Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cold is biting through your jacket like it has teeth.

You slump back against the tree trunk, breath fogging out in short, ragged bursts. Your jeans are soaked through with blood—warm, sticky, and pouring from the gash torn into your thigh. It hadn’t hit an artery, not exactly, but close enough to have your vision swimming. The werewolf had run off when you stuck a silver knife in its ribs, but that didn’t help much now.

Lebanon City Park was dead quiet. Of course it was. Middle of the night. The only witnesses were the rusting jungle gym and a half-buried tricycle near the swing set.

You hate this part—the aftermath. The pain, the silence, the bleeding alone in the dark. You especially hate what you have to do next.

With trembling fingers, you dig into your jacket pocket and fish out your phone. The screen lits up, too bright, making you squint. Your thumb hover over the contact list before you sight through clenched teeth and hit the name you really didn’t want to hit.

Dean Winchester.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Then—“Well, look who decided to crawl outta the woodwork.”

You can almost see his cocky smirk through the phone.

“Newbie. Thought you’d gone and retired after that salt-and-burn fiasco in Iowa. Please tell me you’re not callin’ me ‘cause you’re stuck in another grave with a broken shovel.”

Despite the pulsing pain in your leg, you let out a weak, strained laugh. “Funny,” you mutter. “You try diggin’ up a grave with a kid’s beach shovel, you earn a lifetime of jokes.”

Dean chuckles low. “Damn right. That image is burned into my memory. What’s up?”

You pause. Hesitant. Part of you wants to play it cool. You always try to around him. But you can feel yourself slipping fast.

“I, uh…” Your voice cracks. “I need a pickup.”

The laughter in his voice vanishes like flipping a switch. “Where are you?”

“Lebanon… park. Near the playground. Werewolf hunt went sideways.”

“You hurt?”

You swallow. “Little bit.”

“How bad, Y/N?”

Silence.

You look down at your leg, the blood pooling under you like ink. “Define bad...”

Dean swears under his breath. The Impala’s engine roaring to life in the background. “You stay with me, alright? Don’t hang up.”

“I wasn’t planning on—”

“Just stay on the line. Talk to me. What happened?”

You blink slow, your head thudding against the tree bark. “Tracked it from the gas station off 72. Male. Late twenties. Got the drop on me near the seesaws. Didn’t expect him to be that fast. Or strong.”

“Did you get a piece of him?”

“Yeah. Silver knife to the ribs. He ran. I didn’t.”

Another pause. Then: “I’m ten minutes out.”

You let your head loll to the side, the world tilting weirdly. “Not like I’m going anywhere.”

“You better not.”

There is something tight in Dean’s voice now. That gruff, bossy edge softened by something else. Concern? Fear?

“You still there?” he asks after a few seconds of your silence.

“Still here,” you mumble, fighting the lead weight pulling you under. “Just… closing my eyes for a sec.”

“No. Nope. Don’t do that.” His voice sharpens. “Talk to me. Say something smartass-y. Insult my music taste. Come on.”

You smile faintly. “Zeppelin’s overrated.”

Dean makes a strangled noise. “Okay, you’re officially delirious. That’s the blood loss talking.”

“Or just taste,” you murmure, your grip on the phone slipping slightly.

“I swear, Y/N, you pass out on me before I get there and I’m burying you under that damn seesaw.”

Your eyelids flutter. “Won’t be the worst grave I’ve been in…”

He barks out a laugh. “God, you’re a pain in my ass.”

The sound of tires skidding onto gravel reached your ears like an echo in a tunnel. A car door slams.

Then-

“Y/N!”

Heavy boots thuds against the frozen ground. The rustle of his jacket. The heat of his hands on your shoulders.

“Hey. Hey. Eyes open. I’m here.”

Your eyes crack open just enough to see his face—blurred, but unmistakably Dean. Jaw tight. Eyes blazing. His hand presses down hard on your leg, making you cry out.

“I know, I know. "I got you.”

Dean’s hands are already on your leg, tearing open what is left of your jeans to press a balled-up rag— his flannel—into the wound.

You scream through gritthed teeth, eyes wide and wet. He doesn't flinch. Just holds the pressure, jaw clenching tight.

“Shhh. I know. I know it hurts,” he says, voice low but shaking. “It’s bad, but it’s not gonna take you out. You hear me? You’re not dying in a damn park next to a goddamn merry-go-round.”

“Could… be worse,” you mutter, eyes fluttering. “Could die near a porta-potty.”

Dean huffes—half a laugh, half a groan—as he glances at your face. Pale. Slick with sweat. Your body trembles in shock under his hands.

“You’re a pain in the ass even when you’re half dead.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “But I’m your pain in the ass, right?”

That stops him for half a second. His hand pauses, just briefly, then goes right back to tying the makeshift bandage tighter.

“Damn right you are,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

The bleeding isn’t slowing like he wants. Not enough. He has to move fast.

“Alright, sweetheart. Up we go.”

You barely register his arms sliding under you—one behind your shoulders, the other under your knees—as he lifts you. You gasp and grab his shirt, burying your face into the crook of his neck as the world spins.

And God—he smells good.

Sandalwood. Leather. Gun oil. Sweat and a hint of old aftershave. Something solid. Dean.

“You smell like a dangerous candle,” you mumble, words slurring as your head rolls against his chest.

He barkes a laugh. “You’re delirious.”

“You wish I was.”

Dean doesn't respond this time. Just carries you quickly across the empty park, boots crunching over dead leaves and gravel. The Impala’s door is already open from when he’d jumped out. He sets you down carefully in the passenger seat, cursing under his breath when your body jolts at the movement.

“Easy. I got you. I got you.” He double-checks the makeshift tourniquet, then reaches across you to buckle the seatbelt with a click.

You blink up at him, lips cracked, eyes heavy.

“Didn’t know you were the seatbelt type.”

He leans in closer, his face barely inches from yours. “Only when I give a damn.”

You swallow hard. Don’t answer.

Dean slams the door, and tears out of the park like the devil is on his tail. The roar of the Impala’s engine is grounding, steady. You let your head roll to the side to look at him.

“You always rescue damsels in distress?”

“You’re not a damsel,” Dean says without looking at you. “You’re a hunter who got clipped.”

“Still a little distress-y,” you mumble, eyes slipping shut. “Maybe… a little grateful.”

He glances over. Your face is tilted towards him, blood drying on your cheek, lashes fluttering like you are on the edge of sleep—or worse.

“Hey,” he says, sharper now. “No sleeping. Not yet.”

“Just resting my eyes…”

“Y/N, I swear—”

“'M fine,” you whisper. “And you’re bossy.”

Dean reaches over and grabs your hand, squeezing it tight. “You stay with me, alright? We’re ten minutes out.”

You don’t answer. But your fingers twitch faintly in his grasp.

The bunker’s hidden entrance can’t come fast enough.

Your head thuds against the cold window as the Impala jolts to a stop.

Doors slam. Footsteps echo.

You try to lift your head, but it feels like someone filled your skull with concrete. You barely register the passenger door opening—just the rush of cooler air and then Dean's voice again, rough around the edges.

“Hey. We’re here.”

You try to say something, but all that comes out is a garbled sound and a groan as pain sparks down your leg again. The blood sticking to your jeans has gone tacky. The seat beneath you is soaked. You ruined Baby’s upholstery. That thought alone sends a flicker of guilt through the haze.

Strong arms wrap around you again. You don’t fight it. You can’t. But your body still twitches on instinct.

“S’okay,” Dean mutters, one arm tight under your shoulders, the other lifting your legs. “Got you. Almost done, just hold on.”

You press your face into his chest again—there’s nowhere else to go—and try not to cry as he carries you. Everything’s moving too fast and not fast enough. Your leg screams with each step. You're half-awake, half-dreaming. The scent of the bunker hits you like muscle memory: old books, gunpowder, metal, coffee. Home, sort of. But your skin’s on fire. Your hands shake. You can’t keep track of where you are.

Then another voice cuts in, deeper, calmer. Sam.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“Werewolf tore her up good,” Dean grunts. “She’s crashing. Bleeding like hell. Where’s the kit?”

“Already in the infirmary. Bring her in.”

You can’t keep your eyes open anymore. Darkness keeps lapping at the edges, threatening to pull you under completely. You blink, just enough to catch flickering lights overhead as you’re carried through the halls.

Dean lays you down on something soft—a cot maybe—and it jolts pain through your whole body. You gasp.

“I know,” he says, brushing hair from your face. “Hang in there. Sam’s got you.”

You hear the clatter of metal trays. The unmistakable snap of gloves being pulled on. Then—

“Okay. We need to clean the wound and stitch it. She’s lost a lot of blood, but it’s not arterial. I’ll start with saline—Dean, can you keep her steady?”

The word stitch hits you like a cold slap.

“No,” you croak, barely able to move, but your heart kicks into overdrive. “No, no, no—don’t—needles—”

Your body jerks despite the pain, arms instinctively flailing. “Don’t—stop—don’t—!”

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean’s voice cuts through the panic. Hands catching yours before you tear more at the wound. “Hey, hey—look at me.”

You can’t. You’re hyperventilating now, chest rising too fast, vision swimming all over again. You feel like you’re drowning under it—blood loss, fear, heat, cold, everything.

“Hey,” Dean says again, louder now. He cups your cheek with one hand, grounding you. “Breathe. It’s just Sam. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. He’s gotta stitch you up or you’ll bleed out, and that’s a hell of a lot worse than a needle.”

You shake your head, tears leaking out without your permission.

“Needles…” you whisper. “Hate… them.”

“I know.” His hand tightens on yours. “I know you do. But you gotta trust me, alright? You want me to stay? I’m staying.”

You blink, your eyes finally landing on his. Green. Sharp. There. The fear doesn’t go away, not completely, but it loosens its grip enough for you to suck in one shaky breath. Then another.

Dean nods. “That’s it. You’re doing good. You squeeze my hand when it gets bad, alright?”

You nod weakly.

Sam’s voice is quieter now, gentler. “I’ll numb it first. She won’t feel most of it.”

Dean glances up. “Do it fast.”

And as Sam leans in with the needle, Dean leans closer too, still holding your hand, close enough that his voice barely has to leave his throat.

“You fight monsters. You’ve got this.”

And for once, even with the panic still clinging to your ribs, you almost believe him.

Chapter Text

Your world blurs into fragments. Snapshots.

The sting of antiseptic. The tug of needle and thread through skin. Sam’s low, steady voice: “Almost done.”
Dean’s rougher, right at your ear: “Don’t look. Just squeeze my hand.”

You do. Or at least you think you do. Your grip is weak, but he never lets go.

Time folds in on itself. Minutes, maybe hours, crawl by in pieces you can’t quite put together. Sometimes the pain is sharp enough to wrench you half awake; sometimes you drift weightless, sinking under. But through it all, their voices anchor you.

Water splashes in a basin. The faint smell of blood, iodine, whiskey.

“She’s burning up,” Dean mutters. His voice is sharp, edged with panic he’s trying hard to swallow.

“Fever’s normal,” Sam answers, calmer, though you hear the scrape of exhaustion in his tone too. “Her body’s in shock. She just needs rest. Fluids. She’ll pull through.”

Dean doesn’t respond right away. You catch the scrape of a chair, hear the weight of him dropping into it. For a moment, silence. Then his voice, low, almost a whisper.

“She never should’ve been out there.”

You want to argue. To tell him you’re not helpless, not some rookie kid they dragged along. But your tongue feels heavy, your throat raw. The words stay locked inside.

Sam sighs. “She’s learning, Dean. Same as we did. You can’t blame yourself for every hunt that goes sideways.”

“You didn’t see her when I found her,” Dean snaps back, voice cracking before he reins it in. “She was bleeding out on a playground, Sam. A damn playground . Ten more minutes and—” He cuts himself off, but the silence after is louder than the words.

Your chest tightens—not just from pain.

Something cool brushes your forehead. A damp cloth. Dean again, his touch gentler than his voice. You flinch at first, but he presses the cloth down in slow, soothing strokes.

“She’s not quitting,” Sam says quietly, somewhere near your feet. “You know that. She’s stubborn as hell.”

Dean gives a rough, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Guess I should’ve seen that coming.”

His hand shifts, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. He thinks you’re too far under to notice. But you feel it. You hear it in his voice when he adds, even softer:

“I can’t… I can’t lose another one, Sammy.”

The words sting worse than the stitches. You want to tell him you’re still here. That he’s not losing you. That you’re tougher than you look. But your lips barely part before the darkness drags you under again.

Your body feels heavy, weighted down by lead. You can’t move—not really—but sound filters through the fog.

The soft rip of gauze being taped down. The drip of an IV. The shuffle of boots against the bunker’s cold floor.

Then Sam’s voice, quiet but firm:
“She’s stable now. Blood loss is rough, but she’s past the worst of it.”

Dean exhales hard. A sound halfway between relief and frustration. “Yeah. For now.”

“For now?” Sam repeats.

“She almost bled out in my arms, Sam.” Dean’s voice cracks sharp, then lowers, jagged with something heavier. “You didn’t hear her voice when she called. She tried to pretend it was nothing, and she was sittin’ there in the dark, bleeding to death. Alone.”

Your throat works, but no sound comes out. You want to tell him that’s not his fault. You want to, but your body won’t obey.

Sam doesn’t answer right away. You hear him sorting supplies, the scrape of glass vials. Finally:
“She trusts you. That’s why she called.”

Dean lets out a low laugh, bitter. “Trust? Or desperation?”

“Dean.” Sam’s tone sharpens now, cutting through the guilt like a blade. “She’s new, yeah, but she’s not stupid. She’s learning. You’ve been there every step, whether you wanna admit it or not. That’s not desperation. That’s trust.”

Silence. A long one.

Then Dean again, softer this time, so quiet you almost miss it.
“She’s just… she’s tougher than she should have to be. And it scares the hell outta me.”

Something warm presses against your hand. His. He’s holding it again, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

Sam lowers his voice. “You can’t protect her from everything.”

“Yeah, but I should’ve been there tonight,” Dean mutters. “Should’ve had her back. Instead, she’s bleeding out in the front seat of my damn car.”

You can feel it—the weight behind his words. The guilt sitting heavy in his chest. He carries it like he always does.

The cloth returns to your forehead. His hand lingers, cupping the side of your head. He sighs, a sound thick with exhaustion.

“You’re not allowed to do that again, sweetheart. Not on my watch.”

The words drift with you into the dark, curling around you like a promise

The night stretches into pieces. Not hours. Not minutes. Just moments …

A sting in your arm.
Cool liquid creeping through your veins. Sam’s voice, steady, explaining though you can’t hold onto the words.
“…saline drip’ll keep her fluids up… blood pressure’s still low…”

You want to pull away, but Sam’s hand is there, steady, firm. “Relax. It’s just an IV.”
You twitch, panic bubbling faintly, but the weight of his hand and his voice hold you down until the IV drip becomes background noise instead of fear…

Later
A low hum. The faint clink of glass on metal. You crack your eyes open, just enough to see Sam at the counter, rolling his shoulders as he preps another set of bandages. Dean sits slouched in the chair beside your cot, one leg bouncing restlessly.

“Her fever’s holding,” Sam murmurs, glancing over. “That’s a good sign.”

Dean rubs his face with both hands. “Yeah, but she’s pale as a ghost Sammy.”

“She’s still here.” Sam sets a fresh roll of gauze down. “That’s what matters.”

Dean doesn’t answer. His eyes flicker toward you—green, sharp, searching. He thinks you’re out. Maybe you are. You let your lids slip shut again…

A pressure at your side.
Hands lifting the edge of the bandage. The sting of antiseptic again. Sam’s voice close now, muttering, “Stitches are holding. No tearing.”
Dean’s voice grits out: “Careful.”

“I am careful.”

“She flinched.”

“She’s half-conscious, Dean.”

A beat of silence. Then Sam sighs. “You should rest. I’ll sit with her for a while.”

“No.” Dean’s tone is final. “I’m not leaving her.”

“Dean—”

“No.”

The chair scrapes closer to your cot. You feel him settle there, heavy, immovable. “You go crash for a bit. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

Sam hesitates, then: “Alright. But if you’re out here all night, you’ll be useless tomorrow.”

Dean snorts quietly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Footsteps retreat. A door opens and closes. Silence, except for your IV drip and the soft thrum of the bunker’s air system…

You hear Sam again, later. “Any change?”

“She’s hangin’ on,” Dean mutters. “Fever’s a little down. Still out, though.”

Sam exhales. “I tried Cas again. No answer.”

“Figures,” Dean says, bitter. “Guy’s probably off fighting some cosmic war while we’re stuck patching up hunters with duct tape and whiskey.”

There’s a pause. Sam’s voice softens. “He’d be here if he could. You know that.”

“Yeah, well. Could use a little mojo right about now.”

Cas. The name echoes in your hazy mind, strange and unfamiliar. You don’t know who that is, but it feels important. Someone they want here. Someone they trust.

Dean shifts in his chair. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll handle it. We always do.”

Chapter Text

The first thing you register is warmth, not from the scratchy blanket over you, but from a heavy weight on your hand. Dean’s head lays against the edge of the cot, jaw shadowed, mouth slack with sleep. His hand is still wrapped around yours, thumb curled over your knuckles like even unconscious he’s not letting go.

The lights overhead hum faintly. The air is still that same sterile cool, the walls as windowless and close as ever. Your chest squeezes in quiet protest, that familiar claustrophobic ache threatening to claw its way out. You press it down, force your breathing even. Don’t. Don’t let them see.

