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uncouth-the-fifth · 2 years

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pythia - a supernatural rewrite. pilot.

read it on ao3. masterlist.

words: 20298 (she's a big'un).

notes: Is the fandom dead? Am I speaking into the void? I have no clue. Do I persist? Yea.

I recently got back onto my spn train after like sixish years of not being obsessed with the show, so I'm going in bald to pretty much all fandom and canon elements that came after 2017. (By that I mean that my brain shorts out sometime after season six). This is utterly indulgent, and is mostly for my fourteen y/o self who couldn't write for shit and desperately wanted to be in the backseat of the Impala. I was circling through rewrites that my friend had sent me (thank you gracie!!) and none of them were scratching my particular, Dean-and-Sam-both-have-earrings-and-are-30%-more-affectionate itch. At present I can't decide which brother I'm leaning towards more for this, probably Sam, but for that reason, things are slow burn and split pretty evenly for the boys!

Season 1 is a period piece, in good and bad ways, so I try here to squash out most of the bad to leave some room for... well, us. All I ask is that u go through this imagining yourself with a flip-phone w little charms on it, as well as cute late 90s/early 2000s fashion.

Enjoy!

next part: wendigo, p1.

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - OCT. 29th

Dean didn’t need to call ahead. He wouldn’t anyway—both because he was shit with phones and he liked to test you—but the moment you saw his headlights, you planned to gripe about it in the car.

The faintly sweet smell of dead leaves hung in the late October breeze. Your dark street was illuminated by two-story inflatable ghosts and pumpkin string lights, which threw an odd orange glow along parts of the road. One of your neighbors had gotten ambitious this year and decked out the side of his house with a massive spider web. You’d been forced to stare at it while you waited for Dean, and after too long it made you feel… detached. This time of year always felt like a bit of a joke; what was real for you every day was real for them for just one, and they mocked it.

All over, Halloween felt like a bad omen. It was a bad omen—or maybe you were just bitter you’d never been able to go trick-or-treating.

The Impala stole a spot on the curb, lighting up the whole street with sound. Dean popped the driver’s side door, his silhouette, as always, doubled by his leather jacket. You raked your eyes over him from where you sat on the stoop, suitcase at your side and a hand on the old duffle bag Dean had lent you years ago. He looked drained. The parts of his face touched by the gory orange light made him look almost sickly with nerves, until he passed into shadow again and all you could make out was his grin.

“Howdy,” Dean greeted. You didn’t need the light to know he was checking you over, too.

“Y’know, usually when you’re picking someone up you warn them first, Dean.” You dramatically flopped your hand against your forehead, almost tipping back into the concrete, “Oh, you never call, you never text! God, you may as well throw me in the old folk’s home—”

“Shut your trap, since when do I have to call ahead?” Dean tilted into a jog to meet you, “I missed you too, blah blah. It’s only been a week. You’re real clingy, you know that?”

You threw up a very graceful middle finger. Dean swatted at your hand, and you let it drop as you soaked each other in. When he was close enough, you rose and slid your hands under his jacket in a quick embrace, and Dean returned it by dropping his brow once to your shoulder.

Seeing you packed and ready when he hadn’t even called—hadn’t even told you he was coming—endeared him in some way, but there was a pinch in his brow that wouldn’t let him show it. Things must’ve been worse than you’d predicted. His jacket, which had been blown up, shot through, and repaired all over with fabric and patches, had a new repair on the right cuff. It looked like he’d patched the hole with faux snakeskin.

“So…” Dean tapped his temple, “how much did your weirdo-psychic stuff tell you?”

At this, you took up your duffle and Dean leaned across you to grab your suitcase. When he was close enough to meet eyes with, you knit your brows together. “Not much. I woke up from a dream half n’ hour ago, and all I knew was that you were on your way and needed me.”

Dean exhaled a laugh, flustered, and moved to turn around a little too sharply. But you stopped him by the arm, and by some miracle he listened.

“What’s happened?”

Up close, it was much easier to count the expressions Dean went through before he landed on tense. “Dad…” he said, “I was… I was in New Orleans, waitin’ on him…”

He paused, at a loss for words, so you did the only thing you could think to do and offered your free hand to him. The old ritual made Dean appropriately hesitant—using your gift to peek into his mind was cute when you were kids, but as much as he trusted you, at present it could be invasive. Dean only accepted when he was too tired to speak or had too much to say. By the look of him, this seemed like one of those times.

“Go on,” he pushed. Dean didn’t snap or grunt about it, and turned his cheek for you to connect.

You laid your knuckles on his cheekbone. His skin was chilled, but warm compared to the night air and coarse where his stubble started up his jaw. It took a breath, but you calmed your surprise and focussed on your powers.

They’d developed around your twelfth birthday, which was expected. The Gift ran in your family, from mother to daughter and so on, and with it came a responsibility that started long before you were born. Your mother had been guiding hunters for as long as you could remember. Just as she helped John Winchester, you’d been dragged across the country by his boys since Dean was old enough to drive. In all honesty, you doubted you’d be half as competent with your powers if they hadn’t been there to encourage you. (Or in Dean’s case: pester you constantly).

“Dean…”

His emotions came to you like nails out of rotted wood. Dean was terrified, so terrified, but before you could blink those feelings were yanked out of your reach. Instead, Dean presented you with a careful picking of his memories: hunting alone, checking his phone so much the screen never slept, and voicemail after voicemail after voicemail. All of it blurred together with burning anxiety. John’s last words to him hung hard over his head, and now over yours. We’re all in danger.

“Your dad’s missing,” you repeated.

Dean whipped around, embarrassed by the exchange, and rushed over to the Impala. “Yeah. For a couple weeks now. You heard anything from him? Or, y’know… felt anything?”

You were tempted to wonder if this was another one of John’s regular disappearances, but Dean was so rattled you were compelled to listen to him. His question made you pause. “Not recently, no. This time of year always messes me up, you know that—the veil thins, everything’s louder—”

He threw your suitcase into the backseat with a bang.

“Wouldn’t that make it easier?” Dean snapped. The heat in his voice flickered out as fast as it’d come, “...Y’know, to feel for him?”

