking sucks. You don’t really want to be part of it.”

You place a hand on his arm, not breaking eye contact. “Obviously. I don’t want to be here, I just... “ You take a deep breath. “Dean, I’m here. There’s no going back, and I don’t know if I would even if I could. I’m here, so you may as well teach me to defend myself.”

He’s watching you closely, and something in his eyes makes your heartbeat speed up, more than it already was. You become extremely aware of the heat of his arm beneath your fingers.

“Why wouldn’t you go back?” He asks, his voice low.

You look at him for a moment, wrestling with yourself. You decide on honesty. “Because you’re not there.”

Your words seem to flip a switch in him. He wraps a hand around the back of your head and pulls you close to kiss you. You whimper and move your hands to fist them in his shirt, pulling him closer.

He moves slowly, pressing you back to lay on the bed. You go willingly, so ready to have his weight pressing down on you you can’t stand it.

This time feels different. This isn’t flirty, or playful, or light. This is heavy and real, this is you wanting him so bad you can barely breathe, and him apparently wanting you the same way.

He rests his weight on one arm and settles himself between your thighs. You moan a little and wrap a leg around his waist, pulling him into you. His soft little growl sends heat shooting down to your core, and you can feel yourself start to tremble.

He moves away from your mouth to lay a trail of burning kisses down your jaw until he’s at your neck. You tilt your head back and whimper as he runs his teeth lightly along the vulnerable skin there.

His other hand is resting on your ribcage, and it moves up to cup your breast. You arch your back, desperate for more. You have no idea what's going on, you’ve never wanted someone like this, but you’re pretty sure if he’s not inside you soon, you’ll just up and die.

His heavy breathing in your ear is killing you a little bit at a time, just as the way he slowly thumbs your nipple is doing the same. “Tell me you want me, princess,” he says roughly in your ear, making more heat spread through you. “Tell me you want this.”

You turn your head to meet his eyes, those insanely darkened green eyes. “Yes, oh, God, yes, Dean, I want you, I want this. Please.”

His slow, predatory smile makes you a little dizzy, and you lean forward to kiss him thoroughly, one hand on his face. He nips at your bottom lip, and you open for him eagerly, still unable to believe that you’re underneath Dean Winchester.

His hand moves down to the hem of your shirt, and his warm fingers push up under the fabric, his callouses sending shivers up and down your spine. His hand moves up your stomach, and you’re whining into his mouth when he gets up to palm your breast through your bra.

He pulls away from your mouth. “ Fuck, princess,” he growls into your ear, shallowly thrusting against your core and kneading your breast.

You nod and press little kisses to his jaw. “I know, I know.” This is so much more than it’s ever been… You think that the two of you might actually explode.

He nuzzles your neck leisurely, and you close your eyes and give yourself up to the feeling of his hands and his lips on you, making you crazy.

A cold, wet nose on your cheek has your eyes popping open. You look over to see Winch looking at you expectantly. As you start to get irritated, you hear the Impala pull up.

You push on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, Sam’s back.”

He groans and lets his head drop to your shoulder. “God dammit.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I feel the same way, handsome.”

Later, you’re crouched outside the psychiatric hospital, waiting for the wraith to leave. You’re a smidge nervous, but you have a plan. It’s a good one, you assure yourself, but you’re nervous anyway.

She walks out, purse slung over her shoulder, and you take a deep breath to steady yourself. You look over at Winch, whose tail is already starting to wag. “Winch, buddy,” you whisper, “I think she wants to play.”

He immediately leaps into action. He bounds up to the wraith and barks playfully. She screams a little, then her eyes go wide as he stretches his front arms out and puts his butt in the air, a universal “let’s play” signal.

“Oh, God, nice doggy,” she says nervously.

“Zeus!” You shout, coming out from your hiding place. “Oh, my God, Zeus, come here, boy!”

Winch’s ears flick back to you at the familiar command, but you didn’t say his name, so he ignores you.

The wraiths eyes are wide as she looks at you. “Is this your dog?”

You nod and give her an apologetic smile. “Yes, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into him today.” You approach her,  keeping your smile in place. “I’m so sorry, he can get rowdy.”

When you’re close, you start analyzing her, finding the best way attack her and keep Winch and you safe. This is something you didn’t really know anything about in your old life, but apparently God wanted you to know how to hunt.

You’re finally close enough, and you bend down to grab Winch’s collar. She gives you a strained smile, and you feel the wind at your back pick up, sending your scent straight toward her.

Dammit.

Her eyes widen a fraction of a second before you move. You curse inwardly, but pull the silver knife from your belt and quickly move to stab her.

She backpedals, hands up. “Hunter,” she snarls as you advance. You say nothing, just keep coming, looking for another in. Before you can get one, she rushes forward and backhands you across the face.

Pain bursts in your cheek, and you fly backward from the force of her hit. Stronger than humans, you remind yourself, dragging yourself back to your feet.

Before you can do anything else, a huge, terrifying growl explodes from Winch. He’s circling her, all bunching muscles and long teeth. Her eyes are wide and watching him. You trust Winch, so you don’t worry. He’s fast as fuck, he’ll get out of the way if the need arises.

He leaps at her, and he’s too big to stop. His paws land on her shoulders and drive the wraith to the ground.

“Winch, subdue!”

He snarls at her, the deep sound coming from the middle of his chest. She makes a small movement, and his jaws snap shut centimeters from her nose. The wraith freezes.

Before she can hurt him, you kneel and shove him off, plunging the knife into her heart at the same time. It takes a surprising amount of strength to get to her heart, but you do it grimly. Sorry, lady, but you’re killing people. Can’t have that.

Once you’re sure she’s dead, you sit back on your heels and grin at Winch, whose eyes are bright and happy. “Good boy, Winch, you did great.”

He barks and tackles you, and you laugh quietly and push him off. “Come on, bud, we have a body to get rid of.”

“That was pretty good, Y/N,” Sam says behind you. You turn and smile at the brothers as they approach. “Thank you, Sam.”

Your cheek hurts like hell, and you can only assume it’s starting to bruise, because that’s what Dean is looking at when he crouches in front of you. His hand brushes your face, and you see his features start to darken in anger, and you grab his hand before he can start yelling. “Dean, I’m fine,” you say stubbornly, meeting his eyes. “We got her before she got us. I’m fine. So no yelling, or macho bullshit, or telling me to go home. Heard?”

He gazes at you for another minute, and you feel yourself fall deeper in love with him. “Yeah, princess,” he says roughly, “Heard.”

Winch watches his WOMAN and his MAN dig a hole in the ground. He wants to help, but the WOMAN told him no. No is Winch’s least favorite word.

Even though he must sit and watch the WOMAN and the MAN work, Winch is glad they are all back together. He did not like the WOMAN’S scent when they were away from the MAN. It was sad.

Winch thinks about the strange-smelling humans he’s met. First, the MAN who smelled of sulfur and suffering who could not move. Winch did not like his scent.

And then the WOMAN tonight, who smelled of innards and conniving. Winch didn’t like her scent very much, either, but he very much enjoyed helping his WOMAN kill her. Winch sees no problem killing humans who smell like that. Humans who smell like that are no good.

He lays his head down on his paws and watches his WOMAN push his MAN playfully. Winch wags his tail to show his approval, even though they cannot see it.

Winch very much likes his MAN, and he loves his WOMAN. He hopes they all stay together forever.

Chapter Text

You guys are back at Bobby’s by morning, the three of you exhausted and covered in dirt. Winch is the exception, and he bounds around you in circles, excited to be home.

You take your stuff to your bedroom and stand next to the bed, swaying on your feet, debating. Take a shower? Go to bed? Take a shower? Go to bed?

“Come on, princess, you get the bathroom first, because Sam insists that we be gentlemen.”

You turn to see Dean leaning in your bedroom door with a knowing smirk on his face. You smile and nod. “All right, give me a sec.”

The shower is amazing, the hot water and the soap and the steady, hard pressure beating on your already sore muscles. You move as quick as possible, knowing that the guys are tired, too, and once you’re done, you dart back to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

Once there, you stick your head out the door and call softly, “Bathroom’s all yours, gentlemen.”

You close the door and sit on your bed, putting a hand on Winch’s head when he rests it on your knee. “Long day, bud,” you say softly, yawning hugely.

You flop back, still wrapped in just a towel, onto the bed. Just a few minutes, then I’ll get dressed and go to sleep, you think to yourself, right before warm darkness envelops you.

Dean slowly opens her door, hoping that she doesn’t panic. She hasn’t so far when he’s snuck into sleep with her, but it’s been a long day, and her mind seems like a minefield to him sometimes. He’s never one hundred percent sure how she’s going to react to any given situation.

Once he’s in, his brain goes blank.

She’s laying on the bed, on her back, her feet dangling over the edge. She’s just wrapped in a towel, and it’s ridden up on her thighs, just barely covering the important stuff. It’s also come loose at the top, God help him, and there’s a strip of flesh from just below her breast down to her leg that’s exposed to his gaze. Her hair is wild around her face, like it would be if he was on top of her, making her crazy for him. One hand is curled on her belly, the other stretched out to her side, as if searching for him.

She’s smooth and pale and he can only assume she’s warm and soft. Oh, fuck.

He takes a deep breath, trying to remind himself that he needs oxygen, and trying to clear his head. The dog is laying on the floor next to the bed, and he meets Winch’s eyes, hoping that there will be judgement there. Instead, the bastard on the floor is asleep, so relaxed that even Dean entering didn’t make him stir.

Damn dog.

He takes another deep breath, and tries to think of anything but putting his mouth on her. Dead man’s blood for vamps, silver for werewolves, silver for shifters, silver for most things, actually, iron for ghosts, holy water for demons.

Once he’s calmed down a little, he walks in and shuts the door behind him. Then he approaches the bed and, without touching her, which takes a strength of will he didn’t even know he possessed, wraps her in the top blanket. She murmurs and cracks one eye open to look at him. “Dean?”

He smiles. “Hey, princess, hang on.”

She murmurs her assent, and he gently, slowly, carefully moves her so she’s completely on the bed. Then he gets under the other blanket and pulls her close, one arm around her waist and the other under her head. He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder and suppresses a shudder, barely, when she sighs and leans back into him. “Night, Y/N.”

She smiles. “Dean, it’s like seven in the morning.”

He chuckles, his lips still against her warm skin. “It’s nighttime somewhere, princess.”

You wake up slowly, arching your back to push yourself further into his hand. He’s cupping one of your breasts, his calloused thumb dragging across your nipple. His lips are pressed to your shoulder, and your breathing is loud and ragged. His sharp inhale lets you know that he was mostly asleep, too, before you moved.

“Fuck,” you moan softly, whimpering and pressing back into him.

“Y/N, God,” he gasps, the feeling of his lips moving against you sending shivers through you.

You whimper, because you’re not in a position that you can touch him in. So you turn quickly, caught a little off-guard by that beautiful face so close to yours. You take a moment to wonder how you look, if your breath stinks, maybe you should go brush your teeth first…

Before you can do any of that, he’s kissing you gently, and you’re responding without coherent thought. His arm is still beneath your head, and he’s hooked it around to keep you still. He nips at your bottom lip, and you open for him.

His other hand is on your hip, kneading the flesh there, sending tingly awareness through you. You moan into his mouth, your hands at his waist, and you push them up under his shirt. He’s warm, and the feel of his hard stomach is driving you crazy. You trace the muscles there with your fingers, like you’ve been wanting to do forever, relishing the gasp he’s giving you.

You feel his hard length against your hip, and you press into him gently, whimpering in the back of your throat. Your heart is racing, this is it, and you’re not nervous at all. You want him. And sooner would be better than later.

So one hand stays on his firm chest, and the other trails back down his stomach. His breath catches, and his hand tightens on your hip. You nibble at his bottom lip and palm him through his boxers. He groans, thrusting a little into your hand.

Oh. My. Fuck.

He’s big, and you’re so turned on you can barely think when you imagine him being inside you. So you throw a leg around his waist to keep him where he is and wrap your hand around him through the fabric, moving slowly up and down his length, savoring his moans.

His hand leaves your hip and moves to the knee slung around his waist. You whimper when his fingers move slowly, softly up your thigh, and you feel the control you had just a moment ago start to slip through your fingers as he starts kissing his way up your jaw to your ear. You feel his breath there, hot and heavy, and you start to tremble.

“Tell me you want this, princess,” he growls softly. His hand has stopped about midway up your thigh, and the shallow thrusts stop, too. “I need you to say yes, sweetheart,” he says softly, making your heart beat faster and your eyes prick with tears, “You have to say yes for this to go any further.”

Ah, God dammit, does he have to be perfect? You’ve been fighting it a little, because he can be a jerk and he’s a little patronizing sometimes and he drives you crazy, but here he is, his cock in your hand, refusing to do anything until you consent. And the knowledge that, if you did say no (and who the fuck would say no?), he would stop, and not be mad or try to force you to do anything, just cements it.

Oh, dear. I am in love with him, absolutely in love with him.

And you want him.

So you turn your head to capture his mouth with yours, smiling against his warm, chapped lips. “Yes,” you say softly against his mouth. The way his lips curl into a smile sends heat shooting down to your core, and you shiver.

“Thank God.”

He flips you onto your back and he’s hovering over you, his weight resting on one forearm, before you can blink. You gasp, the buck into his hand when it finally touches your core, his fingers starting to move through your folds. “Fuck, Dean,” you whimper, your hips moving with his hand.

He’s smiling against your ear. “I know, princess, I know.” The repeat of the words you said to him so recently has your head tilting back into the pillows as his fingers find that bundle of nerves. Your legs spasm around him, but his hips are in the way, so you just whimper and try to keep from crying out.

He presses his lips to yours to smother the sounds coming from you, his fingers moving in tight circles on your clit. “Shh, baby, gotta be quiet,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You try, you really do, but when his fingers leave your clit and he sinks one long digit into you, you cry out a little into his mouth. His finger moves slowly, dragging in and out of you at a maddening pace, and your hips move with it, desperately trying to get him to move faster.

“Dean, please, oh, please-”

“Shh, baby, I know, it’s okay-”

You’re murmuring to one another, your back arches when he slips another finger into you, a low whine in the back of your throat. His lips are pressed against your ear, the low rumble of his voice constantly in the background. The pressure builds inside you, and you restlessly move yourself against his hand, finding his rhythm and matching it.

He moves his thumb to your clit, moving in tight circles again, and you nearly buck both of you off of the bed. Your skin is too tight, and sparkles of awareness and pleasure are dancing across your skin. His lips move to your neck, and the open-mouthed, sloppy kisses he’s leaving there are driving you crazy.

He kisses his way back up to your ear. “Come for me,” he growls softly, “come on, princess, come for me.”

Your world flies apart into a million pieces, and he barely covers your mouth with his in time to cover your scream. He’s still moving his fingers inside you, and you’re writhing beneath him, whimpering and wishing he would stop and hoping he never, ever stops.

When he slides his fingers out of you, you give a dissatisfied moan, and he smiles against your lips. “Shh, baby, just a second,” he says softly against you. He sits up, and you survey his ridiculous body with a kind of smug satisfaction as he pulls his shirt over his head. Mine.

He lifts his fingers, slick with your wetness, and pops them into his mouth. Your eyes widen and you feel your face heat up as he absentmindedly cleans them. He’s not even looking at you, he’s reaching down for his pants, and you close your eyes against the wave of some indefinable emotion sweeping through you.

The bed shifts, and you open your eyes to see him getting off of the bed with a frown. You prop yourself back up onto your elbows to watch him let Winch out of the room. You tilt your head back and start to chuckle as Dean shucks his underwear off, then joins you on the bed again, grinning.

He leans down and kisses you, still smiling as his lips press against yours. “It felt wrong to do this in front of the dog,” he murmurs, pulling away from you to tear the foil wrapper he pulled from his pants open with his teeth.

You use the opportunity to press kisses to his jaw, loving the scrape of his stubble against your skin. You’re also loving the way he’s settling between your legs again, like he belongs there. Which, of course, he does.

He presses the tip of his covered cock against your entrance, and all of the play goes out of him for a moment. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavily, and the heat is back in you, making you tilt your hips up to meet him.

“Fuck, princess, need you to say yes again,” he says roughly, his eyes closed.

In response, you wrap your legs around his waist and bring a hand up to touch his cheek. When his green eyes open to look at you, you smile. “Yes.”

He enters you slowly, gently, and you gasp at the stretching sensation, grateful that he’s giving you time to get used to it. He’s still pressing his forehead against yours, and his eyes are closed, face pinched in concentration.

When he’s completely inside you, he pauses, still giving you time. It’s only a few moments before you squeeze him with your inner muscles, craving movement.

He delivers. He comes out almost completely, and then thrusts back in fast, making you moan and tilt your head back. He sets a quick pace, his mouth covering yours because you can’t hold back the noises you’re making. You tilt your hips up to meet him, catching his rhythm and matching it again, moaning wantonly into his mouth.

His rhythm starts to become erratic, and you run your nails lightly down his back, eliciting another shiver from him. The pressure is back in you, building more and more every time he drives himself back into you. He moves one of his hands down to your core, putting rough, insistent pressure on your clit. You tilt your head back and bite your bottom lip as you come again, whimpering and jerking, barely aware that he’s coming, too, above you.

He groans and pulls out of you, making both of you gasp. He rolls to his back, hooking an arm around you and bringing you with him. You rest your head on his shoulder and listen to the sounds of your breathing slowing down alongside his.

“Jesus,” he says softly, his hand running up and down your side gently. The naughty part of you is purring, basically a melted puddle of satisfaction.

“Yeah,” you agree.

There’s a few beats of silence, then you look up at him and smile timidly. “Breakfast?”

Winch watches his WOMAN cook while he lays in warm sunshine. He is happy.

He does not know what happened to his WOMAN, but her scent is very happy. That makes Winch very happy.

But no matter how happy her scent is now, his WOMAN still smells sad underneath. Winch knows that this is a sadness almost unique to humans, and he wishes he could take it from his WOMAN. He loves his WOMAN, he does not want her to be sad.

But he smells the MAN coming, and sometimes, the MAN makes her sad scent go away. So Winch gives a happy bark, then drifts to sleep.

His WOMAN is safe with the MAN.

You’re humming as you cook, dipping chicken in breading before you drop it into the pan full of oil. Your body is still singing, and you’re ridiculously happy.

Winch, who has been sunning himself in the middle of the room, gives a friendly woof. It’s your only warning before Dean’s hands are on your hips, and he’s pressing warm kisses to your neck.

You smile and tilt your head for him, but don’t stop what we’re doing. “Dean, cooking.”

He groans against your skin. “Aren’t you almost done?”

You laugh softly. “Yes, but when I’m done, you’re going to want to eat.”

He grins. “But what will I want to eat?”

That shuts you right the hell up, and you shiver a little. His soft, rumbling chuckle sends shivers down through you. You shake your head, trying to get the naughty part of you to shut up, because she’s sitting up and begging like a dog at the thought of Dean’s mouth anywhere near you. Jesus.

You groan. “Hush, you, don’t distract me.”

“Hmm, am I distracting, sweetheart?” he asks, running his hands up and down your arms gently.

You shiver, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. “You know you are.”

He spins you around slowly, then presses you against the counter and takes your face in his hands to kiss you. You let your hands fall to his waist and kiss him back, helpless against his gentle assault.

“Ugh, for fuck’s sake, gross,” Sam says mildly.

You turn to smile at him, ignoring Dean when he continues to kiss your neck. “Sorry, Sam,” you say softly.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Y/N, don’t worry, I don’t blame you.”

You chuckle and push Dean away. “Go, sit, lunch is almost ready.”

Dean grumbles, but goes to sit at the kitchen, smacking Sam on the back of the head on his way. “Don’t interrupt my makeout sessions, Sammy.”

Sam punches him in the arm when he sits. “Shut up, Dean, don’t make out with Y/N in the kitchen when she’s trying to cook.”

Dean glares and opens his mouth to retort when she interrupts. “Both of you can it, no fighting during lunch. And somebody go tell Bobby that food is ready.”

Sam stands to go get Bobby, and Dean turns to watch her. When Winch approaches and puts his head on his knee, Dean absentmindedly rubs the dog’s ears.

She’s still humming, moving around the kitchen and getting food ready. The way her hips curve, the way her legs flex, it’s all driving him crazy. Especially since now he knows what’s under her jeans.

“Stop staring at my ass, Dean,” she says smugly, turning to cock an eyebrow over her shoulder.

He grins and doesn’t stop. “I don’t think I can, princess.”

She rolls her eyes and turns with a plate of chicken in her hands. “Come help me set the table, hot stuff.”

He does, savoring the comfortable feeling of letting her boss him around. Once the table is set, he takes her in his arms and kisses her thoroughly again.

She’s smiling against his lips when Sam groans from the doorway. “This is starting to be a problem,” Sam gripes.

“Not in the kitchen, kids,” Bobby says mildly.

Dean grins and moves with her to sit at the table, letting his hand rest high on her thigh while they eat. It’s mostly silent while they eat. Dean has noticed that she likes the silence on the rare opportunities they get it, so he doesn’t break it, just waits for someone else to.

“So, what’s next?” Sam asks once they’re done.

She smiles. “You’re going to get a call from Donna, a woman who used to watch you guys? There’s a ghost haunting her home, but we should really go before she calls,” she says, frowning and turning to look at Dean. “The ghost mutilates her daughter.”

He nods and squeezes her thigh lightly. “All right, we’ll go tomorrow morning.”

She smiles, then turns back to Sam. “Ah, while we’re there, a…” She starts to laugh. “A nerdy kid uses a spell to swap bodies with you, Sam.”

Sam blinks, and Dean starts to chuckle. “What?”

She nods. “Yeah, he switches bodies with you because he hates his life. He’s a skinny nerd, and his parents are really strict. So he takes the opportunity to be a big, good-looking man.”

Sam is staring at her, shocked, but Dean pulls her chair closer to his and nuzzles her neck. “Hey, I’m the only man you can call good-looking.”

She laughs and leans into him. “No, you’re the only good-looking man that I can sleep with.”

He hums against her warm skin. “Hmm, damn right.”

“He takes my body?”

That night, you’re sitting on the bed, drawing the wraith from memory in a new sketchbook. You’ve decided to start a hunter’s journal, more to keep your thoughts in order than to record any new information. Winch is on the bed next to you, curled around you, snoozing while you sketch.

The door opens, and you don’t even look up when Dean walks in.

“Whatcha doin', princess?”

You put the final touches on her, then look up and smile. “Just recording some stuff, making sure I have all of my thoughts straight.”

He comes to sit next to you, pushing Winch’s butt out of the way. The big dog groans behind you, then sprawls on his side.

Dean looks down at the page briefly, then turns his attention to running his tongue along the shell of your ear, and running his hand up your thigh. “I can help with that.”

You laugh and shut the book, then lean back and turn to him. “Dean, you’re incorrigible.”

He moves you back slowly, and you go willingly, until you’re lying beneath him. In moments, you’re already putty in his skilled, calloused hands, moaning beneath him and fisting your hands in his shirt.

You pull away, smiling when he is not deterred. He pulls your shirt down to start laying kisses along your collarbone. “Dean, we have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Mhmm.”

You laugh. “Dean, come on, we should go to sleep. I don’t want to ride with you if you’re too tired to drive.”

He lifts his head and levels a finger at you. “Hey, I’m an excellent driver.” He immediately resumes his gentle attack on your skin.

You laugh. “Dean, they’re going to hear me again.”

He grins against your skin. “Good.”

Chapter Text

You gasp as you sink down onto his length, a deep soreness heightening your pleasure. You gasp and tilt your head back. “Oh, fuck.”

His hands are on your thighs, gripping you tight. His deep moans makes you shiver as you move back up, trying to get a rhythm going, but so distracted by the god beneath you that you’re having trouble.

He thrusts up into you, hitting that lovely spot, and you cry out a little and grind down onto him.

He chuckles and sits up to wrap an arm around your waist, nuzzling your collarbone and neck. “Shh, princess, gotta be quiet.”

You put your hands on his shoulders and keep moving, you’re close, fuck you’re close. “Shut up, Dean,” you say breathily, running your hands through his hair and using it to tilt his head back so you can kiss him thoroughly.

He moans into your mouth, then bucks and rolls so you’re on your back beneath him. You whimper, then wrap your legs around his waist and give him control.

He sets a fast pace, driving into you hard, sending you higher and higher. You’re moaning wantonly into his mouth, your fingernails digging into his arms. “Fuck, Dean,” you mutter against his smug smile.

“Come on, baby, one more,” he murmurs against your skin.

You press your lips against his to smother your moans as you come hard, clenching around him, bringing on his own orgasm. He pulls away and rests his head against your shoulder. You run your hand up and down his strong back, holding him through the shudders wracking his body.

He groans and rolls to the side, bringing you with him. You rest your head on his sweaty chest, still trying to catch your breath. “You’re… Obnoxiously good at that.” He laughs, and you smile up at him, and it hits you.

Your anxiety has been quiet. It was quiet when you helped their old babysitter with that ghost, it was quiet when you stole the witchcraft book from that kid’s locker, and it was quiet when Sam and Dean put the fear of God into the kid.

It has decided now, postcoitus, is the way to fucking go.

You feel your smile become disingenuous, and you leap out of the bed, trying to get out before he can notice. You hurriedly grab a long t-shirt, slip it on, and head for the door.

No luck. “Y/N?”

Damn. “I’m fine!” you chirp as you walk out the door and close it behind you. He won’t walk out naked, so that should give you some time.

You run to the bathroom and past Winch, who’s laying on the outside of the door, thanking God that Dean woke you up for sex before anyone else is up. You shut and lock the door behind you, and go to sit on the cool porcelain of the bathtub, your head in your hands.

What the fuck are you doing? He’s just going to hurt you, and it’s going to be your stupid fault.

You agree silently. I know.

He’s not into relationships, he doesn’t want a relationship, he just wants someone he can fuck regularly when he can’t get it anywhere else.

You frown. Okay, I don’t think he’s that mean, but I know he doesn’t want to be in a relationship with me. He’s Dean fucking Winchester.

Damn right, he’s Dean fucking Winchester, and he’s going to break your stupid fucking heart, because you want to be in a relationship with him.

I know.

He doesn’t want to be tied down to some nobody who can barely get around and only knows how to hunt because she watches too much TV.

I know.

But that’s not the real issue, is it? Your anxiety asks slyly, and you know what’s coming next. The real issue is that he’s gorgeous. He belongs in photo shoots and on the fronts of magazines and on billboards. And you’re… You. You’re just perfectly average, you’re carrying a little too much weight, you have the self confidence of a goddamn noodle, and you’re not willing to do anything about it, because admitting you have a problem would mean taking steps to fix that problem, which you’re not willing to do. So what the fuck would someone like Dean want with someone like you?

I… I don’t know.

Winch doesn’t know what happened to his WOMAN, but he suspects that the MAN has something to do with it. And as much as he likes the MAN (which is very much), he loves his WOMAN, so he stations himself in front of the door she went into and waits for her.

When the MAN comes down the hall, Winch lets a low growl emit from his chest. He hates to do it, he doesn’t want the MAN to think he doesn’t like him. But if he did something to hurt his WOMAN, Winch will kill him before letting the MAN near her again.

The MAN crouches in front of him and reaches a hand out. As much as Winch loves getting his ears rubbed (almost as much as he loves the WOMAN), he growls louder. This is his WOMAN, the MAN should not get to touch Winch or the WOMAN if he has done something bad to her.

The MAN stares, caught off-guard, like rabbits sometimes are the first moment before they start to run. Winch lets his growl get deeper and his upper lip starts to twitch up over his teeth.

“What’s wrong with your mom, buddy?”

The MAN speaks in the nonsense language, and the worry in his voice calms Winch. Winch knows that sometimes, his WOMAN’s mind is dark and dangerous, and maybe the MAN doesn’t know how to help her. Winch knows how to help her, but it is one of his great frustrations that he cannot express to the MAN that sometimes the WOMAN just needs someone to lay next to her.

So instead, he gives a low, warning bark. She is still his WOMAN, after all, and she has two legs and two arms, and she would come out of the room if she wanted to.

“Winch!” she calls softly. His ears perk up, and adoration washes through him, like it always does when she speaks his name.

“Winch, buddy, chill.” It is a command he is familiar with, so he lets his growl peter out and his ears fall back, to hear her better.

Because she is his WOMAN, and he loves her.

“I’ll be out in a sec, Dean, just… Just give me a minute to clean up, okay?”

Dean frowns at the door, then frowns at Winch, whose eyes have lost the hard look in them. For a second, he actually thought the big dog was going to bite him.

“All right, princess. Is, uh… Is everything okay?” Dean winces as the words leave his mouth. Obviously everything wasn’t okay, or she wouldn’t have run out of the room like it was on fire as soon as they were done.

“I’m fine,” she says softly.

Bullshit. He stands and wipes a hand down his face, then looks down at Winch. “Need to go out, buddy?”

The dog gives a friendly woof, but doesn’t move. Dean didn’t expect he would, somehow. He would stand there and protect her, too, if he wasn’t somehow the goddamn problem. He thinks about her head being a minefield again as he walks down the stairs to the kitchen to start coffee. Damn confusing woman.

After coffee is started, and she’s still not out of the bathroom, he tries to think of what will make her feel better. Food always makes him feel better, so he sets about making eggs and bacon, which is one of two meals he knows how to make. The other is coffee, so he’s really going all out for her.

He hears the big dog bark, and her murmuring to the dog, so she must have come out of the bathroom. Suddenly, he’s a little nervous. She’s, like, a chef, dude, and you’re trying to make her feel bad with watery eggs and overcooked bacon? Genius, Winchester.

When he turns, he watches her let the dog out. He examines her face before she looks at him. She definitely hasn’t been crying, but her face is tight with some emotion he can’t place, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to make sure that damn, sad look is never on her pretty face again.

“Breakfast?” he asks nervously, unsure of what to do with his hands. How does this girl make him act like a high schooler again?

She turns and her eyes widen. She puts a hand over her mouth, and her eyes fill with tears, and he curses himself. God dammit, Winchester, you idiot.

He opens his mouth go apologize, but is interrupted by her voice. “You… You made me breakfast?”

He smiles tentatively. “Uh… Yeah. I mean, it’s not much, it’s just-”

He’s interrupted again by her walking forward and wrapping her arms around his waist. She buries her face in his chest and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.

Knowing that this is an arena in which he should tread lightly, he slowly puts his arms around her. “What happened?”

She laughs softly, but doesn’t look up at him. “I’m just crazy, Dean. Don’t mind me.”

He holds her close and rests his chin on her head, somehow not satisfied with that answer.

Later, you’re outside walking Winch (or really, walking around while he does whatever the fuck he pleases, because he defended you in the bathroom, so he should get to sniff broken down cars as much as he wants), wondering why you are the way you are.

You’re exhausted after the up and down of the morning. Or, more accurately, the down and up of the morning. Coming out of the bathroom to Dean having made you breakfast was… Amazing, to say the least. So you’d eaten, even though your stomach felt like lead, and now it still feels like lead. Just lead full of eggs and bacon.

You give a deep sigh and watch your dog sniff an old tire for the thirteenth time, smiling as his fur ruffles in the wind. Best damn man on the planet, you think fondly.

Suddenly, an idea hits you. “Winch! To me!”

He trots over to you easily, bumping your hand with his nose when he gets there. You smile down at him. “Come on, buddy, let’s go do some good.”

You walk into the house and smile to find the kitchen empty. Your anxiety assures you that they’re somewhere talking about you, somewhere talking about how useless you are, and what a burden you’ve become, but you tell your anxiety to stuff it.

The mission that you’re on is more important than your little personality quirks.

You’re smiling as Dean grumbles. “What are we doing here?”

You smile and reach over to pat his arm. “You’re not doing anything here, hot stuff. Winch and I are.”

He frowns and pulls into a parking space. “Y/N-”

You shake your head. “Dean, I know there are more important things, but… There aren’t, you know? I just need to get my head straight, and this will help.” You shrug. “You can come with, or you can stay here. Either way, I’m doing it.”

You hop out of the car before he can respond, and you open the back door for Winch. When he’s out, you close the door and clip his leash to his collar. “Come on, buddy, let’s go do some good.”

Your heart feels both lighter and heavier when you hear the driver’s side door open, then shut. You turn to smile at him, and he’s got a disgruntled look on his face that almost wipes the smile off of yours. But you keep it on and look down at Winch. Not going to ruin this, you tell your anxiety. “Dean,” you say softly, “You can’t bring guns in here.”

He blinks, then glares at you. “I am not-”

“Then you’re not going in,” you say simply. “Dean, not negotiable. No weapons. It’s kids, you nerd, you can’t bring guns in there.”

You rub Winch’s ears as Dean empties the arsenal he keeps on his person (this man is ridiculous), then you’re ready to go.

The three of you walk into the children’s hospital, Winch wearing his vest that proudly proclaims him a volunteer support dog. He’s registered damn near across the country, having passed every test they have, and since he had a bath and a good tooth-brushing this morning, he’s almost good to go.

Once you’re inside, you kneel. You hold your hand out. “Give me some skin, Winch,” you say happily. He woofs low in his chest and lifts his front paws to rest them in your hand. You put on the little booties that keep him as sterile as possible, then get him to stand so you can put them on his back feet. Once you’re done, you stand and smile down at him. “Ready, buddy?”

You check in at the front desk, then follow the nurse to the children’s ward. You’ve done this a million times, but a little fizzle of nervous anticipation still sweeps through you.

When she opens the door, you’re in a rec room that’s clearly been made for sick children. There’s tiny tables and tiny chairs, colorful drawings on the walls. There’s a few toys, but only toys that are easily sanitized, as some of the kids don’t have strong immune systems.

Several sets of small eyes go wide as dinner plates when you enter with Winch. You smile and unclip his leash, and sit back to watch him work his magic.

He enters the small crowd of children, tail wagging and sniffing like crazy. The first child, a small girl with wispy hair and an oxygen tube tucked into her nostrils, lifts a hesitant hand to pet him. He sniffs her face happily, but doesn’t lick her. Somehow, Winch knows not to lick the kids, he always has.

Once he lets her pet him, it’s a crazy storm of tiny, chubby hands on his body. Winch is in heaven, spinning to sniff everyone, but slowly, so as not to knock everyone over.

“Hi, guys! My name is Y/N, and this is Winch.”

A boy looks over and smiles at you. He walks toward you and holds out his hand. “My name is Howie,” he says in a raspy voice.

You smile and shake it. “Hi, Howie, it’s lovely to meet you.”

He looks over at Dean. “Who’s that?”

You turn and smile. “This is Dean. He’s a friend of Winch’s and mine.”

Howie nods and turns back to Winch. “He’s huge.”

You nod. “Yes, he is.”

Howie leads you by hand to the crowd, where you sit on the floor, crossing your legs and smile. “How did he get so big?”

“Well, Winch here is what’s called a King German shepherd,” you say easily. “King shepherds are a product of irresponsible breeding practices. It means that Winch might have a lot of sickness later in life, but for now, it means he’s big.”

The little girl who pet Winch first looks at you with big eyes. “He’s… Gonna be sick?”

You nod, and she continues. “Sick like us?”

You nod again. “Sort of.”

She nods and turns back to him, then throws her arms around his neck. “I love you, Wirnch,” she mispronounces his name, but it’s so damn cute you leave it, “it’s okay, I’m sick, too!”

You smile and answer their questions. Soon, you feel Dean sit next to you, silently watching. And not long after that, the kids are crawling all over the two of you. You watch with a warm, fuzzy heart as Dean answers their questions, lifts them in the air, and treats them like regular kids.

Which, of course, they are.

Dean is in awe of her.

They’ve been here for at least an hour, and she’s patiently answering questions, playing patty cake, and teaching the kids rhymes and math and spelling and everything else their curious minds can come up with.

They’re settling down, and Dean has a little girl curled in his lap, almost asleep. His leg is tingling and starting to go numb, but he’s realized that he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than move it, so he stays still.

“Do you know any stories?” a little boy asks. He’s lying next to Y/N, with his head resting on her thigh. There’s another child curled in her lap, and Dean is jealous of sick children for the first time in his life. Definitely going back to hell.

“I know one,” she says cheerfully, her fingers running along the child’s hairless head. She honestly doesn’t seem to notice that the kids around them are sick.

“Tell us!” “Tell us!” there’s a chorus of voices calling out to her, and she smiles. Dean is struck by her face, how happy she looks, how that happiness launches her from pretty to downright beautiful.

“Well, it’s about two brothers-” she starts, then her eyes widen and she blushes. “Uh, okay, maybe not that one.”

Dean grins. “No way, the story about two brothers!”

“Yeah, brothers!” “Yeah, tell us that story!”

She shoots him a dirty look, then turns back to the kids. “All right, the story about two brothers.” She takes a deep breath. “These two brothers aren’t like all brothers, you see. They’re like you guys. They’re heroes.”

Half an hour later, they’re nearing the end of the time the nurse told them they had, most of the kids are showing signs of exhaustion, even Winch is snoozing on a boy’s knee, and Dean is in awe of her once again.

The way she tells the story of he and Sam… It’s like they really are heroes. Of course,she cleaned it up, made it less scary, but…

She might actually think we’re heroes.

You’re making dinner later that night, still on cloud nine from the visit to the hospital. You’ve promised to go back as much as possible, and it’s a promise you intend to keep. The kids have enough uncertainty in their lives, you and Winch aren’t going to add to that.

You’re sprinkling cheese onto the casserole when you feel familiar lips on your neck. You smile and tilt your head. “Dean, cooking.”

He nods against your skin and his hands rest on your hips.

You smile. “You know, I’m sensing a trend here, that you only attack me in the kitchen when my hands are busy.”

He smiles. “You’re a smart woman.”

You laugh, then push him away by backing your ass into his pelvis. “I have to put this into the oven, and then we can lick one another's tonsils to our heart's content.”

You open the oven door, grab the casserole, and bend over to put it in. He puts his hands on your hips and pulls you toward him, thrusting a little. You laugh and close the oven door, then stand and try to turn in his arms.

Instead, he keeps you facing forward, and walks you gently toward the counter. You smile and go willingly, and once you’re there, his lips are at your neck and his hands are moving up to cup your breasts. You moan and lean your head back as he thumbs your nipples gently.

“Tell me you want me, princess,” he husks in your ear.

You whimper and push back against him, smiling when you feel the length of him pressed against you. “Oh, fuck, yes, I want you.”

“And that… Is going to haunt me.”

Sam’s voice has you jumping. Dean spins and puts you behind him, and you press your face into his back as you laugh. “Shut up, Sam,” Dean says gruffly.

“I don’t feel like a sex-free kitchen is too much to ask!”

Chapter Text

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, chewing on your lip, nervous as fuck. Winch sits underneath the table, his head on your knee, his big brown eyes shining his concern at you. You rub his ears, trying to make sure you have your story straight.

The guys file into the kitchen, and you feel a little like you’re in front of a firing squad.

Until Dean comes to sit next to you, resting his arm on the back of your chair. “All right, so what’s up, princess?”

You take a deep breath and think. Castiel, I need you. It’s… It’s about everything, God included.

The fluttering of wings fills the room, and you’re looking at Castiel, who’s staring at you warily. “Do you know where God is, Y/N?”

Instead of answering, you look at Dean, then Sam, then Bobby, then finally back to Castiel.

“Okay, here’s the thing. I know what’s going to happen. I can stop some of it, but not all of it, and I need your guys’ help. So, I guess the first thing I need to know is, how much do you want to know?”

You decided late last night, curled up in front of a sleeping Dean, that they needed to know. You don’t want to tell them, because some of it is going to hurt them deeply. More importantly to you, it’s going to hurt Dean deeply. He’ll play it off or get mad or make a joke, but this is going to hurt.

But you can’t get Lucifer out of your head. No matter what you think of, there is no damn way to defeat him without Sam sacrificing himself… Which will, of course, hurt Dean deeply.

And you hate that. You hate it so much, you think that if given the opportunity, you would die to keep them from having to go through any of that. But that’s not an option, and the Winchesters get all bitchy when someone else is doing the martyr thing, so you’re left with this.

You’ve tried a million ways out of telling them everything, but there isn’t one.

So you’re gonna have to bite the bullet and tell them in the morning.

You decide to shamelessly butter them up with waffles first.

They’re big and fluffy and warm, and you bought good maple syrup, and strawberries to go on top. You ground good coffee, it’s already brewing, and the kitchen smells like heaven when Dean comes in.

True to form, he immediately plasters himself to your back, his warm arms wrapped around your middle, his stubbly face buried in your neck. “What’s the occasion, princess?” he asks, still absolutely lovely in his sleepy state.

You smile. “Why does there have to be an occasion? I always cook breakfast.”

He inhales deeply and doesn’t lift his head. “Not like this you don’t. What gives?”

You shrug, smile still on your face, because who do you think you are, lying to a Winchester? “We’ve got some difficult stuff coming up, and I wanted to make sure everybody had a good breakfast in them before we dig into it.”

He sighs and stays where he is, which is making you all warm and fuzzy. Who saw Dean Winchester being a cuddler coming? Of course, you’d always wanted him to be a cuddler, but you also want your eighteen-year-old body back, and that hasn’t happened, so who thought this would?

He finally lifts his head, but doesn’t let you go. “All right, what do I need to do?”

Bobby is frowning. “How much of what?”

You shrug. “I mean, do you want me to stop at the showdown between Lucifer and Michael, or do you want me to tell you everything I know? It’s eight years worth of bad shit, but I can tell it.”

Sam runs a hand down his face. “I mean, the more we know, the more we can prevent, right?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, go ahead and tell us everything, princess.”

You take a deep breath and close your eyes. Your anxiety claws at your throat, and you shove it back down in it’s stupid hole. You don’t have time to shut down right now. There are lives at stake, dammit.

“Okay, so let’s start with you guys dying and going to heaven…”

You tell them everything. You try to spare them some of the worst details, but it’s hard.

Heaven. Swan Song. The year with Ben and Lisa. Sam coming back soulless. Getting Sam’s soul back. Cass trying to rule heaven. The Leviathans. Bobby’s death. Charlie. Purgatory. Dean being in Purgatory for a year. Dean coming back. Henry Winchester. Abaddon. The Mark of Cain. The trials to close the gates of hell. The Darkness. God coming back (although, for some reason, that one’s fuzzy for you), and finally, the Darkness bringing their mother back to life.

That, of course, is the last episode you saw before you got dumped into this universe and into their laps. So once you finish that, you get quiet, staring down at your hands, which are folded in your lap. It’s taken a couple of hours to get through everything, with as much detail as you remember, so you’re exhausted, deep down in your soul.

The silence around you is deafening, and you close your eyes against the raging, rapid internal dialogue.

They blame you they hate you they’re trying to find a nice way to tell you to leave they don’t believe you they blame you they think this is your fault they’re wondering why the fuck you didn’t tell them earlier then they wouldn’t have had to drag your sorry ass all the way-

Your thoughts are interrupted by a cold nose bumping into your hand. You open your eyes to see Winch looking at you, ears forward and eyes bright. He whines low in his throat, insistent.

You smile. “Okay, buddy, let’s go out.”

You stand and beat a hasty retreat, grateful once again that you have Winch with you. You go outside and watch him bound around the front yard, wishing like hell that you had a fucking cigarette. Worst week to quit ever. After careful consideration, you revise that to worst lifetime to quit ever.

You walk around the building with Winch, trying to tamp down your panicky thoughts. Your arms are wrapped around your middle, and you smile when Winch bounds to you, then bounds away again, then does the whole routine several times over.

You try to keep your mind blank, taking deep breaths and fighting off the anxiety attack that’s threatening you.

Five, four, three, two, one.

Five things you can see. Winch, the house, the trees, the salvage yard, your sneakers.

Four things you can touch. You bend down to touch the ground, Winch, the closest car, and the tire lying on the ground next to it.

Three things you can hear. Birds in the air, Winch’s fast, shallow breathing, and the very faint sound of traffic

Two things you can smell. The lovely scent of the woods, and the undercurrent of grease and oil from the salvage yard.

One thing you can taste. You put your finger in your mouth. Me.

With a deep breath, you feel better, and the kick-ass part of you rears her head again. The part of you who was willing to kick Jensen and Jared off of your porch, the part of you that hunted that wraith and captured Crowley in a devil’s trap. You’re glad she’s back, you missed the fuck out of her.

If they don’t like it, fuck ‘em, you’ll try to stop it on your own. And if Dean doesn’t like it, fuck him, you were fine before him, and you will be fine without him.

You’re unsure of that, but the kick-ass part of you sounds confident, so you agree with her.

You’re goddamn right.

Dean is sitting at the table, in shock. His unease and surprise has been growing steadily since she started her story.

The thing that scares him most is it all sounds so… Plausible. There are some holes he wants her to fill in, like why the fuck he goes to Purgatory and it takes Sam a goddamn year to fish him out, but… Yeah, that all sounds like him.

It also confirms every suspicion he has. The suspicion that Sam will let him down, that people are going to die at his hands, and that it will never end. There will be no rest for him, and for Dean, that’s the worst out of everything she said.

He realizes abruptly that she’s gone, and she’s probably not happy with him for sitting here like a jackass while she left.

He stands and walks out the door, ignoring the other three men in the room, who are also probably in shock. They’re not who he’s worried about.

He gets outside and looks for her. He follows the sound of Winch’s happy barking to the side of the house, the corner of his mouth kicking up when he heard her talking to herself.

“And you were okay before him, and you’ll be okay after him.”

His smile fades into a frown. After him? After me? Is she talking about after me?

“And you don’t need them. You can take care of it yourself. You can do this, Y/N.”

Despite what she’s talking about, her fervent voice makes him smile as she peps herself up to leave him.

“You’re damn right you can, princess.”

She whirls around, her eyes wide, a blush starting to rise on her cheeks. “Oh, uh, hey, Dean.” She closes her eyes in defeat as he approaches her. “Please tell me you didn’t hear me talking to myself like a crazy person.”

He slips his arms around her waist, comforted by the way her head tucks itself under his chin naturally. “No luck, sweetheart.”

She groans and puts her arms around his waist, too. “Ugh, excellent.”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Happens to the best of us, princess.”

She groans again. “I am definitely not the best of us.” Before he can argue with her, she looks up into his face. “Is it bad in there?” she asks softly, her eyes full of worry.

He gazes down at her, and savors the fact that she asked him, like they’re co-conspirators. “It’s, uh, pretty quiet. It was a lot to process, princess.”

She sighs and nods. “Yeah, it was.” She rests her cheek on his chest. “Maybe lunch will help.”

You cook a light lunch, feed everyone, and then go to your room to give everyone time to think. Dean shoots you a wink as you retreat, and you give him back a wan smile. It’s already been a long day, you don’t think you have any banter left in you.

Once you get to your room and shut the door behind Winch, you pull out your sketchbook and watch as the big dog settles himself onto the foot of the bed. Once he’s still, you start to draw.

Winch has always been your favorite subject, so you barely have to think about the curve of his back, the way his haunches bunch when he’s curled  around himself the way he is, the way his tail tucks itself around himself. He’s gorgeous.

It chills you out, gives your brain something to do so it can process everything that’s happened to you the past few weeks. Everything between opening your old front door to Dean’s ridiculously green eyes to smiling at Dean on your way up the stairs.

Ah, everything is fucked.

Excellent, progress is the same.

You are going to be all right. You hunted that wraith, you trapped Crowley, you can do this. Would it be easier with Dean next to you, with Bobby and Cass and Sam backing you up? Yes, yes it would. But you can do it either way.

The sketch of Winch is done (rough though it may be), so you flip the page and let your hand go crazy, do whatever it wants.

And speaking of Dean, you can do that, too. You can deal with sleeping with him, and you can hide how strongly you feel for him. Hell, you’re used to hiding feelings, so this shouldn’t be an issue. It will not matter how incredible his shoulders are, or how flat his stomach is, or how he feels when he’s moving inside-

Okay, stop that. Not helping.

You take a deep breath and keep sketching, letting your mind work again, trying to find a way to stop this whole damn apocalypse thing.

You don’t even hear the door open.

Dean opens the door slowly, waiting for her to tell him to go to hell. When she doesn’t, he peeks his head through the door to watch her for a second.

She’s so absorbed in her task that she doesn’t notice him, so he takes the opportunity to study her.

Her legs are crossed, she’s bent over her sketchbook, pencil moving furiously. Her hair is brushing the paper, draped over her shoulder like that. Her pretty face is smooth and relaxed in concentration, and he realizes that the only time he’s seen her that relaxed is right after sex, sweaty and laying on his chest, looking up at him with that sleepy, satisfied smile that is permanently burned onto the back of his eyelids.

He wants her to look like that again.

That’s… Doable.

He walks in slowly, closing the door gently behind him. He sits on the bed behind her, smiling when she barely notices.

“Hi, Dean,” she says softly, still sketching quickly.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of her neck. “Whatcha doin’, princess?”

She doesn’t stop. “Sketching.”

He nuzzles her neck, he doesn’t mind that she’s distracted. She’ll come back to him eventually, he can wait. “Sketching what?”

He feels her smile. Gotcha. “You.”

Surprised, he looks up and over her shoulder, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around her waist.

He’s looking at a picture of himself, lying on his back on the bed. On her bed. His eyes are closed, his head is tilted back a little, his mouth parted. His arms are down, disappearing into the bottom of the picture. He doesn’t have a shirt on, and she’s finishing the tattoo on his chest.

His eyes widen when he realizes that this is what she sees when she’s riding him. He knows exactly what moment she’s drawing, as she moaned on top of him, and she was suddenly too much for him to look at. Instead, he’d tilted his head back and gripped her thighs hard, only looking up at her again when she’d started making too much noise.

“God,” he breathes out. “You’re good at this.”

She smiles and turns her head to look at him. “Thank you, it’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself.”

You’re smiling, your awareness slowly leaving your page and focusing on his warmth pressed against your back.

You smile down at the sketch fondly, rubbing a thumb over a too harsh line on his perfect stomach. Satisfied, you flip the book shut and put it and the pencil down underneath the bed. Swinging your legs off the bed, you turn to face him, looking into his insanely handsome face and smiling again. “Hi, you.”

He grins. “Hi, princess.” He lifts a hand and cups your face with his hand. You tilt into his touch, closing your eyes to soak in the warmth of his big palm against your cheek. “How you holdin’ up?”

Your eyes pop open, and you feel your brow furrow. “Dean. I just told you, in detail, how shitty the next eight years of your life are going to be. Why are you asking about me?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t have been easy to tell us that. Plus you know, the pep talk you were giving yourself is a pretty big sign.” He gives you a crooked smile.

You’re a little overwhelmed by him, so instead of responding, you lean forward and press your lips to his, kissing him uncertainly. He uses the hand he has on your face to keep you where you are as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss.

You whimper and fist your hands in his shirt, taking a little bit of control and pulling him toward you. He comes willingly, and you seem to move in sync with him as he presses you back into the pillows. You tug at his shirt, and he leaves you just long enough to pull it off before coming back down to mouth your neck.

You whimper and run your hands up his perfect stomach, up to his chiseled chest, and feel a fierce wave of possessiveness wash over you. You lean up and press your lips to his neck, then nip at him gently. He shudders, and you smile against his warm skin.

“Hmm, you’re wearing way too many clothes, princess,” he murmurs, pressing himself into you so you can feel his hard length against your leg.

You laugh softly. “Well, you should probably do something about it.”

He smiles wickedly and sits back, his hand moving slowly down your sides to rest at the hem of your shirt. “I think we can take care of that,” he says huskily.

He pulls your shirt up and off of you, and before you can lay back down, he reaches behind you and unsnaps your bra with a ridiculously practiced twist of his wrist. He presses a chaste kiss to your mouth, then leans back to survey your topless form on the bed. Before you can think, he’s got your pants off and he’s placing kisses on the inside of your knee.

You gasp as he moves his lips up to your inner thigh, and you reach down to run your fingers through his short hair. For some reason, here in bed, you’re totally comfortable with him. The hot look in his eyes makes you feel confident and sexy, so you run your fingers through his hair and tilt your hips up to meet his face, whimpering a little.

He takes mercy on you, and runs his tongue through your folds, making you gasp and twitch. He smiles against you and teases you open with his tongue, bringing his hand up to sink a finger into you slowly, gently.

There’s a whine in the back of your throat, and one of your hands comes up to cover your mouth and your back arches when he finds your clit. He puts all of his considerable focus on that spot, and you’re writhing beneath him, your legs clenching and your hips bucking.

As soon as you get close, he pulls away, pressing a tender kiss on your hip before he moves back up your body. There’s a disappointed whine in your throat, but it changes quickly when he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and laving it with his tongue.

“Dean,” you whimper, moving beneath him, trying to get some friction on your aching core.

He smiles and comes up all the way to kiss you hard. You taste yourself, but instead of being embarrassed, you kiss him back, sweeping your tongue into his mouth. He groans a little, and you smile against his lips, feeling victorious.

“God, that’s sexy,” he mutters against you, sitting back up and stepping off of the bed to let the dog out and strip his pants off. He pulls a condom from your nightstand table and rolls it on, which also sends heat shooting through you.

He crawls back over you, and a sense of rightness settles over you. He is yours and you are his. Maybe it will work out, maybe it won’t. Maybe he’ll start to have feelings for you, maybe he’ll never see you as anything but what you are now.

But when he enters you slowly, none of that matters to you. The slow stretch to accommodate him, his hitched breath as he bottoms out, the taste of his shoulder as you sink your teeth into his skin to keep from moaning too loudly, these things matter.

The fact that you love him, a love that you feel from deep in the foundation of who you are, that matters.

Everything else is just icing.

Chapter Text

You wake up warm, with your face pressed into Dean’s back and your arm thrown around his waist, already smiling. Who knew Dean Winchester would make a good little spoon?

You don’t want to get up, so you stay still, soaking in the warmth and security sleeping in a bed with Dean gives you. Today is the day you’re going after Famine. You’re scared as all get out, terrified the plan you concocted isn’t going to work.

You’re also morbidly curious about what Famine is going to make you crave. Probably sex, seeing as how you sleep with a sex god every night. Or maybe you’ll be immune, because you’re not from this universe, that would be nice.

Your warm, happy musings are interrupted by Winch’s deep groan from the foot of the bed. You lift your head and smile at the sight of him lying there, ears up and looking at you intensely. He’s gotten into the habit of letting you sleep instead of waking you up as soon as he wakes up, which is nice, because while Winch is a morning person, and you are decidedly not.

“All right, bud, let’s go,” you say softly, slowly extracting yourself from Dean.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas-“

Dean listens to her record the exorcism on her phone in the passenger seat as he drives to the town Famine is supposed to come to. She’s reciting it from memory, and even if she insists it’s just because she memorized it from the TV show, he’s still impressed. Not a whole lot of people can memorize a bunch of random Latin.

“-audi nos.” she finishes, then presses the button and sighs. “Okay, that’s that.”

He glances over at her. “Hey, this is gonna work.”

She smiles wanly. “Whatever you say, Dean.”

He nods. “Damn right.”

She starts flipping through her notebook, going over the plan again. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, as much as he can without veering off the road and killing them both. She’s chewing on her lip, hard enough that she’s going to draw blood soon, and she’s been pale and quiet since they left.

He knows she’s worried. Hell, he’s worried, too. But somehow, he’s not as worried as he knows he should be.

Maybe because he has lost the ability to care. Maybe because of her. Probably a little of both.

It occurred to him this morning, watching her make breakfast, how easy it is to be around her. Something about her presence soothes him, somehow makes his rough edges seem a little less rough. When she’d put a cup of coffee into his hand and pressed an absent-minded kiss to his cheek before she’d bustled around the kitchen, he’d found himself a little more entranced by her.

She’s messing with his thought processes, and he knows he should be more irritated by it than he is, but he can’t find it in him to say a damn thing about it. It just… Makes sense, to be around her, to watch her move and make her laugh and to kiss the sense out of her.

Even if he doesn’t want a relationship, which he doesn’t think he does, and even if he is a love ‘em and leave ‘em type, which he thinks he is…

It still just makes sense to be with her. It doesn’t fill the yawning hole in him, but it makes it more bearable.

Okay, so being hand picked by God to be Dean Winchester’s soulmate does not, in fact, mean you are immune to the horseman’s power.

In something you should have seen coming, you don’t crave sex. You crave comfort. Reassurance. You feel needy and on the verge of tears and all you want is to crawl into your bed and stay there for days. The only human face you really want to see is Dean’s, which just cements for you that he is, indeed, your soulmate.

But the goddamn horseman Famine didn’t see your anxiety coming, so ha.

You’re always fucking needy. You’re in constant need of a hug, and you cry eight times a day during the low periods of your depression and anxiety. At any given moment, you would prefer to be in bed with Dean, and you’re still up and walking. Maybe it’s a little worse than normal, but Famine hasn’t done anything to you that you haven’t done to yourself.

Take that.

So you’re hoping that Dean doesn’t notice how you lean into him when he places his hand on your back.

“Everything’s set up,” he says softly. “Just waiting on Famine.”

You nod and smile. “All right. Let’s do this.”

It’s only a couple of hours before the big SUV pulls up. You’re tense, but you’re ready. I can do this.

As soon as all of the demons guarding Famine are in, you hit the “play” button on your phone and hold it up to the restaurant’s speaker system.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas-“

You wince as your voice sounds in the building. Is that what I sound like? Jesus, that’s awful. The demons start scrambling, but Famine is laughing in a dry, hacking way that’s truly terrible.

You hear their screams as they go down, and you look at Dean, who gives you a nod. You’re taking point, because you both already know what Famine says to Dean.

You told him how the horseman says he’s already empty, and that’s why he won’t feel a craving. He didn’t seem surprised, which upsets you greatly, but you shelve your hurt and anger for the moment. You need a clear head to do this, not a broken heart.