Dean stirs. His green eyes open, bleary, then snap into focus on you. For a split second, you catch the raw relief flickering across his face.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and rough.

Your throat is still dry, but you manage to rasp out, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile:
“Morning yourself. Didn’t know you were planning to watch me sleep. Kinda forward of you, Winchester.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and then he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Forward? Sweetheart, if I was bein’ forward, you’d know. This was me bein’ polite.” There’s a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes before he clears his throat and sits back a little.

Movement at the doorway draws your attention. Sam steps in, carrying two steaming mugs, his hair messier than usual. “Well, look who’s awake.” Relief softens his face. He sets a mug down beside Dean and comes closer, checking the drip. “You’ve been out all night. It’s morning.”

Morning. It doesn’t feel like it—no light filtering through blinds, no birdsong. Just stone walls and humming vents. Your stomach knots. You can almost hear the walls pressing closer, the air thinning. You shove the thought down before it can rise to your face.

Instead, you focus on their voices. Sam is asking gently how you feel. Dean is muttering that you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. You manage a small nod, throat raw as sandpaper. When you try to swallow, it scrapes, and Dean’s already pressing a cool bottle of water into your hand. You take a shaky sip—just enough to ease the burn before you ask:

“Who’s… Cas?”

The silence after is heavier than anything you’ve felt all night. Sam glances at Dean, who stares at you like he’s trying to decide how much you need to know.

“Been hearing you guys say the name,” you add quickly, as if to excuse yourself. You attempt another smile, though it trembles at the edges. “Don’t think we’ve been introduced. What is he, another hunter? Some shady contact? …or is Cas, like, your dealer?”

You try to make it a joke, a little spark of mischief to cover the anxiety gnawing at your ribs, but your voice is too hoarse, and it comes out softer than you intended.

Dean huffs again, but this time it’s not a laugh. He looks down into his coffee like it has answers. Sam’s hand brushes your arm, steady and warm.

“Not… exactly,” Sam says carefully. “Cas is… He’s family. And he’s, uh—he’s different. We’ll explain, I promise. Just… you don’t need to worry about him right now. You just need to heal.”

Dean finally looks up, meeting your eyes again. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite name, but it’s softer than you’d expect from him. Almost protective.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low but firm. “Cas can wait. You’re what matters right now.”

The day bleeds together in a blur of half-dreams, smalltalk, and the faint drip of the IV. Sometimes you surface, sometimes you sink again, but always the walls are there—close, too close—and you force yourself to stay still, to swallow the panic with the same steady rhythm as the IV drip.

By midday, Sam slips away to get some food. The echo of his boots fades down the hall, leaving you with the low scrape of Dean’s chair as he moves. You feel the weight of his eyes on you before you dare open your own.

“Hey,” he says, soft. “You don’t gotta play dead. I saw you flinch when Sam cleaned your stitches.”

You try for another crooked half-smile. “Guess I twitched in my sleep.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, nice try. You think I can’t tell when you’re spooked?” He leans forward, forearms braced on your cot, the lines of exhaustion carved deep around his eyes. “This place gets to you, huh? The lights, the… hospital vibe.”

Your throat tightens. You look away, focusing on the walls, pretending they aren’t closing in. “It’s fine,” you whisper. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough on your plate without me freaking out over walls.”

Dean doesn’t buy it. He shifts again, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his arm against yours. “Hey. Don’t pull that crap with me. You think Sam and I don’t notice? You were practically chewing your lip off earlier.”

You laugh weakly, but it cracks into something that sounds too much like a sob. He takes his hand in yours again, firm and steady.

“Listen,” he says, voice rough, eyes locked on yours. “You’re not a burden. You’re alive. That’s it—that’s the win. Everything else, we’ll handle it. You don’t have to put on some brave face for us.”

You shift against the mattress, the springs groaning in protest, and try to swallow down the tightness in your throat. The sips of water helps, but the knot in your chest doesn’t ease. “Maybe I could just… get moved to another room,” you mumble, trying to sound light about it, though your voice still trembles.

Dean leans back in his chair, one brow ticking up, that trademark smirk tugging at his mouth. “Another room, huh? Or…” He nods toward the door, voice low and certain. “You could come crash in mine. Bed’s a hell of a lot more comfortable—and I’m not lettin’ you outta my sight anyway.”

Before you can argue, he’s already pushing his chair back and reaching for your IV line, like the decision’s already made.

“Dean,” you whisper, wide-eyed. “You can’t just—”

“Watch me.” He’s half-smiling, half-serious, and there’s something wild in his eyes, something that says he’d drag you out of hell itself if it meant getting you out of this sterile room.

That’s when Sam’s voice cuts in from the doorway, firm and rigid. “Dean. Don’t.”

Dean freezes, jaw tightening. He looks up to find Sam leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand.

“She’s not ready to be moved,” Sam says, tone absolute, allowing for no disagreements. “At least one more night here. Doctor’s orders.”

“It’s making her worse—” Dean starts, but Sam just gives him that look. The one that says I know what you’re doing, and you can’t save her from everything.

For a long beat, neither brother moves. Then Dean exhales sharply, frustration bleeding out of him. He eases back into the chair again. “Fine. One more night. But I’m not leavin’ her in here alone.”

Sam studies him for a moment, then nods, as if he’d expected nothing else.

The hours crawl by like they’re dragging chains.

The infirmary sounds like it hums quietly. You lie still, eyes wide open and the walls feel closer with every breath. No matter how deep you try to pull air into your lungs, it never feels like enough.

Dean’s still beside you, leaning back in his chair, boots planted wide, arms crossed. He’s watching you, though he tries not to look like he is. He notices every twitch, every time your chest rises too fast.

When Sam brings food later—sandwiches, bottled water, a couple of sodas—you try to take a bite. The bread sticks to your throat like paste. You chew, swallow, force some of it down, and give up after that. Dean doesn’t say anything, but his eyes linger on your plate.

Sam’s gaze flicks from him to you. “Get some rest,” he says gently. “Both of you. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

You nod, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and watch him leave. The door closes with a soft click, and the silence rushes back in.

Another hour goes by as Dean waits until he’s sure Sam must be fast asleep, then leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You look like a caged animal in here sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue, but it comes out too thin, too shaky. “I’m fine. Sam said—”

“Sam’s not the one watching you try to breathe like the walls are crushin’ you.” Dean’s voice is low, sharp at the edges. He runs a hand over his face, eyes flicking to the IV line, then back to your face. “I can’t sit here and just… watch this.”

Your chest tightens harder. You hate the thought of disappointing Sam, of looking like the weak link. “I don’t want to be a problem. If he said one more night—”

Dean cuts you off. “Screw one more night.”

Before you can protest again, he’s already moving—pulling the IV from your arm with quick, practiced hands, pressing a bit of gauze to the spot before you can flinch. The loss of the tether makes your pulse jump, panic and relief tangling in your chest.

“Dean—” Your voice is thin, almost pleading. “If Sam finds out—”

“He’ll get over it.” Dean doesn’t give you a choice. His jacket brushes against you as he lifts you clean off the cot, effortlessly.

You gasp softly, your body instinctively clutching at his shirt. His scent hits you again—leather, sandalwood, gun oil, him—and your throat closes on the words you want to say.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, final as a gunshot. “Can’t watch you fall apart in here.”

You bury your face against his shoulder, both ashamed and grateful all at once. Every step he takes out of the infirmary feels like a stolen breath. The air changes as soon as you leave the sterile room, cooler, less sharp. It doesn’t fix the tightness in your chest completely, but it eases. Just enough to breathe.

By the time he pushes into his room and kicks the door shut behind him, you’re clinging to him more than you mean to. He lowers you onto the bed—his bed—and pulls the blanket up over you before dropping into the chair beside it, watching you with that same stubborn determination.

“You’re safe now,” he says, softer than before, almost like he’s saying it to himself.

Chapter Text

Dean doesn’t move from the chair, even after you’ve settled into his bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his head bowed slightly, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks like a man who’s just dragged a weight off his chest.

The quiet in his room is different. Warmer. The hum of the vents is softer here, less sterile than the infirmary. No sharp smell of antiseptic, no clatter of medical trays. Just the faint scent of leather, old whiskey, and the worn wood of the desk tucked in the corner. You breathe deeper, and for the first time since last night, it actually feels like air fills your lungs.

“Dean?” Your voice is small, scratchy, but he lifts his head immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to speak.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For… for getting me out of there.”

Something flickers in his face, guilt and relief tangled together. He nods once, rough and short. “Don’t thank me. Shouldn’t’ve let you stay in there that long in the first place.”

You shift against the pillow, trying to ignore the pull in your thigh where the stitches tug. The thought makes your stomach twist. After a moment, you clear your throat. “Speaking of… would you mind checking? Y’know, to make sure they didn’t tear when you moved me.”

His brows lift slightly. “You sure? Sam’ll probably—”

“I’m asking you,” you say, a little firmer this time, though your face heats.

Dean studies you for a moment, then gives a tiny nod. His touch is careful as he peels back the blanket and lifts the gauze just enough to reveal the long line of stitches along your thigh. He leans in close, the lamplight catching in his eyes as he examines the wound.

“Stitches are fine,” he mutters, relief threaded through his tone. “No tearing. No bleeding. Guess Sam’s not completely useless.”

You huff a tired laugh. “Glad to know I’m not falling apart.”

“You’re tougher than you look,” Dean says softly, taping the gauze back down with a tenderness that surprises even him.

You settle back, the warmth in your chest heavier than the ache in your leg. After a beat, you glance at the chair where he’s about to drop again. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.” You nod toward the chair. “Don’t do that to yourself. You can’t spend another night in a damn chair. This is your bed.” You swallow, cheeks heating as you force the words out. “Lay down. Please.”

His expression shifts, guarded. For a long second, he doesn’t move. You can see the conflict on his face—the instinct to stay close but keep distance, to put the wall back up. Then his jaw works, and he exhales slowly.

“You sure about that?”

You nod, biting back the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I’m not asking for anything else. Just… don’t make me feel like I kicked you out of your own bed.”

Dean stares at you a beat longer, then finally shakes his head with a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’re somethin’ else.”

He toes off his boots, shrugs out of his flannel, and finally, carefully, eases himself down onto the other side of the bed. He stays above the covers, close but not crowding, his hands folded on his stomach like he’s not sure what to do with them.

The tension in your chest loosens, the walls of the bunker finally fading from your thoughts. The infirmary feels like another world away.

You turn your head, watching him in the dim light. “See? Not so bad.”

Dean glances at you, his mouth twitching into the faintest smirk. “Yeah. Not so bad.”

The mattress dips slightly where he lies beside you, but he keeps his distance, body angled stiff, hands folded flat across his stomach. His shoulders look too broad for his own bed, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he isn’t braced on a chair.

You watch the way his fingers twitch against his shirt, restless. A tell he probably doesn’t even know he has.

Your arm feels heavy as stone, but you still lift it, slow, shaky, until your hand settles gently over his. You don’t grip, don’t press—just lay it there, offering.

For a heartbeat, he goes still. Then his thumb shifts, brushing against the side of your hand. Not pulling away. Just… staying.

“You don’t gotta…” he starts, voice rough, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I know,” you whisper. “I want to.”

That gets him. His head rolls on the pillow until his gaze meets yours. The green in his eyes is dark in the lamplight, softer than you’ve ever seen, like something he usually keeps locked down has cracked open in the quiet.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmurs. “Don’t do that again.”

“I’ll… try not to get mauled by werewolves for fun,” you tease, though your voice trembles. “No promises.”

A huff of air leaves him, half a laugh, half a groan. “You’re impossible.”

You manage a crooked smile. “Takes one to know one.”

The silence stretches, not heavy this time but humming, alive. Without thinking, you shift a little closer, careful of your leg. The warmth of him seeps into your side. His hand finally turns fully under yours, fingers curling until he’s holding on.

Your faces are close now. Closer than they’ve ever been. You can see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, the little scar at his hairline, the way his lips part as if he’s about to say something but doesn’t.

He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t move away. He just waits.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, louder than the bunker’s hum. You swallow, nerves and want tangling in your chest. Then, with all the courage you can scrape together, you lean in the last inch and press your lips to his.

Warm. Rough. Gentle. He doesn’t hesitate—he presses back, just enough to make your pulse stutter, his thumb brushing your hand in rhythm with your heartbeat.

When you pull away, breath shaky, his forehead rests against yours. For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then Dean whispers, “You really are trouble.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyelids drooping. “But I’m your trouble.”

He huffs a laugh, but there’s no sarcasm in it. Just relief. “Damn right.”

And with his hand still wrapped around yours, you finally let yourself slip under—this time into real, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Morning comes slow in the bunker, filtered through the hum of the ventilation system and the soft amber glow of Dean’s bedside lamp. You stir first, eyes blinking open to find yourself still cocooned beneath his worn comforter, the sheets carrying the faint scent of him.

Dean is stretched out on his back beside you, one arm draped loosely across his chest, the other still curled toward where your hand had rested the night before. His breathing is deep, steady, the kind of sleep he almost never lets himself have.

For a few minutes you just watch him. His jaw is rough with stubble, hair a little mussed from the pillow. The memory of last night — the brush of his lips against yours — and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your mouth.

His breathing shifts first, a slow change in rhythm, before his lashes lift and he blinks himself awake. He stares at the ceiling for a beat, then turns his head toward you. “Hey,” you murmur, your voice soft, testing.

“Hey,” he rumbles back, his voice rough with sleep. The corner of his mouth quirks upward when he catches the look on your face. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, heat creeping up your cheeks. You bite your lip, then admit in a rush, “Just… thinking about last night. I liked it.” For a second, he doesn’t move, just studies you like he’s not sure if he should trust what he heard. His eyes flicker over your face, searching.

You swallow, nerves fluttering in your chest, and shift a little closer, careful not to pull at your stitches. Your hand finds his, tentative but certain. “I mean it,” you whisper.

Dean exhales slowly, the sound rough and low, and then he leans in. This time he doesn’t hesitate—his lips find yours with more intent, more fire. The kiss is deeper than last night, hungry and warm, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek as though he can’t help but touch you.

And that’s when the door slams open.

“What the hell ?”

Both of you jolt back like kids caught doing something forbidden. Dean sits up fast, running a hand over his face. You scramble against the pillow, your cheeks burning.

Sam is framed in the doorway, broad shoulders tight, eyes flashing with anger. He looks between the two of you — at you tucked into Dean’s bed, at his brother leaning over you with flushed lips — and his jaw clenches hard enough you hear his teeth grind.

“Are you serious right now, Dean?” Sam’s voice is low, sharp as a blade as he points at you. “She’s injured! She’s supposed to be resting ! And this is what I walk in on?”

“Sam—” you start, heart racing.

But Dean cuts in, his own voice rising, rough and defensive. “Back off. She’s fine. I checked her stitches myself.”

“That’s not the point!” Sam’s hands fly up in frustration, his chest heaving. “You’re supposed to be looking out for her, not—” He stops himself, jaw tight, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Sam steps fully inside, shutting the door behind him a little harder than necessary. His arms are crossed tight against his chest now, and you can practically see the anger rolling in behind his eyes.

“Sam,” you start again, softer this time, but he cuts you off.

“No, don’t. Don’t defend him. I told you to stay in the infirmary for a reason.” He shoots a glare at Dean. “Those stitches are fresh, Dean. One wrong move, one stumble, and she could’ve bled out.”

Dean stands now, jaw locked, shoulders broad and tense. “She was losing it in there, man. You think I’m gonna sit back and watch her panic herself into a worse state just because you think the cot looks official?”

Sam scoffs, but there’s a crack in it. “So your solution is to haul her down the hall like a sack of potatoes? Jesus, Dean. What if she’d ripped—”

“She didn’t ,” Dean snaps, pointing back at your leg. “I checked. They’re fine. And she’s finally sleeping without looking like she’s about to crawl out of her own skin.” He runs a hand over his face again, voice lowering. “Don’t tell me I did wrong by getting her out of there.”

You push yourself up against the headboard, heart pounding harder with every word they throw at each other. “Sam…”

He turns, softer now but still angry, his voice low and tight. “Do you know how bad it could’ve been if those stitches tore? You think I’m just being overprotective? I’m trying to keep you safe. And instead, I walk in here and find you—” His eyes flick to Dean. “—in his bed.”

Dean bristles at the implication. “Don’t you dare . You think I don’t know where the line is? You think I’d ever cross it if it meant hurting her?” He shakes his head, clearly furious. “I made a call because she needed it. That’s what we do, right? We take care of family.”

The word hangs heavy in the air. Family.

Sam swallows, his jaw working. “You should’ve told me.”

“You were sleeping,” Dean growls. “She needed out. And if you can’t trust me to carry her twenty feet without screwing it up, then that’s on you, not me.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. You can feel the tension in the room coil tight, ready to snap. You know if you don’t say something, this will spiral into one of those fights that leaves both brothers bruised and bitter.

You reach for Dean’s hand, then glance at Sam, your voice quiet but firm. “Stop. Please. Both of you. I am okay. You don’t get to turn that into something it’s not.”

Sam’s eyes soften at you, the anger in them tempered by concern. He sighs through his nose, shaking his head. “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

Dean exhales, some of the fight draining from his shoulders. He drops back onto the bed, muttering, “Then maybe trust that I know what I’m doing.”

For a moment, the room is quiet again, heavy but calmer. Sam lingers at the door, still tense but no longer ready to explode. You squeeze Dean’s hand, a silent thank-you and a plea all in one.