The line of his shoulders was hard-cut with tension. You watched him drop both hands to the door of the car, dragging in a breath through his nose. Sympathetically, you set a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched, like you were moving to reach into his mind again, but melted sideways into the touch when it warmed there to comfort.

“I wish it did,” you sighed. “But that’s why I’m coming with you, okay? Three heads are better than one dumb Dean one.”

He lifted his head, squinting. “Three? How’d you know we’re getting—” A slow smile grew on your face, and the bigger it got the harder he rolled his eyes. “...Nevermind. Stupid question.”

You tossed your duffle into the passenger’s seat (ready to bask in it before Sam inevitably called shotgun), reveling in the strained sound Dean made when you picked up his box of tapes and relocated them to the back. As Dean started the engine, you fished around for the headphones you’d dropped under the bench the last time you were with him.

“We got a thirty-somethin’ hour drive ahead of us,” Dean warned. “You got everything? Gonna be able to keep yourself entertained?”

You gave his closest knee a nudge with yours, shrugging slyly. “I brought coloring books.”

Dean snorted. Before you clicked your lap belt on, he threw an arm over the bench and nodded to the back almost shyly, “Pick something from the tapes.”

The motor rumbled. You hadn’t questioned why Dean had grabbed you before he grabbed Sam, since you were a closer drive, but it struck you that he’d still chosen you to help. John certainly hadn’t asked him. If anything, you made the old man nervous. Dean wanted you here. In your dream, that was all you’d felt—Dean needing you. It didn’t matter if his father was missing or if he just needed a beer. Either way, he would find you waiting with your suitcase. You hoped he knew that. He seemed to want you to know the same was true vice-versa.

After your long gloating silence, Dean threw back his head and groaned, “Sometime this year, please?”

Smugly, you bent over the backseat and felt around in the dark for what you were looking for. The music tapes shined in the streetlight like obsidian, but you only needed touch to find the peeling edge of the Led Zeppelin boxed set.

“You’re letting me pick the tape, and you said please? Man, you really do miss me.”

You predicted that he’d swat you on the ass, but he wasn’t fortunate enough to have your Gift when you swatted him on the back of the head too. Dean cursed, “S’ my music. Everything in there is good. That way you can’t pick something stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” you replied, and Dean took the bait, starting a train of no yous that lasted well into Iowa.

PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA - OCT 31st, morning.

It was as close to fall in California as it could get. Humid night-time air gushed through the open windows of the Impala, covering whatever chill the weather could manage. The parking lot of Sam’s apartment rung with a pregnant silence, so even the tiniest noises seemed loud. Four times your head had shot up, ears prickling for the twin sound of bootprints, but the front gate never rattled and the boys never emerged. You were unsure if you wanted Sam to come out or not—he’d given up hunting for good, and dragging him back just felt cruel.

Picking a thread in the seat, you sighed. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to go with Dean. You didn’t want to intrude on their reunion, but he’d been dead quiet for the last day, the silence of the car unfilled even by half-assed jokes. Trying to worm one out of Dean was pointless, anyway. It was obvious he was sobering himself for Sam. If their Dad really was missing, he had to be the strong, unflappable big brother that Sam could take example from. As sweet as the sentiment was, watching Dean quietly reassemble himself in the driver’s seat put a bad taste in your mouth. You knew you wouldn’t be seeing that Dean—the one who tenderly dropped his cheek into your hand because he was too wrecked to speak—for a while.

And Sam… It’d been two years for all of you, but you’d at least kept in touch with him over the phone. Seeing his stories come to life was bizarre. He’d called you about everything: dating Jess, getting the apartment, his score on the LSAT. It was weird, knowing the walking supernatural encyclopedia you’d grown up with now lived on this cutesy little road. The Sam who’d help you set up psychic rituals in your mom’s basement now bumbled along with the normies. Well, if it was going to be any of you… He probably studied in the museum gardens in town, drinking those caramel lattes he pretended not to love and listening to punk music and Cyndi Lauper covers. Freely enjoying all the little things John would give him shit for.

You dared to glance again at the front gate. Yeah, cursing John Winchester sounded pretty good right about now. You weren’t here for him—you were here for the boys.

As a result, you tried not to see all of this as a bad omen. Even if Dean was always on your couch between hunts, and even if it’d been two years since you’d last seen Sam in person, being with them again always tripled the output of your Gift. Just being in the Impala fed you visions of your memories with them. They had, in a way, grown up with your powers just as much as you had, and as a result you were a compass constantly pointing North. Sam and Dean were your (very stubborn, but very lovable) North.

And that—that was a good omen. Being split two ways between them like this had been messing you up. Maybe here, being with the boys you’d grown up with after so long, you’d gain the power to find John.

An electric pulse raced through your chest like you’d caught something right before it hit the floor… and two seconds later, Sam and Dean’s arguing carried out into the night air.

Dean’s tone was an inch away from cutting. His and Sam’s boots thudded down the concrete in tandem, like the beat of a racing heart. “—so what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?”

Sam’s softer voice chased his, almost pleading. “No. Not normal. Safe.”

Dean swung around at him so he and his brother were eye to eye. He scoffed. “...And that's why you ran away.”

“I was just going to college.” Sam hopelessly shook his head, “It was Dad who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing.”

You winced. Yeah, maybe another explosive argument wasn’t what you needed.

This was when they came into view for you. Growing up without siblings, you’d been the sum total of your parents' genes. Because of that, it was fascinating, cute even, to see how John and Mary had been distributed among the boys—pretty evenly, too. They only looked like brothers from a distance. The cut of their shoulders and jaws were identical in silhouette, and without meaning to they set their hammer-knuckled hands on their hips in the same bracing way. But Dean had Mary’s everything: her mouth, her lashes, her hair, and visions had taught you that he’d taken her scowl too. John was clearer in Sam’s face, but without the coarseness of grief. The cedar brown that’d snapped at you for crying about the kickback of a shotgun was Sam’s now, and Sam had rubbed your back while explaining how to hold it after John had stormed off.

Dean breathed deep through his nose, only to snap back: “Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it.”

The Impala’s door closing behind you made Sam jump, cutting off the argument. You stalked out from Dean’s shadow, saving whatever mixed feelings you had for later—his arms were already halfway open at the sound of the racing footsteps, and you ducked into them to squeeze him hard around the belly. Sam gave a satisfying oomf when you came in for landing, giving you a moment to enjoy your relationship with gravity before you were scooped up and spun in a circle so wide your legs flailed. You did your best to squeal with dignity when he set you down.

