Archive of Our Own ^beta

"For the last time, Uncle Bobby, I'm not goin!"

"The hell you're not!" Bobby exclaims, rising from the table. He nearly knocks his beer over in the process, shooting an incredulous 'look what you did!' expression at you as he stabilizes the bottle.

"I'm not going," you say again, and you feel a bit petulant. A bit childish. Sure, there's a part of you that's damn proud of the thrift store dress hanging in your closet, zipped into a garment bag you found in Aunt Karen's storage forever ago. That same part of you was planning to go with Daniel from Calculus, who decided to start tonguing your only friend, Abby, right before the big dance. Abby, who was blonde and thin and bendy from cheerleading, didn't even blink as the pair of them broke the news to you right outside the girls' bathroom.

Whatever, anyway. Sioux Falls High was a hellhole. And senior prom? You might've cared—a little bit—but in the grand scheme of things? It didn't seem all that important.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You'd been counting down the days to graduation since you got your class schedule as a freshman. It was a bleak outlook, sure. At least Sam and Dean, who spent the summers at the salvage yard, got to travel around the country fighting monsters. Since you wound up on his doorstep, Bobby had become a de facto secretary and research assistant (though if anyone used those words to describe him, there would be bloodshed). You knew your fate before you got your period. Eighteen would come on by, that 71 Mustang Dean had been whittling away at restoring would be yours, and you'd carry on the family legacy.

Of course, Bobby hoped public high school would miraculously turn you, Wednesday fucking Adams, into Barbie, which is to say you'd be like Sam, Ivy League bound (Stanford's close enough), high hopes of something else. You left that girl behind with Catholic School and the graveyard dirt on top of your parents.

Truth is, you've always been weird. Unsettling. And not just because your mother was a grief psychologist and your father ran a funeral home. Maybe the formaldehyde did something to you in utero, but that never mattered. You'd never known anything else.

Before the wreck, you were a normal kid. You bruised your knees on the playground, kicked mud around, ruined your sneakers, and spent your days exhausting yourself in the heat. Mosquito bites and colorful bandages were your only accessories. You never wore shoes. 

And then you turned eight.

The roads were slick. That's what the cops told Uncle Bobby when they came knocking on the door with a social services worker and an eight-year-old orphan looking for next of kin. 

"They must have hit a patch of black ice. The car went over the overpass, and the snow was so thick nobody could see it until morning. It's a miracle she didn't freeze to death out there. Her parents were DOA. We're so sorry, sir."

But there was no black ice. The only thing on the road that night was a man with black eyes, who flipped the Camry right off the road without touching a thing. You didn't know what he was, so you started sneaking books when Uncle Bobby shuffled to the couch to drink himself to sleep and snore louder than a grizzly bear. He kept the really scary stuff on the top shelf, which could be remedied by climbing on his creaky wooden chair and standing on your tip-toes. You read, and read, and read. Journals, news articles, and books in a language you vaguely recognized. When your mother said you were gifted, this was probably what she meant.

But since she was dead, and you weren't even nine yet, it was too early to know and too uncertain to tell. You put pieces together by the small light over the stove, reading until you were so tired the bad dreams couldn't get you. And then, finally, you'd get some sleep. 

It wasn't until later, when Uncle Bobby was reading one of his weird books with a strange symbol on the cover, that you walked over in your Cinderella nightgown, plopped on his lap, and said, "I saw a demon out there. Killed mama and daddy." 

From then on, everything went to shit.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There are rules to surviving a world where magic and monsters are real, and most people aren't supposed to know about it. One, never talk about your dreams, and especially not the ones that come true. Two, only Uncle Bobby can know about your freaky penchant for dead languages, and the fact that you learned how to read them after a nasty blow to the head during the wreck, well before you aged into double-digits. And three, when you sense evil before it walks through the door, take the head start and run like hell.

These are the rules. You swear by them. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Then, of course, there's the matter of Dean.

Dean's your best friend. You wouldn't think so, since you and Sam are closer in age, but when you were kids, it was Dean who washed your sheets when you wet the bed and never talked about it. Dean who bought you and Sam popsicles with loose change, and always said he wasn't hungry. Dean who made sure to turn your nightlight on before you even brushed your teeth. Dean who called on Sundays to talk to you and sent postcards from every state John hauled him through. You only saw the Winchester boys from June to July, but they were your favorite people. 

He decided to call you Birdie the summer you were twelve, when you talked his ear off nonstop while Bobby showed him how to give his old Chevelle a tune-up. His lips tilted into that barely-there smile, the sort of soft look he saved for Sam and Sam only, and he said, "Dammit, little bird, I can hardly concentrate with you flappin' and chirpin' all over the place. Uncle Bobby's gonna smack me upside the head if I mess this up." But it was a playful, freckled grin with matching dimples, and from then on, he called you Birdie so much you heard it more than your actual name.

As he worked on the cars Uncle Bobby put out for him, he bought your silence with a popsicle, and you'd sit on the workbench with a library book, quietly watching him work to Zeppelin in the tape deck of the Walkman. Your crush was harmless, and most of the time, you barely thought about it. Dean was just Dean, almost four years older, but Dean, nonetheless. 

The three of you raised each other. Dean panic-bought half the convenience store's supply when you got your first period because Uncle Bobby was busy towing a trailer halfway across the state. It was Sam who explained female reproduction to him while you evaluated four different pad sizes before landing on the right one. Then, you went to the drive-in, drank slurpees that triggered brain freezes, and fell asleep on Sam's shoulder during the ride home. 

The Last Summer was the summer of two thousand, when you and Sam were seventeen, and Dean was too busy hunting solo and chasing tail to come to town longer than a day. All you knew was that he had a revolving door of girlfriends, whose names made cameos in Sunday phone calls. Cassie, Lisa, Jenny, Megan… you'd lost count. And you didn't care. Mostly. You tried not to.

Sam applied to college, and the two of you worked at the same Shake Shack to pay for his applications and Mustang parts, because Dean promised he was gonna finish fixing her up in time for graduation. You didn't tell Dean about Stanford, because John couldn't know. Sam decided he wanted to have the argument when there was actually something to argue about. You pinky-swore your silence.

When Sam got in, the fight came early. He called late one night from a bus stop pay phone, saying John had told him to stay gone, and he was enrolling in summer classes so he could move to California right after walking the stage. Your school got out later, so he was already in California by the time you were donning your own cap and gown. 

So, when the emergency of his goddaughter being dateless to the senior prom came up, Uncle Bobby called in the next best thing.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"This is ridiculous, Bobby. I look stupid."

You can hear Dean's baritone downstairs well before you see him. You're in your bedroom, curling your hair, when the Impala peels into the salvage yard, crunching gravel beneath her tires as the engine roars like the bass on a rock album. Judging by his protests and how they mirror your own from a day ago, both of you have lost the fight about skipping prom. Bobby dug out an old suit for him and even found a matching tie. Anytime you tried to argue with him, saying Dean was busy and far away, he shut you up with a knowing look. 

Fifteen hours is nothing with Dean Winchester behind the wheel. He drove all night just to be here, right now. 

Bobby knows what tonight is, even if he doesn't say it outright. It's your last night being normal before you become a hunter. As if it wasn't decided for you the night the black-eyed man stood in oncoming traffic and killed the child you once were.

"You don't look stupid, ya idjit. You just look broke." Because every hunter is. An ill-fitted secondhand suit is a marvel, even if it costs next to nothing. You suspect Dean doesn't look stupid because he could never look stupid. He's always been full of swagger, that self-assured badass attitude you envied.

Dean mutters drily. "Thanks."

Bobby is a man of few words, but tonight, he breaks his normal rules. "No smoking when she's around. I see that pack of reds. And fix your tie. Ain't your daddy ever teach you how to wear one?"

"Not really, no." More shuffling. Dean muttering under his breath. "This is a stupid idea."

Bobby snaps his fingers, his voice getting stern. He's always been a curmudgeon, but the voice he's using now is reserved for breaking curfew, sneaking out, and lying about stealing beers. "Hey! Listen here, boy, my little girl is gonna go to her damn senior prom in a ridiculous frou-frou dress and use the tickets I spent way too much money on. And she's gonna sneak spiked punch and dance and look beautiful and you are gonna be there all night. Ya hear me?"

Dean's voice is resigned. "Yes, sir."

Bobby continues, because once he starts, he can't stop. "I ain't doing this because I'm thrilled about a twenty-two year old taking my girl to prom. I couldn't take Sam away from his school. He's worked too hard to miss classes and jeopardize his scholarship. I'm gonna make sure he damn well keeps it, and I know you want that too. Hey! Don't make that face at me! He's your brother, and you better be proud, even if your daddy seems to have forgotten how to do that."

You know Sam and Dean aren't on speaking terms because Sam and John aren't on speaking terms. The knockout dragout fight was so bad John even called Bobby to bitch and moan about it. It was the only time in ten years that Dean had missed a Sunday phone call. You later found out he went and killed a couple vamps to blow off steam right after. Didn't even leave a voicemail. Or send a postcard.

"Now, this is her corsage. You put this on her wrist, and this one goes on your coat. Sure, the sleeves are a little long, but you can wear this huntin when you need to look official. Hold every door for her, ya hear?"

"Yes, sir. I think I can handle this. It's prom."

But Dean dropped out and got his GED at sixteen. You and Sam helped him study for it. He always said the pair of you were the brainiest kids he knew. He didn't go to prom, or pep ralleys, or any of the normal teen stuff in the TV shows. He doesn't know a thing about a night like this. He was never really a kid.

But Bobby is trained from secret viewings of rom-coms he pretends to hate. "For a teenage girl, even one as strange as her, this is supposed to be the most important night of her life. Next to her wedding or some shit. Don't fuck it up."

"I won't."

He won't. Dean's good at everything. He's kind of insufferable that way. 

"And Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean's getting impatient now, anxious even. You can hear it in the edge of his voice, hidden underneath that gruff imitation of his father. Trying to remember every rule Bobby's throwing out at a million miles an hour must be tough. It cracks his armor, bringing your Dean to the surface.

"Keep your hands at the equator. Too far North and I'll break your fingers, too far South and I'll cut your you-know-what off."

Your face is scarlet now. It's not exactly a secret that you're a virgin who's never had a boyfriend. Your uncle is a terrifying shut-in with more guns than a doomsday prepper, and your free time is usually occupied by two very large guard dogs named Sam and Dean. To say boys avoid you is an understatement. Not that you were interested in sweaty, pimply nerds, but still. Semantics. 

"Jesus Christ, Bobby. She's a kid."

"Not anymore she's not. And I know you know it too."

Your cheeks burn. You decide, before you have to hear any other metaphors for how Dean is supposed to behave this evening, to announce your arrival down the stairs, holding the skirt of your dress a few inches above the floor so you wouldn't trip. 

Mercifully, they stop talking about you when you take a loud step into the foyer. You walk into the kitchen and stand in your high-heels, wobbling like a baby deer atop the peeling linoleum floor. Your floor-length red dress is strapless, accentuating your waist and the breasts you can (finally) put on display. Sure, you were an awkward teenage girl, but you could be a hot adult. At least you didn't peak in high school. Layers of black lace and red satin flow down from the bodice, swishing when you walk. Your hair is curled and framing your face, and you've traded your glasses for contacts.

It's a Cinderella moment. A reveal straight out of She's All That. 

Dean looks really good in a suit. That's not exactly news, but it still makes your breath catch in your throat for a moment when he turns around, his collar slightly crooked, looking like the wind is knocked out of him. His eyes are bright, and his mouth twitches before spreading into a wide grin. "Hiya, Birdie."

God, the way he looks at you. It's lightning in a bottle. It's sweet wine. You wish you could drink this feeling over and over again. 

Bobby sniffles and pointedly looks away so he can pretend he's not tearing up. "You look real nice, honey." He fumbles for his digital camera, one of those throwaway ones from the drugstore with only a few snapshots in the canister. "Gotta get a photo of you. For the fridge."

It'll go next to Sam's report card, your honor roll certificate, and every wallet-sized class photo from picture day including the ones you'd really, really like to forget. Amid the magnets and takeout menus, there are mosaics of adolescence. Bobby's always sentimental, even if he pretends he's not.

"Now go on," Bobby orders. "Arms around her. Watch that pose, mister. Alright, honey look at me. Smile real big. There we go!" He fidgets with the stupid disposable camera for a good ten minutes, snapping a few photos until he decides to throw in the towel. The whole time, Dean is a statue beside you, his cologne wrapping around you alongside his muscular arms. You're glad you're not facing him, because your face would be scarlet, and you don't need to be dizzy in these ridiculous shoes anyway. 

"I'm sure the photos will come out perfect," Dean assures him. He sags with relief when the camera is away from him. He's never liked taking pictures, you've noticed. Maybe tonight you'll ask him why. 

You step out onto the porch, and Bobby waves from behind the screen door to keep the bugs out. "Be home by midnight or I'll send a search party!" He wipes his eyes on the hem of his grimy flannel, and you pretend not to see it.

Dean fidgets with the cuffs of his suit. "Do I look alright?"

"You clean up nice, De."

"Yeah?" he swallows hard. The column of his throat bobs. "I won't embarrass you or nothing?"

"You never could," you assure him. 

"You look beautiful tonight, birdie," he murmurs, opening the door of the Impala for you.

You can't hide your surprise as you slide onto the bench seat, fingers running over the soft leather. "Your dad let you drive her?"

"He promised he'd give me the car by next year. I guess he wants to see if I can take care of it."

It's not just about the Impala. You know he means John is testing him on everything. Hunting, the family business, and even the Impala Dean affectionately calls Baby. Dean would rather die than disappoint his old man. If yours was still around, you'd probably feel the same way.

"It's a really nice car."

"So's that Mustang," Dean replies. At your surprise, he grins. "What? Did you think I forgot about her?"

Did you think I forgot about you? He doesn't say. Doesn't have to.

He keeps rambling, and you're glad the car is dark because you're blushing like crazy. "I just tracked down that last part I needed for the transmission, and once I install it, it'll be nothing but up from then on." 

"Thank you."

"Of course, Birdie. It's no 67 Impala, but it's a damn good second. Sexy as fuck, and when I finish detailing it… God, she'll be perfect. And you belong behind her wheel." He nudges your shoulder, pulling out onto the interstate. Within twenty minutes, you're at your high school, where a bunch of teenagers are already crammed into a sweaty gym grinding to Top 40 radio. 

You reach for the door handle, and he whistles at you. "Nope. Give me a second, sweetheart." 

He's never called you that before. He's also never called you beautiful before tonight. It makes your head spin. But you can't think too much about it, not when half your brain space is focused on balancing in these stupid shoes.

Before you can protest, he jogs around the car and opens your door. Then his hand closes around yours, firm and warm and self-assured, and he helps you out of the Impala. And then he doesn't let go. He threads his fingers through yours, squeezing.

Dean Winchester is holding my hand. Holy shit. Oh my god. Oh my God.

"You okay, birdie?" he asks, nudging you again.

You nod. "Yeah. I just…"

"What? You've never had a date before."

You bite your lip, shaking your head as you look down at the pavement. 

"Hey, come on," he says. "Chin up. Hard to believe a smokeshow like you hasn't been taken out before, but I get the honor of being the first. I won't complain."

Daniel from Calculus is slurping at Abby's chin when you two approach the gym. He's got her pushed against his busted Civic, looking for something he lost in her braces with his wet, fat tongue. Her wandering eyes catch sight of you, then Dean, who straightens his back and tugs on your arm like you're a trophy. Like he's won Olympic gold. And Abby's stewing with anger, finally finding the wherewithal to wipe the slobber off her chin that smeared all her orange foundation. 

Dean pays it all no mind. He just watches you with the reverence of a sculptor.

"Is that the loser who stood you up?" he asks softly, when you're out of earshot.

You nod. "I thought Abby was my friend."

"That bitch? Good riddance. Me and Sam?" A microscopic wince. "We're the only friends you need."

"You're my best friend," you correct him.

"And you're mine," he replies, without missing a beat. "Now, let's make sure every guy in that room knows what he's missing."

And he does. He walks around the entire gym lazily, nodding at people and saying hi like he belongs there. He has that way about him, you realize. Dean belongs in every room he finds himself in. Somehow, for reasons beyond you, he's extending some of that magic your way. Suddenly, people are actually trying to remember your name. 

"Just warning you," Dean says, leaning down to whisper in your ear. "I'm a terrible dancer."

"So am I," you admit.

"Good. Means you'll have realistic expectations for tonight."

He's not a bad dancer, come to find out. You don't dance for a lot of the pop songs with high energy, mostly because the idea of being wedged in a sweaty moshpit with random pelvises thrusted in your direction sounds like a circle of hell. There are two slow songs, and Dean makes sure to dance with you for both of them, leading and spinning and holding you. 

He makes you laugh. You talk about everything and nothing and sip the fruit punch that he spikes with his own hidden flask. It burns down your throat and pricks at your mouth like a kiss. He even wipes the lipstick off the corner of your mouth when it smears, and you forget how to breathe for a couple seconds before he looks away. 

The last dance of the night? That's the one that makes your world snap into focus. You wake up from the daydream, suddenly aware of every inch of your skin, every breath, every flutter of your heart inside the cage of your chest. An impatient hummingbird, answering to that playful little nickname falling off Dean's lips.