You walk into the room, demon knife in hand, with a confidence you do not feel. That’s okay, you can do this. Fake it ‘til you make it.

You see the man in the wheelchair, and your blood boils. He was going to hurt your Winchesters. He was going to hurt Dean. And that pisses you the fuck off.

“Y/N, dear, I’m terribly glad you could make it.”

You don’t flinch. “Fuck you.”

You walk forward, and he smirks. “Oh, my, feeling a bit lonely, are we, Y/N?”

You try not to falter, but the feeling is getting worse the closer you are to him. You ignore it, because it's still not as bad as it’s been before, but it’s getting there. The urge to run back into Dean’s arms is battering at you, but you force yourself to ignore it. You stop in front of Famine.

“Fuck you.”

He chuckles. “Dear, do you think you can hurt me? You’re barely standing you need him so badly.” He tilts his head to the side. “Quite the darkness you have in there, Y/N, in that pretty head of yours.”

You smirk and nod. It would not do well to treat Famine with anything but respect. Except, of course, you’re about to cut his fingers off. “Got some demons of my own.”

He nods. “Oh, yes, the insecurities, my goodness. The fear. You’re terrified of him, and for him. And the need to be with him is overwhelming, isn’t it?”

You feel the need grow inside you, but it’s still not as bad as it’s been before. So you tilt your head back and laugh. “You’re not nearly as bad as I thought you would be.” Okay, so no respect? No respect, good. Jesus, I’m dumb.

His smile slips off of his face. “You can’t save him, you know it. He’s empty on the inside, he’s just fucking you because you’re around. I can see in his head, dear, I know.” You try not to wince. “He’s going to lose Sammy, and you’re helpless to stop it.”

He tilts his head again to look at you. “And you already know all of that. You know that, and yet you still crave him.” He smiles. “Oh, my dear, your inner voice does more to you than even I can do.”

He’s hitting sore spots with his words, and your heart breaks a little to hear those hateful thoughts spoken aloud.

But you lean forward anyway and smile. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too fucking much?”

Before he can react, you lean forward and cut off the fingers that wear his ring. The easy way the knife slides through the flesh, and the little bit of force you have to use to cut through the bone, makes your stomach roll. He screams and disappears as the metal clings to the floor.

You bend and pick it up. You hold it up to the light to get a better look at it and smile coldly.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”

The car is silent on the way back. You’re in the passenger seat, back to just your normal amount of wishing he was touching you, and almost asleep when he speaks.

“So what was all that shit he was saying? About your, uh, ‘inner voice?’”

You rub a hand down your face and sigh. “Nothing, Dean. It’s fine.”

He scoffs. “Bullshit. What was he talking about?”

You look out the window, uncomfortable. “It’s just anxiety, Dean. It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

“Dammit, Y/N, talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Dean.”

“Tough,” he snaps.

Your temper snaps, too. “Fuck you, Dean.” You turn to look at him. “Wanna talk about the emptiness inside you? Let’s talk about that, hmm?” When he’s silent, you snort and cross your arms. “That’s what I thought. God forbid Dean fucking Winchester opens up about what he’s going through.”

He looks uncomfortable, and you’re glad. Fuck him. “It’s not important, we just gotta get this done.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, mine’s not important, either, so forget it.”

He’s frowning. “God dammit-”

“You are not the only one allowed to take one for the team, Dean!” you snap. “You can’t make me tell you, so just drop it.”

He fumes silently next to you, and you let him. If he’s going to be a jackass, you’re certainly not going to stop him.

Jackass.

Dean watches her slam the passenger door and storm back up to the house. Winch barks happily, and Dean knows she’s pissed because she just gives the dog a cursory pat before walking into the house.

He leans his head back and groans. Dammit. She was silent the whole way home after he yelled at her, and he’s betting her bedroom door will be locked tonight.

She wants him to talk to her. How can he tell her that he can’t? How can he tell her that not even she can help with this emptiness inside him? How can he tell her that nothing matters anymore, that he’s just struggling to get to the damn finish line?

How can he tell her that he’s close to giving up?

“Dean.”

Dean jumps, then glares at the angel in the passenger seat. “God dammit, Cass, make some fucking noise, would you?”

Cass frowns. “I spoke your name.”

Dean rolls his eyes, already irritated. “What do you want, Cass?”

“You and Y/N are fighting.”

Dean stares. “So? What do you care?”

Cass gives him a look. “We don’t have time for you two to be fighting. You and Y/N must work as a unit. You must be a team.”

Dean frowns. “We are a team, Cass.”

The angel shakes his head and frowns back. “Not like you should be.” He seems to come to a decision. He grabs Dean’s shoulder, and the world spins away from him.

Before he can protest, he’s standing in front of Y/N in her bedroom. She’s jumped, and her eyes are wide. “Cass? Dean? What-”

Before she can finish her question, Castiel puts two fingers on her forehead, then turns and does the same to Dean. “Understand,” Castiel says, his voice deep, and the lights flicker at the word as everything goes dark.

“Understand.”

You feel a deep, terrible hole inside you. There’s only despair and depression there, and you realize with horror that you’re in Dean’s head. This is how he feels, all the time.

A certainty that nothing will work. A deep sadness that he feels he can no longer depend on Sam. A growing suspicion that nothing he does will ever matter, that he won’t be able to change anything. A knowledge that, despite that suspicion, he moves forward, because he doesn’t know how to do anything else. The way he feels isolated, alone in a sea of terribleness with no way to get to shore.

The way he wants you, the way he views you. How lovely he thinks you are, how strong he thinks you are. How comfortable he is with you, how you’re smoothing over the ragged pieces of his soul.

The terrible, self-deprecating way he talks to himself, his deep voice battering at your heart. Genius, Winchester, you’re a fucking idiot. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, may as well leave it. Not like you’re any fucking good, anyway, Winchester. Just shut up and keep going, you’re a soldier, not a thinker. She’s too good for you, stay out of her bed, God dammit. You’ve got to keep her safe, it’s your fucking fault she’s here.

But, more than anything, Dean feels empty, drained, hopeless and depressed.

Oh, you think to yourself, oh, my poor Dean.

“Understand.”

Whereas Dean has nothing left in him, she has everything in her. He immediately recognizes that he’s inside her head somehow, he’s hearing her thoughts and feeling her emotions. And her head is a maelstrom of emotions and thoughts.

He feels her nervousness, her anxiety, her lack of confidence. He feels the warm, familial connection she feels for Bobby, Sam, and Castiel. He feels the adoration she feels for Winch. The determination to save the world in big ways, like the apocalypse and the Darkness and stopping everything that happens to them. The happiness she feels that she can save it in little ways, like volunteering with Winch. He feels her never ending worry that she won’t be good enough, but her bone-deep determination to do the best she can.

He feels the deep, strong feelings she has for him. He’s floored by all the admiration and love she has, all of it for him. She sees him as strong and brave, as a hero, and Dean feels a little part of him, a long dead part of him, wake up.

He hears her thoughts, how she constantly fights with herself. They hate you. Oh, shut up, they do not. He’s only around because you’re around, it doesn’t mean anything. Please, Dean Winchester doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, if he didn’t want to sleep with you, he wouldn’t. They think you are a nuisance. Well, you are a nuisance, but you can make yourself better, so shut up. He doesn’t love you. Obviously, he’s known me for three weeks. He’s too good-looking for you. He’s too good-looking for anyone, next question.

Jesus, he thinks to himself, how the hell does she get anything done?

It feels like you’re inside Dean’s head forever, but when you open your eyes, it’s still night outside, and he’s still standing in front of you, just opening his eyes, too. Castiel is nowhere to be seen, and you’re glad, because you don’t want to talk to the angel right now.

You stare into the green depths of Dean’s eyes, and you feel tears start to gather in your own. God, he’s beautiful.

And before either of you can properly think, you’re meeting in the middle, and you’re at each other’s mouths. Your arms snake around his neck and you hold him close, just as he keeps you tight against him with his arms like iron bands around your waist.

His tongue is invading your mouth, and you’re whimpering against his lips. You pull your arms down so you can push his jacket off of his shoulders slowly. He growls, but moves his arms so you can shove it off completely. Before he can block you again, you pull away from his mouth and step back enough to shrug your own jacket off, then you tear your shirt off, too. “Clothes, Dean,” you say softly, tears still drying on your cheeks as you pop the button on your jeans.

He strips his shirt off, and you forget your name for a second, like you usually do. Then he’s undoing his own jeans and fishing a condom out of his wallet, his hot green eyes never leaving you as you bend down to push your jeans off of your legs.

As you’re stepping out of them, his own pants are on the floor and he’s approaching you, his eyes hot and intent. You hold your arms up and he slides under them easily, his face pressing into your neck and his big body pushing you back onto the bed.

You fall back together, trusting his strength to make sure you don’t get hurt. He delivers, catching you both so you land gently, still nuzzling your neck. You smile and take the condom from his hand, tearing it open with your teeth. You gasp when he sinks his teeth into your neck, then you bite his shoulder gently in retaliation as you roll the condom on, savoring the heavy feel of him in your hand.

One of his hands moves down to your core, making you arch your back when he moves two fingers through your folds. You can feel how wet you are for him, already coating his fingers, but instead of being embarrassed, it turns you on even more.

He groans against your neck. “Jesus, princess-”

You press your lips to his ear. “Shh, now, Dean, please-”

He cuts you off by thrusting into you hard. You cry out, and he puts a gentle hand over your mouth, uses it to tilt your head to the side, and continues his assault on your neck as he sets a fast, insistent pace.

The feel of him on top of you, his big, calloused hand almost cradling your face it’s so gentle, his mouth sucking dark marks into your neck, it all feels right. Not just because he’s a sex god (which he definitely is), but because he belongs here, with you. Any insecurities you have are swept away, at least for now, and you lose yourself in the feel of him.

You pull away from his hand and turn your head to catch his mouth with yours. He kisses you gently, and you moan as heat shoots through you. He’s softly growling into your mouth, making you arch your back as he deepens the kiss possessively and drives into you harder.

The pressure is building in you, and you wrap your legs around his waist to give him a deeper angle. As soon as he hits it, you’re crying out into his mouth as you shatter, coming so hard you see stars. His rhythm stutters, and you hold him, your fingers spearing through the hair at the nape of his neck, as he comes, shuddering above you.

He hooks about arm around you and rolls, settling you on top of him, your head on his chest. You listen to his heartbeat slow, and it’s sending you off into sleepiness.

Instead of giving in, you lift your head to look at him, examining those crazily green eyes. “Hi,” you say softly.

He smiles. “Hi.”

You smile back shyly. “We should probably talk about this.” Before he can voice the protest you can see in his eyes, you continue. “But I’m thinking a shower and food first?”

He grins. “Readin’ my mind, princess.”

Dean watches her get dressed in a tank top and a pair of sweats, avoiding his eyes and being silent. He doesn’t know what to say, either, so he just let's the quiet be.

What he does know, however, is that she has never liked men taking decisions out of her hands, so he’s not surprised when she tenses as soon as she sees Castiel in the living room. Her eyes narrow, and Dean grins and loops an arm around her waist so she doesn’t assault an angel of the Lord.

“Castiel,” she snarls, her voice low and dangerous, “How dare you?!”

Sam is watching with wide eyes. “What-”

She pulls away from Dean, who lets her go, amused beyond belief. She’s something else.

And that something else is currently poking a very bemused angel in the chest. “How dare you, you, you rape my mind just to prove a fucking point?!”

He frowns down at her. “You and Dean must be a unit, you needed to know what one another felt.”

She throws her hands in the air. “Dean and I are always a unit, Castiel! Being mad at one another doesn’t mean we’re not on the same team!” She runs her hand through her hair. “That’s what being on a team means, Cass. It means that even if you’re mad at the team, you still want to be with the team.”

Dean is struck dumb by her words. She’s right. He doesn't want to be away from ber. Even though it would be better for her, even though a small part of him is certain they will let one another down, the way she makes him feel is too good to pass up. The way it’s so easy to be around her, the way her casual touch and smiling eyes make him feel a little less like a shell of a person.

She’s right, he’s damn glad she’s on his team.

He steps forward and wraps his arms around her waist, craving get her touch. She leans back into him, but is still glaring at Castiel.

Who is frowning. “I don’t understand why you are upset.”

She sighs. “Because it’s invasive to have yourself plopped into another person’s mind, Cass. And because poor Dean had to deal with all of that crazy, and that’s not really fair to him.”

Dean frowns and tugs her close. “Hey, you’re not crazy.”

“Not up for debate, Dean,” she says evenly, without turning around. She points to Castiel. “Never again, understood? You never pull that bullshit again.”

Cass stares at her for a moment, then nods. “Very well.”

That night, tangled up with human furnace Dean Winchester, your mind is buzzing with thoughts.

You can’t stop thinking about Dean, how lonely and desperate he feels. All you want to do is wrap him in comfort and shield him from all of that. But all you can do is be here for him and let time show him that you’re not going anywhere.

You also can’t get the way he feels about you out of your head. His admiration, the growing affection. The thought she’s too good for you is ringing in your head, met with awe and scorn at the same time. On the one hand, he thinks you’re too good for him, which has you fangirling like mad. On the other hand, that’s ridiculous, he’s Dean fucking Winchester.

But whatever he thinks, he still came to bed with you, and even if you didn’t talk about it, the feeling of intimacy has increased tenfold. You feel closer to Dean than you’ve ever felt with another person.

It’s been a long day, and your eyes are drooping despite your racing thoughts. So you cuddle into him closer, wriggle your feet beneath Winch, and fall asleep with a smile on your face.

Chapter Text

Winch is a happy dog.

He’s spread out in the very early morning sunlight, still dozing on and off. His WOMAN and his MAN are tangled up in one another on the bed, sleeping deeply.

Something has changed. Winch does not know what happened when they left without him, but his WOMAN definitely smells different. She smells less sad. There is still much sadness there, but there is less, for the first time since Winch found her.

And the MAN has definitely become Winch’s MAN. Winch loves the MAN, and Winch can smell that the MAN is starting to love the woman. The MAN used to smell empty and angry and violent, but his scent has become gentler, as has his touch.

Winch doesn’t know what is going to happen. He can smell a fight coming in the air. A big fight, a fight that makes an ancient instinct in Winch want to snarl and raise his hackles. It is not a fight for dogs, but Winch will fight alongside his MAN and his WOMAN, lay his life down for them if he has to.

But for now, Winch is lying in a warm patch of sun, and his MAN and his WOMAN will wake soon.

So Winch is a happy dog.

You bite down on Dean’s shoulder, whimpering in the back of your throat as he drives into you. He’s got you pressed against the cold tile of the shower wall, whispering absolutely filthy things in your ear, sending you hurtling toward your next orgasm. He’s holding one leg up, hooked around his waist, which is a good thing, because you’re fairly sure you couldn’t stand without his help.

Dean has been insatiable since the night before, when Cass gave you a glimpse into one another’s minds. Part of you is worried that he’s avoiding talking to you about the issue, but the rest of you thinks it might just be how he handles emotion.

You know… Physically.

So after the third time in bed, you begged for a shower. Which he agreed to in what you now know was a suspiciously easy manner. The moment you’d gotten in, he was pressed against you, nipping at your neck and whispering about the things he’d like to do to you. The man has got quite an imagination.

As you come so hard the world goes white, you cry out into his shoulder, sinking your teeth in further, relishing the grunt you get from him just before he goes rigid. The man is thirty, surely he’s got to be tired by now?

You suspect that he is not.

Later, making breakfast and humming to yourself, you’re both grateful and not grateful that he’s not tired.

On the one hand, you’ve been having what can only be considered Olympic-level, marathon sex with the walking poster-child for dirty thoughts for several hours. He hasn’t left you alone all day, the only reason you’re alone now is because he’s outside with the dog, which gives you warm fuzzy feelings.

On the other hand, you are sore. You have a hickey on your neck that’s a little tender, your hips have little finger-shaped bruises on them that you have managed to keep hidden from him, and you might have some bruising on the inside, too. You’re basically made of bruises at this point.

It has been rough, needy, desperate sex. It has also been mind blowing and amazing, but definitely rough.

The sound of the door opening has you smiling, and his strong arms circling your waist has you leaning back into him. “Dean, cooking,” you say mildly, well aware that it’s not going to stop him.

He presses little kisses to your neck and shoulder, soothing the hickey he left there with his tongue. “I know.”

You smile. “Dean, baby, I need to move.” You put the knife down you were using to butter his toast and lean back into him more. “Your bacon is going to burn.”

“Hmm, let it,” he says huskily, his hands starting to trail up your sides.

You drop your head back onto his shoulder and groan. “Dean,” you laugh softly, stopping his hands with yours. “Breakfast.”

He presses another kiss to your neck, then takes a step back. “If you insist.”

You smile at him over your shoulder, then move to flip the bacon and stir the eggs. “I do insist, you need to eat. You’ve been very… Active, Mr. Winchester.”

“Ugh, it’s like some sort of sex dungeon in here,” Sam gripes cheerfully as he enters the kitchen.

You laugh and turn to smile sunnily at him, too. “Morning, Sam. Plates?”

The guys jump into action, setting the table for four. While they do, you slip Winch a piece of buttered toast. He shouldn’t have it, but he’s the best dog ever, and you’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who desperately needs Tylenol and a nap uninterrupted by sex.

You pour the coffee and serve everyone before sinking into your chair with a soft sigh, shifting to find a comfortable spot.

Dean’s eyeing you. “All right, princess?”

You smile happily. “I’m just fine, Dean. Eat.”

Later, while he’s washing dishes and she’s drying and putting them away, Dean is sneaking glances at her from the corner of his eye. The way she moves makes him crazy, and he can feel himself wanting her again. He wants to take those low-slung sweats and that tight tank top off and ravage her again.

Which is ridiculous, the poor thing has got to be exhausted, but he can’t help it. He wants to know all of the places that make her cry out, all of the ways to make her writhe and moan and beg. He craves her, he wants to be on top of her and beneath her and inside her all at once. And he’s not sure, but he thinks he may want to stay there forever.

He’s knocked out of his musings when she reaches up to put a glass away and her shirt pulls up, revealing the marks on her hip. He frowns and wipes his hands on the towel she just put down, then stands in front of her and tugs her shirt up.

She looks over at him, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Dean, right here in the kitchen?” She sobers when she realizes what he’s looking at and tries to take a step back. “Dean, hang on-”

“What the hell?” he asks softly. There’s bruises peppering her sides, bruises that look suspiciously like his goddamn hands.

She tugs her shirt from his hands, pulls it down, then steps forward and wraps her arms around his waist. Which is good timing on her part, because he’s about to walk away. God dammit, Winchester, you should have stayed out of her bed, you know you should have stayed away from her, and look at her now.

She lays her cheek against his chest. “Stop it, Dean,” she scolds softly, “It’s no big deal.”

He gently wraps his arms around her, suddenly terrified of hurting her more. “Y/N, it’s-”

“A little bruising from good sex, yes, it is,” she interrupts, not moving from her position pressed against him. “It’s fine, if I had a problem with it, I would have told you.” She leans back to look into his face, and he stares into her pretty eyes. “I swear to God, Dean, if you try to feel more guilty about me than you already do, I will shoot you.”

His eyebrows go up. It’s the first time she’s mentioned the fact that she saw into his head, that she knows how he’s feeling. “You couldn’t hit me from this distance, princess,” he says roughly.

She smiles a little. “Yeah, but I bet I could convince Sam to shoot you, and I hear he’s a decent shot.”

He sighs and pulls her closer to press a kiss to her forehead. “Princess, I-”

“Shut up now, Dean,” she says softly, cuddling into him. “Let’s just… Go a little easy next time.”

You’re in the living room, trying to make sense of the text in front of you when Sam walks in.

You look up and smile wearily at the tall hunter. “Hi, Sam.”

He smiles and holds out a jacket for you. “Take a break?”

Sam watches her as they walk through the yard, Winch jumping and playing in front of them. Dean told him a little about what Cass did to them, but in true Dean fashion, he managed to tell him exactly nothing at the same time. Sam is willing to bet that Y/N will be a little more forthcoming.

“What’s on your mind, Sam?” she asks easily, her eyes on the dog.

He raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think something is on my mind?”

She scoffs. “Because I’m not an idiot.” She turns and smiles up at him. “Not that it’s not nice to spend time with you, but I suspect motive.”

He smiles and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, uh… I guess you’re right.”

She smiles and bends down to pick up a stick, which she tosses for Winch, who goes barreling after it. “So what’s up?”

“The thing with you and Dean… The thing that Cass did…”

She sighs. “He somehow… I guess, put us in each other’s minds? I don’t know, but I got to see what Dean feels and thinks for a while.” She smiles a little sadly. “And poor Dean was stuck in my mess of a head.”

Sam frowns. “You should go easy on yourself.”

She shrugs. “Anyway, I don’t know how Dean feels about it, because he’s about as easy to read as goddamn Sanskrit, but it was an interesting experience. It made me understand your brother a little.”

Sam nods. “So, any insights?”

She smiles sadly. “No, not really. I mean, I think that’s probably something you should talk to Dean about, Sam.”

Abashed, he nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

They walk for a while in silence, and Sam thinks about the changes he’s already seen in his big brother. The biggest changes having occurred since the night before.

Dean still doesn’t have the faith in his eyes that he used to when he looks at Sam, and that hurts. Sam wants nothing more than to make it up to Dean, but he’s not sure where to even start, and since the apocalypse is looming, he puts a pin in that issue.

But Dean does have faith in his eyes when he looks at her. Far from being bitter, Sam is relieved that Dean has found it in him to believe in someone. And she seems happier, too, and even if she’s not exactly thrilled to be here, she’s started to fit in very well.

“So, you’re sticking around, right?”

She turns to look at him, tossing the stick again for Winch. “Where else would I go, Sam?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, but you weren’t really sold on the idea of staying with us when we first met.”

She smiles and turns to watch Winch search the ground for the stick. “Well, that was before Dean and I. And before I decided to fight with you guys. I think…” He watches her smile become gentle. “I think it doesn’t matter what I did, I’d always end up back here with you guys. And if I can save some people while I’m at it, why not?”

You’re back to researching, but you’ve brought the book to your bedroom because the bed is more comfortable than the couch, and you’re still experiencing some soreness down under. So you’re lying on your stomach, taking notes, when the door opens.

Winch gives a soft woof of welcome, and you smile without looking up. “Hi, handsome.”

“Hey, princess.” He comes to sit next to you on the bed, and you shut the book gently and place it and your notebook on the floor. You flip over onto your back and pat the bed next to you. “Come here, you.”

He lays down next to you gingerly, propping himself up on his elbow, staring down at you in a way that makes you feel a little like prey.

Before the heat in his eyes can make you forget who you are, you put a hand to his face. “Dean, we need to talk. More accurately,” you say, pressing a finger to his lips when he opens his mouth to protest, “I need to talk, you need to listen.”

You’ve been thinking about how to approach this situation since this morning. Dean is wonderful, but he’s never going to tell you how he feels. Unless you’re dying, because for some reason the Winchesters are totally comfortable telling a near dead person how important they are to them.

But you have been thinking these words since you got here, so it’s pretty natural for you to say. Because even if it’s a little embarrassing, and you don’t particularly want to say it, there’s no way Dean was in your head for any length of time without knowing how much you love him. You can feel it with every beat of your heart, every time he touches you, every time he smiles at you. It’s always there, growing, becoming deeper and stronger and more of a part of who you are.

So there’s no point in not telling him, especially if it will make him see.

“Dean,” you say softly, “I know how you feel, about everything. I know. And I need you to know that it hasn’t changed a thing. I’m still in love with you, and I’m still not going anywhere. And I know you don’t believe me, probably on either front, but I need you to hear me.” You stare into his eyes, willing him to let you in, to let your words in. His face has frozen, and those green depths are unreadable, but you charge ahead, because it’s a little late now to be having second thoughts.

“Dean, I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to say it back, this isn’t about obligation. It’s about you knowing that I, coming from the outside, see you as worthy of love and loyalty. And if only time will show you that, then that’s okay, but you need to start hearing it, too.”

The silence draws out, with you two just staring at one another, and your heart beating fast and hard. You resign yourself, and ignore the little part of you that’s hurt that he didn’t say anything. You knew he wasn’t going to say anything. He’s still Dean.

So you smile at him gently. “Dean, this is the part where you kiss me.”

He stares at you for another moment, then without a word bends his head and presses his lips against yours softly. You sigh and press into him, your hand moving to spear your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck.

His hand rests on your belly, then slowly moves under your shirt to cup your breast through your bra. He gently thumbs your nipple through the material, and you whimper, because that area is sensitive, too, but he’s so gentle it doesn’t matter. He keeps the same tenderness in his touch when he moves over to the other breast, still through your bra, still making you arch your back to press into him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, as his hand skims down your stomach and slowly slips into your sweats. You sigh and arch into him again when his fingers go under your underwear and gently cup your sex. You’re rubbed a little raw, but his slow, soft touches are driving you just as mad as they do when they’re rough and fast.

Before long, you’re gasping into his mouth, begging against his lips. “Dean, please, fuck me,” you whisper, bucking your hips up into his hand. When he moves his hand back so the gentle pressure doesn’t change, you groan and lean your head back

He smiles down at you, and it makes your heart beat faster. There’s some warm, lovely emotion in his eyes that you can’t quite place, but you don’t try. You just lean up and kiss him again, tugging at his shirt. “Clothes, Dean,” you say against his mouth, desperate for him.

He stands to strip quickly, then comes back down to tug your pants off while you sit up and rid yourself of your top and your bra. When you lay back down and beckon him, he just smiles. He leans down and before you can blink he’s shifted the both of you so you’re straddling him. The ease of his strength makes you a little dizzy with desire, and you restrain yourself long enough to watch him put the condom on.

As soon as it’s down, you sink down onto him, just a couple of inches. The sting has you hissing between your teeth, and he rests his hands lightly on your hips.

“Slow, baby, just go slow,” he murmurs, gazing up at you, “we’ve got all the time we need.”

You take his advice and slow down a little, and while there’s no avoiding the pain, it makes it bearable, and soon he bottoms out, making you both catch your breath a little.

You set a sensual, slow pace, because watching his face as you slowly take him is truly delightful. His jaw is clenching and his eyes are closed, his head tilted back. You can tell his hands want to dig into your flesh, but he’s still holding himself back, which is so sexy you can barely stand it. Watching all of that leashed strength, the cords in his arms sticking out, the way his breathing is trying to be measured but is coming out in short bursts, is driving you crazy.

You sink down onto him, filling yourself completely, and stop moving until he looks up you, dazed in his lust. “Dean,” you say softly, “fuck me.”

He needs no further prompting.

He surges up and wraps an arm around you, then turns so you’re on your back beneath him. He kisses you roughly with a low growl in his throat, and you whimper in response and wrap your legs around his waist. He sets a fast pace, and the combination of pain and wrenching pleasure is taking you right to the edge. He’s nuzzling your neck, pressing soft kisses to the bite mark there, making you moan.

It’s not long before you’re coming, clenching down on his cock. Your orgasm is gentle, a slow, inexorable wave crashing over you, taking you with it. He stiffens above you, face buried in your neck, and he grunts a little as he comes.

He stays where he is, braced above you, for a long time. He doesn’t pull out of you, just stays there, face pressed against you, breathing heavy. You say nothing, just run your hands up and down his back and hold him while he works through whatever emotions he’s working through.

Dean wants to stay awake and watch her sleep. He wants to marvel at her, at her ability to tell him she’s in love with him, then roll over and sleep soundly next to him.

He wants to wonder at her ability to be so openly vulnerable. At the way she says she loves him, and genuinely doesn’t seem to expect anything back. At the way she seems to be an overflowing well of love and affection and good humor and sass and rolling with the punches.

He wants to revel in the words, “I’m in love with you,” on her lips.

But as soon as they’re cleaned up, dressed, and back in bed, he’s already halfway asleep. The athletics of the day, and the roller coaster of emotion, has completely exhausted him.

As he drifts into sleep, he does take a moment to be awed that the words on her lips seemed to put some of the torn pieces of him back together.

Chapter Text

“You can do this, Y/N.”

You groan in frustration. “Why didn’t God give me the ability to shoot a goddamn gun? Why was it just hand-to-hand combat and a remarkable ability to quit smoking?” You turn to look at Sam. “Any ideas?”

He grins and shrugs. “Not a clue. But you can do this.”

Sam is trying to teach you to shoot again, and it’s going extremely slow. You don’t know what the hell is going on, but there’s some sort of mental block when it comes to pulling a trigger that you can’t get around. Sam insists on believing in you, which is very sweet, but misguided.

“Come on,” he says gently, “Do it again.”

You tilt your head back and groan again. “But, Sam-”

“No buts, Y/N.”

You sigh and turn back to the target, which you have hit twice in the past hour. You take a deep breath in and raise the gun, trying to aim toward that stupid, mocking red circle in the middle.

You feel heat at your back, and Sam’s long arms are wrapping around you, steadying your hand. His voice is in your ear, encouraging and soft.

“Just focus, this is easy. Just relax, keep your breathing even, and squeeze the trigger when you’re ready.”

You follow his instructions, and manage to shoot the tree next to the one you’re trying to hit. Even while you internally curse, you continue firing, knowing that Sam doesn’t want you to stop. He wants it to become second nature, and you know that’s a good idea, but part of you is whiny and wants to give up.

Instead, you keep working on it, wasting bullets, wincing constantly, and worrying that Sam is about to give up on you, too. He gives no indication that that’s the truth, he just steps back and gives you gentle pointers, but you can’t help thinking it.

He knows you can’t do it, because you can’t do it. This is an essential part of hunting, you know, you have to know how to do this. So stop fucking up.

Later, you’re firing again, on your third box of ammo for the day, still beating yourself up, when you sense him. Then his arms are wrapping around you, his deep voice rumbling in your ear, sending awareness tingling through your limbs.

“Stop it, princess, you’ve got this,” he says softly, adjusting your stance a little, using his booted foot to kick your feet closer together. “Deep breath, squeeze when I tell you to.”

You nod and take a deep breath, your stomach fluttering at his proximity. Which is ridiculous, because the man has been inside you, but still. Maybe it’s because he seems to know that you were berating yourself, and also seems to know exactly what to say to knock you out of the vicious cycle your mind puts you on. The gentle but firm timbre of his voice has that inner voice shutting right up.

You exhale slowly, letting his presence settle you. When he murmurs, “Now,” into your ear, you squeeze the trigger, the motion almost casual. And, to your utter and complete shock, you hit the target almost dead center.

You blink, then tilt your head back and laugh. “Holy shit!”

Dean’s chuckling behind you. “Told you you could do it.”

You end up hitting the target several more times, even when he moves away and is just watching. By the time you call it quits and go back to the house so you can cook dinner, you’re beaming with pride.

He walks hand-in-hand with you, and Winch meets the two of you halfway, padding along on the other side of Dean. It’s so domestic and couple-y that you’re a little dizzy, and you can’t seem to wipe the smile off of your face.

“What’s so funny, princess?”

You turn to beam up at him, watching his green eyes sparkle. “I’m just happy, Dean.”

Dean walks with her back to the house, letting the sun warm his shoulders and reaching down to run a hand along Winch’s big head. I’m just happy, she said. She’s happy here with him. And he knows she’s telling the truth, he could see it in her head when he was there. Honestly, as annoying as it was, Cass probably did Dean a favor.

Because as soon as he’d seen her when he had come to find her and Sam, he had known what she was doing. She was yelling at herself for some God forsaken reason, even though she’s probably never touched a gun in her life. She was a waitress, there’s no reason she should know how to shoot right off the bat.

It had seemed absolutely natural to come up behind her, adjust her stance, and tell that voice in her head to shut up. And there’s no small amount of smug pride in his heart that it was his presence that had finally let her start shooting accurately.

For the first time in a while, Dean thinks about her being his soulmate. He thinks about her laughter making his heart lighter, her touch driving him crazy, and her hand in his settling some restless part of him as they approached the house. He pretty much believed Cass when he’d said that he and Y/N were soulmates, but he has a better understanding now of what that means.

They walk into the kitchen, and she lets go of him to shrug her jacket off and hang it on the back of a chair before she takes the apron off of the nail on the wall and ties it around her waist. He doesn’t have anything better to do than watch her (he thinks that no matter what’s going on, he’ll never have anything better to do than watch her), so he sits at the table and does just that.

Being her soulmate means understanding the terror that her head provides her with sometimes. It means shielding her from it as much as he can, and helping her shield herself from it. It means protecting her from everything else, too, and making sure that she’s happy and safe with him.

Being her soulmate means that his soul is the perfect mirror of hers, and that they’ll fill up the places in one another they can’t fill up themselves.

After dinner, the guys settle in to watch a movie, and you’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Dean wanted to help, but you shooed him out, craving a little time alone with your thoughts.

Dinner was lovely, with his big, warm hand on your thigh. Laughing at stories of their hunts that weren’t featured on the show, laughing at Bobby’s stories. A night of not talking about angels and heaven and the apocalypse has been severely needed.

And Dean. Dean has been affectionate all night, a hand playing with the tips of your hair, or on your leg, or wrapped around the back of your chair. You’re getting a little addicted to touchy-feely Dean, if you’re being perfectly honest with yourself.

Which you’re remarkably okay with. Since your honesty the night before, you’re at peace with yourself. Dean hasn’t said anything about it, and you’re not going to bring it up if he doesn’t, but somehow you’re all right with that. Maybe it’s just with him, because he’s your soulmate, but it doesn’t feel like a snub that he hasn’t mentioned it, or hasn’t said he loves you back. It just feels kind of… Right.

Dean Winchester has never been the most emotionally open or available man, you knew that going in. You also know that you tend to wear your heart on your sleeve, and the fact that he didn’t already know that you’re head over heels in love with him is a testament to how unobservant he is. So in the end, you were always going to say it first. And there was always the risk he wouldn’t say it back. You’re at peace with it.

You’re done with the dishes, so you take the apron off and hang it on the wall. You snap your fingers for Winch to follow you and you sneak into the living room to join the guys.

Dean is on the couch, next to Sam, and Bobby is in his chair. You smile and hunch so you can make your way to Dean, then settle quickly on the floor, your back pressed to his shins. You wrap your arms around your knees so Winch can curl around you, his head resting on your bare feet. He lets out a deep, satisfied groan, and you smile and turn to the action movie the men are watching.

You feel his hand start to play with your hair, running through it gently from scalp to tips. You sigh softly and lean into his touch, which is doing a fair job of lulling you into sleep. You tilt your head into his hand, closing your eyes and letting his warmth sink into you.

Dean hoists her into his arms to carry her to bed when the movie ends, savoring the trusting way she rests her head on his shoulder without waking up. Her warmth against his legs was distracting as fuck through the whole movie, and he’s arguing with himself as he walks up the stairs, the dog following close behind.

She’s still got to be sore, leave her alone. God, she’s so warm, maybe she won’t mind… Just because she won’t mind doesn’t mean you should jump her bones, keep it in your pants. Ah, but she’s so soft and pretty and she makes those noises…

He bends a little to get the door open, then walks in and lays her on the bed gently. She sighs and frowns a little, but stays asleep. He stands and looks at her for a moment, her face soft in slumber, one arm stretched toward him, her fingers brushing the denim of his jeans.

Fuck.

She’s lovely, getting prettier every day, and he can’t help leaning down and brushing a kiss against her lips. She responds like she does in his dreams, wantonly, one hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, fingers spearing through the hair there. “Dean,” she sighs into him, waking up enough to come up on one elbow to kiss him harder.

He smiles against her mouth. “Let me close the door, princess.”

She nods sleepily and drops back down. He turns and shuts the door gently, then turns back to her. As he strips off his flannel, he realizes two things. The first is that he didn’t let the dog out, so Winch is now stretched out between her and the far wall, leaving just enough space for Dean on this side of her. The second thing he realizes is that she’s already deeply asleep again.

He smiles and finishes undressing, then leans down to pick her up again. When she groans, he whispers, “Grab the blankets, princess, we’re going to bed.”

“Mmm, ‘kay, Dean,” she agrees sleepily, looking over and flipping the covers over. He slowly lets her stand, then pulls her shirt over her head and her sweats down her legs. She lets him, using his shoulder as support to step out of her pants. Then he scoops her back into his arms and slips her into the bed, joining her immediately after.

He savors the way she curls into him, burying her face in his chest and tangling her legs with his. He puts one arm under her head and the other around her waist, pulling her tight against him and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“‘Night, princess,” he husks softly.

“Night, Dean. Love you,” she mumbles, already mostly asleep.

And, just like they did the first time, the words make his heart beat faster.

You’re watching Dean stand in front of the bakery section of the grocery store with a fond smile on your face and a very serious look on his. Pie, apparently, is damn near life or death business.

“Dean,” you say softly, going up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m going to look around elsewhere. Come find me when you’re done.”

He turns those serious green eyes to you, and they always make something inside you flutter wildly. “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right?”

You nod and smile. “Yes, Dean, it’s a supermarket, I can handle it.”

He frowns. “Y/N, I mean-”

Your hand on his arm stops his words. “I know, Dean, but if I need you, I’ll call out, okay?”

He finally nods, then turns back to look at the pies again.

You smile and wander away, pushing the shopping cart in front of you happily. When you announced this morning that a trip to the grocery store was mandatory today, it wasn’t even an option for Dean to stay behind. He just nodded and grabbed his jacket, then led you out of the house with his hand on your back.

You’re chewing your lip as you walk down the aisle, trying to remember everything you have to do this week so you can cook accordingly. Your foreknowledge has given everyone a lot more time than expected, since you already know who the bad guys are, you already know how to kill them. It means that everyone is at home a lot more, so more cooking needs to be done.

You’re staring at the pasta selections when a tap on the arm has you turning.

A man about your height stands there, sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. An uneasy smile stretches your lips. “Can I help you?”

He’s staring at you a little. “I’m sorry,” he says in a deep baritone as he raises two fingers to your forehead.

You don’t even have time to scream when the world goes dark around you.

Dean is frowning as he walks down the last aisle he saw her in again, pie all but forgotten in his hand. Worry is starting to make his steps faster, more insistent. Where the fuck is she? Never letting her out of my sight again.

His phone rings, and he ignores it, still looking for her. “Y/N? Princess?” he’s asking, walking along the aisles, searching for the sundress she’s wearing today, her hair pulled up and away from her face. “Princess?”

His phone rings again, and he pulls it out of his jacket pocket, irritated. It’s an unknown number, and he almost doesn’t answer it, but she’ll be irritated if she’s just stepped outside or something and he ignores someone who needs help. So Dean flips the phone open and presses it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Dean,” Zachariah’s smarmy voice says, and Dean feels his limbs go cold and hears the pie smash to the floor. “Long time, no see.”

“Zachariah,” he snarls, already pulling his keys out and running toward the exit.

“We have your little lady friend here, Dean,” Zachariah continues, “She’s… Lovely, you know. I can see why you’d keep her.”

“You touch a hair on your head, and I’m gonna keep my promise to stab you in the face sooner rather than later.”

Zachariah chuckles. “Oh, she’s safe, Dean. And I’m perfectly willing to give her back! You just have to meet some… Conditions.”

Dean’s practically growling as he tries to keep his temper cool. He starts Baby and swings her out of the parking lot. “Let me guess. I agree to be an angel condom, you let her go.”

“See, I knew you weren’t as dumb as you look,” the angel says approvingly. “What do you say, Dean? Say yes now, and she walks.”

Dean thought about it for a long time, trying to decide what to do, what would save her, keep them from hurting her.

“Dean. I need an answer. Now.”

Chapter Text

You wake up all at once, sitting up and looking around with wide, panicked eyes. You’re in a room you don’t recognize, but it looks like a bedroom. You’re on a cot, and there’s a soft blanket stretched over you. The only thing that’s off is that there’s no door.

“Hello?” you ask softly, simultaneously hoping that someone will answer and that the room will stay silent. “Dean? Hello?”

“Dean’s not here,” Zachariah says, and you blink because he just appeared out of nowhere, and it’s still disconcerting as fuck. “But I’m sure he will be soon.”

You stare at him, fear making your whole back tingle and your stomach turn over. “What am I doing here?” Before he can answer, you answer yourself. “You’re trying to use me as leverage to get Dean to say yes to Michael.”

Zachariah smiles approvingly. “You are the smart one! Yes, soon, Dean will say yes to us, and he’ll help us fight Lucifer, and everything will be peaches and ice cream for all of us. He just needs to be… Persuaded.”

That fear is making your spine feel like ice, and you’re genuinely starting to worry that you’re about to vomit. “Per… Persuaded how?”

Zachariah’s vicious smile answers for you.

He snaps his fingers and you’re in a different room, with concrete floor and walls and a metal chair in the center of the room. There is a door in this room, but you have a sick feeling that you’re not going to be allowed to go through it. Dread makes you almost incoherent, and you try to stem the terrified tears that are trying to fill your eyes.

His cold hand grips your arm and leads you to the chair. You struggle hard, but he’s an angel, and you knew there was no use, anyway.

He shoves you down into the chair, and without thinking, you tense every muscle you have as hard as you can. Ropes appear around your waist, wrists, and ankles, and you relax everything just after they do.

Something you read a long time ago, in a Stephen King novel, is floating in your mind. If you tense every muscle when you’re being tied up, as soon as you relax them, you’ll have a little bit of wiggle room to get out. It’s not a lot to go on, but without weapons, or any idea where you are, you’re kind of stuck in this situation.

Zachariah’s eyeing you, and you blink, hoping that he doesn’t realize what you’ve done. “What… What are you going to do to me?” you ask, and the trembling in your voice isn’t fake. You’re absolutely terrified.

He smiles coldly. “Oh, whatever I want, dear,” he says almost gently, reaching out to run a finger along your neck, the down your collarbone. The implied threat has you shivering in fear.

“But let’s see if your boyfriend won’t save you, hmm?”

“Dean. I need an answer. Now.”

Panic is clawing at his gut, and Dean can’t think of a damn thing to say but, “Where is she? I’ll come to you.”

“Not good enough, Dean. I’m not playing around this time, do you understand?” Zachariah is snarling into the phone. “Maybe some time to think is what we need. I’m sure I can find something to… Entertain myself with until then.”

The line goes dead, and the panic and fear and fury finally overcomes Dean. “Fuck!”

When he gets back to Bobby’s, Sam meets him in the kitchen with a serious look on his face. “Cass is already working on finding her, Bobby is looking for omens, and I’m calling around to hunters, to see if they’ve seen anything weird.”

“No, you’re standing here, fucking talking to me,” Dean snaps, pushing past his brother to get into the kitchen. “Where the fuck would they take her?”

Winch is whimpering in the corner. As soon as Dean enters, the big dog approaches him, still whining. It breaks Dean’s heart a little, so he lets his hand stroke Winch’s big head.

“Might not be somewhere we can go,” Bobby says gruffly from his desk in the study. “But if it is, we’ll find her.”

Dean suppresses the urge to destroy something. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Dean,” Sam says gently, “It’s just, uh… It’s just important that you don’t say yes, okay? Not even in your head.”

Incredulous, Dean stares at Sam. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Sam runs a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable. “I know you, Dean, you’re already thinking about saying yes to save Y/N. You just… You can’t do that.”

All of the anger in Dean changes targets, and he steps forward to fist his hands in Sam’s shirt and toss him back. “Then what the fuck am I supposed to do, Sam?!” He shouts, so furious he can hardly see. “They’re going to kill her!” Winch is whimpering, but Dean can’t find it in himself to comfort the dog.

Sam stumbles backward, but stays on his feet. His face settles into a stubborn expression. “Dean, I know you’re worried, but-”

“Worried? You think I’m just worried?” Dean asks, completely dumbfounded again. “Sam, I’m pissed. We gotta get her back. Any way we can.”

Sam’s shaking his head. “Dean, no. How would Y/N feel if you gave up because of her?”

“At least she’d be alive to feel something, Sam!”

When Zachariah comes back in, a table appears next to you, draped in a cloth. That, combined with the look on his face, has tears starting to pool in your eyes.

“Y/N, dear, this isn’t personal-” he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “No, it’s definitely personal. I’m going to have to do some… Persuasion, per se, to get your boyfriend to talk.”

You seal your lips and just look at him. You’ve already decided that your best bet is to not say a word. Not because it will make him stop, the sick feeling in your stomach is telling you that nothing will make him stop. But that way, when Dean comes to save you, maybe you won’t be screaming your fool head off.

You have no doubt that Dean will come for you, you know that Dean will come for you, because that’s what he does. He’s a hero, and you’re in need of rescuing, and he’ll rise to the occasion.

But the time between now and then is what’s worrying you.

So you just stare at Zachariah, petrified, tears pouring down your face.

He smirks. “Oh, good, you won’t cooperate. This is going to be delightful.”

He starts with hitting you.

He hits you over and over and over. Your lip is bloodied, you’re fairly sure a tooth or two has been knocked loose, and your right eye is so swollen you can’t open it. The pain in your head is immense, you can’t think, you’re just feeling it, wave after wave of alternating sharp and dull pain shooting through your skull. Maybe you’ve become just a creature made of pain, because surely you’re no longer human.

Zachariah disappears again, breathing heavily and absolutely furious. You send up a prayer.

Cass. Please find me. Bring Dean to me, I don’t know where I am, but please, please, please find me soon.

Dean is sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, when the phone rings again. He lunges, opens it, and presses it to his ear. “Zachariah?”

“Dean, ready with that yes yet?”

Before he can say anything, the phone is snatched away from him. He looks up at Cass, who is holding the phone in his head. “Zachariah, where is Y/N?”

Dean tries to stand to pull the phone away, but Castiel’s iron hand on his shoulder forces him to stay in the seat. Winch snarls, and Dean puts his free hand on the dog’s back to stop the sound. He hears the other angel’s nasty voice in the phone, and his stomach rolls, thinking about what that bastard is doing to his woman.

“Zachariah, tell me where the girl is.”

There’s more noise from the other end of the phone, then Cass snaps the phone shut.

Hope soars in Dean’s chest. “Did he tell you where she is?”

Castiel stares at him for a moment, and Dean’s mind goes blank with rage. “You… He… He didn’t tell you… So you hung up on him?”

“Dean, you must not say yes. He will use any means to get you to do so,” Castiel says, but he averts his eyes, and that’s all Dean needs to know. He pulls away from Cass’s hand and stands slowly, anger pulsing through his veins.

“Dean,” the angel starts again, “I know you want to protect Y/N-”

Dean cuts him off by picking up the chair he was sitting in and smashing the angel across the head with it. Castiel doesn’t move, but he looks surprised, and the chair is in pieces. Winch is whimpering in fear again.

“Fuck you, Cass,” Dean says softly, his voice shaking with fury. “Fuck you, do you have any idea what they’re doing to her? How they’re going to hurt her because of what you just did?” Dean’s voice cracks, and the heartbreak and concern and fear are threatening to overwhelm him. “God dammit, Castiel.”

The angel has the good sense to look apologetic. “Dean, I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to say yes.”

Dean runs his hands through his hair, his mind racing, so upset he doesn’t know what to do. “The next fucking person who tells me that is going to enter a world of hurt,” he says gently, closing his eyes, wishing she was here with him, safe and happy.

Not knowing what else to do, he prays, and ignores Winch’s panicked whine.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, Zachariah, yes, just bring me to her.

You have no idea what happened, but Zachariah is pissed when he gets back.

He foregoes just hitting you, and somehow, several huge cuts appear on your chest, and you can feel them opening up on your belly. It looks like a scalpel is running across your skin, but he’s just staring at you with cold, dead eyes, his chest heaving.

The explosive, sharp pain has you biting your lips hard enough for blood to pool in your mouth to keep from crying out. You’re breathing hard through your nostrils, and the only thing keeping you from screaming and weeping is Dean’s voice in your head.

You’ve got this, princess, the pretend Dean says to you as another deep, terrible wound opens on your collarbone. You’re doing so good, baby, be brave, I’m on my way.

You let your imagination take you away, deep into a fantasy about being in bed with Dean. Your dog is sleeping across your legs, and your face is pressed into that broad, strong chest. His arm is flung around your waist, his legs tangled with yours under Winch, and you’re warm and happy and safe.

The pain blooming into your thigh brings you back to the horrific present, and you bite your lips together hard to keep from screaming out. Somehow, even though it’s still pain, the fact that you caused the pain yourself centers you, and you keep your focus on your teeth sinking into sensitive flesh.

“Oh, you’re good and stubborn, just like your jackass of a soulmate,” Zachariah says softly, running an invisible blade along your skin to open you up. “But I’m sure he’ll give in soon. To keep your lovely little self safe.”

He stops and looks up, then smiles a vicious little smile again. “Ah, there he is,” he mutters, before disappearing again.

You take the opportunity to drop your mouth open, and you let out a sob as you gasp for air. You have never in your life been in this kind of agony, and you’re so scared that Dean has said yes to the archangel that you can barely think.

But that’s not a luxury you have, so you take a deep breath to center yourself, and you open your eyes again. You look around at the room, absorbing the details, then look down at your arms.

I’m proud of you, princess, keep going.

You decide to start with your right arm. You brace yourself, then start to pulling backward, out of the rope. It’s coming, slowly, the wiggle room you gave yourself by tensing as he bound you giving you leeway, as well as the sweat that’s popped up on your skin. It’s slow going, but you have no other choice, so you keep at it, slow and steady, not rushing yourself.

When it finally slips free, you blink, then look around the room. Part of you is convinced that this is a trap, that Zachariah’s going to appear behind you and rip your arm off or saw it off or do something equally horrific. When the room stays silent, you nod and start to pull the rope off of the rest of your limbs.

You’re doing so good, baby, just a little further.

With that done, you brace yourself and stand. It’s not super hard, the bastard has really only cut up your front half, but the cut on your thigh is deeper than you thought it was, and you watch dispassionately as blood starts dripping down your leg.

You want to cry. You want to cry for days, you want to scream and rage and whimper and sob. You just want to crawl into a bed and wail. You want Winch, his big, comforting presence the rock that you’ve always clung to in a storm. You want Dean, his warm, strong arms around you, his deep voice whispering that it’s going to be all right, you’re safe now.

You want warmth, safety, comfort.

You want Dean, Winch, Sam, Cass, Bobby.

You want a shot of fucking tequila.

But instead, you walk forward to the door, take a deep breath, and open it.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, Zachariah, yes just bring me to her.

The moment the last word rings through Dean’s brain, he’s transported away from Bobby’s kitchen and into a room he recognizes from before Sam let Lucifer free. And Zachariah is there, smiling that stupid, smug smile.

The angel spreads his arms wide. “Dean!” He says genially, “So glad you could join us.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Between you and I, your little slut probably couldn’t have taken much more indecision from you.”

Fury blanks Dean’s mind again, and he struggles against it. He has to be sharp, he has to be on his toes if he’s going to rescue her. “Where is she? What did you do to her?” he asks, his voice cracked and emotional. He lets it stay that way, partially because he wants Zachariah to think he’s desperate, and partially because he is desperate.

Zachariah shakes his head. “Not until you say yes. Not until you say yes to the big man.”

Dean shakes his head back. “Proof of life, you bastard. I want to see her.”

The angel steps forward and clasps his hands behind his back. “No, Dean, you seem to be under the impression that you’re in charge here. I can assure you, you’re not. You see, you’re going to say yes to Michael, he’s going to use you to defeat Lucifer, and then, and only then, will you get to see Y/N. Until that moment, until that fight, she’s mine.” Zachariah smiles coldly. “And I’m going to go ahead and tell you that you don’t want her to stay that way for very long, Dean.”

Dean just stares at him, fighting with himself, fighting his emotions back.

Zachariah misinterprets his silence as defiance. “Dean, come on, we can strike him now! We can strike before he gets his vessel! The casualties might be just… Half of what we think they’ll be!” The angel has been stepping forward, insistent, his manic eyes wide.

Dean takes a deep breath. “Call him down, you motherfucker,” he says softly. “Get him down here, fine, I’ll say yes, just… Just don’t hurt her anymore.”

The glee on Zachariah’s face makes Dean’s stomach roll again. The other man tilts his head back and looks up. He begins to chant in Enochian. “Zodiredo, noco, aberamage, nazodpesade…” He looks back down at Dean and smiles. “He’s coming now.”

Dean nods, mind racing to find a way out of this, but he’s more than willing to say yes if it will mean he can save her. She’s going to be livid, but he’s her soulmate, it’s his job to protect her.

The room starts to shake, and light begins to emit from the ceiling, when the door opens.

When you open the door to exit the torture room, shock makes your mind go blank. You can’t believe what you’re seeing.

You’re in the warehouse that the beautiful room is in, from the episode where the angels bring Adam Mulligan back. You can see the outside of the beautiful room, obviously shoddily built. You tilt your head out the door, and see that you’re in a very similar room.

How stupid does everyone think I am? You think venomously, stepping forward and walking out of the room. You should be grateful that they keep underestimating you, but it’s a little insulting. You hold onto that feeling as you walk toward the beautiful room, hoping that it will keep you going.

As you step toward the door, the sound of Dean’s rumbling voice almost takes you out at the knees. You let the tears fall from your eyes, because there’s no way to stop them.

“Proof of life, you bastard. I want to see her.”

You nod and take a deep breath. Keep them busy, baby, give me some time.

You steel yourself and dip your finger into the wound on your leg. You whimper a little as pain washes through you again, but you have what you need. Almost. You close your eyes.

Cass, we’re in Van Nuys, California, an abandoned muffler factory. It’s the same place they keep the angelic green room. I’m going to need you in about two seconds, so get your ass here.

You start smearing blood on the wall just next to the door of the beautiful room.

The door opens to reveal Y/N, and Dean’s heart stops in his chest.

She’s covered in blood. The black sundress she was wearing hides some of it, but the low cut neckline gives him a clear view of the deep cuts on her chest, and the blood streaming down her leg tells him there’s another one high on her thigh. Her eye is swollen shut, her lips are bloodied, and her left cheek has been split open.

His heart is broken looking at her.

She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on.

Zachariah hasn’t seen her, he’s still gloating. “This is really for the best, Dean, you’ll see. You’re doing a good thing here.”

“He’s not doing jack shit,” she says, her voice raspy.

The angel whirls around, and Dean sees him tense in shock. “What the hell?” Zachariah asks softly.

“Fuck you,” she says simply, before slamming her hand against the wall outside the door.

Zachariah screams and bursts into light. Dean shields his eyes, then opens them to see that the angel is gone, and the light that was shining from the ceiling has gone, too. She’s swaying on her feet, tears falling down her face.

“Dean,” she says softly. “You didn’t say yes yet, did you?”

He runs the few steps to her, then gently presses a kiss to her forehead, his arm hesitating to wrap around her. “No, princess, I didn’t.”

She nods and leans into him. “Good.” Then she steps back, away from him. “I’m sorry, I’m covered in blood,” she says softly, tears still streaming down her face, still sniffling.

He frowns and steps forward to take her gingerly into his arms. “I don’t give a fuck,” he rasps, “I thought you were dead.”

She whimpers and leans into him. “I thought so, too.”

The fluttering of wings has Dean tensing, but when he turns, it’s just Castiel standing there. The angel doesn’t meet his eyes, just puts one hand on Dean’s shoulder, and one hand on hers, and the world drops away from them.

They land in the kitchen, Sam and Bobby’s shocked gazes falling on them. Dean looks down at her, and she smiles timidly up at him, her lip pulling open and bleeding again.

“Um, I think I’m going to pass out,” she says softly, and her warning gives Dean just enough time to wrap his arms around her and catch her before she falls to the floor.

You’re sitting up against the headboard the next night, arguing gently with Dean.

Sam apparently stitched you up while you were out, which you’re grateful for. You’re not sure how you even sustained that much pain, much less the pain of being tended to.

You’ve peeked beneath the bandages on your chest, stomach, and thigh. The stitches are small and neat, and there will probably be minimal scarring. There’s nothing they can do for your face except wait it out. The swelling has already gone down significantly, so you can open your right eye a crack.

Dean has been hovering for the past twenty-four hours, insisting that you eat and bringing you medicine and even letting you wash some of it down with whiskey. He’s been sweet and gentle and downright loving, and now he’s being stubborn.

“Dean, please?”

He shakes his head. He’s sitting on the bed next to you, his hand resting lightly on your shin. “No, Y/N, you need your sleep. What if I bump you in the night and open up your stitches?”

“Then Sam will sew me up again and I’ll take more painkillers. Please?”

He shakes his head, but you can see in his eyes that you’re getting to him. “No, Y/N.”

“Dean,” you say softly, “I… I don’t think I can sleep without you.” Which is true. The night before, once they’d gotten you back here, you had slept fitfully, your dreams filled with invisible scalpels and pools of blood and Zachariah.

He sighs deeply, and his eyes are filled with an unidentifiable emotion. “I can’t, princess,” he says hoarsely.

You frown, which hurts, but you ignore the pain. You take everything you know about Dean, the way he feels about himself and you and the world in general, and you use it to find out what’s going through that lovely head.

“You think this is your fault,” you say softly.

He just stares at you silently, and you sigh. “Dean, this is in no way your fault. It’s the angel’s, Zachariah’s and Michael’s. It’s not yours.”

He shakes his head. “If I had said yes-”

“Then they would have hurt me anyway,” you interrupt firmly, “and we would be fucked six ways to Sunday and twice on Tuesday.” You lean forward to take his hand in yours. “Dean, please don’t feel guilty, or try not to, anyway. This is not your fault.”

He looks away, and you wish he wouldn’t. “Y/N, I’ll just go sleep in me and Sammy’s room.”

And suddenly, you’re too sad and angry and hurting and beyond exhausted to be nice anymore. “God dammit, Dean,” you snap, releasing his hand and sitting back.

He turns back to look at you, frowning. “Princess, I-”

“No, fuck that,” you say hotly, mad as fuck all of the sudden. “You don’t get to feel guilty right now, understand? You don’t get to do this to me.”