Dean doesn’t say anything else, but his thumb strokes over your knuckles. His silence is answer enough.

Sam’s jaw ticks as Dean finishes speaking. His eyes move between you and Dean, and for a heartbeat you swear he’s going to keep pressing. You brace yourself, heart fluttering.

But then he drags in a breath and lets it out hard. His shoulders drop just a fraction. “Fine,” he says, voice still rough with irritation. “I’m not gonna get into this right now.” He shifts his weight, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But Dean, we still have a job. That son of a bitch that jumped her? He’s still out there. And we can’t just sit on our hands.”

Dean exhales, rubbing at his eyes like the weight of the whole world is perched on his face. He glances at you, then back to his brother. “Yeah. I know. Just—give me a few to clean up.”

Sam mutters something under his breath but disappears out the door, the slam this time softer, reluctant.

Dean lingers by the edge of the bed, raking his hand through his hair. “I hate fightin’ with him,” he admits, voice low. “But he’s right about one thing—we gotta find and put that wolf down.” His eyes flick to your leg, then to your face. “You gonna be okay here while I help Sam with locating the wolf? We will be in the library if you need anything"

You manage a small, tired smile. “Dean, go take your shower and help your brother. I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m planning on running laps around the bunker.”

That pulls a ghost of a grin from him. He studies you a second longer, as if weighing whether to believe you. Finally, he squeezes your hand and says, “Alright. But if you need anything , you call. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whisper.

He hesitates, then leans down and brushes his lips against your forehead—brief, careful, but lingering. “Back in a bit.”

As the door closes behind him, you catch Sam’s voice low in the hall, the brothers already murmuring something sharp-edged back and forth. You pull the blanket up to your chest, heart still drumming, warmth still burning on your lips.

The hum of the bunker settles around you again. Your body aches, heavy with the need to heal, and this time when your eyes slide shut, sleep takes you quickly.

Chapter Text

You’re dreaming. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

It starts with a sound. A soft crunch—leaves, wet and rotting—beneath heavy footfalls. The cold air cuts deep, needling your skin like something alive. You’re back in the park again. Same place. Same dark silence that hums like a warning.

And then it hits you. That creeping, unbearable knowing. You remember what's coming, but your body won't move fast enough. Legs thick with mud. Heart jackhammering. Every step feels like you’re dragging yourself through syrup.

A shape flickers at the edge of the treeline. Too big to be human. The trees seem to bend away from it.

Yellow eyes slice through the dark.

“Dean?” Your voice is thin, shaky. It bounces back at you, dead and empty.

No answer. Just the low, wet growl. Then—a roar. Not human. Not animal. Something in between.

It bursts from the trees with a violence that makes the world tilt. The werewolf hits you like a truck, knocking the air from your lungs. You slam into the ground, mud splashing up around your face. Its weight crushes you—massive, hot, and bristling with coarse fur that stinks of blood and dirt..

This time, it doesn’t claw—it bites.

Teeth rip into your leg—deeper, grinding against bone. You scream. You don’t even recognize the sound coming out of you. The pain isn’t pain—it’s obliteration.

You scream. A ragged, raw sound that rips from your throat and ricochets off the bunker walls. You kick out wildly, trying to get it off, and your leg jerks hard. Fire lances through the stitches, and suddenly the pain of the dream is real. Wet warmth blooms under your thigh.

You blink awake into blinding light and choking panic. Not trees. Not dirt. But the bunker ceiling above you. Dean’s sheets under you—only they’re not just warm anymore. They’re damp. Red is spreading, soaking into the fabric under you.

“No—no, no, no—” Your breath comes fast and shallow, chest hitching, panic tightening everything until you can’t tell where the dream ended and the nightmare began.

Heavy boots thunder across the floor outside in the hallway. The door slams open. 

“Y/N!” Dean’s voice, panicked. His hands are already on you, pressing the blanket tight against your leg. “Son of a—you tore the damn stitches?!”

Sam barrels in a second later, eyes wide. “What happened?!”

“She woke up screaming,” Dean bites out, voice sharp with fear. “Her leg’s bleeding, Sam—”

You shake your head, tears burning your eyes. “I’m sorry! Dean— it was a nightmare—” The words catch in your throat. You glance at the blood soaking through the sheets, and panic surges higher. “Oh god, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Look at me! Hey—look at me! You’re not sorry, you hear me?.” Dean leans closer, his hand pressing firm against your thigh, his other brushing your cheek, forcing your gaze back to him. “This ain’t your fault. It was a nightmare, that’s all. Breathe with me— in… out… c’mon, dammit, match me!.” He exaggerates his breathing, loud inhales and exhales.

Sam is snapping on gloves, voice tight. “She’s lost a lot of blood already. I'll have to redo the stitches.” 

He’s already kneeling, swabbing fresh gauze, needle threaded. You see the glint of it in the low light and your stomach twists. Your hands start to shake. 

Sam glances up, catching Dean’s eyes for a split second. “Keep her steady. I’ll close it again. This time tighter.”

Dean moves behind you on the bed, sitting upright against the headboard. He pulls you firmly into his chest, one arm around your torso, the other locking around your hand like a vice.

“You’re good,” he murmurs against your hairline, voice low and firm. “I got you."

You tense as the needle gets closer. Breath caught. Muscles locked. Dean feels it and squeezes your hands tighter.

Sam notices too. His voice softens, just slightly. “I’ll try be quick. Promise.”

The needle flashes. The first prick makes you flinch hard.

Dean holds you steady. “Breathe,” he says again, calm and grounding.

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying not to cry out. Every pull of the thread is a fresh jolt of fire up your leg. Dean doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let go.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Dean can feel it in the way you’re shaking.

Sam's voice is calm, focused, low. “Almost done… just a couple more… alright, that’s it. You’re stitched back up.” He tapes fresh gauze into place.

There’s no conversation after that, just the quiet scrape of cloth and the rustle of sheets as they help clean the blood from your skin and the bed. You watch them work—efficient, quiet, tired.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Thanks.”

Sam just gives a small nod. His eyes flicker between you and Dean, but he doesn’t say anything this time. He just sighs. “I’ll give you two some space… and try get hold of Cas again.” With that, he leaves the room. 

The room is hushed again, Sam’s footsteps fading down the corridor until they’re swallowed by stone and distance. You’re left with the soft amber glow of the lamps, and the steady weight of Dean’s arm around you. “You really know how to keep me on edge, don’t you?—-”

You swallow, feeling the ache in your leg pulse, the phantom sensation of teeth still sinking into flesh. You don’t want to ruin the fragile warmth between you, but the words claw their way out before you can stop them.

“It was… it was the wolf. In my dream. Same park, same night.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. You swallow hard, eyes flicking down to your freshly wrapped leg. “I could feel it—its teeth in my leg. I kicked at it, and… that’s when the stitches…”

The words crumble. Your voice cracks, and you can’t stop your eyes from burning.

“I knew I was dreamin’, but it felt real. Like he was right here. Like he wasn’t done with me.”

Dean stiffens. You feel the air shift, sharp as a blade. His body tightens as he leans from behind you, his face close to your ear, his voice is low and steady—threaded with steel.

“Hey. Listen to me.” His voice pins you in place. “He’s not comin’ back for you. Whatever you saw in your head? That wasn’t him. It was just your brain playin’ tricks. Nothin’ more.”

You let out a shaky laugh, even as you swipe at your wet cheeks with trembling fingers. “Yeah, well… tell that to my leg. Pretty convincing for a ‘trick.’”

Dean snorts softly, like he can’t decide if he wants to argue or haul you closer against him. In the end, he chooses the latter. His flannel is soft against your cheek, warm, carrying that familiar mix of leather, sandalwoods— him.

“Nightmares are just echoes,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that low rumble that seems to live in his chest as much as his throat. His chin brushes the top of your head. “They can’t bite you, can’t touch you—” his arm tightens around you, protective, unyielding.

You let yourself melt into him, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. Strong. Real. The sound drowns out the phantom pain gnawing at your leg, steadies the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Then, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear, his mouth close enough that his breath stirs your hair:

“You’re family. So no more sorrys, alright?”

The quiet of the bunker folds around you both like a blanket. The panic ebbs, draining from your chest, leaving you drowsy and warm.

You sink into him. The bunker is still, the kind of quiet that feels alive—like the stone itself is holding its breath for you. Nothing stirs beyond Dean’s steady heartbeat under your ear. He hasn’t let go, and you haven’t wanted him to.

Dean shifts a little, just enough to look down at you. His thumb brushes along your cheek, the calloused pad of it gentle against your skin. When your eyes meet his, the usual walls are gone—no sarcasm, no bravado, no smirk. Just Dean.

His voice comes low, almost husky, like the words cost him something.
“You know… I can’t remember the last time I sat like this. Not jumpin’ at shadows, not thinkin’ about the next fight. Just… holdin’ on to someone I actually give a damn about.”

Your chest tightens, but not from fear. You smile faintly, his confession hanging between you, heavy and real. Tilting your chin, you whisper against his jaw, “Then don’t let go. Not today.”

His hand slides from your cheek down to your shoulder, pulling you flush against him. He lowers his head just enough for his lips to brush your forehead, lingering there as he breathes you in like he’s trying to carve the moment into memory.

“Not today,” he murmurs. “Not tomorrow either, if I get a say in it.”

You laugh softly, muffled against his chest. It feels strange and freeing, laughing here, in his arms, after it all. He tips your chin up, and there it is—the crooked smile, softened at the edges, paired with eyes that don’t look away.

“So, sweetheart…” Dean drawls, voice rough but threaded with warmth, “you gonna make me breakfast in bed when that leg’s healed, or am I still stuck cookin’ the bacon?”

You nudge him with your good leg, shaking your head with a small smile. “Please. We both know I’d burn it. Guess that means you’re stuck with the apron.”

Dean chuckles, deep and unguarded, the sound vibrating through you where you’re pressed against him. He presses another kiss into your hair and lets his head fall back against the headboard, still holding you like the world can’t touch you here.

And maybe it can’t. Not right now. Not in the heart of the bunker, wrapped in his arms, both of you clinging to something rare: peace.

Chapter Text

A few days later, the library has become your makeshift room. The armchair by the lamp and the long oak table have been your kingdom, piled with water bottles, gauze wrappers, and a stack of lore books Sam keeps “accidentally” leaving within reach. The steady background noise is almost comforting—Sam flipping through pages, Dean tapping away on his laptop, the occasional muttered curse when the Wi-Fi cuts out.

Your leg is stitched and wrapped tight, pulsing with a dull throb every time you move. Sam’s helping you ease onto your feet a little—slow, careful, steady.

He’s got one arm around your waist, the other ready to catch you if your leg gives out. You lean into him, testing your weight. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, but it doesn’t stop you.

“Okay,” Sam says softly. “That’s good. Just take it slow.”

You put some of your weight onto the injured leg, testing it with caution.

“Bathroom marathons,” you mutter through a grimace. “Really living the dream here.”

Sam huffs a quiet laugh, his grip never loosening. “Hey, I’ve seen worse. You’re doing great.”

You glance toward the library. Dean’s sitting there, pretending not to watch—but you see him glance over from time to time.

Sam keeps his focus on you. Calm. Solid. “You’re healing. Just… don’t push it. We still need to get Cas here, remember?”

Your jaw tighten as another spike of pain shoots through.

“One step at a time,” he says. “We’ll get there.” 

You limp the last few steps yourself. The bunker’s low lights casting long shadows across the walls. Dean’s already seated at the long wooden table, legs stretched out, half a bottle of whiskey in front of him, expression unreadable.

He watches you approach, then slides a glass toward you without a word. You take it with a grunt, lowering yourself into the chair across from him. Pain spikes through your leg and you bite down a curse.

Dean raises his glass slightly. “You made it farther than yesterday.”

You snort, sharper than you mean to. “Yeah, well, maybe I wouldn’t have to if I hadn’t been stupid enough to get jumped in the first place.”

Dean’s face tightens. “You weren’t stupid. You called me. I came.”

“Exactly,” you snap, glaring down at the drink in your hand. “You had to save my ass. Again.”

Dean’s voice dips lower, wounded. “That what this is about? You mad I showed up, or mad you needed help?”

You don't answer right away. The guilt twists hot in your chest. You hate the way his words land—too close, too true.

Across the table, Sam glances up but stays quiet, tension hanging thick between the three of you.

Dean shifts back in his chair, his voice cooler now. “Next time, maybe don’t wait until you’re bleeding out to make the damn call.”

You flinch, just a little. Not from the pain in your leg—but from the edge in his tone. You know he’s not angry at you. Not really.

You take a long sip of whiskey, finally meeting his eyes.

“Sorry,” you mutter. It’s low, rough. “I just… I hate this.”

Dean doesn’t smile, but he softens—just barely. He lifts his glass again. “Yeah. Me too.”

The library is heavy with silence, the kind that lingers after raised voices. Your chest still feels tight from snapping at him, his jaw still tense from snapping back.

Trying to ease the edge off the moment, you clear your throat, your tone softer now, careful.

“You guys never told me…” You tilt your head between them, letting a spark of curiosity cut through the roughness. “Who is Cas? Some kind of doctor friend of yours?”

The brothers exchange a glance over your head—one of those silent Winchester conversations you’ve never quite been invited into. Dean clears his throat before he answers.

“Uh… not exactly a doctor,” he says. “More like… an angel. Wings, smitin’, whole nine yards.”

You freeze. Staring at him. “An angel ?”

Dean catches your look and lifts both hands, swearing like he’s on trial. “I’m serious. Name’s Castiel. Saved our asses more times than I can count. He can heal—miracle stuff. One touch, and you’d be good as new.”

You blink hard, the words slow to sink in. Your voice comes out half-incredulous, half-curious. “Wait. You’re telling me you’ve got an actual angel on speed dial… and you’re only bringing this up now ?”

Sam’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Cas isn’t exactly easy to get ahold of. We’ve been trying for days. When he shows up… he shows up. That’s just how he works.”

Dean mutters under his breath, “More like when he feels like it.”

You glance between them, wide-eyed, mind spinning. The pain in your leg is forgotten for a heartbeat in the whirl of disbelief. “—Demons, shapeshifters, werewolves to name a few… now angels. What the hell did I sign up for when I agreed to stick around you guys?”

Dean smirks at that, “You signed up for the family business, sweetheart. Saving people, hunting things… you know the rest.”

Sam’s buried in his books again, giving the two of you half an ear at best. You lean towards Dean, trying to look casual even as you can feel yourself shaking a bit at the thought. 

“So… an angel? Like, wings and halos? Harps? Singing choirs?”

Dean barks out a short laugh, shaking his head. You knock back your whiskey in one go, the burn sharp but familiar.

Dean watches you for half a second, then stands without a word. He grabs the bottle from the table and refills your glass. You nod your thanks, then gulp that one down too—less like a sip, more like you’re bracing for impact.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Just pours again and sets the bottle down with a quiet thud.

“Yeah, no,” he says, leaning back with that easy slouch.“Cas? Yeah, he’s about as far from a harp-playing choir boy as you can get. Think less ‘heavenly messenger,’ more ‘awkward stalker in a trench coat.’ Gravel voice, thousand-yard stare, zero clue about personal space. Guy’ll stand two inches from your face and call it bonding.”

A grin tugs at your mouth, the teasing coming out before you can stop it. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

Dean squints at you, but his lips curve upward, half-smiling. “Cute. Real cute. Trust me, you’d know the difference. Cas shows up and it’s like—whoosh—big shadow, wings on the walls, lights flickering. Dude’s got a presence. Me? I just got…” He gestures vaguely at himself, smirk widening. “…this.”

You bite back a laugh, playing along. “Right, right. You’re more of the brooding rock star with a hero complex vibe. He’s the intense, mysterious one. Got it.”

Dean throws his hands up, leaning back with a groan. “Great. Now I gotta compete with an actual angel for your attention. As if saving your ass from a werewolf wasn’t enough.”

From the table, Sam sighs loudly without looking up. “Dean, Cas doesn’t even understand half of what flirting is. Trust me, you’re safe.”

Dean shoots him a glare, then turns back to you with mock seriousness, dropping his voice. “See? He just shows up, tilts his head, says something cryptic like, ‘I learned that from the pizza man,’ and suddenly everybody’s swooning.”

The laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, sharp and real. Dean’s grin softens at the sound, the tension in his shoulders easing as he watches you. He leans in a little closer, dropping his voice low, conspiratorial.

“Between you and me? Don’t get me wrong—Cas is family. But if he shows up and tries to steal my thunder with that whole moody angel routine, I’m gonna have to remind him who got blood on his favorite car for you.”

You shake your head, smiling, warmth blooming in your chest despite the dull throb in your leg. “I don’t think you have to worry about Cas stealing me away, Dean. He sounds… intense. I kinda like the brooding rock star with the hero complex better.”

Dean’s grin spreads wide at that, smug but shaded with something softer—then leans back with a satisfied sigh.

“Knew I liked you for a reason.”

Evening settles heavy over the bunker, the kind of quiet that hums in the stone walls and lamps. Another day without Cas showing up. Another day of waiting.

After that first night, Sam had pushed for you to take your own room—“privacy,” he’d called it lightly, though the look he’d shot Dean said otherwise. Don’t trust my brother to keep his hands off long enough for you to heal.

You’d agreed, of course. You know you should be grateful. But now, as you sit tucked into one of the library chairs with a blanket around your legs, the idea of another night alone makes your chest ache. You miss the warmth. You miss him.