Birdie. Birdie. Birdie.

'Fade Into You' by Mazzy Star floods over the gym, and the lights go blue and red to make a sort of lavender technicolor. Dean pulls you into his chest, and he wraps both your arms around his neck, drawing you closer than he did for any of the other dances. One arm traces over your bicep, running against your side, slowly falling to the edge of the bodice of your dress, where it flares into a skirt. He traces your silhouette, one hand tangled in your curls, the other on the small of your back, his pinky brushing your ass. If he notices, he doesn't move.

Your faces are inches apart. In the dim light of the gym, you can make out the shadows of his stubble, the familiar freckles you could count from memory faded by the faint glow of neon. Your heels make the five-inch gap between your height and his a hell of a lot smaller, and his mouth is about three inches from yours, and you swear his heart is racing too.

"You're so beautiful, birdie," he whispers. The words barely make a sound over the music, but you don't care, because somehow you understand them anyway. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. Then his tongue darts out to dampen his bottom lip, and he traces your cupid's bow with his emerald eyes, and he leans in—

The song ends. The lights come up. The spell is broken.

You don't realize until he's helping you in the car, having trouble making eye contact, that he was going to kiss you. And the worst thing about that realization is the fact you almost kissed Dean Winchester, and now have to live in a world where it didn't happen, but could've, if the damn song was longer. 

When you get back to Singer Salvage, he gets the door again, helping you out. Somewhere between the uneven gravel driveway and the porch, your exhaustion catches up to you, and your skirt catches around your heel, and you trip.

And Dean catches you. 

But this time, he kisses you for real.

It's a dizzying first kiss. Just the press of lips to yours for a few seconds, warm and inviting without moving too fast. A test of the waters, a supernova of possibility. A kiss that's over before you can even register it's actually happening. The electricity lingers on your mouth when he pulls back.

Dean clears his throat, anxiously scratching at the back of his neck. Then he holds open the front door for you, and you take off those stupid high heels and run upstairs to wash your makeup off. Bobby offers him a beer and a cigarette, and the two of them step outside. Your bedroom window is open, right above the porch, so you can hear the lighter flick twice, both men taking slow drags.

You pull pajamas on and start pulling pins from your hair, letting it loose as you wash away your makeup and brush away the hair product. Your glasses go back on, and little by little, Cinderella becomes a girl again. 

"How was it?" Bobby asks.

"It was good. Kinda teeny-bopper for my taste, but she had a good time," Dean answers. If Bobby suspects anything, he doesn't let on. Dean's got his poker face, his voice even, his words smooth. 

"You were a gentleman?"

"Yes, sir."

He opened every door. He danced to every song you wanted him to. He held your hand and never strayed from your side. He didn't even use his tongue when he kissed you. He kissed you sweetly, like he knew it was your first one ever, and he wanted it to be special. 

You know it's wrong to be listening through the screen, catching their conversation between gusts of early summer breeze, but you can't help it. You focus through the hum of crickets and cicadas and listen anyway, because your heart is racing and you're wonderstruck and delirious from a perfect night. 

And then Bobby says something he shouldn't. Of course, he doesn't know it. How could he? Men are oblivious about this sort of thing. 

Bobby laughs to himself, coughing as he chips away at his smoke. "I guess as far as boys go, you ain't so bad."

You can hear Dean's frown. You know every facial expression by the way he talks. "What do you mean?"

"Well, she seems pretty smitten with you, Dean. Even an old coot like me can see it. And the way you looked at her…"

Dean chuckles humorlessly. "It's not like that."

"It ain't?"

"She's like an annoying little sister to me, Bobby. Honest. I love her, and she's family, but it's not like that."

The ground comes out from under you. Annoying little sister. Family. I love her, but…

No, this doesn't make sense. Dean kissed you. Dean took you to the prom. Dean—

Was doing a favor for Bobby. Because Sam wasn't available. Because no boys wanted to take you to prom. Because you've never been the kind of girl guys look twice at, and especially not guys as amazing and handsome and fierce as Dean.

And fucking hell, you love him.

You're an "annoying kid sister" to him, but you love him.

You're nothing but a pest to him, and you're head over heels. The way you've been since the first time he called you birdie, and it's hitting you all at once.

You wait until they're back inside to slam the window shut, afraid they'll realize you were listening in. You lock your bedroom door, turn all the lights out, and fake sleep while they talk incoherently downstairs about monsters and things that belong to a hunter's life, not an eighteen-year-old girl at prom.

And later that night, on his way to the guest room, you swear Dean stops in front of your door for a few seconds, but the knock never comes. He shuffles away. You listen to Uncle Bobby snore all the way downstairs, crying silently into your pillow. You cry about your first love, the first boy to ever break your heart, sleeping a few feet and a wall away.

You won't admit it, but it's the same night you realize you've always been in love with Dean Winchester, and you'll never feel that way about anyone else.

August 2007

You should've gone home.

The hunt was successful. You made it in and out in record time. You killed the wraith with an efficiency that would put even Uncle Bobby to shame, and so you figured you deserved a night to say hi to Ellen and Jo and Angel. A night to drink free booze from hunters that'll never have a chance with you. To listen to music, chain smoke in the parking lot, lean against the hood of your Mustang and—

You hear Baby before you see her headlights. The cigarette in your hand falls to the gravel beneath your sneakers, and you stamp it out, ducking behind the passenger side of the Mustang. You parked in the corner of the lot, several cars away from where the Impala is pulling in now. You're hoping Dean doesn't notice your car. If he sees the Mustang, he'll know you're here, and then he'll follow you to Bobby's and won't leave until he talks to you. 

Because he has to make this right. Because Dean Winchester, the man you love against all reason and hope and logic, has a moral compass wedged so deep inside of him that he can never leave things unfinished. He can never leave a wrong without righting it. He can never give up on anyone. 

That's why he calls every Sunday.

And for some masochistic reason, you listen to every voicemail. You stare at the call button, thumb hovering above the keys, debating calling him back. You feel every syllable, every crackle of his voice over the phone, as if it's a splinter digging deeper and deeper under your skin. 

You recognize the incoherent rumble of his voice as he laughs with Sam, but he doesn't pause. Chances are, he doesn't spot your car. The heavy doors open, the trickle of Angel's voice as she finishes a song suspended in the parking lot before they shut again.

You stamp out your cigarette, cursing yourself. Your jacket and keys are next to Ash, hanging on one of the tall chairs. You haven't closed your tab. A dark parking lot is one thing, but a crowded room you have to cross from one side to the other is a whole other ball game. How the hell are you going to make it without Dean seeing you? 

You can't even text Jo to bail you out, because your phone is charging in the back office. 

Shit.

You catch a glimpse of your face reflected back in your dark tinted windows. Dean insisted on the tint because he wanted you to have as much privacy as possible for stakeouts. He picked the custom paint color too, and you realize as you're assessing yourself and trying to calm the fuck down that your nails are the same shade of burgundy. Your cheeks are hollower, the bones under your skin more prominent. The shadows under your eyes are deeper and darker.

The truth is, you've been smoking more and eating less. Hunting more and sleeping a couple hours a week. You live off of caffeine and resentment, and no matter how hard you try, you can't stop thinking about Dean. And then you feel guilty for missing him, because he's not dead yet. But he will be. He will be, and you can't stop it.

Maybe, in some screwed up way, you thought that time apart would make you forget how much you love him. Even when you haven't said a word to him in months, you're confronted with the realization that Dean is still your favorite person, still the love of your life, still your other half. Being in his proximity reminds you how you've ached for him. There's a space burrowed inside your chest that's his, and now you realize how fucking empty it's been. 

Time to face the music. You can't run anymore. 

You walk back into the Roadhouse with your chin up, finding that fearless part of you that only comes when you close your fingers around the crucifix Uncle Bobby gave you a long time ago for projection. Your iron and silver rings, all pure for Monster punching, clink and clack against the chain as you run your hand over it. Twisting, breathing. 

Angel is playing 'Knockin on Heaven's Door' and Sam is staring at her. Of course he is. You didn't suggest he come see her play because he's a music fan. He is, but he's also right where he's meant to be when he looks at her, and the weight of the world he's carrying falls a little lighter as he listens to her sing. You fucking knew it. 

Maybe you're not good at making your own magic with Dean, but you can help them find theirs. And that's something. 

You reach your spot at the bar, fumbling for your leather jacket. As your hands shake, fighting with the coat, shakily sliding your arms into the sleeves, someone comes up behind you, steadying you. Hands you know better than your own push it over your shoulders, helping you into it before coming to rest at his sides.

"Hey, Birdie," Dean Winchester says.

The dam inside you breaks. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You knew before you even saw Sam what he'd done.

Dean had spent the day after his death in that empty shack near his rotting corpse, watching the body get cold. You kept vigil from the porch, hiding tears of your own. Seeing Sam dead and lifeless and gone made it more real. It was easier to keep your distance.

Shortly after your nineteenth birthday in 2002, you and Dean started hunting together. You shared hotel rooms, learned to speak in code without words. You patched each other up, finished each other's punchlines. You became more than just best friends. No, you became partners. And every year, as the seasons whittled away, you fell more and more in love with him. 

You did a hundred jobs before Sam came back from Stanford. And then the three of you got to work. Bobby was always more relaxed when he knew you were with the Winchesters. He figured it would decrease his odds of burying his kid, but he only said as much when he was particularly drunk. 

And now Sam, who did the 'down' sections of the crossword before passing it to you to finish, was dead. He'd been stabbed in the back, and the fucker responsible was in the wind. You'd been there as Dean held him in his arms, talking about patching him up, about fixing him.

He couldn't be fixed.

He was gone. 

But Dean couldn't accept that. He wouldn't. You knew better than anyone what he was like once he got an idea. When his mind was made up, it became law. There was no convincing or bargaining. His stubbornness could come in handy in a tight spot, but it also made him impossible to reach sometimes. 

You went back home to sleep one night. When you woke up the next morning, you heard the Impala rumbling into the Salvage Yard. And you knew, you knew, what he'd done.

You and Bobby did a good job of hiding your shock. Just for Sam's sake. Because there were bigger, more important things to handle, and when the time was right, Dean was going to look at the bed he'd made and lie in it. The Marine who'd survived Azazel's trap was going to open the devil's Gate. You needed to stop that from happening, and you needed all hands on deck.

Just because you weren't going to have it out in front of Sam didn't mean you could hold all your words in. No, you pulled Dean outside for a cigarette, and after a single, slow drag, you exploded at him.

"Birdie," he whispered. And then he said your name, your real name, so soft and so broken it sounded like it hurt when it emerged from his cracked lips. "I—"

"No!" You cut him off with a finger pointed in his face. "I talk first. You don't get to talk yet."

He nodded and closed his mouth. His green eyes were bright, and he avoided meeting your gaze. His shoulders slumped. He was making himself small the way he would when John laid into him, and it was enough to crack your armor. But then you remembered he sold his soul, and the anger was back and hot and righteous. 

"How long?" The question was sour. It was snake venom. And you couldn't get the taste out of your mouth. "How. Long."

"A year," he whispered.

The wind whooshed out of you. There wasn't any air in your lungs anymore. The sun overhead was shrinking to a pinprick. Soon it would be dark. There would be nothing left of your Dean. 

Not ten years. Not five. One. 

In one year, Dean was going to die. 

"How dare you?" you demanded, grabbing him by the shirt. 

He shrugged you off, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "We gotta find this yellow-eyed son of a bitch. That's why I'm gonna kill him myself. I mean, I got nothing to lose now, right?"

"What's wrong with you? Your daddy threw himself to the wolves and now you have to? Your hero worship wasn't enough? You had to take it one self-loathing, codependent step forward?" You whirled around, throwing your hands up. Tears burned in your eyes. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you could taste blood.

His reply came like he was talking down to you. Like you couldn't possibly get it, and he knew better. He got that way sometimes during hunts, like being older was an achievement. It didn't make him any less of an idiot. 

He clenched his fists, shaking out his hands. "That's the point. Dad brought me back, Birdie. I'm not even supposed to be here. At least this way, something good could come out of it, you know? It's like my life could mean something."

You powered through the voice crack. Fuck it. You could cry. You could scream. He needed to feel the weight of what he'd done, and you weren't going to preserve his feelings. You were hurting. Because of him. And he deserved to feel it too. "And it didn't before?" You seethed. "Did you even think about anyone else? What about Sam? How do you think he's gonna feel knowing you picked an eternity of torture so he could come back from the dead?"

His voice broke. Tears shone in his eyes. "I couldn't let him die, Birdie. I couldn't. He's my brother."

You felt your voice tightening. Your chin wobbled. You looked away from him because you knew if you kept looking at him, you'd implode. "And now he's gonna watch you die bloody. We all will."

You'd seen the work of hellhounds. Your Dean, beautiful and strong and gentle all the same, was going to be torn to ribbons and then sent to hell, where he'd live it over and over again. Forever. Until he was twisted into a demon. Until there was nothing left of him. 

Fear flickered in his eyes. Ticked in his jaw. You saw right through him. 

"You can't tell him. Hit me, yell, whatever, but you can't tell him."

"I'm not going to," you spat. "Don't worry, Dean. You can handle this one all by yourself. I mean, that's what you always do, isn't it? Fuck everyone else, right?"

"That's not fair."

"What's not fair is the fact you didn't even tell me. We swore after John not to fuck with fate. You told me you'd never do something that stupid. And fuck! You weren't man enough to admit what you were planning. So yeah, I'm angry, and I hate it, and I think it's the wrong choice, but you chose to do it alone. You chose to lie to me. You chose—"

You couldn't finish. You started to cry, and then you started to sob.

Dean caught you, holding you tightly. "I'm sorry, Birdie. I'm so sorry."

You shoved him away, shaking your head. You did everything you could to pull it together. "When this is over, and you tell Sam the stupid thing you've done, I'm leaving. You want to throw it all away and set your life on fire? I'm not burning with you anymore."

"We promised not to leave each other," Dean protested, his voice thick. "Come on." He begged your name, whispered it like a prayer. "Birdie. Please."

"We also promised never to lie to each other, De. And look how that turned out. Guess we're both good at breaking promises."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Dean," you say, when you find the words, when you find your voice. 

"Can we talk?" he asks.

Angel is still singing and Sam is still watching and the bar is still packed. As the words wash over you, you can't stop looking at Dean. 

"That long black cloud is comin down.

Feel I'm knockin on heaven's door."

You nod. "Yeah. We can talk."

"Not here," he says, like you need the clarification to know what he means.

"I know." You hesitate, then say, "You know you're always welcome at Bobby's."

Dean nods. "I'll meet you there."

"Okay."

And then you leave, but like Orpheus, you do look back. You have to look, before the dark swallows him up for good.

June 29th, 2002

The air is thick with tension as the Impala pulls into the Salvage Yard. You're sitting in the passenger seat, covered in mud from head to toe, but otherwise unharmed. Your hair sticks to your neck from the summer humidity. You breathe, and the sound is an irritated whistle through your nose.

You think the silence is the worst part. Dean always has a tape in the deck because he insists every moment of his life needs a soundtrack in the form of 70s hair bands. And you love the way the bass notes reverberate in your chest, love the way the wind feels when he rolls them down. This time, the stereo is turned off. He punched the dial with an angry pointer finger the second you made it back to the Impala.

The two-hour drive between the hunt in buttfuck nowhere and Sioux Falls stretches for an eternity. When Baby's tires crunch over the gravel, you can't throw yourself out of the car fast enough.

"Hey!" Dean barks. "I ain't done with you yet!"

You whirl around. "Done with me? Done with me? I saved your life, Winchester. It seems awfully strange you haven't added 'thanks' to your vocab. Try that again."

"I'm not thanking you for rushing into a situation that almost got you killed."

"I didn't rush into jack shit. I was already there. It was my job. My case." And if he hadn't gone snooping through your desktop computer, he'd have no idea where you were or what you were working on. You'll have to change your password again. After you kill him for snooping. 

He snorts humorlessly, like the thought alone is preposterous. "You don't have cases. You go to class at the community college and work as a bartender. That's what you do."

You snort. "You believe that?" Surely this isn't the Dean that taught you how to lie. He trained your poker face, helped you learn to pass a polygraph test for fun one summer break. You know he wouldn't take your word at face value for any reason but hope.

"What?" Dean bites out. 

Now you've done it. The truth is out there, so you're spilling your guts because there's no point in pretending anymore. "I dropped out. And I don't have a liquor license. I hunt, De. I took down a revenant two months ago and a solo vamp at a truck stop a couple of weeks ago. I'd have caught more gigs, but Bobby stashed my damn car keys somewhere and the starter on the Mustang needs fixing. You only showed up on my hunt because you were looking for me."

You expect him to be pissed off, since he has been the entire drive. You figured some of that anger was about the dirt and grime you were tracking into the Impala. It's not your fault you fell into a swamp when you impaled the Striga. Occupational hazard. But Dean doesn't look pissed. He looks hurt.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. "I knew you were out being stupid when you missed our Sunday phone call."

Stupid. Whatever remorse you feel is buried under a fresh wave of anger. "I'm sorry, who saved who again?"