The confusion on his face is growing. “Y/N, I-”

“You don’t get to make me feel guilty about you feeling guilty, all right?” The tears are filling your eyes, and you fight to keep your composure. “I have been kidnapped and tortured, I had to stick a finger in my leg, I got sliced up, and now my fucking soulmate won’t fucking sleep with me.” The tears are spilling down your cheeks, and you raise your hand to wipe your face angrily, and then you wince because it hurts like a bitch. “So get your ass in this bed, Dean, because it’s been a really long couple of days, and-”

Before you can continue, he’s in bed next to you, his arms around you gently, his lips pressed against your temple. You turn and press your face into his neck, crying in earnest, overwhelmed by it all. He’s murmuring soothing nonsense into your ear, his voice rumbling in his chest. He maneuvers the two of you so you’re lying down side by side. He holds you close and rocks you gently back and forth, taking care with your injuries, which is somehow exactly what you need.

“You did so good, princess, you were so brave. Jesus, I’m so glad you’re as smart as you are, I can’t believe you got us out of that-”

He’s whispering to you, saying the things you need to hear, gentle praise and affection.

You fall asleep with your face pressed into his shoulder, your tears still running down your cheeks, and his neverending dialogue in your ear.

Dean holds her as she cries, whispers to her, and remains firmly in a state of shock at the woman in his arms.

A woman who survived angelic “persuasion.” A woman who managed to escape said angelic “persuasion.” A woman who outsmarted that rat bastard Zachariah. A woman who managed to rescue herself, and Dean, from a situation that he was supposed to be rescuing her from. A woman who has had to explain over and over again what happened, get stitched up, and has hardly complained at all about the pain she’s in.

A woman who put him in his place when his guilt and self-blame made him blind to her need.

A woman that he knows now that he’s falling in love with.

Chapter Text

Winch is a happy dog.

His WOMAN is in her bed again, sleeping soundly. He watches over her like his life depends on it, to make sure that she does not get hurt again.

When his MAN came back without his WOMAN, and Winch smelled fear and anger rolling off of him, Winch, too, had panicked. Where had his WOMAN gone? Why was his MAN so upset? Winch had been so worried about his WOMAN that he even forgot to growl when his MAN attacked the winged MAN with the chair.

The winged MAN is strange to Winch, and he does not know yet if he likes the winged MAN. The winged MAN smells of power, and wide open skies, and obedience. And Winch doesn’t think his MAN and WOMAN can see the ragged, scarred wings that the winged man carries. Winch is suspicious of him, and the winged MAN has upset WInch’s MAN and WOMAN enough that Winch does not know yet if he likes him.

But the winged MAN did bring his MAN and his WOMAN back, so maybe he is not so bad, after all.

All of these thoughts and feelings are fading into the background of Winch’s mind. He watches his WOMAN sleep, as he sits next to her bed with his head resting on the blankets. He was so worried about her when she got back. She smelled like pain and suffering, but also of a fierce bravery that makes Winch swell with pride. He knew his WOMAN was a fighter, just like Winch is.

When the door behind him opens, Winch doesn’t even have to turn around to know that it is his MAN, coming to check on his WOMAN. The MAN has been taking good care of her, and Winch approves. He can smell the love coming off of both of them when they look at each other, and Winch is glad. He knows that humans don’t always smell like that when they’re together, so he is happy that his MAN and his WOMAN do.

“Hey, buddy, how’s your mom?” the MAN says from behind him in the nonsense language.

Winch knows there is no reply required from him, so he keeps his adoring gaze on his sleeping WOMAN.

His MAN will take care of everything else.

“Dean, I can walk down stairs, for God’s sake,” you say gently, laughing at his expression. “It’s been a week, you nerd, I’m fine.”

In the week since you yelled at him (which, of course, now you feel guilty about), Dean Winchester has transformed into the perfect nurse. He’s been making sure that your cuts aren’t getting infected, he has promised he will take the stitches out in another week, and he’s been pumping food and fluids into you like you’re some sort of trauma survivor.

It has been absolutely amazing to be waited on hand and foot by Dean, but you’re also about to start crawling the walls with boredom. Hence, you standing at the top of the stairs, arguing with your… Whatever he is to you… Because he wants to carry you down the stairs, and that’s ridiculous.

“I didn’t break any bones or lose any limbs, I can walk just fine,” you insist gently. “Out of the way, Winchester.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re not budging on this, are you?”

You shake your head. “Nope!” you say cheerfully.

You’ve been making your case to go downstairs for two days. Dean hasn’t given an inch, spouting off some ridiculousness about needing rest and going through shock. Which is sweet, and you understand, but honestly, it’s just a few cuts, and the only way to recover from what happened is to move forward.

He finally broke when you offered to cook. The four of you have been living off of boxed macaroni and cheese for a week, and while Dean has some serious creativity when it comes to adding stuff to make it more interesting, it’s still pasta and orange powder. The idea of homemade lasagna and garlic bread and chocolate chip cookies was too much for the green-eyed hunter, and he buckled under the pressure.

He gives you a scheming look, which makes you nervous. “All right, princess. I’ll move so you can go down the stairs, as long as you let me do the heavy lifting in the kitchen.”

You grin and start down the stairs, still limping just a little, and press a kiss to his stubbly jaw as you pass him. “Oh, Dean, I was already planning on it.”

“Okay, bring that bowl over here and go stir the noodles.”

Dean follows her directions easily, watching her like a hawk for signs of exhaustion. She’s definitely sagging a little in her chair, and she winces when she reaches out to take the bowl from him, but she looks good. Her color is coming back, and her eyes are sparkling at him even as they look tired.

“You’re pretty good at taking orders, hot stuff, I should keep that in mind.”

Her words send lazy heat spiralling through him, and he winks at her while he stirs the giant boiling pot on the stove. Not being able to touch her has, for some reason, not been driving him as mad as he thought it would. Of course, he wants her, all the time, but he wants her healthy and moaning and moving beneath him, not wounded and careful and pulling stitches out.

He’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for some delayed reaction to what happened to her. But she shows no signs of anything like that… She’s just smiling and healing and somehow still putting the shattered pieces of him back together, even though she’s the one who got torn into.

“Earth to Winchester,” her laughing voice brings him out of his musings. “Did you hear me?”

“What?”

She laughs. “It’s time to start layering, I need you to bring everything over to the table.”

Sam is standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the study, just watching Dean and Y/N before they realize that he’s there.

His big brother has been like an anxious mother hen since Y/N got back. While Sam was stitching her up (“You’re better at it, Sam, just fucking do it!”), Dean had hovered over him until it was done, tenseness and worry radiating off of him.

Sam was pretty worried himself there for a minute. She lost a lot of blood, and the fact that she immediately fainted made him even more concerned.

But now, watching her sit and order Dean around, who is following her command like an obedient puppy, Sam sees that she’s lost that death paleness she had going on for a while. Her smile is quick and easy, and she’s laughing as Dean drops a steaming hot noodle on the table, cussing a blue streak. Sam finds himself extremely relieved that she’s all right, and massively impressed that she got them out of that situation.

But he’s more relieved, and more impressed, at the changes in Dean. He’s less angry, or he has been for the last week, since Y/N got back. He’s been so busy making sure her recovery goes smoothly that it’s like he’s forgotten to be mad at Sam or Cass. He’s just busy taking care of her.

Her eyes flick to the doorway, and Sam smiles at the warmth in her expression. “Oh, good, get in here, Sam,” she says cheerfully, “I’ll need both of you to help finish dinner.”

You’re in the kitchen by yourself, savoring the alone time. Bobby called Dean and Sam off to the study to look at some ritual, and if you hadn’t pushed Dean out the door, he wouldn’t have gone. Stubborn.

You feel all right, but you’re tired. Maybe Dean is onto something with this whole “shock” theory. Or maybe it’s because the cut on your thigh was damn near bone deep (Sam told you when you woke up, he’s surprised you were able to walk at all at the muffler factory), but you can feel yourself slowing down.

Which is probably why the cookie sheet slips out of your hand as you pull it out of the oven.

You gasp, completely unable to even make the first move to catch the cookies. You just kind of accept their fate and watch them fall, already starting to mourn their warm gooeyness.

Before they get that far, a pale, strong hand catches the sheet in mid-air. You blink as Cass holds the cookie sheet, looking at you quizzically.

“Are you all right, Y/N?” he asks as he places the metal on the counter.

“Cass, your hands,” you blurt, realizing that while you have an oven mitt on, the angel’s hands are bare.

He looks down. You follow his gaze, and you feel your eyes widen as the skin on his hand starts to redden, and blisters are already slowly forming on his fingertips.

He frowns. “This is… Painful.”

You huff out a laugh and wrap your fingers gently around his wrist, taking care not to touch his palm. “Yeah, that’s called ‘burning the fuck out of yourself,” you mutter as you lead him to the sink, turn the water onto cold, and stick his hand under the flow.

He hisses at the contact, and you give him a sympathetic pat on the arm. “Sorry, this is the best thing for it.” You turn and smile at him. “Keep this here, I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

He nods, and you feel his blue eyes watch as you limp over to the cupboard that you put a first aid kit in a few weeks ago. Dean protested, saying they had gotten just fine without one. But when you cocked an eyebrow and pointed out that dental floss does not him a doctor make, he caved.

You come back to Castiel and urge him to sit at the table. Partially so he’ll be still while you patch him up, partially because you’re tired.

You gently pat his hand dry, surveying the damage. You take the burn ointment out of the first aid kit and smear it liberally on his palm and fingers as you speak. “Well, you’re to sting for a few days, but you’ll be all right.” You smile up at him, screwing the lid back onto the tube when you’re done. “Just let me put a bandage on it, and you’ll be good to go. And no more catching hot pans until you get your healing powers back.”

As you get the gauze and start wrapping it around his fingers (and try not to stare, because they’re long and strong, and even though you love Dean, someone would have to be dead not to notice Castiel’s beautiful hands), he speaks again. “The cookies were going to fall.”

You pause and meet his eyes. “Cass, they’re just cookies. I mean, they’re good, but they’re not worth hurting yourself.” You smile and look back down at your task. “I can make more cookies, but we only have one you.”

He’s silent while you finish, securing the end of the gauze with medical tape. You sit back and smile at him again, endeared by the way he just let you take over. “All right, you’re done. You should be battle ready again around the same time I am.”

You’re busy putting the stuff away when he slowly speaks. “Y/N…”

When you turn back to him, the angel looks uncomfortable. Chagrined, you ask, “Oh, God, Cass, are the bandages too tight? I’m so sorry-“ you begin as you reach for his hand to readjust the gauze.

He pulls his hand away. “The bandages are fine, Y/N.”

You frown. “Well, okay. What’s wrong then?”

He examines you closely, in a way that only Cass can really get away with, then, “I owe you an apology.”

You frown harder. Of all the things you thought would come from his mouth, that was not one of them. “Huh?” I have always been known for being a linguist.

“I feel I may be responsible for the worst of your injuries.”

Your brain might be short-circuiting. “Huh?” Yes. Impress him with your intelligence.

“Y/N, I… I disconnected the call, with Zachariah, when he called Dean. I did not want Dean to say yes, I did not take into account that you would pay the consequences for my actions.”

When you think about it, the second time Zachariah showed up, he was pretty mad… That was probably why.

You think about being upset for about half a second, but then meet his eyes and smile gently. “I forgive you, Castiel. Don’t worry too much about it, okay?”

He stares at you. “You… Forgive me?”

“Of course I do,” you say evenly, turning to pack up the first aid kit again. “You didn’t know, I’m sure you wouldn’t have done it if you had known, and you’re family.” You smile fondly at the thought of your hunter. “And Dean has a little bit of a martyr hard-on happening, so I understand the need for drastic measures.”

He stares at you again in that angelic, “what the hell are you talking about” kind of way, and you let it happen as you put away the first aid kit.

You’re saved from the awkwardness by Dean re-entering the kitchen. He’s staring at Cass suspiciously. “Everything all right, princess?”

You smile and nod as Winch comes in behind him, also staring at the angel suspiciously. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Cookies are done!”

Dean has settled her on the couch with Bobby in the study, a book in her lap. She has insisted that he let her help with research, still trying to find a way to kill the devil, or lock him back up, without sacrificing Sam. He’s irritated, he wants her to go back to bed after dinner, but she refused, and so now he watches her from the corner of his eye while he and Sam do dishes.

And if anyone knows him better than Y/N, it’s Sam. “So, we just gonna let Zachariah go?”

Dean shakes his head, not looking up from the pan he’s washing. “Nope.”

“You got a plan?”

“Yep.”

“Y/N know about it?”

“Nope.”

A beat of silence, then Sam nods. “All right, then. Tell me.”

That night, after she’s deeply sleep, Dean carefully slips out of bed, settling the covers back over her. This isn’t like the last time he slipped out of bed, at least... Not much like the last time. He’s doing it on the premise that asking for forgiveness is easier than asking for permission.

And on the premise that he doesn’t want her hurt.

And on the premise that she’s his soulmate, and there is a certain rat bastard angel who owes Dean a blood debt for hurting her.

Sexist? Probably. Something he should talk to her about first? Maybe. A douchebag move that will probably piss her off, should she find out? Definitely. Are any of those things going to stop him?

Not at all.

He meets Sam and Bobby at the bottom of the stairs, shrugging his coat on as he meets their eyes. “Cass here yet?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, we wanted to make sure you really want to do this first.”

Dean thinks about the way she looked when she opened the door to the beautiful room. The pain in her eyes, the blood slowly flowing down her leg, the careful way she held herself. And, of course, the core of absolute iron she must have in her spine that kept her walking and talking after what she’d gone through.

And the fact that it was all, one hundred percent Zachariah’s fault.

“Oh yeah, call the angel. Let’s smite this douchebag.”

Dean waits, tense and ready, as Castiel draws the last symbol on the ground, and Sam pours the last few inches of holy oil in the circle. He looks at Cass. “You sure this will work?”

The angel nods. “Yes, it’s a very old ritual, but it will work.”

Dean nods. “All right.”

He listens to Castiel mutter in Enochian as Bobby rolls up next to him. “This is eight kinds of stupid,” the older hunter says casually.

Dean nods. “Yep.”

“Think she’ll be pissed when she finds out?”

Dean shrugs. “Probably.”

“There a reason she ain’t here?”

“Because, Bobby, she’d be in danger. She’s been through enough because of me.” Dean shakes his head. “If I had any sort of self control, I’d send her packing.”

Sam snorts as he comes to stand next to them. “Good luck with that. She’s as stubborn as you are.”

Dean grins, a smug sort of pleasure building in his chest. “Yeah, she is.”

Lightning flashes, interrupting the conversation. Dean blinks, and Zachariah is standing in the middle of the circle, glaring at them.

“What the hell do you mud apes want?” Zachariah snaps, but Dean sees nervousness in the back of his eyes. The predator in Dean, the part of him that makes him a good hunter, purrs in approval.

“You motherfucker,” Dean says softly, slowly approaching the circle. “You’re good, Zach. You got to her, you even got me in the green room. Just can’t… Quite… Close that deal, can you?”

The angel’s face darkens. “You think it’s wise to mock me, boy?”

Deans shrugs. “Wise or not, you’re trapped here with me. And I’ve got a couple of things to say to you.”

Dean circles the ring of holy fire, stalking his prey, letting his anger replace his fear. This might be an angel he’s staring down, and he may just be a human...

But Y/N is his soulmate, his woman, and the creature in front of him hurt her. And, above all, Dean Winchester protects what’s his. Whether it’s selling his soul to save Sammy or leaving Y/N safe in bed, with warded windows and doors to keep nasties out, Dean Winchester protects what’s his.

“See, Zachariah, I want you to know why you’re here. You think it’s because you keep trying to get me to say yes. You think it’s because you’ve given me stomach cancer, broke Sammy’s legs, and taken his lungs. You think it’s because you’re a grade-A douchebag, and that you’ve done more to ruin my life than any other thing ever has.”

Dean lets the smile cross his face. Not the smile he gives Sam, Bobby, or Cass, and certainly not the one he saves for Y/N. The smile on his lips now is the smile from that inner predator, his inner alpha male, the inner hunter. It’s the smile of something that has its prey in it’s sight, right where he wants it.

“But it’s because you took Y/N. Yeah, I’d like to say it’s because of those other things, and I won’t lie, they’re not helping. But hurting me, hurting Sammy? That’s not like hurting Y/N. Y/N’s an innocent, she’s not a hunter, she’s just some woman who got wrapped up in all of this. And you chose to take her.”

Dean tilts his head to the side. “And I can’t just let that go, can I?”

Zachariah’s lips start to tilt upwards. “Why, you little-”

Before he can finish, Dean rushes forward, letting the angel blade drop from his sleeve, flips it in his hand, and rams it upwards through the angel’s head. Zachariah seems like he’s trying to speak for a moment, then Dean is forced to close his eyes and look away as light explodes from Zachariah’s face.

When he turns back, he pulls the blade from the body’s head, watching it thump to the ground dispassionately. The whole thing, from beginning of speech to dropping the body, took about a minute and a half. That’s all right with Dean, he’s anxious to get back to her, anyway.

He turns to look at the other men in the little clearing. Their faces are unreadable.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here”

You’re sitting up in bed, Winch by your side, when Dean tries to sneak back into the room.

He pauses when he sees you, then a guilty smile tilts his lips up. “Hey, princess.”

“Where did you go?” you ask softly, still unsure if you’re mad at him or not.

He comes all the way in and closes the door behind him. He heaves a sigh as he shrugs his coat off, and you will yourself not to be distracted by the shoulder-to-waist ratio you’re confronted with. Being sexy will not get him out of trouble. Just because he’s shaped like a goddamn “V” doesn’t mean he’s not also a jerk.

He sits on the bed next to you, reaching his hand over your legs to rub Winch behind the ears absent-mindedly. You realize that he’s debating on whether or not to tell you the truth. You frown and open your mouth to rip him a new one, but you’re interrupted before you can.

“Took care of Zachariah.”

You sigh. That’s where you thought he’d gone. “Dean-”

He holds a hand up, and you frown again, irritated at both him for making the motion, and at yourself for obeying him.

“Princess, it’s not what you think.” He smiles ruefully. “Well, okay, it’s not all what you think. It was because he hurt you, but it’s also to protect you.”

He hits you with those beautiful green eyes, and you unconsciously lean forward, caught up in him, just like you always are, like you always will be.

“Y/N, I couldn’t just let him go. If I let him go, how long before someone else, or some thing else, hears about it, and decides that they can hurt you, too? As you are so fond of pointing out, I can’t be around you forever. I can’t hover twenty-four-seven, much as I’d like to, so this was the next best option. I know you can take care of yourself, but I couldn’t just let him go.” He gives you a boyish, crooked grin, and you feel your resolve crumble. “Baby, I have a reputation to uphold.”

You look at him for another moment, then roll your eyes and shake your head a little. “That is the lamest excuse I have ever heard.” He frowns, and it’s your turn to interrupt him before he speaks. “But I understand.” You smile, tiredness starting to weigh you down. “Can we talk more in the morning? I’m tired.”

He stares at you for another moment, then nods. “Yeah, princess.”

You lean back and watch as he gets undressed, appreciating his absolutely freaking ridiculous form as he comes back over and crawls into bed next to you. He automatically puts an arm around you, and you nestle into his side, basking in the heat radiating off of him and the firm chest beneath your cheek.

His arm wraps around you, and you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside when he presses a kiss to your forehead. You look up at him, suddenly a little shy and overwhelmed by how smitten you are with him. “So,” you say softly, “you killed an angel for me.”

He smiles and kisses your forehead again. “I’d do anything for you, Y/N.” You watch the smile fade off of his face, and you’re silent as he gently pulls you up so you’re at eye level with him. You turn onto your side, and he does the same, so you’re staring at one another, inches from each other’s faces.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” he says huskily, his eyes searching yours, begging you to understand. “I would do anything for you.”

Your heart beats faster and your eyes widen. Then you lean forward and press your lips to his, kissing him gently, taking mercy on him, telling him without words that you understand. Without words has always been the kind of communication that Dean is best at, anyway.

He’s trying to tell you that he loves you.

As soon as you’re healed, the two of you are facing the apocalypse again. You’re facing off against Michael and Lucifer, fighting against heaven and hell at the same time. As soon as those stitches come out, it’s right back into the fray.

But, for tonight, Dean Winchester loves you, has killed to protect you, and as much as it should piss you off that he did it without talking to you first, a warm little part of your heart is glowing as you cuddle into him and fade off into sleep.

Chapter Text

A week after Dean killed Zachariah, you’re making cinnamon rolls again, humming in the early morning sunlight. Winch is sunning himself behind you, and you savor the quiet and the solitude.

The last week has been insane. Everyone has been in crazy, oh-no-we’re-actually-about-to-fight-the-devil research mode, and it hasn’t been going well. Besides angel blades, which you don’t think are really an option at this point, you can’t find a good way to kill Lucifer. But you’re sticking with it, all of you are, digging deeper into more arcane and stranger knowledge than before.

Well, you’re trying to research, but Dean has been following you around and hassling you to eat or sleep or rest or whatever it is he’s been spouting off about for the last few days. You love him, but he’s going overboard, so you’ve taken to ignoring him until he’s being reasonable. Which worked fine until he caught on and just started picking you up and carrying you to bed.

The love of my life is a jackass.

Jackass he may be, but he’s also a hell of a cuddler. When you’re not arguing about whether or not you should be resting, he’s never not touching you. Running his hands through your hair, rubbing his hand up and down your back, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with you on the couch. For a man who can’t say, “I love you,” he knows how to show it.

As if your thoughts summoned him, you sense him coming down the stairs. Winch woofs and his tail thumps. “Hey, bud,” Dean murmurs as he makes a beeline for you.

You smile and lean back into him when he wraps his arms around you. “Dean, cooking,” you say mildly, even though you’re done. It’s not really a way to stop him anymore, it’s a greeting.

He presses his face against your neck and nods. “I know.”

You smile and tilt your head back to rest it on his shoulder. “I need you to move so I can put these in the oven.”

He obliges by taking a step back, and you slip the pan into the oven. While you’re bent over, you feel his hands on your hips and he presses against you from behind. You shudder and close the oven door, then turn in his arms to twine your own arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss him hard.

You love the cuddling, you really do. It’s like he’s going out of his way to make you feel loved and treasured and taken care of, and it works. Your anxiety and self-consciousness have been quiet since you got back from being kidnapped.

But if this man doesn’t touch in in a carnal way soon, you’re going to have to take drastic measures.

It’s not like you’ve always had some sort of unusually high sex drive. You haven’t. You have a normal libido, as far as you’re aware…

But how does someone walk around with someone who looks like Dean and not want his face between their legs all damn day? Or to be on top of him, hands splayed on that glorious chest. Or beneath him, writhing as he drives into you…

He chuckles and pulls back a little. “Slow down, princess,” he murmurs, pressing little kisses to your cheeks and nose. “You’re still healing.”

You tilt your head back and groan. “Dean, I’m going to murder you.” You lean back up to look at him through narrowed eyes. “I don’t suppose you could just trust that I’m fine?”

He grins and shakes his head. “No dice, pretty lady. You’re getting those stitches out today, so you’ll need at least a couple more days to heal from that.” He winks at you, and you feel yourself catch on fire a little on the inside. “Plus, what woman wouldn’t lie to get me into bed?”

You smirk. “Oh, I don’t have to lie, Dean.” You go up on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I just have to…”

Dean feels his eyes widen as she whispers some of the filthiest shit he’s ever heard into his ear, and all of the blood rushes from his brain. Fuck.

He groans and turns to catch her mouth, kissing her hard before he takes a big step back and points at her. “Behave,” he says, his voice rough with wanting.

She smiles. “Make me.”

He shakes his head and turns away. Damn woman. “Doesn’t the dog need to go out? He looks like he needs to go out. Come on, Winch, let’s go outside.”

Her rolling laughter hits him like a ton of bricks, and he nearly stumbles on his way to the back door. “The cold isn’t going to help, Dean,” she says to his back.

Since he’s about to break and give her everything she wants and more, he steps outside behind the dog into the brisk morning air.

He smiles when Winch barks happily and bounds down the steps, running around like he’s lost his damn mind. Dean has never been much of a dog person, but Winch is the exception. He’s really more human than canine, anyway.

He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and huffs. Should have brought a coat. Of course, he just got chased out of his kitchen by a vixen bent on seduction, but he still could have grabbed his coat on the way out. It’s cold.

The thought strikes him as very… Domestic, which startles him.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, Dean thinks about a civilian life.

He thinks about a normal eight-to-five job that pays the bills (even if he only has a fuzzy ideas of what bills actually need to be paid normally), something with his hands.

He thinks about coming home to her every night, complaining about their days, watching her move and laugh and cook in the kitchen.

He thinks about kissing her until she forgets she’s cooking, dragging her to the bedroom, letting clothes fly on the way there.

He thinks about lying with her, sated and sweaty and happy, only getting out of bed long enough to let the dog in before falling asleep tangled up in her.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Dean thinks about a civilian life.

And for the first time ever, it doesn’t really scare him.

You all decide to take a break, since the research has been going nowhere.

Sam opts to sleep all day, and you heartily approve. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and he’s been moving slowly for days. So he wanders up the stairs to go to bed.

Bobby has had orders piling up for the salvage yard, so he enlists Dean to help do the heavy lifting, then enlists you to do the paperwork.

Which is how you find yourself sitting at a desk in the corner of the garage, sifting through receipts and invoices, dated anywhere from yesterday to ten years ago. Bobby is a thorough record keeper, just not an organized one.

Winch is laying in a patch of sun near where Dean is working, and you’re marveling at the feeling of peace stealing through you as you work.

You’re imagining, just for a moment, that this is your normal life. That you and your boyfriend work in his father’s garage, and he takes you out to lunch every day, and you go home and fuck until neither of you can move every night.

You’re not sure you would trade the life you have now for that one. You do important work with Dean and Sam, the three of you are saving people, the family business. It’s good work, and you go to bed every night knowing you’re doing the right thing.

But maybe it would be nice to be normal for a while.

You spin your chair away from the desk and look up to give your eyes a rest, and they land on Dean. That will rest them just fine.

He’s sweaty and covered in grease. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear that he takes down periodically to make a mark on the paper he’s got on a clipboard in his hand. He’s told you before that he used to help bobby in the garage when he was little, and now he knows the place almost as well as Bobby does.

You watch as he puts his paperwork down and reaches up to pull a part down, and you appreciate the view. His flat, muscled stomach, revealed when his shirt rides up. His strong arms, flexing and straining as he pulls the part off of the shelf and moves it to be labelled and sent out. The sweat on his handsome face, and the way his green eyes give intense focus on whatever it is he’s doing, be it paperwork or you.

God help me, I want to climb him like a tree.

When his eyes catch yours, your first instinct is to blush and look down. But it’s been weeks since he’s touched you, so instead of giving into that instinct, you blush and keep his gaze, biting your lip a little and smiling.

His green eyes heat up enough to make you a little dizzy, and you automatically tilt your head back when he approaches you. He bends over and rests his hands on the armrests of the chair, caging you in. You can feel your heartbeat pick up the longer you’re staring at him.

He leans forward and presses his lips to yours gently. You sigh and lean into him, kissing him back, loving the feel of him above you. When he nips at your bottom lip, you open for him. You always open for Dean.

“Kids,” Bobby says gruffly, “Don’t make me get the hose.”

You’re sitting on the kitchen table in a low-cut tank top, rolling your eyes as Dean glares at Sam. “Dean,” you say softly, “for God’s sake, he stitched me up, it’s not like he hasn’t seen it before.”

Dean is being possessive. Jackass. “I can take them out,” he insists.

You roll your eyes. “But I want Sam to do it,” you say firmly. You actually wouldn’t mind Dean doing it, it’s not like he hasn’t had his hands on you before. But you assumed that Sam would be the one doing it, just because he’s the one who put them in, and as soon as you brought it up, Dean’s inner douchebag came out to play.

So now you’re just being difficult, because Dean does not get to dictate who touches you.

“Come here, Sam, and get these damn things out of me,” you say cheerfully, pushing Dean away and waving a hand at Sam.

Sam is chuckling as he approaches with the little scissors and tweezers. “Yes, ma’am,” he says amicably, standing in front of you. You pull the tank top strap that’s in the way down for him, shivering a little because it’s cold.

He bends down and gets to work, snipping the neat little stitches and pulling them out. You wince a little at the tugging sensation, but it’s not all that bad. You studiously ignore Dean’s death glare, keeping an eye on the ceiling and just letting Sam do his thing.

It only takes about ten minutes to get all of the stitches out. Dean actually emits a low growl when you have to pull up the gym shorts you’re wearing so Sam can get to the cut on your thigh. You meet his eyes and roll yours. Ass.

When Sam’s done, he examines each wound carefully, then sits back and smiles. “All right, you’re good to go.”

Before you can say anything, Dean is speaking. “Would you say she’s completely healed, Sam? No… Activity restrictions?”

You shudder at the heat and possessiveness at his words. Oh, dear, may have pissed him off a bit.

Sam makes a face. “Dean, I’m not going to give you permission to have sex with Y/N, that’s disgusting and-“

Before Sam can finish, Dean strides up to the table, picks you up, and tosses you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. Which, while super hot, is still a douchebag move. “Dean!” you snap, struggling to contain your laughter.

“I don’t need permission,” Dean growls softly as he carries you out of the kitchen.

You let him carry you up to the bedroom without complaint, partially because you’re irritated at him, partially because you’re so turned on you could die.

He kicks open the bedroom door, then turns and slams it shut. You can feel heat spiralling through all your limbs, so as he puts you down, you deliberately slide down his front, pressing into him.

Once you’re on your feet, you reach up and press your lips to his, moaning when he nips at you to get you to open. You do eagerly, the feel of him invading your mouth makes you dizzy.

He reaches one hand between you and cups you roughly through the shirts you’re wearing. You gasp and go up on your toes, whimpering. You also, strangely enough, damn near come at his rough treatment.

Really has been too long.

“Already wet for me, princess?” He husks in your ear.

You nod, still whimpering in the back of your throat.

Before you can think, he’s picking you up by the hips and tossing you backwards onto the bed. You scream a little and bounce when you land. You feel your eyes widen as you look up at him, naturally responding to the strong predator in front of you.

“Clothes, baby,” he growls, and you immediately strip off your tank top and shorts. You reach behind you to unsnap your bra, then slipped your panties off and lay back for him, instinctively submissive.

He smirks and slowly pulls his own shirt off, showing off for you, making you practically pant with desire. When his hands drop down to his belt, you shudder, and he hasn't even touched you yet.

“You know what it does to me, to see someone else’s hands on you?” He asks, slowly sliding his pants down his legs.

You whimper at the sight of him and shake your head.

He starts at the top of your foot and places a gentle kiss there, then leaves a trail of kisses from your ankle to your hip. You fall back and moan as he licks into you once, twice without preamble. “Dean!”

“Shh, baby,” he murmurs into you, “Don’t want everyone to hear you coming for me.”

His words send another powerful shudder through you, and you arch your back when he sinks his tongue into you. He licks into you a few times, then moves his mouth up to take your clit into his mouth. Once there, he runs his tongue over it again and again, and when he sinks two fingers into you, you’re lost, screaming and coming and so glad he’s finally touching you you can hardly stand it.

He licks you through your orgasm gently, then kisses his way up to your mouth. You’re practically incoherent, so when he kisses you, you respond mindlessly, but enthusiastically.

“Drives me crazy, princess,” he mutters against your lips as he centers his cock against you.

You nip at his lips boldly. “What are you gonna do about it?”

His eyes darken, and he kisses his way down your jawline so his lips are against your ear. “What I should do,” he whispers, making your eyes roll back in your head, “is bend you over the kitchen table and fuck you right there, make sure everyone knows you're mine.”

You gasp and try to tilt your hips up, but he moves back, denying you. You groan and drop your head back in frustration.

He takes the opportunity to press soft kisses to your neck. “But what I’m going to do,” he mutters darkly against your skin, “is fuck you until you scream so loud everyone knows anyway.”

You should be snarky. You should be a little irritated at his alpha male, me-Dean-you-mine attitude. The feminist part of you is dying to sit up and tell him off.

Instead, you’re so turned on you can’t think of the words.

The knowledge that you just have to make a dissenting noise, or push on him very gently, and he would stop, makes you feel safe.

Safe enough to smirk up at him and tilt your chin in challenge.

“Prove it.”

He slams into you so hard you really do tilt your head back and scream. He loses it above you, thrusting hard and fast. You can’t catch your breath, and you don’t want to, you just lose yourself in him.

When he sits back and hits that new angle, you’re screaming again, coming hard enough to make your whole body jerk and tremble. With a low roar, he follows you, slamming into you one, two, three more times.

He’s gasping as he drops onto you, his head resting on your chest. You wrap your arms around him and hold him close as he shudders through aftershocks. A pleasant ache has picked up between your legs, and you relax and let it happen.

After a long time, he rolls, taking you with him and settling you on top of him. You hum happily and test your chin on your hands, folded on top of his chest.

You smile. “Hi “ You say softly, already starting to get sleepy.

He runs a hand through your hair. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head and lean into his hand. “Only in a good way, baby.”

Chapter Text

You’re sitting at the kitchen table the next day, reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, and ignoring the ache between your legs. Dean is out in the garage again, working for Bobby, and you’re on your way out there next to finish that damn paperwork.

But when you read about the lightning storms in the area, the very omen-like lightning storms in the area, your blood runs cold. You think back to everything that’s happened, all of the events, and even though it’s a little messed up (Dean doesn’t confront Michael and Zachariah in the show until much later), it’s about that time.

You wince, and your heart breaks for Bobby. But you’ve become a “face it head-on” kind of girl, so you stand and go out to the garage to talk to them.

As you walk up, you smile at the sight of the Winchester brothers working for Bobby. They’re hauling parts around, arguing, and Bobby is sitting and watching, rolling his eyes at the appropriate intervals. I’ll be damned if they don’t look like a family.

Winch barks from next to you and bounds up to Bobby, sitting next to him and resting his big head on the hunter’s knee. Bobby’s hand lands on the dog’s ears, rubbing gently, and he turns to look at you when you walk up.

“Will you talk some sense into these idjits?” he asks gruffly.

You grin. “Oh, Bobby, we both know there’s no talking sense into either of them.”

“Hey!” Dean snaps playfully, having put down the part he was helping Sam move. He comes over and loops an arm around your waist and pulls you tight against him. He nuzzles your neck. “Why aren’t you ever on my side?” he murmurs.

You laugh and push at his chest. “One, you’re covered in grease, Dean, get off me. And two, because you’re so rarely in the right, hot stuff.”

He hmphs, but doesn’t let you go. You sigh and look around at the three men who have become so terribly important to you.

“Guys, we need to talk.”

You’ve prepared everyone as much as you can. They know that the dead will rise, the first and foremost being Karen Singer. Bobby knows what’s going to happen from beginning to end, and he still chooses to clean the house (which he begrudgingly lets you help with), trim his beard, and wait for her to come.

As he nervously fidgets in the button-up he’s wearing, you think you’ve never seen someone love another person like that. To go through what will amount to another lifetime of pain just to be with her for a few days.

You’re knocked out of your musings by Dean coming up behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist. “Ready, princess?”

You turn and smile up at him. “Yes, sir.”

When Sheriff Jody Mills walks into her little office, you suppress your inner fangirl and let your poker face show. Just because she’s Goddamn Jody Mills, doesn’t mean she’ll believe you, or that you’ll be able to convince her of what’s going on. But you’re going to try your damnedest.

She starts before you can. “What can I do for you?”

You stare at her for a second, then throw the plan out the window.

Dean wants you to pose as FBI, he thinks she’ll buy it. But you feel like you already know Jody, and she won’t buy a damn thing. It’s pretty obvious to someone who has an eye for these things that you’re untrained, and as soon as she sees Dean’s gun, with the pearl inlay grip, she’s going to know something’s up.

So, following your gut, you tell the truth.

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N,” you say evenly, ignoring the way Dean hisses through his teeth a little, “And this is Dean Winchester. We’re friends of Bobby Singer’s, though I know you don’t have a very high opinion of him.”

Sheriff Mills snorts. “He’s a drunk and a waste.”

You shrug and smile weakly when Dean basically snarls beside you. “Matter of opinion, Sheriff.” You take a deep breath. “Look, I’m going to ask you to believe something that’s absolutely unbelievable, and you’re going to want to call the men in white coats. All I ask is that you don’t give into that urge, and you give me a chance to prove that I’m not crazy. If, after that, you still feel like I need a looney bin, I’ll make the call myself.”

She examines you closely for what feels like a long time. You try not to be nervous, because if she actually thinks you’re crazy, you’ve put yourself in quite a pickle.

“What is it you’re asking me to believe, exactly?”

“Well,” she says, running a hand through her hair. “That is crazy.”

You nod sympathetically. “I know, Sheriff Mills, and I hope you know that if I didn’t have to involve you, I wouldn’t.” You smile weakly. “But if you got a report of guns going off in the graveyard, you would probably be pretty perturbed.”

She nods. “Yeah, yeah, I would.”

“So… Do you believe us?” Dean asks from beside you.

You told her about the dead rising, including her son and Bobby’s wife. You explained that Clay Thompson is going to rise from the dead to kill Benny Sutton, in revenge for killing Clay in a “hunting accident.” You explain as little as possible about Death and the apocalypse, but you think she has probably read between the lines and understands more than she’s letting on.

And now, she may think that you’re a crazy person who just happens to have a ridiculously hot, perpetually angry boyfriend.

She looks between the two of you for another small eternity, and you try again to not be nervous. A lot is riding on this, this whole situation is riding on your instinct to tell her the truth. Dean may never trust you again if she tosses you into a nuthouse and he has to break you out.

“Okay, how are you going to prove that you’re not crazy?” She asks.

You fight the urge to sag in relief.

You’re shivering in the cold, rubbing your hands together and waiting for this damn zombie to rise. Dean’s arm is slung around your shoulders, and you lean into his warm frame.

“You sure it’s gonna be tonight?” You ask Bobby.

He nods. “All the signs were there, getting worse, then everything stopped around seven. It’ll be tonight.”

“Signs?” Sheriff Mills asks warily.

You nod. “Lightning storms, concentrated in one area. It’s an omen, typically for big demonic activity like this.”

Before she can respond (with a good hearty, “You’re under arrest for being goddamn crazy,”), there is a thumping sound from the grave you’re all standing in front of.

Dean starts to pull you away, but at your irritated noise he stops, and just pulls you closer to him. You go there willingly, because he’s warm, and because he’s Dean, and you always want to be there.

As soon as the man crawls out of his grave, Sheriff Mill’s face goes white. You look at her as he struggles. “Do you believe us now?” you ask softly, with no meanness in your voice. You honestly need to know if she believes.

She nods.

Dean nods, too, then raises his gun, with the new fancy silencer attached, and shoots the dead man in the head. He drops down, dead once again.

Sam sighs, then winces. “How are we gonna get him back into the grave?”

Jody shakes her head. “How am I gonna explain dead people walking around to my town?”

You step away from Dean, towards Jody. “You don’t,” you say softly. When she turns to look at you, you smile. “Sheriff Mills, people are going to go crazy if the dead rise. I think Dean, Sam, and I should stay here and make sure they don’t make it to town.”

She frowned. “Where am I going, then? And Bobby?”

You smile softly. “I think you’re both going to be too preoccupied to worry about the town.” When she gives you a look, you shrug. “Just trust us?”

Jody stares at you for another moment, then nods. “Well, I’ll trust you, anyway.” She eyes Sam and Dean. “I don’t know about these two.”

You smile. “That’s fair.”

Dean follows her as they patrol the graveyard, listening for the sounds of the dead rising. They’ve shot seven dead people in the head so far. She’s making Buffy jokes left and right, her soft laughter ringing out through the night, making Dean wonder if he’s ever felt the way about another person that he feels about her.

Thump!

“Over here, princess,” he calls softly, shaking his thoughts away and pointing to the grave.

She looks over and nods. “I have another one over here, so you take care of that one?”

Dean shoots her a wink and stays where he is. He lets his mind wander again as he waits. Y/N’s got good instincts. Telling the sheriff the truth would never have crossed Dean’s mind, not in a million years. Lying to law enforcement is too ingrained in him, he doesn’t even really think about it anymore. Especially about something as important as her dead son coming back from the grave.

But Jody Mills made the right call. She called her husband and talked to him, and they agreed to let the boy stay with them in secret for a few days, then to call Sam when it looked like he’s about to go bad. Dean saw the hope in her eyes that he won’t go bad, that the child will be normal, but she also has a good head on her shoulders. She’ll make the call when it comes time.

And now, he can already see that the sheriff likes Y/N, and that she respects her. A sheriff could be a pretty useful person to have on the team, and it looks like his woman has gotten them one.

Dean can’t help but be impressed, again.

At the end of that very, very long night, you’re in a motel bed, staring up at the ceiling. You’re tired down to your bones, and you’re proud of yourself.

I made a difference.

You’ve been making differences left and right, but this time, you can see the difference you’re making. You can see the people who didn’t die because of your actions, and it makes you so happy you could bounce up and down like a little kid. Which you do not. Because you’re a dignified hunter now, so you try to play it cool.

What you’re thinking about more, though, is Jody Mills. The urge to lie to her, to not tell her about her son, was so strong. It was difficult to let the choice rest in her hands. What if she’d chosen wrong? What if she did choose wrong, and now you’re going to have her blood on your hands because you let her make that choice?

In the end, you’re glad you told her the truth. People should have all of the available information so they can make big decisions, and God knows this is a big decision. But it’s hard.

It makes understanding pretty much every single thing that Dean does a lot easier.

And again, like your thoughts summon him, he comes into room, looking just as tired as you feel. He hits you with that loving smile, and you feel yourself melting a little. “How ya holdin’ up, princess?”

You smile back. “I’m really, really tired. You?”

He shrugs his coat off, toes his boots off, and crawls into bed next to you. “Same,” he says gruffly, flopping down next to you. You automatically raise your hand to run it through his hair, and he groans and leans into the touch.

“Let’s sleep for the next three days,” you say softly, “then we’ll get back to it.” The two of you and Sam opted to get a motel room so Bobby and Karen could have their time together. Sam opted to get his own room so he could keep his sanity.

Dean looks up at you and grins. “Princess, I can think of plenty of other things to do than sleep for three days.”

You smile. “I can’t wait.”

He grunts. “You don’t have to. Get down here and kiss me.”

The order has a weird effect on you, the same effect his dominance had on you the night before. You shudder a little and twist to obey, pressing your lips against his. His gaze sharpens as he watches you.

He smiles slowly against your mouth. “Do you like that, princess?” he mutters, wrapping his arm around you and bucking his hips so you’re pinned beneath him. You gasp into his mouth and instinctively roll your hips against him.

He kisses you hard, then presses little kisses down your jaw until he’s whispering in your ear. “I asked you a question, baby.”

You shiver and nod. “Yes, sir,” you whisper, the title slipping out naturally.

He groans and drops his head against your shoulder. “Fuck, that was hot.”

You whimper and press against him, but you don’t move any more than that. Something in you is yearning to do exactly as he commands.

He nuzzles under your jaw, practically purring with satisfaction. “Do you want me to tell you what to do, baby?”

You tilt your head back for him and nod, feeling yourself get wet before he even fucking touches you. Oh, sweet Jesus, this might kill me. “Yes, sir.” Worth it.

He smiles against your skin. “Good girl.”

He slowly kisses down your neck, then through the valley between your breasts. Down your stomach to your waist, then he moves down the top of your leg, kissing the whole way over your clothes. When he gets to your knee, he steps back and stands at the end of the bed, just looking at you with burning eyes.

“Take your clothes off, princess.”

You sit up and strip your jacket off, then your shirt. You keep your gaze on his as you finish pulling the rest of your clothes off, and you’re finally bare in front of him.

He tilts his head to look at you, and you die a little when he palms his erection through his jeans as he looks at you. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

You shiver, and he meets your eyes and cocks an eyebrow. “I paid you a compliment, baby.”

Your eyes widen, and you’re suddenly a little dizzy. “Thank you, sir.”

He pulls his own clothes off, smirking a little, and you’re glad, because you’re not a hundred percent certain you could stand, even if you wanted to, much less undress him.

When he’s naked (and oh, good fucking Christ, how does he look like that naked?), he crooks a finger at you. “Come here.”

You scoot forward on the bed, then move to stand in front of him, willing your legs to support you.

His lips tilted up in that damn smirk is making your head spin. He cups your face gently, then pulls you in to kiss you thoroughly. When he pulls away, you’re gasping, and he’s pointing to the floor. “On your knees, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen again as you slowly, slowly obey, your mouth basically watering now. You feel yourself getting wetter as you hit your knees. He reaches down and runs a thumb along your bottom lip, making you tremble.

“Open for me.”

You open your mouth and he pushes his thick cock into you. You whimper and seal your lips around it, hollowing your cheeks. When he hits the back of your throat you swallow hard to control your gag reflex and take him in further. The grunt he gives you sears itself onto your heart, and the sight of him like this, eyes closed, mouth just a little bit open, obviously struggling to contain himself, does the same.

You close your eyes and slowly pull away until just his tip is in your mouth. You press your tongue into the slit there, moaning when he shudders and jerks forward a little. You take that as a cue and stay still until he catches the hint. He puts one hand behind your head and gently guides you to take him into your mouth again. You whimper in approval, and he gasps at the feeling.

He starts moving you faster up and down his length. You relish the heavy feel of him in your mouth, the way he takes your breath with every thrust. He starts moving faster, and you brace your hands on his thighs to keep yourself steady.

“Ah, fuck, Y/N,” he’s moaning your name, which is driving you crazy. When you open your eyes to look up at him, his lean body moving against you, his arm reaching behind your head, the other hand fisted at his side as he controls himself, the sight of him is enchanting.

He opens his eyes to meet yours, and his widen. He pulls away from you, gasping. “Jesus fuck, princess.” When you grin and bite your lip, he puts his hands under your arms and pulls you to your feet. You go willingly and wrap your arms around his neck, since your legs are shaky from being on your knees and from him.

He nips at your lip, smiling. “You’re amazing,” he whispers, his eyes searching yours as he wraps his arms around you, one around your back, the other hand kneading your ass.

As you’re reveling in the feeling of being against him, he slaps your ass hard enough to bring you up to your toes and make you squeak. “What do you say?” he growls against your lips.

“Th-thank you, sir,” you whisper, kissing him back desperately when he groans and takes your mouth again.

He pulls back and smiles. “Good girl. On the bed, baby, hands and knees.”

You shiver and turn, then crawl onto the bed and stay on your hands and knees. His hands start at your ankles, then move slowly up your legs, making you tingle. You jump when you feel his thumbs move through your folds, spreading you open to his burning gaze. You arch your back and whimper. “Oh, God, Dean.”

“Shh, baby, it’s all right, I’ve got you,” he murmurs distractedly. When you start to turn back to look at him, he slaps you on the ass again. “Ah, ah, no looking, sweetheart. Eyes forward.”

You groan and drop your head, but obey. He presses his lips to the space on the back of your thigh just below your ass. “Good girl,” he says softly. When you feel his hot mouth on you, you cry out, and you feel him smile against you. His tongue runs up and down your opening slowly, taunting you, and you can’t help but roll your hips a little against his face.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mutters as he moves a hand to sink one, two, then three fingers into you. You cry out and move back onto his fingers, and this time he lets you. He moves in and out of you slowly, and you can feel his eyes on you, watching you move and whimper and swivel your hips again.

“Goddamn,” he breathes out, and you shudder. He curls his fingers to hit that spot inside, and you gasp and cry out, trembling against him. “Dean, please, baby, please-”

“Please what, princess?” he asks roughly, “Tell me what you want, baby, come on.”

“You, please, I want you inside me, please-”

He slowly pulls his fingers out of you, and even though you wanted it, you whimper at the loss. But when you feel the tip of his thick cock against you, you can’t help the way you push back onto him, gasping as the first few inches of him stretch you open.

He gasps, and his hard hands grip your hips to hold you still. “God dammit,” he mutters. A steady string of filth and curses come from his mouth as he slowly sinks into you, heightening your awareness, matching your cries as he bottoms out.

“Dean!”

“Shh, princess, I know, I’ve got you, I know,” he soothes you roughly, his big hands kneading your hips. He moves out slowly, then pushes back into you, driving you crazy.

“Dean, please-”

“Tell me what you want-”

“Dean, faster, please, oh, God-”

He presses into you harder, and his hands hold you immobile onto him, and you whimper and try to pull away. “Ask me like you mean it, baby,” he says roughly, holding you hard. “Come on, sweetheart, you know what I want.”

You moan and hang your head, shuddering with need. “Please, sir, fuck me, please, hard.”

One hand moves from your hip, runs it down your sweat-slick spine, pressing you down so your face is pressed into the pillows.

“This is going to be rough, princess,” he whispers in an absolutely wrecked voice.

“Please,” you whisper.

You don’t know how the hell he heard you, but his hands return to your hips and he uses his knees to spread your legs a little wider. Once you’re where he wants you, he slides out of you, and the feel of him moving inside you is making you dizzy again. He slams back into you hard enough to make the headboard bang against the wall and you scream, “Fuck! Dean!”

He sets an absolutely insane pace, and you can’t stop screaming, his hard hands digging into your hip bones as he fucks you hard enough that you can already feel bruises forming on your skin and you suspect that you’re going to be sore enough that walking will be difficult the next day.

He leans over you and lays sloppy kisses along your back, murmuring soft praise in a rough, dark voice, growling against your skin as he drives into you so hard and fast that you’re sliding along the sheets.

He leans back suddenly, and the new angle makes you scream and jerk again. “Come on baby,” he grunts, “Come for me, honey, right now.”

His words, the deep, undeniable command in his voice, has your world collapsing and shattering all at the same time. You scream yourself hoarse as you come, his cock moving hard inside you drawing your orgasm out until you’re sobbing into the pillow, your hands fisting in the sheets and your legs starting to shake hard.

With a low, long groan, you feel him spill inside you as he comes. You collapse forward, and he falls on top of you, his breath hard in your ear, his weight weirdly comforting on top of you as you lie there.

It feels like forever before his gentle hands are turning you over, then his strong arms lift you off of the bed. “Come on, princess, let’s clean you up.”

Chapter Text

Dean watches her sleep next to him, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of her face. She’s dead to the world, and it’s kind of cute the way she sleeps like a rock.

He doesn’t know what the hell came over him earlier, but the way she looked when she followed his orders, and the way she looked up at him, all wide, innocent eyes with her mouth on his cock, drove him absolutely insane.

Now he’s worried he hurt her, but she didn’t complain in the shower, just leaned against him and let him take care of her, giggling on and off as the endorphins worked through her. The trusting way she’d pressed her face into his neck made something in him grow warm and fierce.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be able to say it to her. Hell, he can barely say it to Sam, and he’s been taking care of the kid his whole life. How the hell is he supposed to tell her the sun rises and sets on her? That he’ll follow her anywhere she wants to go, even back into hell if the situation really calls for it?

Maybe not beat her up so bad for a start, he thinks to himself guiltily as she shifts in her sleep and winces a little. He knows he was rough, and he was probably too rough, but something in him felt the need to claim her last night. He’ll have to keep a lid on it.

She rolls against him, wincing again as she cuddles into him. He wraps an arm around her and holds her close, letting her warmth and softness pressed to him lull him to sleep.

Three days later, when Sam gives you guys the call that he had to put Jody’s son down, and Bobby calls to let you know that he shot Karen, you’re packing up to hit the road again.

The last three days have been lovely. For a while, there was no hunt, no lives to save. The most important thing for the two of you to be doing was staying by the phone. Which you did.

You also cuddled and slept in, ate breakfast in bed, watched TV, fucked, and he took you to dinner each night somewhere where the food doesn’t come wrapped in paper. When you protested that it was too expensive, he just arched an eyebrow at you and said, “Y/N, we steal for a living. Nothing is too expensive.”

So for three days, you could pretend to be a normal couple. Just a woman hanging out with her seriously attractive boyfriend.

But the real world calls, so you pack up your stuff without complaint and head to the car, even if you’ll think back on these three days forever.

You’ve been driving for a while before Dean speaks. Your head rests on his thigh, your legs stretched out and your feet propped in the open window. You’re damn near asleep when he starts talking.

“What’s next, princess?”

“Um…” You think for a second. “The Whore.”

He chuckles. “Tell me how you really feel.”

You smile up at him. “No, she’s a demon. The Whore of Babylon. She’s trying to get a whole town of souls to go to hell.”

He nods. “Where?”

“Minnesota.”

He starts running a hand through your hair, and you’re silent for a few minutes before he speaks again. “So, is this all happening like you thought it would?”

You think for a moment, and really consider the question. “Um, some things are the same. Most of the cases, the big stuff is the same.”

“What’s different?”

“Well, your relationship with Sam is different. Less… Tense, I guess? Of course, we skipped some of the stuff that made it that way.”

“Like?” he asks, glancing down at you.

You sigh. You already told them everything, they know what’s being skipped, but he wants to talk about it. And if he wants to do that, even though you both know it will hurt him, you’ll be there with him. “Well, the episode where you guys die and go to heaven. At least, the time you’re allowed to remember heaven.”

Dean nods, and you can see the wheels turning, so you try to head them off. “It’s probably better that we skipped that, though. I mean, since I already told you about it, there’s really no reason to relive it. And Zachariah was in that one, and you already killed him. So no real reason to do that.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glare up at him. “Dean, you can’t be mad at Sam for what his heaven is.”

“Sure I can,” he says easily, “I do it all the time.”

You heave a sigh. “Dean, that’s not fair.”

“Not fair that his best moments are leaving his family, either.”

“Dean,” you say severely. That catches his attention, and he looks down at you for a moment. “Sam’s family died the day your mother died. So did yours. But he was six months old. Family isn’t the same thing to him as it is to you. He tried, he was making a family with Jess, but the demon took that away. So, no, you can’t be mad at him for that, because his best moments are struggling to understand what you already know. His heaven is searching for himself, for a family, and you already have both of those things.”

He’s looking out the windshield, his hand stilled in your hair. You sit up and press into him until he wraps his arm around you. You rest your head on his shoulder and wait for him to respond.

“I don’t have those things,” Dean says finally, “I mean, Sam’s my family, and he’s always trying to leave. And as far as ‘myself,’ I don’t even know what that fucking means.”

“You’re a soldier,” you start, cuddling into his warmth absentmindedly. “But that’s all you see when you look at yourself. You are, of course, but you’re more than that. You’re a warrior. You’re smart, you’re a good hunter. You take care of the people you love, like Sam and Bobby. You don’t believe in acceptable losses, which is why we’re fighting against this whole apocalypse thing, anyway. You’re compassionate and you’re vehement about family and I’ve honestly never met a more loving human being than you.” You blink away the moisture trying to gather in your eyes and move to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re amazing, Dean, so you just stop right now. Heard?”

He’s quiet for a long time, and you’re content to rest your head on his shoulder again and start to fade to sleep. Baby always puts you to sleep.

“And you,” he says softly.

“Hmm?” You’re closer to sleep than you thought you were.

He clears his throat, and when you look at him, he doesn’t meet your gaze. “I take care of you, too, princess.”

Something in you warms, and you reach up to kiss him on the cheek again. “I know, Dean. I love you, too.”

A few hours later, when she wakes up enough to call Castiel, Dean listens to her on the phone with the angel. There’s a smile in her voice, there’s always a smile in her voice, unless she’s talking about herself, of course.

I don’t know how to do this. God help him, he doesn’t know how to be in a relationship. He doesn’t know how to be around someone who’s so open and loving and affectionate, and who isn’t self-conscious about it. How the hell does she even do that?

When Castiel gave Dean a glimpse into her head, he saw how hard she is on herself. How every move she makes is followed by criticism and scorn, all pouring from her own head. Every thought and emotion and action is the same way.

Except when it comes to loving him.

For some reason, loving him is something she’s not hard on herself about. Being with him, yes. Expecting faithfulness, expecting him to love her back, these are things she beats herself up for, but not loving him. Just loving him, she’s okay with. Which makes no sense to Dean, because loving him is what’s going to get her killed.

But as long as she’s okay with it, he’s not going to argue. Partially because he’s seen how stubborn she can be.

But mostly because he’s not sure he could move forward without her.

“Well, I know we need a servant of heaven,” you say to Castiel on the phone. “But since Dean’s not saying yes, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Yes,” Cass agrees, “I don’t know if anyone else will qualify. And if you say the Whore has taken the form of this pastor’s daughter, I’m not sure anyone will be able to kill her.”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Well, we’ll figure it out when we get there, I guess.”

“I may have an idea. I’ll let you know what motel Sam chooses, and we’ll meet you there.”

You smile at how… Human Castiel sounds. “Sounds good. Thanks, Cass.”

You hang up and look over at Dean. “Blue Earth, Minnesota, hot stuff. Let’s go find us a Whore.”

You laugh at your own joke, and earn a grin from him. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, chuckling. He reaches out and takes your hand, and the way he doesn’t seem to think about it makes you warm inside. “What’s all this about a servant of heaven?”

You thread your fingers through his. “To kill the Whore of Babylon. We need a servant of heaven, no one else can kill her. Castiel can get the weapon, but the person is going to be a problem.”

Dean frowns. “An angel doesn’t qualify?”

You shake your head. “He fell, Dean. He’s as close to the opposite of a servant of heaven as an angel can get. You’re still denying Michael, and Sam, well, Sam doesn’t fit the bill for obvious reasons.”

He nods, then pauses. “Wait, what about you?”

You chuckle. “Dean, I suspect the premarital sex and the general heathenism disqualifies me.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m serious. Think about it. I mean, if God himself brought you here, and brought you here to change things, wouldn’t that make you, technically, a servant of heaven?”