Sam breathlessly said your name. He smelled like good laundry detergent (that meant he had a washing machine, a working stove, and a dozen more luxuries they’d never had as kids) and something faintly woody, like cedar.

“Nice stud earrings, stud. Black is classy,” you snorted. Sam flicked you on the cheek for the remark.

From where your face was pressed into Sam’s shoulder, Dean scowled and mouthed: “Help me out here.” You ignored him to give his brother another good squeeze, and Dean deflated like a kid forced to share his favorite stuffed animal.

“S’ good to see you,” Sam half-grinned at you, rubbing his freshly bruised ribs. The Kansas twang was still in his voice a little. That, at least, remained the same. “You doing okay?”

“Halloween,” you winced by way of explanation, which earned an understanding nod. You’d complained about it to him for two hours over the phone.

“Do you still want to… even if you’re overloaded…?” Sam gestured to his face.

When you nodded, Sam tilted his cheek in your direction like he was offering his palm to shake hands. You set your knuckles easily on the side of his face, a friend taking his temperature, and like every time you reunited Sam opened himself up to you. This was not Dean’s massive wave of emotion. Subdued, Sam caught you up: on his anxiety for his interview on Monday, on how Jess was doing, the nightmares he’d been having. Even his own uneasy feelings about Halloween for your sake. But king above all of it was his frustration and his concern, for Dean and for John.

He poked at the connection, trying to get something out of you too, but you dropped it. Sam had caught one glimpse of your insecurities about your powers when he was twelve, and now he was hell-bent on convincing you they were normal. They weren’t, but you were fine with that. It was like Dean always said: s’ all part of the job.

The moment only lasted a second, but Dean slouched and grumbled like he’d been waiting for an hour. “Ladies, please, we can catch up in the car—we’ve got a hunting trip to take.”

Sam’s shoulders squared. He turned his pleading frown from Dean to you, and Dean did the exact same thing, imploring you to back him up. You could’ve sworn you were standing between two full-grown men, but instead you were being puppy-dog-eyed into taking sides. They knew what they were doing.

You took in each of their faces, then apologetically shuffled to stand beside Dean.

“He’s right, Sam,” you murmured, “We just can’t do this alone.”

“But you’re not alone!” He gestured snappishly between the two of you. “You and Dean can find Dad just fine together, and you have before! Why is it selfish of me to just want to live a normal life?”

You closed your eyes. That burned.

“It isn’t—” you said, just as Dean rumbled, “You owe Dad—”

Before he could finish the thought you put a silencing hand on Dean’s chest, whose jaw snapped shut into an immediate pout. He at least had the sense to know who had the better shot at convincing Sam. Dean stepped out of the dark and into the streetlight behind you, hovering at your shoulder. The shadows of moths tinking against a light flitted across his face. When Dean set his hand on your shoulder, you knew what you said next was for the both of you.

“Let me rephrase,” you spoke, carefully. “...We don’t want to do this alone.”

Sam hunted your expression for honesty. There was something so different about him, an edge that had peeled, a crack that had opened. His whole body felt like a scab so close to healing over. A part of you prayed that the scab was further healed than you thought—that maybe you were a week or a day too late, and Sam’s threshold for coming back to hunting had already passed. But between your involvement and Dean’s clenched teeth, the steel in his face gradually melted.

Sam ducked his head and sighed. “What was he hunting?”

The hand on your shoulder fell to your back and lightly fisted your jacket, giving it a little shake where Sam couldn’t see. Thank you, Dean seemed to say.

In unison, you and Dean spun on your heels. You tossed him the keys to the Impala, and he lapped you to jam a key into the trunk. Before he opened it, he looked at you, and you paused to close your eyes and feel around the area with your gift. “We’re alone,” you confirmed, and Dean hiked open the trunk.

The inside was unassuming until you opened the spare-tire compartment. Rows of weapons lined the inside, hatchets and firearms and ammunition of all kinds, gleaming in the low light. It was more jammed than usual, since your own hunting equipment was carefully organized alongside Dean’s clutter. Sam noted the differences himself, eyes keen, and heat prickled up your neck when he smiled slyly at a shiny new set of brass knuckles. Dean? He mouthed to you, and you pointed to yourself with a shy shrug, For my birthday. Sam’s grin was too knowing for your comfort.

Dean propped the hatch open with a shotgun. “All right, where’d I put that thing…?”

You plucked the file he was looking for right where it was laying on top of everything, clearly where he could see it. Idiot. Dean took it from you, mystified, like you’d pulled it out of thin air. “How do you do that?”

“Magic,” you replied. Dean seemed to believe you.

“All right, here we go,” He shuffled through the papers. “Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this guy,” he gave one of the pages to Sam, “they found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA.”

Sam glanced at the article. It was from the Jericho Herald, headlined Centennial Highway Disappearance, and dated for this September. A man’s missing photo was halfway covered by Sam’s thumb, who shrugged, “So maybe he was kidnapped.”

“Sure,” you mirrored his shrug, “and so was the guy in April,” Dean slapped down each corresponding article for you, “and December 'oh-four, 'oh-three, 'ninety-eight, 'ninety-two—ten guys in the past two decades.”

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting closer to read them over. “You had a vision of this?” He guessed.

“Nope,” Dean answered for you. He had his elbows on the edge of the trunk, posted up like a cowboy—and shit, watching him try to play the cool big brother was endlessly entertaining. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a hunt. Besides, she c’n always pick something up while we’re on the job, right?”

“Yes,” you tapped the paper in Sam’s hand with two fingers, “especially if it’s been going on this long in the same place. All of it happened on the same stretch of road.”

“It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough.”

Dean reached behind you for another bag in the trunk, and quickly fished through it for a handheld tape recorder. He raised his prize to the two of you, and Sam tried not to snort at the ghostbusters sticker on the side. You both sobered when Dean said, “Then I get this voicemail the other day.”

He clicked play. John Winchester’s rough voice was clear on the first word, then it descended mostly into static, punctured occasionally on the recording. “Dean...some—ng big—starting to hap—n...I need—try and fig—out what's… appen’ing. It may… Be ve—areful, Dean. We're all in danger.”