He scoffs. "I had it under control."

You step forward, nearly standing toe to toe with him. "Oh really? Because it looked to me like that thing's teeth had some serious sexual tension with your jugular. But if that's what you call control, who am I to judge your foreplay?"

"What the fuck is the matter with you, Birdie?" he demands. "Do you want to die?"

He's ridiculous. He better be joking. "What part of my kick ass hunting says I want to die, De?"

He throws up his hands, shaking his head as he launches into his righteous, I know more than you tone. "Maybe the part where it's a stupid dangerous gig and you're a hundred pounds soaking wet! Maybe the part where you're a kid."

"I'm not a kid." You haven't been a kid in years. Not that it matters one bit to him. 

"Right. So that's why you can't buck up and have a straight conversation with Bobby about wanting to hunt. You just gotta keep lying to him."

Dean has a lot of nerve, speaking about your relationship with your uncle. It's none of his goddamn business. "He knows. He chooses not to acknowledge it."

"Do you even hear yourself?" He spits out your name. Your full name. Like he's some disappointed parental figure. You have half a mind to sink your knuckles into his neck and knock the wind out of him. 

"This is what I was meant to do, Dean. Okay? Ever since my parents died, ever since I became Uncle Bobby's problem, I was pushed onto this path. I'm not normal. I know how to kill a man with a ballpoint pen eight different ways. When I was nine years old and I tried to join the Girl Scouts, I told the girls there were monsters in the dark and to line the windows with salt. You think I ever had a prayer at being anything else? No. And I'm done pretending. This is what makes sense to me. This. So I don't need your approval. I'm nineteen years old."

"You should've told me, Birdie!" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Jesus. I know better than anyone that when you put your mind to something, there's no changing it, but come on. You shouldn't be out on your own. Hunting alone gets people killed. That's why Bobby and Rufus never flew solo."

"And now they don't talk. So clearly it worked out great."

"I can't lose you! Okay? I can't."

There it is. The real reason behind the fight. The one he's been skirting around in that emotionally constipated boy way of his. Now it's out in the open, and you feel a little like an open wound, unable to stop the emotions bleeding out of you. Of course, he's afraid of losing you.

People don't stick around Dean Winchester. You know that.

You're determined to prove otherwise.

Mud be damned, you hug him. And mud be damned, he holds you so tightly all the anger vanishes from both of you. He presses his chin on top of your head, sighing in relief. "You stubborn, impossible girl."

"Learned it from you."

He pinches your hip, and you slap his hand away.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Later, after you shower and throw away your muddy clothes, the two of you crack open beers and sit on the second floor outside your bedroom window, watching the stars. 

Dean clears his throat, knocking back more of his beer. "I'll fix your car, but you're not hunting alone."

You roll your eyes. "Who am I supposed to hunt with then?"

He glances over at you, nudging you with his shoulder. "With me. Got a problem with that?"

Your face is hot. The warmth climbs down your throat. "No. No problem at all."

A beat. Then, he chuckles. 

"What?" you ask.

"Sexual tension with my jugular," he teases, relaying your lines from earlier. "Jesus, Birdie, you're a regular poet."

"Shut up, idiot."

November 2005

"This is a terrible idea, Dean."

He's been turning his watch around on his wrist for the last hour, pacing the parking lot, then sitting back down in the driver's seat of the Impala, weighing the keys in his hands like he's finding the guts to drive off. Once he's held the key over the ignition for a couple of minutes, he hops out again, starts pacing, and the cycle continues.

You're sitting on Baby's hood, hands stuffed in the pockets of your bomber jacket. One earbud in, one out, you flick absently through your latest stack of photo prints. Every couple weeks, you buy a new disposable camera and develop the pictures from the last one. You're not sure why, exactly, but you do know that a hunter lives a life like a ghost. Mementos are the only thing you leave behind after a classic salt and burn funeral. Photos, slightly washed out from the shitty camera quality and dashboard sunshine, will be all that's left of you and Dean one day.

"I don't know what else to do, Birdie," he says, biting his lip. "I mean, Dad's never gone this long without checking in before. We gotta find out what happened to him. What if he's—" He cuts himself off, because as far as Dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms go, he's certain not saying something means it ceases to be true. Hard to escape denial if you never face the issue head-on. 

"He'll turn up. I'm telling you he will." Not that you want him to. John Winchester is a piece of shit, as far as you're concerned, but Dean is loyal to his father, so you don't wish ill upon him. Not to his face anyway. 

"Sam needs to know."

"Are you sure this is about your dad, De?"

He turns to you, incredulous. "Of course it's about Dad! What else would it be?"

"Maybe that you miss your brother?"

"That's some chick flick crap," he retorts, crossing his arms. "I don't do that shit. If I missed him, I'd call."

"Uh-huh," you say evenly. 

"What's it matter to you anyway? It's not like you've seen him in years either!"

Dean doesn't know that you and Sam email at least once every couple of weeks. You've seen pictures of his girlfriend, Jessica, and studied for the LSAT with him over the phone. You've proofread his term papers and sent small Christmas presents in the mail. More than once, you've thought about telling Dean, but it feels like a betrayal, having parts of Sam he doesn't. Then again, Dean's under John's thumb, and what John says is the end-all, be-all. So even if it rips Dean apart inside, he stays away. He doesn't call or write or text. 

You really hate John. You think about the bruises on Dean's wrists as a kid, or the split lips he'd try to hide in the summertime. You think about the fact Dean was always rail thin when he'd get dropped off, because all of his food went to Sam's stomach. Sam, who never had clothes that fit. Sam, who never realized Dean was taking all the hits. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if John Winchester died, but you can't voice that opinion. So you shove it deep down. 

For whatever reason, Dean thinks Sam can help find John. If he's alive.

You think he is. John Winchester is a cockroach. Downright unkillable. You also think he doesn't want to be found.  

"It's late, Dean," you say. "Let's just drive back to the motel. We can come back in the morning."

Your suggestion is what rouses him to action. He shakes his head, resolute. "No. I'm gonna get him."

And then he's off, running upstairs to face Sam for the first time in years. If it weren't an unholy hour, you'd call Sam to let him know, but you decide not to interfere. 

"It's so good to see you, Sam!" you say brightly, as he follows Dean out of his apartment building. The serious look on his face melts away when he catches sight of you, and he hugs you tightly.

He says your name, just once. His shoulders are still tense, but there's a relief to see you too. Probably because you make a good buffer. "Did you get shorter?"

You slug him on the arm. "I think you got taller, Samsquatch. Next time there's a bigfoot sighting, I'll give 'em your address."

He snorts. "Jessica loved the perfume, by the way. Fantastic anniversary gift idea."

"I knew she would—" And then you realize, too little too late, that you really should've told Dean you and Sam were talking. 

Your face falls for a second, as Dean realizes what Sam's just admitted. He grinds out his words through his teeth, gesturing between you and Sam. "Wait, you…"

"We talk," you say. "He asked me for advice on Jess's anniversary present."

It's a lie, and both of you know it. You and Dean spend enough time together that you've memorized each other's microexpressions. Even though the two of you are professional bullshitters with a knack for schooling your tells, the smallest parts of you can't lie. He's the one person in the world you can't fake out, and you hate it. Then again, he feels the same way about you. It's what makes you so good at hunting together. 

He gives you a sharp look. A this isn't over look. 

You guys drive through the night to Jericho, where John was last working a job. That's all you got from Dean, who's taken to giving you the silent treatment. Even Sam notices the tension. That is, until he falls asleep in the passenger seat. 

At the gas pump, as you nurse a burnt coffee in a styrofoam cup so thin the heat bleeds through, Dean finally speaks. 

"So, you and Sammy, huh?"

"We're friends," you reply. 

He huffs out a breath, trying to keep his voice low as his green eyes shift in Sam's direction. "Well, you could've told me you still talked to him."

"Could I, Dean?" You work your bottom lip between your teeth. "Because whenever his name comes up, you freak out on me. It's like a taboo word around you. Not to mention, John—"

"Don't talk about Dad," he cuts in. "You don't know him like I do."

Honestly, you think you know him better. Bobby certainly does. 

"I don't know what you want me to say, Dean. I love both of you. You're family. We grew up together. I'm not gonna apologize for sticking with my friend when everyone else bailed on him."

That was a bad choice of words. His eyes flash with something unrecognizable, and he slams the gas pump back on the dock with a little too much force. You know he's warring with himself, wanting to argue that he never abandoned Sam, but that's not exactly the case. 

"All I'm saying is that it was hard on both of you," you finish. "You're all you'll ever have."

A small smile teases out of him. "Jesus, Birdie, only you could say some cheesy shit like that and make it sound wise."

"Yeah, well, it's part of my charm."

June 13th, 1991

When Sam and Dean Winchester get dropped off at Bobby's front door at midnight, he doesn't even blink. John hauls off the dirt road without so much as a goodbye, the Impala roaring into the night as he speeds off like a bat out of hell. 

Bobby is nursing a beer at his desk when Dean comes in first, tugging Sam by the sleeve. Sam's just turned eight, but he's so tall already that he towers over all the kids in his grade. When Bobby notices his too-short jeans, he decides to take the kids to the thrift store to get them clothes that fit during daylight hours.

"Hi, Uncle Bobby," grumbles Sam, tucked sleepily behind Dean. 

"Hi, Bobby," Dean says, taking off his shoes. He leaves his sneakers in a heap by the door, all freckles and crooked smile. He's twelve now, and damn proud of it. As far as he's concerned, he's basically an adult, because his dad lets him hunt sometimes now, and he even pats him on the back too. 

"You two need to get in bed. This ain't no hour for kids to be awake." 

"Yes, sir," says Dean, trying to tug Sam up the stairs to the guest room they share when they're here. Sam doesn't budge. Instead, he lets go of his backpack and points to the small girl bundled up on the office sofa. 

"Who's that?" 

"My niece," Bobby answers. He says her name with the rarest bit of affection, his lips almost smiling. "She's livin' with me from now on. Lost her folks in an accident this winter."

It's the first time Dean Winchester lays eyes on Birdie Singer. She's not his Birdie yet. For whatever reason, as Dean traces her freckled cheeks with his eyes, evaluating her in the same way he sizes up all of Sammy's friends, he decides he knows her. Knows the places she's broken because they're the same as his. 

She spends most of her afternoons on the tire swing in the yard, reading library books or drawing with colored pencils. She doesn't talk to Dean, but she shares one of her books with Sam, and he shares a crossword puzzle he got from a gas station a few stops before Dad dropped them off. Neither of them know all the clues by themselves yet, but they take two separate pen colors and fill in what they can. Occasionally, Sam asks Uncle Bobby for help on the questions that stump them. Dean throws out incorrect answers just to get Birdie to smile. 

It's the first time Bobby's seen Birdie react since she got to Sioux Falls.

Three days after Sam and Dean arrive, Bobby wakes up to find the kids in the kitchen. Dishes clatter as they assemble breakfast for Father's Day. Standing beside Dean, who's manning the stove like his life depends on it as he fries up bacon and eggs, is his little girl. She's mixing instant pancake batter, her cheeks covered in dust from the flour, her movements with the whisk clumsy. 

Sam's setting the table, watching as Birdie and Dean assemble pancakes. The serious look on Dean's face is the one he reserves for shooting cans with Dad. His concentration on breakfast is just as fierce, like it may as well be the difference between life and death. None of them notice Bobby hovering in the doorway, wondering if he can sneak a photo with his digital camera before one of them notices he's standing there.

And then she speaks.

"Blackbird" by the Beatles starts playing on the radio, which is angled halfway out the window to get a half-decent signal without static. As Dean hums along, remembering his Mama's favorite songs, Birdie—so softly Bobby almost doesn't hear it—tugs the edge of his too-big flannel sleeve. 

"I like this song, too," she says.

And hell, the way Dean looks at her. Like she's sunshine on a cloudy day. Like she's handed him the keys to the universe with one little smile. Bobby knows right then the pair of them are gonna be trouble. "Oh yeah?" Dean asks, and then he cranks up the volume.

She doesn't say anything else, but after they eat breakfast, which is surprisingly edible for something assembled from questionable kitchen ingredients and three kids, Birdie hugs him so tightly her little arms shake. 

"Happy Father's Day, Uncle Bobby," she says.

And damn, it's enough to make a grown man cry.

August 2007

It's a scene straight out of a John Hughes movie, something Dean would make fun of in one breath and reference in another. 

Birdie is sitting outside her bedroom window on the second story, planted on the slanted roof next to a massive oak tree with her dilapidated tire swing still creaking from a branch. She's got a beer pressed between her knees, the condensation bleeding through the fabric of her blue jeans. Her nose is stuck in a book, probably some obscure occult text about demons and deals. For good measure, she slipped a book jacket for one of Aunt Karen's old bodice rippers over it, just to hide the text. But Dean knows Birdie hates shitty romance books. He knows her better than anyone.

When the Impala roars into the scrapyard a couple of hours after she left the Roadhouse, she doesn't even look up. Dean wants to talk, so he'll find his way to her, foregoing the usual Roshambo for the other guest room. Loser gets the couch, or the trundle bed, though Birdie's kept her room to herself since she turned nineteen. Whenever she and Dean rolled through before 05, they enjoyed their privacy. 

It was so much simpler then. Before the yellow-eyed demon. Before Dean sold his soul. 

A few minutes after Sam and Dean walk into the house, he drops his duffel bag off on the sofa and heads into Birdie's room. For a moment, he contemplates knocking, but she's outside, and it doesn't make any sense to do that. He watches from the doorway, tracing the lines of her hair French-braided down her back, and he memorizes her. 

"It's creepy, the staring thing," she informs him, not looking up from her book. Not turning her head.

Of course, she feels him standing there. Of course, she knows what he's doing. 

The hardest thing he's given up since making his deal for Sam is his Birdie. And she has no idea just how deep his love runs.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You watch as Dean struggles to fit through the tiny window, one bow leg at a time. When he shimmies down to sit beside you, he plucks what's left of your beer from where it's growing warm between your legs and swigs it down.

You glance at him sideways. "Enjoy my backwash." 

"You never drink your beer warm," he says. "That's why I always finish them."

It's true. That's the part that hurts the most. He already knows everything there is to know about you, and you've developed your own language and habits. He's the only person you could have a conversation with without ever saying a word.

He's Dean. Your Dean.

It's hard to look at him and not see a corpse shredded to ribbons. A pool of blood out of a slasher. When you were little, you dreamed of the accident that orphaned you a thousand times. As an adult, it stopped being your parents, in their tiny Camry. It was always Dean. And every time, you could never save him.

Your unshed tears turn to a stone shoved into your throat. You clear it. 

"How have you been?" you ask.

"We don't gotta do this," he replies. "I know you and Sam email. I've seen—"

You arch an eyebrow. "You snooped?" 

You figured he would. It's why you never talk about your feelings for Dean, even hinting at something more complex than friendship. You haven't even figured out what to call it yet, and the idea of him uncovering raw, unfiltered feelings makes you feel seasick. Your emails with Sam are also intentionally vague, never detailing where you are or what jobs you're working. You know Dean. He'd show up in a heartbeat. 

Then again, it takes everything in you not to do the same time and time again. He's Dean. Your Dean. 

Your open wound, bleeding out in real time. 

He snorts, shrugging. He knows you're not mad. "Can you blame me? You weren't answering my calls. I needed to know you were alright."

"Well, I am." Except you're not. What the hell are you supposed to do without him?

He holds your gaze. "You look tired."

You do. You haven't been eating enough, keeping odd hours while staving off horrible nightmares. Most of your diet is liquid, and Bobby keeps looking at you like you're drowning in booze. And maybe you are. "Thanks. Real charming work, De."

He blushes. He actually blushes. He's trying so hard to keep peace between you, and he's flustered, tripping over himself. "I didn't mean it like that." 

The longer you avoid talking about his death, the more it'll hurt to rip the bandaid off. But you're not ready, so you keep talking about nothing important. "Then how did you mean it?"

"You're beautiful," he says.

The way he says it makes you forget your own name.

"But you also look like crap," Dean amends. You watch him backpedal in real time. "I mean, Jesus, Birdie, are you even taking care of yourself? This isn't healthy."

"I look worse than I am. I think I'm coming down with something."

He says your name. The real one. "Can we level with each other?"

"Okay."

"Bobby called me. He told me you'd be at Harvelle's tonight after coming back from a hunt. He also told me you've been drinking Everclear like it's a bottle of water—"

"I don't drink Everclear—" Anymore. You ran out. It's cheap and awful, but it numbs the pain. The ache of pre-mourning Dean. 

"He says you need me."

You scoff. A razor sharp wave of anger cuts through you. Bobby went behind your back instead of talking to you. Typical. Of course he did. Because no one trusts you to be an adult who can handle your shit. But you can't even say the words I don't need you because you remember promising Dean never to lie to each other. And it meant something to you.

"And I know you don't need me." He scrubs a hand over his face. His voice cracks. "I mean, look at you. You're so strong and brave. You've always been. You never needed me—"

But you're the moon, and he's the sun. Everything he thinks you are is a reflection of him, what he brings out in you. You're not brave or strong by yourself. You're those things because you love Dean Winchester, and he's taught you to be better. "You're wrong," you whisper.