You blink, then think of Castiel’s cryptic words at the end of your call and wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. “Uh, maybe. That might work, we can ask Cass.” You look over at Dean. “Would you be all right with that? I mean, that’s putting me right in the line of fire.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Would it matter?”

You grin. “No, but I thought I’d see if I was in for a fight.”

He squeezes your hand lightly and looks back at the road. “No, I get it, princess. You’re a hunter. And, hell, if you’re the only way we have to kill this thing, let’s do it.”

You settle back in your seat, impressed. Maybe he’s growing, after all.

“I don’t like it!” Dean shouts, throwing his hands in the air.

You roll your eyes. So much for growth. “Dean, it’s the best plan we have! It has the lowest possible body count. It’ll be quick and easy. Cass zaps me in, I stab the Whore, and Cass zaps me out. No mess, no fuss.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“Then I’ll have an angel standing next to me!”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m coming with you.”

You cross your arms. “Dean, more people are going to be harder to hide. No, you’re not. I’m going, you’re staying here. We’ll be gone for a few minutes, tops.”

“I don’t like it! No. This is not the plan.”

“Well, lucky for me, that’s not up to you!”

Sam and Castiel are sitting on the couch in the motel room, just watching you and Dean argue. It’s been going on for a while.

“Y/N, God dammit, I said no!”

“You are not in charge of what I do, Dean! We’re running out of time.” You groan and run your hands through your hair. “You’re so fucking stubborn.” You look up at him. “You need to either get all right with this, or still be fighting with me when I leave, because we’re going.”

He just looks at you, then, “What if something happens to you?”

You sigh and step forward to put a hand on his face. “Dean, if something happens to me, then something happens to me. You can’t protect me from everything, and this is our best shot.”

“Y/N,” Castiel says gently, “We need to go.”

You nod without looking away from Dean’s miserable face. “Come on, Dean, kiss me before I go.”

He takes your face into hands and kisses you gently, but thoroughly. You give up control and kiss him back, loving him so much you ache with it.

You pull away and smile at him, then turn to Cass and put your hand out. “All right, stake me, then let’s do this thing.”

Castiel hands you the stake, then looks at you seriously. “Y/N, I will, as you say, ‘zap’ us into the bedroom. I’ll hold the Whore by the arms, and all you have to do is drive the stake into her heart.” He pauses, then continues. “If they catch us, you will be wanted for murder, Y/N.”

“Oh, shit,” Sam says, “I guess I didn’t even think of that.”

You frown at both of them. “Why the hell would that matter?” You roll your eyes and look at the angel again. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Castiel examines your face for a moment, then nods. He touches two fingers to your forehead, and the world dips away from you for a moment, before resettling in a little bedroom.

You look over at the girl sitting at the vanity. Before she can see you, Castiel is behind her, hauling her to her feet and holding her arms behind her.

She snarls, and her face flashes between the girl and the demon. When she sees you, she smiles wickedly. She opens her mouth, but before she can start the incantation to incapacitate Castiel that she uses in the show, you step forward and drive the stake through her heart, your mental fingers crossed.

Castiel agreed with Dean that you are, technically, a servant of heaven. Even if you’re kind of a shitty servant of heaven, you still serve God’s purpose, and Castiel insists that that’s enough. He says the snippet of conversation you remember, when God assured you that you’re here to change things, is enough for him to have faith that you can kill the Whore.

His faith, as it turns out, is well put.

The stake starts smoking, and she screeches. You gasp and step back, and Castiel drops her to the ground. He steps around her to pull you behind him as you watch together as the stake sets fire, and she goes still.

There’s banging on the door. “Leah! Leah!”

Castiel turns and wraps his arm around you, then the world dips away again. When you open your eyes, you’re back in the motel room, with Dean and Sam staring at you. You blink, then look up at Castiel, still in his arms. “That was a little bit less… Drama than I thought it would be.”

“We were prepared,” he says calmly, pulling his arm away and taking a step back with a wary look at Dean, who’s glaring at him. “It makes it much easier to fight the powers of hell when someone knows exactly what’s going to happen.”

You nod and smile at him. “Yeah, it does.” You feel Dean’s chest press into your back, and when his arms snake their way around your waist, you run your palm along his forearms and settle back into him. “It was pretty simple.”

“Good,” Dean’s deep voice rumbles behind you. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, then.”

They’re on the road again. Cass disappeared, Sam’s in the passenger seat, and Y/N is asleep in the back, curled up on her side.

“She did really well today,” Sam remarks.

Dean nods, still eyeing her ass in the rearview, as she’s turned away from him. “Yeah, yeah, she did.”

“Dean, you’ve got to stop acting like she’s-”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, irritated. “She went, she did good, she didn’t get hurt. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“I just don’t want to hear you two argue every time she does something dangerous, Dean.”

“Well, then, you’re fucked,” Dean snaps. “I’m never gonna be okay with her doing dangerous shit. So get used to it.”

Sam stares at him, making him even more irritated. “What?”

“Holy shit,” Sam says softly. “You’re in love with her.”

Dean stays silent. Not only would it be useless to deny it, he finds that he doesn’t really want to deny it, anyway.

Sam starts to smile. “Wow, Dean.”

Dean smirks a little. “Yeah. Wow.”

Chapter Text

After you kill the Whore, you check back in with Bobby, and he promptly sends you to somewhere in Nevada to pick up some books from a friend of his.

So now you’re in the backseat, with Winch curled up at your side. You expected that it would be a fight to bring him, but you just mentioned that you missed him while you were gone and Dean suggested he come with. At your raised eyebrows, and Sam’s smug look (which you’ll have to investigate, why does he look smug?), Dean threw his hands up in the air and walked out. Winch, of course, followed him, suspecting playtime.

You’re doing a sketch of Dean while he was working in the garage. The image of him, that pen tucked behind his ear, his eyes focused on the paper in front of him. You’re trying to figure out a way to capture the focus in his eyes when Sam speaks softly.

“Y/N, you said in the show, or whatever, that I said yes to Lucifer, and then we both went into the cage?”

You look up and stare at him for a moment. “Yes,” you say just as soft, “Yes, that’s what happened.”

He nods, and your eyes narrow. “But that’s not going to happen here, because we’re going to change it.”

He nods again, but looks out his window. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

You meet Dean’s worried eyes in the rearview, and your stomach clenches in fear.

You’re in the front seat now, with Sam stretched out in the back, sleeping with Winch. You look at him in the rearview, nerves still making you a little nauseous.

“I’m worried,” you say softly.

Dean sighs. “Yeah, I am, too.”

You scoot over to rest your head on his shoulder, smiling when he puts his arm around you to pull you close against him. “I think Sam’s thinking of doing something stupid,” you say softly.

“Yeah, he probably is.”

You sigh. “You know, the Winchester Martyr Complex is going to be the death of me.”

He stills a little, and you press your face into his shoulder. “Martyr Complex?” he asks.

You’re worried he might be angry, but you forge ahead, refusing to give in to your fear. He needs to hear this, the jackass.

“The two of you have some sort of complex about sacrificing yourself for each other. It’s exhausting. You can’t… I don’t know. You can’t live without one another, which I understand, on a cerebral level, of course, not a personal one. But as soon as one of you gets a chance at happiness, or even just contentedness, you’re off trying to martyr yourself to make sure the other one stays in that good place. Which, of course, means that neither of you are in a good place, you’re just exhausting.” You smile a little, making sure he can feel it against his shoulder. “I mean, it makes you heroes, obviously, but it still makes it exhausting to be… Around you.”

Silence ensues while you wrestle with your thoughts, him presumably doing the same. Exhausting to be what, exactly? Am I his girlfriend? That seems a little silly. The word is too… Light, too frivolous, too often used by prepubescent kids to describe what you two are. He’s your soulmate, the complement to you in every way. But what the fuck else am I supposed to call him?

What does she mean on a cerebral level?

Dean’s upset by her words, and he knows she’s probably misinterpreting his silence, but he can’t help but struggle to understand what she meant. On a cerebral level? Does she honestly think I wouldn’t die for her?

Well, it’s not like you’ve said it, jackass.

What the fuck am I supposed to do? Say it over goddamn breakfast? “Oh, hey, Y/N, yeah, the muffins are great. Also, just as an aside, more and more lately you’re becoming the only goddamn reason I get out of bed in the morning.” Yeah, that will go over great. Asshole.

Hey, you wanted to know why she doesn’t think that, and I’m just telling you.

Shut up.

Dean argues with himself, pulling her tighter, wondering what he has to do to prove to her that she’s important to him.

Bobby’s friend, whom you’ve never heard of, is named William, and he seems very much like Bobby. He’s gruff, he doesn’t make small talk, but he seems to like you more than the boys.

Ha.

“So, what made you hitch your trailer to these morons?” William asks genially while he sifts through the mountains of books in his library.

You’re a little stunned by William’s home. There are books everywhere. You’ve always thought that Bobby puts most libraries to shame when it comes to knowledge, but goddamn, you’ve never met anyone like William. The man uses stacks of books as chairs (which makes you both cringe and celebrate internally) for God’s sake, and he’s quickly becoming your hero.

“Um, just a little mixup,” you say vaguely. Dean has warned you, unnecessarily, that broadcasting that you’re supposed to be his one and only will put you in more danger. Like you needed to be told that.

“Mhm,” he says dismissively. He’s searching through a stack that appears to be being used as a coffee table, so you don’t take it personally. Your father is (was?) an academic, so you’re rather used to being ignored in favor of knowledge.

You’re looking around the room casually, enjoying the fact that William point-blank told Sam and Dean to stay in the foyer while you came back with him. It would make you nervous, but you’ve got a gun tucked into your waistband, a knife in your boot, and you’re not worried. The boys are just outside. If something happens, they’ll be in here in a second.

“Aha!” he says, pulling a book from low enough in the stack to make you anxious about it’s stability. The pile wobbles a little, but it stays standing. He turns back to you and grins. “Found it!”

You smile. He’s gruff, but he’s like a grumpy grandfather. He’s not like the rest of the hunters you’ve met. He wears… Sweater vests, and slacks, and spectacles. You like him.

“What are we looking at?”

He waves a hand. “Ah, just another angelic index. Dunno if it’ll do much good, but it’s here.”

You smile and take it when he hands it to you. “I’m sure it will help a lot,” you say softly, placing it on the stack of books next to you.

He sits down on another pile, making you wince. “So, what’s the plan here, sweetie?”

You shrug. “Kill Lucifer. Save the world. Go forward from there?”

He nods. “Eh, more of a plan than most hunters have.”

You laugh. He looks at you closely, which has the smile slowly falling from your face. “What? Do I have something in my teeth?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, sweetie. It’s just… Why are you here?”

You frown. “To kill Lucifer. We covered this.”

He chuckles. “No, no, I mean, why are you  here? With the Winchesters, fighting against the angels. Where’s your dog in this fight, Y/N?”

You think for a moment about how you want to answer. Shouting your devotion to Dean from the rooftops, while tempting and true, is not a good idea. So you try to think on your feet for an answer.

“I don’t have a specific dog. Like I said, I’m just here to save the world.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because I’m one of the idiots who live in it.”

You’re on your way back from Nevada when absolutely torrential rains start coming down.

“Shit! Where the fuck did this shit come from?” Dean bitches from the driver’s seat. The windshield wipers are going crazy, and he’s driving very slowly.

“Dean, let’s just drive through,” Sam snaps.

“Oh, come on, Sam! I can barely see!”

A cold chill wracks it’s way through you, and you feel your eyes widen. “Dean,” you say softly, “Drive through. We can’t stop.” Winch’s low whine has you rubbing his ears gently.

“Princess, I can’t see. We’re gonna die if we keep moving!”

“Dean,” you say firmly, “We have to drive through. We can’t do this. This is going to kill us if we stop.”

He looks at the rearview mirror and meets your eyes. “This one of those episodes, princess?”

When you nod, he turns back to the road. “Driving through it is,” he mutters, the car slowing even more as he tries to soldier through.

A few minutes later, there’s a huge CRASH sound as a massive tree falls in the road. Dean slams on the brakes and the car swerves. You scream a little and throw your arms around Winch to keep him safe. You hear Sam’s head hit the window, and Dean is creating new and inventive curses as you slowly come to a stop.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean snaps.

“They know we’re here,” you say softly.

She’s been quiet on the way to the hotel, just stroking Winch’s big head and staring out the window. Dean is worried as they park. “Princess,” he says softly, “What’s the-”

He’s interrupted by her opening the door. “Winch, with me,” she says harshly. The dog responds, his ears forward and his shoulders tense.

Dean frowns. “Y/N! God dammit!”

He opens the door and follows her, running to catch up with her as she flings the doors of the hotel open and storms in. “Y/N!”

He’s finally behind her, and he makes a grab for her arm. She moves out of the way and keeps forward. “Not now, Dean,” she says shortly. “Follow my lead.”

Before Dean can protest, Sam is next to them, and he nods sharply. “Go ahead, Y/N, we’ll back your play.”

Frowning, Dean walks in behind her. The man behind the counter gives them a tight smile. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry, but we don’t allow-”

“Winch, subdue.”

Winch takes a running leap and snarls as he hits the man behind the counter and they disappear from sight. Dean watches as she jumps over the counter like she’s done it a thousand times. His eyebrows raise, and he looks over to Sam to see if he’s sharing his disbelief. But his brother does the same, jumps over the counter and stands behind her, looking tall and intimidating.

God dammit.

Dean follows their damn lead, jumping over and standing on the other side of her. She’s staring down at the man, who’s staring warily at the big, growling dog on top of him. She kneels next to him and puts a hand on Winch’s back, which does not stop the deep, terrifying rumbling in the dog’s chest.

“Now, I don’t know for sure that Winch ripping your throat out will kill you,” she says pleasantly. “But I’m goddamn sure willing to give it a try. So, what I want to know is this: Have you called him?”

He stares at her. “What?”

Dean genuinely could not be more surprised when Y/N reaches forward and clocks the little dude hard across the face. “Mercury,” she says patiently, “I am trying very hard to be as polite as possible. I’m a little on edge, though, since I know what your goddamn, flimsy, stupid little plan is. So I can honestly only do so much. So I’m gonna need you to answer the question. Have you called him?”

He sneers at her. “I would never tell-”

She hits him across the face again, and another explosive snarl comes from Winch, who’s still standing on the little man’s chest. “Mercury,” She singsongs, “I’ve been very patient with you. So, tell me if you’ve called Lucifer, or I will let this dog rip your throat out and we’ll see if your insides look human, too. Got me?”

He stares at her for a moment, weighing her, then nods. “Yes, yes, all right? I’ve called him. But only-“

Instead of letting him finish, she hits him hard across the face again. Her body leans into it, and it sounds hard, and the god on the floor looks dizzy.

“Release, Winch,” she says gently. Winch gets off of the man and gives her a low whine. She rubs his ears and stares down at Mercury. “Should have let him rip your throat out,” she says calmly.

“You little cunt,” Mercury snarls. “Lucifer is going to rip your intestines out and jump rope with them.”

She rolls her eyes, and Dean loses the battle against the need to touch her. So he comes to stand next to her and places a hand on the small of her back. “Princess,” he says tightly. “What’s going on here?”

“We were driven here. This hotel is full of gods. Gods who want to kill Lucifer.”

You try to stop panicking and look around. “We have to get the people out of here.”

Sam frowns. “What?”

You push past him and run along the walls, searching for that little red box. When you find it, you jog toward it and yank down. The fire alarm blares, lights flash, and sprinkles start spraying down. People begin screaming, and  you watch the first wave start to run out of the building. You smile a little. “Good.”

A hand on your arm whips you around, and you’re staring into angry green eyes. “Y/N, what the fuck?”

Before you can answer, a familiar voice, the last voice you want to hear right now, speaks behind you.

“What the heck are you crazy kids doing here?”

You turn around, your heart hammering in your chest. “Gabriel. You can’t be here.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “You wound me, darlin’.”

Anxiety is pounding through you, making it had to think. “You have to go. Kali knows who you are. Gabriel, Lucifer is on his way here to kill you.”

To your absolute fury, Gabriel smirks. “He can try.”

You fight the urge to scream. “He’s going to succeed!”

He looks at you closely, then takes a step toward you. Dean, who has been silent through this exchange, growls and wraps his arm around your shoulders to pull you back against him. Sam takes a step forward, too, clearly taking up a defensive position

Gabriel sees this and rolls his eyes. Before you can voice your objection, you blink and you’re standing next to the archangel, his arm slung casually around your waist. He points at the Winchesters, who have both taken a step forward, and scoffs. “Stay right there, boys, take a load off. I’ll take good care of your precious girlfriend.”

You roll your eyes and ignore him. “Gabriel, we don’t have time for this. You have to go.”

He looks at you closely again, and you return the favor. You pay no mind to the struggling Winchesters. “And why would you care what Lucifer does to little ol’ me?” he asks softly.

You stare at him for a moment, then sigh. “Because you fight for humanity, in the end. Because, even though your methods were fucked, you were usually trying to help us.” You sigh and try to quell the anxiety thrumming through your veins. “Because you’re my favorite archangel, and I want you to help us stop this, and that will be difficult if you’re dead.”

When he continues to stare at you, shock in those pretty hazel eyes, you remember your urgency. You push at his rock hard chest. “Gabriel, you have to go.”

“Oh,” a cold, familiar voice drawls from behind Gabriel. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Your blood freezes and you shudder. You look around Gabriel’s shoulder slowly, and your eyes land on none other than Lucifer, standing there and smirking.

“Oh, no.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, no, indeed,” Lucifer says with a cold smile.

You’re completely frozen in your fear, willing your body to move, knowing that it won’t. Gabriel flicks his hand, and suddenly Sam and Dean are free. They’re standing next to you, then pulling you behind them, Dean’s glare fierce and determined.

“Lucifer,” Gabriel says, the usual laughter in his voice firmly in place.

“Gabriel, we have to go,” you hiss, fear making it hard to think.

“No, darling. I think I’m staying here,” he says softly, resolutely.

You blink in shock, then whimper in fear. “Gabriel, please, he’s going to-“

“I’m not worried, Y/N,” Gabriel says confidently. “You're gonna be all right.”

What? How can he be so confident?

“As much fun as this is,” Lucifer says dryly, “I think we have business to discuss.”

“We certainly do,” a melodic voice says from behind the devil.

You stiffen, then slowly reach out to grab fistfuls of both Sam and Dean’s coats and start pulling them backwards with you. Because behind Lucifer, pouring from the hallway leading further into the hotel, come the gods. The old gods.

Kali and Baldur, tall and proud, are leading the charge. Kali’s eyes roam over Gabriel possessively, then go back to Lucifer. She looks wary.

Baldur does not, he looks furious. “You think you own the planet? What gives you the right?”

Gabriel’s arms sweep wide as he stands in front of you, Sam, and Dean. You realize he’s put himself in a protective position, because Lucifer sweeps forward and shoves his hand into Baldur, ripping him apart with his bare hands. You pull the guys’ coats more, and they start backing up with you. Winch is next to you, moving backwards as well, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.

“No one gives us the right,” Lucifer is saying calmly. “We take it.”

Gabriel turns slowly to look at you, and your eyes meet his wide hazel ones. “Do you know about Casa Erotica?” he asks seriously.

You know he’s not talking about the porn, so you nod, but tears are welling in your eyes.

He nods. “Good.” He turns to look at Kali, then flicks two fingers and she’s suddenly standing next to him, his arm around her. “Take Kali and Y/N and get out of here, guys,” he says loudly, his eyes finally landing on his brother again. “I’ll take care of this.”

Lucifer smirks. “Will you, now?”

Slowly, Sam steps forward a few steps and takes Kali’s arm in his hand. He gently pulls her away from the archangels, who are now standing off, glaring at one another. You can tell by the way their bodies are tensing that they want to move, to circle one another like predators, and another shiver works its way through you.

“How the hell are we going to get out of here?” Dean mutters to you.

You shake your head. “We can’t just leave him, he’s going to die here.”

“Princess, this is above our paygrade. We’ve gotta go.”

You shake your head again, upset. “Dean, I-“

Before you can finish your thought, he slips his hand into yours, then kneels to wrap one arm around Winch. Then you feel Castiel’s cold fingers against your forehead, and you’re gone.

When you open your eyes, you’re in Bobby’s yard. You gasp, then whip around and watch as Castiel brings Sam back, too. Kali, apparently, got out by herself.

“Cass, we have to go help him, he’s going to die.”

Castiel looks back at you, and the discomfort in his eyes gives you the answer to your request.

“God dammit, why does no one care about this but me?!” you ask sharply, upset beyond belief.

“Y/N, it’s not that we don’t care,” Sam says gently, “It’s just that… I mean, what are we supposed to do? They’re archangels, and we haven’t exactly found a fool-proof way to kill them yet.”

The tears that have been in your eyes finally spill over. “So we just have to leave him there?”

No one has an answer for you.

Two days later, Dean is worried as fuck.

She hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary to show him, but he knows she’s upset. He can tell that she’s depressed, and that she’s back to viciously attacking herself every chance she gets. He knows it because of the way she carries herself, the way she spends more time outside with just her and Winch, the way she’s barely eating, the way she flinches, just a little, at loud noises.

Gabriel died. Castiel went back and collected his brother’s body. They gave him a hunter’s funeral, which Y/N says Gabriel would have laughed at. She silently cried through it, and he held her.

She’s been stiff every time he’s touched her since the hotel with the gods. She’s skittish, and gives him an apologetic smile every time she jumps at his touch. But she always leans in, letting him wrap her in his arms and rock her back and forth, so he’ll take it.

You’re standing outside on the front porch two days after the hotel of the gods, watching Winch sniff around the yard, and wishing you had a cigarette for the first time in a little over six months.

You don’t know why Gabriel’s death affected you so badly, but you’re definitely affected. Maybe because it was so preventable. You told him what was going to happen, and he did nothing to change it. He just walked in with false confidence, and it got him fucking killed.

You think what’s killing you is that you wonder if it was your fault. If you hadn’t told him, would he have run? Or if you hadn’t told him, would things have maybe turned out differently? Would he be all right, and maybe Lucifer would be dead now?

Fuck.

The worry and guilt and fear are making you sick to your stomach. You can barely eat, and you know Dean is worried, not to mention Sam and Bobby, but you can’t do anything about it. You can’t help the way your stomach curls up and makes you nauseous when you think about food right now.

You know it will be all right. There’s a light at the end of this tunnel. This is a situational low point, not a chemical one. You know you can pull out of it, but you feel dumb saying that to Dean, so you just silently work yourself through it. He’ll be all right while he waits.

It’s the next day when you decide that enough is enough.

You get up before Dean, pressing a soft kiss to his stubbly cheek. He’s so warm and firm that it’s tempting to just stay lying next to him forever, but you know that that’s not a real option, so you get up.

You go down to the kitchen, let the dog out, and start coffee. You get everything you need together to make French toast, and start humming idly as you cook.

This. A return to routine. Your dog asking to be let in, cooking, singing. These are the things you needed. This will get you back to fighting shape. Which is a good thing, because now you have to find a way to kill Lucifer so Sam doesn’t have to jump in the hole.

For the first time in days, you sense Dean come down the stairs behind you, then goes to let Winch in. You smile when his chest presses against your back and his arms come around to hold you tightly. “Morning, handsome,” you say softly, tilting your head to give him room to nuzzle your neck.

He hums in greeting against your skin.

You take a deep breath and lean into him. “All right, what’s the plan?”

His chin comes to rest on your shoulder. “We find a way to kill the devil.” There’s some silence, then, “Are you, ah, are you doing better?”

You smile and nod. “Yeah. Sorry I’m crazy, just a low few days.”

“Stop it,” he says gently, squeezing you. “You’re not crazy. It happens, princess.”

“Absolutely not!” you cry, slamming your hand down on the table. “Not even an option!”

Sam runs his hands through his hair, frustrated. “Y/N, you’re being-“

“I swear to fucking Christ, Sam Winchester, if you call me unreasonable one more goddamn time, I’m going to murder you.”

He groans. “I’m just saying, let’s keep it as a backup plan!”

Sam wants to go get the Horsemen’s rings. You’re so angry you can barely see straight. What’s even the point of trying to change things if he’s not going to listen to you?

Dean and Bobby, who both immediately backed down from the fight (wimps), are watching with wide eyes as you and the younger Winchester hash it out.

“Y/N, I appreciate that you want to save me-”

You cut him off with a harsh laugh, which is kind of a douche move, but you’re beyond caring. “Sam, this isn’t just about you.”

He stares at you, and you continue. “Sam, I want to save you, I do. But this is about the people who will die if this showdown happens. I’m talking Leviathans, the angels falling from heaven, everything that happens because you make this choice. I’m not saying that the choice doesn’t make you a hero, because it does, but… This isn’t just about you.”

The last is said in a whisper, and you feel yourself start to spiral downward again. The incident with Gabriel has you questioning yourself again. Who are you to think you can change things? You’re a waitress from a mid-size city who spends too much time watching TV and alone with your dog. What makes you think you can save anyone?

Struggling against your emotions, you hold your hands up in surrender and ask, “Can we pick this up tomorrow? I’m spent.”

Sam frowns. “Y/N, we don’t-”

“Can it, Sammy,” Dean says shortly, standing to come put an arm around your waist. “Come on, princess, like you said, we’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

He leads you away without another word, and you let him. You’re too drained, so tired all of the sudden that you can barely stay standing, so you just let him take you upstairs to bed.

When you get to your room, he shuts the door behind the two of you. He slowly undresses you, pressing gentle, chaste kisses to the flesh he exposes. Once you’re just in undies, he drops one of his t-shirts over your head. Then he quickly undresses himself, then gently tugs you into bed with him.

Dean wraps himself around you, and you melt against him, cuddling into his warmth. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. The only words you can muster right now.

He presses his lips to your forehead. “Shh,” he whispers back, “Don’t be, baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

And him saying that, while it doesn't fix it, it does make it better.

You’re in a dog park with Winch. The sun is shining down on you, warming turned shoulders, and you’re watching Winch lay down so he can play with a puppy. It makes you smile, love for your dog welling up in your heart.

Your hair is longer, so you know this is a dream. You let it go and enjoy it. Good dreams are few and far between these days.

You sense a presence next to you, and you turn and smile at Chuck. Dreams are weird.

“Hi, Chuck.”

He leans forward and presses two fingers against your forehead. Remember.

“I always did like you.”

“You know, I created soulmates because I’ve always liked the idea that two people should find each other.”

“He’s definitely going to need you.”

“But you are here to change things, Y/N. I can’t tell you what things, but I can tell you this: You’re going to save a lot of lives.”

You blink, then glare at him as memories flood through you. “You dammit, Chuck.”

He smiles. “There she is.”

You sigh and look down at Winch, whose head is resting on your knee now. Even in dreams, he wants to comfort you.

“What do you want, Chuck?”

He chuckles. “I’ve always liked you.”

You snort. “Yeah, I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.” You wince a little at your tone. Don’t cuss at God, heathen.

“I want to check on you. Let you know that you’re doing fine.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why?”

He frowns. “Why what?”

“I mean…. Do you care? How I am? Why would the Lord care about my anxiety?”

He smiles kindly, and damn if you don’t feel a little better. “Like I said. I’ve always liked you. And you’re important, Y/N. You do important things, you’re doing important things. You’re not failing. You’re doing fine.”

You shake your head, tears pricking the backs of your eyes. “Gabriel still died,” you whisper. “I failed him.”

Chuck shakes his head right back at you. “No, you didn’t. Y/N, you brought Gabriel back to what he was before. He died fighting for humanity. That’s what he was made to do.” He leans back on the bench. “The archangels. Four archangels. The perfect checks and balances system, or so they were meant to be. They were meant to keep each other in line, to make sure no one went too far off the reservation. I wish he wasn’t dead, but he died fighting the way I wanted him to.”

You scoff. “Lucifer stabbed him in the chest. Not much of a fight.”

“Maybe in your show. It was a great battle, Y/N. That hotel was levelled. They fought fiercely. Gabriel did fall, but it was with a smile on his face.”

You swallow hard. “I still feel like I failed.”

He nods. “Heroes often do.”

You blink. Heroes? I’m not a hero.

He smiles. “Yes, you are a hero, Y/N. And you’re doing fine, so try to keep that in mind.”

You wake from a dream you don't remember with your nose pressed against Dean’s shoulder. He’s on his back, and you’re curled around him. It’s warm, and sunlight is pouring through the window. Winch is at the foot of the bed, his big brown eyes staring at you lovingly.

You have a renewed vigor. You feel stronger, like you can do this.

You can stop the apocalypse.

You can beat Lucifer.

“Yes, you are a hero, Y/N.”

You don’t recognize the voice, but it bolsters you.

“Goddamn right I am.”

Chapter Text

It’s crunch time.

The four of you are working nonstop. The need to find a way to kill Lucifer has become urgent, and the search is desperate. You’re running on coffee (to keep you awake) and painkillers (for the caffeine headaches), and so is everyone else. Except Dean, who uses whiskey instead of Advil.

The pressure is on, and you’re determined to find something, anything at all. You’ve fallen asleep with your face in a priceless book at least three times in the last two days.

On the other side of the room, Sam heaves out a dramatic sigh. You roll your eyes. You refuse to back down about the rings. He refuses to give up the idea. The last few days of tense silence have been punctuated by you and Sam shouting at one another.

“Y/N,” Dean says quickly, looking to head off the next fight. “Why don’t you and me go get food? Almost time for dinner.”

You close your eyes and fight the part of you that wants to snarl at him. Lack of regular sleep makes you overly aggressive, and he really is just trying to help.

So instead, you smile. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

He can nip this fight in the bed, so you can all have a moment of peace. But Sam isn’t giving up, and neither are you, so you’ll get the argument you’re spoiling for.

You’re asleep two minutes after you slide into the passenger seat.

Dean watches her sleep, her head on his shoulder, her soft snores echoing in his heart, and he feels that same heart break a little.

He’s been keeping the coffeepot full for her, making sure she had painkillers, and watching as she took care of everyone else and forgot to take care of herself. So he does it for her.

He’s been putting on a good show the last two days of being brave. He’s put on a good act of not being scared, because that’s what the team needs. They need someone to not be scared, so he can be that for them, at least on the outside.

But there’s only so much you can lie to yourself about.

Dean’s terrified. He’s petrified that Sam is going to get away from him and go get the rings on his own. He’s scared that the archangels will, at any second, bust in and take the people he cares most about. Lucifer wants Sam, he knows, and Michael wants Dean, and by all rights, Y/N should be safe. But Y/N has been helping them avert the showdown, and she’s stood up to every angel she’s faced so far. They’re probably not real happy about that.

He’s furious at Sam, who seems hell bent on sacking himself to save the world, regardless of whether or not there’s a better option. And he’s been arguing with her, trying to get her to switch to his side and go get the rings, which is stressing her out and making her push herself far beyond what her limit for research should be. Dean’s gently woken her from sleeping on the pages of a book more times than he’s comfortable with in the last two days. She’s gotten maybe three hours of sleep, and that’s just what he could let her get when she fell into slumber where she sat.

So Dean is not okay. He’s, in her words, “freaking the fuck out.” He loves her, he loves Sam, and he can’t get them to get on the same page so they can fight the devil together. His last hope is that they find a way to ice Lucifer, get Sam on board, and then just plow forward.

But for now, his arm is around her, her head is on his shoulder, and she’s sleeping better than she has in the last forty-eight hours, so that’s good enough for Dean.

For now.

Dean slides back into the car, bag of tacos in hand, when his cell phone rings.

He drove about forty minutes further than he had to. Partially to let her sleep, partially so he could think. Dean does all of his good, useful thinking behind the wheel of Baby, and today is no exception.

He’s going to have to lock Sam up in the panic room.

Dean can read that kid like the back of his hand, and Sam’s an inch away from bailing and going on his own to get the rings. Not only will that fucking kill him, but it’s going to piss Dean off something fierce. He can already feel the anger at Sam’s future actions burning inside him, so he’s going to have to cut him off. He hates the idea of it, and he knows that Sam is going to be livid, but there’s no other choice. He’s going to have to, once again, lock Sam up.

He flips his phone open, resolute in his decision. “Yeah?”

“Dean?”

Trepidation dances it’s way down Dean’s spine. “Bobby? What’s up?”

“Dean…” A heavy sigh. “Dean, Sam’s gone.”

Fuck.

Chapter Text

You’re having a lovely dream about Dean doing the filthiest things to you with his mouth when he gently shakes you awake.

“Y/N.” His fingertips are light on your face. “Come on, princess, I need you.”

You want to grumble and protest, but something in that deep rumble he calls a voice has your eyes snapping open. You meet his green ones. “What? What’s wrong?”

The worry lines around his eyes have something deep inside you clenching in panic.

“Sam’s gone.”

“I’m going to kill him,” you say mildly as you apply a cold compress to the back of Bobby’s head.

“Get in line,” the older hunter mutters.

“Let’s just find him first,” Dean snaps.

You let his snippy tone go even before he looks at you apologetically. You get it, you’re not feeling particularly friendly today, either.

“Got any ideas?” Bobby asks.

Before Dean can answer, you do. “Pestilence. He’s going after Pestilence’s ring.”

Bobby turns to look at you, eyebrows raised. “You think he’s stupid enough to go on his own?”

You smile without humor. “I think he’s stubborn enough to do damn near anything.”

You’re on the road to the convalescent home Pestilence is at. You’re cursing yourself for being honest with the Winchesters, even if it was the right thing to do. But if you hadn’t told him, he wouldn’t have gone.

Dean has been quiet since Sam left, and you know he blames you. But you’re determined to make it right, to get-

“Stop, princess, no one’s mad at you.”

His words pull you out of your thoughts, and you stare at him for a second. “What?”

He glances over at you, then looks at the road again. “This ain’t your fault, Y/N. It’s Sam’s. So quit getting in your head about it and help me figure out a way to beat Pestilence and kick Sam’s ass at the same time.”

You just keep staring at him, floored. It’s not just what he’s saying, that he doesn’t blame you. Even though that’s something you desperately need to hear, because you definitely blame yourself. The fact that he doesn’t lets you let yourself of the hook a little.

It’s that he knew. He knew what you were doing, and he just… Told you to stop.

It’s the sweetest, most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. You want to tell him that. You want to try your hand at poetry or songwriting or something that will tell him how much you love him.

But he’s still Dean, and that would just make him uncomfortable.

So, instead, you smile. “I’ll take the horseman, you take the idiot?”

Dean drives silently, letting her fall back into her thoughts now that he’s cut her guilt train off at the station.

He’s never been angrier with Sam.

He’s mad because Sam knows that his stupid little “jump into the pit with Lucifer” backup plan is a Hail Mary. He knows that Dean, Bobby, and Y/N don’t approve. He just doesn’t care.

Dean loves his brother, and he knows that he’s being unfair to him. He knows Sam is trying to do the right thing as he sees it. It’s a level of maturity Dean didn’t have before. Y/N is really messing with his head.

She takes a deep breath, and he automatically reaches over and takes her hand. She smiles and laces their fingers together. “We’re gonna find him, Dean,” she says gently. “It’ll be all right, we’ll find him.”

“Whatever you say, princess.”

You arrive at the nursing home with fear making your stomach shrink and ache. Is Sam even still here? If he is, is he all right? If he’s not, does that mean he’s already gone, or that he hasn’t gotten here yet?

He doesn’t have much of a head start, so you think there’s a good chance you’ll catch him. But you’re not confident.

“What’s the plan?” Dean asks as he parks Baby.

You sigh a little. “We call Cass, get in, Cass and I take on Pestilence, and you either subdue Sam, or distract him long enough for us to get to you so Cass can knock him out.” You smile weakly. “Does that sound even remotely viable?”

He smiles a little and rubs his thumb along the sensitive skin on the inside of your wrist. “We’ll make it work, princess.”

You’re in the building, walking down the hallway with Castiel by your side. Having an angel with you is probably setting off alarms that you’re here, but Dean wouldn’t let you go in by yourself, and you didn’t fight him that hard on it. You don’t particularly want to go alone, anyway.

“There,” the angel’s gravelly voice says from next to you. “Pestilence is there.”

“And Sam’s not?”

He shakes his head. “No. He’s still in the security office.”

You nod briefly, then take a steadying breath. “All right, let’s do this, then.”

As the two of you walk forward, a thought occurs to you. “Why am I not feeling sick?”

“I’m blocking you from the worst of Pestilence’s powers. However, as we get close, you may feel some nausea.”

You smile, all warm and fuzzy on the inside. “No worries, Cass.”

The two of you get to the room that Pestilence is in, and you knock before your courage has time to turn tail and run you the fuck out of here. No time for wimps.

The door opens to a demonic nurse, but not the one from the show. And she looks kind of shocked to see you. Good. He didn’t expect us.

You splash holy water in her face from the flask you lifted from Dean. She shrieks and bats at her head with her hands, backing up a few steps while she does so. You step forward and shove her hard onto the ground, effectively getting her the hell out of your way.

You meet Pestilence’s surprised gaze, and you feel a smile creep across your face. “Hiya.”

He scowls. “I know who you are. Dean Winchester’s little slut.”

You smile wider. “Aw, look at me go,” you say jauntily as you stalk across the room. “I’m famous, Cass.”

Nausea makes your stomach roll suddenly, but you refuse to stop. This has got to be done, and fast, if you’re going to catch Sam before he meets with Death.

Because if Sam meets with Death, it’s going to be done. Death wants Sam in the hole. Sam wants Sam in the hole. If those two get together, your chances of saving Dean’s brother go from slim at best to absolutely none at all.

So you don’t break stride, you just keep coming, and you sense rather than see Castiel coming with you.

“Sorry, I’d love to banter, but I have places to be.”

You see his eyes widen as you continue forward, and he stupidly holds his hand out to stop you. “Get away from me, bitch! I have plans!”

“Fuck you,” you say simply, grabbing his hand and twisting to tuck it under your arm, even as you feel a sick, infectious feeling start emanating from where your skin touches his.

Castiel takes the opportunity to, quite casually, reach up and snap Pestilence’s ring finger clean the fuck off. The horseman shrieks, then disappears. Your illness disappears, too, and you suddenly feel fine. You smile. “That was pretty easy.”

Castiel nods. “Your foreknowledge has made each situation you enter much easier to deal with, Y/N.”

You smile. “Aw, Cass, you big softie.”

Dean goes down the hall to the security office and tries to figure out what he’s going to say to Sam.

How can he explain how much this scares him? How the thought of Sam being in hell makes him feel like a failure? His whole life has been built around making sure Sam is okay. He doesn’t know anything else.

And now, it’s coming down to the wire, and his pain in the ass little brother wants to jump into Lucifer’s cage.

Despite his nerves, Dean doesn’t hesitate when he gets to the security office. He opens the door and steps in.

Sam is sitting there, watching the monitor. He whirls with wide eyes to look at him. “Dean.”

Dean closes the door behind him. “You ditched us, Sammy. Got Bobby over the head pretty good, too.”

Sam winces. “Look, Dean, I’m sorry about Bobby, I really am. But we’re running out of time to keep dancing around this. This is the only good plan we’ve got.”

Dean shakes his head. “Sam, it’s not even a-”

“This is the problem, Dean!” Sam shouts. “You’d never even consider it, even if it is a good plan, because you don’t want to see me go into the hole.”

Dean takes a step into the room. “Sam, it’s not that I don’t want to,” he says softly, brokenly, “I can’t. I can’t do it. I know it’s our only shot right now, I know it, but I can’t do this.” Dean runs a hand down his face. “I’ve been taking care of you my whole life, man. How am I supposed to just stop now?”

“Dean, you don’t have to take care of me. This isn’t on you.”

“Sam, I can’t-”

“And Y/N already told us that Cass gets me out of the hole, like, right away. So why is this so bad?”

“Because, Sam,” her soft voice says from behind Dean, “Cass only gets your body out of hell. Your soul stays.”

Dean isn’t even surprised that she’s here, he just lets her do the talking. She’s better at it, anyway, always has been.

“So? Just pull that out, too.”

“It’s not that easy,” she protests, albeit apologetically. “Dean makes a deal with Death to get your soul back. And who knows how long it will take us to do that? I have no way of being able to guarantee that you’ll only be there for a short period of time. So no, Sam, this can’t be an option. We’ll find another way.”

Sam’s getting angry now, and Dean can’t stop the way he shifts subtly to stand in front of her, to protect her should his unpredictable brother lose his temper.

“When, Y/N? When will you find a better way? Because you’ve been looking for weeks.”

Something in her changes, he can feel it without even looking back. Suddenly, Castiel appears in front of Sam. Sam barely even has time for his eyes to widen before the angel’s fingers are pressed to his forehead, and Sam slumps, unconscious.

“We,” she says softly. “We have been looking for weeks, you prick.”

Dean then feels her hand slip into his, and he looks down at her to see a sympathetic smile on her face.

“Let’s go home.”

You’re at the kitchen table, head in your hands, wracking your brain for a plan. You’ve spent the last hour with Bobby, him telling you how to ward the house against angels, demons, and whatever else the two of you could think of.

“All right,” Dean says softly, coming up the stairs. “He’s in there.”

Bobby nods somberly. “Well, kids, what’s the plan?”

Dean surprises you by being the one to answer. “We keep at it. Just keep doing research, keep our heads down. Sam will be all right down there for a while. So let’s find a way to kill the devil.”

Proud of him, you nod. “Let’s get to it. I’ll start the coffee.”

When Sam wakes up, his first reaction is anger at his brother and Y/N’s high-handed bullshit.

It’s my goddamn life! I can decide what to do with it!

He wants to start shouting, to bang on the door of the panic room to get them to let him out. He wants to be such a goddamn nuisance that they let him out just to shut him up.

But he’s not stupid, he knows that Dean won’t let him out, not if Y/N tells him that Sam hasn’t changed his mind. And Y/N is too goddamn perceptive for her own good, so she’ll know that Sam will never change his mind about this.

So instead, he sits on the cot, rests his chin on his folded hands, and thinks.

He thinks about a lot of people. Bobby, his father, his mother, Jess, Cass, and a slew of others in his life, ranging from those who have influenced him most to bit characters.

But mostly, he thinks about Dean and Y/N.

He thinks about how much softer Dean is now. How he’s always watching her, even when he’s doing something else, he’s always watching her. Making sure she’s safe, making sure she’s okay. The way Dean is vigilant about her mental state, and when she gets going on herself, he’s there to stop it.

He thinks about how far Y/N has come without realizing it. How a woman who could barely look them in the eye on her porch that morning is now sleeping with his brother, poking fun at Sam, cooking for them and taking care of them and just, in general, making wherever they are a better place to be.

Sam thinks about how, for the first time in a long time, his big brother is in love. He thinks about how much he wants them to trust him to take care of his end of this bargain.

And so Sam makes a decision. For his brother, and the woman his brother is in love with.

Sam decides to trust them to hold up their end of the bargain.

He closes his eyes, and he prays.

Several hours later, the three of you are on your second pot of coffee, and still exactly where you were when you first started looking for a way to kill Lucifer. Which is exactly nowhere.

Without warning, there’s a huge, strangely delicate crash through the kitchen. You jump, and before you can even really process what happened, Dean’s got you out of the chair and behind him, his arms spread wide as he sweeps the room for what the danger is.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean snarls.

Bobby’s looking around, then he leans in his wheelchair and picks up a brick. He’s glaring at it, then looks up at Dean. “What the hell?”

You blanch, and feel yourself get dizzy. “The warding,” you whisper. “It broke the wards.”

Dean turns to look at you. “What? No, there are wards up all over.”

“The angelic wards can’t be broken at all, or they all go down,” you whisper again, staring up at him, horrified.

Dean pales. “Sam.”

The two of you thunder down the stairs, leaving Bobby at the top, adrenaline coursing through you.

The panic room door is open. Sam is standing in the doorway.

Well, not Sam.

Lucifer, wearing Sam’s face, smirks. “Dean. Long time, no see.”

Then he zeroes in on you. “Y/N. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. You’re the young woman who’s caused me so much trouble.”

Oh. Fuck.

Chapter Text

“Y/N, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. You’re the young woman who’s caused me so much trouble.”

Oh. Fuck.

Your brain goes completely blank in a perfect, white panic. You’re completely frozen.

Dean moves first. He grabs you and shoves you behind him again. You go willingly, partially because you’re petrified, and partially because your brain has pretty much completely disconnected from your body.

Lucifer chuckles, and it’s both just like Sam and completely different at the same time. It’s confusing your poor heart, and you can only imagine what it’s doing to Dean.

“Dean,” Lucifer says amicably, “You really think you can stop me?”

“I can sure as fuck try,” Dean snaps.

Lucifer laughs, shaking his head a little. “Oh, Dean. I knew you were dumb, but jumping in front of me to save… What? Some harlot?” Dean growls, and Lucifer continues. “Oh, I’m sorry. God, uh, God custom made this particular harlot just for you, didn’t he?”

Before you can blink, Dean is gone from in front of you, tossed against the far wall and pinned there. “Y/N!” he shouts, struggling to come back to you.

You look back at Lucifer, and you have to swallow a whimper when you see that he’s ambling toward you.

He crooks a finger at you. “Come here, little girl.”

Before you can react at all, you’re pressed against him, his arm slung around your waist. It’s eerily similar to the way you met Gabriel, and you feel a pang of sorrow along with the sea of fear you’re drowning in.

The fallen archangel is examining you closely. “Hmm,” he hums. “Came with fighting expertise, that’s probably going to come in handy. Increased muscle efficiency, not that you’ve probably noticed, not with the Winchesters running around, keeping you out of danger.” He smiles. “Rapid healing. You probably didn’t even have to quit your revolting habit, little girl, you wouldn’t be affected by it at all.”

He looks you in the eye, and you work hard not to move an iota. Your mind kicks into overdrive, bringing up escape plans and dismissing them at a rapid fire rate. We’ve got to get out of here.

“It occurs to me, little girl, that you’re fighting on the wrong side,” he says casually.

You blink, knocked out of your strategizing by his words. “Excuse me?”

He studies you. “Why are you fighting for God? What has He done for you?”

You stay silent, unwilling to give an inch in this conversation, unwilling to let him take innocent words and twist them to his own purpose.

He nods like you answered anyway. “Nothing. He’s done exactly nothing for you.”

He looks at you again, and again, your lips are sealed.

“What about your parents, Y/N?” he asks softly, almost kindly. “You’ll never see them again. They don’t even know you exist. That’s what God has done for you.”

Before you can even think about replying, he continues. “What about your life? Your peaceful, comfortable life, was ripped away for… What? One of his whims? That’s what God has done for you.”

You just stare at him, fighting the emotion rising in your chest. Oh, fuck, is he right? No, he’s not right. This is important, this will save lives, you’re here to save lives, don’t listen to him!

There’s a dangerous glint that’s growing in his eyes, and it scares you. Almost as much as what he says next.

“Ah. Dean.”

You struggle again to keep a poker face, but you were really kind of hoping he forgot about Dean, and he clearly has not.

“Dean Winchester,” he says softly, rolling the words around in his mouth. “God brought you here to be with Dean Winchester. Not because you’re particularly good at anything. Well, anything useful, anyway. He brought you here so poor Dean wouldn’t be so lonely, so tortured.” Lucifer smiles coldly again. “Of course, being with Dean will be your death sentence, but God doesn’t care about that, does he?”

There goes your poker face as you frown. “Excuse me?”

He looks surprised, and the almost kind expression on Sam’s handsome face kills you a little. “Why, Y/N, don’t you know?” He takes your chin in his hand and turns you to look at Dean with him. “Dean-o here is poison. Dean kills the people he loves. Mommy’s gone, Daddy’s gone, little Sammy’s busy being a vessel. Even Father Figure Bobby is in a wheelchair. All because Dean can’t cut it.”

You try to convey the love you have for him in your eyes as you look at Dean, but you can tell he’s not getting the message. He barely even flinches at the devil’s words, and you know it’s because deep down, Dean believes them.

Lucifer turns you back to look at him again. “So, sure, God brought you here to have your little adventures, and your little misadventures with Dean. But, in the end, it’s going to kill you. Dean’s going to kill you.”

And those words, you realize, are Lucifer’s first mistake.

Anger burns in your belly, and you’re finally able to move enough to yank your chin out of his grasp. “Screw you,” you spit at him, letting the fury warm you. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He cocks an eyebrow, but lets your face go. “Don’t I?”

You stare him down, despite the major height difference. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about loving someone. You’ve never loved anyone but God in your life, have you?” You let your lips tilt up in a smile. “And look at how that ended.”

“Y/N!” Dean hisses. You and Lucifer both ignore him.

The devil’s face changes from amused to cold. He reaches up to gently cup your cheek. “I could kill you here and now,” he says softly, danger lacing his words.

You’re too angry (and dumb, there’s some dumb mixed up in there) to be afraid right now. “Then do it,” you hiss. “Because if you don’t, I will find a way to beat you.”

His thumb runs along your bottom lip, and you start to feel fear again when you realize you can’t move. “Such a pretty mouth to house such a sharp tongue,” he says softly. Then he smiles again. “Oh, Y/N, I’m not going to kill you.”

The world tilts as he tosses you against the opposite wall that Dean is pinned to. You cry out when your head cracks into the iron, pain ricocheting through you, bright white lights dancing in front of your eyes. You’re pinned there, completely unable to move again.

“Y/N!” Dean roars, and you see him struggling against the power holding him where he is.

Lucifer approaches casually, staring at you. He smiles. “Little girl, you’ve got this idea that you’re somehow special, or better, because God brought you here.” He takes another step toward you, and fear is a real and terrible thing in your stomach again, making you nauseous as he approaches.

“You’re wrong,” he says softly. “You’re not special. You’re just some human, not really worth anything, not worth noting. You’re just a waitress with an inflated sense of self-importance.” He chuckles. “You’re not even worth killing.”

And then he’s gone, and you’re finally sliding down the wall, breathing hard, tears starting to form in your eyes. Dean’s in front of you in a second, kneeling, his gentle hand tilting your face up to look up at him.

Where you expect to see compassion, there’s fury in his eyes. “What the fuck was that?”

You recoil. “Excuse me?”

“What the fuck, Y/N? What was that?” He stands, without helping you do the same, and runs his hands through his hair. “What the hell were you thinking, mouthing off to Lucifer? ‘Look how that ended.’ Where the fuck did that come from?”

You stay where you are. You’re hurt by his words, and you swallow hard to cover. “I don’t know, I just got mad. About what he was saying about you, about us.”

“Well, you could have gotten yourself killed!” he shouts.

You’re getting angry again all on your own, so you struggle to your feet. “Screw you, Dean. If he had been going to kill us, he would have done it whether I opened my mouth or not!”

“Well, you fucked asked him to! He just didn’t feel like it, Y/N!”

“I didn’t hear you chiming in, Dean!”

“Couldn’t get a word in edgewise, could I?!”

Your hands fist at your sides. “Well, I’m sorry, I don’t have a fucking script for talking to Satan! Next time, I’ll make sure to stop to ask if you have any questions!”

The tears have spilled over on your cheeks, and when he opens his mouth to yell some more, you put your hands up in defeat. “Forget it, Dean,” you whisper.

You’re done. You’re tired and spent and shaking and barely staying on your feet. You don’t want to fight with him, but if he’s going to be an asshole, he can stay down here and be one by himself.

You don’t acknowledge him at all as you walk to the door of the panic room. You go up the stairs and give Bobby a shaky smile where he’s sitting wide-eyed at the top. He gives you a comforting pat, but you keep moving, unable to give him anything.

When you get to the kitchen, you realize that Winch is going nuts in your bedroom. You shut him in there when you went to find Sam, not wanting him to be in danger or get in the way. And even though you’re so tired you can barely move, you go up the stairs to let him out.

He’s excited and anxious when you open the door, so he jumps up without permission. He’s done it a hundred times, you should have expected it, but you’re so out of it that you just didn’t.

His paws hit your shoulders and you fall back, hitting another wall. Your head cracks against it again, and you can’t help the way you softly cry out.

“Y/N?” Dean shouts, concern lacing his tone.

You’re dizzy now, and you barely stay standing. Winch is on the floor again, whining low in his throat because he knows he’s not supposed to jump up, but you don’t have it. You don’t have it in you to comfort him, or to call out to Dean, or to do anything but just stay on your feet and try to get the room to stop spinning.

Then Dean’s in your vision, his big hand on your cheek. “Hey, are you okay? What happened?”

You gesture limply to the dog. “He jumped up,” you whisper, tears falling again. “He’s just excited, he knew something that happened.”

Dean starts to frown, but you shake your head, then stop because that hurts. “Don’t be mad at him,” you whisper, “Please, it’s not his fault, he was just worried.”

He takes a deep breath, then, “Winchester, down the stairs.”

Eager to please now, the big German shepherd goes down the stairs. You hear Bobby grumble, then the squeak of his wheels and the bang of the door as he lets Winch out into the backyard. You close your eyes and try hard to stay where you are and not just crumble at Dean’s feet.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I’m sorry, that was stupid, I’m sor-”

His gentle lips on yours stop your apology. “Hey, hush,” he whispers against your mouth, “Come on, I’m sorry, don’t, baby, it’s me, don’t cry, okay?”

You kiss him back slowly, tears running down your face. “I’m sorry, I’m being a wimp, just give me a minute.” You pull away from him and take a deep, deep breath. “I’m okay, give me a sec.”

He feathers kisses across your face, shushing you and apologizing. “It’s okay, take all the time you need.”

You straighten a little, and he doesn’t step back, he just puts his arms around you and pulls you into him. You go, burrowing into his warmth. “No, we don’t have time. We have to go.” You look up at him and blink. “Although it’s possible that I have a teensy concussion.”

He bends and scoops you into his arms, which makes the room swirl, so you bury your face in his chest to get it to stop.

“We’ll go slow,” he rumbles, “You’ll be okay.”

You just hum in agreement, so desperately tired that you’d probably agree with anything he said at this point.

Dean carries her down the stairs, fear and guilt still mixing unpleasantly in his gut. These feelings are almost swept away by the way her weight feels in  his ars, soft and warm and alive.

Almost.

Should have grabbed her. You know she has a temper, you know she has no sense of self-preservation. God dammit, where the fuck were you? Fucking useless.

Round and round his thoughts go, in a familiar rhythm of self-loathing and beratement.

That is, until her soft hand on his cheek has him looking down to meet her unfocused eyes.

“Dean, honey, quit it. He had you pinned, and he dragged me across the room. And you know how much I love men pushing me around, and how I get when people are nasty about you, so I ran my mouth. Stop punishing yourself for something you couldn’t have stopped.”

She smiles up at him and his chest feels unbelievably tight and hot for a second. She’s incredible, lying dazed and compliant in his arms, concussed, and still telling him that he’s good, that it’s not his fault. Again, he wonders if he’s ever felt about anyone the way he feels about her.

Gotta be better at protecting her.

Chapter Text

A cup of coffee enters your vision, and you smile a little. “Thank you,” you whisper, wrapping your hands around its warmth and simultaneously letting your fingers Dean’s.

He kisses the top of your head and sits next to you, in front of the book he’s been reading. “You should get some sleep.”

You take a sip and smile when it’s perfect. You tilt your head to look at him. “You first.”

He grunts and ignores that to look back down at the book he’s studying. You don't take offense, you just run your fingers through his hair once, affectionately, before turning down to the newspaper you’re reading.

It’s been half a day since Sam let Lucifer in, and you’re desperately searching for Death. It’s you, Dean, and Bobby hitting the books, running purely on coffee and fear. You have to find the horseman, so you can open the cage and shove Lucifer back inside.

You also have to figure out a way to get the archangel out of Sam, but you keep that goal private. Neither of them have said anything about it to you, but you’re determined to fix this. You don’t know if they blame you, but you certainly blame yourself.

You knew what was going to happen, you were practically given everything you needed to stop it. What’s wrong with you? You should have been able to do something about this.

Your thoughts chase each other in a familiar circle of self-recrimination and blame. You let no outward sign of your feelings show. You just sip your coffee and try to find Death.

You don’t want Dean telling you he doesn’t blame you, that it’s not your fault. You blame you, and it is your fault, and you’re going to fix it.

An hour later, you’re fixing a very quick lunch for everyone (and trying to stay awake) when Castiel appears.

You look up and smile. “Cass! What happened? Where were you?” You haven’t seen him since he helped nab Sam from the nursing home.

“Lucifer has Sam,” he says gravely, ignoring your question.

You wince, then nod. “Yeah, he does,” you say quietly. If anyone will be blunt wit you about your role in this situation, it’s Cass. So you keep your eyes on the sandwiches you’re making and wait for your verbal lashing.

It never comes.

“Damn,” he mutters, running a hand down his face in a gesture so shockingly human it draws a smile from you.

“Cass!” Dean comes in from the study, already scowling. “Where the fuck have you been?”

You sense the danger in the air as soon as your lover clears the doorway. You quickly step between them and shove a plate with food on it into Dean’s hands, hoping to distract him. You smile up at him sunnily. “You should eat.”

He takes it, but essentially ignores you otherwise. “Well?” he snaps. “Where the fuck were you when shit hit the fan?”

Castiel is frowning, too. “I was trying to find a way to defeat Lucifer, but as soon as I turn around, you gave him everything he needed.”

Dean practically growls at the angel, and you wince. “Nope, nope, poor choice of words, Cass,” you say softly, trying to get Dean to look at you.

He doesn’t. “Hey, fuck you, Cass,” he snarls. “You know what we could have used? A fucking angel.”

“This house was warded against me. How would you have preferred I help?”

“Well, you sure didn’t stick around, did you?”

“All right!” you shout, irritated that they’re talking around you like you’re not even there. “Everyone did their fair share of fucking up. Can we all move on now?” When neither of them say anything, you look between them, crossing your arms. “We don’t really have time for you two to whip them out and measure, so go ahead and just chalk it up to a tie, gentlemen.”