Dean still slouches in his chair across the table, twirling a pen between his fingers while Sam drones on about lore. He looks casual, like he’s not paying attention to anything but the notes, but his eyes keep sliding sideways. You catch the way he notices when you wince, the way his jaw tightens when you sigh as you shift your bad leg.

You bite your lip, heart thudding. After everything—the infirmary, the first stolen kisses, the way he held you after the nightmare—you haven’t had a real moment alone since. Not with Sam always hovering.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.
“Hey, uh… so. I was thinking…” You dart a glance at Sam, still buried in his work, then back at Dean. “I really don’t think I wanna do another night alone. And, um…” Your face heats, words tripping. “…is your bed… maybe… available?”

Dean freezes. The pen slips through his fingers and clatters onto the table. For half a heartbeat his eyes are wide, then a slow, crooked smile curls across his face. He leans forward, voice dropping into that husky near-whisper he only ever uses with you.

“Available, huh? You tryin’ to ask me for a sleepover, sweetheart?”

Your cheeks burn hotter. You glance away, fumbling. “I—uh—I just meant—”

Dean lets you squirm for a second, clearly enjoying it, before his grin softens.

“You sure?” he murmurs, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something lower, rawer. “My bed’s yours. And if you’re askin’ me to stay… I’m not gonna say no.”

Across the room, Sam finally looks up. One eyebrow arches when he sees your fingers laced together on the table, Dean leaning in close. He exhales through his nose, then stands, gathering his laptop and books.

“You know what?” Sam says, dry but not unkind. “I think I’m done for the night. You guys… figure out your sleeping arrangements.”

Dean smirks after him as he heads for the hall, muttering something. “Think he’s gettin’ tired of us.”

You laugh softly, nerves curling warm in your stomach. Dean pushes back from his chair and stands, stretching lazily before stepping toward you. Then he bends down, sliding his arms beneath you with practiced care.

Your breath hitches at the sudden closeness, the strength in the way he lifts you. But you don’t resist. Instead, you loop your arms lightly around his shoulders as he cradles you against his chest.

His grin softens when his eyes meet yours, all the bravado gone.
“C’mon,” he says quietly, almost tender. “Let’s get you into bed… it’s got room for two.”

The hallway is dim and silent as he carries you, boots echoing against the stone. 

Dean pushes the door open with his shoulder, the hinges groaning softly in the quiet.Familiar smells wrap around you the second you cross the threshold, something distinctly him.

He nudges the door shut with his boot and carries you to the bed, lowering you carefully onto the mattress. His hands linger a second longer than they need to, steadying you as you settle down against the pillows.

“You good?” His voice is low, almost rough, like he’s trying not to let too much slip.

You nod, heart hammering. “Yeah.”

Dean lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment he hovers at the edge of the bed, as though giving you the choice. Then, at your small nod, he lays down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. You study him—broad shoulders, green eyes catching in the lamp light, fingers tapping against his stomach like he’s restless. You know he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

So you break the silence first. “Dean.”

He glances over at you, brows lifted.

You bite your lip, nerves sparking through you. “Thanks. For… all of it. For not letting me go through any of this alone.”

Something shifts in his expression, softer, almost pained. He turns towards you, his hand finding yours again, fingers threading tight. “You don’t thank me for that. That’s… that’s just what I do.”

Your chest aches at the weight in his tone. You move toward him, close enough now that you can feel his breath warm against yours. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze.

Last time, he let you decide. This time, too, he holds still—waiting.

You close the gap, your lips brushing his, tentative at first, then firmer when he responds. The kiss deepens slowly, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, thumb sweeping against your cheek as if you might break under anything rougher.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing heavier. His voice dropping into that gravelly rumble.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your pulse stutters, heat pooling in your chest. You smile faintly, whispering back, “I think I’m starting to figure it out.”

Dean chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you. He shifts carefully, mindful of your leg, and stretches out beside you on top of the blankets. One arm drapes over you, pulling you against him without hesitation now.

You melt into the warmth, your head tucked beneath his chin, your hand resting flat against his chest where his heart beats steady and strong. You feel yourself drifting away into a peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

You wake to warmth. The kind of warmth that sinks into your bones and makes you never want to move again. Dean is still beside you, one arm heavy across your waist, his body pressed solid against your back. His breath stirs against your neck, steady and slow.

You shift slightly to roll toward him. Your stitches twinge, but when you finally face him, it’s worth it. Dean’s eyes are half-lidded, still hazy from sleep, his hair a mess.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice gravel-thick.

You smile faintly. “Morning. You drool, by the way.”

He cracks one eye open, gives you a mock glare. “Yeah? Pretty sure that was you.”

“Please,” you whisper, grinning. “I never drool.”

Dean chuckles low, and the sound rumbles through his chest. His green eyes soften as he studies you, thumb brushing along your jaw. “You sure you’re okay? Pain any worse?”

“It’s fine,” you say, maybe a little too quickly. Then, quieter: “It’s better, I mean...”

His hand cups your cheek, rough but gentle, pulling you closer. “Good. ‘Cause I was kinda hopin’ we’d pick up where we left off.”

Your breath catches, heat curling low in your stomach. “Dean…”

His mouth is on yours. No hesitation this time. No testing the waters. Just hunger—hot, desperate, like he’s been holding back for days. You clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer as his hand slides down to your waist, careful but firm. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing yours, stealing your breath until you’re dizzy with it.

You murmur against his mouth, “You taste like whiskey and trouble.”

He grins into the kiss, lips brushing yours as he growls, “Damn right.” His hand skims over your hip, pulling you flush against him, and your pulse spikes.

That’s when the door bangs open.

“Dean—” Sam’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and urgent. “Cas is here.”

You both freeze. Dean pulls back just enough to glare over his shoulder, his chest heaving. “Dammit, Sam! Ever heard of knockin’?”

Sam stands in the doorway, eyes wide, clearly realizing what he’s interrupted. His mouth opens like he wants to say something else, then snaps shut. He looks away, jaw tight. “Right… Just thought you’d wanna know.”

The door shuts again with a thud.

Dean exhales hard, dragging a hand over his face. “Son of a—” He breaks off, shaking his head. Then he looks back at you, lips still swollen, and smirks despite himself. “Hell of a wake-up call.”

You’re still breathless, heart pounding. “Guess breakfast in bed’s off the table.”

Dean leans in, brushing his lips over yours one more time, quick but lingering. “Rain check?” 

Dean helps you sit up on the edge of his bed, his hand steady under your arm. You can feel his eyes on you as you work your way into some pants. He tugs on his boots, shrugs his flannel over his faded black tee, and glances back with a half-smirk.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says, gravelly, teasing, but laced with something softer underneath. “Time to face the angel.”

“Not if you’re carrying me,” you shoot back. Your voice is firm even though your leg already aches at the thought of walking.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“I’m walking.” You push yourself up, wincing as pain flares, but you grip his arm tight and take a shaky step. “Not meeting a damn angel in your arms like some damsel.”

That earns you a huffed laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Stubborn as hell,” he mutters, but there’s pride in his tone.

The walk from Dean’s room feels longer than it should, your injured leg throbbing with every step. Dean stays at your side, his arm a solid brace around your waist, slowing his stride to match yours. You hate how much you lean into him, but you refuse to back down. By the time you reach the library, sweat beads at your temples, but you’ve done it.

When you step inside, it feels like the air changes instantly. Heavy. Charged. Like static prickling across your skin. The bunker’s stone walls seem to lean closer, shadows stretching unnaturally.

Sam is sitting at the end of the first table, arms folded tight. Beside him stands a man in a beige trench coat. Dark hair. Piercing blue eyes that lock on you the moment you appear by the small step of stairs. His presence is… too much. Still and silent, yet somehow overwhelming, pressing against your mind like he can see everything you are with a glance.

Dean’s voice cuts the tension, grinning but threaded with relief. “ ‘Bout damn time, Cas. Thought maybe you lost my number again.”

The man doesn’t smile. His voice is low, flat, calm. “I was… occupied.” His gaze doesn’t leave you. “This is the hunter you’ve told me about?”

Your stomach twists under the weight of the stare. There’s nothing cruel in it, but it’s inhuman—too sharp, too knowing. Your anxiety spikes, the walls of the library pressing in tighter than they ever did in the infirmary. You start to edge back, slow, like maybe no one will notice. But Dean does. His hand closes around your wrist, unyielding, tugging you just enough to keep you put.“Easy,” he says, low only so you can hear. “He’s good people.”

Cas tilts his head, like he’s analyzing you, then steps closer. “Your wound has not fully healed. You are still in pain.”

You swallow hard, trying not to flinch as he closes the distance. “Yeah, well, getting clawed by a werewolf kinda leaves a mark.”

“I can heal you.” He says it like a fact, no hesitation, no gentleness. Just truth. His hand starts to lift.

Your chest tightens. Every instinct screams to pull back. “I don’t… I don’t know about this,” you admit, voice small.

Dean angles himself slightly between you and the angel, his tone sharper. “Cas. Maybe ease up a little.” Then softer, to you: “Hey. It’s okay. I know it’s weird. He’s… a lot. But you can trust him. You trust me, right?”

You nod, slow, biting your lip.

“Then trust me on this.”

You draw in a shaky breath, then give the smallest nod toward Cas. “…Alright. Do it.”

Cas doesn’t waste time. He raises two fingers, presses them to your forehead.

Light blooms behind your eyes, warm and searing all at once. It’s not like pain, not exactly—it’s more , rushing through your veins, filling every ache, every break, every scar with heat until it feels like your whole body is vibrating. You gasp, arching slightly, and then—just as suddenly—it’s gone.

The pain in your leg is gone.

You look down, blinking rapidly, and let your hand trail down the fabric of your pant leg, fingertips pressing over where the stitches should be. No pull, no tenderness, no ridges beneath the cloth—just smooth, whole and solid, like nothing had ever touched you.

Dean whistles low under his breath. “See? Not so bad. Told you he was good for somethin’ besides awkward stares.”

Sam exhales, tension rolling out of his shoulders.

You touch your leg, still stunned. “Holy—” You stop yourself, glancing at Cas. “…sorry. Guess that feels wrong to say in front of an angel.”

Cas just blinks. “It is not offensive.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Told you. Choir boy, he ain’t.”

You lean into Dean now, though not from any pain—just from the shock. And as Cas tilts his head again, still watching you with that too-sharp stare, Dean shifts his body subtly in front of yours, his voice casual but edged with something protective.

“Alright, Cas. Miracle accomplished. Think maybe you could stop starin’ at her like she’s a bug under glass now?”

Cas doesn’t answer. He just looks at Dean for a long moment, then back at you, and finally says, “You’ll be alright now.”

You flex your healed leg carefully, testing it. It feels strange—like it isn’t even yours, the skin warm and tingling from the angel’s touch. You push past the anxiety crawling in your chest and lift your eyes to Cas, his piercing stare still fixed on you. “Um… thank you. For… y’know. Saving me.”

Cas tilts his head, almost birdlike, as though weighing your words. His voice is flat, but sincere.“You should not thank me. It was necessary. You are important to them.”

Before you can answer, he turns sharply back to Dean, motioning him to follow him with a slight jerk of his head. Dean frowns, but squeeze your shoulder once before following Cas a few steps away toward the war table. Their voices drop, low and rough, not meant for your ears. You can’t make out the words—but you see the way Cas leans in, speaking urgently, and the way Dean’s jaw clenches tighter with every sentence.

Your stomach twists. You can’t hear them, but you can see their glances—Dean’s eyes flicking toward you, Cas’s following. The tension in the air thickens, a low current that sets your nerves on edge. Sam notices your anxious stare. With a sigh, he walks over to where Dean and Cas are speaking in low, clipped tones, “what’s going on?”.

Cas doesn’t answer right away. Dean rakes a hand down his face, muttering something sharp you can’t catch. Cas’s response is quieter but heavier, like it carries weight. Sam’s expression darkens, his tone sharpening as he cuts in again. Their voices rise just enough for you to feel the tension, though the words remain muffled.

Dean glances over his shoulder at you again—too quickly, too often. Sam’s eyes follow, narrowing in the same direction. The pattern is unmistakable.

Your pulse picks up despite the healing, breath coming faster. You shift from one leg to the other, trying to steady yourself, but it’s useless. Every glance, every hushed word makes it clearer: they’re talking about you. And whatever it is, it isn’t good.

Chapter Text

The low rumble of their voices grates against the stone walls, the sound crawling under your skin. You can’t make out the words, just the cadence—the clipped edges of Sam’s questions, the gravel-thick calm of Castiel’s answers, Dean’s sharp interruptions cutting through like blades.

Every so often Dean glances your way, his expression tight, jaw flexing. Sam follows his brother’s look with something quieter, steadier, but no less loaded. Castiel—his piercing stare pins you across the room, unblinking, like he’s already decided something and is just waiting for the rest to catch up.

Your stomach knots tighter with every passing second.

Finally, the quiet argument snaps shut. Dean mutters something sharp under his breath. Sam presses his lips thin, like he’s biting down another point. Castiel smooths the lapel of his trench coat with slow precision before they all turn toward you.

Your pulse jumps. Their faces carry too much weight to be casual.

Your pulse stutters as they approach. Dean moves to the front, shoulders squared, Castiel a half-step behind him—unreadable, unshakable. Sam lingers to the side, that careful steady look on his face that says he’s ready to step in if this goes sideways.

Castiel is the one who breaks the silence first, his voice low and grave.
“When I healed you… I saw something.”

Dean’s head snaps toward him. “Cas… easy, alright?”

Castiel tilts his head, unimpressed by the warning. He starts to speak again, but Dean cuts him off, stepping forward until he’s between you and the angel, his green eyes locked on yours. The tension in his jaw eases, but his voice stays rough, heavy with something that weighs on him as much as it will on you.

“Screw it,” Dean mutters. “I’m not lettin’ him say it.”

Sam shifts behind him, restless but quiet, letting Dean take the lead.

Dean’s voice drops, deliberate and steady.
“Cas picked up on somethin’ when he healed you. Not just the wound. Somethin’… else.” He takes a breath, his hand flexing like he wants to reach for you. “I need you to know—we’ve got this. Me, Sam, and Cas. We’ll handle it. You’re not in this alone.”

Your throat goes dry. You glance past him at Castiel—those blue eyes steady, unblinking, too sharp. Then to Sam, whose brow is furrowed in protective worry.

Your voice shakes when you manage, “Dean… what did he see?”

Dean draws in a sharp breath. His eyes shut for a beat, like he’s searching for the words, before snapping back to yours.

“He saw the wolf bite,” Dean says, low. “Not just claws. In your head—in your nightmare—you weren’t wrong. That wolf tried to turn you.”

The air rushes out of the room. Cold spreads through you, buzzing in your nerves until your knees almost buckle.

Dean doesn’t let the silence linger. His hand comes down on your shoulder, anchoring. His voice is firm, urgent, a vow hammered into steel.

“But listen to me—listen. You’re not gone. You’re not turned. Not yet. And I swear to you—we’ll find a way to make damn sure you never do.”

The words hit like a gunshot. That wolf tried to turn you.

You just stare at Dean, his eyes locked on yours, his hand gripping your shoulder like iron. For a second, the world feels hollow—numb and cold. Then the heat comes, fast and hard, boiling up from somewhere deep.

You shake your head, breath catching.
“No. No, that’s—no. That’s not possible. If he bit me, I’d already be… I’d already be—” Your voice cracks, but anger rises to cover the fear. “The lore says it doesn’t take days, Dean! It happens fast. You know that better than anyone. So Cas must’ve seen wrong. He had to.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. He flicks a look over his shoulder at Castiel, like he’s begging him to throw you a bone. But the angel’s expression doesn’t shift—calm, unyielding, blue eyes pinning you in place.

“I do not ‘see wrong,’” Castiel says, quiet but firm. “What I witnessed was residual grace clinging to something foreign. The infection tried to take root, but it hasn’t. Not fully.”

Your pulse spikes. The words sound like riddles, like some cryptic prophecy, and it just makes the fire in your chest burn hotter.

“That doesn’t make any damn sense!” you snap, voice rising until it echoes off the stone walls. “You can’t just say I was bitten and then—what?—that it didn’t stick? That’s not how it works! That’s not how any of this works!”

Dean holds his other hand out toward you, trying to steady you.
“Hey—hey! Breathe, sweetheart. Cas isn’t saying you’re turning. Not yet.”

Castiel steps closer, trench coat almost brushing the floor. The air shifts with him, heavy, charged, his presence pressing against you until your breath stutters. His voice stays calm, but it digs under your skin like a scalpel.

“She is not like other hunters. Something within her is resisting. I cannot explain it fully, but it is there. The infection is… dormant. For now.”

Your hands tremble. Dormant. For now. The words tilt your world sideways. You shake your head hard, refusing to let it stick.

“No,” you spit, voice cracking with fury. “No, screw that. I’m not some freakin’ half-wolf science experiment. I’m fine. I feel fine.”

Dean flinches, like your words cut deeper than you meant. His voice comes raw, scraped thin, but steady as a vow.

“You are fine. You hear me? You’re still you. I don’t care what Cas saw. I don’t care what the lore says. We’re not losin’ you. Not to this. Not ever.”

Sam steps in, his voice low and calm, trying to cut through the fire between you.
“He’s right. We’ll figure it out. There’s always exceptions. Always loopholes. Dean and I—we’ve seen stuff that should’ve been impossible. So maybe you’re one of those exceptions. Maybe you’re stronger than this.”