"I need you." He bites down hard on his lip, sniffling and pushing his tears back. His bright green eyes are shining, fragments of stars caught midair. "I need you, Birdie. I'm putting on this tough face for Sam, but he probably sees the cracks. I don't wanna worry him. I don't want him to feel guiltier than he already does, because I made the choice. I made that call. And I do it again a thousand times but…" A tear slides down his cheek. He stares up at the stars, and you think, under the moonlight, the constellations match the pattern on his cheeks. 

You don't speak, because you know he needs to get it out. And like a horse, you can spook him easily. He'll turn tail and run instead of opening up, and you've spent too many years chipping away at the stone to make him understand it's okay to be vulnerable. Because you'll be there at the bottom of every canyon, the way he has been for you.

"I'm scared." He spits the confession like it's a slur, a horrible insult to his father's bullshit legacy. For a moment, you almost wish you could visit Heaven and beat the fuck out of John Winchester, who doesn't belong there for a minute. If you hadn't seen him escape from Hell yourself, you'd think he was still in the pit. And god, you'd love to take a swing.

"I'm so scared, Birdie." Dean almost whimpers as he chokes back his sob. "I'm almost thirty. Barely. I'm not… I'm not ready to die. I can't look out for Sammy in the pit. So please, I'm begging you, no matter how angry you are, don't let me do this alone. I need you. I need you, sweetheart."

He crumples like a thin piece of paper in a rainstorm. A paper crane in a tornado. You catch him, wrapping your arms around him as he buries his face into your collarbone. Tears drench your neck, your shoulder. You aren't sure if they belong to him or to you. You hold him like you're holding the world in your hands.

And you are. 

"I'm here," you promise. "I'm here. I'm here. Until… forever. Okay? You're not alone."

He holds you tight, so tight you think you might shatter, and he'll see that inside of you are pieces that all belong to him. He's a stain you can't scrub out. A love that lives etched into every cell, every inch. 

"And I'll be there for Sam too. I swear." You close your eyes, shaking. Tears slip down your cheeks with reckless abandonment, blending with his. As you let the dam break, the sky cracks open too, and you both get drenched.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you were little, you and Sam would build blanket forts in the living room, and whenever life would be too big or too much, the three of you would camp out in the tiny hut, curled around each other like kittens. Dean was there to scare away the monsters in the dark, so you and Sam could rest. 

It wasn't until you got older than you realized no one was there to scare off Dean's monsters. 

So from the second you started hunting together, it became an understanding. You'd have a sleepover whenever a job went rough, or things were hard, or one of you woke up from a horrible nightmare. You'd pad over to the next motel bed, slip in beside him, and hold his hand until he stopped thrashing. And more than once, you woke up to find he'd tucked you in with him.

You both sleep better that way. 

After you threw your wet clothes in the laundry with the contents of his and Sam's duffel bags, the two of you wordlessly decided a sleepover was needed. So, you curled up in your full sized bed. It was a tight fit, but it was better than being alone.

You wait until his breathing levels out. Then, as his breaths give way to snores, you slip out of bed. You find your shoes, your keys, and some of Bobby's herbs and ingredients. You slip behind the wheel of your Mustang somewhere between the Witching Hour and dawn. 

And you drive to a crossroads.

You bury the old cigarette carton, smoothing dirt over it with surprisingly steady hands. And then a woman materializes a few yards away, red-eyed, gleaming. 

"I thought I recognized you," she drawls. Says your government name. Appraises you in a way that makes you feel naked. "A friend of mine knew your parents. Such a pretty face. Damn shame about that bracelet of yours. I'd make more deals walking around looking like you."

Your parents. You can't afford to think about what she means, but you want to shiv her for it. "Are those the terms?" you ask evenly. "My face?"

"Terms of what, hon?" the Demon asks.

"My deal." You dig your heels in, standing a bit firmer. 

"What do you want? You want a boy to love you? You want money? Power?"

"Me for Dean Winchester," you say. "You can take me in a couple days. Don't need a year. Just take me instead. He lives, Sam lives, we all go home happy."

"Afraid I can't do that," she replies. "Not even if it means I get to wear your skin. See, Dean is a very important little fly, and we aren't letting him out of the web. Bosses. You know how they can be."

"What do you want?" Your chin wobbles. Shit. "Whatever you want, I'll find it. Just—"

"You got it bad." She clicks her tongue against her teeth. "Syrupy sweet of you, babes, but misguided. He's on borrowed time. We both know that. I can give you ten years and anything else, but not Dean."

"I'm a hunter. I've exorcised you fucks. You don't want me?"

"Au contraire," she replies, "but I don't need you. And besides, your soul? Let's just say it belongs to someone a lot higher up than me. Can't get my hands on it. Even if I wanted to. My advice? Enjoy Dean before he's puppy chow." She looks behind you, at the road, her red eyes gleaming. 

You don't turn. You keep staring at her, debating shooting her a couple of times just to hurt her, even if it barely scratches. You want to make someone hurt. Make something bleed. The rage inside of you is loud, howling in your mind. 

"By the looks of it, he's got it bad for you too. Or he's desperate."

"I'll kill you, bitch!" you scream.

Three things happen at once.

Gunshots ring through the air, hitting the demoness in the back. But they aren't your rounds, and it's not your gun.

Dean screams your name. 

She disappears. 

He's on you before you can react. His gun hits the ground, and he's bent in front of you so he's eye level, hands planted on your shoulders. "Hey. Hey! Look at me. Look at me, Birdie. What did you do? What the hell have you done?"

"Nothing," you whimper. "She wouldn't deal."

"Of course she wouldn't!" he yells the words at you. "Why would you try something so stupid and reckless? Bobby and Sam already gotta cremate me, you want to add yourself to the pyre?"

"No." You let out a sob, and he holds you tight. 

"Then what was it? What was so fucking important that you'd damn yourself to the pit?"

"I wanted to see if they'd take me instead. So you don't have to be scared." I'm protecting you from the monsters in the night, De. Just like you did when I was little. I can be brave now. Let me be brave now.

"Fuck, baby bird." The name slips out, and he doesn't take it back. "There's been enough loss. Let it end here."

Your words are tumbling out between broken, quick breaths. "T-They said they can't trade me for you—"

"Good!" he snaps. "The world'll go on without me. There are a hundred alcoholic hunters, but there's only one Birdie Singer. And I'll be damned if you skip out on this life early. You copy?"

You nod. All you can do is nod as shame curls in your gut. 

"Don't you ever scare me like that again. You understand me? I woke up and you were gone. Don't do that shit ever!"

You nod.

"Swear!" he orders.

You hold out your little finger. He curls his pinkie around yours with a small chuckle. 

"Good," he says. "Because I need you to live for me. You got that?"

"Okay," you whisper. 

"Let's go home."

He walks you back to your car, following close behind you in his. 

He doesn't know he's driving you back to a house, not home. That your home is driving a 67 Impala. Wherever he is, there you are. 

Until the end.

May 1st, 2008

The days are long, but the years are short.

Uncle Bobby always said it, but it was a turn of phrase you couldn't understand until you did. Because Dean is dying now, and one fleeting year isn't enough. You can see it happening as the months slip past you, between jobs where no one really sleeps and stretches of highway. Dean never lets anyone else drive anymore, because he knows his moments behind the wheel are limited, but you never say it aloud.

He smiles less, drinks more. Eats like he's on death row. Never sleeps enough, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, you look over in the dark to find him sitting at the tiny motel kitchen table, staring off into space. When he does rest, because his body forces him to, he spends the night holding you so tightly you might break beneath his bruising grip. 

Autumn becomes winter becomes spring, and then it's almost time. Dean's year expires on Sam's fucking birthday, right at the turn of midnight. Summer was always his favorite, and now he's not going to see it and you should've forgiven him before last Fourth of July because he loves the fireworks and grilling. For whatever reason, burning hot dogs over charcoal makes Dean happy. Privately, you think it's because it's the closest he comes to being normal. As if civilian life is a thing you slip on and off like a coat. 

You're angry. You're so fucking angry all the time, and it's starting to come out in the way you punch a little harder, the way your temper is a hair-thin trip wire away from an explosion. It's in the savage way you cut up monsters, the way you don't blink when they beg for their lives. If you weren't you, you'd be scared of you. Every demon you exorcise or shiv with the magic knife doesn't feel like retribution. Body after body hits the floor, and all you have is rage.

Sometimes you feel like you're holding a bleeding Dean in a pool full of sharks, kicking frantically to get him to shore. You don't know how long you can keep your head above the water. 

You're angry at Hell, for existing. At a god you don't believe in creating it in the first place. At a devil you think is made-up. You're angry at Azazel for not dying sooner, at Sam for being so trusting and turning his back on Jake. You're angry at Dean. You're angry at yourself for not seeing it and stopping him. You're angry at John because maybe if he wasn't such a crap father, the boys never would've become hunters, and all of this wouldn't have happened in the first place.

You're most angry with yourself. For not forgiving Dean sooner. For wasting precious hours with him. 

Ruby promised Sam she could find a way out of his deal, but you know she's full of crap. So does Dean. Even though you chased a self-indulgent hope that maybe you could cheat death, there's nothing. Dean's soul is chained in an ironclad contract. Lilith is always out of reach. The hounds are screaming. You can't save him.

When all this is over, you're gonna kill Ruby yourself. But now isn't the time. No, you're with Dean all the way to doomsday, no matter what. 

And Dean? He's too fucking okay with it. Like dying doesn't matter to him at all, because he doesn't see what the world needs him for anyway. He goes through the motions and gets blowjobs in bathrooms at the bars and gets so smashed he can barely walk. And whenever you try to talk about it, he waves you off with that breezy smile of his.

"Come on, baby bird. Don't gotta worry about me. I'm fine."

No matter how much you anticipate the loss, letting the knowledge he's going to die fester inside your chest, it doesn't ease the burden. If anything, it sticks. It stays. It's in the way you hug Dean a little too long after a case. The way you let him hold you in the dark and keep your tears silent. 

April is a blink. Then May trickles in.

You guys have been staying at Bobby's for the last week, trying to track Lilith down. No one will admit it's a crapshoot. Even if you can find her, can you guarantee Dean will be okay? That Sam won't drop dead? But your broken, beautiful boys need something to believe in, and Uncle Bobby can't lose anyone else. 

And he knows he'll lose a lot of you when Dean dies because Dean's the one who gave you wings and found your voice.

In the early hours on the first of the month, Dean knocks on your bedroom door.

Sam's been sleeping on the couch. He lost a game of rock-paper-scissors on purpose so Dean could have a bed. You listen to him snore through the wall between the guest room and your bedroom at night, because you like the sound of Dean breathing. It's the only thing that keeps you sane.

Just before midnight, you're going to zero in on Lilith and make your Hail Mary shot. But right now? The clock is ticking towards one in the morning, and Dean is standing in the doorway.

You don't say anything. You scoot over in the bed, pulling back the blankets to make room for him to tuck in. He does, turning on his side so he's facing you in the dark. His fingers reach out, tracing the arc of your cheek, the slope of your nose, finding a loose strand of hair and pushing it behind your ear.

"Birdie?" he whispers.

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Can I ask you somethin?"

"Always."

"Are you still mad at me?"

It's a complicated question, and if you had all the time in the world to answer it, you'd explain that it's not that simple. Nothing in life ever is anyway. But he doesn't need a long answer. He just needs you to say what he needs you to say. "No, Dean. I forgive you."

He closes his eyes. A single tear falls, and he doesn't swipe it away. Doesn't brush off his emotions and play Daddy's little soldier. Good. You can chase off the ghost of John Winchester another time. 

"You're my best friend, you know that?" Dean admits.

"You're mine too."

"I'm serious, Birdie." His emerald gaze is piercing, insistent. "You're my North Star. I'd be so lost without you showing me the way. Every compass will always take me back to you. You gotta know that."

"Dean…"

"Baby bird, let me say this. Gotta get it out before I'm puppy chow."

You laugh, and it's a wet sound. Your eyes are burning. You let the tears drip. 

"You're the best part of me, okay? You're the closest thing to a fucking angel I'll ever see. You got that?"

You nod. 

"I need you to swear something to me, okay?" Dean holds up his pinkie, crookedly healed from a break or two. 

You hold yours up and loop it around his. 

"Swear you'll live. For as long as you can. And be happy."

"Dean—"

"I mean it." He says your name. Your real name. "Please. Swear you won't try to make any trades. Swear you'll let me go, and live the rest of your life. Swear, Birdie. Promise me." His voice breaks. "Promise me."

I can't ever let you go, Dean. There ain't no me if there ain't no you. 

"I promise," you whisper. 

He presses his forehead against yours, and your interlocked pinkies sit on the pillow between you. When you try to pull away, he squeezes you tighter.

"You're the sunshine, Dean," you say through a thick lump of tears in your throat. "Without you, there's no light left in the world."

He doesn't say anything, because there's nothing to say. Not with words anyway. You don't move, staying wrapped up in the smell of Dean's cologne and cigarette smoke and gunpowder underneath your nails. His breath is yours, blending together on the pillow you share with the cradle of your hands. Dean. Your Dean.

You know it's Dean who makes the first move. You'd never be so bold as to kiss him first, but the second you register his lips on yours, you let instinct take over. You kiss him back, and he's just as sweet as you remember from prom night. He tastes like heartache and whiskey. He tastes like home. A forever you can borrow. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, and the second you gasp, his tongue pushes into your mouth, and he's kissing you so, so deeply. 

Suddenly, he pulls back, struggling for breath, and you whimper at the loss of him.

"I…" He starts to apologize, and you kiss him again to shut him up and make sure he knows that every minute of the last six years, you've been daydreaming about kissing him again, wanting nothing more than to fill every empty space between you. You want this.

He kisses you back, his hands closing around your face with reverence, like holding a firefly or a baby bird. He kisses you back and holds you so gently you might burst. 

He pulls back again, his eyes fathomless and hungry. The question passes silently.

You nod.

You might be a virgin, but you're sure about this. You've wanted Dean forever, and right now? As you're hours away from a world without him, you know you want it to be him. There's no one else in the world you trust enough to have this vulnerable part of you. And you get to borrow him for one night before he's gone. 

Dean's kiss is a paradoxical symphony. He kisses you desperately, but with precision. He kisses you with confidence and uncertainty. He kisses you with love and sorrow and pain and joy. It's Technicolor. Ultraviolet. He kisses you under the glow in the dark stars he mounted on your ceiling, cool night breeze filtering through the cracks in your window pane. He kisses sunlight into your mouth and down your throat and into your heart. He kisses you, and time stands still.

At some point, Dean rolls you onto your back, pressing you deeper into the sheets. You part your thighs, letting his hips fit against you between them. When he kisses you again, he tugs your lower lip between his teeth, biting just enough to sting before he works down the column of your neck, sucking and nipping at spots that make your toes curl and your panties dampen. Your back arches, pulled taut like a bowstring as he works your neck, your collarbone. His hands slide under your shirt, stopping on the soft curve of your belly.

He waits. Another question. You nod.

Once, Dean helped you find your voice. And now, in moments like this, when your secret language happens in the stillness, in the absence of sound, you realize he'll always hear it. 

His hands slide higher under your faded AC/DC shirt. It used to be his, a lifetime ago. You can tell by the holes in the collar from being worn and washed too many times. The signs are all there—Dean's marks. In the thin fabric that will always kind of smell like leather and holy oil. In the way the text has faded and wrinkles have become permanent from being shoved in the bottom of his duffel bag. 

His hands slide, and oh. Your breath hitches as he cups one of your breasts, groaning against the shell of your mouth as his thumb sweeps over your nipple. He shudders, rolling it between two fingers. Both of your nipples harden into a pebbled peak, and you push against his hand, gasping as he squeezes. Just enough pressure to send a shiver through your whole body, ricocheting like a pinball machine. He cups both of your breasts at once, and you forget everything but the sensation of his touch, because it's taking you apart piece by piece. 

You moan, and he smiles into the seam of your mouth. "That feel good?"

Your chin bobs up and down frantically. 

"You're so fuckin soft, baby. Goddamn."

He kisses you again, hungrily diving inside your mouth like he's trying to breathe you in and devour you in one fell swoop. His fingers roll the hem of your shirt, following the curve of your spine, over your ribs, and then you lift your arms for him and it hits the floor with a soft almost sound. 

All the breath is blown out of him. "You're so beautiful. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. God, look at you."

You blush.

"My Birdie," he says fiercely, his lips ghosting over yours. "My star."

And the way he looks at you. You've memorized every curve of his brows, every crease in his smile, every turn of his full lips. You know all the faces Dean makes, and even the ones he doesn't. You know him better than you know yourself. So when his hot, hungry stare traces your naked torso, you feel like a trail of gasoline slowly being set ablaze. When he kisses you again, it's explosive. 

He kisses you and touches you and licks his way down your neck, then lower, tracing your sternum, your ribcage, your belly down to your naval piercing. He flicks his tongue over it, then works his way back up, sucking one of your nipples into your mouth while he rolls the other one between his fingers. You think this is what heaven feels like. It must be, because it's so damn good you're about to burst. 