Dean’s little snort from behind you makes you relax. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls toward him to press his chest to your back. “Y/N’s right,” he snaps. “We’ve got to find a way to catch the devil.”

Castiel nods. “Have you discovered anything?”

You shake your head. “No, not yet. You?”

He shakes his head, too. “No, unfortunately.”

You take a deep breath. “Well, we’re looking for Death. Do you have any idea where he could be?”

“Of course,” Castiel says with a firm nod. “I can… Sense him.”

Dean’s arm around you tightens. “Take me to him,” he says immediately.

You frown and look behind you. “Dean, you think maybe we should have a little more of a plan besides, ‘take me to him?’”

He looks at you. “What other plan do you have in mind?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, it just feels like we’re kind of flying blind here.”

He nods and holds you closer. “We are,” he says simply. “But we ain’t got another choice. So beam me up, Scotty, get me to Death.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t think it’s that simple. Death is… Powerful. How are we going to get his ring? I do not believe killing him is a viable option.”

“Ask nicely?” you suggest. “He doesn’t like this situation any more than we do, remember. Maybe he’ll still just give it to us.”

You’re standing on a sidewalk in Florida, in front of a little taco shop where Castiel claims Death is.

Dean is frowning. “Why the hell would he be here?”

“He likes roadside food,” you say absently. “Once, to summon him in the show, you actually cook appetizers for him.”

Dean looks down at you, eyebrows raised. “Are they any good?”

“He says they’re passable.”

He scoffs. “Damn right they’re passable, they’re goddamn delicious is what they are.”

You smile and put a hand on his back, beneath his jacket, in comfort. He’s covering for how nervous he is, which is all right, because you’re doing the same thing. This is scary, this is messing with massive cosmic power. This doesn’t feel the same that sassing Gabriel did. This is…

This is real. This is showtime.

Dean heaves a sigh, then throws an arm around your shoulders so he can pull you close and press a kiss to your temple. “All right,” he says gruffly. “You stay here.”

You nod, ignoring how scared and angry being left behind makes you. The two of you discussed it, and no matter how many good points you brought up, he dug his heels in. He doesn’t want you anywhere near Death. It was a fight to even come with him this far.

“Be careful,” you say softly, looking up into his handsome face. “Try not to piss him off.”

He kisses your forehead, then leans down to kiss you thoroughly. You submit, fisting your hands in his shirt and worrying. Damn it.

He pulls away, and you sigh. “Are you sure I can’t come with you?”

“Yeah,” he says firmly. “I’m sure. I don’t want you in danger, princess.”

“Who says she would be in danger?”

The raspy, cold voice has your eyes widening as you turn to see Death standing on the other side of Dean. He stands there casually, like he isn’t a horseman of the apocalypse.

Dean whirls around, then pushes you behind him and takes a step back. You stumble a little, but you let him push you, fear making your heart pound in your chest.

“What the fuck?” Dean asks.

“Dean, that’s…”

“Death,” Death introduces himself casually. “Pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Holy shit,” you say softly. “Holy shit.”

Death gestures to the empty sidewalk. “I considered waiting for you, but I worried that you would stay out here and paw at one another some more, and I don’t particularly want to witness it. I have matters to attend to.”

“All right, so talk,” Dean snaps, clearly still unsettled.

Without thinking, you smack him lightly on the arm. “Dean, be nice.”

“To Death?!”

“Incidentally,” the horseman says dryly, “I don’t particularly want to speak with you, Mr. Winchester.” He tilts his head toward you. “I’d like to speak with you, dear.”

Your eyes widen further and you can feel your pulse in your throat. “Oh,” you say softly. You can do this, do not freak out, you tell yourself firmly. You can do this for Sam.

“Not gonna happen,” Dean snarls.

You frown. “Dean, we aren’t exactly drowning in other options. If he wants to speak with me, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.” You step around him, or try, but he grabs your arm to keep you next to him.

“God dammit, Y/N-”

“Dean!” you hiss. “Would you stop it? What else do you want me to do?”

“If I give you my word that Y/N will come to no harm, can we end this domestic dispute?”

The sarcasm in the horseman’s tone makes you flush, and you gently pull your arm out of Dean’s grasp. He lets you go, and you step toward Death. You look up at his sharp face and strive for a polite tone. “What, um, what did you want to talk to me about?”

He tilts his head, indicating that he wants you to walk with him. You go with him, because there’s nothing else you can do, and you need him. And you can’t deny the curiosity burning in your heart. Why does he want to talk to me?

As you walk, you realize that the sidewalk is remarkably empty. “Is this because of you?” you ask, gesturing to the abandoned public space.

He nods without looking at you or slowing. “I did not want any… Interruptions.”

“You… You didn’t kill them, did you? Because you could have just called.”

“No, I did not kill them. You’re not nearly that important.”

Put firmly and neatly in your place,  you resume your silence. You walk next to Death, the actual Grim Reaper, and somehow manage to enjoy the warm, salty air. We should hunt in Florida more often.

“You… Interest me.”

You think for a moment. “Well, that’s probably not good news.”

“Do not be afraid. It is simply that when one is as old as I am, things that interest one are extremely rare.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t even try. You’re way out of your depth, and you know it, so you let the silence rest.

“I think out of all of the time I’ve spent on this plane of existence, God has only meddled like this once.”

“You mean bringing me to this reality?”

“I do. I was curious to see if you were extraordinary enough to warrant such interference.”

You nod. “And? Did you find anything?”

He’s silent for a while. Then, “I do see why he brought you here. You’re… Very determined. And all of that doubt clouding your mind makes you work harder. It is a trait that will save a lot of lives.”

Your eyebrows go up. “Do you care about lives saved? I mean, I always thought you were sort of neutral.”

He gives just the barest hint of a smile “I am, indeed, ‘sort of neutral,’ about the human condition. But this prophecy is not human, it’s not natural. It is the product of a hugely overpowered being and his overpowered brats arguing with one another. It’s a waste of time, my time, and of life.”

“Which is less important than your time?”

“Naturally.”

You nod, a little horrified. But, of course, that might be because you’re human.

“I wanted to impart some wisdom unto you,” he says gravely. “Because you were pulled here from your world without your consent or knowledge, and from what I can tell, no one has bothered to lift a finger to help you. Except for your Mr. Winchester.”

Taken aback by his thoughtfulness, you fish for words for a second. “Um, thank you,” you say lamely. Smooth.

He nods. “I want you to remember that you do not have to follow the script they’ve written. You can, and should, go… Off book, so to speak.”

Somehow, for some reason, his words set your mind to racing. Suddenly you can barely keep up with your thoughts, ideas and plans and half-baked schemes racing through yur head.

You realize that the two of you have stopped. You look up at him to see him holding his hand out, fingers curled around something. You hold your own hand out beneath it, and he drops his ring into your palm. You take it, a question half-formed behind your lips.

“A backup plan, if you will.”

Dean stands where she and Death left him, irritated beyond belief. God dammit. Should have gone with her. I’m going to-

Before he can charge off after them (he stayed because he got the distinct feeling that the conversation wasn’t for him to hear), he sees her on her way back. She’s only been gone for a few minutes, but he’s almost swept away with relief. “Y/N!”

She looks up and smiles, picking up the pace a little. When she gets to him, he crushes her to him, breathing deeply into her hair, savoring the way she feels in his arms.

“Dean, you nerd, I’m fine,” she laughs into his chest, even as she cuddles closer.

He puts a hand on the back of her head and holds her close. “Good.” He loosens his arms just enough so she can lean back and look up at him. “What did he say?”

She shrugs. “Just some cryptic nonsense, mostly. He told me to write my own script.”

Dean frowns. “That’s awfully… Poetic, for Death.”

She laughs, and the sound makes his heart thud against his ribs. “Yeah, it is,” she says, still smiling. “But it did give me an idea.”

The determined light in her eyes makes him wary. But, hell, she’s smart. Smarter than him by far, maybe as smart as Sam. Maybe she can stop the apocalypse. And it figures the girl he would fall for would have a penchant for waiting until the nick of time to sweep in and save the day.

So he decides to trust her. “What’s the plan, princess?”

She grins. “You’re gonna need to make up with Cass.”

Chapter Text

You stand next to Dean in Bobby’s kitchen, biting your lip nervously. Bobby and Cass sit at Bobby’s table, absorbing the details of the plan you’ve just put forth.

Dean puts his big, warm hand on your back. You shift closer to him, grateful for the comfort he’s offering.

Death told you to go off book, and you took that and ran with it. You have no idea if the plan will work, or if you can get the materials, or if-

“It… Is very risky,” Castiel says hesitantly.

Bobby snorts “It’s a damn stupid idea, is what it is.”

You wince, then nod, accepting the censure. “Okay, back to the drawing board it is.”

“Now just hang on,” Bobby snaps. “I didn’t say it won’t work, I said it’s stupid.”

Castiel looks at you somberly. “It will put you at great risk, Y/N.”

You nod. “I know.”

Bobby cocks an eyebrow at Dean. “And you’re all right with this? I ain’t gonna have to hear you bitchin’?”

Dean shakes his head, his mouth drawn down in a tight frown. “If Y/N wants to do this, I’ve got no way to stop her.”

You smile a little. The night before, when the two of you got back from talking to Death, there was a knock-down, drag out fight, all done in fierce whispers so no one else would hear.

“God dammit, Y/N. I said no.”

“Well, okay, first of all, definitely wasn’t asking permission. Second, what’s our other plan, Dean? Toss Sam into the pit?”

“It’s too risky! Too much could go wrong! No!”

“When you have a viable option two, let me know. Until then, I think this is the only way.”

A beat of silence.

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to.”

He pulls you tight to him, so you’re crushed against his bare chest. You let him, because he needs you, and because where else have you ever wanted to be?

“What if…” he trails off, seemingly unable to finish the thought.

You press a kiss to his warm skin. “Nothing will happen to me. It’ll be fine.”

He swallows hard. “All right, princess. We’ll… We’ll do it your way.”

You nod, having known he was going to give in. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, as much as he fights it, as much as he may or may not wish it was different…

Soulmate or no, you still don’t trump Sam. No one will ever trump Sam.

You’re all right with that. It’s the way it should be, and it means that your plan has the barest chance of working.

“Well, I may need a few hours to get everything we need,” Castiel says gravely. The two of you are standing in the kitchen alone, discussing the plan.

You nod and, unable to help yourself, you reach up to straighten his mop of hair. In the show, Misha keeps his cut short and manageable. But in this reality, Cass typically can’t be bothered, so his thick black locks are falling into his eyes and brushing his collar.

“It’ll be safe, right?” you ask as you fuss at him.

He bears it with aplomb, not trying to stop or pull away from you. “It will be safe enough.” He gives you a gentle smile. “And out of the two of us, it is not my safety that I am concerned about.”

You return his smile. “I’ll be fine.”

Worry clouds his blue eyes. “Y/N, if Lucifer-”

“Stop, Cass” you say gently, still smiling up at him. “I’ve already heard every possible ‘what if’ scenario from Dean.”

The angel frowns. “I thought that Dean agreed to this plan.”

“After several hours of arguing about it, yes, yes he did.”

Cass looks awkward, so you let him work out the words in his head. It’s very human of him, and he’s getting better at it, so you let him think.

“Y/N, if Dean has concerns, maybe we-”

“Cass, this is our best shot and you know it,” you say seriously. “It’s risky, but mostly just to me. I’m…” You take a deep breath. “I’m an acceptable risk.”

He’s frowning outright now. “The Winchesters… And yourself… Have led me to understand that there is no such thing as an ‘acceptable risk.’”

You smile again. “Well, there is now. This is humanity we’re talking about. Millions of lives. So, yeah, that makes me an acceptable risk… And an acceptable loss.”

You see the heartbreak in his eyes before they flick up above your head and widen.

You sense him before he speaks.

“Excuse me?”

Dean’s low voice, angry and dangerous behind you. You close your eyes and wince. Dammit.

You turn and put your hands up in surrender. “Dean, I just meant-”

“You meant what, Y/N?” he snaps. “You meant you're gonna go out there and… What? What did you mean?”

He’s shouting now, stepping closer, getting in your face. You’re not scared of him, so you stand your ground, but the ragged pain in his voice makes your heart beat hard. So you keep your chin up and meet him head on.

“I’m going to go out there and do what has to be done,” you say simply, without heat. He’s running hot enough for both of you, this situation doesn’t need any more anger.

“And what if it gets dangerous?” he snarls. “What if it comes between your life and this fucking plan?”

“Then I’ll die.”

The words seem to deflate him somehow. His shoulders sag, and he seems smaller. The fury drains from his eyes, leaving only sadness and fear.

You step forward without thinking and raise your hand to cup his face. You run your thumbs along his cheekbone, trying to smooth the pain away. “Hey, I’m going to be fine,” you whisper. “It’s all going to be okay.”

“What if it isn’t?” he asks brokenly.

You don’t have an answer for him, so you lean up to kiss him instead. His lips don’t move against yours at first, and you almost pull away.

Before you can, his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, he tilts his mouth against yours, and he starts kissing you fiercely. You react enthusiastically, your hips curling into him and the hand not on his face coming up to fist in his shirt, to keep him close to you.

His own hand fists in your hair, and the little pain makes you whimper into his mouth. He pulls away, still breathing hard, and his hand leaves your hair so he can palm your ass. On instinct, already knowing what he wants, you lift your legs and wrap them around his waist as he lifts you. The feeling of his hard length pressed against you has you moaning into his mouth again while he walks the two of you out of the kitchen.

Luckily, Bobby is nowhere to be seen. You assume that Cass dipped sometime after Dean came into the kitchen, but you don’t particularly care. Your brain power has been consumed by kissing along Dean’s stubbly jaw, down to his neck, where you sink your teeth into his skin to mark him. Mine.

He shudders, and you smile a little. The power you have over him in moments like this, in intimate moments, always takes you by surprise. It’s lovely, and amazing, and it never fails to make you heady and smug. God, I love you.

He gets you to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He turns to press you against it, so he can take a hand off of you to lock the door. You take the opportunity to unwind from him and put your feet on the floor. He’s back to kissing you desperately, and you kiss him back just the same. You shove his flannel off of his shoulders, and he takes his hands off of you just long enough to let you before he’s all over you again.

You take the hem of his shirt into your hands, but he swats them away before you can pull it off. You look  up at him, confused, and he takes your face into his hands gently. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then each of your closed eyelids, then your cheekbones, the tip of your nose, then finally captures your mouth.

It makes you feel special, sheltered, loved. Dean Winchester loves you, like only Dean Winchester can love someone. It rocks you to your core, it hits home more than it ever has before. He loves you, and he’s terrified about tomorrow.

So you kiss him back, your hands on his waist, letting him take the lead. He takes the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms and arch your back to let him strip it off. He makes quick work of your bra, slipping it down your arms, his fingers skimming your skin reverently. You shiver at the feeling.

Once your clothes are gone, he runs his palms up your stomach, pulling another shudder from you and a gasp from your lips, and then cups your breasts. He’s pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder, pinning you against the door with his weight, gently plucking and pulling at your nipples. Your back arches again, and you whimper low in your throat. “Oh, fuck, Dean.”

“Shh,” he whispers against you, “I know, princess, I know.”

He keeps up his gentle treatment until you’re softly begging and moaning, rolling your hips against him, your nails digging into his waist through his shirt. “Dean, please, please, Dean, I need you, please-”

As you plead, he kisses you again, and his hands leave your breasts to move down to your jeans. He pops the button and slowly slides the zipper down, letting you feel each movement, every little motion. Your breathing is rough and desperate, and you can’t help the way your hips tilt toward him needily as he kneels to slide your jeans down your legs.

He kisses from knee to inner thigh, his stubble scraping against your skin, sending awareness up and down your body. He gently nudges your legs apart, then uses his hand behind one knee to drape one of them over his shoulder, opening you up to him.

“Don’t fall, sweetheart,” He whispers into your inner thigh before turning and taking you into his mouth.

You gasp and arch, your fingers burrowing into his hair to pull him close. His tongue opens you slowly, dancing across your entrance before moving up to toy with your clit. You're moaning uncontrollably as heat and pleasure races through your veins. You know your fingers are too tight in his hair, and that you’re being too loud, but heaven help you the man is an artist with his mouth, and you thrust against his face helplessly.

Faster than you can keep up, your orgasm tears through you. You just hold onto him and cry out, unsurprised when your legs try to buckle, grateful for the way he braces you and holds you up.

He gently licks you through your orgasm, soothing you until you’re basically just a puddle being held up against the door, shuddering uncontrollably. He puts your leg back down from his shoulder, then keeps his hands firmly on your hips as he kisses his way back up to your mouth. You kiss him back desperately, craving every part of him even still. You always want Dean, any way you can get him, as often as you get him.

“Legs around me, princess,” he whispers, lifting you so you can obey bonelessly. You bury your face in his neck and just hang on as he carries you to the bed, then whimper in protest when he lays you down.

He smirks and stands to rid himself of his clothes. You watch happily, humming appreciatively as he bears that really, truly, beautiful gift of a body. He smirks again, keeping eye contact with you as he shows off just a little, making you smile back.

When he’s finally naked, you lift your arms. “Come here, you.”

He falls onto you, and his weight on top of you brings back your sense of urgency. You wrap your legs around him and kiss him hard, gratified when he seems to feel the same need to connect, the same desperation to be part of one another.

He thrusts into you hard, making you gasp and arch your back. “Dean,” you moan into his mouth, writhing beneath him. “Oh, fuck, Dean.”

He doesn’t speak, just captures your mouth in another fierce kiss and starts moving in and out of you with a purpose, driving you mad and sending sparks shooting through your body. Your nails dig into his biceps, your legs quiver and twitch around him as his hard thrusts send you hurtling to the edge again.

“Dean, I’m going to-”

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he growls into your ear. “Not yet, you come with me, you can do that, come with me, princess.”

You moan and drop your head back, shuddering and desperately trying to stave off your orgasm. His movements are becoming rough and harder, and you meet him thrust for thrust, humping him back like a woman possessed as you shudder beneath him.

“Now,” he snarls in a wrecked voice. “Come for me now, now.”

You turn your head and kiss him so you can cry out into his mouth as you come again. Your whole world goes blank and white and quiet as he fucks you through your orgasm, drawing out the intensity and the pleasure until you're completely breathless.

He stiffens and shivers above you, thrusting into you one more time, hard. You wrap your arms around his neck and run your fingers through his hair, whispering soothing nonsense to him as you feel him start to come down. Your inner muscles are fluttering and clenching around him still, making both of you moan.

He keeps his face buried in your neck for a long time, so you keep up your calming, loving words, wishing that sex would fix everything. Wishing that you could stay in this bed with him forever. Wishing that you could ignore what’s going to happen in several hours and just stay in his strong arms.

He finally helps you up, the two of you clean up and get dressed, then get back into bed. He holds you tight and you let him, your face pressed into his chest, breathing him in, willing the contact to calm you of your fears.

And there, in bed with the man you love, you’re able to admit that Dean isn’t the only one who’s scared of tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Winch is lying on the floor, looking up at his MAN and his WOMAN. He is suppressing the need to whimper in the back of his throat because he does not want to wake them up, but he wants very much to tuck his tail between his legs and whimper in fear.

A battle is coming, and his WOMAN intends to fight in it. Winch can smell the determination on her, and he is proud of her courage. But he can also smell coppery fear beneath it, and he is afraid for her. Winch loves his WOMAN, and Winch knows that battle is dangerous, and he is afraid.

He can also smell fear coming off of his MAN. It is desperate and all-consuming and the main reason Winch wants to whine. The MAN is brave and a warrior, and if he is frightened, Winch is frightened, too.

And over and under everything, the warm, spicy scent of love comes from both of them. That is the scent that allows Winch to keep quiet, for he loves them both, and they love each other, and that is the way it should be. Winch knew just a few days after meeting the MAN that he would love the WOMAN like Winch does.

So Winch lies on the floor, wishing he could whimper, refusing to let himself, and waits for his humans to wake so he can reassure them with kisses and tail wags that everything will be all right.

You wake up with your face still pressed into Dean’s neck. You stay there, breathing in his warmth and his musk and his love, not moving an inch. I guess we didn’t move at all last night.

Fear is making your heart beat faster, but there’s also determination and resolve. This is the plan, and you’re really, really starting to think that it will work. I can do this. Maybe you’ll die in the process, maybe they’ll tear you apart atom by atom and scatter you across the universe, but by God, your plan might actually work.

But for now, you’re cuddled up to Dean, his thick arm around your waist and keeping you close to him, so you burrow into him a little more and let yourself stay there for a few extra minutes.

You’re about to save the world. You deserve it.

You pull up to the graveyard where the showdown takes place. Dean is quiet in the driver’s seat, but he has a death grip on your hand, and you hold him just as hard. You’re scared, too.

Cass and Bobby are in back. Castiel, always without any tact whatsoever, questioned the wisdom of bringing a man who needs a wheelchair along. Bobby fixed him with a steely glare and said that if one of the team was going to the front lines, he was going to be there for it. You couldn’t help yourself, you flung your arms around Bobby and kissed his cheek, overwhelmed because he called you one of the team.

The three of them looked at you like you’re crazy, which is fair, so you let it slide.

When you pull into the driveway of the graveyard, you hiss. “Shit.” The archangels are already there, although it looks like no fighting has commenced.

Dean turns to you, cups the back of your head and brings you to him to kiss you hard, once, briefly. You kiss him back, letting your eyes fall closed, then lean back and smile. “Wish me luck.”

He gives you a smile that somehow manages to be both cocky and desperate at the same time. “You don’t need luck, princess.”

You smile back and nod. “Okay.” You take a deep breath when Castiel’s hand lands on your shoulder. “I love you,” you whisper to Dean, and then you’re standing behind a huge headstone with Castiel.

You look up. “Ready for this?”

He nods, and to your surprise, he reaches out and hugs you hard. You hug him back, burying your face in his cold neck. “Lie to me, Cass, tell me it’ll be all right.”

“It will be all right, Y/N,” his gravelly voice rumbles in your ear.

You almost believe him.

“We're going to kill each other. And for what? One of Dad's tests. And we don't even know the answer. We're brothers. Let's just walk off the chessboard.”

You wait until Michael has answered before you reveal yourself.

“I'm sorry. I, I can't do that. I'm a good son, and I have my orders.”

“But you can do that,” you say firmly, stepping out from behind the foliage you were hiding behind.

They both whirl, and Lucifer actually snarls when he sees you. “You little bitch-”

You ignore him. You know which one of them holds your best shot at ending this peacefully, and it’s not the one wearing Sam. You look at Michael. “You can just walk away. You have that power.”

He shakes his head. He’s wearing Adam’s face, which makes your heart hurt. Poor Adam. “I cannot. I have a duty to the prophecy, to what my father wanted-”

“You think he wants you to nuke half of the planet?” you ask softly. “That can’t be right. You were told to love humanity above all others, above him. Why would he want this for them?”

“Stay out of this, you little skank-”

Again, you both ignore Lucifer. Michael is looking at you, and the look in his eyes is giving you a flicker of hope in your belly. This might actually work. “It doesn’t matter,” he says softly. “This is what he told me to do. We don’t… I don’t have free will. I have to follow orders.”

You shake your head and take a step closer to him, just in case you can’t just talk him out of it. Come on, Cass. “You don’t, though. I mean, why else would he bring me here? Was I in your prophecy?”

He frowns a little. “No, you were not.”

You nod encouragingly. “Right. So why would he bring me here, if not to derail this fight? If it wasn’t to avoid armageddon, then why else would he do this? He interfered more by bringing me here than he has in millenia. What do you think that means, Michael?”

Before he responds, he lunges forward at you. Your heart races, and you squeak in fear, but his iron arms just wrap around you and he spins you away from Lucifer, who was apparently sneaking up on you.

The devil is snarling. “Get out of here, you little bitch.”

You stare back at him, trying to look unafraid. “What’s wrong, Luci? I thought you didn’t want to fight. I thought you wanted to come here to convince your brother not to do this. So why so upset? Could it be… I mean, surely you don’t actually want to fight?” you ask sweetly, putting a whole lot of faith in the hope that Michael will protect you again if Lucifer tries to kill you.

Lucifer has schooled his features into a cold mask again. “This isn’t a matter that concerns you, Y/N. You could get… Hurt.”

You feel your lips stretch into a smile. “For someone who isn’t even worth killing, you seem awfully worried about me being here, Lucifer.”

“He is right,” Michael says gravely behind you, and you wince a little. Fuck. “You should not be here. You were important enough for our Father to bring you here, so I will send you somewhere safe.”

Oh, well. “You really won’t,” you say casually.

Lucifer frowns, then his (Sam’s) face slackens in shock. “What? No-”

You hear a whoosh of flame, and the ring of holy oil around you and the two archangels catches fire, effectively trapping the three of you. Or, more accurately, effectively trapping you with two of the most powerful beings in the universe, who are probably low-key really pissed off at you now.

Dean and Bobby come to stand just outside the circle, and you meet Dean’s eyes. He wanted to come in with you, he didn’t want to leave you alone in the circle with the archangels, but you argued with him until he relented. There’s no use in you both being in danger is what you told him, but in reality, you’re not sure you could do your part of the plan if you thought he was in danger.

His whole, let me do this I’m a martyr only I can make the decision thing makes a lot more sense now, you think ruefully as Castiel joins Dean and Bobby.

“Castiel,” Lucifer snarls. “You’re siding with the humans.”

You’re proud of how tall Castiel stands, his chin tilted up at a stubborn angle. “I will always side with the humans, brother.”

“Release us at once,” Michael intones behind you. His arm around you has become like a vice, and he holds you too tightly against his body. You don’t struggle, you just breathe as deeply as you can. “And I might not harm Y/N.”

Dean’s eyes darken in anger. “You’re not going to touch a goddamn hair on her head.”

The coldness in Michael’s voice scares you. “We’ll see.”

“Well, this is fun,” Bobby says dryly, “but we have a ritual to perform.”

Castiel nods. Without looking at you, he pulls out a small bag of what appears to be sand, and begins scattering it around the circle, outside of the holy fire.

“What are you doing?” Lucifer asks. There’s no fear or nervousness in his voice, but you can see it in his eyes.

“Sending your ass back to hell,” Dean snaps, shifting from foot to foot restlessly.

“You cannot,” Michael says simply from behind you. You realize he’s squeezing you tighter, and breathing has become an issue.

“Why?” Dean snaps. “Because you ‘have to fight your brother?’ What a load of shit.”

“I do have to fight my brother, you’re correct about that,” the archangel says simply. “But you cannot do this because I will snap your mate in half.”

You try to gasp, but you can’t draw any breath in, so you just hang there. You realize he’s lifted you off of your feet and is holding you up, basically dangling you for the three men outside the circle to see. You meet Dean’s eyes and try to reassure him with your gaze, but you can’t be sure that you’re even really looking at him, because big white spots are dancing in your vision.

Pretty, you think vaguely.

You hear Castiel speak. “You won’t.”

“And why is that?” Lucifer asks. The bastard sounds amused by the whole situation.

“Because our Father brought her here,” Castiel says gravely, and you feel Michael pause in his mission to squish you into Jell-O. Thank God.

“Our Father?” Lucifer barks out a laugh. “Why would we care that our Father brought her here?”

And here it is. The defining moment. Because Lucifer doesn’t care what God wants him to do, or he only cares enough to find out so he can do the exact opposite. Lucifer is fire and passion and a deep, burning rage.

Michael, however, is purpose.

Michael was given an order. To protect humanity. And, like it or not, you’re a piece of humanity that he’s holding in his hands. A piece important enough to bring to this reality, to bring here to this showdown. A piece important enough that, maybe, killing it isn’t really an option, unless he wants to get smote.

His hold loosens on you, and you fight with yourself not to start gasping for the newly available air. You order your lungs to be happy with what they’re getting now so you can focus on what’s happening around you.

“What is the ritual you intend to perform?” the archangel holding you asks.

Your vision clears enough that you can meet Dean’s desperate, scared, furious gaze again. You try to soften your face and give him just a hint of a smile. Some of the tenseness in him melts away, making you feel twenty pounds lighter.

No one answers the archangel’s question as Bobby starts to chant. “Lucifer eieci te ad te custodiam.”

Hearing his name, Lucifer tenses. “What is this?!”

Everyone ignores him, and Bobby continues. “Lucifer, ad quas eieci te malitia tua carcerem. Lucifer, ad quas eieci te mala tua carcerem.”

Lucifer turns to glare at you. “You did this.”

He lunges for you, but before you can even tense, you’re behind Michael, who is standing tall and staring his brother down. “You will not touch her,” he says dangerously. “Father wanted her here. She shall come to no harm.”

“Lucifer iubeo te redire carcere relinqueret regnum, et habitabunt in te quae non relinquere.”

Something in Michael’s voice sends chills down your spine. Despite his words, you’re forcefully reminded that you’re defying him by being here, fucking with his plan, and he’s not happy about it. Protecting you or no, you start to back away, hoping to step out of the circle before he notices.

Lucifer is starting to shake, his eyes glowing, his face becoming more enraged by the second. “This isn’t the end of this,” he says quietly, “I’ll be back.” He looks around Michael to meet your eyes. “I’ll be back for you, little girl.”

Bobby finishes the incantation. “Sit vas mundari super parare. Eieci te eieci te eieci te de inferno Lucifer!”

The archangel tosses his head back and screams. Light bursts forth, and you’re forced to turn away as Lucifer is finally expelled from Sam. Your eardrums throb and your eyes ache, even though they’re closed, as the devil is banished back to his cage.

Before you open them, you take a moment to let victory wash through you. We did it. You’re a little light-headed. You can’t believe it. Team Free Will did it.

“Y/N!”

Dean’s desperate cry has your eyes snapping open. He looks horror-stricken, as do Bobby and Castiel, and for a second, you can’t figure it out. You look over and see Sam’s prone body, but his chest is moving, so he’s fine. What’s wrong with them?

Then it hits you.

You look up to Michael, feeling the blood drain from your face as he stares down at you coldly. “I believe you and I should… Talk,” he says ominously.

You couldn’t have seen it coming. There’s no way you could have known. So you look at Dean. “This isn’t your fault,” you say loudly. “We couldn’t have-”

Before you can finish, Michael’s hand is on your arm, and the world dips away from you.

Dispelling Lucifer, and the resulting shockwave, put out the holy fire. Michael is free.

And from the way his hard grip immediately makes your arm go numb, he is pissed.

“No!”

Dean can’t tell who shouted as he runs toward the spot she and Michael were just standing in. Surely there’s something to tell him where she is, how to save her, how to get her back.

“No!”

She did it, he’s in awe of her. The plan worked, she distracted them long enough, got them talking long enough for everything to work. She did it, and now she should be here, celebrating with him, her arms wrapped around his neck and pressing her pretty mouth to his.

Should have saved her should have saved her should have saved her should have saved her…

The thought repeats in his head like a drumbeat as he searches. There’s nothing here but an empty graveyard.

“D… Dean?”

Sam’s voice makes Dean turn slowly toward his brother. Sam is sitting up, wide-eyed staring at him. “Dean, did Michael-”

“He took her,” Dean says roughly, finally admitting it to himself. “We fucked up, and we took her.”

“Dean, we will find her.”

Dean looks up to see Castiel looking at him. His face is set in determination, and Dean somehow finds comfort in that. He has no anger toward the angel, Cass did everything right. There was no way they could have known the blowout would have put the holy fire down. Cass said the ritual was old, older almost than the written word, and had never really been used before. They were taking a shot, and it sort of worked.

Except that now she’s gone.

“How?” he asks brokenly, ignoring his brother as Sam gets to his feet.

Castiel’s determination doesn’t falter. “I don’t know. But we will find her, and we will bring her back.”

“Damn right,” Bobby says as he rolls toward them. The older man’s voice is shaky, and Dean knows he’s just as upset as Dean himself is.

Sam nods. “Yeah, we’ll find her, Dean.”

And suddenly, Dean can’t look at Sam anymore. He turns to do it anyway, because his brother needs to hear this. Someone else should be in just as much pain as Dean himself is.

“This is your fault,” he says in a low voice, advancing on Sam slowly. Bobby and Castiel stand aside, and Dean is glad. Sam put his woman in danger, and Sam needs to understand. “If you weren’t so goddamn stupid, so goddamn stubborn, she’d be here with us. We could have found a different way. Instead, she’s fuck knows where, probably being tortured, maybe being…” Dean can’t say it.

He stands nose to nose with his brother, tilting his head up just a little to adjust for the height difference. Sam looks miserable, and Dean is glad again. “I know,” Sam says softly. “I know, I’m sorry. We’ll find her.”

Dean can’t hold it back anymore. He rears back and punches Sam in the face as hard as he physically can. His little brother goes down like a sack of potatoes.

“Fuck you, Sam.”

Chapter Text

Winch lies in front of the sofa, waiting for his MAN to wake up. The MAN often falls asleep on the sofa now, Winch cannot remember the last time they went to bed in the room with the bed. They sometimes go in so that the MAN can change his clothes, but they mostly avoid it.

Winch thinks it’s because it still smells like the WOMAN.

The thought of the WOMAN makes Winch whine low in his throat, unable to stop it. The MAN, without waking up, puts a hand on Winch’s head. Winch feels a tiny bit better.

Winch doesn’t track time like his MAN does, but he tracks it the way dogs track time. The trees have begun to smell like decay, and the wind at night has a bite to it. Winch does not know how the MAN would describe the time their WOMAN has been gone, but the seasons have changed since he saw her.

Winch whines again, for two reasons. He misses his WOMAN very much, he thinks about her every day. The second reason is because when he whines, his MAN will rub his ears, which he does. Winch rumbles deep in his chest, satisfied.

So he waits for his MAN to wake up. Or the sitting MAN will wake, or the tall MAN, or the winged MAN will appear. Winch likes all of these men, but he loves his MAN, and he misses his WOMAN very much.

Dean sits at the kitchen table, Winch’s head on his knee while he eats breakfast and looks at weather reports. The coffee is bitter and the toast is burnt, but Dean has gotten used to it. Dean’s gotten used to a lot of things since the showdown in Kansas, two months, three weeks, three days, and eighteen hours ago.

When Bobby rolls in, Dean grunts a greeting, but doesn’t look up from his reports when his father figure speaks. “Find anything?”

“Not yet.”

Bobby nods and rolls up to the table, takes a stack of weather reports, and starts to comb through for omens and signs. Dean continues searching on his own, idly scratching behind the big dog’s ears as he does so.

Every morning starts like this without her. There’s no warm bed that smells like her to wake up in, no her to bother and try to distract while she makes breakfast, no her to sit and laugh next to while they eat. Each morning is silent and tense now, and food is just whatever gets shoved into mouths to make sure nobody drops during the day.

Dean didn’t even realize how much he’d begun to enjoy mornings until he wasn’t having them with her anymore.

When Sam comes in, Dean doesn’t acknowledge him in the least.

“Morning.”

“Mornin’,” Bobby replies.

Dean just splits his pile of reports in half, drops the half he’s not using in front of the chair across from him, and keeps working. He doesn’t look up for anything, just reviews the reports, trying to find her, always looking for her.

He has everyone he knows looking for her. At first, it was just the people he trusts. Ellen, Jo, and Ash, really. Ash, grateful for Y/N saving his family, has been a huge help, and Ellen reports that he quite literally works until he passes out at his computer, sleeps for a few hours, then wakes up and starts right back at it. Dean is endlessly grateful.

But it wasn’t enough, so Dean made the executive decision that the search would not be a discrete one.

Now, several weeks after he stopped trying to be on the down low, the entirety of the supernatural world knows that Dean Winchester is looking for his soulmate. He’s torn through monster after monster after monster, and the word has spread rapidly.

A few creatures have been stupid enough to come to him with fake leads, a couple of them sending Dean directly into traps. He killed those creatures violently and painfully, and the fake leads quickly dried up. He has no time for bullshit vendettas or opportunistic fucks. He has a mission.

Sam’s guilty, fidgeting presence is building in the room. Dean keeps a hand on Winch’s head and keeps his eyes on the information in front of him, but he can see the kicked puppy looks Sam is shooting him out of the corner of his eye. It’s infuriating.

Dean hasn’t laid hands on Sam since the showdown, but God help him if he hasn’t wanted to. He doesn’t, not because Sam doesn’t deserve it, because Dean is of the opinion that his little brother absolutely deserves it. But when Y/N gets back (when, not if, God dammit, when she gets back), she will be pretty angry at him for kicking the shit out of Sam.

So when it gets to be too much, the sullen, tortured way Sam is behaving, Dean just quietly stands, takes his dishes to the sink, then takes his reports and walks out of the kitchen and into the living room.

He sits on the couch heavily, the only way he lets his weariness and fear show. Then he pulls his reports into his lap and starts again to read through them.

Winch jumps up on the couch next to him, and Dean doesn’t even think about it when he moves the paperwork so the big dog’s head can rest on his leg. Winch has been following Dean around since Y/N was taken, and it’s kind of nice. Almost like having her around again.

Almost.

Sam watches his brother leave the kitchen, and he can’t help the sigh that comes out of him.

Dammit.

The guilt is killing Sam. It makes it hard for him to breathe, to function, to get out of bed in the morning. Dean barely looks at him, Bobby has been terse with him, and Castiel has taken to completely ignoring him since the showdown. Sam didn’t even know the angel had an opinion of him, much less that it could have been damaged by his actions.

Sam wants to stand by his decisions, he really does. He really thought he was doing the right thing, letting Lucifer in. He intended to go into the pit with Lucifer, to save his brother, his brother’s woman, and the world.

But it all crumbled in his hands, because he underestimated Y/N.

He underestimated how determined she was to save him. He underestimated how smart she is, how capable. He underestimated how much he and Dean both mean to her. He just… Underestimated her.

And now she’s paid the price, and they have no idea how to find her, or where to go.

He does the work Dean gives him, and accepts his brother’s one word answers to any questions he has as his due. He’s been looking through reports, following up on leads, questioning humans and creatures alike, desperately trying to make up for his mistake.

If they can find her, maybe Dean will look him in the eye again.

Dean watches Castiel circle the man tied to a chair in Bobby’s panic room. There are warded cuffs around his ankles and wrists, and blood is caked on his face.

There is also blood on Castiel’s knuckles, and Dean couldn’t be more grateful.

“I will tear heaven apart, brick by brick, until I find Y/N,” Castiel growls. “I will become the agent of the fire and brimstone we are so fond of, and I will rain it down on heaven. I will torture every last one of you until I find her.” He stares the other angel down, and Dean feels a fierce satisfaction when the smirk slips off of the bound man’s face. “Look at me carefully, brother. Because I am not bluffing or posturing. Look into my eyes and tell me if I’m lying.”

Dean has lost count of how many celestial beings they’ve kidnapped and interrogated to find her. Castiel is like a man driven, showing a fervor to find her that Dean didn’t expect. They’ve been working around the clock, looking for her, where she’s been, where Michael took her.

They’ve gotten exactly nowhere. They haven’t gotten any of the angels to talk, and Castiel won’t kill any of them. Dean doesn’t know how he feels about that, but he knows how Y/N will feel about it, so he doesn’t argue.

“I can’t, Castiel,” the angel spits. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t. Why would you do this? Why would you choose a snivelling human girl over us? Do you understand the line in the sand that you’re drawing with your actions?”

Dean watches carefully as his friend’s face hardens. Dean is well aware of the line that Castiel is drawing, the side he’s choosing. He just doesn’t know if Cass himself is aware.

“I understand enough,” Castiel says in a deceptively calm voice. “I understand that Michael has taken an innocent woman, who has a strong case for being one of our Father’s favorites, and not one of you has batted an eye. None of you will even tell me if she’s alive, much less what he’s doing to her.”

Dean winces, then pushes Cass’s words out of his head. Of course she’s alive, she’s fine.

The bound angel’s eyes flick over to Dean, and he must have seen the grimace, because his own features soften just a little. “She’s alive,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “I will tell you that, nothing else. But I know that she is alive.”

The rush of relief that washes through Dean almost knocks him off of his feet. But, information or no, this angel is still the enemy, so Dean stays standing.

He just didn’t realize how much of him was certain that she was dead.

Of course, her being alive has it’s own set of fears. Like, where is she? What are they doing to her? Is she still… Her?

Castiel is undoing the cuffs, gratitude clearly written all over his face. When the prisoner is free, they both stand.

“Thank you,” Cass says sincerely.

The other angel nods once, sharply, then poofs away.

Cass turns to Dean. “She’s alive, Dean. We will find her.”

Dean nods, barely able to speak. When, not if. When, not if. When, not if.

The news that she’s alive lights another fire under everyone’s ass. Hunters who are helping check in with Dean daily. Most get nowhere, but Jo is in Colorado following an angel who might have information, and Ash says he’s close to hacking angel radio. “So nice to have a practical application for string theory,” he says. It’s gibberish to Dean, but Castiel nods wisely.

Now, he’s just hung up with William, Bobby’s friend (who is angry at all of them for letting Y/N get kidnapped), when Sam walks into the kitchen.

Dean continues to ignore him. His anger toward his brother has not cooled in the slightest. It’s strange territory for Dean, not talking to Sam. He can’t recall a time when he was this upset with his brother, and not having him to talk things out with is very strange.

“Dean, have you talked to Jo?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so you know she’s in Colorado?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

The silence draws out for a while, a silence that Dean has been getting used to, before Sam speaks again.

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

Dean closes his eyes against the rage those words send through him. “Yeah.”

“Look, man, I know you’re mad, I know you’re all mad, and I get it, I do. And I’m not… I’m not trying to take that away. But if we’re going to find YN, we need to all work together. Which means you’ll probably need to start actually looking at me.”

Dean keeps his eyes closed and listens to her voice in his head.

He’s right, you know. The two of you have always been stronger as a team.

I can barely be in a room with him without wanting to deck him, princess.

Well, then, either get over that or hit him. Just get to a place where you can work with him.

Dean knows she’d never tell him to hit Sam in reality, but the advice works for him.

He spins and punches Sam in the jaw, hard. Once again, his little brother goes down. Dean barely feels better, but at least he can look at Sam.

“Fine,” he spits out. “We can work together to find Y/N. But don’t think this isn’t your fault, and don’t think I’m not pissed. Got it?”

Sam’s hand is on his face, but his eyes are soft with grief and guilt. “Got it.”

Dean nods. “Good. Let’s get to work.” He doesn’t help Sam to his feet.

“You will not touch her. Father wanted her here. She shall come to no harm.”

Dean is barely listening to Michael, because Y/N is backing away, toward the edge of the circle. He likes himself up with her and extends his hand, keeping an eye on the archangels to make sure they don’t notice.

“Lucifer iubeo te redire carcere relinqueret regnum, et habitabunt in te quae non relinquere.”

Bobby is completing the ritual. Dean feels energy crackle in the air. Before he can even really consider it, he leaps forward, snags her by the hand, and drags her out of the circle. She lands safely in his arms, breathing hard.

She looks up at him, pretty eyes wide and surprised. Her lips start to curve. “You saved me.”

Be grins down at her. “I’ll always save you, princess.”

Dean wakes up in a cold sweat, desperate yearning making his chest ache. Dammit.

Every night, he saves her. Every night, he’s smarter or faster or stronger, and he saves her.

And it’s just real enough that he turns over and closes his eyes again, because being with her for those scant moments is enough to get him through next day.

Even if it’s just in his head.

Three weeks later, they’re working in Bobby’s living room when Castiel appears.

Dean doesn’t react. Cass has been appearing and disappearing for weeks. It doesn’t surprise him anymore.

The sound of a second pair of wings, however, has his head snapping up.

A short, very pretty woman stands there. She has thick, dark hair, plaited in a braid that’s draped over her shoulder. She has striking green eyes, reminding Dean of his own. She’s wearing a sharp suit, she’s relaxed, and she’s staring right at him.

Her mouth tilts up in a smirk. “Dean Winchester. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off of her, but ignores her statement. “Cass, what the fuck is going on?”

She’s not ignoring him, though. “Dean, my name is Sarah. I’m an angel, I fought with Castiel before he moved up in the ranks.”

Sam’s arms are crossed. “Good for you. What do you want?”

Her eyes never leave Dean’s. “I know Y/N. I’m here to help you rescue her.”

Chapter Text

You’re sitting in a booth in a cheap diner, palms clammy, and you think your face is actually numb with shock and fear. “What?”

Dean is sitting across from you, and for the first time since you met him, his face gives you no clues as to what he’s thinking. He just sighs and looks at you frankly.

“Look, Y/N, you’re a great girl, and we’ve had some good times. But I think we both knew this was coming.”

Dread is building in your heart as you nod slowly. You did know this was coming, some part of you has always known he would never stay.

He smiles tightly. “I mean, I don’t want to be a dick, but look at us. Someone who looks like me and someone who looks like you couldn’t ever make it work.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath as pain lances through your heart. “Okay,” you say softly, “Please stop. I get it. I’ll, uh, I’ll get my things and figure out somewhere else to go.” Your voice cracks on the last word, and you curse yourself.

To your dismay, he rolls his eyes. “Jesus, see, I knew you would do this. You’re always crying, or getting insecure, or whining.” His stormy green eyes meet yours. “I used to be all right with it, but it’s getting real old, Y/N.”

You feel sick, and it’s hard to breathe around the pain in your belly. Here he is, with his beautiful face and his perfect body and his righteous heart, and he’s saying all of the things you’ve been dreading. Of course he’s tired of me, I’m a wreck. It’s such a pain in the ass to be around me, much less with me. I should just be grateful he stayed as long as he did.

“I understand,” you say softly. “I do. I’ll just… I’ll just go.

You wake up, tears gathered in your eyes, but not falling. You’ve had too many nightmares, and too many variations of that nightmare in particular, to let them fall.

You’re in bed, which means that Sarah has been here since you passed out. You sit up, take a deep breath, and use the corner of the blanket to dry your eyes. It was just a dream, you tell yourself listlessly. A huge part of you remains unconvinced, but you’re just a shade past being able to argue with yourself about it at this point.

It was just a dream.

Yeah, okay.

When you come out of the bathroom that’s attached to your cell after freshening up, a plain white mug appears in your hand. The smell of strong coffee, made the way you like it, wafts up to your nose. You ignore the aroma and take a sip, moving over to the huge canvas that sits in the corner.

The base coat is already on and dry. Paint dries, quite literally, perfectly in heaven, so now it’s just a case of pouring out your soul onto the canvas.

You put the coffee on the ground, out of the way, and pick up the old-fashioned palette and high-quality brush. You just look at it all for a moment, seeing what you want to create in your mind.

Then you get to work.

You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been here. There’s no way to tell how much time has passed. You could ask Sarah, but it doesn’t really matter, and you’re legitimately scared of her answer. She hasn’t really gotten the hang of sugar coating or cushioning the blow of something yet.

You haven’t actually seen Michael since that graveyard in Kansas. He grabbed your arm, beamed you here, and hasn’t been back since.

The first couple of hours were bad, because you were alone and paralyzed in fear. After that, realizing he wasn’t going to hurt you, it got a little better.

Your prison is nice, as far as prisons go. It’s fairly roomy, with a bed and a little table in it, and that connected bathroom to boot. The air isn’t warm or cold, it just kind of is. It looks a lot like a little studio apartment, except for one wall being bars instead of a wall.

Any food or drink you want, or even just think of, appears on the table, then vanishes when you’re done with it. There doesn’t seem to be a limit on this phenomenon. From birthday cake to apples, water to whiskey, you’ve summoned it all. It was able to entertain you for a little while, anyway.

The first interesting that happened was the appearance of Sarah, a few hours after the whole “magic food” thing lost its sparkle.

She just kind of appeared in your cell, and when you made a rather embarrassing sound (a squawk, it was a squawk), she dryly informed you that she was here to guard you. To thwart any attempts to break you out.

You don’t know what you expected. Maybe Dean to come bursting through the door at any second, guns blazing to save you? Maybe Cass? Sam? Bobby? Anyone?

But for some reason, the fact that there’s now an angel guarding you sent you into a deep panic, which sent you into something resembling catatonia…

Even if he wants to come for you, you think wearily, he can’t. They’re never going to let me go. I’m going to die here. This is my punishment for defying the Word. Oh, fuck, they’re never going to let me go.

You’ve been sitting there for what seems like a small eternity. This is too much. First there was fear, then there was elation, now there’s just… Nothingness, which somehow manages to be too much.

You’re weighing the options of freaking out or just lying down to die when a cold, soft hand touches your face gently. “Y/N? Are you unwell?”

You blink, then fight your way back to reality. The angel seems worried, and you’re compelled to reassure her. When you’re able to focus again, you see that she’s crouched in front of you where you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, her green eyes (which painfully remind you of another set of green eyes) concerned. “Y/N?”

You dredge up a smile from somewhere deep in you. It’s not big, or sincere, but it’s a smile, and you’re relieved to see her relax just a fraction. “Um, I’m as okay as I can be, I guess.”

She nods, then stands. “Very well.”

For the first few days (you assume it was days, there’s no way to know), the two of you existed in a rigid silence. You’re naturally awkward with new people under the best of circumstances, and since these are far from the best of circumstances, you stayed quiet for a long, long time. The only time you really spoke to her was that first time, when she asked if you were okay after your panic attack.

But as awkward as you are, you’re still a fairly cheerful, upbeat person naturally. So you started talking to her while she stood just outside the bars on your cell.

You talked about TV shows, since that’s a subject that you’re comfortable with and simultaneously isn’t painful. You chattered about the Doctor, Buffy, and Bilbo. She didn’t really respond out loud, but you saw her relax just a smidge.

Then you spoke about art, because as much fun as doing nothing was, you wished vehemently that you had something to do. The next time you woke up, there was a huge canvas in one corner of the cell, along with the palette, paint, and brush. You thanked her softly, then got to work as soon as you were done with breakfast.

Your first subject has always been your favorite, Winch. It’s a portrait of him sitting, his big brown eyes shining up at you, his ears tilted forward in eager anticipation. As you painted the base layer, you babbled about colors and shades of brown and how frustrating it is to capture the way fur rests on a dog’s back.

Which led you talking about Winch, and how much you miss him. You told her about him being a shelter dog, about long nights with him being in bed next to you, about him being the best damn dog in the world.

That night, you went to bed feeling much better, which should have clued you in on the fact that things were about to go to shit.

You’re crouched next to Sam, your hands running frantically over his shuddering body. Where the hell is all the blood coming from?!

“Y/N!” Castiel shouts from behind you as he lands on his knees next to you, his blue eyes desperately searching for the source of Sam’s gratuitous bleeding. “Where?”

“I don’t know!” you cry, tears swarming in your vision. “I can’t tell, I can’t find it!”

You watch in horror as the light goes out of Sam’s hazel eyes, which somehow manage to be accusing and dead at the same time. You cry out, shaking his shoulders with your hands, covered in red. “Sam! Sam!”

Castiel, too, has an accusation in his eyes when you look up at him. “What is wrong with you?” he asks in wonder. “This is your fault.”

The pain from his words makes your heart squeeze. “Cass, no-“

“Dean will never forgive you for this.”

And thus was your introduction into the torture that Michael prepared for you.

You’re able to admit that it’s kind of brilliant. Physical torture didn’t work the first time an angel tried it, given that you’re probably God-enhanced to endure pain. So there goes that plan.

But playing on your insecurities? Making you see each member of your scrabbled-together little family die at your hands, bleed out while you desperately try to save them? Then to have each of them blame you, to have them all say clearly that it’s your fault and they know it?

Brilliant.

The worst thing he’s done, though, is make you relive Dean leaving you. Again and again and again. Since he came up with that one, it’s been replaying every night. Sometime he mixes it back up with the old “one of us is dead and you killed us” classics, but it’s usually just Dean.

Just Dean, telling you that you’re not pretty or strong or smart or funny or clever or anything enough to even think that he might stay with you.

Brilliant.

The nightmares are the second and last interesting thing that happen to you in captivity.

Since you’ve been having the nightmares, you have begun sleeping as little as possible, but that’s the only change in your routine. You’re still painting (you’ve gone through twelve portraits, two of Winch, a few of Dean and Sam together, and the rest just of Dean in a variety of poses), and you still talk to Sarah. She’s even begun talking back.

It started the second time you had one of those horrific dreams. You decided to avoid sleep as much as possible, and you painted quite literally until you passed out. When you woke up, you were in bed, and Sarah was standing on the inside of the bars.

You didn’t mention it, you just ate and started to put the finishing touches on the portraits. The only real change is that you finally start telling her about Dean.

You tell her about the way he smiles in the morning, before the two of you leave the bedroom, how it’s soft and sweet and just for you. You tell her about his big, warm hand on your back, lending comfort and strength. You tell her about his ridiculous shoulders, about how the way he moves makes you dizzy with need. You tell her about how much you absolutely, insatiably adore him.

Then you tell her about the nightmares.

Over several days (or whatever time period they are), she moves closer to guard you, either sitting on the bed or leaning on the table. But on the day you finally break down and tell her about your fears and insecurities regarding Dean, she’s sitting cross-legged next to the area where you paint, just watching and listening.

She doesn’t assure you you’re wrong when you say Dean’s too good for you, although you know she thinks you are. She doesn’t tell you that you’re imagining things, or that it will get better. She just listens, which is precisely what you need.

From what Sarah has told you, she was less than pleased to get this particular assignment. Guarding you isn’t on the “World’s Most Exciting Missions” list, and she’s a good soldier. So she was irritated.

Well, she was a good soldier. She still has all of the fighting and battle know-how, and is still a hell of a strategist (you gather), but she’s begun to question her orders because of you.

She was told that you are a mastermind, some sort of anarchist bent on defying God’s will. That you’re some hunter (she doesn’t say the word “trashy,” you doubt she even knows it, but you get the feeling that “trashy” was implied) who’s screwing (“lying with” is the term she uses, which sends you into gales of laughter for some reason) Dean Winchester. That you’re some tag along to the Righteous Man and the Boy King, and you set out to royally fuck everything up.

The day she tells you that, which is some indeterminate amount of time after you break down about Dean, you turn from the portrait you’re painting. It’s of said soulmate, in the garage, with that pen tucked behind his ear and his green eyes intent on the form in front of him. You’re putting the curve into his bicep, trying to portray that strength.

You smile at her. “And what do you think? Am I a rebel bent on destruction?”

She shakes her head seriously. Sarcasm is not her thing yet. “No, Y/N, I don’t think that. I think that you are… The pinnacle of humanity.”

You frown. “What?”

She thinks for a moment, staring off to the right and slightly upwards, in the same way that Cass does. The thought pings at your heart, so you push it down, far, so it can’t hurt you. Not now.

“You are… Very kind,” she says finally. “I have been put here to guard you, to make sure you stay isolated, but you have never been anything but nice to me.”

You shrug. “Well, it’s not your fault that you’re stuck here with me.”

She shakes her head again. “Not every human, and especially not every angel, thinks like that.” She pauses, then, “You inspire me protect you, to protect humanity.”

You have no idea what to say to that, so you turn back to the painting. “Thank you,” you say softly.

She lets silence reign for a while longer before speaking again. “Your paintings are in high demand in heaven, you know.”

You blink, then frown and turn to her again. “What?”

She nods. “You haven’t wondered where they go when you finish? They’re not disappearing. Angels are taking them.”

You frown harder, a little offended and kind of confused. You’re extremely tired, so your brain takes a second to catch up. “What? Taking them where?”

Sarah smiles, just the barest tilt of her lips. “They’re taking them home.”

You’re momentarily distracted. “Angels have homes?”

Sarah chuckles, a sound very human, and very similar to your own. “Where did you think we live? Yes, they’ve been taking them home.”

The conversation feels important enough for you to put your brush and palette down and sit in front of her, legs crossed. “I don’t understand why,” you admit.

“Because they’re extraordinary.” At your disbelieving snort, she continues. “They are. The portraits of Dean, especially, although your canine has been popular, as well. But the ones you have created of your soulmate… They convey a sort of adoration, a devotion to another being, that heavenkind is not familiar with.”

You blink, then feel yourself start to blush, all while ignoring the dull thud of your heartbeat at the sound of Dean’s name. “Well, that is… Something.”

As your time in captivity stretches out, you fall into a routine.

You paint until you collapse in front of the canvas from exhaustion. Sarah watches while you paint, lips pursed in disapproval as you slowly but surely deteriorate. When you wake up, she’s almost always put you back in bed, unless she hasn’t been around.

You’ve lost weight, which you know because your t-shirt hangs off of you, and your jeans won’t stay up anymore. You’ve taken to walking around in just your shirt and undies (neither of which ever get dirty or smelly in heaven, go figure). Your hair has grown out, and if you had ever paid attention to how fast it grows, it might even give you an idea of how long you’ve been here.

You have high points and low points. You have been known to laugh a little during your high points, which feels like a big win. During your low points, you lie in bed, dry-eyed and staring at the ceiling, unsure if you wish you were dead or wish you were rescued.

You’re in the middle of one of these low points now. You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the wall. The pain in your heart makes it hard to breathe or think, so you just stare, just be, just try desperately to make it to the next moment in time, then the next, then the next.

What if he doesn’t want me, that’s why he hasn’t tried to save me? What if he’s angry that I screwed up the plan, and he doesn’t want me anymore? Is Sam mad at him for not coming for me? What about Bobby or Cass? I only know four fucking people on the planet, and what if none of them rescue me?

What if he doesn’t actually love me?

The words spin around in your head, and you just let them. Because no matter what you’ve done, no matter what tools or coping mechanisms or anything else you can think of that you try, this time you can’t get them to stop. Not here, in a silent cell, with nothing to distract you, and no strong, green-eyed hunter to wrap his arms around you and tell you to stop.

So, in short, you’re fucked.