Sam’s expression was pinched with curiosity when Dean silenced the recording. Just hearing the feedback made your head feel fuzzy and cold, like you’d been dunked face-first into icy water and inhaled a lungful. Since Dean had needed to put a coat on you the first time he played the recording, you could feel his gaze sliding over your figure in search of more shivers. You gave him the most reassuring smile you could, but his face was still vigilant.

Sam was too deep in thought to notice. “You know there’s EVP on that?”

Dean’s grin lit up his entire face. Like you, he seemed to notice how far into normalcy Sam was—but unlike you, it worried him. “Not bad, Sammy,” he praised, “Kinda like riding a bike, ain’t it?”

Sam looked to you for a companion in his exasperation, and you shook your head in solidarity. Maybe, if you were lucky, this would just be one hunt. Maybe John wouldn’t drag you and Dean on another wild goose chase, and Sam could return home not totally upset with his family. With that in mind, you shifted deeper into their bubble and tried to enjoy this for what it was on the surface. The three of you were back together again. Two years suddenly felt like a million.

“Alright—I slowed the message down, I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got.”

Dean jabbed another button with his thumb and hit play. The cold, chilling voice of a woman echoed in the recording hollowly, like she was trapped in a place with air too thick to speak through. “I can never go home…”

You and Sam exchanged a thoughtful glance, repeating the phrase in unison: “Never go home…”

With a sigh, Dean tossed the recorder back into place. You stepped back so he could shut the trunk and everything in it, pressing your elbows into your ribs even if you could go swimming in the Palo Alto weather. Dean noticed, and quietly nodded behind him, “M’ spare jacket’s in the backseat.”

Taking the cue to give them even the illusion of privacy, you squeezed Sam’s arm and disappeared behind Dean. His green coat was right there on the bench, but you pulled open the door and slid into your new home to “look” for it, grabbing your bag from the front seat. Maybe they just needed a second to talk. The heater in the Impala was admittedly shit, so you slid into Dean’s jacket just in case and pretended you weren’t listening in.

“You know, in almost two years I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing.” Dean cleared his throat.

Sam sighed. You put your cheek on the backrest of the front seat, indulging in the familiar earthy smell of Dean’s jacket and Dean’s car. It was selfish, but you crossed your fingers in the sleeves. What you were hoping for, you weren’t entirely sure—at the very least that Sam would be okay after all of this.

“All right. I'll go. I'll help you find him.”

Dean’s relief was so potent you could feel it without touching him. It echoed oddly against the cold iron in your gut. He didn’t say anything, but you could sense the thankfulness settling hard into his joints. You’d both been prepared to go into this with only each other, but there was no way you couldn’t find John if Sam was in that passenger’s seat.

Sam’s shoes scraped against the concrete. “But I have to get back first thing Monday. Just wait here.”

The weight of the car shifted—Dean was sitting on the trunk. “What's first thing Monday?”

Sam bit his tongue. “I have this...I have an interview.”

“What, a job interview? Skip it.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you fell back against the seat. It was a good thing Sam was going inside to grab his stuff, since you needed some time to give Dean a good smack.

“It's a law school interview, and it's my whole future on a plate.”

That’s putting it lightly.

“Law school?” You could hear the questioning smirk in Dean’s voice.

Sam swatted at him, exasperated. You began to wonder how Dean had gone in there and woken him up. “So we got a deal, or what?”

A minute later, Dean slid into the driver’s seat. He stared straight ahead for a concerning amount of time, then was possessed by the urge to do something and started cranking the windows shut. You watched him, and he felt you watching, but the lot was small and the buildings around it cast long shadows. Neither of you could make out each other's faces well, so you pressed your brow into Dean’s arm, and he flopped back into the seat to knock his head on top of yours.

“Thanks,” he said, finally. “I know you want Sam safe. I do too. I think he’s…” Dean sighed through his nose, “he’s safer where we can see him.”

“I don’t know how I survived that,” you snickered. It was better to just let Dean thank you—any earnest reply you could give him would just make him squirrely. Your voice was muffled by the fabric, but Dean was close enough to hear you anyway. “Sam’s puppy face should be legally classified as a weapon.”

Dean snickered too, until it died in his throat and you both just breathed in the silence. It was comfortable. He’d been making you nervous all day, but this eased it at least a little.

You flicked his ear. “Slut.”

Dean didn’t flinch. He just smiled, a little less exhausted than before. “Dick.”

NAPA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.

The way to Jericho was filled mostly with wine country, so Dean drove with the windows down so you and Sam could smell the grapes on the wind. You found out that Dean had broken into Sam’s place, and between berating him, you tried to goad Sam into describing his apartment. That conversation kept you busy for most of the drive. The only homes Sam and Dean had ever known were Bobby’s house in Dakota and the antique shop where your mom gave her readings. Having a place that was purely your own was the hunter-kid dream, so you ate up visions of Sam’s breakfast nook (with cute coasters!) and Dean’s future megamansion with a jacuzzi-water bed.

“I don’t think it’s physically possible for something like that to exist,” Sam snickered.

Dean flicked the turn signal and wheeled into a gas station lot. “I said this was the future. They’ll invent it.”

You gave Sam a look from the backseat like, wait til you get a load of this, then asked: “Okay… and how are you gonna afford all that?”

“My sex tape’ll go viral,” Dean snorted. He took an empty pump, parked the car, and gave you an offended glance in the rearview mirror. Right, cause he was the one who could see the future. “Duh.”

Sam watched him bounce out of the car and into the convenience store, a half-fond, half-frustrated look on his face. You studied his profile down the line of his nose, and Sam caught you looking with a shy smile. He was still so smiley—perhaps even moreso than when you all hunted together.

You nodded to Dean, who’d been stopped at the door by a couple of girls complimenting his car. “I’ll bet you missed that, huh?”

“Weirdly enough?” Sam raised his brows, “Yeah, a little bit.” A beat later, he turned halfway in his seat to squint: “You stuck me up here in the front with him on purpose, didn’t you?”