You think you say his name. It's barely a word when it falls past your lips, caught in a breathless moan. In a rare act of bravery, you reach for the hem of his plain white t-shirt, and he helps you yank it off.

You've seen Dean shirtless before, but it's different, getting to greedily take him in. It's a view you're gonna brand on the inside of your skull, so you never forget it. You trace every muscle, every scar. You kiss his neck, his cheek. You can feel his cock under his sweatpants, straining against the thin fabric and pressing against your thigh. Your thin, cotton sleep shorts and a pair of ruined panties are the only barrier you have, and it feels like nothing as he presses against you, thick and long and wanting. You're doing this to him, you realize. You. 

Everything you've read in romance novels and Cosmo flies out the window. Somehow, even though you're clueless around the male species and have absolutely zero idea what you're doing, you don't feel like any of it is wrong. Especially not when Dean groans into your mouth as you dig your nails into his shoulder blades. You roll your hips into his, desperate for some friction to grant you relief, and you're wound so tightly you feel like you'll burst if he doesn't touch you. 

"Gonna be gentle," he promises you, and you can tell he's reminding himself, too. "Gonna take care of you, Birdie."

"I know," you assure him.

He kisses you a little slower, untying your shorts. "Lift your hips for me?"

A pause. A chance to back out. If there's doubt in your mind, now's the time to take a breath and think. But you're more sure of this than you've been of just about anything in your life, so there's no way you're stopping now. 

You raise your ass off the bed, and your shirts and panties are yanked down in a single move.

You gasp in surprise, completely bare. But before you can think twice, he grabs you around the knees and draws you to the edge of the bed, where he's kneeling. He's about to pay his devotions between your thighs, his breath a prayer over your aching core. The first stroke of his tongue around your clit is a communion. This is his body, this is his blood. You are his heart.

And this is his religion.

Dean Winchester eats pussy like it's his god-given mission. 

He traces your sensitive bundle of nerves in a single circular motion, swiping up and down, tracing every crease of your folds. He works his way across your slit, collecting the taste of you with a slow, tantalizing ease. He grazes your clit with his teeth as he sucks, and a shudder rolls straight through your legs. Your hips buck against him, and he chuckles, then moans, bumping your clit with his nose as he works his tongue inside of your tight heat, spreading and pulsing. You're so damn close. You can feel it in the way you shiver, your thighs tightening around his head. Your hand finds his hair and yanks hard, the other covering your mouth to muffle the sounds. You're riding his chin, spilling over his mouth, and then you're coming as he gives your clit one long, final suck.

You come so hard it feels like a dam bursting inside you. You bite down on your pillow hard enough to leave the indent of your teeth, but he doesn't come up for air. No, he keeps tasting you, teasing every inch of your cunt. His tongue strokes your folds, your slit, that swollen bundle of nerves. And then he pushes a couple of fingers inside you while he works your clit again with soft, gentle kisses, and you know you're gonna come again. Real soon. 

He scissors his fingers inside of you, and you soak his hand as he pumps those wicked fingers in and out real slow. He makes sure to spread you open, to feel every inch of your aching, tight hole. When he curls his fingers to meet that spongy spot inside you, you scream into the pillow and come again, so hard you squirt down his fingers. He laps it up with his tongue, then rises, removing the pillow from your face. With a smug, lazy smirk, he lifts his fingers to his mouth, running his tongue over each of them.

"You taste so sweet," he says. "Good fucking girl."

Apparently, you have a praise kink. And thank fuck, Dean's a talker.

He kisses you again, and you taste yourself on his tongue as it twists against yours. You moan, whimpering as he keeps touching you, stroking your clit and keeping your legs spread. You hook your thumbs around the band of his sweats, and he raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't say anything as you pull them down. He kicks them away, sidling up to you without touching you. Letting you lead.

His cock springs free as you yank the elastic band of his boxers down, slapping against his stomach, and you swallow hard. He's bigger than you thought, and you're not sure how he's gonna fit inside you, even when you're this soaked. Still, you give him an experimental stroke, and he melts, his hips jerking into your hand.

"Fuck, Birdie. Shit. Wait—" He grabs your wrist. 

"Did I do it wrong?"

He smiles, shaking his head. "No. I just… 'm trying not to come is all."

"Oh," you say, your voice small. "Oh."

"Oh, hell," he whispers. "You're so perfect. Made for me." He kisses you again, rolling you onto your back again and climbing over you. He looks into your eyes, the two of you wrapped in your comforter, the whole world melting away. 

You can feel his naked cock sliding against your stomach, beads of precum spilling from the tip. You realize, as you take in the sight of his red tip, moisture beading at the slit, that you're about to have sex. With Dean Winchester. And it couldn't be more perfect. 

Your face reddens. "I don't have any, um, things."

He raises a brow. "What? You mean a rubber?"

You hide behind your hands.

"Baby bird," he teases, drawing your fingers between his and peeling them away from your cheeks. "You think I don't have one?"

You start to ramble, your nerves finally catching up to you. "I mean, I'm on the pill for girl stuff, and so we don't really need one, but I've also never done this before, and I wouldn't know how to put one on anyway. Not on me, of course, but on you and—"

He kisses you sweetly, slowly. "It's okay, baby. I gotcha. I can handle that part. Got one in my wallet."

You nod. "Okay."

"You sure you want it to be me?" he asks.

"It's always been you," you say.

"Shit," he says. "My wallet's in the Impala."

Downstairs. By the garage. Past a sleeping Sam and a drunk Bobby down for the count at his desk. Too far. Suddenly, a couple of minutes sounds like an eternity, and you might die if Dean's not inside of you in the next thirty seconds. 

He frowns, reaching for his sweats. "I can go get it—"

You grab his arm, stopping him before he can get out of the bed. "We don't have to. I'm clean, obviously. And on the pill."

"I'm clean too," he says. "Are you sure, sweetheart? I don't want you to do anything you're not okay with. Tell me if this is too much."

"I'm okay with this. Wanna feel you, De. All of you."

And a part of you is scared that the second the bedroom door opens, the magic will disappear, and the spell will be broken. The moment will be gone. And you don't want that. You can't have that. You need him now.

You kiss him harder, more insistently, and he settles between your legs again. One of his hands disappears between you, sliding over his cock. He pushes the head of his length between your folds, sliding across your entrance, bumping against your clit. He coats his shaft in your wetness, and the sound of it is slippery and erotic and enrapturing. 

His eyes flit up to yours as he notches himself inside of you, just barely easing inside. You brush your nose against his, and kiss him softly as he starts to push into your heat. A soft sound of pain and pleasure escapes your lips as he moves, so gently, spreading you open inch by inch. He's so big, and hard, and hot, and you're impossibly full from the girth of him. 

"Okay?"

"Yes. Oh, oh. Dean. I…" You close your eyes, and he gently grabs your chin.

"Eyes on me, baby. Wanna look at you. Need to see you."

You look into his eyes, and you drown in the sea of green. His breathing is hard, rasping and desperate as you take him in, little by little. He kisses you through it, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, breathing fragments of his syllables into your hair. "That's it, baby girl. That's it. Nice 'n slow. Doing so good f'me. Yeah, that's it. Fuck. You're so goddamn tight. Made for me. That's right. That's a good girl."

When he finally bottoms out, you suck in a sharp breath. There's a flicker of scarlet pain, hot as it rocks through you, and then it's replaced with a delicious sting. You're stuffed full of Dean. He's inside you and around you, sunlight in your cells and bones. He's kissing you, letting you adjust to the feel of him inside of you.

"Doing so good, baby girl," he tells you, kissing your cheeks, tracing your freckles. "You okay?"

"Feels good, Dean. I'm good. I'm…"

He rolls his hips. It's a small movement, a shift to test the waters, and it feels amazing. Like relief. At your encouraging moan, he kisses you and rocks into you again, moving further out and deeper. Every thrust gets a little rougher, more certain, and then he grabs the headboard for leverage and starts to fuck you, properly fuck you, and you understand what all the hype was about, because this? This is as close to Heaven as you'll ever be. 

Your slick, velvet heat draws him deeper, and you start to roll your hips in time with his, meeting every thrust as he fills you to the brim. You're the shore to his tides, and every time the waves crash into you, you feel closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. He's so big, and you're split open, spread apart on his cock. At this bridge between discomfort and infinity, your pleasure is a raw heat: a shooting star on the verge of bursting from you. 

He pauses, bringing one of your legs over his shoulder. He kisses your calf as he pushes back into you, hitting that spot that turns your vision spotty and makes fireworks explode in your gaze. You bite down hard on your lip, stifling a moan that might've been loud enough to wake the house if you weren't holding back. You're getting close again. Every time he pounds into your cervix and claims every inch of you, working that magic space you can barely reach with your fingers, you feel yourself getting tighter around him. His thumb pushes into your lips, and you suck, getting it wet on your tongue. He groans, moving his hand down to work your clit with that same digit, and you explode.

You come, and you keep coming. Your orgasm seems to last forever, and you're so far away, floating on a cloud of oxytocin and bliss. You feel his thrusts getting sloppy, feel the rumble of his stifled pleasure against your leg as he kisses your calf and buries himself deeper inside of you. He keeps working your clit until you're broken and spent, and then he makes one more, sloppy thrust into your cunt before he paints your walls white with his hot release. 

For a moment, you're both frozen in time, fucked-out and recovering. Then, he slowly eases out of you, his spend pooling between your legs and pouring onto the sheets. He walks into your small half-bathroom, which adjoins your bedroom, and comes back with a damp washcloth. He cleans you up, real gentle, real slow. Without a word, he grabs you a clean pair of panties and retrieves his white shirt off the floor, pulling it over your head. And you let him dress you. You watch him, blissed out and cockdrunk and so in love it hurts. But there aren't words for these feelings, none strong enough, so you stare at your Dean. It's like staring into the sun, hoping it'll blind you so you don't have to see anything when the lights go out. 

He finds his boxers, slipping them on before he rejoins you in bed, and then he holds you. You tuck your face against his chest, your nose brushing his neck as you snuggle into his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you, breathing you in, and when you feel him inhale, it's shaky. 

That's when you realize you're crying. You don't know how long you've been crying, but it's all you can feel right now. Sorrow and anger and grief and love and happiness and joy and, and, and, everything all at once. 

"I know," he whispers. "I know. I'm so sorry, baby. I don't wanna go. Don't wanna leave you."

I'm sorry, he says against your forehead, kissing every word of his apology into your skin. I'm sorry, baby bird. 

When he kisses you again, you taste salt on your tongue. His tears and yours, blending together. And then he's inside you again, and this time, it's an elegy, a eulogy, and worse—

A goodbye. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You dream of Dean.

Not Dean as he is now, asleep in the bed beside you with an arm slung lazily over your waist, snoring faintly. You dream of freckled cheeks and summertime. You're at the drive-in again, but there's nothing on the screen except blurry lights and muffled impressions of sounds. Maybe it's a slasher or an action flick or some cowboy movie. You're not watching it.

You're looking at him. In the bed of Bobby's pick-up, packed between Dean and Sam, your head resting on Dean's shoulder, and a bucket of popcorn balancing on your leg and Sam's. It's summertime, and in the quiet moments of the film, cicadas scream, and the air is thick with humidity, and it's perfect.

"Having fun, Birdie?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Not scared?" He's teasing, because he's Dean, and Sam's a scaredy-cat when it comes to movies. But the two of them? They make you brave. 

"I'm never scared. Not when I'm with you."

He grins, and his face flickers between iterations of Dean, at twelve, at eighteen, at thirty. Your Dean, in every stage and every version, refracted in those unchanging green eyes. He says something, but you don't hear it, because you're waking up.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Birdie?"

Your eyes snap open, and Dean's above you, propped up on his elbow and looking down at you. You're not really sure what time it is, but it's morning, judging by the light flickering through your sheer curtains. 

Dean runs his fingers across your cheekbone. "Morning, baby bird." 

"What time is it?"

"Eight," he says. "Figured I should be out of your room before Bobby's up and about. I just didn't want you to think I snuck out on you."

Your lips quirk into a small, soft smile. "Guess we better get moving anyway, huh? Gotta find Lilith."

He frowns, a barely-there twitch of his eyebrows. Then he clears his throat. "Right. Yeah. Uh, see you downstairs."

You don't know how to react, but he's out of the bedroom before you can contemplate it any further. You try to push it out of your mind as you climb into a steaming shower, washing away the night before, trying to shake the fear washing over you. Now that it's morning, you can't ignore the truth.

Hell's coming for Dean. And you can't cry about it. You don't have time. He needs you.

When the water runs cold, you head downstairs for a cup of coffee, trying to shake off your residual exhaustion. You're sore, and the ache between your thighs is a reminder of last night. You had sex three times before you finally tapped out and fell asleep being held by Dean.

But, judging by his reaction this morning, you're not supposed to talk about that. The sex. Even if it meant the world to you, you shouldn't talk about it. Now's not the time, so close to the end of the line. You need a clear head. You need to stop thinking about Dean's kisses, or the weight of him on top of you, or the way he stretched you out—

Bobby's sharp tone cuts through the kitchen and interrupts your reverie. "You listenin', kid?" 

"Sorry, what?"

"Too many beers last night?" Sam asks with a snort.

"Yeah, or something. What were you saying?"

"Ruby found Lilith," Sam supplies. "Indiana. Bobby and I got it out of her this morning. If we head out soon, we can come up with a plan before we close in."

You don't miss a beat. "Great. When do we leave?"

Uncle Bobby and Dean exchange looks. You know what it means. It's too dangerous. Not a chance in hell. After how close you came to death when you took on Azazel, you're not shocked that they're holding back now.

"After coffee. And a drink," Bobby remarks. "You want a cup, honey?"

"With two Splenda?"

"Girl, you think I don't know how you take your coffee?"

You scoff and sit down at the table next to Sam, filling in the blanks of your latest crossword puzzle. "You finished down already?"

"Figured you could take across," Sam replies. 

"Nerds." Dean plops down in the chair beside you, pushing it onto its back legs as he rocks. 

Bobby passes you a coffee mug, fresh from the pot that always burns the beans and occasionally sparks when plugged in. You take a long sip, gulping it down greedily as you compare notes about demonic activity in Indiana. You need the energy. You need to focus on doing something, because you won't be able to take it if you can't save Dean. But fuck, you're so tired.

You're tired…? More tired than when you sat down at the table.

You stare into your mug at the last little slosh of room temperature coffee.

And then you catch Bobby's eyes. "Did you…?"

He sighs. "I'm sorry, honey. I really am."

He drugged you. Uncle Bobby, who's always trusted you on the job, who's always a straight shooter, cut to the chase instead of arguing about the hunt. 

"No," you whisper. "No."

You're faintly aware of Dean catching you before you hit the floor. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you wake up hours later, your head is fuzzy, your mouth stuffed with cotton, and your tongue leaden in your mouth. It's dark outside, almost nine. Whatever Uncle Bobby dosed you with knocked you out good. 

Three things you're aware of as the cuckoo clock in the office goes off.

One, Bobby definitely stashed your car keys. Just in case.

Two, you have no idea where they are, and Dean is almost out of time.

And three, all you have left of your Dean is a note folded gently on the coffee table next to you, addressed to Baby Bird in his handwriting. 

June, 2008

The summer came just the same.

You could smell it in the air when the storms started bringing heat waves after them, like an encore. The cicadas would screech until the first bolts of lightning cracked in the puffy, violent clouds, and then the sky would crack open and weep.

You liked grey days the best. Grey days were easy because you weren't reminded of the light missing from the world when there was no sunshine. The humid, sticky weather sucked. The barbecue stayed unused and unlit. You tried not to look outside your window at the tire swing in the yard, chasing ghosts of Dean and Sam and your naive self of days gone by. 

Eventually, you packed a bag, threw it in the Mustang's trunk, and took off to find a case. You told Uncle Bobby you'd be back, but you both knew that was bullshit. He was just too proud to admit he was grieving ,too. He hugged you a little tighter. Told you to be careful.

On your way out of town, you stopped by Dean's grave. Sat on the mound of dirt and pressed your face into the ground like it would swallow you up, let him hold you one last time, or erupt into a heartbeat. You stayed there until the dirt became mud and the rain nearly drowned you, and then you drove until you ran out of gas.

September, 2008

By the time autumn saunters in, you don't recognize yourself anymore.

You're thinner, probably because you get so fixated on a hunt, the chase, that you forget to feed yourself. You're gaunter, looking like a Tim Burton character with the hollowness of your cheeks and the rings around your eyes. You can see the difference in your hands, with your dirty nails and the jewelry sliding off your fingers where it used to fit snug. 

Your hair is shorter. You lopped it all off in the motel sink after one drink too many at the bar. You couldn't stand the thought of Dean's hands in it, the reminder of the time you got to have him, really have him, all to yourself. And then lose him.

You hate it.

Now your choppy bob sits mid-neck, usually wild from wind and unevenly chopped because you never bothered to fix it. You smear makeup across your eyes to hide the sleeplessness, make it look like it's all happening on purpose. You pretend to be okay because you don't know how to be anything else after Dean. 

Even his name hurts to think. So you try not to.