Sarah comes in, and you can’t bring yourself to acknowledge her. She kneels in front of you, which is normal when you’re in this state. Her hand comes up to cup your face, which is also normal. But when she leans forward to press her lips to your ear, your eyes finally start to widen at her words.

“I am going to get you out of here, Y/N.”

Chapter Text

You’re running down a white hallway, as quickly and quietly as possible. Your heart thunders in your ears, and your hand is gripped tightly in Sarah’s as she leads you. You’re biting your lip to control your breathing, just hoping to not be heard. Sarah could be in some serious danger if you fuck this up, and you’d rather die than put your friend through that.

The two of you slip around the corner, and when you see him, Sarah and trouble and subterfuge be damned, your entire being suddenly stills as you take him in hungrily.

His hair is wild and his eyes are bright, absorbing you as fast as you are him. He looks haggard, kind of thin and tired, and he’s breathing hard. He’s beautiful, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Dean holds his hand out to you, a smirk on his lips. “Come on, princess, let’s go home.” His whiskey voice soaks into your soul, soothing every little part of you.

You reach for him as you and Sarah get closer, but before you get there, his eyes widen suddenly and his chest heaves. You frown. “Dean?”

He falls to his knees, and Sarah growls as she shoves you behind her. Angels start to pour from the other end of the hallway. You’re grabbed from behind, and you struggle against the hold to get to your soulmate. “Dean!”

You watch as the life slowly drains from his eyes, horror making your entire body tingle and twitch. There's no mark on him, no blood, he’s just dying. He mouths your name as he falls forward, and his stillness there has a finality to it.

Michael finally steps into view. When your broken gaze meets his, his (no, they’re Adam’s) eyes are cold and imperial.

“Y/N.”

“Please,” you beg softly, “Please, bring him back, I’ll stay, do whatever you want, but let him go, please-“

His lips tilt up at the corner in a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Do you think the punishment fits the crime? I do.”

A huge burst of light and a soft scream has your neck creaking as you turn to see Sarah, with the end of an angel blade jutting from her chest. Her vessel falls, and the rest of you that’s able to feel anything dies with her.

“Please,” you whisper, “please, Michael, I’ll do anything, please-“

He gazes at you coldly. “You’ll do anything I want, anyway, Y/N. You’re just a human.” He looks above your head at the angel holding you. “Take her back to her cell.”

You let yourself be dragged back down the hallway without fighting.

There’s nothing left to fight for, anyway.

You jerk awake, gasping and shuddering. There are definitely tears falling now. You sit up and look around, one hand at your throat, the other fisted in the blankets.

Well, okay, that’s a new one.

You lie back in the bed, trying to calm your racing heart. Not just because of the horrific dream, which was obviously bad enough, but because of the implication.

Sarah hasn’t mentioned anything about escaping since she whispered in your ear, and you follow her lead and keep your mouth shut. But the nightmare is scaring you, so much that you shake as you turn onto your side, away from the bars on your cell.

What is her plan? Does Michael know what it is? Is Dean involved? Are they being careful?

It’s a long time before you fall back asleep.

“I know Y/N. I’m here to help you rescue her.”

Dean blinks, then outright glares at the woman in front of him. “Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you talking about?” A lot of creatures have been foolish enough to offer help they couldn't actually guarantee, and Dean doesn’t have time for more.

She frowns and turns to Castiel. “I just explained myself,” she says, confused.

He nods, much to Dean’s irritation. “When humans are overly emotional, they often require information to be relayed more than once.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Bobby snaps, which makes Dean feel a little better. At least someone else is angry, too.

Sarah turns to nod once at the older hunter. “Y/N has told me much about you, too, Robert Singer.”

Dean’s stomach curls itself into knots. “So you… You’ve talked to her?”

The angel’s eyes soften, and Dean sees kindness and sympathy in their green depths. “Often,” she assures him gently. “I am the designated guard for her cell.”

Dean takes in a deep breath, fighting down the thunderous emotions in his chest. “And she… She’s okay?”

Sarah’s eyes flicker with an unidentifiable emotion. “She is… Physically sound, although she has lost a significant amount of weight.”

Dean frowns, anger taking the lead in the race of his feelings. “What? What do you mean, ‘she’s lost weight?’ She didn’t need to lose weight. What are they doing to her?”

Sarah’s face remains impassive, but her eyes are sorrowful. “Y/N is physically sound,” she repeats, desperation tinging her words.

Disquiet works its way through Dean, making his mouth dry and his stomach ache a little more. “Physically sound” is not the same thing as “all right,” especially when it comes to his woman. And the look on Sarah’s face says she knows it, too.

He opens his mouth to ask about Y/N’s mental state when Sam’s hand lands on his shoulder. He turns to look at his brother, and the way Sam’s face seems to be set in stone soothes something in Dean. Again, he thinks, at least someone else is angry, too.

“Let’s get her home first, Dean.”

Dean is in shock. “Is… Is that gonna work?”

Sarah nods. “Yes, I see no reason it shouldn’t.”

“And we do not have the luxury of a great many options,” Castiel says softly.

They’re still sitting on Bobby’s living room, going over Sarah’s plan. The two angels are sitting on the couch, and some part of Dean’s brain is surprised at how close they are to one another. He files the observation away for later. Wonder what Y/N will think of that.

The thought of his soulmate stings and has him focusing again on the conversation.

“Will we have enough on our side?” Sam asks. Sarah nods in response.

“And, no offense,” Bobby says gruffly, “but are you sure of everyone’s… Loyalties? This ain’t gonna blow up in our faces and make it worse for Y/N, is it?”

Dean’s heart clenches in fear, though he makes sure that it doesn’t show on his face. He hasn’t even considered what will happen to her if they fail.

Sarah leans forward earnestly and shakes her head. “No, you don’t understand the effect she has on angels. She is… She reminded us.” At Dean’s confused frown, she elaborates. “Heavenkind, we… We forgot. We got caught up in the apocalypse, and in choosing sides these last few weeks. We were so occupied by that that we forgot.”

Beside him, Bobby is frowning, too. “Forgot?”

Cass nods. “We forgot, in the millennia since the creation of man, that we were supposed to be shepherds. We are supposed to love humankind above all else.”

Sam looks confused. “Okay, but what does that have to do with Y/N?”

Sarah sits forward. “Y/N represents the best of humanity, and I do not think it is a coincidence.”

Cass nods again. “I agree.”

Sarah meets Dean’s eyes. “Your soulmate is, as I told her, the pinnacle of humanity. She is kind, and forgiving, and driven. She is selfless in a way that even most angels cannot achieve. She is one of the best of humans, though she does not believe it.”

Something in her words resonates within Dean. Yes. Someone else understands Y/N’s pull, the way she’s so open and loving and genuinely doesn’t expect anything in return. The purity of her, the way her laugh can turn heads, the way her smile makes him dizzy with want and... Emotion, he’ll leave it at emotion. The “L” word still escapes him, but she makes him feel more than he’s felt in a long, long time.

He finds himself nodding in understanding. “Yeah, she is.” He’s not surprised in the least. She’s an exceptional woman, he didn’t need an angel to tell him that.

“What do we do next?”

Bobby is taking a moment to sit out on his front porch. He’s considering the plan from every angle, poking at it for weaknesses or pitfalls. But, as long as Sarah and Castiel are right, and “heavenkind,” or whatever they call themselves, is rooting for Y/N, he can’t find much fault in it. It’s definitely still a Hail Mary, but maybe that’s their only option now.

The screen door opens behind him. “Robert?”

“It’s Bobby,” he growls.

Sarah comes to stand next to him and nods. “My apologies. Bobby.”

He looks up at her. “Whaddaya want?”

She smiles. “Bobby, after we rescue Y/N, I will be cut off from much of heaven’s power. I will have the same amount of strength as Castiel currently does.”

Bobby’s eyebrows go up. “And you’re gonna risk that for Y/N?”

“I would risk much for Y/N,” she says softly, sincerely. “But that is not why I bring it up.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I’m wondering if you would allow me to heal your spinal injury, so you don’t have to be in a wheelchair going forward.”

“No.”

“Dean,” Castiel says severely. “You must be reasonable.”

“Absolutely not. Not even an option!”

Dean is standing in front of the angels, arms crossed, violently angry. His fists are clenching beneath his arms, and he knows he’s being stubborn, and an idiot, but he can’t stand this idea.

“Dean,” Sam says gently, and Dean turns to him, ready unleash his fury at his brother. Sam holds his hands up, already surrendering. “Dean, they’re right. You’d be a distraction if you were there.”

They want to leave Dean behind on the mission to save Y/N. They want him to stay here with his thumb up his ass, just hoping that everything goes all right. It’s not gonna happen. He’s grateful that they’re saving his woman, and he’s beyond grateful that Sarah healed Bobby, but it’s not going to happen.

“God dammit, no, I’m going, and that’s that.”

He can’t even fathom not seeing her as soon as he can. It’s been three and a half months since he laid eyes on her, and he’s not willing to make it even a second longer than it has to be. He’s going, whether they like it or not.

“This is ridiculous,” Sarah snaps. “Y/N has given me the impression that you’re obstinate, but I did not realize you would be willing to put the entire endeavor in jeopardy.”

Dean scowls. “Look, bitch-“

Castiel growls a little, but that’s not what Dean focuses on. He focuses on Sarah, striding over to him and getting up into his face, her pretty features tilted up to glare at him, every inch a warrior of God.

“Let me be clear, Mr. Winchester,” she says tightly. “My only goal is to save Y/N from the prison they have put her in. I do not care about your feelings, I do not care about what you want. We are saving your soulmate, that should be your priority. If you are there, she will be distracted, and there is a distinct possibility that she will go into shock. So, no, you are not going. This is not a debate, Mr. Winchester, and it is not a democracy. I am coming to you to let you know I am bringing her back to you, but if I thought for a microsecond that this was not the best place for her, I would never bring her here. Am I making myself perfectly understood?”

Dean struggles with himself, just staring down at Sarah. She probably hasn’t noticed it, but she’s starting to talk like Y/N. He’s noticed that the angel has picked up his soulmate’s sense of humor, too, chuckling in all the places Y/N would laugh, smiling when she would smile. It makes him ache for her.

“Fine,” he growls, “but she comes right back here. No detours, no passing go, no two hundred dollars. Deal?”

She frowns and looks back at Castiel, who is also frowning. She looks back up at Dean. “Two hundred dollars?”

Chapter Text

Sarah, Angel of the Lord, is not nervous when she goes back to heaven.

She has never been nervous in her home, and refuses to start now. But it is not only her strong will that has her nodding smoothly at her brothers and sisters as she goes down the hall to her first and only friend’s cell.

It is righteousness.

Sarah did not realize until she was assigned to guard Y/N that heaven had gone so far off the mark. There are some angels, of course, who are still doing what they were made to do. They take care of humans, particularly guardian angels, but even they have lost the zeal for it.

Sarah is now of the opinion that angels should never have stopped walking the earth. It lets them be separate from humans, and it’s easy to start feeling disdain for something you’re separate from.

But being with Y/N, and even seeing the Winchesters’ influence on the famous Castiel (who makes her heart beat hard and her wings flutter and twitch), those things have convinced her that when they turned from humanity, they turned away from their rightful purpose. The purpose that their Father laid down for them.

She gets to Y/N’s cell, and is grateful to see her human friend up and painting instead of staring at the wall catatonically. She transports herself into the cell and clears her throat softly, causing Y/N to turn and smile.

You look tired. “You look well, Y/N.”

The human snorts. “Liar. I look like shit.” A smile softens her words. “But you’re sweet for saying so.” Her eyes travel down to the package on Sarah’s hands. “What’s that?”

Sarah holds it out, waiting patiently while Y/N puts down her brush and palette, then hands it to her. “Clothing,” she says simply. “The garb you have on now is very loose, I thought you might like something that… Fits a little better.”

Y/N’s eyes flick to Sarah’s for the barest of moments, responding to the very slight hesitation in her words. Sarah is grateful, again, that Y/N is so smart, because she caught the implication immediately, acknowledged it silently and quickly, then is back to smiling.

“Thanks, Sar,” she says, going over to the bed and opening the parcel. “It’ll be nice to have pants on again, as weird as that sounds.”

Belatedly, Sarah realizes she should have gotten clothes for her friend much sooner than this. She winces. “I am sorry I did not see your discomfort before, Y/N.”

The human turns and smiles. “No worries. It happens, plus, I wasn’t complaining a whole lot.” She turns back to the bed and mutters, but Sarah hears her clearly. “I haven’t really been a position to know that I haven’t been comfortable, anyway.”

Sarah knows much about depression and anxiety, and she worries for Y/N. These ailments are things that Sarah is uncertain that she can fix. They are not like a knife wound or a brain tumor. She could heal those things with the touch of a finger.

But the thoughts and insecurities that plague Y/N, the mental illnesses, they are much more intricate. It is not the damaging of tissue, it is the alteration of brain chemistry. Sarah would hesitate to try it on the best of days, and these are certainly not the best of days.

So she just watches her friend get dressed, then gives her a small smile when she turns and holds her arms out. “What do you think?”

“You look lovely, Y/N.”

Her human friend laughs. “Liar.”

Eremiel is a messenger, a lower class of angel. He has only been to earth twice in the last several thousand years, once to deliver a foreboding feeling a prostitute (who would give birth to a child who would cure a deadly disease) who was going to go down a dark alley where a man was lying in wait to murder her. The other was to encourage a man to leave his abusive boyfriend.

Both times left Eremiel with a strange feeling about earth. He isn’t sure if he likes it, or if he particularly likes humans. This opinion is shared by every brother and sister he’s talked to about it.

But when he went down the hallway where the Artist is kept, and he saw the giant portrait of her canine, something in him changed. The love radiating off of the canvas, the kindness shining on the dog’s eyes, it made something in Eremiel change. He spoke with his sister, Sarah, and she said she saw no harm in him taking the portrait, as it was finished.

Now it hangs in his home, and gives him a new purpose. Since he took the portrait, he has been to earth almost every day, interacting with humans, talking to them, warning them, encouraging them. He takes pride in his work that he did not before.

He is their shepherd.

Which is why, on the day that Sarah gives the signal, he pulls the alarm without remorse, sending a sharp wailing throughout the halls.

Sachiel has a portrait of Dean smiling over his shoulder in her home. It makes her feel warm, it makes her yearn to make others feel the same. She has attacked her job as a Cupid with much more fervor since she took it.

She is their shepherd.

She chooses a name at random (she decides on Y/N, it seems fitting), and begins to open the doors to heavens. The wailing of the alarms rouses the humans, making them swarm the white halls. She slips between them easily, smiling a just a little, and then goes down a second hall to do the same to it.

Nithael is their shepherd.

He dims the white glow that surrounds all of them, so heaven is plunged into semi-darkness. As he does it, he thinks of the portrait he saw of Dean and Sam Winchester, laughing, and how it reminded him that his job is to protect humanity.

On and on and on, dozens of angels, their lives forever altered by the human known to most of heavenkind as the Artist, deliberately (and some with great glee) throw the heavens into chaos.

When the alarms start going off, adrenaline hits you in the belly like a hammer. You try to keep that tension off of your face and just settle for a frown as you stand up.

Two angels run by, totally ignoring you, which is par for the course. “Hello?” you call anyway, mostly to give yourself the appearance of not knowing what’s going on.

Not that you do know what’s going on, in the strictest sense. But you suspect that this is it, this will be your rescue. You’re so nervous you could puke, so nervous that you can’t even think about being excited or relieved. You’re just… Scared out of your mind.

And because your anxiety already has you running through a list of worst case scenarios, you aren’t even surprised when Michael appears in your cell.

“This is because of you,” he says softly. The lack of emotion in his voice scares you more than anger could have.

“What?” you ask, letting your frown stay and making sure to keep your hands tucked behind you. “What’s because of me? The alarms? I didn’t do anything.”

He just stares at you, and you fight your urge to fill the silence with nervous babble. Talking will get you in trouble faster than silence will, so you stay quiet, wide eyes on the archangel.

He turns to look at your latest painting, one of Dean and Winch lying in your bed. Dean’s face is turned away, his body is tangled in the sheets. Winch is lying next to him, his head resting on the man’s shins, big brown eyes looking up at you in adoration.

Michael runs a finger along the dry paint as he speaks. “I suspect I should have known you’d rally them to fight.”

You blink and frown for real this time. “Rally who to what now?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I tried to be a good son. I did what my Father told me to do. He told me that I had to meet Lucifer on the battlefield, and I did, though it pained me.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, but you find yourself feeling… Sorry for Michael.

“You are a good son,” you say softly, taking a hesitant step forward. “You just didn’t… Have clear direction.”

He turns to look at you, and there’s a rawness in his eyes that speaks to you. “What am I supposed to do now? Just keep… Running heaven?”

You nod encouragingly. “Yes. Keep running heaven, just keep… Keeping on, I guess.”

He looks back at the painting. There’s a long, long silence, and you almost think you can relax before he speaks again.

“No.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He looks at you again. “No, I don’t think so. I have been thinking about it since you interrupted the destined battle, and I have decided that it must go on.” He turns to fully face you again. “I will release Lucifer again, and we will fight.”

You’re wide-eyed and horrified as you stare at him. “But… I mean, it’s going to decimate half of the planet.”

He shrugs. “The humans will come to heaven or hell, whichever they deserve. And then we shall see who wins.”

His words seem to strike a wrong note within you, and you tilt your head and stare at him as you consider them. “You… You don’t want to win.”

He turns to frown at you. “What?”

You take a step back. “You don’t want to win. Or, I guess, you don’t care who wins, as long as you die.”

He just stares back at you, and you take another step back. “I’m right, aren’t I?” you ask softly. “You don’t want to be around anymore. You’re tired of it all.”

He just tilts his head at you, you take another step back and keep talking. “God left, and you had to keep going. Then Lucifer fell, and Gabriel left, and Raphael became some sort of… Fanatic, and it all fell to you.” You feel sympathy well up in you for the being in front of you. ”You’re just tired,” you whisper, meeting his eyes. “Michael, I know you’re tired, but what you’re thinking of is no solution.”

His face hardens dangerously. “You cannot fathom what I am thinking of.”

You take the last step back to your destination. “I’m sorry,” you say softly, and slam your hand onto the banishing symbol you painted on your bathroom wall, in blood, in a place that it would be hidden from sight.

There’s barely time for his fury to register on his face before he’s exploding in light. You flinch and look away, and when you turn back, there’s nothing.

You take in a shaky, deep breath. “Well, fuck.”

It’s another fifteen minutes of hiding in the bathroom (just in case your little stunt pissed someone off) before you hear someone else in your cell.

“Y/N?”

“Sarah!” You scramble to your feet and run out of the bathroom. The cell door is open, and your friend is standing there, an angel blade in her hand that is thankfully free of blood. “Are you all right?” you ask, hurrying toward her.

She nods and holds her hand out. “Come, we do not have much time.”

You slip your hand into hers, and you both sprint down the hall.

Your dream is pounding in your head, and you tell yourself desperately that everything is different. For one, the alarms are blaring, and there are quite a few random angels running in random directions, apparently trying to put the fires out.

You come to the corner from your dream, and you almost pull Sarah to a complete stop, so ready to see Dean that you can barely stand it.

Ever since she told you that she was going to rescue you, a fire lit in your heart for him. You want him back, his sharp jaw and his green eyes and his strong hands and his everything. You need him, it’s a thoughtless need, like you need water or air.

So it takes all of the fight and will out of you when you turn the corner and he’s not even there.

Sarah’s hand squeezes yours immediately. You turn to look at her, your heart heavy in your chest.

“He’s waiting for you, Y/N,” she says softly. “We just have to get out of here.”

Dean is pacing in front of the house, trying to outwalk his worries and fears. Winch walks next to him, whining. Bobby and Sam are standing on the front porch, just watching and waiting.

-everything’s gone wrong they’re not gonna make it it went wrong I should have gone god dammit why didn’t I go with them I should have gone-

Rapidfire self-recrimination and all-out fear are racing through his head, making it hard to breathe. He’s completely terrified.

He’s stopped in his tracks when they appear a few feet in front of him.

You appear with Sarah in Bobby’s front yard, and for a second, you’re just so relieved to be breathing real air out in the night with real ground beneath your bare feet (Sarah didn’t bring you shoes) that you don’t even think about anything but the sensations of being free.

Then your eyes land on Dean.

Oh, God.

He does look thinner, like he hasn’t been eating well. He looks haggard, and though he’s still handsome, there are dark circles beneath his eyes, like he hasn’t been getting enough sleep.

You’re frozen in shock, and anxiety wraps itself around you like a too tight coat. I probably look awful, oh God, he doesn’t want me, just look at him-

Before your thoughts can go much farther, he’s taken two long strides and sweeps you into his arms.

You whimper and wrap your arms around his neck, bury your face in the warm skin there, and just breathe him in. He smells like warmth and whiskey and gunpowder, and something deep inside you, something that has been tense and wrought with fear for over three months, relaxes completely.

His face is buried in your hair, then he moves to whisper in your ear. “Fuck, I can’t believe you’re here, princess, we’re a wreck without you. Jesus Christ, I’m so glad you’re alive, fuck, baby, what did they do to you, fuck-“

He goes on like that, just comforting words in his deep, rough voice, trembling with emotion. It’s incredibly soothing. His arms are like iron around you, leaving no space between the two of you. When his hands move down to grip your hips, you don’t even have to think about what he wants when you lift your legs to wrap around his waist tightly. His hands slide down under your thighs to support your weight. He walks the two of you to the house, never stopping his stream of loving, reassuring words in your ear.

You hear Winch whine, and you lift your head just enough to smile at him. You crook a finger at him, his hand gesture for “come here,” and he bounds after you and Dean. When you hear his nails clicking on the front porch, you bury your face in Dean’s neck again and just breathe him in some more, letting the reality of him sink in for you.

Once you’re in the house, he beelines up the stairs and to your bedroom, Winch following closely behind. He shuts the three of you in, and just sits on the bed with you still wrapped around him, holding you tight. He puts his arms around you again and crushes you to him.

And that’s when your tears start.

Sam watches his brother carry his soulmate up the stairs, frowning when they go by without a word. Once they’re inside, he turns to Bobby. “What the-“

“Shut up, Sam,” Bobby says. Though the words are familiar, his tone is kinder than it has been since Y/N was taken, so Sam lets it go.

Sarah is still standing there, looking up at them. “We do have additional work that needs to be done.”

Sam turns to look at her. “All right. Like what?”

Before she can respond, another angel appears beside her. Sarah turns and smiles. “Eremiel, you are safe.”

The man nods. “Yes, but some fighting has broken out. Nithael is badly injured.”

Sarah nods, suddenly all business. “Very well, lead me to him.” She turns back to Sam and Bobby. “We will be back.” Then they disappear.

Sam turns to hold the door open for Bobby as the two of them go back inside. “What do we do now, Bobby? Should we go get Dean and Y/N?”

Bobby shakes his head. “No, we’ll let them take tonight. Everything else’ll keep till morning.”

Dean holds her, savoring the way she’s soft against him, the way she molds herself to him and stays there. She has lost a lot of weight, but he genuinely couldn’t care less. She’s here, with him, and that’s enough.

He rocks her gently as she cries, keeping up soothing nonsense in her ear for a long time, until she’s down to shuddering sighs and sniffles. When she’s come down a little, he gently stands and tugs her until she lets her legs drop to the floor with a tired, dissatisfied noise. A genuine smile, the first in over three months, touches his lips at her irritation, and he presses a kiss to her temple. “Shh, let’s go to bed, sweetheart.”

She just stands and looks at him while he undresses her, and he frowns when he realizes that he doesn’t recognize the clothes she’s wearing. But it’s just a t-shirt and leggings, so he strips them off of her quickly, then reaches behind his head to pull his own shirt off.

Her soft hand on his chest stops him, and when she takes them hem of his shirt into her hands, he gets the message. He just lifts his arms and lets her peel it off of him, then watches as she undoes his buckle and slides his jeans down his legs.

Once they’re both undressed, he pulls out two of his old t-shirts, drops one over her head gently, then pulls the other one on himself. He guides her to the bed, then arranges the two of them so she’s on the inside, closest to the wall, and he’s shielding her from the door, and everything else.

Winch jumps onto the bed on her other side, heaves a deep groan, and lies down with his nose pressed against her shoulder. She whimpers and turn to wrap her arms around the big dog, burying her face in his fur. Dean smiles a little, wraps his arm around her waist, and molds himself to her back, holding her fiercely. He presses a kiss to her shoulder, then takes a deep, deep breath, because he can now.

She’s here, he can breathe again.

They’re both asleep in less than two minutes, and for the first time in just over fifteen weeks, Dean and Y/N both sleep dreamlessly.

Chapter Text

“Jesus, see, I knew you would do this. You’re always crying, or getting insecure, or whining.” His stormy green eyes meet yours. “I used to be all right with it, but it’s getting real old, Y/N.”

You wake up with a gasp, shuddering, and for a moment you refuse to open your eyes. It was a dream, I’m still in that horrible cell, I didn’t get rescued, oh, God, he’s not coming for me-

“Princess?”

Dean’s concerned, sleep-roughened voice has your eyes snapping open. You’re on your side, facing him, your front pressed to his. He blinks slowly, and his green eyes slowly focus on you.

You catch your breath for a moment, waiting for him to wake up enough to react to you being there. Despite your reunion, there’s a little part of you that firmly believes he doesn’t want you. That maybe, even if he is here, even if he is nice to you for a while, it will only be out of pity.

He doesn’t want me, he doesn’t want me, I’ll just go-

Then his eyes warm, and his lips tilt up into a smile before he leans forward and captures your mouth with his. You freeze for just a moment, then kiss him back gently, gasping just a little bit into his mouth.

He groans softly, then you pull back. You cover your mouth with your hand and blush.

He frowns a little, which makes your heart ache. “What’s wrong?”

“Dean, it’s been three months since I brushed my teeth.”

He blinks, then chuckles and wraps an arm around you. He moves down to nuzzle your neck. “Taste good to me, princess,” he husks against your skin.

You sigh a little and lean into the touch, lean into the solid, real proof that he wants you. A man who doesn’t want you doesn’t ignore morning breath just to kiss you.

“Dean,” you say softly with a smile, “Dean, let me go take a shower, and do things that normal people do for once.”

Now he leans back, presses a kiss to your forehead, and examines your face. “You… They didn’t let you shower?”

You shrug self-consciously, looking down. “I dunno, no. I mean, it wasn’t… I was always clean, I don’t know how, but-”

His lips against your forehead again stops your flow of words. “Princess, it’s okay, I just…” He takes in a deep breath, then lets it out explosively. “What did they do to you?”

Morning breath be damned, you lean forward and press kisses to his jaw, trying to ease the raw pain in his deep voice. “Shh, I’m okay. I’m here now, with you, and I’m okay.”

He buries his face in your hair, so you move your lips to kiss along his collarbone. “Can you tell me? What they did to you?”

You sigh and press your face into his warm chest, fighting your emotions down. You want to tell him, you do, but there’s a deep-seated fear that when you tell him about the dream where he leaves you, there will be relief on his face, not horror or upset. That he’ll use that to start the conversation he’s been trying to figure out how to have with you for a long time. That he really does want to leave you, and it wasn’t a torture dream, it was a prophecy.

So you lean back and smile up at him. “Shower first?"

Dean sits nervously in the kitchen, his leg bouncing, watching the coffee drip into the pot. He hasn’t started breakfast, because obviously he’s not going to ask her to make breakfast the first day she’s free, but maybe she’ll volunteer to make breakfast. It’s a shitty thought, but Dean is pretty fucking tired of burnt toast.

He perks up a little when the shower turns off, but he waits patiently. He understands needing a moment, needing just a second to convince yourself that you’re really back. Which is why, as much as he wanted to follow her into the shower and make her scream his name pressed up against the tile, he let her have her space.

Winch, predictably, took up post just outside the bathroom. Dean gets it. He wants to wait on her there, too. But here he sits, watching coffee drip, waiting on her here.

When she comes down the stairs, Winch next to her every step of the way, she’s smiling shyly. Dean stands, unable to take his eyes off of her, and not wanting to anyway. He spent quite enough time not being able to look at her, thank you very much.

So he looks his fill, and he can’t help the grin on his face. She’s wearing one of his old sweatshirts (with what he hopes is nothing on underneath it) and a pair of what used to be tight jeans. She has definitely lost too much weight, in his opinion, and the clothes are all but hanging off of her.

She also looks worn out, there are dark circles under her eyes, and she moves with the slow deliberateness of someone who’s exhausted. He wants to haul her right back up to bed and make her sleep for a week.

But somehow (and maybe there will come a time when he stops being surprised at her ability to surprise him), she still manages to look radiant. Her smile, though hesitant, is shining. Her face is pink from being scrubbed, her hair is damp on her shoulders, and her feet are bare on the hardwood. She’s dwarfed in his hoodie, but she’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen.

He meets her in the middle and puts his arms around her to hold her close. She winds hers around his neck slowly, and when he tilts his head down to kiss her, she kisses back cautiously.

He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the careful way she acts, like she’s expecting him to turn away or lash out at any moment. He doesn’t know what the archangel did to her, and he didn’t see any physical marks on her lovely skin the night before. He thinks it was probably some sort of psychological torment, and as he moves his lips against hers, he silently vows to kill the bastard for it.

But for now, she’s relaxing minutely in his arms, so Dean takes that as a win and lets vengeance leave his mind for the time being.

Dean kisses you for what feels like both forever and no time at all before his belly rumbles. He seems content to ignore it, but you smile against his lips and pull away slowly. Always undeterred, he starts mouthing at your neck instead, his strong arms keeping you close. “Dean,” you protest softly, laughing. “I can hear your stomach. Don’t you want to eat?”

He grunts an answer, but his actions make what he wants very clear.

You smile. “You know, if you let me go over there, I can-“

“Jesus, Dean, she’s been back for twelve hours and you’re already attacking her. Could you not?”

Sam’s voice has you turning to look at him with wide eyes. You didn’t really even see anyone the night before, you just stuck to Dean like glue. So now, you examine Sam closely.

He looks tired and skinny, too. It’s like none of them ate while you were gone. But his hazel eyes are warm, and he’s smiling down at you. “Y/N, I’m glad you’re-“

You cut him off by stepping away from Dean (who lets you go with an irritated grumble) and stepping into Sam’s arms, wrapping yourself firmly around him. You press your face into his chest. “I’m glad you’re okay,” you whisper.

You feel his arms come around you, slowly returning your hug. “Back atcha,” he replies huskily.

You take a deep, deep breath. This is what it was for. This is what we saved. We did it.

“What’s everyone standin’ around for?”

Now it’s Bobby’s voice that has you turning and beaming at him. But when your eyes land on him, your mouth drops open. “Bobby! Holy shit!”

He blinks, then smiles. “Yeah, Sarah fixed me up.”

You pull away from Sam to fling yourself into Bobby’s arms. “That’s amazing!” Your exclamation is muffled by his shirt. He chuckles and hugs you close for a moment before you step back. “Damn glad you’re okay, kiddo.”

You smile shakily, and tears start to well up in your eyes. You’re having trouble believing that you’re back, that you’re here, that you’re safe…

You’re having trouble believing that you’re home, with your family.

Big hands from behind you turn you to face Dean, and you cuddle into him, sniffling and trying to get yourself under control. His hand runs up and down your back, holding you close and comforting you at the same time. His breathing is a little ragged, too, and that’s comforting, too.

You finally lean back and smile a little. “I’m okay. Sorry, long couple of days.” Bobby scoffs, which makes you chuckle.

You take a deep breath (been doing a lot of that lately) and look around the kitchen, which smells like coffee. You frown when you realize how empty it looks. It’s still mostly clean, but it doesn’t look like it’s been used very much in the time you were gone.

It hits you that it probably hasn’t been used very much. You’re the one who cooks, when it’s left up to the men standing around you, at the most it’s usually toast or sandwiches. Oh, my God, these nerds haven’t had an actual meal in three months.

You look around at them, trepidation making your voice kind of small when you ask, “Can… Can I make breakfast?”

Sam and Bobby smile a little, looking relieved. “Yes. Please,” Dean says fervently.

You feel a real, good smile stretch your lips for the first time in a long, long time.

Her smile is like the sun coming up after months of darkness. Dean doesn’t know what he did right, or what about her making breakfast for them is what she needs. But he knows that he would walk through fire for her, and he’ll do this for her, too.

You’re doing breakfast dishes and humming when a thought occurs to you.

You tilt your head to look at Dean, who’s standing behind you with his arms around your waist. He hasn’t let you go for more than a moment since you woke up, and it’s ridiculously reassuring.

“Dean, where’s Sarah?”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. “No idea.”

“She said that they have other work to do,” Sam says behind you. You and Dean both turn to look at him. “She didn’t say when she’d be back.”

You frown. “Well, should we be looking for her?”

“Cass has his cell phone,” Dean says. “If they need us, I’m sure they’ll call.”

You turn back to doing dishes, not sure you’re okay with that answer. But you’re wrapped up in Dean, Winch is lying in his patch of sunlight, and you’re home, so you let it go for now. Worry for your friend stays in the back of your mind, though.

Dean is watching, with some amusement, as Y/N desperately tries to stay awake through the movie. It’s pretty clear, even outside her head, that it’s a losing battle. Her pretty eyes are fluttering as she puts up a good fight, but she finally just sighs and turns to press her face into his chest. The movement, probably insignificant to her, fulfills some deep craving in him to protect her, hold her. So he wraps an arm around her and tucks her close.

They’re lying on the couch, despite Y/N’s protests. She wanted to get right back to work, but Dean flat-out refused. She needs to rest, even just cooking this morning seemed to take it out of her. She still hasn’t told him all of what she went through, but for now, he wants her on the bench.

As he holds her close, he knows that she won’t let him keep this up for long. She’s strong willed, and it’s a testament to how tired she is that she let him put a movie on and pull her onto the couch in the first place.

She stirs in her sleep and frowns. He looks down and smooths her hair away from her face, smiling a little. She’s so pretty, he thinks in a sappy way that he will never admit to out loud.

She whimpers, and the distress that tinges the sound has the smile slipping off of his face. What the hell?

You run, determined to get to him in time. This can’t be happening, no, no, no, please no!

You find Castiel on his back in the middle of a huge crater. You skid down the side, your breath tearing in and out of your lungs. “Cass!”

You fall to your knees next to the angel. There’s blood everywhere, and there are several injuries that have bright white light shining out of them. Castiel’s grace is shining through.

You notice with no small amount of horror that Castiel’s grace is beginning to fade.

You take his battered, bloody face into your hands. “Cass,” you whimper desperately, “Cass, oh, fuck. I’m so sorry, Cass.”

You hear the gravel skitter behind you as the Winchesters catch up to you. “Cass, come on, you’ll be all right,” you’re whispering, “I’m so fucking sorry, it’ll be all right.”

Dean falls to his knees next to you, effectively pushing you out of the way. You go willingly, because it’s your fault that you’re here. “Cass!” Dean shouts. “God dammit, Cass! You’re gonna be fine! You hear me?!”

Castiel’s blue eyes fall on yours as Dean pulls him into a sitting position. The angel frowns. “Why, Y/N?”

There are tears pouring down your face. “I’m so sorry.” Neither of the Winchesters are even looking at you.

The light is fading from Cass. “Why are you even here? What made you think you could change anything?”

Oh, God, that was a new one. Oh, God…

You wake up crying, panic and terror making it hard to breathe. There are muscled arms around you, and you fight against their hold until they release you. You push yourself away, and you fall onto the floor gracelessly.

There’s a loud buzzing in your ears, and breathing hurts, and you can’t deal with this. You can’t take anything in, you don’t know where you are, and the nightmares are supposed to be over.

You feel warmth behind you, then wrapping around you. It tries to move you, and you fight against it. There’s a deep rumble in your ear, but it stops trying to move you. It just resettles behind you.

You feel an arm come around your waist, anchoring you. From the other side, a big hand rests on your chest. It doesn’t press down or constrict you in any way, it just stays there.

There’s more rumbling in your ear, and the warmth behind you starts to shift, then shift back. It becomes a steady rhythm that your mind syncs with quickly. It takes a long time, but your breathing begins to match that rhythm, and the buzzing in your ears starts to dwindle.

You realize that a high-pitched babble is falling from your lips uncontrollably.

“-and then Cass fell and he was in a crater and I’m sorry oh God I killed Cass I didn’t mean to his grace his grace is coming out and why am I here why do I think I can change anything I killed Cass and then Cass fell and he was in a crater and I’m sorry oh God I-”

“Shh, inhale with me, princess, deep inhale. Come on, you can do it, good girl. Now, breathe out, there we go, nice and slow.”

It feels like forever before you’re calm enough to fall silent, to just focus on Dean’s breathing and soft words behind you, and your own breathing within you.

You want to be embarrassed, and you can feel how humiliated you would normally be. But it’s smothered by how shaken you are, how tired you feel, and the soul-deep sadness that this isn’t over.

The fluttering makes you panic just a little again, but Dean’s arms ground you, as well as his breath in your ear.

Sarah is kneeling in front of you, and she reaches forward to cup your face. You lean into her cool touch, letting your eyes fall closed.

“What happened?” Her voice soothes you, a perfect complement to Dean’s deep one.

He must know that speech is beyond you, because he answers for you. “She had a nightmare, then a panic attack.”

Sarah’s eyebrows go up and her face pales. She meets your eyes again. “Was it…”

You nod.

She winces, then looks up at Dean. “How much has Y/N told you about her time in heaven’s prison?”

Dean shakes his head. “We… Haven’t gotten there yet.”

Sarah looks at you again. “Would you like to tell him, or do I have your permission to?”

You whimper, and she takes it as what it means. I can’t.

“Michael gave Y/N nightmares. Vivid, hyper-realistic nightmares.”

“Nightmares of what?”

Sam’s voice has your head turning slowly, very slowly to look at him. You realize that your whole little family is here, and you want to be nervous, or embarrassed, but you can’t be. You just don’t have it in you. So you just lean back against Dean’s broad, warm chest, and sigh a little when he tucks you against him tighter.

“She had nightmares about the three of you.” Sarah says, a tinge of accusation in her voice. “The three of you dying, the three of you rejecting or blaming her.”

Castiel, Sam, and Bobby have looks on their faces that you recognize well. They’re so familiar that they’re almost comforting. It’s the “well, that’s not that bad” look. It’s the “she’s probably just a little crazy” look. It’s the “she’s not worth all this trouble” look.

Sarah must sense it, because she closes her eyes for just a moment, clearly struggling to control her anger. If you had it in you to smile, you would. Your angelic friend started experiencing something akin to human emotion when she met you, and it’s a little bit of a fight for her to rein them in.

She opens her green eyes and meets Dean’s gaze over your shoulder. “I do believe that most of them featured you leaving her. Quoting her worst fears word for word.”

Dean tenses behind you, and you know that he understands. He understands how bad it is. The looks on the other three men’s faces have changed, too, to sympathy. They’ve all had someone they feared would leave them, and that feeling brings it home for them.

Dean takes a deep breath through his nose, then lets it out slowly. You find yourself mirroring his actions unconsciously, and the little squeeze of his arms lets you know that he notices and approves. “What do we do?” he asks in a low voice.

Sarah takes a deep breath. “It is an active attack. It’s not something that he has made innate, so it can be stopped.”

You look up at her hopefully, but the sorrowful look on her face has your heart plummeting into your stomach again.

“But… I don’t know how to make him stop,” she says gently, trying to be soft when she tells you. “I… I think we may have to kill him.”

You feel your breathing become erratic again, and tears cloud your vision. Dean’s murmuring, “Breathe, princess, come on, slow inhale, inhale with me, Y/N, come on, baby, you can do this,” into your ear, but you can’t. You just can’t.

The only way to stop the nightmares is to defeat an archangel? The only way to be okay, to be as all right as you’ve ever been, is to kill Michael? You barely beat him the first time, and that was by borderline cheating. It’s impossible. Oh, God help me, it’s impossible.

You feel yourself retreat into your mind, leaving your anxiety and your inability to breathe and the fact that you’re close to passing out, leaving all that behind. None of that matters if you never deal with it, does it?

Dean’s words fade, but the deep timbre of his voice follows you, just rumbling through you. It’s comforting, it’s nice. His warmth stays, too, it soaks into you and makes you feel comforted and safe.

As you sink deeper into your thoughts, trying desperately to protect yourself, one word echoes in your thoughts.

Brilliant.

Chapter Text

Dean lies behind her in bed, stroking her arm lightly, his head propped up in his hand. Winch is in the bed, too, sprawled over their legs, looking up at her with concern in his brown eyes. Dean once again feels a kinship with the big dog. He’s worried about her, too.

Her breathing has finally evened out, and now it’s slow and steady. She’s still and unresponsive, she hasn’t really moved since that morning, when Sarah dropped the bombshell that they’d probably have to kill an archangel to save Y/N. He knows that she’s deep inside her head, not moving at all, eyes only blinking on autopilot.

Dean Winchester has been afraid a lot in his life. Afraid for himself sometimes, but mostly afraid for others. He can’t quite grasp the words he’d need to describe how utterly terrifying it was for him when Y/N went back into her mind, where he’s helpless to reach her. What if she never comes back?

The thought is too much for him, so he pushes it away. He leans over and grabs the remote that rests on the bedside table to flick the TV on. It doesn’t get used much, he doesn’t typically have time to lie in bed and watch television. He refuses to leave her alone, though, so he queues up Buffy and presses “play.” Somehow he’s gone his whole semi-closet-nerd life without watching it.

He rearranges his soulmate so she’s turned toward him, and he presses her face into his chest gently. He’s aching, he misses her, it feels like he only had her back for a few minutes before she was gone again. He hates this.

So he buries himself in her scent, her TV, their bed, and the feeling of their dog lying across their legs.

The sound of Dean’s light snoring is what gets through to you first.

It’s such a human, mundane sound. It shakes you out of your emptiness a little bit because it’s so vulnerable, somehow, so real.

For the last three months, you’ve only seen Dean in your nightmares. There, he’s hard, accusatory, even downright mean on occasion. Then, since you got back, your only interactions with him have been the two of you fiercely clinging to one another, desperately trying to convince yourselves that you’re together again.

Now, though, this soft sound is so… Relaxed. Normal. It’s such a basic thing, hearing your lover snore in the middle of the night. It makes you want to go back to him.

Because you forgot about him. In your blatant panic, when Sarah told you that you’ll have to defeat Michael to stop the nightmares, you forgot about Dean.

It’s not because being around Dean magically cures all of the problems rolling around in your head. It’s not even that he always makes them better. Sometimes, through no fault of his own, he actually makes them much worse.

It’s because, now that you look back, Dean has always been here. From the moment you opened the front door and saw him standing there in his FBI-suited glory, he’s been here. Fighting for you, defending you, laughing with you, driving you crazy with desire. And in the middle of everything, the core of each and every thing the two of you have been through…

Dean Winchester has been here, loving you, waiting patiently for you to realize it.

He’s never said it, and he probably never will say it, but you know it. You know it, and you’re tired of lying down and letting your anxiety-ridden mind steal that knowledge from you.

Which means you’re going to have to fight for it.

So when you finally decide to pull yourself out of your catatonia, it’s for the purely selfish reason that you want to be fully present for the way Dean feels pressed against you in sleep.

When you come back to awareness, your face is pressed into Dean’s neck. You’re sprawled out on top of him, and his arm is thrown around your waist, keeping you close, making warmth spread through you. You nestle into him a little bit more, savoring the way he feels. Firm, warm, real.

He’s still snoring gently, and you can feel that his jaw has sailed past stubble and into actual scruff scraping against your forehead. You smile against his warm skin, loving him so much that your heart is breaking.

You stay where you are and wallow in his closeness until you fall asleep.

“Your fault. This is your fault. I… Don’t know if we can get past this, Y/N,” Dean confesses tightly, his face hard and unforgiving.

“Shh, princess, it’s all right, you’re safe now. Shh, I’ve got you.”

You gasp awake and clutch at Dean’s shirt. He’s murmuring in your ear, rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back, which is incredibly comforting. “Shh, you’re all right, I’ve got you.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing your face into his chest. It’s still dark, so you surmise you’re in the very early morning hours. You struggle to get a grip on yourself. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says roughly into your ear. There are a few moments of silence, then, “Do you… Uh, do you wanna tell me about it?”

You think about it for just a moment. You haven’t told him much about the nightmares so far. Partially because there really hasn’t been time, and partially because of the ever-present fear that he will agree with the dream version of himself and leave you.

You remember that just the thought of him bolstered you enough to let you come back to the real world. You remember that when you woke up, it was on top of him, cuddled close. You remember that you love him, and he loves you, and the only way to fight this anxiety is to tell him everything, no matter how terrifying it is.

So you press your face into his chest and speak slowly. Bravery or no, you can’t look at him while you say it.

“Sam was dying. I don’t know how, but I know it was my fault. And you knew it was my fault, and you blamed me.” Tears well up in your eyes, because retelling it means you’re reliving it, and it was so vivid. “You, um… So, you blamed me, and you looked at me, and you said, ‘Your fault. This is your fault. I… Don’t know if we can get past this, Y/N.’” You quote each word verbatim, and it’s accurate down to the inflection he uses. You can always quote Dean’s hurtful words from your dreams.

You’re crying softly into his shirt, and he’s staying quiet, just rubbing those circles into your skin and holding you. It feels like you stay like that for a long time, but you know it’s probably just a few minutes. When you’re calmed down a little, you look up at him, fear making your stomach twist into painful knots.

He’s staring down at you, and when your eyes meet his, he brings one hand up to cup our face. He pulls you close to press a kiss to your forehead, breathing deeply. You close your eyes and just let yourself feel him. He’s here, he’s real, he wants me, he loves me.

“Well,” he says finally, not moving his lips from your skin, “Sammy’s alive as of a few hours ago, so that’s taken care of. And princess, at this point, I don’t know if there’s anything we can’t get past.”

His words are spoken thoughtfully, casually, like he’s trying to think of something, but he knows he won’t be able to. They resonate in you, they were exactly the right thing to say. So you lean back and smile up at him a little. His insanely beautiful face creases into an answering smile, and you feel your heart ache with how much you love him.

You hurry and press your face into him again, feeling lighter than you have in a long time. “I love you,” you whisper. “Can we stay here forever?”

You hear his heart beat faster, and you feel him shrug. “I don’t see why not,” he says easily. “At least until breakfast.”

“Deal,” you say quickly, cuddling close. You smile when his arm tightens around you and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

You fall back asleep with that same smile tilting your lips up.

Dean wakes up to an empty bed, no Winch or Y/N in sight. Panic makes his heart clench, and he’s sitting up and swinging his legs around to get out of bed before he hears her.

He urges himself to calm down as he listens to her hum from what he assumes is the kitchen. It makes him start to smile, and by the time he trusts himself to walk, not run, down the stairs to her, he’s full-on grinning.

Because she’s back. She’s back here, with him, and she’s singing in the kitchen. The smell of coffee is filling the house, along with the smell of whatever else she’s making, and she’s back with him.

He ends up trotting down the stairs instead of just walking, but he decides that he doesn’t blame himself for it and just makes his way toward her.

Winch is lying on the floor in what has become “his” spot in the sunshine. His eyes flick towards Dean and his tail thumps, but he makes no move to get up. Dean’s all right with that, he’s not here for the dog.

He presses his chest to her back and wraps his arms around her waist. He feels something tighten in his chest when she lifts her own arms to give him room, then leans back against him. Fuck.

“Dean, cooking,” she murmurs, whisking something in a bowl.

He buries his face in her hair to hide the way his eyes are burning. “Cooking what?” he rasps, hoping she doesn’t catch the emotion in his voice.

Because it’s really hitting him. He knew, of course. He knew how he felt about her, in that deep part of him that he doesn’t pay attention to. The part of him that is fierce in its emotions, so fierce that it scares the piss out of Dean, so he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just lives with it.

Now, though, now it’s here, in his face, refusing to be ignored. It’s building in his chest, making him want to take Y/N and just run with her. Put her in the car, load the dog into the backseat, drive until they’re too tired to think, and just stay wherever they end up. They can flip a coin to decide on turns and exits.

There, standing in the sunlit kitchen, while the world goes on around him, everything that Dean Winchester has ever been comes to a gentle stop. Because he is wildly, insanely, deeply in love with Y/N, so much so that no amount of commitment that he can think of is giving him a panic attack. Nothing is making him want to run, not unless she’s running with him.

He doesn’t know if he can say it yet. That still scares him, telling her out loud, that makes him nervous, but…

For the first time in his life, Dean wants to be able to tell someone how much he loves them.

Winch is lying on the floor where he usually naps, but he’s watching his MAN and his WOMAN closely. The way his MAN holds his WOMAN is familiar, comfortable, and Winch feels his heart lighten in gladness. The memories of his WOMAN being gone are already starting to go soft around the edges, and Winch knows, with a wisdom that few dogs and even fewer humans possess, that they will soon be gone. He is glad, he doesn’t want them.

His WOMAN came back smelling like the winged MAN smells sometimes, but also like Winch’s MAN. She smells like destiny, like a hero, like a leader. It is a scent that frightens Winch, because he knows that the destined, heroes, and leaders, are often in much danger. Despite his fear, however, he is proud of his WOMAN.

After all, Winch always knew she was the best WOMAN on the earth. He does not need to be told she is special, because he has always known.

He watches as his WOMAN and his MAN speak in low tones in their nonsense language. When she tosses her head back and laughs, he thumps his tail in approval. He knows there is a battle ahead, and much strife. For now, though, he is lying in his patch of warmth on the floor. His MAN and WOMAN are laughing and touching like they’re supposed to be. The home is filling with good smells.

For Winch, for now, life is good.

Chapter Text

You’re putting the last piece of French toast on a plate for Sam (he and Dean have both put away a ridiculous amount of food this morning, it’s like they’re trying to make up for lost breakfasts) when Sarah appears in the kitchen with the fluttering sound of feathers.

You turn, expecting Castiel, and your face feels like it’s going to split in half from how hard you’re smiling when you see her. “Sarah!”

She smiles, too, and waits for you to put the plate on the table in front of Sam. Then you throw your arms around her, even though it’s like hugging a marble statue, and squeeze.

You’re overwhelmed. What are you even supposed to say to her? Nothing will ever be enough to pay her back for what she’s done for you. You have to say something, though, so you let go enough to lean back and beam at her. “Thank you,” you say softly. Tears are filling your eyes again, and you just let them. You’ve earned a couple of days of just crying on and off.

She’s smiling, too, and her hands are resting on your arms. “It was my sincerest pleasure.”

You reach up and take her hands in yours. “Sarah, what happened? Where have you been?”

She sobers. “There was… Fighting, in heaven. Those who rebelled had to be taken care of.”

You blink, then frown. “Fighting? What happened? How the hell did you get me out of there?”

She sighs, then takes your hand and leads you into the living room. You follow, and you hear Winch, Dean, and Sam come in after you.

Bobby’s already in the living room, and he doesn’t even bat an eye at the angel in the room. He just nods. “Sarah.”

“Bobby,” she says with a smile. “I hope the use of your legs is satisfactory.”

He chuckles, and the rest of you sit. Dean is next to you, his arm slung around you possessively. Sam sits in one of the armchairs on the other side, and Winch jumps up on the couch next to Dean and sits up, staring at Sarah, his tail wagging just a bit.

Sarah nods once everyone is settled. “Y/N, the paintings you did in heaven. You asked me where they were being taken, and I told you that angels were taking them home.”

You feel yourself blush. “Um, yeah.”

“They were taking them because the talent inherent in you, of course, is immense. But it was also because your works changed the angels who saw them. At least, they changed certain angels who saw them.”

“Ch… Changed them?”

She nods encouragingly. “Yes, they changed them. Us, they changed us. And once we were changed, we understood that your imprisonment was unjust, and that you should be free. So we freed you.”

You smile wanly. “That is a very flattering way to not answer the question, Sarah.”

She flushes. “You want specifics. I… I am explaining this badly.”

“Y/N.”

Castiel’s sudden appearance doesn’t make you jump, you just turn and smile at him. “Cass!”

He approaches you, and the air of seriousness around him has you straightening your spine and meeting his eyes. He goes down on one knee, and your eyes widen. The gesture is both formal and comforting. Comforting because he’s close, and he’s there, and he’s safe. Formal because it looks like…

Well, it looks like a soldier of old addressing a superior.

“Y/N, what Sarah is trying to tell you is that your art has reminded angels of their original purpose, to guide and protect humanity. Heavenkind forgot, over the millennia, that that was what we were intended to do for humans. You reminded us. Or at least some of us, though I believe your influence will spread quickly.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, and you can feel yourself becoming pale. “Cass, all I did was paint a few paintings. It was just to stave off going stark, raving mad,” you say softly.

He smiles. “To you, it was a few simple works. But I believe that is your purpose. I believe that’s the core of the reasons God brought you here, to this universe.”

Sometimes you forget that you’re even from a different reality. This one feels so much more like home. Here, with Dean, feels much more like where you’re supposed to be, you just forget that you’re not from here.

“What am I supposed to do?” you ask.

“I believe that you are going to lead heaven’s rebellion.” You inhale sharply, but he continues. “I believe that you, the Artist, with the Righteous Man by your side, will lead the angels back to their original purpose, and begin to restore balance in heaven.”

You’re trying hard not to hyperventilate. Dean’s arm has left your shoulders, and he’s now lacing his big fingers through yours, squeezing your hand, giving you a lifeline that you grasp fiercely. You swallow and meet Castiel’s blue eyes, seeing sympathy there, but also resolution.

“I don’t think I can lead anyone to anything,” you whisper.

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Few leaders do.”

You shake your head. “Cass, you don’t understand. I… I mean, I’m a wreck. I can barely get out of bed. Michael’s got me so messed up I can’t think straight. I mean, the first bad news I got yesterday sent me into a tailspin. I can’t lead angels, I can’t cope with my own human life.”

He tilts his head. “Y/N, were you not tortured by Michael for fifteen weeks and four days? Were you not subject to a unique brand of torment?”

You frown. “I mean, yeah, but-”

“And are you not out of bed? Are you not cooking for the Winchesters and Bobby? Are you not here with us?”

“Technically, yes, but-”

“After being in a furious archangel’s care? For almost four months?”

“God dammit, Castiel, that’s not-”

He puts a hand on your knee, and it shuts you up. Tears are in your eyes. I have to make him see that I can’t do this, that I’m the wrong person, that I’m-

“I know that you do not think you are fit for this,” he says kindly, his blue eyes beaming sincerity at you. “But I believe that you are. As does Sarah. As do the dozens of angels who fought for you, and the few who were injured believe it even more. They wear their scars with pride, because they were obtained for you.”

You shake your head, freely crying now. “Cass, I can’t.”

Dean squeezes your hand, and you turn to look at him. He’s been silent this whole time, just sitting there in what you assumed was shock, trying to absorb the ridiculous notions that Castiel is throwing at you.

Shock, however, is not what’s shining in your soulmate’s eyes.

No, Dean’s green eyes are shining with faith. He believes in you, it’s written all over his expression. He thinks you can do this. You feel your face crumple, but his hand tightens on yours again, and you can feel the fierceness that makes up so much of who he is in that grip.

“You can do this, princess,” he says softly. “We’ll be there every step of the way.”

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you protest weakly, already knowing that you’re going to give in to them. Who wouldn’t?

“First,” Sarah says firmly, the first words she’s spoken since Castiel knelt, “You will take our pledges.”

You look at her, frowning. “Pledges? Pledges for what?”

“For loyalty,” Castiel says simply. “Oaths of fealty.”

Your eyes widen, and panic makes your breath short. “What? No, I’m not, no-”

“Hey,” Dean says, and you turn to look at him again. “If you need a minute, we’ll take a minute.”

You nod desperately. “Yes, yeah, a minute, please.”

He stands and gently tugs you with him. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone else, just takes you out of the room with him, Winch close behind, and Dean leads the three of you out the door to the porch.

Once he shuts the door behind you, he turns and wraps you in his arms. You wrap yours around his slim waist, and bury your face in his chest. “This is crazy,” you mutter. “What they want is crazy. I can’t do a damn thing about heaven, much less lead a rebellion against it!”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Doesn’t sound crazy to me.”

You look up at him and frown. “What?”

He shrugs. “I dunno… It makes sense to me. I mean, you’re the woman who decided that the archangels wouldn’t have Sam, and look who we’ve got. Sam.”

You shake your head. “No, Dean, I don’t… I mean, okay, yes, we won that round. But that was more luck than anything, and Cass found that ritual, and I-”

“What did you say happened after Sam went into the hole?” he interrupts, looking up over your head.

You blink. “What?”

“When Sam goes into the hole, takes Michael and Lucifer with him, what happens next?”

“Oh… Um… Okay, well, there’s a civil war in heaven. Cass fights Raphael, and there’s pretty bad losses on both sides. Cass makes a deal with Crowley to find purgatory, then betrays Crowley and takes all the souls, and then there are the Leviathans-”

“And you already stopped all of that from happening. Why wouldn’t you be able to do this, too?”

You frown. “Dean, that’s not what happened. I mean, we stopped Michael from going into the hole, too, but it looks like civil war is going to break out, anyway, and I don’t think I can-”

“Yes, you can,” he says firmly. “Princess, you’re not… You’re not like the rest of us. You’re special, God made you different than the rest of us.” He takes a deep breath, and he’s still not looking at you, but you’re mesmerized by him.

“When Sarah told us, before we… Got you back… When she told us that you’re special, that you’re waking the angels up and making them pull their heads outta their asses, it made sense to me. That you’re better than us.”

He finally looks down at you, and you’re bowled over by the emotion storming in his eyes. “Better than me,” he finishes quietly, almost a whisper.

You shake your head and reach up to cup his face, running your thumb along his cheekbone. “Maybe different,” you say softly, “but not better. Never better, okay?”