You look between them. Sam’s face is calm, steady, a quiet kind of certainty. Dean’s eyes burn, fierce determination radiating like he could wrestle fate itself into submission. And Castiel—he just watches, still and unshakable, his silence pressing heavier than words.

Your throat works, and the words scrape out, broken, trembling with fury and fear.
“…And what if I do turn?”

Dean’s eyes flash. His voice drops to a growl, sharp as broken glass.
“You’re not. End of story. We’ll burn every lore book we have if we have to. But you—” He lifts his hand to brush a piece of hair from your face, but you jerk back before he can. The sting flickers across his face, but he pushes past it, voice low and fierce.
“—you’re not a monster. Not now. Not ever. Got it?”

Your pulse thunders in your ears, words spilling out before you can stop them.

“Then why can’t he just—” You snap your head toward Castiel, fury and desperation tangling in your voice. “—you’re an angel, right? You can heal people! You took away the wound! Can’t you just… just burn out whatever’s left? Whatever’s dormant?”

Castiel tilts his head in that strange, mechanical way of his. His gaze doesn’t waver. When he speaks, his voice is calm, but the weight behind his words twists your stomach like a knife.

“I tried. What remains in you is not merely physical. It is… intertwined with your essence. Removing it would cause more damage than it prevents.” His eyes bore into yours, unwavering. “Or kill you.”

The words hit harder than the wolf’s claws ever could.

“So what, that’s it?” Your voice spikes, raw and cracking. “I’m just—just supposed to wait? Wait and see if I turn? Wake up one night with teeth in one of your throats? What happens then, huh?”

The room goes still, your breathing ragged.

You choke on the next words, forcing them out. “You’ll have to chain me up. Better that than me tearing into someone.”

Sam takes a slow step forward, his face heavy with sympathy, his voice calm but weighted. “We’ll find something. There’s always lore, always a spell, some piece of research we missed—”

“Don’t lie to me, Sam!” you snap, cutting him off. The anger bursts out sharp, your chest heaving. “You’ve read the lore. You both have. People don’t just not turn.” Your eyes burn as you look between them, voice breaking. “You’re hunters—this is what you do, right? Find the monsters and—”

The word burns like ash on your tongue. “…kill them.”

Dean flinches like the word hit him in the gut.

“Don’t—don’t you dare say that,” he growls, his voice low, rough. He steps closer, reaching for you again, trying to anchor you. “You’re not a monster. You’re not turning, and you’re not gonna hurt us. I don’t give a damn what Cas saw or what the books say.”

But the heat in your chest boils higher. It’s too much—his certainty, Castiel’s stare, Sam’s sympathy. It presses in on you until it feels like you’ll shatter if you don’t break free.

“I will! ” you shout, voice ragged with fear and fury. “I’ll turn, and you’ll be too damn stubborn to stop me until it’s too late!”

Dean shakes his head, fierce, defiant. “Not happenin’—”

And something in you snaps.

Your fist flies before you even think. A clean right hook. It connects with Dean’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. The crack of it echoes through the library.

He stumbles back half a step, eyes wide, stunned more by the fact that you hit him than by the pain.

Before you can suck in a breath, before you can say his name—

The air shifts. Heavy. Charged.

And then Castiel moves.

With a flick of his hand, invisible force slams into you like a truck. Your body is lifted and flung across the room. You crash into the bookshelf, wood splintering, books raining down as the impact blasts the air from your lungs.

You crumple to the floor, gasping, chest heaving.

“Cas!” Dean’s roar tears through the silence, fury vibrating in every syllable. He surges toward you, then spins back on the angel, his voice a snarl. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Castiel stands rigid, eyes cold, unshaken. “She struck you. She is volatile. I acted.”

Sam’s voice cuts in, sharp and furious. “You flung her across the room, Cas! She’s not the enemy!”

Dean drops to his knees beside you, his hands already checking, trembling as he touches your arms, your face. His voice breaks, rough and raw. “Hey—look at me. "You okay?”

Your chest heaves, your body shaking from the impact, from the rage, from the fear still burning through your veins. As Dean hovers over you, the truth gnaws at you:

No matter what they say… something inside you is wrong.

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Castiel dropped the bomb in the library and then vanished, chasing some half-thread of answers you haven’t heard back about since.

Two weeks of endless pages. Of dust in your throat and the smell of old books. Of flipping through lore on werewolves, curses, hex bags, old hoodoo rituals—anything that could explain why you’re still you after the bite.

Two weeks of nothing.

Sam tries to mask it, but you see it every time he looks at you—that soft, heavy compassion in his eyes, like he’s already mourning. It makes your skin crawl.

Dean’s different. Dean’s harder to read. Some days it’s sharp and protective, like he’d fight the world for you without blinking. Other days, it’s tight and unreadable, a storm in his jawline and the shadows under his eyes. And some days—those are the worst—it’s nothing. Just walls.

You’ve taken your old room back. Privacy. Space. It’s better than waking in the middle of the night with his arm around you, his breath warm against your hair, and remembering Castiel’s voice: The infection is dormant. For now.

Dean hasn’t stopped trying, though. He keeps coming to your door, knocking lightly before letting himself in. He keeps leaning on your bedframe, making some half-smirk remark to try to chip through the wall you’ve built.

And every time, you shove him back with words sharper than you mean. “Go hit on some waitress or stripper who doesn’t know any better…”

You see it hit him. See that flicker in his eyes before he turns his head, smirk slipping for just a second. But he doesn’t stop. The next night, he tries again. And the night after that.

But you don’t let him stay. You can’t. Not with the way they both look at you. Not with the silence pressing harder every time Castiel’s name comes up with no news attached.

You’re no closer to an answer. No closer to knowing what the hell’s wrong with you. And the longer the boys keep circling you like you’re fragile, like you’re dangerous, the more you feel the cracks spreading inside you.

If something doesn’t give soon, it won’t be the wolf that takes you. It’ll be the waiting.

The bunker kitchen smells like grease and charred onions when you shuffle in. Dean’s already behind the counter, flipping burgers with way too much flourish for a guy cooking on a stovetop. Sam’s at the table, no laptop for once, giving Dean that familiar long-suffering look.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean calls over his shoulder, spatula tapping against the pan. “You’re in luck. Tonight you’re dining on a Winchester specialty. Burgers—medium rare, extra cheese. Made by yours truly, the one and only meat man.”

Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dean… I told you, that doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

Dean smirks, sliding a plate onto the table in front of you. “Nah. Pretty sure it means ‘guy who makes the best damn burgers in Kansas.’”

Normally you’d roll your eyes. Maybe even let a smirk slip. Tonight, with the pounding in your head and the constant, silent weight of their eyes on you, it just grates.

You pick up your burger, take a bite. The taste barely registers. Sam watches you too closely. Dean sits across from you, casual, like he’s not cataloging every twitch of your face, every shift of your hands.

Your temples throb. The weight in the room presses harder.

Dean raises his bottle of beer. “To family,” he says, voice light, though his eyes flick to yours. “And to me bein’ the undisputed champ of burger night.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “Until you burn one, and then you’re demoted.”

Your head is buzzing now, your stomach turning, the food suddenly sitting heavy. You can feel their eyes, Dean’s too sharp, Sam’s too soft, both suffocating.

You slam your burger down on the plate. The sound cracks through the kitchen.

“Would you two just stop?!”

They freeze.

Your voice shakes, but the anger is real, sharp as a blade. “Stop looking at me like I’m about to sprout fangs and take a bite out of one of you! Every damn day it’s the same—Sam, with your sad puppy eyes.. Dean, with your constant hovering like I’m about to break. I’m fine!”

“(Y/N)—” Sam starts, but you cut him off.

“No, don’t.” You push yourself up to your feet. “Don’t tell me I’m strong, don’t tell me we’ll find a loophole. You’ve read the same books I have. You know what happens when you get bit.” Your chest heaves, words tumbling fast and ragged. “I should’ve turned already. The fact that I haven’t just means you’re both waiting for it. Waiting for me to slip. Waiting for the day you get to put me down.”

Dean’s face tightens, his jaw working. He sets his burger down slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on you.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Don’t you ever put words in my mouth like that.”

You shake your head, laughter bubbling up bitter and raw. “What, you’re telling me you haven’t thought about it? What you’d do if I did turn? You’re a hunter, Dean! You’ve killed people for less than this!”

Dean rises to his feet, palms flat on the table, leaning toward you, voice a sharp growl. “I don’t give a damn what the books say. You’re not turning, and I’m sure as hell not killin’ you. So stop acting like you’re already gone.”

Sam stands too, hands raised, his voice tight but calmer. “Everybody just take a breath. This isn’t—”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of everything boiling over. “You don’t know what it feels like, wondering every day if the thing inside you is gonna wake up. Wondering if the people you trust are just waiting for it to happen!”

The kitchen falls into a suffocating silence. Your chest heaves, your hands shaking on the edge of the table. Dean’s jaw is set, eyes burning, like he’s two seconds away from tearing the whole room apart. Sam’s face is pale, his hand half-outstretched like he wants to steady you but knows better.

The only sound left is the hum of the bunker lights, buzzing sharp against the weight of your words.

Dean’s jaw works once, twice.

“You think I’m just sittin’ here waitin’ for you to go Cujo on us?” His voice is sharp enough to cut. “You think that’s what this is!?”

Your stomach twists, but you hold his stare, refusing to back down. “Isn’t it? Every look, every time you hover—you’re just waiting for me to slip. Admit it!”

Dean slams his hand down on the table hard enough that the plates rattle. “Son of a bitch! You don’t get it, do you?” His voice rises, ragged, raw. “I’m not hoverin’ because I think you’re some damn monster in the making. I’m hoverin’ because I—” He cuts himself short, eyes flashing with something hotter than anger. “Because I can’t lose you. Not after everything. Not like this.”

Your chest tightens. His words hit deep, but you’re too wound up, too angry to let them stick. “That’s not fair, Dean. You can’t just—just throw that at me when you’re still lookin’ at me like I’m a freakin’ time bomb!”

Dean steps around the table, closing the distance in three strides. He points at you, his face close now, green eyes blazing. “You think I’m scared of you?” His voice drops into a growl. “I’m scared for you. I’ve seen too many people I care about go down bloody and broken because of this life. And now you’re talkin’ like you’re already halfway gone—like you want me to put you down!”

Your throat works, but the words come anyway, trembling and hot. “Maybe that’s what should happen! Maybe it’d be easier for everyone if you did—”

“Don’t you say that!!” Dean’s roar cuts through the bunker walls, echoing back at you. His hand fists against his thigh like he’s holding himself back from shaking you. “Don’t you ever say that again. You’re not some job, you’re not some monster, and I’m sure as hell not making a funeral pyre for you!”

His voice cracks on the last word, just enough to show the fear behind the fury.

Sam finally steps in, his voice sharp. “Enough! Both of you.” He looks between you, his jaw tight. “This isn’t helping. You’re both angry, you’re both scared—fine. But yelling at each other like this? It’s not the answer.”

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, his chest heaving as he stares down at you. His voice lowers, hoarse but still burning. “You think I’m watchin’ you like a monster? No. I’m watchin’ you because I need to know you’re still here. Still fightin’. And if I have to scream it into your skull every day until you get it, then fine.”

The kitchen is suffocating with his words, the air thick with the echo of his anger.

Then something in you snaps.

“Oh, you don’t get it, Dean! You think you’re the only one who’s lost people? The only one scared out of their damn mind every time they look in the mirror?!” Your voice shakes the walls with the sheer force of it. “I’m the one carrying this, not you. Me! And I don’t need you treating me like I’m made of glass, or like I’m something waiting to blow!”

Dean opens his mouth, but you cut across him, voice sharp as broken glass. “You think you know what’s best for me? You think you can just keep hovering and shouting and pretending it fixes anything? Newsflash, Winchester—you’re not saving me. You’re smothering me!”

The fury claws up your throat so fast you can barely breathe. Then it rips out of you—low, guttural, wrong.

A growl.

Deep, rough, not human.

The sound makes your own blood run cold. Dean’s eyes widen. Sam freezes mid-step, his jaw tightening, his hand halfway toward his knife without even realizing it. For a heartbeat, no one moves.

You stagger back, shock cutting through the haze for just a second. What the hell was that?

The silence is unbearable.

Before either of them can say a word, you bolt. You grab the whiskey bottle from the counter with you and run down the hall, ignoring Dean calling your name.

Your heart hammers as you slam your door shut behind you, twisting the lock hard.

The bunker feels too small, the air too heavy. You pace, gulping down the whiskey straight from the bottle, the burn doing nothing to stop the fire tearing through you. Rage presses against your skin, against your skull, and before you can think—you hurl the bottle across the room.

It shatters against the wall, shards spraying the floor. The sound rings in your ears, feeding the frenzy. You grab the lamp next, smash it to the ground. The chair. The books. The table. The framed photo someone left behind years ago.

Every crash feels like relief for a split second before the anger claws higher. You don’t stop. Not until the room is wreckage, not until your body heaves with ragged breaths and your knuckles sting from hitting the wall too hard.

You stand in the middle of it all, chest heaving, throat raw. Your reflection in the cracked mirror looks back at you—eyes wild, face flushed, shoulders shaking.

Not a monster. Not yet.

But you don’t recognize yourself either.

Chapter Text

Your knuckles drip red, the sting dulled by the pulse of anger still roaring through your veins. Cuts lace your arms where glass bit into you, blood streaking down to your wrists. But you don’t feel pain. Just heat. Just fury.

The pounding on the door is relentless.

“(Y/N)! Open up!” Dean’s voice is rough, panicked. “C’mon, sweetheart, just let me in—let us talk.”

Sam’s voice follows, steadier but tight. “You don’t have to do this. Just open the door. Please.”

You pace in the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes darting between the blood on your hands and the broken room around you. The sound of your own breathing fills your ears.

“Leave me alone!!” you roar back.

Another pause. Then Dean’s voice, harder now, full of steel. “I can’t do that.”

The crash comes sudden—the door splintering, Dean’s boot kicking it open. The brothers spill into the room, weapons drawn on instinct but not aimed. Dean’s eyes lock on you—wild, bloody, trembling—and something in his face crumples.

“Aw hell, son of a b…” he mutters.

You don’t think. You move.

A snarl tears from your throat as you lunge at him, raw strength surging through your muscles. Dean barely gets his arms up before you slam him back against the wall, the impact rattling the shelves. Your fists fly—wild, brutal—connecting with his chest, his ribs. He grunts, fighting to hold you back, but your strength isn’t human. Not anymore.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, rushing forward. He grabs your arm, trying to wrench you off. You twist, hurling him across the room with strength that terrifies even you. Sam crashes into the overturned chair but scrambles back up, eyes wide, knife flashing in his hand.

Dean comes forward and grapples you, trying to pin your arms, but you slam your forehead into his nose. The crack reverberates, and he stumbles, cursing.

“Dammit, she’s strong!” he growls, teeth gritted, wrestling you back.

Sam’s on you again, wrapping an arm around your throat, trying to drag you down in a chokehold. You thrash, kicking back against his shin, slamming an elbow into his ribs until he groans. Dean catches your wrists, fighting to hold them down as you claw and writhe, blood smearing across his flannel.

“Stop! (Y/N), stop!” His voice is hoarse, desperate, but you don’t hear it.

A guttural growl rips out of you, more beast than human, as you twist violently, sending Dean crashing onto the floor. You pounce, straddling him, fists raised—

“ENOUGH!”

Sam’s voice cuts sharp as a blade, and suddenly there’s cold metal pressed to your throat—his silver knife.

You freeze, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping down your face. Sam’s arm locks you tight, knife steady against your skin. His breath is ragged, his eyes wide but resolute.

Dean scrambles up from beneath you, then bolts for the door. You hear him tear down the hall, and a moment later the rattle of heavy, familiar chains echoes as he returns.

Your pulse spikes, panic flooding your veins. You thrash hard, a raw scream ripping out of you—but Sam’s grip is iron. The blade bites just enough to break skin, a hot sting blooming against your flesh.

His breath ghosts warm against your ear as he leans in close, the edge of the knife steady even though his hand trembles. ‘Don’t make me do it,’ he hisses, the plea in his voice trembling beneath the threat.”

Dean’s jaw clenches as he hauls the chains out, his face pale, sick with what he has to do. “Sam—hold her!”

Sam grits his teeth, keeping you pinned, every muscle straining against your unnatural strength. Dean moves fast, looping the cold iron around your wrists, your ankles, snapping the shackles shut with brutal finality.

You buck, thrash, the metal biting into your skin, but it’s no use. The brothers bear down, their combined weight pressing you into the floor until finally—you’re bound.

Breath ragged, muscles trembling, you collapse back against the concrete and broken glass. The growl dies in your throat, leaving only the sound of your heaving chest.

Dean drops the last chain, sitting back on his heels, sweat and blood streaking his face. His eyes are glassy, furious, broken.

Sam slowly lowers the knife but doesn’t step back, his chest rising and falling hard as he stares down at you.

The fight drains out of you all at once. Your chest heaves, your body trembling as the last sparks of that unnatural strength bleed away. The chains are cold, heavy, biting into your wrists and ankles. You lay there on the concrete, shards of broken glass cutting into you, the room—your room—is wreckage. Shattered and overturned furniture, blood smeared across the floor.

And then you see them.

Dean, crouched and panting, his lip split and bruises already rising across his cheekbone and nose. Sam, one hand pressed against his ribs, blood dripping down his temple. Both of them breathing hard, battered, eyes still locked on you like they’re trying to reconcile the person they fought with the one chained at their feet.

Your stomach twists. The rage ebbs, leaving only the cold hollow of horror.