When you're not killing monsters or hunting down the next thing to slaughter, you're wasted in the bars, folded over sinks and mattresses and car hoods, letting some loser sweat over you for a few minutes while you squeeze your eyes shut and pretend it's Dean. It's the only way you can come anyway. Not that you ever do with anyone but yourself. Usually, you're too sloshed.

Your anger is a festering, poisonous thing. It lives inside your chest at first, but after it eats away at your heart, it claws its way through the rest of you, and then it's all you are. Your rage is what gets you out of bed. It's what pulls you through the worst hunts. You're almost disappointed that it's become so easy. No adrenaline rush of impending death. No fear of not coming home. It's not hubris, but fact. With nothing to lose and fury to burn, an angry woman becomes a devil. 

Bobby calls. You dodge it every time.

Until one day, he shows up at your motel room. He stands in the doorway with his ratty hat in his hands, lost for words. 

You collapse into his arms and sob.

And then he brings you back home.

September 18th, 2008

Something about Sioux Falls, the sleepy, unchanging town that it is, makes you want to take a break. Breathe for a minute. The second you fell into the bed in your tiny childhood bedroom, you passed out. Slept for fourteen hours. When you woke up, Uncle Bobby told you to take a break, and you agreed. 

That was two weeks ago.

Turns out, Uncle Bobby was struggling too. You clean the house over a weekend, throw out the biohazards in the fridge, get rid of the empty bottles. You straighten the books and dust and catch up on laundry. You even get him to go to the doctor's office for his annual check-up, which became a requirement after he turned fifty. He lets you take care of him. He lets you feel needed and you act like you can't see right through it.

You even start running again. For fun. And you call Sam and solve the Sunday Times Friday crossword over the phone. For two weeks, you're Birdie again. 

And you almost feel okay. 

You're returning from the grocery store with a couple of paper bags one afternoon when you feel it. The shift. The hair on the back of your neck is standing straight up. A white noise rolls through your skull, high-pitched, whispering faintly in a language you know, but can't place. It's been happening since Dean died, getting worse. You dream about demon attacks and have job premonitions before the case makes the news. And sometimes, you hear talking. 

If you didn't know any better, you'd think it was almost… angelic. 

You shake it off. Ignore it. Like you've always done about your weirdness. You readjust the bags in your arms and step into the house, hollering so Bobby can hear you. "I'm home!" Because you're a good niece, you pretend his hearing is intact. He resents the idea of getting old.

You raise your voice as you round the corner into the kitchen. You're not sure where Bobby is, and you hate repeating yourself. "So they were out of soy milk. Had to get cashew, but it should hopefully still be good for your lactose sensitivity. And I got Diet Pepsi and light beer because you and I both know the doctor said—" 

You drop the groceries. A bottle inside one of the bags breaks, soaking through the paper in an instant. 

Because Dean is standing in the kitchen next to Bobby. A very live, very intact Dean, who should be a bloated, rotting corpse in the ground outside of town. You're not sure you're awake, or certain what's real, but Uncle Bobby isn't shooting him, and there's water dripping down his chin and blood dribbling from his arm. That means he checked. That means—

"Hey, Birdie," Dean says, so softly. "Miss me?"

You might as well have wings as you launch yourself across the room, throwing your arms around Dean. He catches you easily like you're weightless, and then he squeezes you extra tight. You don't realize you're crying until he wipes your wet cheeks, erasing all the tears on the edge of his soft flannel shirt. 

"Hey," he murmurs. "Don't cry. You don't gotta do that."

"Y-You…" You can't form words. You're too busy falling apart because Dean is here and the sun is warm on your skin through the windows. But he lets you cry and shushes you in that patient, soft way of his. You didn't realize how much you missed him, not truly, because the chasm of emptiness inside of you is slowly filling with pure, golden sunlight. Each thump of your heart belongs to his name. Dean. Dean. Dean. 

When your tears dry up, the two of you sit on the porch watching the browning leaves fall from the tree with the threadbare tire swing. You drink a Diet Pepsi instead of a beer. You want to be sharp for this, sober for Dean. 

But you smoke a cigarette. Ash dribbles from the lit cherry as you rest your head against his bicep. 

"How?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "Beats me. I woke up in the coffin, clawed my way out. Wound up here, trying to explain to Bobby that I ain't a monster. I'm me. True blue."

"Yeah," you say, tracing the path of the freckles on his cheeks with a slow, easy smile. "You are."

"Your hair's shorter," he says. You don't know if it's a compliment or disapproval. All you know is that he's looking at you as if he's remembering every feature of your face. You can't look him in the eyes, because the shame of how you've been living is a sharp razor in your mouth. 

Don't let this snuff you out.

You memorized the contents of his letter. Poured yourself over the page of lined paper torn unevenly from a college-ruled notebook that once housed biology notes, when you were still a student. A dreaming teenager with a crush on Dean Winchester. You could recite it top to bottom, even now. You slept with it under your pillow. You kept it in the pocket of every pair of jeans you've worn. 

Currently, it's in the shoebox under your bed with all your other momentos. Your Dean box.  

You grieved him like a widow. Became hard and mean. You didn't get over it or recover or go back to being Dean's Birdie. The girl he knew. The one he left behind. 

I hope you'll forgive me too, he'd written. 

Maybe you both need absolution. 

But for now, you'll talk about your haircut and not the fifteen pounds you didn't have to lose that came off with it. You'll talk about the weather and not the shell of yourself you've been parading around as the real thing. You'll ignore the piercings and the tattoos and the highs you chased to forget him.

"Yeah." You stub out your cigarette and take a deep breath. "Cut it off a while ago."

"Looks good," he replies. "Suits you."

You shrug. "Needed a change."

"Bobby tells me you've been hunting alone." There it is. That worried, protective side of him coming to the surface. "Thought you knew better."

"Lost my partner." The words come out with a bite. You're always a second from teeth bared these days. You stamp out the sparks of grief with a huff. There are more important things than reminding him of the wounds he left behind with his death. Like figuring out what sprung him from the pine box.

"What about Sam?" Dean prods.

"He's off doing his own thing," you answer. "Last time I checked in, he was in Illinois, rolling through Pontiac for a potential job." You pause. "You don't think he…"

"I don't know what to think, Birdie. I was in the pit and then I wasn't, and I have this weird mark on my arm. Like a burn." He rolls up the sleeve of his black t-shirt, revealing a large handprint on his shoulder and bicep. A tight grip. Almost human, but you know better because you know every part of Dean. The white noise pulses through your skull when your fingertips trace the mark, so you let go real fast. Like whatever burned him burned you too. 

"Then we better find him," you say decisively. "Let me grab my bag. We'll take the Mustang."

You stand up, stretching. He follows close behind, and you can't shake his eyes from you. Heavy. Questioning. Deep in thought. You know there's a lot, too much even, to talk about, but you're not gonna bother with it right now. Bigger fish. More important concerns.

You throw some clothes into a duffel bag, throwing an old leather jacket over your shoulders. When Dean sees it, a smile ghosts over his lips. "That mine?"

You nod. "Want it back?"

"Nah," he says. "You can keep it warm for me a little longer."

You ignore the heat in your cheeks as you give Uncle Bobby a kiss on his scruffy cheek. "Be good, Dad."

He rolls his eyes. "Bring the BFG back in one piece, wouldya?"

"Always."

You head out to the Mustang, already itching for another cigarette. You long for the hazy fog in your chest, the way it burrows into your ribs and fills you with warmth. It's a feeling you like a little too much. You run through packs every couple of days, like you're trying to tempt the universe into giving you cancer. Most hunters don't live that long anyway. Might as well buy as many packs of Red 100s as you can smoke. 

Instead of smoking, you rifle through your pockets and toss the keys at Dean. "Wanna drive?"

The world falls from his shoulders for a second. He lights up, cheek to cheek with a grin. "Fuck yes." 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

One of his mixtapes is in the deck. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment on it. You listen to Mullet Rock for the first hour in a content silence. You know he's got questions and you have more, but you'd rather not get into all that. Not right now.

Two hours into the nine-hour trip, you stop for gas and take the chance to shotgun a couple of cigarettes. Dean waves a hand when you offer him one. He's twitchy, on edge. 

"You okay?" you ask him. 

He nods, but the hard edge to his green eyes gives away the lie. "It's just weird, ain't it? He's in the same place I got ganked. Doesn't strike you as odd?"

You run a hand through your hair, frowning. "I don't know, Dean. I wasn't there."

Because he and Bobby made sure you weren't there, in the end.

You were there when you buried him in Sioux Falls, though. Bobby had him wrapped in a sheet speckled with blood, and you pretended not to see it as you lowered him into a hole in the ground. 

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he grinds his teeth. "You're still holding onto that?"

You drop your cigarette, and the cord holding your composure snaps. "Holding onto what, Dean? The factthat  my best friend and the man who raised me roofied me? Yeah, that fucking sucked. But what really hurt was not knowing if you were gonna be okay. I felt you die, Dean. The moment you got torn apart, I felt every part of it, and no one was picking up the goddamn phone, and I spent the night puking my brains out on the bathroom floor and grieving alone. Without answers!" 

He's quiet. Taking the blow. Not saying a thing. 

Your face falls. "I'm sorry, De."

"It's fine, Birdie. I deserve it."

"You don't," you say, and you're not sure if you believe it, but you're done being angry. Because time is short. Because you don't know how long you'll have your Dean, so you need to stop being pissed off. 

"How are you holding up?" he asks pointedly. It's bait for you to answer with sincerity. To own your shit. 

"Fine," you say.

"Yeah?" he replies like he doesn't buy it. 

You shrug. "I'm good."

"You've lost weight. You chainsmoke like your life depends on it. You're… You look so tired, Birdie."

"I'm fine."

He says your name. "Don't give me that crap. Please."

"You want to trade stories, De? Tell me about hell. Was it great? Let's compare fucking notes!"

"Dammit, Birdie!" he snaps. "I know I fucked up. I know that! And I'll spend forever making it up to you, but level with me. What happened to you? Tell me where the hell my girl went, because I have no idea who I'm looking at right now!"

It's fair. When you look in the mirror, you don't know her either. 

"Maybe you'll find her in Pontiac," you say. And it's quiet, but measured. Soft, but venomous. "She died with you there."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The rest of the drive is an awkward, silent affair. A funeral procession soundtracked by classic rock radio. You stare out the window so you don't look at him. When you look at Dean, your mask falls. The illusion falters. All the bullshit you keep wrapped up behind a poker face crumples, and you spill your guts. 

Finally, you arrive under the cover of night and a glowy neon sign at the Astoria Motel. The Impala is parked under the proud sign, buzzing with technicolor. Dean pulls in beside it, and the two of you hop out of the Mustang and head to room 207, where the front desk attendant says you can find Sam.

Dean knocks. Footsteps hurry towards it on the other side, and you feel… weird. Like you're walking through a spinning tunnel in a funhouse, and a different kind of noise sets off an alarm bell in your head. The tiny hairs prick on your neck. You shake it off.

A woman stripped down to a camisole and panties, stands on the other side of the door, expectantly looking at you. "So where's the pizza?" she asks, hand on her hip. You blink a few times, and for a moment, her pretty face falls away. You must be seeing things, because another, horrible mask falls over her features, complete with black eyes. You bite down on the inside of your cheek hard, and as copper fills your mouth, whatever you were seeing dissipates.

What the hell is going on? 

Dean senses your discomfort. Even if he doesn't know a thing about it, he steps closer, his hand coming to rest between your shoulder blades. He doesn't touch the small of your back anymore, not since you started keeping your gun there. You're surprised he remembers. You're surprised he's still got the muscle memory to match. 

"We must have the wrong room," you say quickly, trying to escape her scrutinizing glare. "We should—"

Sam rounds the corner behind her, halfway through a question about the pizza that hasn't shown up yet. His eyes fall on you first, and then Dean, standing behind you with a protective hand on your back. 

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says.

There's a slow moment where the pretty girl, whoever or whatever she is, steps out of the way. And then Dean starts to walk into the motel room, and Sam lunges at him with a knife. The chick screams, and you try to fit yourself between them, your eyes meeting Sam's.

"Who are you?" he roars. 

You grab his arm, trying to haul him back, off Dean. "It's him, Sam! Uncle Bobby checked him out. I swear, it's really him!"

"Come on," Dean protests. "Like you didn't do this?"

"Do what?" Sam demands. "What the hell is going on?"

"We don't know," you cut in, as Sam finally relaxes and drops the knife. "That's why we're here, Sam."

He stares at Dean, eyes wide. "Dean?" The silent questions of how and why are swirling in the hazel depths of his gaze, but he doesn't speak the words. He just stares. 

"I know, I look fantastic," he says. 

He does. But Dean always looks good. Not that he needs to be told. He's got enough ego. 

The confused, half-naked woman standing near the door shakes her head. "So are you two like... together?"

It's like Sam finally remembers she's there. "What? No! Jesus, he's my brother."

"Uh-huh." The girl looks between the three of you, clearly deciding this is a lot more complicated than she bargained for. She rolls her eyes. "O-kay," she remarks slowly. "I'm gonna go then."

You can't shake the flashes that flood through your vision when you look at her. Like something evil is crawling around in her skin. You don't know what it is, but it feels wrong. Something's amiss here, and you're going to have a migraine pretty soon if she doesn't leave. 

She gets dressed, grabs her purse, and heads towards the door. "So call me?"

"Sure thing, Kathy," Sam replies dismissively.

"Kristy," she corrects him with a grimace.

"Yeah. Right."

Finally, Kristy/Kathy/Whoever leaves. The three of you are alone again. 

"So what did it cost?" Dean asks.

Sam snorts. "I don't pay, Dean."

Ah, yes. Their golden rule of no cash for ass.

Dean's not amused. "That's not funny, Sam. To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"

When his voice breaks, Sam suddenly looks so small. So remorseful. "I tried everything. That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "This doesn't make any sense."

Both Winchesters look at you. You roll your eyes. "Really? Dean, you know I didn't do it. I was just as surprised to see you as anyone."

"You could've faked it." But even he doesn't buy it. He just needs an answer, because the Winchester boys are great at solving problems. 

"We promised never to lie to each other again, remember?" And besides, the demon wouldn't deal when you tried. When Dean stopped you. You promised not to check out early, and you've kept that promise.

"Then what pulled me out?" he asks.

You fold yourself into one of the small motel chairs, sighing. "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?"

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

With the pizza finally delivered, a six-pack of beers, and the three of you reunited, it's time to compare notes. Sam talks about chasing Lilith, trying to hunt her down, and take revenge. You and Dean bite back comments about what an idiot he is, as if you're one to talk. You've been exacting revenge on every beast you came into contact with, every monster with the misfortune of darkening your door. Turns out, he's been tracking a horde of demons all over, closing in on them here in Pontiac.

"Maybe they're here because of you," Sam suggests.

Dean shakes his head. "I don't feel any different."

Sam shrugs. "I don't know, man. It doesn't make any sense."

"Well, people don't break out of hell on their own," you interject. "So we better find out who sprung you." You mull it over, working your bottom lip between your teeth. "You know, Uncle Bobby and I know a psychic a few hours away. Maybe she can tell us if she's heard anything on the other side."

"Good call. Something this big… It's gotta be making its rounds on the spirit side."

You shoot a quick message to Bobby, and within seconds, you've got an address. "Pamela Barnes. Lives about four hours down the interstate—" You're already fumbling for the keys to your car, planning the route in your mind. It should be an easy drive this late at night. If you hustle, you can make the witching hour. Sure, it might wake her up, but this is important. 

"We've been driving all day, Birdie," Dean says. "It's almost eleven o'clock. Let's take a night, then visit her."

Your eyebrows pull into a frown. You can feel the line creasing your forehead between them. "But we need to figure out what pulled you out."

"And you need sleep," Dean cuts in. "Sam, back me up here."

Sam nods. "He's right. Besides, we can do some research here first. Make sure we've got our heads on straight before we bring this Pamela Barnes into the mix."

You sigh. They're right, but you don't care. You don't want to hear it.

"The room is booked for the night," Sam says. "The couch pulls out into another bed, but if you'd rather take the king, Birdie—"

"And roll around in your bodily fluids? I'm good. You can keep your hepatitis."

He scoffs. "I don't have—"

You hold up a hand, stopping him. "Couch is fine. Dean can take the couch. I'll sleep on the floor—"

"Hold on a minute," Dean argues. "I'm not letting you—"

"You just got out of hell, Dean," you interrupt. "You need a bed. A real bed. And rest."

"We're adults. We can double up," Sam says. 

"Exactly," Dean replies. "Sam can take his defiled mattress and keep his Hep C. We'll sleep on the pullout."

"I don't have—"

"Whatever!" You exclaim. "It's fine!"

You have no intention of sharing a bed with Dean. Not now. Not after everything. But you agree with him just to get him off your back. 

There's no more shop talk after that. Somehow, you three manage to put away an entire pizza. You even eat a second slice because Dean's thrown it on your paper plate before you've finished the first. It's implicit what he expects of you. He sees your razor-sharp collarbones and hollow cheeks, and it won't stand. Because Dean Winchester, who's known starvation and consuming hunger, who's traced the edge of death, never lets anyone go hungry. Even if it means he does.