With a dramatic whirl, you spread your arms across the width of the backseat and kicked up your feet by Sam’s face, spreading out as much as you possibly could to stake your claim. If you were going to be back here all weekend, you were going to be comfortable, that was for sure. Your blanket and pillow were waiting on your left for emergency backseat naps, and your snack bag crinkled on your other side. You gestured to your treasure pile with glee, as if to say, this is the lap of luxury.

“Yes,” you flipped down your sunglasses, “Yes I did.”

Sam gave your socks a friendly shove and shook his head. “Very clever. Do you know where Dean keeps his tapes?”

“Yeah! Here,” you disappeared under the bench, and hefted up the box by the bottom since its handles were broken. “He usually keeps em’ up front, but I knew you’d need all the leg room you could get.”

Soon, Sam was elbows-deep into his rifling, muttering and scoffing at the selection. You got back to reading the lore book you’d opened an hour ago, and ended up re-reading the same paragraph over and over until a plastic bag appeared through the window. It was followed by Dean’s smug face.

“For the lady,” he said, giving the bag a little shake.

You took it with a squeal of delight, wrestling it open to find your breakfast of choice. At the bottom of the bag there was also a small carton of plump, inky blackberries, and seeing it prompted you to turn out the window and coo, “I love youuu, Dean. Thank you.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered. The moment you opened the container, his open hand shoved through the window. At your possessive frown, he winked, “Dean tax. Hand some over.”

You reluctantly put a couple into his palm, filling out your Dean tax for the day, and he chewed around them as he spoke to Sam. “Hey,” he offered him a sleeve of mini donuts, “you want some breakfast?”

“No, thanks,” Sam scrunched his nose, polite as ever, and then very impolitely reached back to wiggle his open palm at you. Making a big show out of sighing, you split your ration with him too—finishing off your Sam tax as well.

There was a clinking sound as Dean started refilling the Impala’s tank. While you started to dig into what remained of your breakfast, Sam stretched his legs out the open door, the tapes still in his lap. “So how’d you pay for that stuff? You and Dad still running credit card scams?”

Dean must’ve gotten into the donuts already, because his voice was muffled. “Yeah, well, huntin’ ain’t exactly a pro ball career. ‘Sides, all we do is apply. It’s not our fault they send us the cards.”

Sam chuckled, disappointed but unsurprised. He must’ve hoped that something had turned over while he was gone, that there was more than Dean’s mopey eyes to prove he’d left, but most things hadn’t changed. Almost nothing had except for him. When Sam had wondered what you two were doing for the last two years, he pictured the open road and the Impala chasing the shadow of John’s truck. Isn’t that what you were doing now? That was one of the main reasons why Sam had wanted to leave—the hunt was just one big, endless circle.

“Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?”

“Uh, Burt Aframian.” Dean plucked his own breakfast off the top of the car and reclaimed the driver’s seat. With him, Sam brought his legs back into the car and shut the door. “And his son Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal.”

“Sounds about right…” Sam raised his brows. He ran his finger over a line of tapes in the box on his lap, “I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection.”

“What? Why?” Dean wiped powdered sugar on his jeans, and when he wasn’t looking you slunk forward to sneak a sip of his soda. He clearly noticed, but all you got from him was a playful smile when it appeared back in the cupholder.

“Well, for one, they're cassette tapes. And two…” Sam returned to surfing the box, which was brimming with more than two dozen albums, half of them labeled with masking tape and your and Dean’s handwriting. “Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica? It's the greatest hits of mullet rock.”

As Dean plucked the Metallica tape from Sam’s hand, Sam shot you a pointed look. You tried not to flush when he tapped one of the newer additions, which was a little too lovingly labeled, for Dean <3. Letting his smirking silence say it all, Sam flipped the edge so you could see the subtle scrapes on the side—evidence of how many times it’d been played. Detective Sam missed nothing. Given time, he could probably even figure out the tracklist.

“Well, house rules, Sammy.” Dean pushed the Metallica tape into the player, all too proud of himself, “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Sam’s side-eyed you, like it was necessary to stare at his true victim before going for the low blow. “Unless shotgun is ____, of course—”

The engine roared to life, and so did the music. Just in case that wasn’t enough to drown Sam out, Dean threw back his head and yelled, “Cakehole!” then slammed on the gas until the tires squealed.

For good measure, you found a lock of Sam’s hair and gave it a mean little tug. While Dean got the three of you back on the road, you leaned by Sam’s ear and hissed, “Never forget—I know your biggest weakness.”

“And what’s that?” Sam lazily grinned.

You clapped your hands over his eyes, pulling him back against the seat like you were strapping him into a torture device. In a sharp whisper, you cackled against his cheek, “...I know where you’re ticklish.”

Sam jolted out of your grip so fast his seatbelt caught. Out of the kindness of your heart, you released your captive, and he scrambled away to slouch low in his seat and protect his vulnerable sides. Sam was still nervously giggling half an hour later, so it was safe to say that the lesson had been learned.

CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY.

You and Sam took calling duty, checking the hospital and the morgue respectively for a man matching John’s description. He wasn’t at either place. Sam had always been uncomfortable with the lying aspect of the job, which was understandable, but regardless he was a champ at it. Dean was right: hunting was as all too easy to pick up again. Skill and instinct had overlapped a long time ago for all three of you.

“Check it out,” Dean said, and you and Sam raised your heads.

The bridge ahead was flocking with local law. Two police cruisers were aimed at an abandoned car, diagonal on the road and plastered with a whole night’s worth of leaves. You couldn’t see much more than that from here. Dean parked, and then reached across for the IDs in the glovebox. At least a dozen of them jostled forward, Dean’s dumb smolder in every single one. Your favorite had to be the wildlife service ID, though, since he’d forgotten to take his cartilage piercings out. Every time you were carded, somebody always asked.

Right on cue, Dean hooked them out of his ears and dropped the small pile of metal into one of the cupholders. Why he bothered, you didn’t know—he didn’t remove the rings or the bracelets he wore, so he looked like a goth football player anyway. Expectantly, he held out his hand to the backseat. You dropped a fistful of your warding and good luck rings into his palm, feeling Sam taking note of the routine. That was definitely one thing that had changed in the last two years: you and Dean were a tad more comfortable with each other than he remembered.

“Good?” Dean asked.

You waved your own fake ID at him. “All good.”