He looks overwhelmed, then slowly reaches up to cup the back of your head and bring you up to kiss you thoroughly. You whimper and press yourself impossibly closer, keeping the arm you have around his waist tight, and letting your other hand rest on his face.

He tilts his head and yours to deepen the kiss, and you open for him, because you’ll always open for Dean, you’re helpless against him. You’ll always be powerless against him. Against his mouth, against his hard body pressed to your soft one, against his big hands on you.

Against his unwavering and endless belief in you.

A small eternity later, he lifts his head and presses his mouth to your forehead. You close your eyes and try to steady your breathing. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

You lead Dean back into the house with a smile. He’s grumbling about missed opportunities to make out, but you want to get this over with while you still have the nerve.

When you walk in, Sarah and Castiel are in the corner, speaking in low voices. They’re standing close, very close, and you look back at Dean with your eyebrows raised. Sarah and Cass? you mouth in disbelief. He’s looking at you warmly and nods, then tugs you back against him, so you end up walking into the living room side by side, which feels better, anyway.

Castiel turns to you, and he must see the decision on your face. He nods, takes a few steps toward you, then stops. He turns back to look at Sarah.

“I… I think it only appropriate that you pledge yourself first, Sarah.”

A sense of rightness floods through you at the suggestion. You love Cass. You would die for him, and he for you, you know it without a doubt in your innermost heart.

But Castiel fell from heaven’s graces for Dean. Sarah is falling from grace for you. Sarah saved you. Sarah is the one who almost single-handedly orchestrated your rescue.

As sure as Castiel is Dean’s angel, Sarah is yours.

Without discussing it first, Dean takes a step back, so he’s standing behind you and just to your left. Winch is on your right side, his big head beneath your hand. This is right, too, both things. All of the little pieces are falling into place. This is what God brought you here to do.

And just like that, with a fleeting thought, almost lost among the hundreds of other thoughts flickering through your mind rapid-fire, it happens.

Suddenly, you’re not suffocating under the weight of other people’s expectations and belief. Surely as you breathe, the mantle of leadership that has been dropped onto your shoulders, while still uncomfortable, is manageable. You can do this.

Yes, you are a hero, Y/N.

With God’s words of faith ringing in your head, you feel your chin tilt up to a haughty angle as you watch Sarah kneel before you. She places her right arm across her chest, her fist resting on her left shoulder.

She’s looking down at the ground, and a whisper of disquiet dances down your spine. Before you can say anything about it, though, Sarah’s speaking.

“I, Sarah, an angel of the Lord, do hereby forsake heaven in your name, Y/N Y/L/N. I swear to lay down my life in defense of yours, should the need arise, and be glad of it. I swear to follow your every order without question-”

The wrongness of the situation cannot be ignored any longer. “Stop,” you say briskly. Sarah looks up at you, her green eyes wide, the beginnings of hurt starting to manifest itself on her pretty face. You rush to reassure her. “Sarah, I’m okay with this, I am. But I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I need you to question me. Question everything.” You smile gently. “Sarah, we have to go into this as equals, or we won’t make it.”

“No.” You look up at Castiel’s firm word. He’s been arguing with humans longer than Sarah has, he knows what he’s doing. “Y/N, we are not equals, and we will never be able to see it as such. You are our leader, effectively our superior. You may make Sarah your second in command, but she cannot be your equal.”

You frown until Sarah touches your hand gently. You look down at her. “Angels weren’t meant to work that way,” she says softly, earnestly.

You nod. “Okay. So, maybe not equals, and Dean is definitely going to be my second in command, but you can’t take everything I say as blind faith, either. We’ll all die, guys.”

Sarah contemplates your words for a moment, and you’re struck with the surreal realization that a millennia-old being is taking what you say seriously. You have a feeling that you’ll be going through that a lot very soon.

“All right,” the angel kneeling before you says somberly. “I know what to do.” She kneels again, returning her fist to her shoulder. This time, however, she meets your eyes. Yes.

“I, Sarah, an angel of the lord, do hereby forsake heaven in your name, Y/N Y/L/N. I swear to lay down my life in defense of yours, should the need arise, and be glad of it. I swear to both guide and be guided by you. I swear to defer all decisions to you, and to offer council whenever you wish. I swear, above all, to fight for and alongside you, as long as you are standing.”

Those words are better, they’re right, but her next words resonate with power. “Will you accept my sworn loyalty, Y/N?”

“I will,” you say softly, sincerely.

She nods, and you smile and relax. “That was nifty,” you say cheerfully a she stands.

“That is one way to describe it,” Castiel says dryly as Sarah steps aside so he can take her place, kneeling in front of you. As they do that, you notice their fingers brush against one another, and you can barely contain your surprise again. Sarah and Cass?!

He kneels in front of you, and your chin tilts up again.

“I, Castiel, angel of the lord, do hereby forsake heaven in your name, Y/N Y/L/N. I swear to lay down my life in defense of yours, should the need arise, and be glad of it. I swear to both guide and be guided by you. I swear to defer all decisions to you, and to offer council whenever you wish. I swear, above all, to fight for and alongside you, as long as you are standing.” A pregnant pause. “Will you accept my sworn loyalty, Y/N?”

You nod sharply, once. “I do.”

Castiel nods, too, as he stands. He seems to fight with himself for a moment, then, “Thank you,” he says gently.

A wave of exhaustion hits you, a byproduct of the last few crazy days and your general depression and anxiety catching up with you. “I’m gonna need a lot of help, so let’s hold off on the thanks until we get through this,” you murmur. Dean must sense how tired you are, as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you just a little to lean against his chest. You go gratefully, running your palm down his arm to wrap your fingers around his wrist.

“Okay,” you say cheerfully. “What’s next?”

“You have many more pledges to accept,” Castiel answers.

“Not until tomorrow,” Dean says firmly. “Y/N needs to get some sleep.”

Castiel opens his mouth, presumably to protest, but Sarah is nodding. “Very well. Tomorrow morning, the rest of the angels will come. And we will begin.”

There’s a beat of silence when the air feels heavy with promise. Promise of pain. Promise of war. Promise of despair.

There is also, however, the promise of hope.

It’s too much for you, so you turn and tuck yourself into Dean, who holds you close.

“Let’s go back to bed, princess.”

Chapter Text

You wake up tangled in Dean and Winch, which already has a smile blooming on your face. You’re surrounded by warm, firm muscle and coarse, thick fur, and you’re happy. You let yourself fall back to sleep.

You wake up tangled in Dean and Winch, which already has a smile blooming on your face. You’re surrounded by muscle and fur.

You shiver and try to burrow deeper into the blankets before you pause. Why… Why am I cold if Dean’s in bed with me?

Slowly, with dread pooling in your belly, you turn to look at Dean. He’s pale, and terribly, terribly still. Your heart clutches. Some dim part of you realizes that Winch is dead weight across your lap.

You went to bed with the great loves of your life, and you woke up in bed with corpses. So you do the only reasonable thing to be done and open your mouth to scream.

“Shh, princess. You’re all right, I’m all right, everything’s all right.”

You jolt awake. You fight the urge to struggle against the strong arms cradling you against a bare chest, and the presence you can sense at your back. It takes a few more moments of Dean whispering reassurances and gentle, loving words before you finally relax in his embrace and nuzzle your face into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

You feel him kiss the top of your head, which brings a ghost of a smile to your face. “Stop, don’t be,” he whispers fiercely. “I… It’s okay.”

“I love you,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his warm skin.

There’s a deep, thick pause, before he replies. “Go back to sleep, princess, I’ve got you.”

The thing about angels transporting around is that there really isn't any fanfare involved. They don’t fade into existence, there’s no lights or sparkles or sound, even, outside of the flapping of wings. The only real sensation that accompanies an angel appearing next to you is the slight, gentle puff of air being displaced, then they’re just there.

So you can be forgiven if, when an explosion sounds in the front yard, it doesn’t cross your mind even once that it might be anything other than some sort of an attack.

You’re leaning against Dean in the kitchen, laughing as he rubs his stubble against your sensitive neck, simultaneously making you squirm and sending heat start to build in your belly. “Dean!” you protest half-heartedly through your laughter, “I just have to finish washing dishes, then we can go… Be alone.”

You and Dean haven’t been intimate since you got back. Truth be told, you’re still nervous about it. You can’t hide yourself from Dean during sex, he always somehow manages to have you wide open, seeing right through you.

No matter how scared you are, though, you want him. He’s yours, and you love one another, and you want to jump his bones here in the kitchen. Which you would do, would it not irreparably scar Bobby, Sam, and Cass, and if you didn’t have dishes to finish.

He hum against your skin, pressing a kiss to where your neck meets your shoulder. “Why don’t we skip the dishes, and you and I can-”

Before he finishes, a huge, rending CRASH! shakes the entire house. You feel your lungs ache a little, and your teeth rattle at the sound.

There’s a moment of silence, then you and Dean break for it and run out the door.

You go straight outside. Dean detours around and grabs a gun, which is probably a better idea, but you’re already outside, so fuck it.

Winch gives one sharp bark before running to where you are, circling you, then taking up post at your right side. You automatically place a hand on his head as you take in the scene before you.

Castiel is standing in the front yard. His whole body is tense, and his blue eyes are wide in confusion and something bordering on panic. Sarah stands nearer to the house, where she was playing with the dog. She also looks surprised.

Dean comes to stand next to you on your left. His gun is in his left hand, but he’s relaxed enough to place his right hand at the small of your back. There’s no visible threat. "Everything all right?” he asks.

“What the hell was that?” You’re much less casual than he is about the question, but the looks on the angels’ faces are scaring you.

“I… Travelled here,” Castiel says, rather lamely. “It was more… Forceful than I anticipated.”

Sarah exhales sharply, almost a laugh. “Forceful?” she says incredulously. “Castiel, what happened?”

He looks at her, and you see something there that you file away in your growing “What’s Going On Between My Angel Friends” file for later. There are more important things going on right now.

“I… It’s hard to explain.”

“Try,” you insist.

He takes a deep breath and nods. “Very well. When I… When my powers were cut off from heaven, the kind of transportation we use as angels became much harder. I was still able to do it, obviously, but it took much more effort.”

He starts to frown. “But just now… When I travelled here, I used much too much force. It’s the equivalent of… Launching a baseball out of a grenade launcher in the middle of the game.” 

He says it with finality, his eyes wide, some serious emotion shining in them. When you look at Sarah, her eyes, too, are round with shock. 

“Okay,” Dean says slowly. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Castiel has received his full powers from heaven back,” Sarah breathes.

You blink. “What? How?”

“What?”

Castiel nods, straightening his coat and coming toward where you and Dean are standing. “Yes, I think, I mean... “ He sighs. “I will have to do more research into the matter, but I think the oath I made to you, Y/N, somehow restored me to my full strength.”

Sarah frowns. “I do not understand how.”

She may not get it, but you do. You feel your mouth dry up and fear skitters across your consciousness. You press your hands into your legs to make it less obvious that you’re starting to tremble.

“Because it… It, um, it’s God’s will,” You say softly. At Castiel’s raised eyebrows, you continue. “That makes sense, right? He brought me here, to you guys. And your powers aren’t really connected to heaven, per se, they’re connected to God.” You look between the two angels. “Is that right? That makes sense, right?” you ask again, timidly.

Sarah is nodding slowly. “That… Yes, that does make sense.”

You flinch a little, even though she’s agreeing with you. You didn’t necessarily need her to tell you that you’re correct, you already knew it. As soon as the words, “it’s God’s will,” left your mouth, that stupid sense of rightness filled you. It scares the bejeesus out of you, because that means that God’s watching, paying attention, weighing your actions and measuring your worth.

What if you’re not good enough? your anxiety asks slyly. What if this is the only thing he brought you here for, and you can barely manage to get out of bed when the big showdown finally rolls around? What if-

Warm lips on your temple has your thoughts faltering, then Dean’s rough, whiskey voice in your ear. “Shh, stop it, princess. Everything’s all right. We’ll figure out this God thing, yeah?”

As much as you want to stand strong on your own, you immediately give in to the urge to turn and curl into Dean. He wraps his arms around you, his lips still at your temple, and holds you in the morning sunshine while you try to resign yourself to the fact that God already has a plan for you, whether you like it or not.

The angels start arriving in the afternoon.

Sarah is able to give you plenty of time to get ready, which is a good and a bad thing all at once.

It’s a good thing because it gives you time to become clingy as hell and let Dean soothe your nerves by holding you or kissing you or reassuring you. You feel guilty and kind of selfish, but you do it anyway, because for fuck’s sake you’re about to lead an army in a rebellion against an archangel, you deserve some goddamn cuddling.

It’s a bad thing because you spent two hours deciding what to wear. Despite the assurances that everyone in the house gave you that it probably won’t really matter, it matters to you. It feels like you’re making a first impression, and it’s important.

It’s important because you’re ridiculously worried that the angels will take one look at you, regardless of how you’re dressed, and declare you unfit to lead. That would suck.

You’re right in the middle of deciding that the grey t-shirt you’re wearing and jeans in your hands are way too casual (what were you thinking?!) when Dean comes into the bedroom. 

He takes in the sight of you, pantsless and trying to find a nicer top (of which you suspect that you do not own any), in just a moment before he leans against the frame of the door and smirks. “Princess, what are you doing?”

You sigh. “Shut up. I just want to look right.”

“You look fine.”

You give him a look before turning back into the closet. “Dean, baby, I love you, but you’re biased.” For just a second before he responds, you revel at how comfortable you are with Dean. There was a time when you couldn’t look him in the eye, and now here you are, bantering and in love.

“I might be biased, but you’re gonna need to make up your mind quick, darlin’. You’ve got company.”

The last words, a little bit more somber than his previous ones, send chills up and down your spine as you straighten and meet his green gaze again. “Oh,” you say softly.

He pushes himself off of the door jamb and walks toward you to put his hands on your arms. He pulls you close and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You’ve got this, okay?”

You draw in a shuddery breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he promises softly against your skin. He leans back and smiles. “Now get dressed, let’s go.”

When you walk outside, you’re greeted with the sight of Castiel, Sarah, and someone you’ve never met standing in the front yard, conversing softly. The other person is wearing an eye patch, which you find fascinating until you really look at him. There are some scars peeking out from the black fabric covering his eye that are still angry and red. It’s a recent wound.

A wound that was probably received while he was helping rescue you. 

“Dean,” you whimper. “I need to go change. I look ridiculous.”

He wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulls you tight to him, and proceeds to almost carry you down the steps of the front porch. “You look great, you’ll do fine, come on.”

So that’s how you’re presented to the angels in the yard, hissing whispered protests to your soulmate as he forces you to confront the situation in front of you. Fabulous first impression.

You put on a smile, though it feels weak. “Hi,” you say softly.

Sarah smiles back gently. “Y/N, this is Nithael. He is the first to arrive today.”

You take a step forward and hold your hand out. “Hi, Nithael. I’m Y/N, I’m glad you’re here.”

His good eye is wide, and he doesn’t move an inch. Your mind immediately falls upon that. He thinks you’re ridiculous, he’ll never let you lead him anywhere-

“The Artist.”

His breathy, awed words pull you from your dark musings, and you blink at him. Which gives him enough time to fall to his knees and bow his head, looking at the ground in submission.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” you say quickly, dropping to your knees in front of him. You put a gentle hand on his cool shoulder and nudge until he looks up at you. You smile, completely forgetting for a moment that you’re nervous, or that the being in front of you is probably older than the oceans.

There’s just something weirdly vulnerable about the angels. They can smite demons and heal wounds and travel continents in the blink of an eye, but without a leader, they’re lost. Something inside you is just screaming that you have to take care of them.

Giving into that little inside voice, you reach up to cup his cheek on the side of his face that’s dominated by the black eyepatch. It doesn’t feel awkward to touch him this way. Angels have no understanding of personal space, anyway, so this is natural. His (totally unnecessary) breathing seems to stop completely, and his grey eye is boring into you.

You run a gentle thumb along his cheekbone. “Did… Is… Was…” You swallow hard. “Is this because of me?” you whisper, feeling small and heartbroken. When he nods infinitesimally, your breath catches. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry, Nithael.” Winch whines beside you.

Slowly, the angel takes his hand and brings it up to cover yours. “I am not,” he says fiercely. “I would have gladly taken much worse to see you freed.”

You’re completely nonplussed by his declaration, and the fear is back with a vengeance. What the hell are you supposed to do with that kind of loyalty? It makes more sense for Cass and Sarah to feel this way, but Nithael has no reason to be willing to die for you. You know quite literally nothing about the man.

“Tell me something about yourself,” you say quickly, trying to stay ahead of the panic threatening to overwhelm you. “Anything. Literally anything.”

He just stares at you, then hesitantly. “I… I am an angel of the Lord.”

You groan in frustration. “No, no, something personal, Nithael. Anything. Please.”

He tilts his head to the side, and it’s so similar to the way Castiel and Sarah do it when they’re trying to understand you that it soothes you a little bit.

“I don’t understand,” he admits finally.

“Likes and dislikes, man,” Dean says gently from behind you. “Music? Movies? Food?” You hear the frown appear in his voice. “Wait, angels don’t eat food.”

Nithael looks up at Dean, brow furrowed. “The Righteous Man. The Righteous Man and the Artist want to know what I like.”

“I believe it is an attempt to get to know you,” Castiel says from behind Nithael. “Humans need details about other beings to feel connected to them.”

The angel on the ground in front of you looks at you. “You wish to feel connected to me?”

You nod, finally letting your hand drop from his face. “I know it’s weird, but it… It feels important. Doesn’t it?”

Nithael searches your face for what feels like a long time, and you let him do it in silence. You’re willing to wait.

“Bach,” he finally says. “I have always been enamored with Bach.”

A genuine, wide smile graces your lips, and you feel ten pounds lighter. “Bach. Bach’s good.”

And so the angels who fought for you come.

At the end of the day, around fifteen have come to pledge their fealty to you. Which makes you hella uncomfortable, but they all insist on it, so you accept each new oath as they arrive.

Sarah tells you that none of them are welcome in heaven now, which makes you ache with guilt. So you talk to Bobby, who grumbles and bitches, but eventually he agrees to let any angels who wish to stay with you do so, either in the shed or hanging out in the house. They don’t need to sleep, but they need a home base. Everyone needs a home base.

Each and every one of them choose to stay with you. When you tell Sarah that you’re surprised, she just smiles and says, “They need to be near you. They need to see you, to make sure they don’t go back to who they were.”

That’s how you end up sitting on the couch, Winch on one side, waiting for Dean to come back with the popcorn. Angels litter the rest of the living room, scattered on the floor. Sam and Bobby are in the armchairs, speaking quietly to one another and nursing beers.

It seems silly, but Sarah says there are a lot more angels on their way to you. Some are injured, some are in hiding, and some are still too confused or scared to move. Either way, it seems wrong to do anything until you’ve given them each ample time to get to you, so you’re stalling with a movie night.

There was some debate, but everyone’s settled down with blankets and The Princess Bride is queued up to play. Angels don’t need blankets, but you said, “I just thought it would be cozy,” and suddenly everyone was clamoring for one. Having that much sway with them scared you, so you retreated to the couch, and now you just wait for Dean to get back.

I love you.

Hey, I love you.

I’m in love with you.

Princess, if I had known it would be like this with you, I would have been waiting on your front porch for a lot longer than just a few minutes.

Dean glares at his reflection in the microwave door. Smooth, genius.

He doesn’t understand why this is so hard for him. For God’s sake, he’s hand his hands all over her, not to mention his mouth, so it can’t be intimacy that scares him (and just thinking that makes him feel like a fourteen-year-old girl). She says it all the time, why can’t he just say it back?

Pussy, he sneers at his reflection. He gets the popcorn out of the bag, hissing when it burns his fingers, and goes back into the living room.

He carefully picks his way across the floor, biting back the urge to snap at the angels camped out there. Somehow, they’re all way too reactive to his moods. Not as much as they are to Y/N’s, but Dean bites his tongue anyway, lest he send one of them into a panic because he’s a little bitchy.

It feels like forever before he gets back to her, but the way she smiles and pats the space next to her on the couch in invitation makes the trek worth it. He hands her the popcorn, then eases down next to her.

She immediately curls into him. He pulls her legs to rest across his lap, wraps an arm around her, and feels himself relax as her warmth soaks into him. She cuddles close, and he can tell that she’s already half asleep. She’s got to be exhausted after today.

Dean wishes vehemently, not for the first time, that he could do this for her. He could tell, as the day wore on, that each new angel, new faces and names and little facts that she demanded from each of them, wore on her, made the voices in her head worse and made her more anxious. So as soon as was feasibly possible, he’d suggested the movie, then wrapped her in a comforter, put her on the couch with Winch, and now he pulls her close and scoots until he’s lying mostly beneath her, her head resting on his chest. She sighs and nuzzles into him, breathing deeply as she starts to shut down for sleep.

“I love you,” she whispers as the movie starts to play.

He’s met with her soft snores before he can even think about getting up the courage to say it back.

Chapter Text

“Please, Dean, look at me. Just look at me, please.” You reach up to touch his face, and when he flinches a little and turns away, it kills you, even as you roll your hips against his.

Around a week later, you’re making breakfast when Cass comes into the kitchen frowning.

The rest of your family is scattered around the house. Sam and Bobby have hit the books hard, trying to find a sure-fire way to kill an archangel. Sam still shoots you puppy dog looks of guilt and sadness, so you’ve been trying to reassure him. It doesn’t seem to be working, and Bobby and Dean show no signs of forgiving the youngest Winchester, but you do it anyway. Sam needs it.

Dean is outside with the dog, stating that he needed some time away from “fluffy-winged dicks who don’t know their heads from their asses.” Dean has not been adjusting well to having the angels around, but you’re proud of him for holding his temper as much as he has. You know that their constant questions, as well as the sheer number of them who’ve been showing up, is grating on his nerves. He just grits his teeth and deals with it, and you know it’s for you, so it always earns him grateful kisses.

It hasn’t gone past kissing, though, and you can’t figure out why. Why does it make you nervous to think about being with him that way again? Why does it scare you to think of opening yourself up to him? It certainly shouldn’t, he already knows you, and has made it pretty obvious that he loves what he sees. So where is all this uncertainty coming from?

Cass’s entrance shakes you from your dark thoughts, and you gratefully change subjects in your head. “What’s up, Cass?”

He meets your eyes, brow furrowed. “I feel… Strange.”

You tilt your head. “Strange how?”

“I… I think I’m hungry.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods slowly. “Yes… Yes, I believe I need to eat.”

“Cass,” you say cautiously, “since when do angels need to eat?”

“I do not know.”

“Um… All righty, then.” You turn back to the stove, trying to tamp down your panic. “Well, scrambled eggs are easy. These are already done, but I can whip up some more.”

His face melts into gratitude. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“No problem.” You turn to pull eggs out of the refrigerator, speaking as you do so. “Do you have any theories about what’s going on?”

He sighs and moves to sit at the kitchen table. “I… Do not know. Angels do not require sustenance. I do not understand why this body is experiencing this.”

“Is it… I mean, is it because of me?” The thought makes you ache. These angels have lost so much for you, you can’t really stand the thought of them giving up anything more.

“I do not know for sure.”

You take a deep breath and nod, more decisively than you actually feel. “Okay, do you think everyone else will be hungry, too? Because I’m gonna run out of eggs.”

They’re hungry. God help you, they’re all hungry.

You send Sam to the grocery store for more eggs, bacon, and bread. When he gets back, you put him on toast duty. You drag Dean back inside to man the bacon. You’re in your element, and it’s ridiculously easy to let go of your manic thoughts (what are we going to do about Michael what am I supposed to do with all of these fucking angels why can’t I sleep with Dean) and just cook for the hungry masses.

By which you mean twenty-four angels, three hunters, and one German Shepherd who’s probably getting fed like a king under the table. The angels have even less willpower than the humans when it comes to his big brown eyes begging.

Once breakfast is done (after two angels threw up because they have not mastered the fine art of not overeating), you show Nithael and a couple of others how to do dishes at Dean’s insistence that you don’t need to do everything. He then guides you back into the living room and to the couch.

“Dean,” you protest softly, “I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted, princess,” he says testily as he flops down next to you. “And I’m not gonna let you put those dicks first.”

You smile and lean into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. The amount of comfort you get just from touching him never fails to amaze you. “Dean, it’s fine. They need me. I’m the ‘leader,’” you say wryly, complete with air quotes.

He presses a kiss to to the top of your head. “Stop it, you can do this.”

You hum noncommittally, not believing him, but not willing to argue with him again. It hasn’t even really been arguing, you just can’t take his faith at face value, and it frustrates him.

He sighs. “Did you even eat anything?”

You frown, trying to think. “Surely I ate something.”

You feel him tense, then sigh again when he pushes himself off of the couch. He turns and points a finger at you sternly. “Stay.”

You smile. “Yes, sir.”

His green eyes heat up, and you can feel answering arousal curl in your belly. He grins and comes back to you, then leans down until your noses are brushing. He braces himself with one hand on either side of your head, effectively caging you in. You shudder a little and watch his smile become predatory. A whisper of unease works it’s way through you, and you fight to suppress it.

This is your soulmate. Your gorgeous, loving, supportive, protective soulmate. There’s no good reason to be afraid of him, afraid of being with him.

Well, there was that dream-

You’re saved from your thoughts by someone entering the living room. Despite the way Dean’s face darkens in frustration, you try to keep the relief off of yours as you turn to see the newcomer.

She’s wearing the body of a very young teenager, and you’ve been struggling not to treat her like a child. You wrack your brain for her name for a moment, then smile when it comes to you. “Pahaliah, are you all right?”

She’s running her tongue over her teeth, frowning in concentration. “My vessel’s teeth feel… Different.”

Dean sighs and heaves himself to standing as you answer her. “Different how?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure.”

You think back, then smile. “Did you have coffee with breakfast?”

You ask because you have a theory. Castiel’s powers returning, the rest of the angels keeping their power, everyone being hungry when you’ve never known an angel to actually require food, these things are coalescing in your mind to form an idea.

She nods. “I did. I like the hazelnut creamer.” The words sound like they fit funny in her mouth, like she’s trying them out.

Dean chuckles, and you smile. “Pahaliah, if you drink coffee with creamer, it coats your mouth. You need to brush your teeth.”

She frowns again, almost offended. “I have never needed to do any such thing.”

Dean scowls, and you stand to put yourself between them before he can bite her head off. “Well,” you say soothingly, ignoring the feeling of his green eyes boring into the back of your head, clearly angry at your less than subtle way of diffusing his anger at her abrupt tone. “You can probably use your powers to clean them that way, but if you guys are going to start eating, you’re going to need to get used to it.”

Her face has changed to disgruntled. “That is… Extremely inconvenient.”

You nod. “True story.”

Dean groans. “What else are we going to have to fucking explain to these dicks?”

As it turns out, a lot. You have to explain a lot.

You have to have the extremely uncomfortable conversation with Nithael about the effect that coffee has on one’s bowels after he comes in to dramatically declare that his vessel is dying, clutching his stomach. The poor thing had four cups of the stuff, it’s no wonder he’s in pain.

Quickly after that, it becomes clear that the angels have never felt the actual effects of caffeine. Then you have twenty-four angels who are just vibrating with energy. Dean and Bobby are irritated by it, Sam looks a little intimidated, and you can’t help but think it’s a little cute. All powerful wavelengths of celestial intent, taken down by Folgers.

You gratefully take Sarah’s suggestion to put them to work. Angels aren’t good at having downtime, they really operate best with orders. You place a call to Ash, who’s overjoyed to hear that you’re home and alive. He’s more than happy to send you hunting jobs, which you pass out to your weird little tribe. You tell them to be safe, and to be courteous to any hunters they come across. Each angel disappears with enthusiasm to take care of the myriad of supernatural threats.

When the last one has been dispatched, you turn to Dean, and you find yourself being handed a plate and a cup of coffee. He gently guides you to sit at the kitchen table. “All right, all right, everyone else is taken care of. Now sit and eat.”

You let him manhandle you, because that’s the way Dean takes care of people. You smile and press a kiss to his wrist where he’s got his hands on your shoulders to get you to sit. “Okay, I’m sitting, I’m eating.” You look up and smile at him. “Thank you.”

You could swear he blushes just a little before he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Always, princess.”

Dean’s sitting in the living room with Sam, Sarah, Bobby, and Cass, discussing the situation. He sent his woman to take a shower after she ate. He’s worried that she’s going to forget to take care of herself, and he’s seen firsthand how much it takes out of her if she doesn’t take just a few minutes to be alone.

“I guess I just don’t get what’s going on,” Sam says, pulling Dean from his musings. “Why do you guys suddenly need to eat.”

“I have a theory,” Y/N says softly as she pads down the stairs.

For just a second, Dean’s struck speechless. She’s wearing a pair of tight jeans, a tank top, and one of his zippered hoodies over everything. She’s beautiful, and the sight of her in his clothes always satisfies some deep, alpha male, possessive part of him. Fuck.

Cass looks up, a gentle smile on his face, which is surprising in itself. Dean’s used to the angels being expressionless bastards, but he’s noticed that Cass and Sarah have both gotten more apt to show their emotions on their faces. It’s unsettling.

“What is that, Y/N?” Cass asks.

She comes to sit next to Dean, and he automatically wraps his arm around her and pulls her into him. She lets him and rests her head on his shoulder. It’s good to see her like this, relaxed, just talking to them. Dean wishes fervently he could make this their every day. He vows to try when all of this archangel-restore-heaven-what-the-fuck-ever shit is over, to try to build her a peaceful life with him and the dog.

“I think it’s part of the ‘follow the Artist’ thing,” she confesses slowly. “I mean, the point was to remind you of your humanity, right? To make you shepherds again?” When the angels nod, she continues. “Well, it doesn’t get much more human than eating breakfast.”

Dean nods, proud of her, as always. “And getting the jitters after too much coffee.”

Sarah purses her lips. “That… Would make sense.” She blinks, then blushes furiously. “I wonder… I mean… What other human… Um, habits, will we be subjected to.”

Dean turns to press his lips to Y/N’s hair, trying to hide his smile. He knows exactly what kind of “habits” Sarah is referring to, and by the stricken look on Castiel’s face, so does the male angel. Dean’s happy for them, he really is, but he’s going to enjoy their discomfort as much as he can while it happens.

Before they can continue down that line of thinking, the angel wearing an eyepatch appears in front of them. Everyone but Y/N jumps, and Dean realizes she probably sensed him. Weird.

Dean remembers that his name is Nithael as the angel speaks. “I dispatched the vengeful spirit,” he says slowly.

Dean frowns at the trepidation in his tone. “Well, that’s what you were supposed to do. So, you know, good job.”

When the angel pauses, Y/N sits up. “Nithael? What’s wrong?”

“The… The man I saved.”

Dean sits up, too. “What’s wrong? Is he all right?”

Nithael nods. “Yes, yes, he’s fine, but once the ghost was disposed of, he…”

Dean hears the frown in his woman’s voice. “He didn’t say anything mean, did he?”

Nithael’s cheeks pinken, and Dean starts to chuckle as the angel explains. “Uh, no… No, no he didn’t. He… Kissed me.”

Dean tosses his head back and laughs. He hears Sam do the same, and even Y/N starts to chuckle. “Um,” she giggles, “Okay, yeah, that will happen sometimes. When humans are overwhelmed, with gratitude, or love, or l-lust,” she stammers between laughs, “we sometimes express it that way. With physical affection.”

She takes a deep breath and smiles. “Did it upset you?”

Nithael shakes his head slowly, much to Dean’s delight. “No… No, it was quite enjoyable.”

Dean can’t be expected to contain himself at that. He laughs harder, trying to get a hold of himself. It’s just been such a tense few weeks. Michael kidnapped Y/N, then they got her back, and everything that happened after. This little moment, this bright little moment of happiness and mirth is too much for him. So he laughs.

Thankfully, everyone else is still laughing, too. Sarah and Cass have big smiles on their faces, and only have eyes for each other. Y/N is pressed up against him, her hand covering her mouth, but her shoulders are shaking. Sam is holding his sides, and even Bobby is smiling.

Just as Nithael starts to smile, clearly confused as to what the joke is, Dean’s laughter cuts off completely as some instinct starts screaming at him.

Danger. Run. Duck.

He wraps an arm around Y/N, yanks her to the floor, and covers her body with his. He looks up at Nithael, and recognition flashes on the angel’s face. Then his eye hardens, and Dean sees, for the first time, that this skinny, one-eyed angel is a soldier of heaven.

Nithael flings his arms to the sides, and Dean feels an invisible, albeit gentle, force push them to the ends of the room. The couch flies over them, then lands in front of them, shielding them from the middle of the living room. Indignant shouts indicate that the same has happened to Bobby, Sam, Sarah, and Cass. Winch yelps, and Dean reaches down to yank the dog up by his scruff to be between him and Y/N.

“Nithael! No!”

Dean never remembers who shouts the angel’s name before an ear-splitting, horrifying sound tears through the air, and everything goes a sharp, pristine white.

Chapter Text

Funeral pyres.

The snapping and crackling of fire as it eats through flesh and wood alike. The fire doesn’t discriminate, it doesn’t care that the flesh was beloved, or that the wood was not. It just consumes.

The way the fire flickers, throwing the features of the sorrow-stricken people standing around into painfully sharp relief.

The scent and taste in the air of sizzling flesh and burning hair and charring wood. It combines into a nauseatingly thick scent, one that’s almost too much to take.

You all stay there and take it anyway. It’s as much penance as you’ll be allowed, the only punishment you’ll receive for being the ones left alive.

It takes you a few moments to realize that the piercing sound and debilitating light are gone. To your credit, that’s probably because Dean has your face pressed into his chest, and your own hands are covering your ears.

When you do, you slowly pull away from him, blinking your eyes open and looking around. “What… What happened?”

Dean isn’t moving as slowly. He scrambles to his feet and surveys the living room over the sofa that still blocks your own view. He scowls. “Fuck.”

The soft expletive has ice slicing through your veins. Nithael? “Dean?”

His green eyes are stricken with sorrow and anger when he looks down at you. “I’m sorry, princess,” he says hoarsely.

Nithael! You ignore the way Dean tries to restrain you and you surge to your feet. It’s hard to think, or breathe. Your eyes land on the prone figure, laid out in the middle of the floor. The world narrows to just include you and Nithael.

And, of course, the massive, wing-shaped scorch marks on the floor.

He looks… Asleep. He just looks like he’s asleep. His face is pale, just like it normally is, and the only eye you can see is closed peacefully. You slowly, so slowly, move around the couch, ignoring the stricken faces of everyone around you as you kneel next to your fallen friend.

You gently pull his head into your lap, running your fingers through his shaggy brown hair, wishing fiercely to see him open his eye and smile up at you, like he’s been learning to do. Nithael is the angel who has taken to humanity and expression and emotions the fastest, and he’d been doing so well. He was the first angel to join the crew.

Was. The word cuts more than three little letters have any right to. Your vision blurs with heartbroken tears.

You feel Dean kneel behind you, his arms coming around you, his cheek pressed to your temple. “Shh, princess, shh.”

His soft murmur makes you realize that you’ve been chanting. “No, no, no, no, no,” as you caress Nithael.

You have no concept of how long it takes for Dean to coax you away from the floor, but you struggle against him when he tries to move you.

“Dean, Dean,” you gasp. On some level, you know that you’re being hysterical, but you can’t seem to stop. “I can’t leave him, just look, look, I can’t leave him alone, he’ll be alone, Dean, please, I-”

He gently scoops you into his arms in a bridal carry, which effectively silences you. He tilts you just enough to press his lips to your forehead and whisper against you, “Shh, I’m sorry, I know, baby.”

You’re paralyzed by shock and grief. He was just standing there, talking to us. He kissed someone today. He kissed someone less than an hour ago for the first time, and now he’s… You can’t think the word, so you just let Dean carry you into the kitchen and try to get your breathing under control.

Dean sets you on the counter and wraps his arms around you to pull you close and hold you hard. You put your arms around his waist, more out of habit than actual desire or cognizance.

You stay there for a just a moment before a horrifying thought has you lifting your head in fear.

“Dean, the others. We have to check on the others.”

Thirteen.

Thirteen angels have died in the first attack from Michael. In one fell swoop, he has cut your forces in half, and has effectively shattered your heart.

Sarah and Cass went to gather the rest of your family, and only came back with nine of them. Only eleven of the angels survived the attack.

Through your helpless shock and sadness, Sarah tells you that the attack bears the unmistakable signature of Michael’s grace. The strike was definitely from the archangel and his own army, and it was effective as all fuck.

Everyone is subdued that night. The bodies of the fallen have been collected. Sarah and Cass have volunteered to prepare them for hunter’s funerals. The angels, despite their centuries of service to heaven, fell from that service and died like hunters, so it makes sense that they’re mourned like them, too. When you suggested it gently, the grateful and kind looks from the living angels almost did you in.

You lie in bed, having retired early for the night, and stare at the ceiling dully. You have no idea what to feel, or what to do. You try to keep your mind and your heart empty.

It doesn’t work.

They’re dead because of me. They were becoming human, becoming more vibrant and alive and ready to defend humanity, and now they’re dead because of me. It’s all my fault. Oh, God, why did I think I could lead them anywhere but here? Why did I ever think I could keep anyone safe?

Dean stands outside the bedroom that used to be just his, and now belongs to both of them, and tries to think.

He left Winch downstairs with the remaining angels. They seem to get some level of comfort from the big dog, and as much as Y/N loves Winch, Dean thinks it might be too much for her right now. And hell, if it makes the lost, grieving angels feel better, Dean is all for it.

While he was leery about them in the beginning (God’s foot soldiers have not always been the best of friends to the Winchesters), Dean feels a fierce sense of protectiveness towards the angels now. He doesn’t want to think that it’s the tragedy that did it, but maybe it is. Maybe it’s that none of the surviving angels have even thought about bailing or going back to heaven, at least out loud. Or that the first thing most of them asked about, injured or not (somehow, miraculously, the angels who survived were only superficially hurt), was to make sure Y/N was all right.

Whatever it is, Dean is suddenly all aboard the angel bandwagon, and he is pissed. He feels full to the brim with righteous fury at the thought of that motherfucker Michael making a sneak attack like that. Of an archangel taking what he considers potshots at his brothers and sisters and watching them die. It makes Dean sick with anger, he’s been shaking with it all day.

So now he’s standing outside their bedroom, trying to get rid of that anger. It has no place inside this room, not with her. She’s devastated and in shock and exhausted, she doesn’t need him trembling in rage.

He finally pulls it together a little, just enough to feel like he can control himself enough to be around her. He opens the door slowly, cautiously. “Princess?”

The room is dark, and as he slips in and gently shuts the door behind him, Dean frowns in concern. “Y/N? You okay?”

She doesn’t answer, so he creeps closer to the bed she’s lying in. He gingerly climbs on the bed and lies next to her on his side, just studying her lovely profile. He lets the silence weigh heavy on them. She’ll break it when she’s ready.

Minutes, maybe even as many as an entire hour, pass before she does.

“Dean, I feel lost,” she whispers, and her ragged voice tears at his heart. “I feel like I can’t breathe.” Now that the words are out, she can’t seem to stop the flow. “Everyone’s looking at me like I should know what to do, but it’s not like God gave me any sort of manual or tutorial or whatever. I have no idea what happened, or how it got this far, or what to do. Dean, what the fuck am I going to do?”

She finally turns to look at him, and Dean’s heart breaks further. “I got thirteen of them killed. Why are they even still here? Why…” her voice cracks with emotion, and she swallows hard before trying again, never taking her teary gaze from his. “Why can’t they see that I can’t do this?”

Slowly, like she’s going to bolt at any second (which may not be that far from the truth), Dean slowly gathers her into his arms, against his chest. She doesn’t really respond at first, but eventually drapes her arm around his waist and burrows close against him. He presses a hard kiss to her hair.

Dean wishes, not for the first time, that he could be more like Sam when it comes to talking about feelings. Dean’s always been crap at it, but he feels the lack of that particular skillset more keenly than ever in this moment.

But he gives it a try, anyway.

“Listen, I know it all seems hopeless and dark right now. Hell, it even might be hopeless and dark, I don’t know.” Dean takes a deep breath, hopes he’s saying the right thing. “What I do know is that we’ve got Sam on our side, and Bobby, and Cass and Sarah and all of the other angels.” He wishes he was brave enough to look her in the eyes or this next part, but he figures baby steps. “And you’ve got me, princess, forever. And I… And I’ve got you.”

He lets those words sink in for a moment before he speaks again. “So maybe we’re going up against some pretty big bads, and maybe we don’t have as big a team as we want, but we’ve got you, and to be honest…” It’s Dean’s turn to swallow hard. “To be honest, princess, I feel better about this than I have about anything in a long, long time.”

She starts to tremble in his arms, but at the same time she’s wrapping her own am around his waist fiercely tight and tangling her legs with his. They’re as physically close as two people can be to one another.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and he knows that she gets it. She gets how hard it is to say shit like that for him, and she appreciates it.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” she continues, her hot breath creating a damp spot on his chest, “but thank you. I love you.”

Dean holds her as she drifts off to sleep, glad she’s able to rest, hoping he’s a part of what makes that happen for her.

And if sometime after midnight, he’s finally able to whisper a strained, barely there, “Iloveyoutoo” into her hair, well, no one hears it but Dean.

You’re standing on a long, flat beach. It looks cold, but you feel fine, so you know that you’re probably in a dream.

It’s peaceful, though, so you let yourself soak it in for a few minutes. Heaven knows you’ve had little enough peace lately.

Actually, heaven is intimately acquainted with how little downtime you’ve had. Fuckers.

You’re pulled from your dark thoughts by the presence of another person on the sand next to you. You turn and frown a little in confusion when you see Chuck.

“Hey, Chuck, that’s a little random, but what-”

He presses two fingers to your forehead, and you remember that you are more than a little miffed with the Lord.

“What do you want?” you snap.

His eyebrows go up. “I’m just… Checking in.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you, now?” You tap your chin with a finger. “Well, let’s see. About twelve hours ago, one of your children found out that he liked kissing boys. Then, about fifteen minutes later, he fucking died. Along with twelve of his brothers and sisters,” you snarl. “You dammit, Chuck, where the hell have you been?”

Chuck shrugs, and his nonchalance has you seeing red. “I’ve been around. Keeping an eye on things.”

“Keeping… Keeping an eye on things?” you parrot incredulously.

You are not, and have never been, of the opinion that you know better than God. You have no idea what it would be like to be the Creator of All, or whatever, so you have always tried to steer clear of the line of thinking that you could do better, or that you know more.

But, as you watch Chuck’s bland expression become something close to sheepish (which is not nearly a severe enough emotion for this situation) you find that you don’t really want to talk to Chuck. If he’s not going to pick up a damn side, then you don’t particularly want to interact with him at all.

“Wake me up.”

Chuck frowns. “Huh?”

“Let me wake up. I don’t want to be here right now.”

He blinks. “Uh, why?”

You shake your head. “Look, I mean absolutely no disrespect, so please don’t smite me. I just… I mean, Chuck, if you’re not going to help, then what am I doing here?”

He looks at you closely. It feels like it lasts a long time, but this is a dream and he’s God, so it could also just be a few minutes.

Finally, he smiles. “All right. I just want to say that I’m proud of you. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I am.”

You smile tightly. “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

Everything fades away.

Funeral pyres. Nobody talks about how monumentally it sucks to stand and watch funeral pyres burn.

Four new angels showed up last night. You were flabbergasted that more of the heavenly host would hitch themselves to your cause, but you were the only one who felt that way.

You missed it last night, because of your own shock and devastation, but Sarah, Cass, and the rest of the angels are furious. They’re enraged that Michael would launch an attack like this period, much less against their own. Apparently other angels felt the same way, because the four beings who joined you fell to their knees and swore their oaths more fiercely than any of the others, except for maybe Sarah.

Well… And Nithael.

The thought brings you back to present, back to watching the angels, your comrades, burn. It’s a terrible thing, and it sends a primal sort of anger scorching through your veins. Nithael was yours. All of these angels were yours.

Michael fucked up. He doesn’t understand that yet, but he will.

As if sensing your disquiet, Dean, who has been standing next to you, wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to press his lips to your temple. You lean in, silently accepting his support. Winch sits next to the two of you, watching the fire with sad brown eyes.

After a long, silent time, you sense Sarah’s presence next to you. “Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

Sarah is speaking softly, so her voice only just carries to your ears. “Do you have a preferred course of action, going forward?”

A beat passes, then you nod.

“Michael thinks he can beat us,” you say, loudly enough that everyone can hear. You see them turn to you, but your eyes stay on the fire. “He thinks he can beat us because we’re few. He thinks he can beat us because he’s an archangel, and I’m a glorified waitress.”

You have no idea where all of this confidence is coming from, but you embrace it. It’s what they need, and it’s what you need.

“Michael is under the impression that he’s squashing a few rebellious angels and a couple of troublesome humans. Michael thinks one or two skirmishes will stop us, because we are not an army.”

You take a deep breath.

“We’re going to let him, and all who stand with him, that, army or no, we are at war.”

Chapter Text

“We have two angels posted in… Well, I suppose the ‘armory’ is the best word to use. We also have four higher up, those who run training drills and assign garrisons. You’ve met two of them, but I can assure you of their dedication to the cause. Then we have our ‘ace in the hole,’ so your consort would say, Chamuel.” Pahalia says proudly. “Michael’s first sergeant.”

You nod in confirmation. “His right hand man. Perfect.” You frown at the angel, still standing in front of the kitchen table. “Pahaliah, please sit. You’re making me twitchy.”

The angel rolls her eyes, but obligingly sits. The show of spirit brings ghost of a smile to your face before you continue. “And he’s doing okay, Chamuel is? With the spellwork, I mean?”

Chamuel is, honestly, probably one of your greatest assets. A week after you had to hold hunter’s funerals for your lost angels, Chamuel came to you in a dream. He’s appalled at his superior’s actions, and in a move that speaks of almost unfathomable bravery, he came to you to help.

More importantly, he came to you with the beginnings of a plan.

Chamuel started slowly, subtly, talking to his brothers and sisters that he thought he could trust. There are some angels, quite a few, who believe that Michael’s actions were just. The thought turns your stomach, and makes Chamuel’s caution that much more urgent. You want no more deaths, on either side, but most importantly yours, so secrecy is key until the threat is neutralized.

The fact that there is a plan in action makes everyone, human and angel alike, feel better. Inactivity for the first days after the funerals made everyone restless and uncomfortable. So you did the only thing you could think of, and you sent the angels off to hunt again. They go in pairs now, and most of them choose to stay invisible to humans. They smite and move on quickly, trying to stay on the move. You understand their caution, and are even glad for it.

Your phone buzzing on the table knocks you out of your reverie. The name on the display sets butterflies off in your stomach, and has your face stretching into a smile. You nod once to Pahaliah, who’s watching you with amusement written clearly on her young features. You mock scowl at her as you stand up and answer the phone on your way out.

“Hi, Dean.”

There’s a smile in his voice. “Heya, Princess.”

Something deep inside of you, something that always remains tight and scared and painful when he’s gone, relaxes somewhat at the whiskey sound of his voice. “How’s it going?”

“All right. Got two more recruits. Sammy and me are gonna finish up this werewolf case, and we should be headed back home tonight.”

Sending the angels to hunt with the Winchesters has made everything go much smoother for them, and you’re eternally grateful. The last thing you need is more reasons to worry about your boyfriend and his wayward brother.

They’ve been gone for two and a half weeks, and you’re starting to get antsy. They left on Cass’s suggestion that, as your “consort,” (a title that almost never fails to make you giggle and make Dean blush, no matter how vehemently he denies it), Dean can accept oaths of fealty on your behalf. It makes sense to take advantage of the loophole, being able to meet the newly liberated angels wherever they happen to fall is a huge asset. You know it is in your head, but you miss Dean like crazy, and you’re having trouble not resenting the hell out of Castiel for suggesting it.

The ache you feel in your chest, however, has finally convinced you to be brave and tell Dean what’s going on in your head, and why you’ve been so distant. Even just the thought kind of terrifies you, but you’re going to do it anyway. Because you love him and you miss him and God help you you need him to be with you.

“So, I’m thinkin’ as long as this werewolf goes down as easy as I think it will, we’ll be home before dinner. How’s that sound, baby?”

You smile wide. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”

When he gets home, you don’t even need the angels to tell you that they’ve arrived. You can feel it deep in the marrow of your bones. He’s close.

You’re in a discussion with Rikbiel about how best to strike heaven when you feel it. Without preamble or explanation, you stand and run down the stairs and to the backdoor.

(Later, when you come to apologize, Rikbiel will give you a soft smile and explain that no one expected you to be in any shape to plan an attack when Dean got back. You blush furiously, Dean laughs, and Rikbiel just smiles his little smile as he walks away.)

When you burst through, you only have eyes for Dean. You don’t see the new angels, or Sam, and you really only register the car because Dean is still climbing out of it. He’s chuckling at something, but his eyes immediately seek you out, which is gratifying as all hell. The smile fades into something gentler, sweeter for you, and he doesn’t even move to get his bags out of the trunk before he’s circling the car and meeting you halfway.

You can’t help it. You feel like some sort of romance movie damsel in distress, but you can’t seem to help the tears that gather in your eyes, or the way your legs take you to him at a run. When he’s at the bottom of the little steps on the porch, and you’re at the top, you throw yourself at him, and you know he’ll catch you. Dean’s always caught you.

True to form, he does this time, too, and his arms are tight around you as you wrap your legs around his waist and hold onto him just as fiercely. Your breathing is shaky, and you feel the way his hands tremble just a little as he puts one under your thigh to help hold you up (not that you need it, you’re doing just fine staying right where you are all on your own), and puts the other on the back of your head, gently stroking your hair and keeping your face buried in his neck.

“Hey, princess,” and his voice sounds a little thick, now that you hear it again, “miss me?”

“A little,” you say, still pressed into his neck, so your words are muffled.

He huffs out a laugh and starts up the stairs. “Where to?”

“Bedroom,” you say after a beat of silence.

He stills, and you feel him turn so his mouth is almost pressed to your ear. “Are, uh, are you sure?”

You nod, wincing a little, because for some reason you were hoping he hadn’t really noticed your lack of intimacy. “Yes, please.”

His grip tightens infinitesimally as he carries you through the house. You begin pressing tiny, frantic kisses on his warm neck, aching for any part of him to be against any part of you without the barrier of clothes.

By the time you get up the stairs and to the bedroom, you’re both panting and holding onto one another hard enough to bruise. Neither of you pays either of those things any mind until Dean has you in the bedroom and has the door kicked shut behind the two of you.

He sets you down, and before either of you can think too much about it, you’re kissing frantically. You’re pulling his jacket off of his shoulders, and he growls a little into your mouth when he has to let go of you to let it fall to the floor, which makes your toes curl in your sneakers and sends a shiver down your spine. His big, warm hands land on your hips again, and he turns the both of you so you’re pushed against the door. He pins you there with his weight, his leg slotting between yours, making you whimper a little and fist your hands in his shirt.

His mouth moves on yours like a sin, and he’s rolling his hips just the right way to make you gasp, and you have no idea how, but luckily a little tendril of sense finds its way to your higher brain functions before they shut down completely, and you press against his chest. Dean immediately lifts his head, although he doesn’t back off, which is good, because you don’t really want him to go anywhere. “Everything okay?”

His husky question makes you a little weak in the knees as heat curls in your belly, but you fight to stay strong. You need to get this out, if only for yourself, before he takes you apart over and over.

“Yeah, yeah, um, I just… Before we do this, I just wanted to tell you, like, I wanted to be honest with you about why we haven’t been… Doing… Uh, this,” you finish lamely, blushing and gesturing between the two of you.

His brow creases, and you want to soothe it away as he speaks. “Okay. Are you all right?”

You nod, and settle your eyes somewhere on the few inches of skin on his neck that’s bared by the henley he’s wearing. Ugh, he’s so fucking hot. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just… I mean, it’s kind of important.”

He nods, and instead of pressing for more details right away, he bends a little and picks you up again. You squeak and hold on, surprised. He backs over slowly until the backs of his knees hit the bed, then sinks down with you firmly held in his lap. You’re glad he does, because it’s probably the position that gets you the most physical contact.

You press your face into his warm neck again, because while you want to tell him this, you don’t know that you could look him in the eye while you do.

“Okay, so, um, about a week before you left, I had a new nightmare.” His grip tightens on you, but he stays silent, and one of his hands starts running soothingly up and down your back. “In it, we were… I mean, we were having sex, but…”

Something is off.

When he touches you, it’s cold and impersonal. There’s nothing of the love or gentleness or sweetness the two of you usually have, it’s just… Sex.

He barely looks at you, and he doesn’t kiss you at all. He’s touching you just enough to get both of you off.

Dean is good at it, and you feel pleasure spreading through you, slow and hot, but there’s none of the warmth. As he sinks into you, you whimper, and you can’t tell if it’s because he feels so good, or because your heart is hurting.

“Please, Dean, look at me. Just look at me, please.” You reach up to touch his face, and when he flinches a little and turns away, it kills you, even as you roll your hips against his.

Dean’s blood could be ice water for all the heat he feels now. He’s horrified, both by the story she’s telling, and by the low monotone her voice has become. It’s all he can do to keep up the gentle movements of his hand on her warm back.

“And I just, I don’t know, I guess I got the sense that dream you was being that way because I’m so needy, and anxious, and I need so much reassurance, and I’m just so scared that you’ll get tired of it, of me always asking if we’re okay, or whatever, and I don’t-”

Far from monotone now, her voice is spinning higher and higher into hysteria, and Dean turns to press his lips to her cheek. “Shh, princess, hey, it’s all right, come back to me, you’re all right.”

She draws in a shuddering breath and nods again. “Right, um, anyway. So, that’s why I’ve been having trouble with… This.”

He realizes that he’s started a gentle back and forth rocking, and he keeps it up, hoping it soothes her a little like it does him. “I’m glad you said something,” he says softly, unsure of what else to say. He’s not good at this, he doesn’t have what she needs to comfort her.

“I’m all right,” she whispers shakily, her breath finally evening out. “I just… Wanted to let you know, I guess,” she says timidly.

And there it is.

Something in the way her voice becomes small and unsure, maybe. Or the way she folds in on herself just a little bit more. Whatever it is, it takes all of the stupid insecurities and internal roadblocks in his head and tosses them out the window.

This is the brave thing to do, and for her, the brave thing has always been easy for Dean.

“Hey, look at me, princess.” She doesn’t resist when he gently guides her head up so they’re looking into one another’s eyes. He takes a deep breath, then.

“Listen, I know this is exhausting for you, but it’s not for me, okay? I’m here to tell you that we’re okay, or that you’re doing all right, or to tell those voices to shut up, and I’ll always be here for that okay? I… Jesus, Y/N, I’m in love with you. Did you not know?”

“Jesus, Y/N, I’m in love with you. Did you not know?”

You knew that, obviously, he’s been so wonderful and patient and adoring that it would be hard not to know how Dean felt about you. But to hear it like that, to hear him say it…

Your entire existence has just shifted into place in a neat little click of changing perspectives. Nothing is different, not for real, not in the long run, but somehow everything is different. Your world has really just moved about an inch to the left, but everything is better and lighter and better here.

Everything stills for just a beat, and then you’re both moving at the same time, crashing your mouths together, hands frantic to tear clothing off to get to flesh.

“Oh, God, Dean,” you murmur against his lips as soon as you can get back to him after he whips your shirt off, “oh, God, Dean, I love you so much-”

“I love you, too, princess,” he whispers, raw and open and honest, and it sends more heat through you than anything he’s done with his hands so far.

More loving murmurs and sweet nothings are traded as you both scramble to divest the other of clothes. There’s just a smidge of an awkward moment when you have to stand to take your pants off, but then he’s spinning both of you and gently nudging you back onto the bed, rearranging you so he’s standing between your bent legs, your toes brushing the floor.

The tender look in his eyes as he knees has you taking in another shaking breath. He takes your left foot in his hand and, never breaking eye contact, presses a kiss so soft you can barely feel it to to the top of that foot.

“I love you,” he whispers.

He kisses your ankle. “I love you.”

He kisses your shin. “I love you.

He sets that leg down, and starts at the other one. “I love you.”

The courage it’s taking him to do this, to declare his love for you, when you know how absolutely terrifying it must be for your stoic, “I don’t have feelings” boyfriend, makes tears gather in your eyes. He whispers his love between kisses to your knees, your thighs, each of your hips. Your belly, each rip, the top of each breast, each shoulder, and down both of your arms is graced with the same gentle, adoring worship.

By the time he makes it to pepper your face with kisses, you’re crying pretty openly, albeit silently. He kisses away the tears from your temples, each of your eyelids gently, and finally ends at your mouth, taking your lips with his and firmly banishing any more insecurities you have. Not permanently, you both know that the way you feel, the confidence and assurance, is only for tonight, that tomorrow you’ll probably be back to worrying and doubting.

But for now, for tonight, it is enough.

His hand moves down to gently tweak a nipple, making you gasp for an entirely different reason. You arch your back and whimper into his mouth, which has turned up into a smile. He does the same to your other nipple, making you squirm, before his hand skims down your belly, still soft and reverent, and settles between your legs.

You’re soaking wet, because apparently emotional intimacy does it for you, too. He easily sinks two fingers into you, making you cry out and toss your head back. “Dean!”

He leans down to whisper in your ear. “That’s it, baby, God, I want you so much, you’re so fucking reactive, look at how wet you are for me-”

So he trades those sweet nothings for gentle, loving dirty talk, which makes you wild. One of your hands comes up to bury itself in his hair while the other rakes your nails down his back as you buck into his hand. “Dean!”