But no one's hungry tonight. You're slamming a large pizza, drinking shitty beers, and pretending to watch a baseball game. It feels like the old days when life was monsters of the week and long car trips. For Dean's sake, you pretend everything's fine, even though something feels different in Sam whenever you look at him, and Dean's alive and shouldn't be, and nothing makes sense. 

Sam falls asleep first, then Dean on the couch bed. You slip out from under the blankets and pad over to the door, grabbing your cigarettes and sliding Dean's flannel on to keep warm. You sit down on the cement stairs just outside the motel room, listening to the rain fall, and then you light up. 

Your moment alone is short-lived. Because a deep voice sounds behind you and says, "You're gonna freeze out here."

You don't turn around, even as Dean's voice registers. You can feel his silhouette behind you. "I'm fine."

He steps forward. "You're not wearing shoes, Birdie."

You curl your knees closer to your chest, trying to ignore the biting cold consuming your toes. The wind is sharp, cutting to the bone. It makes you feel something, though. And that's worth a lot. 

You wave a hand dismissively, flicking some ash off the end of your smoke. "I'm okay, Dean. Jesus. Go back to bed."

He's standing a few inches away from you now. Close enough to reach out and touch him. He's frowning deeply, narrowing his eyes at your carton of smokes. "Are you gonna be in before dawn? Or are you gonna sleep in your car? Because I saw you grab the keys."

"You were pretending to sleep," you realize slowly. 

He scoffs. "So were you."

Touché. 

He sits down beside you, putting his coat around your shoulders too, for good measure. When his shoulder bumps against yours, you feel your resolve cracking. You can't shut him out, can't keep him away. Dean is your everything. Past, present, and future.

"Those things will kill you," he remarks, gesturing to the cigarette. 

"Yeah, I've heard. Want one?"

He shakes his head. "Quit."

"Since when?"

"Since I got a second chance," he replies brusquely.

You're not sure what else he's going to change with this second chance of his. What's gonna happen now that he's topside without hellhounds on his trail? You can't imagine your Dean being anything other than precisely what he is.

And what is he now? You used to think your broken pieces matched. That you complimented each other's sharp edges. Now? 

Now, you're afraid you'll cut yourself on your own shards if you introspect too much. 

"So when are we gonna talk about you?" Dean asks. 

You hum indifferently. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Uh-huh." 

You're tired. You've been driving all day, and it's been an emotional twenty-four hours and you're exhausted. You don't have anything in you but raw, unfettered emotion. "What do you want from me, Dean?"

"The truth." Two words. And that's it. Everything is coming to a head. The orchestra ascends into the crescendo.

You scoff, folding yourself tighter into the ball of your gangly limbs and too-large stolen garments. "I told you. Your Birdie died when you did." 

And it's true. You felt yourself unraveling one tiny thread at a time, and in the aftermath, you realized Dean was what had put you back together and kept you whole. He was the glue, and without him, you weren't sure how to keep your final seams from tearing.

"Bullshit."

"You don't get to decide how I heal, Dean!" you exclaim. And you don't care that it's three in the morning, because the storm is louder than your angry voice anyway. "You died. You were gone, and I was trying to figure out how to be fine with that. So I'm different, and I'm that way because I was safety pins and superglue inside for months!"

"I'm here now!" he protests. Lightning cracks overhead. His voice cracks, and you feel it reverberating through you. When he hurts, so do you. You two are halves of a whole. Have been for a long time. 

You lower your voice, but you don't back down. "And I'm not the girl you knew anymore."

"Well, you look just like her." His green eyes are bright. He sniffles hard, wiping his mouth on the edge of his sleeve as he gathers himself. 

You feel it then. Mourning someone who used to be. Mourning who you thought you were and would be forever. "Sorry to disappoint." The words have no passion to them, no edge. They fall flat from your lips. You can't bring yourself to look at him, because you're worried you might start crying, and if you cry, you won't be able to stop. Anything he asks, you'll answer.

You can't afford to spill any secrets. All you can do is keep the sobs at bay.

He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. "I'm not disappointed, dammit! I just miss you. So goddamn bad it feels like I can't breathe."

I'm right here, Dean, you want to say. But is it true? Because you might as well be a million miles away, with this cavern between you. 

His voice is so small, so ashamed as he dares to ask, "Is it… are you punishing me because we slept together?"

If you knew then what you know now, you wouldn't have let it happen. You would've been strong and held out against the overwhelming desire to give every part of yourself to Dean. Your love for him is your weakness. It's your great, terrible sin. Your fatal flaw as a Shakespeare heroine, a folie à deux only the fates could concoct. Selfishly, you loved Dean with all you had for one night, and then let him go.

And now it was complicated. Everything was complicated because you didn't leave things off with a clean break. No, you'd seen each other naked, learned every inch of the other person's body. You knew the look on Dean's face when he was close, and he knew the way your voice pitched when you came. You couldn't undo that. The line was crossed.

Dean took your virginity. He would always be your first, and in some ways, you'd always be his last. 

You didn't want to talk about that. You didn't want to acknowledge it even happened. You didn't want to put your heart in his hands and pray he wouldn't crush it in his palms. You didn't want to barter with heartbreak, and hope you stayed standing. 

You scoff. So he thinks you're petty, is that it? He's picking a scab, and you don't want to bleed. Not for this. Not anymore. So you let out a guffaw of awe and anger, throwing your hands up. "I'm not punishing you. The fact we fucked one time doesn't matter!"

He almost looks… hurt. "That's what it was to you?"

You know it didn't mean anything to him. It was a lapse in judgment with his little sidekick. That's all you are: a piece of ass for one night, and an 'annoying little sister' the rest of the time. An obligation. 

"She's like an annoying little sister to me, Bobby. Honest. I love her, and she's family, but it's not like that."

Because if it was anything more, he'd have said so before he died. He'd have made sure you heard it. And when he crawled out of the ground, he'd have said to you. Dean Winchester means what he says, and he's a straight shooter more often than he's not. 

Dean doesn't love you. And that's your pill to swallow.

"Wasn't it, Dean?" You sneer his name. Despite the way your stomach drops, you stand ten toes down. Look him in the eyes. Ignore the bite of your nails digging crescent moons into your palms as you clench your fists. 

He sighs, deflating. "Yes. It was just sex."

It still hurts to hear it, even if you already knew. "Okay. So that's that." Let it go, you plead silently. 

"Okay." He blows out a breath. "Let's just agree not to talk about it anymore. Leave it be."

You let out a breath of relief, some of the tension in your shoulders unfurling as weight comes off of them. You don't have to figure everything out, but pretending you haven't slept together will definitely make things easier. "Sounds like a plan."

You love Dean too much to put the weight of your broken heart on his back. 

You'll do everything you can to stop pining for him, even if you know it won't work. You've spent your whole life loving Dean Winchester, and most of it trying not to anymore. No, you'll revisit his love in the quiet moments when you can't sleep, when you're trying to get over him while you're under someone else.

He holds your eyes for a long time, and it almost feels like a hug. "Look, I can't do this without you."

You soften. "Dean."

He cuts you off, "I'm serious. Me and Sam, we're in the dark on this one. I need my North Star, Baby Bird, and that's all you." His hand finds your cheek, and he presses his forehead against yours. Like two magnets coming together, you fall into each other. He hugs you, and you're pretty sure both of you are breathing easier.

"I'm right here." You squeeze him for emphasis.

"Are you?" he asks. Please, he says with his defeated gaze. 

You squeeze his hand where it's resting along your jaw, and you will the tears away."Trying to be."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes when he finally pulls back, but he slaps it on and tries his best. If he had a good punchline, he'd be using his humor to deflect. Instead, he feigns being casual. "Look, sweetheart, I need a sleepover. You game?"

You nod. "I can't feel my toes anyway."

He snorts. "Well, you better keep your cold ass feet away from me. Because I'm not warming you up."

"Don't hog the blankets, then."

"No promises," he says. But later, when he's tucking you in beside him on the sofa bed, he makes sure to grab you an extra one, and he lets you press your cold feet against his shins to keep warm. 

And this time, you stay. And you're there when he wakes up in the morning. 

August, 2004

"Smile!"

The gas pump ticks away as the total rings up on Dean's latest stolen credit card. There's not much happening in a single-exit town like this one. A stone's throw from the convenience store is a single lane highway, desperately in need of new tar. Dean went over at least ten potholes on the way in, and bitched and moaned about Baby's suspension before finally stopping for fuel.

He shakes his head, leaning against the trunk. "Birdie, I ain't smilin on command. I'm not a show pony."

"But, De, we're looking at the Hollywood Sign!" You wave your arm for emphasis.

He snorts. "It's a replica. A sad replica. In the middle of buttfuck nowhere."

He's not wrong. You're pretty sure the painted version of the Hollywood Sign on the side of a truck stop somewhere between Nebraska and another corn state qualifies as 'Buttfuck Nowhere'. It's peeling and terrible, but it's an adventure with Dean, and you just finished a job without a new one to chase, so you get to stop and smell the roses.

Metaphorically. Taking a deep breath out here smells like diesel and cow shit. Not to mention cigarettes. That part is mostly Dean's fault, though. He refuses to taint the Impala with asbestos, so whenever he stops for gas, he chainsmokes a few to get it out of his system. If he weren't half as good-looking as he is, it would be a disgusting habit.

Your bottom lip juts out, and Dean pokes it. "Don't give me that."

Puppy eyes. "Dean, come on. I have like two photos left before this camera's out, and I want to get them printed before the next job. Please?"

Maybe it's a stupid hobby. You don't remember exactly how it started, but taking pictures on your disposable camera makes you feel better about the hunter's life. You know nothing lasts forever, and people in your life tend to disappear. Photos make memories tangible. Through the ink and frozen smiles, you gain proof that you were here. 

"Seriously, sweetheart? You're gonna hit me with that?" He scoffs. "Fine. Fine."

He smiles, and it's stiff and awkward, so you reach under the hem of his flannel shirt and tickle him. Then he laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard, so you snap a photo. 

He snatches your camera from your hands. "Hey!" you snap. "Give that back!"

He wags his finger at you, holding it out of reach. "I may have a GED and can't spell for crap, but I do know how to count. That was one photo, which means you have one more. Picture for a picture, Baby Bird. Pose."

"Dean, I take the photos. I'm not in them."

Dean stubbornly holds the camera, winking at you as he peers through the viewfinder. "You are today. Smile."

"No," you whine, hiding behind your hands.

He pulls your arms away from your face before stepping back, holding the camera back up. "If you want to sulk, fine, but I'm keeping the photo. Smile or something."

"Dean," you protest. "Seriously. I look terrible. We've been driving all day and the motel only had cold water so my hair is—"

"Birdie," he interrupts, "You're beautiful. Now smile."

Not you look beautiful. He said you are beautiful. 

Then he makes the most ridiculous face at you, and when you crack up laughing, the flash goes off. 

October, 2008

Your phone wakes you up just after three in the morning. You roll over in your motel bed, yawning, squinting at your cell phone screen. You fumble for your cell, nearly knocking it off the nightstand. 

"Hello?" you mutter, rubbing your eyes. 

"Hey, you busy?" 

You blink the sleep from your eyes. "Sam?"

"You didn't check the Caller ID?"

"I was drinking." 

"Yeah, I got that."

You look down, realizing you're both naked and not alone. A drunk guy, laying on his stomach with a hairy arm draped across you, snores obliviously into the pillow. The used condom is still sitting on the floor. Gross.

Drinking a lot. That's what you do when Dean isn't around. Ever since he disappeared in the middle of the night, time traveling with Castiel, you decided to take some time apart. Lilith and the seals are too quiet for now, and you can find a case with relative ease. 

"Why are you calling me at three in the morning?"

"Dean and I… had a rough case. He's been edgy and we're not… getting along. Like we used to."

"You guys go through phases, Samsquatch. Anyone who hangs out with a Winchester long enough gets a little edgy. You guys will get over it."

"You don't understand, Birdie. I messed up."

"Sam, listen to me," you say softly. "There's nothing you can do that's so bad you can't come back from it."

His breath shakes a little on the other line. "You think so?"

"I know so."

"Where are you right now?"

"Ohio," you say, glancing down at the motel room keycard. Middle of nowhere, Ohio. Another dime a dozen motel. Eventually, it gets old, which is what the booze is for. 

"We just wrapped up in Missouri," Sam says. "Dean's asleep. I'm driving."

"Okay?" The and doesn't make it off your lips, but it's in the way you draw out the syllables of the word. 

"We have a potential job in Pennsylvania."

"Vamps? I heard something about that through the grapevine. Bobby thinks it's just an urban legend. I mean, come on. The timing? Oktoberfest? Give me a break."

"Dean think it's a gig."

"Oh, well, if Dean thinks it…"

"Are you two fighting or something?"

"No, we're not fighting. We're just not as close as we used to be, and that's fine. That's life. Three's a crowd anyway."

"Well, not for this. I think it would be good for him, to have you around. He's edgier when you're gone."

"Or you two are just beefing again."

"We're not—" Sam cuts himself off. "Please?"

You sigh, sitting up. You reach for your clothes, planning your quick escape from this stranger's motel room. He's passed out and sawing logs, which makes it easy to get dressed. You came in with your jacket, purse, and smokes, and you leave with that. And all the guy's cash, for good measure. 

As you climb into the Mustang, lighting a cigarette, you nod. He can't see your expression, but you do it anyway. "Yeah. Ohio sucks anyway. Send me the address and I'll head out."

"You'll probably beat us there."

"I'll make sure to get a motel room with two beds then," you reply. "Drive safe, Samsquatch."

"Thanks, Birdie," he says. "You too."

You realize, as you take off into the night, that you don't know when Sam started calling you Birdie more often than your first name. You're not exactly sure why it bothers you, but figuring it out before dawn isn't on your list of priorities.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You get to Pennsylvania well before the boys do. When you check into a hotel, historic and right in the center of the action, you sleep away the morning and doze well into the afternoon. It isn't until the boys knock that you properly rouse yourself.

Disoriented and rumpled, you drag you feet to the door and open it. "About time, Winchesters."

A smile splits across Dean's face, so wide and warm you feel like you're tasting sunshine. He scoops you into his arms, lifting you off the ground as he holds you tightly against his chest. "Hiya, Birdie!"

When he finally sets you down, you realize you're still not wearing any pants, and your lacy pink panties are on display. You fumble for jeans as covertly as possible, smiling at Sam and lifting your hand to wave. 

Sam chuckles. "Told you you'd like the surprise."

Dean shoots him a look. "Shut up, Sammy!"

"He didn't tell you I was here?" you ask, at a loss.

Sam shakes his head. "Thought I'd surprise him."

"Maybe if you called me back, I'd know!" Dean says, whirling around on you. "Come on, Birdie, you've been a stranger for two weeks."

"Working."

"Right. And the big ole hickey on your neck, that work too?"

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was jealous. "It's nothing. Burned myself with a curling iron."

Like hell, Dean's eyes say, his mouth pressing into a line. 

Sensing the tension, Sam rescues you by diverting the attention to your laptop, plugged in on the table next to a few loose papers. 

"Any leads on the case?" Sam asks.

You shrug. "A few ideas here and there. I went through the accounts, the police report, and did some digging about this area. Just to see what we might've missed. None of it seems all that reputable. I did figure out everything I could about the event, the performers, and the itinerary. Gives us a timeline."

"Nerd," Dean scoffs. 

"Well, the eyewitness for the attack—" You throw in some finger quotes for emphasis. "Claims Dracula did it. I happen to know he's been lurking at the bar during happy hour. Two blocks down, by the pretzel cart. What do you say, Scooby Gang? You ready for a mystery?"

Dean's lips twitch. "If we're the gang, are you Fred?"

"I'd rock the shit out of that ascot," you reply. "Are we gonna move or stare at each other?"

As you grab your stuff, you hear Dean mutter under his breath, "She gets more like Bobby every day."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You take the bar first, moving through the crowd as a patron. You find a crowd of drunk girls in the bathroom, ask to borrow a tampon, and quickly become besties with Kristy, Kara, and Sarah. They invite you back to their table of fellow autumn-breakers, drinking their way through Pennsylvania. You listen to them gossip about the murder, hearing several iterations of it's, like, so sad. You tell them your name is Tara for the sake of rhyming, keeping an eye on Sam, Dean, and the crazy guy who seems to be imitating a scene straight out of a black and white monster film. Dude is eight pounds of crazy in a five pound bag, but you already checked out the coroner's report and the boys spoke to the Sheriff before they showed up at your door, so you know the body is real. The job on the other hand? Maybe not.

"We're gonna hit the ale cart," Kara tells you, squeezing your arm and swaying on her feet. "You wanna come, Tara?"

"I'll catch up, bitch!" You sing-song the words. "Don't get too fucked up without me!"

They leave, and you wander back to the boys' table, where Dean's shamelessly checks out the waitress. Something twists in your stomach, tangible as a fist to the gut. You slide in beside Sam, your leg knocking against his.

"Scoot, Samsquatch," you announce. 

"You find anything out?" Sam asks.

"Nope. Other than the fact it's like so sad, the girl died." You mimic the voices of the drunk girls for emphasis. "No one seems that worried about it though. I think it's just a regular nutjob killing a girl."

"And our friend Ed was probably just looking for his fifteen minutes," Sam adds. 