Dean’s grin moved from you to Sam, and as cheeky as ever, he nodded to the scene. “Let’s go.”

You lingered at Sam’s side, trying to gauge how he felt about this, but your concern quickly became unreasonable. In unison, their shoulders squared and their faces neutralized. It was eerie, how easy it was for them to become two different people—your mother trained you to protect yourself and others when you could, sure, but she was no John Winchester. You’d seen yourself what he’d done to the boys. The result was impressive, but… You slowed down until you were walking behind them, keeping the way your gut twisted to yourself.

Two deputies were inspecting the car when you approached, but you broke off early from Sam and Dean to float around the bridge. This was routine for you and Dean—he was always the rough-around-the-edges bad cop, and you played his head-in-the-clouds partner. It made it easier for Dean to get intel, while you felt around with your powers in case there was something to sense. This was the only time all weekend you regretted having Sam there. How long had you and Dean spent, goofily giving your FBI personas tragic backstories and coming up with their impressive exploits? Sam would be good cop now, there was no doubt about that. For a selfish breath, you wondered where that would leave you.

You heard Dean flash his badge and introduce you. “Federal Marshals.”

“Three of you?” One of the deputies—Jaffe—questioned.

“Uh,” Sam smoothly nodded in your direction, his voice full of humor, “she’s our trainee.”

Oh, you were going to eat him alive later. Not one tickle spot would be spared in your wrath.

“Oh, yeah—academy’s shootin’ em out like baby rabbits…” Dean agreed. He quirked his head and began to wander around the abandoned car, and since your cover was clear, you parted further from the boys to scope out the bridge.

The two continued to inch information out of the deputies, but you let yourself float into a headspace where you wouldn’t hear them. It was cold on the bridge, and just standing close to one of the railings made you feel like you were being sucked into a black hole. The drop to the river below was just barely far enough to kill. More cops were gleaning it for bodies, but you could sense that they wouldn’t find any. You walked down the length closest to the car, eyes closed, letting the rugged texture of the wood railing fall under your hand.

A hot rush of anger roared over you all at once—and you swore for an instant that Dean was yelling at you over your shoulder, telling you to get back to the car—that he can Sam could handle this without you—that he didn’t need you, that he’d never needed you—never loved you, had cheated on you for some useless girl—

“Sam!” You hollered. The black wall that had descended on you fell hard, like a sheet of glass shattering at your feet, and suddenly Sam had a hand on your arm and was ducking down to look at your face.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low, “Feel somethin’?”

You kept your eyes squeezed shut, chasing the void and the memories it’d given you. For a moment you were boiling with so much despair and rage—pure, throat-tearing rage—that you wanted to take him by the shirt and throttle him. Sam set his hand on your back and began to rub with his thumb, which made things so much worse and then slowly better. You blew a breath out of your nose, reminding yourself that you were needed here. That you were wanted. No one had cheated on you or lied to you—it was okay.

You made a grabby hand at the air and breathed, “Pen. I need a pen.”

Sam pat down his coat and handed you what he found. Taking the random coupon and an old ballpoint in hand, you spun Sam around to use him as a temporary desk. The name ended up sloppy from how fast you’d written it, but it was readable, and that was all that mattered.

“You did get something,” Sam smirked, and then turned around—only to pause and soften all over. “Woah, what happened? You’re crying…”

“I am?” You wiped your face on your sleeve, and Sam shielded you from the other officers while you gathered yourself. He was right; your sleeve was wet. But you didn’t feel like you were crying. “I don’t… I don’t think these are my tears.”

Before Sam could say anything about that, Dean gave the signal to leave, and automatically you both twisted to follow him. One of the deputies was there when you turned around, and paused at the sight of Sam’s arm around your back.

“Is she okay?” He spoke from below his hat.

“First crime scene,” Sam winced, which may have been less strange if you’d even glanced at the car—and if there was blood or a body to see. He steered you away, and you followed mostly to keep up with the lie. Whatever anger and sadness you’d had disappeared. Those weren’t your feelings, and neither were these tears.

You regrouped with Dean away from the cops. He stood more rigidly than usual, hands in his jacket, and whatever he planned to snipe about seemed to fall off his train of thought.

His brows jumped up his forehead. “Woah,” Dean said, “You get something?”

“Dean,” Sam chastised, but you waved him off.

You were almost surprised at how scolding he sounded, especially when Dean was barely concealing that closed-mouth, wide-eyed face he made when he was worried. It reminded you of your mom when you got the flu as a kid, and how she could always tell you were going to throw up—she’d slide the trashbin over in the nick of time. Dean’s shoulders were tensed in that same way, like at any moment he was prepared to get the bin under you.

“I’m good. Really. I think she was… projecting onto me.” With two fingers, you revealed the paper you’d written on, “S’ definitely some kind of vengeful—”

Sam cleared his throat. In tandem, you and Dean followed his gaze to Sheriff Pierce and a pair of (real) FBI agents stalking onto the bridge. They paused just outside the ring of your little meeting, your figures glittering in the Sheriff’s dark sunglasses. He managed to reflect the midday sun generously into your eyes.

“Can I help you kids?”

“No, sir,” you smiled pleasantly, “we were just leaving.”

Schooling the rigid stress in your frame, you willed the agents to find you unsuspicious and casually held the paper out behind your back. Sam took it, and with all the ease in the world you led the boys back to the car. The agents brushed past you, and again you willed nothing to happen—

“Agent Mulder,” Dean nodded to them each in turn, “Agent Scully.”

Well. That was three Winchesters for you to scold, then.

JERICHO, CALIFORNIA.

Constance Welch. That was the name you’d “heebie-jeebied” (Dean’s words) out of the spirit on the bridge. After only a little bit of fighting, it was agreed that you’d do some research at the local library while the boys followed a lead on the missing owner of the car. Separating made you uneasy—who knows what trouble those two idiots would get into without you there to keep them alive.

The Impala turned a few heads rumbling down the main street of Jericho. You couldn’t enjoy it like you usually did, since Sam was still in hovering mode. He’d even gone so far as to join you in the backseat. You generously allowed it, even though he took up most of the legroom, leaving you a very generous corner to yourself. Jessica was a lucky girl.