“Kill me.” The words rip out of you raw and broken. “Please. Just do it.”

Dean’s head snaps to you, eyes wide, like you’d stabbed him clean through. “Don’t you—” His voice cracks, fury and grief colliding. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

But you can’t stop. The guilt is poison in your throat. “I—I attacked you. Look at you! Both of you. I can’t… I can’t live like this. I won’t.”

Dean surges up, chains rattling as he grips them, as if he could hold you together by sheer force. “No. You’re not goin’ out like this. I don’t care how bad it gets.”

Sam’s face tightens, his eyes flicking away as if he can’t bear to watch. But together, they haul you out of the wrecked room, chains scraping the floor with each dragged step.

They don’t take you far—just down the hall, into the war room. The map table glows under your chained body as they strap you down into one of the old office chairs, securing your wrists to the arms, your ankles to the legs. The chains rattle as they lock them tight.

You can’t even look at them.

Sam disappears to fetch the med kit. Dean kneels down in front of you, close enough that you can see every bruise you left on him, every scratch across his skin. His hands are rough but careful as he starts cleaning the blood off your arms, disinfectant stinging against the cuts.

“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice low, firm, but threaded with something vulnerable underneath. His eyes catch yours and don’t let go. “Look, nobody said this was gonna be easy, okay? But you can live with this.”

Your throat burns, the words coming out cracked. “It’s no way…”

Dean drops the rag, his palm cupping the back of your head so you can’t look away. “Hey—so you gotta stay locked up a few nights outta the month, fine. The rest of the time? You’re you. That’s what matters.”

Tears sting your eyes, but they’re hot with shame, not relief. “Unless I break out.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe some people can control this, but I can barely keep it together on a good day. So if there’s any chance—any chance—I could hurt you, or Sam, or Cas… or anyone… I’d rather die.”

The silence after is suffocating.

Dean’s jaw tightens, his hand trembling slightly where it grips you. His eyes shine, fierce and wet, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough enough to break.

“Then we’ll make damn sure that never happens. You’re not dyin’, and I’m sure as hell not killin’ you. Not now. Not ever.”

His words hang between you, a vow and a plea all at once.

Chapter Text

The antiseptic burns. The water tastes like nothing. You keep your eyes fixed on anything but him as Dean tips the glass carefully toward your mouth, his hand steady despite the tremor in his jaw. You drink, swallow, but a drop runs down the corner of your mouth.

His thumb brushes it away, gentle. His hand lingers against your skin, his eyes on yours—sad, raw, tired.

You look down at the glowing map table.

Dean exhales hard through his nose, standing stiffly. He grabs the freezer bag Sam had pressed into his hand and slumps down into the chair beside you, body angled toward you. He presses the frozen peas against the bridge of his nose with a wince.

The swelling and blood are obvious. His nose is crooked now, broken. Because of you.

Sam lowers himself carefully onto the end of the table, his free hand bracing as the other stays pressed to his ribs. The bruise there must be blooming ugly under his shirt, but he doesn’t flinch when he meets your eyes.

“You own me a bag of peas by the way,” Sam says quietly. A flicker of the old brotherly humor, but it doesn’t reach his face.

Dean doesn’t even look up. “Yeah, well. Tough.” His voice is sharp, flat. No room for jokes tonight.

The silence stretches. The chains rattle softly when you shift, the sound grating in your ears.

Finally Sam clears his throat, his voice calm, measured—his research voice. “Look. We know you haven’t turned. If you had, your cuts would’ve healed already.” His eyes sweep over your bandaged knuckles, the blood still drying on your skin. “That means Cas was right—the infection’s in you, but it hasn’t taken over. Not yet. It’s fighting, but so are you.”

Dean grinds his jaw, shifting the peas against his nose. Sam keeps going, steady, logical, as if his calm can tether you both.

“So maybe we treat it like any other curse, or infection. Containment. Control. If we can buy time, keep you stable, then maybe Cas finds something concrete. Until then…” He gestures toward the chains. “This works.”

The words cut. You sit there, staring at the iron around your wrists, the weight of it pressing deeper than skin.

Hours bleed together, the glow of the map table steady against the stone walls. The bunker hums in its usual quiet, broken only by the occasional shuffle of Sam or Dean shifting in his chair beside you.

And then the silence breaks.

The sound of wings—loud, low, reverberating. The lights flicker.

Castiel stands at the edge of the room, trench coat settling around him, a book clutched in his hand. His eyes find you first, steady, unreadable. Then he steps forward, laying the book down on the table.

“I found something.”

Dean straightens, the bag of half-melted peas slipping from his broken nose as he lowers it. His eyes sharp with something between sadness and impatience. ‘Finally,’ he mutters, voice rough. “You’re a sight for sore eyes Cas...”

Sam leans forward, eyes sharp despite the pain etched across his face. “What is it?”

Castiel opens the book, its pages yellowed, handwritten notes crammed into the margins. “It is a theory. Blood therapy. Old, largely untested. According to this account… one in nine subjects survived without turning.”

Sam frowns. “Subjects?”

Castiel nod once. “Mice.”

Dean exhales through his mouth, leaning back hard in his chair. “You’re tellin’ me the only shot we got is some half-assed rat experiment?”

Castiel meets his gaze without flinching. “It is… imperfect. But it is the only lead.”

The words hang in the air, heavy as the chains.

Castiel sets the book down by Sam, but for the first time since he appeared, his eyes roam the room. He takes in the traces of blood on the floor, the bruises on Dean’s face, the way Sam presses his ribs, and finally you—chained tight to the office chair, blood still streaking your knuckles.

Dean motioning toward you. “Cas, she lost it. We were just tryin’ to eat, then she snapped. Trashed her room, locked herself in. We had to bust the door down, and—” He cuts a glance at Sam, jaw tightening. “She came at us. Like a damn freight train. Stronger than she should be. No claws, no teeth. Just blind rage.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably on the edge of the table, nodding. “She fought like hell. It wasn’t her. But it wasn’t… fully a wolf, either.”

Castiel’s gaze darkens. He lifts his hand, pressing two fingers lightly against Sam’s forehead. The bruising fades instantly. Sam exhales, relief washing over his face. Then Castiel turns to Dean, who starts to protest but gets healed anyway—the crooked line of his nose straightening, the swelling vanishing.

Finally, his hand hovers over you. “I can—”

“No.” The word is sharp, final. You turn your face away. “They took the hits because of me. I don’t get patched up. I don’t deserve it.”

Dean’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t argue. Not now.

Sam pulls the book closer, flipping through the brittle pages. His voice breaks the silence, calm but heavy. “Okay. It says here the therapy used the blood of sire werewolves. They injected it into rodents that had been infected. Early stage, pre-transformation. Some were cured.”

You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady. “So… it’s never been tested on humans?”

Sam flips another page, his face falling as his eyes scan the lines. “…It was. Once.”

Your pulse stutters. “And?”

Sam closes his eyes briefly, then meets yours. “The subject died. In agony.”

The weight in the room is suffocating. Even Dean stops breathing for a second.

Castiel lowers his gaze. His gravel voice carries the word like a hammer blow. “Sorry.”

Your lips twitch in something that might almost be a laugh, but it breaks with the tears that slip down your cheeks. “Yeah… maybe second time’s a charm?”

Dean’s chair screeches back as he stands, pacing, fury crackling in every movement. “Hey, no. No, no, no. You don’t get a vote in this.”

Your voice comes calm, even as tears streak your face. “It’s my life. I get all the votes.”

Dean stares at you, chest heaving, the fight in him raging against the calm in yours. He swings toward Sam, desperate. “Sam, you wanna back me up here?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, glancing at you, then back at his brother. “…It’s her life, Dean.”

Dean throws his hands up, voice snapping. “Well this is great.. It works, or (Y/N) dies.”

You look at him, eyes steady despite the tears. “Dean… please? I can’t live like this.”

That finally guts him. His face twists, breaking under the weight of it. “…Alright. If we do this, if.. How do we get it done?.”

Sam taps the book with his finger, his tone grave. “We need blood. Live blood. From the werewolf that bit her.”

Castiel nods once. “Good. Great. Who are we looking for?”

The words hang, sharp and final.

The hunt isn’t over. It’s just beginning.

Chapter Text

Your final memory of last night was the four of you around the map table, arguing yourselves in circles about how to find the wolf.

No surveillance footage. No missing person reports. No one stumbling into the ER that night with a knife wound. Nothing to go on except what you keep replaying in your head:

Male. Late twenties. Dark brown hair. Black jeans. Blue t-shirt. Silver to the ribs, then gone.

After hours of them staring at grainy street cam footage, combing through police blotters, you trying to recall details your brain won’t give, the exhaustion feels like it’s sinking into your bones.

And then it hits you.

You move forward sharply, rattling the chains around your wrists. “Take me back to Lebanon City Park.”

Dean looks up from the laptop instantly, eyes narrowing. “What?”

You meet his stare head-on. “The werewolf wanted to turn me. Not kill me. He’ll come for me again. He’ll smell me the second I’m there.”

Sam stiffens, voice low. “You’re suggesting we use you as bait?”

You nod once, resolute. “Yeah.. Because it’s the only way this works. You’ll never find him digging through surveillance footage or chasing shadows. But me? He’ll find.”

Dean looks at you with a hard stare. “Hell no! You’re not walkin’ back into that park with a neon sign that says ‘free chew toy’ plastered on your forehead.”

“Dean—”

“No!” His voice cracks, harsh and raw. “You barely survived the first time. I’m not lettin’ you walk in there again. Not as bait, not as anything.”

Your own voice rises, matching his. “And what’s your plan, then? Sit here until the infection gets a hold and turns me?!”

The room goes silent, your words hanging heavy.

Sam presses his palms together, his face tight. “She’s not wrong, Dean. He’ll come for her. It’s what they do. And if he’s the sire, he’ll—”

Dean cuts him off with a glare. “Don’t. Don’t you even say it.”

Your chest heaves, anger boiling again. “You think I don’t know the risk? I don’t have time to wait while you two play it safe. We want his blood? Then you need me.”

The three of you start again, voices overlapping—Dean furious, Sam trying to reason, and you retorting back, your voices colliding in a storm that fills the room.

From the end of the table, Castiel rises. His coat whispers against his legs as he steps toward you. His expression is as unreadable as ever, but there’s a finality in his eyes that chills you.

“Cas—” Dean snaps, seeing the movement. “Don’t—”

Two fingers press against your forehead.

The world drops out from under you.

Your body goes limp, slumping against the chair. Darkness swallows the room, the argument, and the voices fade into nothing.

Waking feels slow. But now, though, there’s no shouting, no weight of argument in the air. Just quiet. Blessed, heavy quiet.

You blink, taking in the room. Not your wrecked one. Not the war room either. This is a different bedroom. You’re propped up with pillows, a blanket tucked around you. No chains this time—just cuffs, looped loose around your wrists as a precaution.

And the cuts. The bruises. Gone. The dull ache in your body is replaced by something warm, steady. You don’t need to ask who did it. Castiel must’ve healed you while you were out. If your plan to use yourself as bait is going to work, you’d have asked anyway, so you’re grateful he did.

At the end of the bed, Dean sits hunched over a book, the light from the lamp pooling across his blue flannel. He’s so lost in it he hasn’t even noticed you’ve stirred.

For a second you just watch him, the familiar curve of his jaw, the bruises that are no longer there, the way his thumb runs over the corner of the page while he reads. He shouldn’t be here, not after what you did to him. Even this close to him, you miss him. 

“Dean,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

His head jerks up, eyes meeting yours instantly. He starts to say something, but you cut him off, the words spilling out fast, raw.

“I’m sorry for the way I’ve been. For snapping at you. For pushing you away. For the things I said. For—” Your throat closes, tears prickling hot. “God, I attacked you. I nearly—I hurt you both. And all this time you’ve been trying to help me and I’ve just been… I’ve been ruining it. Ruining us.”

Dean doesn’t speak right away. He closes the book slowly, sets it aside on the nightstand, and leans forward. His eyes don’t leave yours, steady even as your voice shakes.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, rough, but certain.
“Family isn’t just there when it’s easy sweetheart. Family’s there through the good, the bad—all of it. We’ve got your back, even when it hurts. Especially then.”

Your chest tightens, the tears breaking free. You turn your face away, ashamed to let him see, but Dean shifts forward, kneeling beside the bed. His hand hovers near yours, not quite touching, waiting.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, softer now. “Scared the crap outta us, yeah. Hurt like hell? Definitely. But you’re still here. That’s what matters.”

For the first time in weeks, something cracks inside you—not anger, not fear, just the smallest flicker of relief.

You slip your fingers into his, grip tight like it’s the only steady thing left in your world. His palm is warm, rough, grounding.

You swallow, heart hammering. “I keep thinking about that time. In your bed.”

Dean blinks, caught off guard. His mouth opens, closes. You keep going before you lose your nerve.

“When we kissed. When we… y’know.” A faint laugh slips out despite the heat in your cheeks. “Right before Sam walked in and ruined it.”

Dean huffs out a laugh too, shaking his head. “Yeah. Hell of a wake-up call.”

You smile faintly, then let the truth out in a breath “That night and morning... I’ve replayed it in my head more times than I can count. Every time I shoved you away these last weeks, it wasn’t because I didn’t want you close. It’s because I do. Too much. I’m scared of what’s happening to me. Scared of what I might do. But I—” Your breath shakes. “Dean, I have feelings for you. "I've always had.”

For once, Dean Winchester is stunned into silence. His eyes lock on yours, wide, caught between awe and something deeper. He doesn’t let go of your hand, but he doesn’t say anything either—not right away.

The quiet stretches, threatening to tip into awkwardness. You rush to fill it, your voice cracking. “So, uh… what happened after Cas put me under?”

Dean exhales before moving closer to you. “Well, after our angelic babysitter hit you with the off-switch…” He lets out a little chuckle of his own joke. “Cas said he did it ‘cause all we were doin’ was yellin’ at each other.” His jaw flexes. “Sam and Cas… they finally talked me ‘round to your plan. Taking you back to the park. Didn’t like it then. Don’t like it now. But you were right. It’s the only shot we’ve got.”

Your pulse stutters. “So… we’re doing it?”

Dean’s eyes flick down, then back to yours as he nods. “Yeah. Cas healed you before I unchained you. And then…” His voice drops, softer. “…I carried you here. Didn’t wanna leave you alone, not after everything. So I stayed.”

The admission lingers in the room, quiet but weighty. His thumb rubs slowly over yours, steady, like he needs you to feel it.

He sat with you. He didn’t leave.

Dean’s thumb keeps brushing the back of your hand, absent, like he’s thinking about something. His jaw works, eyes fixed on the floor, the silence stretching again.

Then he exhales, sharp through his nose, like he’s bracing himself for something.

“Y’know… I’m not good with this.” His voice is low, gravelly. “Feelings. Talking about ‘em. Never have been.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t say anything, afraid to break the fragile moment.

Dean finally looks up at you, green eyes steady, raw in a way you’ve hardly ever seen them before. “But… I wanna tell you. You’re not the only one who’s been replaying those moments. I can’t get it outta my head either.”

He huffs a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Hell, I’ve been tryin’ to tell myself to back off. That you don’t need me pushin’ when you’re already fightin’ like this. But it don’t matter. I still… I still want you. More than I should.”

Your chest burns, tears pricking your eyes. “Dean…”

He cuts you off, his voice firm but unsteady. “Don’t get me wrong, this whole situation scares the crap outta me. I don’t know what’s gonna happen with this blood therapy, with you, or any of it. But I know one thing: I’m not walkin’ away. Not from you.”

The room feels still, wrapped in a quiet that’s gentle, almost intimate. His words settle between you, heavy yet reassuring.

“Family’s messy. Always has been. But you’re part of it now.” He swallows hard. “I care about you.”

For once, Dean isn’t hiding behind sarcasm, or anger, or the walls he builds like armor. He’s just here. Honest. Raw.

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you whisper back, barely holding yourself together. “I care about you too.”

You lift your other hand instinctively, wanting nothing more than to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palm again. The cuffs clink softly, holding you back. The reminder hits hard, guilt flooding your chest.

Your voice breaks as you whisper, “Maybe you should leave. You know I’m awake now. I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

Before the words even finish, Dean’s moving. He’s up and onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arms slide around you, pulling your body against his like he’s daring you to argue. His chest is solid, steady, and warm against your back.

“Nope,” he mutters, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “You don’t get to kick me out this time. We’re way past that now.”

Your heart lurches. Fear spikes sharp in your chest. “Dean, what if I—”

“You won’t.” His voice is firm, unwavering. “I’m right here. Whatever happens, I’m not lettin’ you face it alone. Got it?”

Slowly, cautiously, you tilt your face up to him. His eyes are right there, fierce and soft all at once, his hand brushing carefully over your hair.

You lean in. He doesn’t pull away.

The kiss is soft this time—no fire, no urgency, just a gentle press of lips that carries everything words can’t. A promise. A tether. A quiet vow in the middle of chaos.

Dean’s hand cups the side of your head, thumb brushing your cheek as he lingers just a breath away after. His voice is low, husky, but steady.

“You’re stuck with me now. No take-backs.”

For the first time in weeks, the storm inside you stills completely.

Chapter Text

He keeps finding your mouth again, over and over, each kiss soft and slow, unhurried—until you’re both left breathless, still pressed close. Neither of you pulls away. Instead, you stay there, sharing the same air, the same warmth.