Dean looks like a kid in a candy store. "Room's paid for, and it's Oktoberfest. Come on, guys. Beer and bar wenches."

You grimace. "No girl wants to be called a wench, De. You sound like a tool."

"That girl," he says, pointing at the blonde waitress who's perky and stunning and definitely his type, "is so into me. It's time to write some wrongs."

"Come again?" Sam asks.

"Look at me. I mean, I came back from the furnace without any of my old scars, right? No bullet wounds, knife cuts, none of the off-angled fingers from all the breaks. I mean, my hide is as smooth as a baby's bottom. Which leads me to conclude, sadly... that my virginity is intact."

You're taking a sip of your ale when he says it, and you choke mid-sip as Dean proclaims he's a virgin again. It sprays out of your nose and into your lap. You cough, and Sam claps you on the back, eyes wide. "You good, Birdie?"

Virgin. Dean.

That means you're the last person Dean fucked. 

That's a good girl, his voice curls in your head, reminding you of the weight of him between your legs, the way he slid you up and down on his cock and taught you to ride him. Fuck, Birdie. You're so pretty when you cum—

Your brain is short-circuiting, and your eye might be twitching, and you're blinking several times over like a goddamn lunatic. 

"Sorry. Just. What?" you sputter.

"I have been re-hymenated," Dean says, with all the sincerity he can muster.

"Oh my God."

Sam snorts. "Please. Dean, maybe angels can pull you out of hell, but no one could do that."

"Brother, I have been re-hymenated. And the dude will not abide." His green eyes flicker towards you for a fraction of a second, but you look away first. 

You don't want to think about Dean having sex with anyone, let alone blonde waitresses who don't have scars all over their bodies and haven't killed anyone. You're an angry, tattooed kamikaze. All you are to Dean is a one-night stand, and his best friend. An annoying kid sister to him, as he told Bobby. 

Get used to it, you tell yourself. Because Dean isn't yours. He never will be.

"All right, dude." Sam pushes himself up from the table. "Well, you go do whatever you got to do, and I'm gonna go back to the room and get some sleep."

"I'm covered in beer. Think I'm gonna shower and find a real case for us, since this one was a bust," you announce, somehow keeping your voice steady, despite the inexplicable urge to cry. Your unshed tears are choking you like a rock down your throat. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"What's going on with you two?" Sam asks when you get back to your hotel room. 

"Nothing," you reply, clipped. "Why do you keep asking that?"

"Well, you sat next to me instead of Dean at the bar, and you got all cagey about the bruise on your neck."

"Okay, Sherlock Holmes." You snort. "You were closer, Dean is on a mission to get laid, and I don't kiss and tell. We square?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "No, we're not square. I saw how you grieved after Dean—"

"No!" You cut him off firmly, your finger raised, nostrils flared. "You don't talk about how I grieved Dean. And you don't get to use a dark time for me as some kind of bargaining chip to get me to talk about feelings I don't have. He's alive. It's awesome. I missed the hell out of him. But as much as I'd love to pretend our lives are just dicking around across the continental US wherever the wind leads us, it's not just freaks of the week anymore, Sam. We've got the first demon ever trying to let the fucking Devil walk and time traveling and prophecies and soul ties and angels—"

Sam's eyebrows raise. "Wait, go back. Soul ties?"

You take a sharp breath. "Just something Jophiel told me. It's not important in the grand scheme of things. What is important is that we're absolutely screwed if we don't catch a break on the Lilith case. So we can save the Dr. Phil therapy crap for after we stop the literal apocalypse. Kay?"

He nods. "Fine. Yeah. I just think that—"

"You think what, Sam?" you demand, your voice getting shrill. "You think Dean and I should do what? Have a heart to heart? What is there to talk about?"

"Plenty, I think."

"Well, you tell me yours first," you bite out. "Why are you and Dean fighting, huh? Leave nothing out. Tell me all the details."

"Maybe you should ask him," Sam replies curtly. "Oh wait, that would require answering his calls and texts. Why the hell have you been ignoring him?" He says your name, all disappointed like a father. It makes you sick.

"I've been busy."

"Busy?" Sam shakes his head. "You're a bad liar."

"It's between us," you snap. "Okay? Let Dean and I work it out after—"

"After we save the world," Sam finishes. "Sure. Okay, Birdie."

You shut yourself in the bathroom before he can say another word. You won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's right. Sam Winchester's I told you so lectures are insufferable. Even when deserved. 

You decide to go for a walk after your shower. You can't stand the look on Sam's face, which all but screams uncomfortable conversation incoming! like a giant, neon sign. He likes to fix things, which is fine for people who need fixing (which you are decidedly not). 

It’s as you’re sitting beside a water fountain covered in Oktoberfest colors with a sign and all, that you see her. A beautiful woman with striking hair. She was at the bar, you realize, one of the waitresses. 

“Agent?” She calls out. “Or maybe you’re just a friend of theirs?”

“Friend,” you confirm. “Cadet at Quantico.” It’s a lie you tack on at the end, realizing you don’t want to risk blowing Sam and Dean’s cover story in case they need to get into the PD or another crime scene. 

“Well, the cute one totally got my friend to ditch me for girls night,” she says. 

You bristle. “That asshole.”

“I’m Lucy, by the way,” the waitress says.

You tell her your name. “Sorry your friend bailed on you. Girl code.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, he’s an idiot.”

You frown, confused. 

“Can’t see what’s in front of him,” Lucy explains. “I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous and smart. There’s history. And yet, he’s off chasing ‘bar wenches.’” She throws in the finger quotes for good measure. “I love Jamie, honest, but she’s nothing special. I can tell you are.”

It’s a little weird that she went from complaining about Jamie missing girls night to bashing her, but you’re still feeling the jealousy over Dean wandering off with her. You can’t hide the rage, and apparently, everyone in the world can see how you feel about him. It’s pathetic, chasing after him when he’s clearly not interested. 

“You want a drink?” Lucy asks. “I locked up at the bar, which means I’ve got keys. It’s on me.”

“You know what?” You stand up, slapping on a smile. “That sounds perfect.”

“Great!” she chirps. “Follow me.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean's in over his head.

He knows he fucked up by flirting with Jamie, because as nice as she is—and pretty too—she isn't Birdie. Hell, no one is Birdie besides Birdie, even if she's been acting different lately. He's got Jamie on her knees, tits out, and all he can think about when he looks at her is Birdie. Birdie's lips, the cupid's bow he's traced only once, her plush lips, her freckles.

His head rolls back. Jamie probably thinks he's into it, but really, he's just going through the motions, kicking himself because she's not the girl he really wants. 

"Okay." Jamie releases his dick with a wet pop. "Are you just not that into me? Because no offense, but you're acting like you're going to a funeral instead of getting a blowjob."

He tucks his cock away, shame heating his face, turning his ears scarlet. "Sorry. It's not you."

"I get it," she says, sighing. "Look, my advice? If you're that hung up on a girl, don't spend your time chasing other ones."

"Guess you regret canceling girls' night, huh?" Dean chuckles emptily.

She frowns, shaking her head. "Lucy canceled, actually. Said she wasn't feeling well."

"Oh," Dean says, frowning. 

"She encouraged me to get some. Guess it didn't work out that way," Jamie says with a shrug. "I'm gonna shower. The door locks itself, so just pull it shut behind you."

She walks away, leaving him standing in the middle of her living room, dumbfounded. He hasn't had a problem getting it up since he was a teenager, but then again, he also wasn't hung up on Birdie. He hadn't slept with Birdie yet, which meant he wasn't ruined—

No, he chides himself. Not ruined. Just… 

Just an idiot.

He gets his stuff, doing the walk of shame back to the Impala. When he arrives at the hotel, he's practically dragging his feet upstairs. Sam's probably going to lecture him about hook-up culture or whatever, and Birdie is going to avoid the subject altogether. He's not good at reading women, but he knows he's done something to upset her, because why else would she be blowing him off?

He steps inside the room. "'M back—"

"You're not Birdie," Sam says immediately.

Dean frowns, blinking a few times. "Uh, yeah, Einstein. I'm not a chick, for starters."

Sam's brows pinch into a frown. He rubs the back of his neck anxiously. "She went for a walk two hours ago, Dean. She's not back yet, and she's not answering her phone."

His heart speeds up, his stomach rolling with nerves. "The hell do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said, Dean. Birdie's not here. I don't know where she went."

"Maybe she's just, um… smoking?" But even Dean doesn't buy it. Birdie usually checks in when they're all hunting together, even if she's getting a drink somewhere. She always lets him know she's okay, but she didn't this time.

"Is her car gone?"

Sam shakes his head, holding up the keys.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. "Fuck. Okay. Can you track her cell?"

Sam flips his laptop around, showing Dean the screen where a red dot pings on the tavern they visited. "It says she's at the bar from earlier. Maybe the location didn't update? I mean, they're closed."

Dean's already moving. "I'm going after her."

"I'm coming too," Sam says.

He holds out a hand. "Maybe you should hang back in case she comes here."

Sam's already shrugging on his jacket, ignoring him. "I wrote her a note just in case, dude. I'm coming with you. If there's a real job, we need to be on top of it. Especially if whatever it is has her."

"Don't say that," Dean barks at him. "Don't even suggest it. Birdie's good. She's smart. She's probably just drunk or dropped her phone or something."

"Yeah, sure. That's why you're so calm about this."

It's a short walk down to the tavern to begin with, but Dean jogs it. The door swings open without any lock-picking, and immediately, both he and Sam have their guns drawn, casing the place slowly.

"Birdie?" Dean calls. "You here?"

Sam yells her name too, for good measure, but nothing.

"Birdie?" Dean tries again.

"Dean!"

He turns around at the sound of his brother's voice. "Find something?"

Sam nods, holding up Birdie's phone and hotel room key. "She wasn't alone either. There are two glasses here."

"One of them with lipstick on the rim?" Dean frowns. "Birdie doesn't wear lipstick. She doesn't like it. Says it makes her mouth feel sticky and it gets all over her smokes."

Sam raises his eyebrows.

"We spend a lot of time together, man. It's not weird to know." He waves a dismissive hand. "Wasn't, uh, Jamie's friend, that other bartender, wearing some like this?" 

"Do you think they… uh…" Sam gestures vaguely.

"No! No? I mean, Birdie hasn't mentioned batting for both teams but—"

"Let's check the security camera," Sam says. "Maybe we can find out where they went."

"Birdie wouldn't leave her phone."

"Maybe she was distracted?"

"She wouldn't," Dean insists. "Check the damn cameras."

Sam rolls his eyes, but he has the feed transmitted to his computer in record time. After the bar closes, there's not much happening. Sam keeps scrubbing through the footage, face pinched into a frown, searching for any clues. Then, a change. Lucy comes back several fast-forward frames later with Birdie. Birdie sits down at the booth where her cell phone is, looking a little upset as they chat about something inaudible. Lucy steps behind the bar, grabbing a bottle, and just before the feed stops, a lens flare turns her eyes white, her face blurring.

And then nothing. The feed goes dead.

"Son of a bitch! She's a shifter!"

November, 2006

You've never driven faster in your life.

The moment Sam's voice hits Bobby's answering machine, you've got your keys in your hands. You don't bother to tie your shoes, leaving them loose and all but falling off your feet as you race toward your car. Heartbeat in your ears, blood rushing through you. Half-dressed, messy, panicked.

You reach the hospital in five minutes, cutting a twenty minute drive down. You park crookedly across three spaces, tearing through the hospital. Your palms collide with the front desk. "I'm looking for Winchester, Dean Winchester."

It's the middle of the night, and your head is spinning, and your body is shaking from cold or rage or something else.

"And who are you?" the charge nurse asks, without ceasing her typing on the heavy keyboard in front of her.

"Family," you say. "I got a call from his brother. They were in an accident. All three of them were brought in."

She doesn't blink. "I'll see what I can find out, if you'll take a seat—"

Your patience snaps. You're hysterical, and you don't know if you're crying, but you probably are. "I'm not taking a fucking seat, lady. I need to see Dean Winchester. Tell me if he's okay. Please."

"Miss, if you raise your voice at me one more time, I will have security escort you out of the building. Understand?"

You shrink back, admonished. Your voice doesn't work anymore, because there's a lump in your throat, your composure dangling from a thread.

You hear your name being called, and then see Sam. His face is bruised, butterfly stitches holding a cut on his face together. Despite his towering height, he looks so small, so scared. You throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Sam."

You're falling apart. You're about to shatter, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. But you can't let it happen, because Sam needs you. Sam needs you to get your shit together and keep it, because he's not okay.

Azazel isn't dead. Not yet. And Dean is...

Dean is open on an operating table right now. He's probably clinically dead, letting machines beat for his heart and breathe for him. He might even be past saving, and it feels like cement is hardening inside your lungs at the thought. A world without Dean is a world you can't stand.

"The car... The demon crashed into us—" His voice cracks. "Dad's still out and Dean's in surgery. They're... They're not sure—"

"No," you say. "No, we're not going there, Samsquatch. Not yet. I need you to stay calm, okay? It's going to be okay?"

"Your shoes are untied," he says, his smile watery.

"I was in a hurry."

"The car..." he says. "Dean's going to be so upset about the car."

"Bobby's getting it towed back. There's nothing in the world Dean Winchester can't fix."

Except himself, your brain adds, unhelpfully.

This is wrong.

Everything about this is wrong. Sitting by Dean's hospital bed, afraid to hold his hand because he's got wires and tubes sticking out of his skin. A machine is breathing for him. The symphony of beeps that signals he's alive does very little to soothe you, because he's hanging on by a thread. They're using words like "keep him comfortable" and "not sure if he'll wake up" and even "brain damage" and you've occupied your time counting the cracks in the ceiling—thirty-four—memorizing the shift change schedules, and picking at your cuticles until they bleed. Sam's worse off. He's fielding calls with Bobby and checking on John and trying to figure out their next move. You haven't moved from your chair by the bed. Sometimes, when you're in that half-asleep space, you almost hear Dean's voice, talking to you.

Birdie, if you can hear me, I love you. I'm so sorry. Sam's a mess, I need you to look out for him, okay?

It's probably the anxiety talking for you, filling in the gaps of what Dean would say if he were here right now. Maybe not the 'I love you' part. That's a self-indulgent add-on. A reminder of the crush you've harbored for years until it grew into something bigger.

When John shuffles into the hospital room, your shoulders go rigid, spine straightening. He looks at Dean for a breath, maybe two, and then he decides he can't handle it and steps outside.

And you lose it.

You kiss Dean on the forehead. Your whole face is trembling. But you promise him with that press of your lips that you'll be right back, and you aren't going anywhere.

Then, you find John in the hallway, his eyebrows pinched into a frown.

"You're a good friend," he says, "Best one they've ever had—"

"Save it!" you seethe. "The reason we're here right now, with your son on the verge of death, is because of your revenge quest. You raised them to be soldiers, beat them into submission because you're a small man who needs to be tough—"

Any sense of kindness falls from his face. His tone is hard, eyes harder. "You don't know what you're talking about, little girl—"

"Actually, I do." You saw the bruises. You filled in the blanks on Dean's stories, when he'd hold back details to make his dad sound like a better person then he deserved. You know Dean, and that means you know his Boogeyman too.

And you'll happily take the fucker out.

John scoffs. "Like—"

"I'm speaking. It's not your turn to talk, John." You hold his gaze, lips curled, venom on your tongue. You aren't afraid, and he knows it, and he's frozen in place while you lay into him. He's a bully who's never had anyone stand up to him, and you're sick and tired of it.

"Dean has given you everything. You understand? His childhood, his innocence. He raised Sam so you could gallavant into the dark chasing monsters, and he let you train him into a hunter because all he's ever wanted was to earn your love. And love? That should be free. Un-fucking-conditional. Like those boys, who get all their goodness from Mary, have for you. Like the love Bobby has for them. The love I have for them."

Your voice shakes a little then. You keep speaking, keep talking through the waver and refuse to shatter. "But here's the difference, between me and your boys, John. We're a lot alike in one way, and that's that we'll stop at nothing to settle an old score. So you listen to me, and listen well, because I don't repeat myself. If Dean dies, in the name of your quest to find Azazel and kill him—"

John opens his mouth, you hold up a finger. "Mm-nmm. Still speaking."

He clenches his jaw.

"If Dean dies for you, I will finish the job killing the demon, and then, I will hunt you down and make you wish the car wreck killed you."

He chuckles, like you're an adorable pet doing a trick for him. "You think I'm afraid of you?"

You laugh. "So funny you should say that. See, hunters bigger than you and stronger too, they're afraid of me. Because I don't do this black and white hero shit, John. I play to win, and I play the grey. So you will go fucking fix this. Not because you love your sons, because you've made it abundantly fucking clear you don't love them enough, but because you're a pansy ass son of a bitch who loved their mother, and you know she'd tell you to find a way to save Dean. Because she'd fight for her boys. She died for her boys. Do not let them die for you."

He nods solemnly.

Sam materializes again. "Dad, the uh, doctor wanted to have a word with you."

Sam's eyes flicker between you two, a silent question in them. Your face replies, you don't want to know.

You sit back down at Dean's bedside. And you're there when his eyes finally open.