He starts to thumb your clit, sending sparks up and down your spine, making your mouth drop open as you moan loudly. He’s grinning now, kissing your ear and keeping up his steady whispers. “You’re so sexy like this, princess, fuck, I want you so fucking bad-”

“Dean, please,” you beg shamelessly, moving the hand not in his hair down between you to wrap around his length, bringing out a deep moan from him as he shudders at your touch. “Dean, I need you inside me, please, please.”

He finally takes his fingers from you, and makes eye contact again just so you can watch the way his pupils dilate even further as he slowly licks them off, making you whimper, “please,” one more time.

He smiles wickedly down at you, then moves away for just a moment to grab a condom. He rolls it on, then settles himself over you slowly, pressing you into the mattress. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist.

He presses his forehead to yours, and you watch as his eyes slip closed. “Fuck,” he whispers fervently as he lines himself up. You whimper and tilt your hips, giving him better access, whining low in your throat.

He sinks in slowly, drawing it out, making both of your breathing stutter at the stretch. “Oh, fuck,” you murmur, letting your own eyes close so you can really appreciate the way he opens and fills you up, so you feel contentment and heat and restlessness all at the same time, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

When he bottoms out, you both moan, and he wastes no time pulling back out and establishing a rhythm that rocks the bed slowly with you. You roll your hips against his, gasping and moaning as the pleasure tightens around you, making you feel like you don’t fit into your skin, like nothing will ever make you feel this way again, though Dean has made you feel like this before, and he will several times over in the future.

It doesn’t take long for the pace to pick up, until your fingers are digging into his biceps and you’re crying out as he tilts you just so so he’s hitting that spot that makes your insides shudder and your legs spasm. “Dean!”

“Come on, baby,” he whispers, “Come for me, Y/N, come on, sweetheart-”

Your world narrows down to just the point where you’re connected, and your orgasm washes over you hard, making you buck and moan and shudder and moan out his name over and over, hanging on desperately as the pleasure storms through you.

Three hard thrusts later, each sending sparks to light up along your nerves, he stiffens above you and comes with a long, low groan. He collapses gracelessly on top of you, making you laugh weakly and loop your arms around his neck again. You press a long, firm kiss to his sweaty temple, smiling against him. “I love you,” you whisper.

“Love you, too,” he mutters into your neck, where his face is currently buried.

Tomorrow, you both have to go back to work. He might have to go get more rogue angels, you’ll have to keep planning the invasion to heaven. There might be more attacks from Michael. Though he said it today, you now Dean inside and out, and he’s nothing if not emotionally repressed. He might not tell you that he loves you for years after this. You’re both sweaty and gross and it smells like sex and you’re not even under the covers.

For now, though, he’s told you over and over and over that he loves you, and he’s here, in your arms, so everything else fades into the background as the two of you fall sleep together.

Chapter Text

“Come on, princess, I need you to wake up for me.”

You groan and burrow deeper into the warmth of Dean’s chest, ignoring his whiskey whispers trying to rouse you from sleep.

You also ignore his deep chuckle. “Come on, baby, I’ve got coffee for you.”

You crack an eye open to glare up at him. “It had best be the good coffee, Winchester, not the crappy coffee Bobby keeps at the front of the cabinet.”

He grins down at you, green eyes sparkling. “Would I do that to you? Of course it’s the stuff the old man puts in the back.”

You smile and press a kiss to his chest. “If he hears you call him that, it’s your ass.”

He pulls you up to sit with him against the headboard, grinning again when you grumble and put up a token protest to being waken up so early. He slings an arm around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temple as he pushes the coffee into your hands. “Eh, I can take him.”

You grin up at him. “No, you can’t.”

He thinks for a moment. “No, I can’t,” he agrees easily. He kisses the side of your head again. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

You sigh and lean into him. “More of the same.”

You’re in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast, when Cass comes in.

You turn and smile at the angel. He doesn’t smile, not for real, but his gaze is light as it lands on you. Castiel might not be as openly expressive as the rest of you, but if you know where to look, you can see his emotions like a spotlight.

“Heya, Cass. What’s happening?”

He tilts his head. “I am entering the kitchen while you wash breakfast dishes.”

You grin. “Cass, it’s a saying. It means how are you?”

He nods. “Right. I am doing well, Y/N, how are you?”

You smile. “I’m doing okay.” You turn back to the pot you’re scrubbing. “Not sure if I’m looking forward to the day.”

Another head tilt. “You’re feeling trepidation about getting closer to the day we infiltrate heaven.”

You sign and let the pan sink back into the soapy water. Friggin’ angels and their need to have deep conversation before noon. “I… I don’t know. I guess I’m just a little shocked that we’re here? I know it’s been a year, but it seems like just yesterday that you were telling me that I was pulled out of my reality and plopped into this one.” You turn and smile at him. “Good times.”

He frowns a little. “Y/N, it was certainly not a ‘good time.’” His air quotes make you grin wider.

“I know, Cass, it was… Really, really hard.” You shrug. “I’m just reflecting.” When he continues to frown, you smile gently. “I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault.”

He comes to lean against the counter next to you, which is so incredibly human of him it surprises you for a second before he speaks. “After you lost consciousness, Sam and Dean were upset with me for how I presented your situation to you. When Sam asked me to, ‘be a little more blunt,’ I… I did not understand what he wanted from me. I didn’t realized that he meant I was being callous.”

You nod. “Well, you’re getting a lot better at sarcasm.”

“It would be difficult not to with Dean around.”

You tilt your head back and laugh. “You’re right, it’s his primary manner of communication.”

He chuckles, and a comfortable silence ensues. You start washing dishes again, and he ends up picking up a hand towel and drying for you.

“You know,” he says after a while, “When you were held captive in heaven, we looked for you nonstop. It didn’t occur to me until much, much later how much change you’d already wrought.”

You nod. “Right, the powers, and the angels being more empathetic, right?”

“Not just empathy,” he says thoughtfully. “You have… You have let us feel, the way humans feel. You’ve made us more like mankind than we ever were before.”

You think of the way he looks at Sarah, and the way she blushes. You think of Nithael, with a pang in your heart, and the dazed expression he had when he explained kissing the man he’d saved. You think of the dozens of new ways the angels have begun to feel and express and emote, and you think the feeling in your chest is pride.

“I’m actually really proud of that,” you admit softly. “That’s probably dumb, I know it has more to do with God than with me, but I’m still pretty proud of it.”

He shakes his head. “Much of our situation is a result of my Father’s work, but don’t underestimate your own influence. As much as I hate to say it, my Father’s not… Kind, all of the time. Although I believe that He is just, I don’t know that He suffers when His children do.”

He turns those laster blue eyes on you, pinning you in place. “You, however, suffer every day that others are in pain. You’re always kind, regardless of how much pain you yourself are in.” He looks back out the window, but it’s pretty obvious that he’s not really seeing the yard. “You would not have abandoned humanity, I think.”

You feel your eyes widen. “Cass…”

“Don’t worry, I’m not comparing you to my Father. I just don’t want you to think that, when we say that we’re grateful, that we’re grateful only to Him.”

He shoots you a very small smile, then walks out of the kitchen like he didn’t just shock you into silence.

“What the actual fuck?” you ask the room at large.

While you’re still trying to wrap your head around the conversation you just had, Rikbiel appears in the doorway that you’re staring at. He looks disheveled, and the gray of his eyes are sparkling and snapping with restrained energy.

You blink, then focus on the angel. “What’s wrong?”

He smiles. “I received a message from Chamuel. He’s ready.”

You find Sam on the front porch, leaning against the railing, looking out into the salvage yard. You walk up until you’re leaning next to him, your postures almost identical outside of the fact that he towers over you.

You and Sam have had rather limited contact since you got back, and you don’t like it. When you walk into a room, he slips out, unless there’s a concrete reason that he has to be there. You know it’s because he feels guilty, and you also know that Dean has done nothing to assuage that guilt. It bothers you to no end, but Dean will not be persuaded to make nice with his brother.

Which leaves it up to you.

You let the silence lie for a moment, waiting to speak until you feel him getting ready to leave.

“You know, I’m glad I quit smoking, but one of the only times I still want one are when I’m out here, leaning against the front porch.” You smile. “If I had one, I’d light it right the hell up.”

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah?” You nod, and he turns to you. “Y/N…”

You keep your gaze on the rusted out cars in the yard. In the distance, you can see Pahaliah and Winch playing fetch. The big dog has been loving the angels’ presence, because he’s very rarely left alone. There’s always someone to play with, and your practiced dog-mom eyes are telling you that your, “do not under any circumstances feed the dog because he is a sneaky, lying douchebag” rule is being resolutely ignored, because Winch has gained at least five pounds.

“Sam,” you interrupt his unfinished thought. “I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to you since I was rescued.”

You can feel him making that self deprecating bitch face from where you’re standing. “Y/N…”

“Sam, stop.”

“It was my fault you got taken!”

The outburst doesn’t surprise you, so you force yourself not to jump when he yells. You take a deep breath and nod. “Yeah, yeah, you are.”

That gives him pause. “Huh?”

“Sam, I know you thought I came out here to tell you that none of this is your fault, blah, blah, blah.” You inhale sharply. “But that would be a lie. You already know it’s your fault, so what good would it do to tell you otherwise?”

His silence is pained, but it’s silence. You know it’s because he thinks he deserves this, but you use it to your advantage.

“So I’m not out here to do that,” you continue. “Because God knows the Winchester Guilt Complex only gets worse when someone tells you that it’s not necessary.”

A beat of silence while Sam tries to get himself under control, then, “Why are you out here, then?”

Now you turn to him with the hint of a smile on your face. “I came out to tell you that I forgive you.” He opens his mouth, but snaps it shut when you hold your hand up. “Sam, I know that you feel bad, and I agree that you fucked up, but I forgive you. I know that your intentions were good, you had no idea what would happen, and it got us to this point, where we’re getting ready to take down Michael. We’re going to have a real shot at changing things for the better, Sam.”

He swallows hard, and his eyes are wet with tears. “Y/N, you were gone for weeks. He tortured you. I… I mean, that was my fault.”

You nod. “Yeah, it was.” He flinches, you ignore it. “But Sam, I forgive you. I’m telling you that I’m not holding it against you, nor have I ever.” You reach up (way up) to cup his stubbly cheek. “Sam, I’ve let it go. I need you to do the same, because I want you with us when we go upstairs.”

He breathes in deep, the surges forward to wrap you into a tight hung. Your feet are dangling off the ground a little bit, but you reach up and wind your arms around his neck, anyway, holding on tight. “I don’t know if I can,” he murmurs into your hair thickly, “but I’ll try. And I’ll be there.”

You smile. “That’s good enough for me.”

You’re standing on the front porch again later that same night, but for a very different reason.

Next to and just behind you stands Dean. He’s there for support first, which you need. Second, he’s there to lend him an air of authority additional to the one he naturally carries around him.

Also with you are Cass, Sarah, Sam, and Bobby, but they’re off to the side, and a step even further back than Dean. The levels of command are clearly defined. Whether you’re comfortable with it or not, you’re in charge here. Only Winch is standing right next to you, his head beneath your hand, brown eyes uncharacteristically somber.

In front of you, in a crowd of about forty that looks weirdly well-spaced and arranged, facing the house, are your angels.

You swallow hard, then take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“You’ve got this, princess,” Dean says softly, reassuring.

You nod, just a little. You do have this.

“Tomorrow, we fight.”

Your voice rings out into the silence. It should be unnerving, but it steadies you instead.

You didn’t want to address anyone at all, and you didn’t see the point in it. You still kind of feel like a pompous jerk, but Sarah assured you that this is very normal in heaven. Leaders always talk to the troops before a battle, and pompous or not, some routine is probably what the angels need.

Another deep breath in, a deep exhale out.

“I’m not in any position to talk to you, quite frankly,” you say honestly. “I’m not in any position to pretend that I’m any different than you, or that I’m above or below you. We’re… Look, all of us are the same. We’re here because we want to do what’s right, and we think what Michael’s been doing is wrong. You’re all standing in front of me today because you believe in me, and you believe that all of us together can do this, can make a change.”

You try to meet everyone’s eyes, address each of them individually as much as you can. “So I’m here, once again, officially, this time, asking you to fight with me. I’m asking because I want to make sure that, not only are all of you committed, but that each and every one of you understands the risks going into this. We’re not all going to make it back. A lot of us might not. Hell, it’s possible that none of us will make it back from heaven.”

Your eyes land on Pahaliah, whose face is a mask of fierce determination. Rikbiel, whose features are arranged in a calm manner, but whose eyes are still bright with adrenaline. All of them, each and every angel, looks ready to fight, ready to stand with you, ready to go to war with you.

“Tomorrow morning, when Sarah gives the signal, we go to heaven. I want to make sure you’re all with me.” One more deep breath, then let it all out again.

“Are you?”

A sound starts to permeate the air from your left. When you look over to Sarah, she looks determined, and Cass looks surprised. The sound gets louder.

It starts to come from in front of you, and as you turn, it’s only getting louder. You wrinkle your brow in confusion, but Winch is still and calm beneath your hand. When you meet Dean’s eyes, he’s as concerned as you.

You feel more than hear Sarah approach to whisper in your ear.

“It’s our wings, my friend. Angels beat their wings to show respect and loyalty to a leader.”

Your eyes widen when her words sink in, and a few more things become clear.

Sarah was the first to beat her wings, because she loves you, and because she believes so passionately in the cause.

Cass was surprised at her dedication, but joined her immediately afterward, which isn’t something he would do if he didn’t agree wholeheartedly.

And the rest of the angels, they were already arranged to beat their wings when you came out, that’s why there was so much space between each angel.

They were already prepared to do this for you.

“It’s a great honor,” Cass says softly, his gravelly voice traveling well. “The last time wings were beat, I believe Michael and Lucifer were leading the charge against the Darkness.”

“Well,” you say faintly, “I’ll be damned.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Bobby says gruffly. Everyone has gathered around you now, and the air continues to be filled with the sound of feathers.

“‘And so it will be,’” Cass intones, “‘that the Artist and the Righteous Man will lead the charge against a corrupt heaven.’”

“Is that a prophecy? Or part of the Bible?” Sam asks curiously.

“Not yet, it’s not.”

Chapter Text

Winch dreams of running through a field, chasing a rabbit. Winch never catches the rabbit in his dreams, but the chase is fun, anyway. He stretches his long legs, revelling in the flex of muscle and tendon.

The rabbit darts to the left, and Winch barks in delight as he pursues the fluffy white tail.

He skids to a stop, though, when he sees a MAN standing in his way. This MAN smells of infinity and stardust and age, age beyond the imagination of a German Shepherd, even one as smart as Winch.

The MAN is short, shorter than Winch’s MAN. His face is scruffy, and His eyes are tired, but kind. He’s wearing a zip-up hoodie, and sneakers that remind Winch of his WOMAN’s.

The MAN crouches down and holds His hand out. “Hey, buddy.”

Winch sits and gives a friendly woof. He does know who the MAN is.

The MAN grins and reaches out to scratch lightly behind Winch’s ears. “Oh, man, I did such a good job with dogs.”

Winch woofs again.

The MAN’s face grows somber. “Listen, Winchester, your mom is gonna need you tomorrow.”

Somehow, either through the magic of dreams or the magic of the MAN in front of him (because Winch is not fooled, this is the entirety of existence wrapped in skin in front of him, though it is shaped like a MAN), Winch understands the nonsense language. He whines in response.

The MAN nods. “It’s gonna be dangerous, yeah.”

Winch whines again, cocking his head, worried.

The MAN shakes His head now. “No. I can’t guarantee her safety. It would defeat the whole purpose.”

No is Winch’s least favorite word. He growls low in his chest in response.

The MAN sighs and drops His hand. “I know it doesn’t seem fair.”

Another growl, because it’s not fair. Winch’s WOMAN is the best, and she deserves to be given everything and protected from everything and she deserves all of the pets and ear scritches-

A chuckle from the MAN brings Winch’s attention back to the present. He has a gentle smile on His face. “Like I said, dogs have really always been my best work.”

The MAN seems to consider for a moment, then nods. “I can’t protect her, but I can make sure that her favorite dog makes it through.” He gives Winch a small smile. “What do you think, buddy?”

Any opportunity that Winch has to help his WOMAN needs no consideration at all. He stands and gives a happy yip, tail wagging furiously.

The MAN laughs out loud and nods. “It is done.”

Winch only feels a little different. His bones move as fully as they did when he was a pup. His eyes are clearer, and his nose is stronger, even in dream world. He woofs in gratitude to the MAN.

The MAN nods decisively, then stands and waves His hand. “Well, go on, then. Dream rabbits don’t chase themselves.”

Winch does not have to be told twice.

Chapter Text

You wake up before Dean. You don’t move other than to open your eyes, because you’re exceedingly comfortable where you are, nestled against Dean’s side. Your head is resting on his bare chest, your arm flung across him, his heartbeat thumping strong in your ear.

It’s a moment of peace, and you wallow in it.

You find it very strange that you’re not nervous. You should be, probably, but you’re more weary than anything. Oh, you’re ready for the fight, and for the fallout of whatever happens next. You’re going to give it your all.

You’re just so, so ready to get it all over with.

So you take your moment of peace, watch the sun start its ascent in the sky, and wait for the rest of the house to wake up.

An hour later, as soon as there’s the consistent rustling that signifies other wakeful life, you gently pull yourself out of bed. You dress silently under Winch’s gaze, and the two of you slip out of the room.

The smell of strong coffee draws you to the kitchen, where there are several severely rumpled-looking angels standing in a loose group. Since everyone moved in, Sam went out and bought several more coffee makers to try to cope with the sudden demand for caffeine in the mornings. Two of them are still brewing, one is being rinsed out, and the one that the angels somehow unanimously decided to reserve for you and Dean exclusively is full.

“Morning, team,” you say, mustering up as much cheer as you can. There are a few mumbled replies as they shift to make way for you to make your first cup.

You mix it silently, and wonder if you should say something to rally them. Are they scared, or nervous, even though you’re not? Should you try to comfort them, or pump them up?

You turn back around to see that one of the angels (what is her name what is her name shit I’m the worst Imamiah, her name is Imamiah, oh thank God) is kneeling and smiling at Winch. His ears are pert, and his tail is wagging slowly. The angel speaks in low, steady tones, and when her hand comes up to stroke Winch’s handsome face, it doesn’t tremble or hesitate. She is sure.

With that, you know that the angels don’t need inspiration. The fact that they’re here, drinking coffee and talking to one another, shows that they’re inspired enough.

They’re inspired because they’re fighting on the side of righteousness.

Satisfied that your troops don’t need you, you smile. “Winch, let’s go for a walk.”

The angel Imamiah loves The Artist. She insists that the angels use her name, and Imamiah is trying her hardest, but she prefers using The Artist’s title. It’s a lovely one, after all.

When Winch and The Artist enter the kitchen, Imamiah’s attention is caught by the big dog. He is her favorite of The Artist’s companions. The Righteous Man is… Well, he’s righteous, but he has a short temper, and he makes Imamiah uneasy. Similarly, she is uncertain that she will ever be comfortable around the Boy King, Sam Winchester.

Winch, however, has a way of smoothing over the rough edges. He has a tail wag and a happy whine readily available for everyone. Even Imamiah, who has only spoken to the Artist a few times (through no fault of the human’s, there are a lot of angels here, and Imamiah was one of the last who was able to make it to Singer Salvage), Winch manages to make her feel individual and important.

It’s a heady, and very new, feeling.

Imamiah crouches to pet the big dog, a smile on her face that feels more and more natural every day. “Hello, Winchester.”

He pants happily, and the angel is taken aback by the fierce shine of the dog’s soul. It has always been bright, but it has a new brightness to it.

She reaches out to stroke the handsome canine’s face. “What has happened to you?”

The angels around her are deep in murmured conversation, no one is paying attention to Imamiah and Winch. She’s not sure how, he’s glowing so brightly, but she seems to be the only one who’s noticed.

Some deep instinct, older than any other thought or impulse she’s ever had, compels her. For she only knows one being that could make a soul’s light burn so intensely, though she hardly dares think it.

She will not think it, but she knows that He is guiding her. It makes her lightheaded and giddy, but her hand moves steadily when she strokes the coarse fur and dims the glow. The power remains, but no one, angel or human, will be able to tell that Winch is different by sight alone.

No one but Imamiah.

She leans forward to whisper in Winch’s ear, giving him her Father’s blessing in hushed, reverent tones.

“And henceforth, you will be known as the Blade.”

You circle the salvage yard, watching Winch trot back and forth, sniffing and investigating to his heart’s content. He moves easily and confidently. To your familiar eye, it’s more easily and confidently than last night.

You sip your coffee and hum contemplatively. If the angels have been healing or rejuvenating him, you’re not surprised. They all adore him, it makes sense that they want to keep him around longer. You want to keep him around, too.

You come to a decision.

“Winch, buddy, you’re coming with.”

You stand on the porch again, surrounded by your loved ones and your angels.

Ellen and Jo appeared late last night with nothing more said about how they knew what you were going to do than a slap upside Dean’s head (which made you laugh) and a stinkeye to you (which made you cringe). They brought several hunters along, but you cannot for the life of you remember their names.

Not with the buzz of anticipatory energy that saturates the air.

A year of being in this reality. A year of being chosen by God. Weeks of torture. Months of planning. It all comes down to this moment.

This is it.

“This is it,” you say loudly. “This is the moment, the moment you really dedicate yourself to the cause.” You look around the crowd, see the steely determination in their eyes. There’s no fear here, not today.

You feel compelled to say it, anyway.

“If you’re not willing to die for this, to die for a better heaven, then speak now. If you back out, you go without judgement or anger.”

A rustle of moment from your left. Shocked (because what the hell? which one of these dicks is actually leaving in the eleventh hour?), you turn to look at which of your closest is leaving, and you see Sarah moving. Et tu, Brute, you think, feeling a little betrayed that she would abandon you at a time like this.

She does not, however, fly away.

Instead, she walks to stand in front of Castiel. She grips him by the lapels of his trench coat, pulls him down to her, and proceeds to kiss the fuck out of him.

It goes on for just long enough for your brain to short out, and for you to meet Sam’s wide-eyed gaze with one of your own. You hear Dean suck in a surprised breath behind you.

When she pulls away, she looks up at Cass. “Should we live through the siege, you and I are going to explore the entirety of carnal intent.” Then she moves back to stand where she was, like she didn’t just totally blow everyone away.

Sarah looks smug as hell.

Poor Cass looks dazed.

You blink, and turn back to the small army gathered before you. “Well, then.” A beat passes. “Anything else?”

The dry, whispering sound of fierce angelic wings beating makes you smile this time.

“Let’s go, then.”

Honestly, landing in heaven is kind of anticlimactic.

The plan was, of course, that you would come in through the heavenly equivalent of a back door, but while the silence is kind of unsettling, it’s a little underwhelming.

You shake the feeling off. “Let’s move, everyone, and stay safe.”

Several of the angels immediately disappear. The hunters are led away in small groups by the remaining angels, all of them scattering. Sam and Dean share a fierce hug, then one with Bobby. Sam and Bobby leave with the last group, led by Pahaliah.

Now it’s just you, Dean, Sarah, Cass, and Winch. The chosen five, so to speak.

Lucky us.

Cass nods in a seemingly random direction, and you all start moving that way.

It doesn’t take long for the sounds of battle to reach you, but you never actually see anyone else. Sarah suspected this would be the case, because heaven is enormous, but it still makes you uneasy.

The plan is for the four of you to get rid of Michael, who Cass assures you will not be at the forefront of the battle. Then Sarah and Cass will take the brunt of the fight, and will get Michael’s blade away from him and to you. In possession of the only blade that can kill an archangel, you will force his surrender and take heaven.

It’s a terrible plan.

Should be oodles of fun.

You’re running down a white hallway, lined with heavy gray doors. Sarah is in front of you, her warrior’s eyes taking in every detail as the five of you move. Dean and Cass have moved behind you, with the dark-haired angel very last, keeping an eye out for pursuit.

As always, Winch is beside you.

You’re all moving as quickly as you can while staying low and silent. Adrenaline is bringing everything into sharp relief, from the pristine hall to the far away sounds of hand to hand combat. Winch moves fluidly next to you, his ears flicking back and forth.

It happens so fast that you barely even notice the change. The only thing that clues you in is Sarah’s sucked in breath of shock, and then that she’s not there in front of you anymore.

You stop and spin, heart racing. Winch is next to you, but he’s still. You follow his gaze until your eyes land on what’s kind of your worst nightmare when you’re alone, and the pistol stuck in your waistband means you’re basically unarmed.

“Michael.”

When his soulmate blips out of existence from in front of him, Dean loses his mind.

“What…” He starts to scowl as an ache takes up residence in his chest. “What the fuck?! Where is she?”

Sarah has stopped moving, too. She looks… Pale, which does very, very little to comfort Dean. “She… Michael… Michael has taken her.”

“What?” Dean’s mind blanks out, there’s nothing but white noise and absolute panic.

“Where are they? How do we find her? Where do we go?”

“Dean.”

Dean swivels to glare at Cass. “What?”

Cass’ face might look impassive to anyone else, but Dean can see the sorrow in his eyes. “Dean, there is nothing we can do for Y/N.”

“What? Cass, that’s fucking insane. She’s alone, and he’s an archangel, and he’s going to-” Dean can’t finish the thought, emotions constricting his throat and seizing his entire body up.

“Castiel is correct,” Sarah’s voice is soft. “There is little we can do now.”

Dean breathes hard, tries very hard not to pass out.

“We must place our faith in the Artist.”

Winch lets a low growl build in his chest as he takes in the MAN before him. Winch will die to protect his WOMAN, and will feel honored for the chance. Winch feels no fear.

The MAN kneels in the front of Winch and meets his eyes. “I would speak with your master, Winchester, if you so permit.”

Winch examines the MAN closely, scenting the air for deceit or malice. When he finds none, he gives a final warning growl, but sits. Somehow, though Winch senses that this MAN is more than a MAN, he also knows deep down in his bones that he could kill this MAN.

Winch still feels no fear as the MAN stands to address the WOMAN.

You watch the absolutely baffling exchange between an archangel of the Lord and your mostly-well-behaved-but-sometimes-shitty dog in silence. Michael stands and meets your eyes.

“Y/N.”

He’s brought you to another white room that’s kind of hard to distinguish from the rest of heaven. There’s a big glass-top desk on one side, with the archangel standing in front of it. There isn’t really any other furniture at all. The carpet is a soft dove gray, and it looks soft as fuck, which makes this all seem way more surreal.

“Michael,” you return easily. When he says nothing, you figure you can’t get more fucked than you currently are, so you go for broke.

“I’m supposed to be getting your surrender.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Are you, now?”

“I… Uh, well, I was supposed to have more backup.”

He shakes his head. “No, Y/N, this is something that must happen between the two of us.”

“Wouldn’t want any witnesses when you kill me.” Oh, oh God, I’m going to die and my last words will be sarcastic.

His lips tilt up in the barest hint of a smile. “You misunderstand my intent, Y/N. I have no intention of harming you.”

You genuinely cannot help the snort that escapes you. “Well, you’re doing a bang up job of that.” It’s like I want to get smote.

He just nods, though. “The nightmares. I was… Threatened, by the changes you wrought.”

You really, really have no idea what to say to that. The idea of anyone being scared of you, much less Michael himself, is laughable. You’ve done nothing to frighten anyone.

Luckily, Michael doesn’t seem to need input from you.

“I have led heaven for so long, I forgot what it was like to be afraid, to worry that my control was slipping. The idea that any angels at all would rebel was… Ludicrous. Much less the number of them that you’ve managed to convert.”

Well, that stings a little. “I didn’t convert anyone, you ass,” you say tightly, your fear diminishing in the face of your indignation. “They just knew that you were doing something wrong, and I was the only other option.”

Michael stares piercingly at you, and it’s suddenly super obvious that he and Cas are brothers. “I don’t understand why it was you,” he says, and it comes out raw and rough, like it’s being ripped from him without his permission. “There are so many… So many ways to impact you, to distract you. You’re so painfully human. How are you the one who is taking heaven from me?”

“Maybe because I’m so human,” you answer softly, almost a whisper.

There’s something broken in his eyes that makes your heart ache fiercely. “Perhaps,” he whispers, then sucks in a deep, unnecessary breath. “Very well. Let us do this thing.”

He stands straighter, and you blanch. “Michael, you know I can’t fight you.”

He gives you a long, even look. “Clearly.”

“Oh… Kay…”

“I love them,” he says abruptly. You would even call his tone earnest if you thought he cared about what you thought at all. “My brothers and sisters. My Father. I… I love them.”

You blink, and your heart seizes at the thought that it sounds an awful lot like he’s… Well, like he’s trying to make amends. To say goodbye.

“I know, Michael.” Does he think I can beat him? Because unless he knows something that you don’t, he is about to squish you like a bug.

“It is because of that love that I must do this.”

You frown. “Okay… Do what, exactly?”

Michael flicks his wrist, and the sight of his angel blade falling neatly into his hand makes you dizzy with panic. His gaze never wavers, and you meet his eyes for what you’re certain will be the last time.

“You are going to kill me,” he says evenly.

Out of all of the things you thought were about to come out of his mouth, that was never one of them. Which is why you give yourself a pass to ask for clarification. “Pardon me?”

“You are going to kill me.” He says it so easily, like these words make sense when arranged in that order.

“Um… What?” You panic. “No. No, I’m going to get you to give up.”

He shakes his head. “A surrender will not suffice. You have to kill me.”

“Listen, buddy, I don’t have to do a damn-” You cut your irritated tirade off as what’s actually happening hits you.

Michael isn’t mocking your plan. He isn’t monologuing. He’s not doing anything other than letting you win, and asking you to kill him in the process.

“No,” you breathe. “Michael, no.”

“It is the only way.”

“It’s not!” Even when you’ve dared to imagine coming out of this alive, it’s never been because Michael dies. “Michael, no, I mean, come on. Just surrender, if you don’t want to do this anymore! Hand it over to me, and you can go do whatever! This isn’t the solution!” An echo of the words you said to him the first time you realized that the archangel Michael, possibly the most powerful being currently in existence, is suicidal.

He shakes his head. “They will not follow you if I am alive.”

“Then join me! Stop doing what you’re doing and let me figure this out with you!”

There’s a long silence, long enough for you to hope.

When Michael speaks, however, you suddenly understand why they say hope is a killer, a deadly force that builds you up and then abandons you as soon as you’re flying, with no one to catch you as you plummet.

“No.”

Your breath catches. “Michael-”

“I am… Too old, too used to being a leader. Too used to having my word be gospel to change my ways. I would revert to who I was, to what I was doing.” His lips twist into a cruel parody of a smile. “Even now, I am not sure that this is what is right.”

You open your mouth to protest, but you’re interrupted when the walls of the room that you’re in start to shake. Winch stands, ears flat against his head, and begins to growl explosively.

Michael nods. “Raphael,” he explains. “You will have trouble with him.”

“Not if you stay and help me,” you shoot back.

He starts toward you, but when you try to take a corresponding step back, you find yourself immobilized. You immediately begin to struggle in earnest.

“You do not understand,” he says gently, “and I do not have time to make you. This is the right thing.”

“Don’t,” you plead, almost in a whisper.

He flips the angel blade so the hilt is pointing at you. Your hand moves without your permission to wrap around it. You watch in horror as Michael’s (Adam’s, it’s Adam’s) hand covers yours, holding it in place.

He meets your eyes again. “Someday, you will see that this is right.” Another smile, more genuine this time. He lifts his other hand to your face. “Close your eyes,” he whispers, even as he covers them, finally as gentle as an angel should be.

You helplessly obey, but the whimper that leaves your lips as you feel the blade sink into his chest is entirely yours. The sound that Michael’s grace makes as it screams its way out of existence is immense, and even through closed eyes and his hand, you can almost see the outline of great wings burned into your vision.

You open them as soon as his hand falls away, and you watch as Adam’s lifeless body crumples to the ground. The outline of Michael’s massive wings is burnt into the ground and onto the walls, forever stilled.

It’s too much for you, and you feel yourself sink to your knees. “Oh, Michael,” you say softly, as close to a eulogy as the archangel will ever get.

Before you even hit the ground, the scene before you changes, and you’re back in the hallway you were in before Michael totally fucked everything up.

“Y/N!”

Dean collapses next to you, sweeping you into his arms. You go willingly, wrapping yourself around him and burying your face in his neck. You’re trembling, and soft, broken sounds are coming from your throat without your authorization.

“What happened?” he asks frantically, his hands moving anxiously up and down your body, checking for injuries.

“Y/N, what is that?”

Sarah’s question has you raising your head as Dean does the same. You both look, and in your right hand is the archangel’s blade that you forgot you had. Thank God I didn’t poke Dean with it.

“It’s… It’s Michael’s blade.” You look up and meet her eyes. “I… He… He m-”

Before you can tell them exactly what happened, your voice stops. It doesn’t feel like there’s a lump in your throat, or like there’s something blocking you. You just… Can’t make the words, “he made me kill him,” come out of your mouth.

“I… I killed him.” Oh, that comes out perfectly.

Sarah’s eyes are huge, and even Castiel looks taken aback. “How?” Sarah asks in hushed tones.

“Does it matter?” Dean snaps, wrapping his arm snugly around you again. He looks around. “We need to get everyone the hell out of here.”

Sarah told you that once there’s no archangel opposing you, the rest of heaven will fall quickly. She and Dean agreed, however, that once that happened, they want you the hell out of dodge in case any fanatics try to harm you in retaliation.

You’re one hundred percent okay with this plan.

Sarah looks up and raises her hand, palm tilted to the ceiling. She clenches her slender fingers hard, and the lights that seem to emanate from everywhere start to flicker violently. The signal.

As soon as they do, angels start appearing. Some of them are bringing human passengers back. You feel some of the tightness leave your chest when you see Bobby, and then Sam, appear. You look for Ellen and Jo, but you can’t seem to find them in the rapidly swelling group of people.

You open your mouth to ask about them, but before you can get the words out, Raphael appears before you.

Your eyes widen in shock, and you watch in a kind of morbid fascination as fury and grief contort the archangel’s features. “Raphael,” you say softly, almost against your will.

“You,” he snarls. “You do not get to have heaven.”

You hold your hands up placatingly. “Listen, Michael fell. It’s over, just lay down your-”

“Michael was not killed by the likes of you. I do not know what happened, but you did not kill my brother.” As you watch, a manic light enters his eyes, and you realize that Raphael might be actually insane.

Which is not good news.

As you’re trying to process everything, you see just a flash of silver at the angel’s hand, then hear Dean cry out your name in alarm. You barely have time to suck in a breath and start to close your eyes as Raphael lunges for you, blade raised to kill you. He’s an archangel, he’s too fast for anyone to stop. You spare a thought to hope that your death won’t be the end of the revolution, but the beginning, and you brace yourself for the hit.

It never comes.

Instead, an absolutely terrifying, vicious growl tears through the air from your side. Your eyes snap back open to see Winch launch himself from sitting at your side into the air. His fangs sink into the arm that’s holding the archangel’s blade, and several things happen almost too quickly to comprehend.

Raphael screams.

Light starts to pour from the wounds that Winch is inflicting, though it shouldn’t be a killing blow.

The archangel moves his blade from the injured arm to the uninjured one.

You open your mouth to scream, even as you feel someone reach up to cover your eyes.

You manage to see, just before the image would blind you, Raphael sink his blade into Winch’s shoulder.

You hear Winch yelp, but not let go of his mouthful of celestial being, before the sound of Raphael dying briefly overtakes everything.

When you push the hand away from your eyes (it was Cass’ hand), the scene that greets you is much the same as it was before Raphael appeared. There are humans and angels standing loosely assembled, staring at you, Dean, Sarah, and Cass.

Of course, there are a few important differences.

Another set of massive wings are burnt across the floor.

The Lord, in an attempt to correct a grievous mistake, returned the Artist to the Righteous Man.

The clatter of angel blades, dropped as Michael’s forces admit defeat and surrender, rings through the heavens.

The Righteous Man and the Artist lay siege to a corrupt heaven.

Winch is lying on his side, and there’s blood everywhere. As you drop to your knees again to pull him into your arms, he’s making high, whining sounds that are killing you.

And so it is that heaven falls, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Chapter Text

Six Months Later

You wake up and turn toward what should be a warm body in your bed, but is instead empty sheets. You grumble and crack an eye open to confirm that Dean isn’t there with you and scowl. “God dammit.”

You groan and roll yourself out of bed, frowning at the lack of soulmate or dog in the bedroom. The thought of Winch sends a pang through your heart, so you quickly dress in one of Dean’s t-shirts (payment for making you wake up alone) and a pair of jeans and you head downstairs.

The smell of coffee and toast hits your nose and you smile when you see Dean standing at the back door of the kitchen, mug in his hand, glaring out the window.

You come up behind him and press your front to his back. “Morning, handsome,” you murmur into his shoulderblades.

He smiles and runs his hand down your arm. “Hey, princess.”

“Kids,” Bobby’s severe voice is behind you. “No mackin’ in the kitchen. I gotta eat in here.”

“We ain’t mackin’ nothin’, Bobby,” Dean says easily. “Just watching the kids in the yard.”

Bobby grumbles as he pours a cup of coffee, then comes to stand next to you. “Think I found a case for you,” he says just after taking a sip.

You turn to look at him, cheek still pressed to Dean’s back. “Where?”

“Kansas City.”

“What’s it look like?” Dean asks, eyes still on the yard.

Bobby shrugs. “Probably a spirit, could be somethin’ nastier.”

“Who’s in the area?”

“That new kid should still be out there,” Dean says. “Fuck, why can’t I ever remember his name?”

You share an amused look with Bobby. “Do you mean Dennis?"

“Dennis!” he says with relish. “I knew that.”

You smile and press a kiss to his back. “Of course you did, dear.” Before he can start griping again, you look back at Bobby. “What angels are out there?”

“Well, that’s Chamuel’s territory, but Pahaliah’s been making the rounds, too.”

You nod and try to stifle a yawn. “I’ll call Dennis, then Pahal.”

Things have calmed down since the Siege, which everyone says with so much reverence that it pretty much demands its own capital letter.

Immediately after Raphael’s death, Cass and Sarah took you home and tried to tell you that leading heaven was up to you now. Since that sounds like a specific and ferocious version of your own personal hell, you immediately balked. Then you did what any reasonable woman in your position would do: You gave leadership of heaven over to them.

The shocked, almost panicked look on poor Cass’ face is something that you’ll cherish for the rest of your life.

(Speaking of Cass and Sarah, as soon as things were settled enough after the Siege, they did, in fact, find an abandoned home in the countryside, and no one saw them for at least a week. Sarah won’t tell you what happened, even when you offered to trade information fair and square, but you know that they both seem much more relaxed,they’re extremely affectionate, and disgustingly in love. It’s beautiful.)

After they stopped panicking, Cass and Sarah took to leadership in a way that let you know you made the right call.

(After a mourning period, of course. A multitude of angels were lost, including Imamiah, the angel who spoke with Winch the morning of the Siege. Pahaliah lost half of her left arm, and carries no regrets in her heart, because Pahaliah wouldn’t know how to regret anything anyway.

There were humans lost, too. A few of the hunters, and most heartbreakingly, Jo Harvelle, died in the Siege. Ellen remains heartbroken, as do the rest of you.)

The first thing they did was, essentially, kick all of the angels out of heaven to walk among humankind. It went well, because regardless of how awful and dirty and mean humanity can be, it’s also amazing and beautiful and loving, and there’s no better way to see that than to be knee-deep in it. After the exercise, any angels who remained unconvinced were brought over to your way of thinking.

When they all got back to heaven, Cass and Sarah split the earth up into sections (big sections) and assigned each angel to one. It was considered their domain, the humans there considered that angel’s humans, and they were given the relatively vague order of “protect humanity.”

(When you asked about the weird wording, Sarah just smiled and said, “They will find their own ways to do it. If we tell them exactly what to do, there will have been very little benefit from the Siege. This way, they will figure it out on their own, and will be better for it.” As usual, Sarah has been right about this.)

There are some angels who requested that they not be tied down to one region. Cass and Sarah approved of this show of personality, and set them up being kind of “floaters,” roaming the earth, helping where they see a need, hunting big game that’s on the more dangerous end of the supernatural.

It’s a system that has worked beautifully so far.

Maybe as a natural progression of time, maybe it’s in response to the angels being on the ground, but hunters have started to leave behind the “road warrior, nomad, citizen of the earth” lifestyle and settle down in one place. Those places are viciously protected, as hunters lay down roots and start to care about the people around them.

Seeing the way that the hunting community and the angels have adapted, and the way that they’re all working together to make it happen, makes your heart so full it aches.

Dean turns around to wrap his arm firmly around your waist and press a kiss to your forehead. “Not until after breakfast, you’re not.”

You smile and lean into the touch, while simultaneously stealing his cup of coffee and taking a sip. “Of course not,” you say soothingly.

After the Siege, you and Dean were so soul-level exhausted that you took a vacation.

You road-tripped across the country, stopping at Dean’s favorite places, and sights and tourist attractions that neither of you had seen before (you didn’t do a lot of travelling before him, so you didn’t have any favorites to go to).

That peace lasted about a week.

Once a week passed, you both started to get the itch to hunt, though Dean got it worse than you. Since full-time hunting wasn’t really what either of you wanted, however, you decided to take some simple cases on the way back to Bobby’s place. Just salt-and-burns, and one ghoul that still makes you wrinkle your nose in disgust.

When you got back, you sat down together and hashed it out. There were some high emotions, but it was almost… Comforting to fight with Dean like that. To fight like you both knew, no matter how angry you got, you still love each other more.

(Speaking of love, the worry you had that Dean would withdraw and become less affectionate after his passionate declaration of love was so, so, so unneeded. If anything, he has more of a constant desire to touch you, to reassure himself that you’re still around. It’s amazing, and even though he still only says, “I love you, princess,” in that gruff, sweet voice of his when you’re alone, and usually can only say it if you’re not making direct eye contact, it’s still more than you ever thought you would have, and you treasure it.)

Once the dust settled, you came to the conclusion that you both still want to be in the family business, but you’re also among the hunters who want to settle down in one place. Bobby gruffly agreed to let you stay while the two of you looked for a house.

Six months later, neither of you have looked very hard, and Bobby hasn’t said a word about you leaving.

It’s just so peaceful at the salvage yard. Angels still come to see you, so the threat of the supernatural is nil, what with all of the heavenly power that’s so often sitting in the living room with you. The angels come all the time, to touch base or to report to you or just to talk. They’re becoming kind of high-powered humans, and since that was kind of the end goal, you’re happy with it.

A natural consequence of staying with Bobby as that you and Dean have each become a mini-Bobby. You advise new hunters, answer the FBI and CIA phone lines on occasion. It’s nice, a way to stay in the hunting world, but not be on the road. Dean will sometimes still go on a hunt, if someone really needs help, or if there’s something crazy that he really wants to see. Sometimes you go with him, sometimes you don’t.

You did lay down rules, though, for being Grand Central Station for hunters. Like, “no calls before breakfast or after dinner.”

You smile up at the love of your life while he glares at you and your pilfered coffee. “You should bring everyone inside.”

Dean hmphs and turns to call out the window. “Hey! Breakfast!”

You move around Bobby to start getting stuff ready for eggs and toast. You’ve stopped cooking for everyone who’s here by yourself, and started making them help. You start cracking eggs, and look over at Bobby. “Has Sam called?”

“Yeah,” the older hunter snorts. “He’s like a kid in a candy store.”

You smile. “Good.”

One of the first things you did after the Siege was tell Sam how to get into the bunker. Once he had the key and got in, you’re certain the only reason he didn’t squeal like a little girl was through great force of will. Watching him run around like an excited toddler is also a cherished memory.

Sam immediately reinstated the Men of Letters (with a few significant changes), although you argued against the sexist name. You, Dean, Ellen, and Bobby were the first names on the new list of members, and several others have been added over the last few months.

Sam has set up his own bedroom, and a guest room for you and Dean, but the rest of the rooms are set up for any passing hunters who need a break, or who need medical attention. Situated in the middle of the country like it is, the bunker is a good halfway point so no one drives off the road in exhaustion, or bleeds out in the backseat of a car. Someone just has to know where to knock, or call Sam, to get help.

Sam is also going back to school, part-time, to go ahead and earn his law degree. He doesn’t want to do the Men of Letters thing forever, but he figures having a lawyer in the organization might help hunters who get themselves into tight spots.

You’re so proud of him you could spit, and you see the same pride shining in Dean’s eyes every time the two of you talk about the youngest Winchester.

The clatter of feet rattling the porch swells in the kitchen, the door bangs open, and four kids, ranging from the age of six year old twins to your new resident seventeen year old, come barreling into the kitchen.

“Kids!” you say severely, and to your gratification, everyone stops immediately. “Enhance your calm, guys, it’s just eggs.”

“Sorry,” they all mutter at the same time, and you have to suppress the urge to coo at how fucking cute that was.

An almost unforeseen circumstance has you, Bobby, and Dean running what amounts to a kind of foster care for kids who’ve been orphaned by the supernatural.

Kaylie, a twelve year old who’s still with you, was left homeless and parentless when a werewolf killed her parents and younger brother. Pahaliah, who happened to be the one to dispatch the werewolf, brought the child to you, in the dead of night, because she didn’t know what else to do with her.

“The human foster care system is… Flawed, and I do not want her harmed,” the angel said, baffled at her own sentimentality.

Bobby was hesitant, but you argued that since Kaylie was affected by the supernatural, there wasn’t a foster care system in the world that would be able to take care of her like you’re able to. Lucky for you, Dean was a goner as soon as he laid eyes on the blue-eyed little girl.

So it kind of became a custom. Sometimes, you’re able to find relatives who can take the kids (but not before they’re thoroughly vetted by Dean and Sam, who are ridiculously protective). There are a remarkable amount of hunters who are willing to take them in (also after being vetted), to teach them the life if they want to be taught.

Kaylie wants to stay with you, and after a talk with Dean and Bobby, you’ve all decided that you’re okay with that. She slipped a few days ago and called Dean, “Dad.” He wasn’t in the room, but you teared up and hugged her fiercely until she complained.

Kaylie starts buttering toast, and the other kids set the table and start on the eggs. You smile at the domesticity.

Aaron, the oldest boy, is probably going to go with Garth. They’re of a similar nature, caring to a fault, and a little bit weird. Aaron has a lot of anger in him, though, and Garth is good at smoothing over rough edges. You think it’s a good fit.

The twins are going to go with Jody, at least for a while, at least until she figures something else out. You have your suspicions that she’ll be keeping them, but mum’s the word until she decides that on her own.

You frown, realizing the kitchen looks kind of empty. “Guys, where’s the dog?”

Aaron blushes a little, then goes to open the back door.

There’s the steady click-clack of dog nails on the boards of the porch, a sound that never fails to relax you.

Aaron holds the for open to let a perfectly healthy, tail-wagging, recently three-legged Winch into the kitchen.

The moments after Raphael stabbed Winch with the archangel blade were by far the worst of your life. Winch was whimpering and crying and bleeding, and you didn’t know what to do but hold him and rock him back and forth.

Sarah was able to heal him, to an extent. The archangel’s blade did some damage that even she couldn’t reverse, resulting in the loss of Winch’s front left leg. You’ve never been more grateful in your entire life, because the hit should have been so, so much worse.

When she healed him, Sarah noticed the difference in Winch. She tried to explain it to you, but you were so relieved to see the wounds closing up on his shoulder that you weren’t really listening, and now you’re a little too sheepish to ask her to explain it again.

You did absorb some of it, though. It would be hard not to, what with the angels suddenly calling him, “the Blade,” and treating him with even more awe and love than they did before. Winch was somehow, by someone, made a weapon to be used against the archangels, and that came with the perk of having some pretty strong resistance to being hurt by their blades.

Whatever happened, as long as he’s happy and healthy, you’re pretty much all right with damn near anything.

You smile at his approach, and reach a hand down to scratch behind his ears. “Hey, buddy,” you murmur. He pants up at you happily. Winch is adjusting well to being a tripod, mostly because he quite literally hasn’t noticed a difference whatsoever, except that he gets more table scraps now, so he’s starting to get kind of fat.

You don’t have the heart to tell them to stop, though.

You look around the kitchen with a smile on your face. Dean is running his hand through Kaylie’s hair, because it’s a mess, and making her giggle and squirm. Bobby’s directing the twins with all of the gruff tenderness he’s able to manage as they set forks and spoons on the table. Aaron is drinking his coffee like it has the answer to life, the universe, and everything at the bottom of the cup.

Somewhere else, Sarah and Cass are making out like teenagers.

Somewhere else, Sam is talking a hunter through a hunt, probably while making breakfast for the guests he currently has in the bunker.

Your smile is so wide it almost hurts as you kneel next to Winch and let him lick a long stripe up the side of your face.

“We did good, buddy,” you whisper.

Chuck, invisible in the corner, nods with a smile on His face.

“You really, really did.”

Chapter Text

Dean is on a case with Garth, who is a weird motherfucker, but he grows on a person. It was a rugaru, and Dean fucking hates rugarus, and not just because of his own history with them. He knows there are no known cases of a rugaru resisting the urge to eat humans forever, but god dammit, if he could just get to one and explain before they get to that point. They just… Never get to it by then.

This one was already gone, a horrific monster by the time they showed up. They torched it in an old warehouse, then watched the building burn just to be safe. Dean couldn’t even tell if the monster started out as a man or a woman.

Garth, at least, is the kind of guy you want on a hunt like this. His laid-back, roll with the punches attitude nicely complements Dean’s own pissy outlook. Garth doesn’t really let things like this bother him, at least as far as Dean can tell. It’s.. Amazing.

Dean just hates this. He’s only here because there was no one else in the area, angel or hunter, and a rugaru isn’t the kind of hunt you just send a guy into alone. Dean hates being away from Y/N and Kaylie, though. He misses his girls.

Dean sighs and pulls the Impala into a parking space in front of the motel. He’s tired, and covered in soot, and as much as he likes Garth, holy fuck is Dean ready to call home and talk to Y/N before he crashes for about six hours.

“Well, good work, buddy!” Garth says cheerfully, and Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s a respected hunter, he’s a respected hunter, he’s a respected hunter.

“Yeah, man, good job back there.” Garth really did do well, so Dean’s not even saying that begrudgingly. Garth’s smart, and quick on his feet. While Dean doesn’t think he was ever in any actual danger, if he had been, Garth’s not a bad guy to have covering your back.

Garth gets out of Baby and walks around to give Dean a hug just as he gets out of his own side. Dean accepts it and hugs back hard, clapping Garth on the back, saying with actions what he’s too wrung out and irritated to say with words.

Garth gives him a jaunty little wave when he goes into his own room, and Dean turns to lean on Baby and look out into the parking lot, just wanting to reflect, wanting to soak in the quiet for a moment.

He doesn’t get far into his quiet contemplation before small, black shape darts under the Impala in his peripherals.

Dean doesn’t react much outwardly, just a tightening of the eyes (and damn the crow’s feet he’s getting there, even if Y/N does love them). He slowly, carefully pulls his gun from his waistband, and slowly, carefully kneels to look beneath the car.

Tiny, terrified hazel eyes greet his own gaze. Dean blinks, and a high-pitched whimper meets his ears in response.

“A puppy?”

Dean examines the little creature. It’s tiny, no bigger than his hand. It’s skinny as hell, with none of the happy plumpness puppies usually have on them. It’s also pretty obviously terrified, literally shaking as he looks at it. Dean feels a pang go through him.

He’s come across no shortage of stray dogs in his time as a hunter. He’s never really been a dog guy, though, not like Sam, so he’s usually content to just leave them where they are. Sam’s the one who’s always catching them and taking them to shelters or rescues.

This is just another thing that Y/N has changed about him. Because, as tired and grimy as Dean is, there is no damn way he’s leaving this puppy under this car, probably to die in the next couple of days if it doesn’t get help.

He puts the gun back, keeping his movements slow and easy. The tiny puppy tracks every movement with frightened eyes. When he has both hands free, he carefully moves so he’s sitting cross-legged next to the Impala, then looks up toward the sunset. The only concession he makes to the puppy is to lay his hand flat next to him, palm up on the gravel.

This is something that Y/N has taught him about timid dogs. Not that Winchester is timid by any means, Winch has never met a stranger, but they’ve come across some less social dogs in dog parks that they’ve gone to as a family (and if the word family in relation to he, Y/N, and Kaylie makes his heart tighten painfully in his chest, no one needs to know but Dean).

“Don’t make eye contact with him,” Y/N coaches him carefully.

“What?”

“It’s a sign of being confrontational for a dog,” she explains, both of them looking up and away from the little border collie who’s cowering near them. “He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”

When, ten minutes later, the dog crawls into Dean’s lap and licks at the underside of his chin in a desperate bid for comfort, Dean so shocked he just cradles the dog to his chest.

It takes longer than ten minutes this time, but he does, closer to the twenty minute mark when his knees start to ache, feel a cold little puppy nose press against the pad of his thumb. It only takes a few minutes after that before the puppy is licking at his palm, and when he turns to look at it, he sees it’s bony little tail wagging.

He gently, moving oh, so carefully, lifts the puppy against his chest. It immediately goes friggin’ crazy, licking his neck and chin, making it hard to keep a hold of it.

“All right, all right,” he says gruffly, giving it the stink-eye to keep it from totally taking over his heart, because he’s a man, god dammit, Dean fishes out his cell phone. “Let’s see what your new mama has to say.”

“Oh, my God,” you breathe when Dean gets out of the Impala the next day, your hands covering your mouth. “It’s so small.”

He smiles, and something about the picture of him, framed by the sunrise, holding a tiny black puppy, just melts your heart. “Yeah, I dunno what’s wrong with it. I think it’s just starving.”

Well, you’re already gone, totally head over heels for it as Dean hands the puppy over to you. It squirms and licks your face, but really only has eyes for Dean. That’s all right, because you’ve only ever really had eyes for him, too, so you get it.

“Let’s get you checked out, little one,” you coo. You look up at Dean and smile. “Go get some sleep, handsome. I’ve already got an appointment with the vet.”

Dean looks down, sheepish, and rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, I just… You know, I just figured… That I might… Uh… Go with you?”

You smile at him, the love of your damn life, blushing because he wants to go with you to make sure the puppy is okay.

“Of course, handsome.”

An hour later, you’re armed with a diagnosis (“Just skinny, make sure you’re feeding puppy food.”), a first round of puppy shots, a spay appointment (“Obviously we’re getting her spayed, Dean.” “Whatever you say, princess.”), and one puppy who’s fast asleep in Dean’s lap as he drives, one big hand almost completely covering her little body.

Dean was a wreck during the appointment, as much as he tried to hide it from you. He was anxious right up until the doctor came out to tell the two of you that the puppy is fine, just malnourished, and will be perfectly healthy once she gains some weight. Dean’s face lit up, just for a moment. It was a sight to behold, and you felt yourself drowning in love, just for a moment.

“Have you thought about what to name her?” you ask softly, your hand on his knee, the one not currently occupied by a sleeping pooch.

“Uh… No,” he says, too quickly for you to believe him.

“Okay, no rush,” you say with a smile. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

As suspected, the puppy is a hit.

Winch loves puppies, and spends most of his days on his belly now, down on her level to play with her. She’s full of spunk now that she’s feeling better, and some gentle training has turned her into quite the social butterfly. Kaylie adores her, and the three of them are thick as thieves. You’ve gone looking for them more than once and found the three of them deeply asleep in Kaylie’s bed, all piled on top of each other.

You tear up every time, your heart is so full.

Even Bobby likes the pup, sneaking her the occasional scrap of food when he thinks you can’t see him, or giving her ear scritches when he thinks the two of them are alone.

But she really, really adores Dean. When he enters a room that she’s in, she immediately drops whatever she’s doing and follows him out, until he catches her and picks her up. The first few times, he tried to put her back into the room she’d been in, but he’s gotten into the habit of just carrying her with him. He says it’s only until she’s old enough to understand that she can’t follow him everywhere, but you suspect that it’s just until she’s big enough to walk with him on her own.

As far as you can tell, she’s some sort of pit bull mix. She’s got the big, square head, and her paws are going to be the size of dinner plates soon. She won’t quite rival Winch in weight at fully grown, but you think she’s going to be close, just in pure muscle mass.

You adore her, and she’s the perfect addition to the family.

You don’t find out the puppy’s name until another addition to the family, albeit a temporary one.

Brian is a quiet boy, seven years old, whose mother was killed by a vengeful spirit. Sam has found his father, explained the situation delicately, and (after some ridiculously in-depth investigating into the guy’s background) he’s on his way to come get Brian. Sam said he sounded like he’d be there the day after the call, come hell or high water.

As great as Winch is with kids, they sometimes get nervous at his giant size. The puppy totally obliterates that. Everyone loves the puppy, and Brian is no exception, he’s on his knees and playing with her immediately. He looks up, the first smile you’ve seen on his face, at Dean. “She’s so cute!”

Dean’s leaning in the doorway, smirking. “Yeah, she’s all right.”

“What’s her name?”

Dean’s eyes flick to you, and the blush on his cheeks is almost unbearably endearing. “Mary,” he says softly, after a moment. “Her name is Mary.”

You aggressively tamp down the tears in your eyes and send him a soft smile.

Kaylie takes the news in stride. “Come on, Brian! Let’s take Mary and Winch outside!” She turns to barrel toward you, and you barely get out of the way in time. “Sorry!” she shouts behind her as she leads the stampede.

You just smile and sigh. “Careful, kids!”

Later, in bed, you press a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. Winch is laid along your back, pressed against you, a solid line of warmth. Mary is tucked up at the small of Dean’s back, her head resting on his hip.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper.

You don’t have to clarify, he knows what you’re talking about. He buries his head in your neck, and you fall asleep cradling one another.