Your arms ache against the cuffs, the cold metal biting into your skin, but you both know they need to stay on. “Gotta say, sweetheart… you wear cuffs a hell of a lot better than most.” The joke earns him a chuckle from you as he adjusts. Pulling you in tighter, cradling your head against his chest like you belong there. 

“You tired?” he murmurs after a while, voice low and rough, the vibrations rumbling through his ribs. His fingers comb gently through your hair. “Close your eyes sweetheart. I'll be here...”

He senses your hesitation and tips his chin down, his lips brushing your hair. “Even if somethin’ happens, I’ll hold you. I’ll take it all if I have to. But you—” His hand squeezes around yours. “You’re safe. Right here.”

The chains rattle softly as you shift just enough to curl against him, the metal biting but the comfort stronger. Dean’s thumb traces absent circles over your skin, steady, grounding.

Your breath slows, your body surrendering despite the weight pressing on tomorrow.

Dean stays awake, you can tell—the faint rise of his chest beneath you, the way his muscles stay taut even as his hand keeps moving. But he doesn’t move you. Doesn’t let go.

Your last thought before sleep takes you is simple, sharp, and terrifying:

Please. Let me have this. Just a little longer.

And then tiredness pulls you under again, safe in Dean’s arms, cuffs and all.

DEAN’S POV

Her breathing evens against his chest, slow and steady. Dean stares up at the ceiling, jaw tight, his thumb absently stroking circles on her arm.

“You don’t deserve this,” he mutters under his breath. Too low for her to hear, but loud enough that it cuts through the bunker’s stillness.

His chest aches, the weight pressing in from all sides. He’s seen a lot—too much. Watched friends and family die, people he couldn’t save. And now her, stuck between being human and… not. Fighting like hell, and still blaming herself for everything.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He can still feel the sting of her fists,the sharp crack of bone against his nose, the look on her face when she realized what she’d done. The way she begged him to kill her.

“Not happenin’,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Not you. Not like this.” A single tear runs down his cheek.

He shifts, pulling her closer, careful not to wake her. She murmur something in her sleep, a soft sound that digs straight into his chest.

Dean swallows hard, words spilling out before he can stop them.
“Truth is I’m scared shitless Y/N… Of losin’ you. Of watchin’ you turn into somethin’ you’d hate. And I don’t know if we can stop it.”

His hand finds hers again, fingers lacing through even with the cuff biting into her wrist. He stares at the connection, the contrast of his rough skin against hers.

“I like you, more than I should,” he admits in a rasp. “Hell, probably more than’s safe for either of us. But I’m not walkin’ away.”

The lamp hums softly. The bunker is still.

Dean stays awake, eyes on the shadows creeping across the stone ceiling, every sense tuned to her—the warmth of her body, the rhythm of her breath, the weight of her trust.

Because if the wolf in her stirs again… he’s going to be the one here to stop it.

Or die trying.

Reader’s POV

The first thing you notice is the warmth behind you. Solid, steady.

Dean.

You blink awake slowly, disoriented. Your body aches, not from wounds but from exhaustion so deep it feels bone-deep. Whatever’s inside you—it’s draining you. Taking everything it can.

You shift slightly, the cuffs rattling faintly against each other. Dean stirs behind you, the arm he’s draped across your waist tightening instinctively, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

When you roll just enough to look at him, you see the dark circles under his eyes. He looks rough—like he’s been awake most of the night, maybe all of it.

“Dean,” you whisper, guilt curling in your chest. “You didn’t sleep?”

He blinks at you, then smirks faintly, his voice gravelly from hours of silence. “Sure I did. Just, y’know… with my eyes open. And upright. Watching the ceiling.”

You give him a look, not buying it. “I’m serious. You look like hell.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, stretching with a wince before propping himself up more. “Takes one to know one, sweetheart. You’ve been out cold. Snored a little too, if you wanna know the truth.”

You groan, hiding your face in his chest. “Great. Add snoring to the list of things I should worry about.”

But Dean shakes his head. With a careful touch under your chin, he guides your gaze back up to him. His smile is small but real. “Hey. Don’t. You needed it. Body’s workin’ overtime, no surprise you’re wiped.”

You study him a moment longer, your chest tightening with the guilt anyway. He should’ve left. He should’ve rested. But of course, he didn’t.

“You should’ve slept,” you murmur.

Dean shrugs it off, leaning back more on the bedframe with that casual tilt only he can pull off. “Sleep’s overrated. Besides, breakfast sounds way better.” He glances down at you with a crooked grin. “Whaddaya say? Eggs, bacon, maybe some of those sad bunker pancakes that come out lookin’ like hockey pucks?”

Despite everything—the cuffs, the exhaustion, the wolf still waiting for you out there—you can’t help it. You laugh. Soft, weak, but real.

“Only if you’re cooking,” you say.

Dean’s grin widens, smug and easy. “Sweetheart, I’ll always cook for you. Meat man, remember?”

Breakfast smells like coffee and bacon grease by the time Dean pulls a plate in front of you. He makes a point of cutting everything up for you, since the cuffs are still looped around your wrists. He doesn’t say anything about it, just does it with that same quiet stubbornness that says don’t argue, just eat.

You give him a side-eye anyway. “You know I can cut my own food.”

Dean smirks, dropping a fork into the plate. “Sure. If you wanna add ‘stabbed myself with cutlery’ to your highlight reel.”

You roll your eyes, but the bite of bacon tastes like the best thing you’ve had in weeks.

Sam comes in next, hair still damp from the shower, a file of papers tucked under his arm. He drops into his seat with a coffee in hand, accepting a plate from Dean. His eyes are clearer now, sharper with the bruises fading.

A moment later Castiel enters, his brows lifting at the sight of Dean at the stove. Sliding into the chair next to Sam across from you, he remarks dryly, ‘I didn’t know Dean was… domesticated.’ Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, laughter spilling out, while Dean’s brows knit together in an exaggerated look of wounded pride.

For a moment, it almost feels normal—just the four of you sharing a meal, trading easy words and light banter like any ordinary family.

Sam finishes his plate and clears his throat, laying the file flat on the table. “Alright. We need to talk about the plan.”

Dean’s easy smile slips. “Figures.”

Sam flips the folder open, papers and a rough map spread across the table. He taps the center. “This is where you were attacked—near the playground. It’s open ground. If we want him to show himself, that’s where you’ll have to be.”

Your stomach twists, but you nod. “That’s the plan. He wanted me before. He’ll want me again.”

Dean stiffens, shifting in his seat. “Yeah, and while you’re out there, with a target squarely on your back, we’ll be spread out here, here, and here.” He points at three points around the park. “Sam takes the north path, I’ll cover the lot, and Cas—” he shoots him a look “—you hang back by the trees. Between the three of us, he won’t get near you without one of us being closeby.”

Sam adds, “As soon as he shows, we hit him fast. Silver to the heart. Then we draw his blood—several samples, just to be sure.”

You frown, chewing the inside of your cheek. “And if he’s not the sire?”

“Then we keep hunting,” Sam says quietly. “But if he is… this is our best shot.”

The silence after stretches, heavy. Your pulse is pounding just thinking about it.

Castiel tilts his head, voice even. “The plan is sound. As Dean often says, it will be a… milk run.”

Dean snaps his gaze to him, brows lifting. “Cas, that’s not—you don’t just—” He cuts himself off with a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

Despite the dread tightening in your chest, you laugh. Just a little. Enough to remind yourself you’re still here.

The war room table is littered with gear by the time Sam finishes double-checking the map and stepping out to pack the trunk of the Impala. Silver knives, extra silver rounds, syringes wrapped neatly in a medical pouch. Castiel stands by the shelves, flipping through some books again as if a better plan might suddenly rearrange in one of them.

You’re at the table, cuffs gone now but under a watchful eye, sorting through the weapons Dean laid out. He hovers close—leaning on the table beside you, eyes flicking down every time you so much as reach for a blade.

“Dean,” you mutter, pulling one of the knives closer to inspect it. “You’re hovering.”

“Damn right I am,” he shoots back without missing a beat. “Last time I took my eyes off you, you turned your room into a demolition derby and broke my nose. So yeah, you’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly hands-off right now.”

You bite back the sting of guilt, focusing on the silver knife in front of you. “I’m fine. I will be fine. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Dean shifts closer, leaning in until his shoulder brushes yours. His voice drops, rough but low. “Yeah, I do. ‘Cause I’m not buying your half-baked ‘I’m fine’ answer.”

Your throat tightens, but you keep your eyes on the blade. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

Castiel looks up from his book, his tone flat but cutting through. “He does have a point. You are both… stubborn.”

You groan, setting the knife down with a little too much force. “Great. Cas… Not helping!”

Dean chuckles at that, the sound warm despite everything. He reaches out, fingers brushing the back of your hand—just enough to anchor you, to remind you he’s there. His voice softens, quieter, meant just for you. “Look… I get why you’re nervous. Hell, I’d be too. But tonight? We’ve got you. All three of us. You just gotta trust us.”

Your heart thuds hard in your chest. You turn your hand under his, grip him just tight enough to let him know you do.

Sam reappears at the doorway, car keys in hand. “We’re all set. As soon as it’s dark, we head out.”

Dean squeezes your hand once before pulling away, but his eyes linger on yours. A silent promise.

Baby rumbles low beneath you as Dean steers her out of the bunker garage, headlights cutting through the dark evening. The familiar hum of the engine fills the silence, a steady heartbeat that does little to ease the weight in your chest.

Sam sits shotgun, flipping absently through the folder again even though you know there’s nothing in it he hasn’t already memorized. His brow furrows in concentration, but you catch the way his jaw tightens—he’s worried.

Castiel is in the back with you, silent as stone, his trench coat folded neatly around him. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t do much of anything except watch the world pass outside the window. Every once in a while his gaze flicks to you, sharp and unreadable, before drifting back.

And then there’s Dean. One hand tight on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh in a rhythm you recognize instantly: nervous energy. He hasn’t spoken much since pulling out of the garage, and neither has anyone else.

The silence hangs heavier than the night air. No chatter, no soundtrack. Just the deep, familiar growl of Baby carrying you forward.

You shift slightly, cuffs long gone but the memory of them still fresh, itching against your skin. Dean notices immediately. His eyes flick toward you in the rearview mirror, green catching yours for a beat before he looks back to the road.

“You good back there?” His voice is steady, but there’s a roughness under it. Like he already knows the answer.

You let out a slow breath. “Define ‘good.’”

That earns you the faintest quirk of his mouth, just for a second, before it’s gone again.

Sam clears his throat. “We stick to the plan. (Y/N) walks the open ground near the playground. As soon as the wolf shows himself, we close in fast.”

Castiel finally speaks, his gravel voice cutting through the hum of the engine. “The wolf will come. It is drawn to unfinished business. To her.”

Your stomach knots. You cross your arms tight, more to keep yourself from shaking than anything else.

Dean glances back at you again through the mirror, his jaw flexing. “He shows, he’s done. End of story.”

The words are solid, fierce, but you can hear the edge underneath—the part of him that knows this might not be that simple.

The rest of the ride passes in that heavy quiet, each of you wound tight, the Impala carrying you closer and closer to the park where it all started.

Closer to answers. Closer to the blood you need.

Baby rolls to a stop just shy of the gravel lot that borders Lebanon City Park.In the moonlight, the place looks almost peaceful. The playground’s faint outline cast in shadow against the trees. But your chest knows better—it’s not peaceful. It’s waiting.

Dean kills the engine, the familiar rumble cutting off, leaving a silence that feels sharper than the night air.

“Alright,” he says, voice tight. “Sam, you take the north path. Cas, treeline. We all keep our eyes peeled. No one jumps until he shows.”

Sam nods, grabbing the gear bag and slipping out without a word. Castiel follows, disappearing into the dark with nothing more than the whisper of footsteps.

You push the Impala door open, boots crunching against gravel as you step out. The night feels cold against your skin, each breath sharp in your lungs. You’re barely two steps away when Dean’s hand closes around your wrist.

“Wait.”

He pulls you back, turning you until you collide lightly with his chest, your back pressing up against the car. His hands move up to your waist. The shadows play across his face and his eyes—fierce, unrelenting—pin you in place.

“This isn’t a normal hunt,” he says, voice low, gravel roughened by something deeper. “You don’t get careless. You don’t play the hero. You keep walkin’, you keep breathin’, and you let us handle the rest. Got it?”

Your throat tightens. You nod, but the fear in your chest must bleed through because his jaw works, teeth gritting like he’s trying to hold something back.

And then he doesn’t hold it back at all.

Dean hauls you in, his mouth crushing against yours. It’s not soft this time—it’s desperate, fierce, like it might be the last chance he gets. His hands cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he kisses you hard enough to leave you breathless.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath hot, eyes burning. “Come back to me. No excuses.”

Your voice breaks as you whisper, “I will.”

For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just this: his hands, his kiss, his voice, his presence.

Then he lets you go with one last glance that says everything words can’t.

Time to walk into the dark.

Chapter Text

The park is eerily quiet. Too quiet. Not even the rustle of a late jogger or the distant hum of cars. Just you, the crunch of your boots on the gravel path, and the squeak of the empty swings as the wind stirs them.

You force yourself forward, every step loud in your ears. Your pulse hammers in your throat, your palms damp. You keep your breathing steady, your shoulders loose, though every nerve screams at you to turn back.

You stop near the tree by the playground—the same spot, the same night air biting your skin. This is where it happened. Where you bled. Where he should smell you a mile away.

You whisper, almost to yourself: “Alright... Come find me.”

Dean’s POV

He crouches low beside a row of cars at the edge of the lot, shotgun steady in his grip. His eyes never leave you, every step you take pulling something taut inside his chest. He hates this—hates it—but he doesn’t let the barrel waver.

“Milk run my ass,” he mutters under his breath, adjusting his line of sight.

Through the comms in his ear, Sam’s voice filters quiet. “North path clear.”

Dean exhales slow, teeth gritted. “Stay sharp. Any movement, you call it.”

Sam’s POV

Sam presses into the shadow of a tree, holding his post at the end of the path, pistol drawn, eyes scanning the shadows. His breathing is calm, his pulse steady—years of hunts honing him into control.

But when his gaze drifts toward the clearing, catching sight of you standing there, alone, his jaw tightens. He doesn’t like it any more than Dean does.

He lowers his voice into the comm. “We don’t get sloppy. He shows, we take him fast.”

Castiel’s POV

Castiel lingers by the treeline, silent, his eyes looking towards you. Even with your agreement, the weight of using you as bait sits heavy on him, guilt etched in the stillness of his frame. His blade gleams faintly in the moonlight. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t blink as he watches.

Through the bond only angels carry, he can feel it—the pull of something unnatural creeping closer, carried on the wind.

He tilts his head slightly, voice steady in the comm. “He’s coming.”

Your POV

The air changes. You feel it before you hear anything—pressure, heavy, like the night itself holds its breath. Your skin prickles. Your hands ball into fists.

Then—snap. A twig breaks somewhere in the dark.

Your heart lurches.

You know he’s here.

The silence presses hard, thick enough you almost choke on it. Every hair on your arms stands on end. Your eyes sweep the area again and again, searching for a shadow.

You whisper, low, almost without breath: “I… I can’t see him...”

Dean’s POV

He sees it first. Movement—too fast, too fluid, just inside the trees across from Castiel. A dark blur. His breath hitches, grip tightening on the shotgun, body leaning forward like he might sprint out there right now.

But he doesn’t. He waits, every muscle clenched so hard it aches.

“Got eyes,” he mutters into the comm, voice low. “East side. He’s circling."

Sam’s POV

Sam shifts against the tree, gun rising. He catches the shape just as it flickers across his line of sight—a shadow sliding behind the benches. Quick. Silent.

His finger curls tighter against the trigger. “Visual confirmed,” he says into the comm. His eyes flick toward you in the clearing. “(Y/N), stay sharp. He’s testing the ground.”

Castiel’s POV

Castiel doesn’t flinch. His gaze locks toward the trees, his blade steady at his side.

“He is measuring you,” he says evenly, voice crackling through the comm. “Predators study their prey before the strike.”

Dean’s voice softens, unwavering: “You’re not alone (Y/N)—we’re right here with you.”

Your POV

You swallow hard, forcing your chin high, even as your hands tremble. You hear it now—the faint crunch of leaves, closer, slower, like he’s savoring every second of the stalk.

The blur passes between the trees again, closer this time. Your breath shudders out, but you don’t move. You stand your ground, heart beating so loud you know he can hear it.

Then—your name.

A whisper, rough, almost human, drifting from the dark.

“(Y/N)…”

Your blood goes cold.

Your breath hitches at the sound of your name, the way it slips out of the dark like smoke. It isn’t the low growl of a beast, but a voice. A man’s. Rough, close enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck.

Your eyes sweep the treeline, but there’s nothing—just shadows stretching long under the pale wash of moonlight.

Another step. Leaves crunch. Closer.

“(Y/N)…” The voice is thicker this time, almost hungry. “I knew you’d come back.”

Your pulse slams against your ribs. He’s circling you. You can’t see him, but every instinct screams he’s there, sliding between the trees, watching.

You force your hands loose at your sides, even as they shake. You want to spit something back, something sharp, but your throat won’t work—your body frozen between fear and defiance.

The playground creaks with the night breeze, metal chains groaning, every sound magnified. The weight of the darkness presses tighter, heavier, until it feels like the world itself is holding its breath.

A flicker in the corner of your eye. Movement.

Then his voice again, right at your back now—close enough that your skin crawls.

“Don’t fight it. You’re already mine.”