“Really, Sam, I’m fine,” you insisted, but you could tell by the way his brow twitched that he was skeptical. “S’ something I’ve picked up in the last year. I’m gettin’ to the point where I can do that seance thing that my mom does, letting the ghosts speak through her… I don’t think Constance was speaking through me, per se—most vengeful spirits are too angry to get a word out like that, anyway.”

Sam gave a little shake of his head. The Impala rocked a bit as Dean rolled into a stop, and you let the rhythm of the movement soothe you, an elbow out the window. On the next turn the public library loomed into view haloed by the midday sun, so you reached across Sam for your handbag. He passed it to you with a concerned smile.

“Are you sure?” Sam drummed a hand on his knee, almost vibrating with suspicion. “The spirit took over your mind, n’ that’s usually not a good thing…”

“Oh, hush, Sammy, the girl can handle herself,” Dean chided. “Yeah, maybe some normal loser couldn’t handle a ghost in their brain, but in case you haven’t noticed, it’s kinda her thing. You’d know that if you—”

You cut Dean off with a firm glare through the rearview mirror. “Enough of that, c’mon. It’s not his fault.”

Sam wilted in your peripherals, and seeing it instead of hearing it in his voice made your gut feel slit hip-to-hip. It wasn’t anybody’s job to make you feel good about your powers. You had them and there was nothing you could do about it—no special ritual to magic them away, no benevolent higher power that could take the Gift from you. If anything, complaining about it was just wasting time. But that didn’t mean you wished it was easier.

And Sam… he’d tried every day to make it easier for you. You remembered how ruthlessly protective he’d been as a kid, even being a year younger than you. Supernatural anything made hunters uneasy, even the mediums they visited, so it wasn’t like you hadn’t taken a couple jabs about your Gift growing up. Fuckin’ weirdo psychic… Wonder what’d take to hunt somethin’ like you… Does iron hurt you, freak? Just a muttered insult from some random hunter would have Sam spitting with rage. It was worse as you grew, when you could sense their unease at the sight of the women in your family, like each and every one of you was a bad omen. Some of them doubted that you were fully human.

But often, they were scared straight and were thrown out of your mother’s antique parlor with bloody noses. Or worse.

You remembered being seventeen: a pair of newcomers had come to your mother for a reading. Now that your powers were mostly off their training wheels, she’d had you sit in, to follow her example and to do some reading yourself. The new hunters had been antsy the whole time. Itching, like they’d planned to do something, eyeing you in your scooby doo shirt and flared jeans like they’d glare down a vamp right before the kill.

You remembered how your mother’s face had lost all color the moment she reached over to read them… the tremble in her voice when she explained that they’d made a mistake, that two simple mediums weren’t monsters to hunt… You remembered the absolute savagery in Sam’s eyes when he’d come into the back room and saw you held at gunpoint. And above all else, you could still see Sam wailing on one of them on the floor until two of his fingers were broken, the wet, bloody thud of his fist into bone echoing inside your head even now.

He’d sat on the bottom of the steps to your apartment above the dark shop all night, a shotgun in his lap. On guard. You’d been too nerve-wracked to sleep, apologizing to him over and over again for his messed-up hand. John’ll kill me, you’d babbled, and sixteen-year-old Sam had smiled with blood on his lip and assured: S’ not your fault. Besides, he’s been trying to get me to practice aiming with my left hand for months…

You stared into Sam’s face now, the broken thud of his fist still clear in your mind. The jab from Dean about being gone had already cut into him a little, like it really was important to him that he was caught up with the ins and outs of your powers. Like he really cared. His expression opened, full of earnest understanding, like he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could his.

Dean coasted the Impala up to the curb, giving you time to hop out onto the sidewalk. Sam followed you out of the backseat to reclaim his seat up front with his brother, eyes still dark with vigilant concern, so you stopped him by the arm. When he was on his feet and in front of you, you dragged him low enough to kiss the side of his face.

“Psychic shit later?” you said, and prompted him with your pinkie.

Playing at being annoyed, Sam hooked your pinkies and you both shook on it. “Later,” he agreed with a beaming eye-roll and rounded the car.

You turned your eyes on Dean, gleaming with dangerous intention. He paled with recognition. Desperate, he grabbed the crank and put his whole body into rolling the window up, but Dean wasn’t fast enough—you captured him by the cheeks and smushed a noisy one into his hairline. He gagged, he choked, he coughed, and when you dropped him he melted and steamed like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Kill me,” he said, flushed up to his ears. It was only fair—you had to give them equal treatment, or Dean would get jealous.

“I did. With cooties.”

You met eyes with Sam through the window, since Dean was mostly incoherent, and jerked a thumb over your shoulder at the cutesy small-town library. “Looking up this Constance chick will take me two hours, at most. First one to the motel buys?”

He gave the okay sign, and Dean drove off in such a hurry the Impala’s back wheels spit up dust. You watched them go, Dean still fake-hacking out the window like you’d given him influenza, until they’d turned the corner and disappeared. Boys.

You put on your warding rings as you melted into a crowd of pedestrians, just an inconspicuous girl arriving to research an unassuming name, with no strange intentions whatsoever.

Not more than an hour later, you were making the walk to the motel you and the boys had settled on. As much of a pleasure it was to dork around with Dean all day, you’d come to enjoy the quiet moments that were born out of splitting up. Unlike John, separating on a hunt was the last thing that Dean ever wanted to do, so these moments were few and far between. There was a beautiful sort of novelty in walking a strange new place alone. After a childhood spent shrouded under your mother’s roof, the world seemed even bigger than it should’ve been.

Your reflection floated in the displays of all sorts of little odds-and-ends stores, each one more fascinating than the last. There was a bookstore and a real estate office and a pretty little bakery, which you knew Dean would want to hit before you left. He kept a “pie-diary,” rating all the pie in the different places he went, and for some reason it expanded his palate so far beyond burgers and fries that he could talk about it for hours. You took note of it as you passed the beginning of a neighborhood, where a fenced-in backyard was spilling over with rusted classic cars. It was charming. For the millionth time in your life, you were glad most people didn’t know about the hunt—that way, you could still have your small towns and your pie diaries.

Black Velvet by Alannah Myles started chirping from your flip phone, so you flipped it open and put it to your ear. “Dean?”