Your heart stutters hard in your chest, adrenaline flooding, legs itching to run even as you stand your ground. You know he’s about to show himself.

Any second now.

The air splits as he finally steps out of the shadows.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair plastered against his forehead. His eyes glint yellow in the dark, feral, hungry, locked on you.

“As soon as I saw you,” he says, his voice smooth, almost coaxing, “I knew you were just like me. Alone.”

Your chest tightens, fear burning like acid—but the words spark anger too. You straighten, chin lifting. “Wrong... I have a family. And they love me.”

He smiles, a twisted curl of his lip. “I know you’re not here alone. I’ve smelled them. But family?” His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “Family don’t leave you out here alone as bait.”

Your stomach clenches, but you force the words out anyway, strong, steady. “It was my choice.”

The smile drops as he lunges and the night shatters into chaos.

“NOW!” The command bursts over the comms—and in the next instant you see Sam, Dean, and Castiel breaking cover, sprinting toward you. A silver bullet cracks through the air, slamming into the wolf’s shoulder. He snarls, staggering, but doesn’t go down. Instead he whirls, faster than you can follow, ripping the gun from Sam’s hand and sending him and Dean sprawling with a backhand that rattles your bones just to watch. The shot only made him angrier.

Then… fire.

It roars up in your veins, hot and blinding. Your vision burns yellow. Muscles seize, then expand, bones stretching, skin crawling like it’s alive. Your breath tears from you in ragged gasps, and then in growls—low, guttural, not human.

You hit the ground, claws of rage tearing through every thought. But you fight. God, you fight. Every shred of you scrabbling to stay in control, to hold the line.

The guy smiles.

You scream—half pain, half terror—as you throw yourself at him. The two of you crash to the ground, thrashing, teeth and fists and claws. You don’t even know where the blood is coming from—his, yours, everywhere. Castiel appears, silverblade flashing, driving it deep into his chest while you pin him down. Together, you tear him apart.

It’s gory. It’s brutal. It’s not human.

And when it’s over, when the guy lies dead and broken in the dirt, you’re left there—panting, trembling, covered in blood that isn’t all his.

You twist and thrash on the ground, every nerve screaming. The infection is alive inside you, fighting for dominance. You scream, voice shredded, fear pouring out raw.

“(Y/N…Y/N)!” Dean’s voice. Sharp. Panicked. Desperate.

You snap your head toward him and he sees your eyes burn yellow.

A warning growl rips from your throat. It’s low, feral, a sound that doesn’t belong in your body.

Dean freezes. His shotgun lowers just a fraction, his eyes wide—shocked, scared.

For the first time, you see it written clear on his face. He doesn’t know if you’re still in there.

The hunger gnaws at you now, drowning everything else out. Castiel and Dean’s faces, Sam’s voice—it’s all warped, blurred by instinct. All you see is prey. Food. Heat and blood just beneath their skin.

You rise slowly, every muscle thrumming with feral strength. A growl vibrates out of you, low, constant, like your body has forgotten how to breathe without it.

Dean lifts his hands out towards you, his voice rough but steady. “Woah, woah, woah…”

You sprint forward, lips curling back. He sidesteps quick, faster than you expect, and suddenly you’re spun, momentum driving you into Sam’s grip. His arms clamp around you tight, holding as you thrash like wildfire.

Dean doesn’t waste the second. He snatches up his gun, the butt of it swinging hard. Pain bursts white across your skull, and you drop limp against Sam, then down to the ground. Dean’s voice cuts through, ragged. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

The world wavers, dark, your ears ringing. Dimly, you register the sound of Castiel and Sam working fast—syringes clinking, blood being drawn from the dead werewolf. The scent of it burns your nose, sharp and metallic, making your hunger flare hot again.

You jolt back to full awareness with a snap, your head spinning. A hiss tears from your throat as you lick your lips, your gaze locking on Dean. His pulse, his heat—you can feel it. The growl doesn’t stop this time, it just builds.

“(Y/N), it’s us. You know us!” Sam’s voice is frantic, desperate.

But you can’t. The wolf in you won’t let you.

Dean’s jaw clenches. “That thing ready yet!?”

Castiel’s voice cuts flat, sure. “It’s ready.” He passes the syringe into Dean’s hand.

Dean stares at it like it might shatter him. His grip around it tightens. “She wanted this, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Sam says firmly, without hesitation. “She wanted this.”

Your gaze snaps to Sam again, his heartbeat thunder in your ears. You lunge, claws and teeth bared.

And that’s when it hits.

Dean’s hand slams the needle into your back, driving the potion-laced blood straight into your spine.

The scream that rips out of you isn’t human. It tears from your chest raw, splitting between a growl and a howl and a cry of agony. Fire explodes in your veins, burning hotter than the infection ever did. Your body seizes, convulsing, every nerve screaming as you collapse hard to your knees.

You thrash, spasms wracking you until you can’t hold yourself upright. The ground is cold beneath your palms as your vision fractures, yellow bleeding back into dark.

The last thing you hear is Dean’s voice, ragged, desperate, cutting through the storm:

“Stay with us, sweetheart. Hey! Stay with me!”

And then the world cuts out.

Chapter Text

The world is jagged when you claw your way half-awake.

Pain sears through every nerve, relentless, shoving you up against the edge of consciousness and shoving you right back down. Your body jerks, muscles convulsing so violently the mattress creaks under you. You can’t control it. You can’t stop it.

Through the blur, you see shapes. Items you know.

Guns and knives mounted neatly on the wall. The record player sitting on its dresser. Dean’s room. They’ve brought you back to the bunker. 

And Dean—he’s right there.

Dean sits backwards on a chair by the bed, arms crossed firmly over the backrest. His shoulders hunch, like the weight of the world’s been dropped on him all over again. His eyes dark, ringed… locked on you.

You try to speak, but your throat only drags out a broken sound, more pain than words. Your breathing is ragged, sharp, fast. Still, you meet his gaze. Green eyes steadying yours.

Further back, you see Sam. He sits hunched in a chair near the wall, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His face—sorrow. Helplessness. He won’t look at you, not directly, not while you’re like this. His gaze flicks instead to Castiel, silent and still in the doorway, trench coat shadowing his frame. Sam drags his hands down his face, biting his lip hard. It kills him. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders.

Then the convulsions spike again. Your back arches off the mattress, your own hands clawing at your skin. Each breath tears out of you with a sound mixed of a growl and a scream of pain before your body betrays you. Your lids slam shut against the wave of pain.

Dean shoves back from the chair so suddenly it scrapes hard across the floor. He stands stiff, chest heaving. His voice comes low. “I’m gonna get some air.”

He doesn’t wait for Sam’s answer. He just leaves, boots heavy against the hall, the sound disappearing into the bunker.

You can’t open your eyes anymore. You can barely breathe. Each inhale is like glass in your lungs, each exhale a whimper you can’t hold back. The air won’t come—you can’t breathe. Images flicker through the dark: Sam’s steady presence and puppy dog eyes, Castiel’s quiet and safe watch, Dean’s relentless grin. The hunts you survived together, the late nights trading stories over beers and takeout. Then Dean—his bed, his mouth on yours, his hands cupping your face. His kiss stealing your breath one last time.

Suddenly, the weight eases, and you can breathe again—deep and clean.

Your surroundings aren't the bunker anymore.

You’re somewhere else, alone—warmth against your skin, soft wind against your face. Sand between your toes. Sun blazing down, golden and alive, kissing your shoulders with light you haven’t felt in years.

A beach.

You blink down at yourself—whole. No cuts or bruises, no blood, no wolf scratching inside your head. Just you.

And then—

“(Y/N)!”

You whip your head up. The voice is familiar. Too familiar.

Your breath stutters as you see her. Standing just down the beach, smiling through tears. Your grandma.

Your knees almost buckle as you stand up. She’s been gone for over 11 years. Buried. You remember the funeral, the ache that never left.

But she’s here now.

“Grandma…” Your voice breaks.

You stumble forward, then run. Your body collides with hers, her arms wrapping tight around you, warm, real. The sobs tear out of you as you cling to her, burying your face in her shoulder.

“I missed you so much,” you choke out.

Her hand smooths down your back, her voice soft and sure. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Dean leans against the cool stone of the bunker hallway, head bowed. Your screams cut sharp through the heavy door behind him, muffled but still piercing. Each one tears at him, raw and jagged. He drags a hand down his face, but it doesn’t hide the pain.

The sound stops him cold—your voice breaking, clawing, not even words anymore. Just agony.

Dean’s chest heaves, his eyes burning. He can’t stand it. He can’t listen and he can’t walk away. Stuck. Breaking.

Castiel steps into the hallway, his expression unreadable as always, but his head tilts at the sight of Dean’s slumped frame.

“Dean?”

Dean looks up, his face wrecked—eyes glassy, jaw tight with grief and rage he won’t let spill. He shakes his head once, words breaking out in a rough whisper.

“It’s not right, Cas. You know, it’s just… It’s not…” His voice hitches, the sentence crumbling under the weight in his chest.

Castiel watches him for a long beat, then steps closer, his voice calm but firm. “What? It’s not fair? I know that.” His gaze flicks toward the door, then back. “But she needs you.”

Dean drags a hand over his mouth, his shoulders hunched. “I’m standin’ out here while she’s in there—screaming, tearing herself apart. And I can’t stop it. Can’t fix it. She’s in there dying, Cas. And I’m…” His voice breaks. “I’m just standing here.”

Castiel tilts his head again, eyes narrowing slightly. “She will feel your presence and it will matter.”

Dean shakes his head, looking away, blinking hard. “I don’t know if I can watch her slip away like this.”

Castiel steps closer, his voice dropping low, insistent. “Then don’t watch. Stay. Hold her hand. That is what she needs from you—not miracles. Not answers. Just you.”

Dean closes his eyes, breath sharp, jaw locked like it’s the only thing keeping him from shattering.

Through the door, another muffled cry tears out of you.

And Dean breaks. He shoves away from the wall, his boots heavy as he turns back toward the room. His hand curls around the doorframe, steadying himself.

Dean steps back into the room like every ounce of strength it takes might split him in two. His boots drag across the concrete, his eyes locked on you where you lie on his bed.

The screams are gone. The thrashing too.

You’re still now. Too still.

Dean drops to his knees beside you, his breath ragged, tears already breaking free before he can bite them down. His hand finds yours—warm, but limp—and he presses it to his lips, kissing the skin with a desperation that feels like it could break him in half.

“(Y/N)?” His voice is soft, choked, barely a whisper. “Sweetheart?”

Nothing.

You look peaceful, almost like you’re just sleeping, but the rise and fall of your chest is gone. Your body doesn’t fight anymore.

Dean shakes his head slowly, disbelief clawing into him.

Sam’s voice cracks the silence, low and hollow. “She’s gone.” He sits hunched forward in the chair, his big frame collapsed in on itself, his face buried in his hands. His words shake. “She’s… she’s gone.”

Dean’s throat closes, but he forces the words out, anger and grief slamming together. “Cas. Bring her back.” His grip on your hand tightens like he’s trying to hold you in this world. “Bring her back!”

Castiel shifts a step forward, his eyes dropping, his voice low and steady, but laced with shame. “I can’t, Dean.”

Dean jerks to his feet, fury cutting through the grief. He gets right in Castiel’s face, his voice ripping raw. “The hell you can’t! You’re an angel! You’ve healed us plenty of times before—you raised me from perdition! BRING HER BACK!”

Castiel doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. He only blinks, slow, heavy, and answers with quiet weight. “You know I can’t Dean. Not anymore. I do not have the power. The connection to Heaven required… is gone.”

The words hit like a blade. Final.

Dean’s chest heaves, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He swallows hard, his whole body shaking as the rage drains back into grief.

Sam looks up now, tears clinging at the corners of his eyes, his voice trembling. “Then what do we do now?”

Dean exhales hard, every breath like it’s cutting him from the inside. He moves back to your side, his knees hitting the floor again. His hands take yours, clinging, his forehead pressing down to your knuckles. His tears wet your skin.

His voice is hoarse when it finally comes, broken. “Wake and a bonfire. Hunter style.” He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his lip trembling. “That’s what she would’ve wanted.”

The room is silent except for the sound of grief—Sam’s uneven breathing, Dean’s broken exhales, and the weight of Castiel’s gaze, heavy and unmoving.

You’re gone.

The bunker is too quiet.

Sam and Dean move through the halls with the weight of ritual in their steps. Neither speaks much, they don’t have to. The silence says it all.

Sam’s in the garage, finding axes, kerosene, sheets—every piece needed for a hunter’s sendoff. His shoulders shake sometimes, but he never lets it stop his hands. Focus keeps the grief from eating him alive.

Dean stays in what used to be your room.

He pulls open drawers, slow, reverent. A shirt of yours. A jacket.

He sits down on the edge of the bed with the jacket in his lap. His hands clutch it, knuckles white, as he bends forward, pressing it to his face. The fabric still smells like you—the faint trace of your perfume.

The sound that escapes him isn’t a sob, not fully—it’s a low, guttural noise that cracks under its own weight.

Dean drags a hand down his face, but the tears keep slipping, unstoppable. He mutters against the fabric, words only for you. “You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to make it out.”

The jacket falls from his hands, crumpling on the floor. His shoulders shake, his face buried in his palms now. “God, I’m so sorry.”

Castiel appears at the doorway, silent, watching. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to offer comfort. He knows words mean nothing here. He only stands, a sentinel, letting Dean break where no one else can see.

Dean moves with a kind of mechanical tenderness—slow, exact—pulling the sheets tight around you. His hands don’t shake until the very end, when he tucks the final fold over your face and presses his forehead to the cloth for a long, shuddering moment. Sam and Castiel hover at the doorway, offering hands, murmurs, anything to help, but Dean waves them off with a hard look. This is his to do.

He lifts you, careful as if you might still be alive. For a second, for a cruel and ridiculous second, he half-expects you to stir. You don’t as he carries you out into the night.

The bunker’s garage door is already up. Sam and Castiel stand beside the raised platform they finished in the afternoon: a simple wooden stage built the way hunters build things—practical, carved by hands that know how to make endings count. Dean lays you on the pyre as if setting something precious into a cradle. Every movement is a goodbye none of them is ready to give.

Night air tastes metallic and thin. The darkness beyond the floodlights is absolute. The three of them stand back a step as Dean sets the match to the kindling. The flame takes slow at first, then greedily; the wood spits, the smoke rises, curling into the sky like a long exhale.

For a while there is nothing but the crackle of fire and the small, private noises of three men holding their grief.

Sam’s voice breaks the silence first, soft and ragged. “(Y/N)… we’re gonna miss you. You were the best—”

“Shut up.” Dean snaps the word like a blade. He doesn’t look at Sam. His face is gone hard, stripped of the raw open grief from earlier, replaced by cold, flat steel. “You got her killed. You don’t get to apologize.”

“We were trying to help her,” Sam says. There’s pleading in his tone—less an argument than a confession.

“She didn’t need help.” Dean’s voice is low and dangerous. “You and Cas were the ones pushing the blood therapy. I wanted to leave it alone.”

Castiel speaks then, steady but strained. “What were we supposed to do… just watch her turn?”

Dean keeps his head toward the flames, he answers without emotion, but it cuts. “Turning wasn’t gonna kill her.”

“Maybe not,” Castiel says, looking into the fire. “But when the infection was done with her, she would not have been her anymore. It was the only chance we had.”

Sam’s hands clench and unclench into fists. “So of course we were gonna try help her—because that’s what we do.” He swallows, the words thick. “We had a shot—”

“Yeah, you had a shot,” Dean spits. He’s looking at Sam now, like the younger brother is a mirror of everything he won’t allow himself to feel. “(Y/N) dead. Nice shot.”

Sam’s face collapses inward, the fight gone out of him. He opens his mouth, stops, presses his lips together to keep from saying the words that would break him in two. When he does speak it’s barely a whisper. “You think I—” He stops, and the rest of the sentence drowns in a sound that is not a word but is maybe worse: the sound of a man who knows he will carry this for the rest of his life. “You think I’ll ever forgive myself for that?”

Dean doesn’t answer with consolation. He answers with a bullet of cold that isn’t meant to heal. “You wanna know what I think? I think it should be you or Cas up there, not her.”

Neither Sam nor Castiel move to argue. They know Dean is breaking apart where he stands. They know he’s not really aiming the poison at them so much as at the empty night, at the thing that took you. They know too that anger is what Dean wraps around his grief so it will be bearable enough to keep moving.

The fire throws their faces into orange and back to shadow. Sam’s shoulders shake, unseen tears tracking lines down his cheeks. Castiel watches the flames with an expression that’s almost like regret made human.

After a long while, when the pyre has taken hold and the first of the flames climb high, Castiel turns his gaze on Dean quietly, deliberately. “What about you?” he asks.

Dean’s reply is not soft. It’s not a plea or a prayer. It’s a promise and a threat braided together, raw with the thing that has always been Dean Winchester’s answer to loss.

“Oh,” Dean says, voice flat like the night itself. He looks at the fire, at the place where you lie beneath smoke and heat. “I’m gonna find the rest of the pack. I’m gonna dig them outta whatever hole they crawled into. I’m gonna rip apart everything and everyone they ever cared about… and then I’m gonna tear out their hearts.”

There’s no flourish to it. No theatrical fury. Just a small, grim sentence delivered into the dark, and the dark answers with the hiss of the flames.

Sam doesn’t speak. Castiel says nothing more. They stand with him, each man holding his own private ruin. The pyre roars, and the night swallows the sound—one more hunter’s flame thrown up against the black sky.