“Headin’ over now,” he said, “We talked to the girlfriend of the victim, this guy named Troy—she was putting up missing posters downtown, n’ her friend told us about this local legend…”

You waited until a group of chatting girls walked past you to reply, kicking up dead leaves as you went. “Lemme guess? A woman found her children dead in the bathtub, and out of grief committed suicide on Centennial a few years ago. Now she haunts the bridge—”

“And whoever she hitchhikes with gets juped,” Dean finished. He sounded a little tense, and you got the feeling he and Sam had ripped each other up a bit in the, what? Ten seconds you’d been gone? Sigh. “You sense anything about my dad yet?”

“No. Were you and Sam fighting?” You dared to ask.

Dean blew a breath out of his nose, then immediately changed his tune. A smirk jumped into his voice. “...I’m only a couple roads over from the motel. Race you?”

You squinted down the street at the little beige and blue dot that was your destination. Out of superstition, you paused to listen for the Impala’s engine, but blissfully it didn’t come around the corner going sixty in a thirty.

“...You’re fuckin’ on, Winchester.”

You were gasping for breath so hard that your nose felt like it was gonna start bleeding, but it was worth it. The Impala pulled sourly into the lot, and with a slimy victory grin you watched Dean park just a few feet in front of you, hands on your hips. His eyes were dead cold with betrayal, like it was his god-given right as the eldest of the three of you to win all immature contests.

You had all of two seconds to bask in Dean’s loss before you were on your ass, on the concrete, with Sam and Dean’s worried faces blurring in your vision.

With a jolt, you sat up and blinked away your dizziness. Dean had you by both wrists, like you’d dropped right in front of him and they were the closest thing for him to reach. Sam looked significantly less calm. The brothers exchanged a look.

“Did you just faint cause you’re shit at running…?” Dean joked, and Sam filled in: “...Or was that a vision?”

You let Dean help you up onto your feet, took in a breath, then turned tail and booked it for the first floor of rooms. The buildings that made up the place were a baby blue color aged by the sun. A vintage sign at least three stories up promised vacancy and continental breakfast, and a rush came over you when you recognized its shadow under the sharp midday sun—the circle shape of it elongated onto a door almost exactly like it had in your vision. You noted a stain on the wall. This was it; this was the room your vision had shown you.

“Here,” you said, still shuddering for breath, now bent up with your hands on your knees. “Tuh—ten,” you jabbed the door number, “John was here.”

The boys didn’t even have to look at each other. Sam took a knee and rolled out his lock-picking kit, and with the same fluidity, Dean posted up against the wall and used the width of his too-big jacket to cover him. It only took Sam a moment to get it open, but immediately you were swallowed by the memory of what you’d seen: John drawing some kind of huge pentagram over the bed, every inch of the floor, wall, and tables laden with papers. John at this door, eyes dark with resolution. John roaring out of the parking lot in a hurry.

Sam took Dean’s shoulder and yanked him inside, and you bumbled in after them. It was exactly as John had left it in your vision. The normal, rustic-style hotel room had been massacred into a hunter’s den. Books poured from every surface, the unmade bed was hosting an open trunk of weaponry and a hazardous materials box, and any leftover space was used for warding purposes. John had an authentic dreamcatcher above the headboard and some kind of massive sigil on the ceiling… No wonder the do not disturb sign was still on the door handle—the cleaning lady would’ve shit herself.

“Woah…” Sam muttered.

The two paused by the closed door like John would come storming out from a crevice at any second, their shoulders stiff and ears perked. When Sam’s voice didn’t summon him, they deflated, and crept deeper into the room to investigate. You hung back to let them take the lead. Though you could sort through the clues just as well as they could, the dust hung in the air like it would in a mausoleum, and you certainly weren’t family.

Dean was thankful to get any trail he could, however, and perked up, giving the back of your head a rub as he floated over to the bedside table. “Atta’ girl,” he said, “gettin’ faster and faster every day.”

“Not fast enough,” you said, giving the empty room a dispirited once-over. “Who knows how long ago he left. Your dad hasn’t been here in days.”

To confirm, Dean flicked on the bedside lamp and gave the lopsided burger there a sniff. “Guh,” he recoiled, “no kidding.”

Sam was already stepping across the floor like he was navigating a laser grid. He stooped to finger the salt circle around the bed, checking it for breaks, and rose with pressed brows. “Salt, cats-eye shells...he was worried. Trying to keep something from coming in.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation where the connotations of that hung over you. The boys had never told you about the thing that’d killed their mother outright—your mom had explained their history to you, leaving the rest to be filled in by Dean’s haunted silences and Sam’s what-ifs. We are so lucky that we were in this from the start, your mother had said to you, some of us don’t have that luxury. Some of us are dragged into the hunt and can’t escape.

You hoped that the “something” John was chasing (or escaping) was easy to kill.

“What have you got here?” Sam said.

You followed his eye to Dean, who was examining a line-up of newspaper articles and missing posters pinned to the wall across from John’s bed. “Centennial Highway victims,” he said.

The names of several men were labeled all in John’s handwriting, and connected by long strips of paper with quotes or red string. Some overlapped each other in circles on the wall. To a civilian, it looked like the ravings of a mad-man. But to you… You hated John, but you had to admit that Sam and Dean had to have learned their prowess from somewhere.

“I don't get it. I mean, different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities…” Dean thought to the room. He tilted his head, listing his weight to one side and catching a square of golden light on his jaw. “There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?”

You drifted behind his shoulder to get your own look. “On the bridge, when I looked over the railing… I felt ice cold, like a bucket of water had been dumped over my head. Then all at once I could’ve sworn you’d… you’d…”

Dean turned his gaze on you, and of course when you were already at a loss for words the light hit his eyes just right and made them a sort of crystal green. There was a thought in your head about green apple candy in sunlight and then Dean was tilting closer, brows raised expectantly. “...Yeah?”

“This is gonna sound weird,” you winced.

Sam gestured generously at the hotel room you were in, which was chock-full of occult items and plastered all over with demonic symbols and supernatural lore. “S’ okay,” he chuckled dryly, “We are well past that.”

“I could’ve sworn for a second that… Ugh. That Dean had cheated on me?” You anxiously twisted your carnelian ring around your finger and spat out the words. “I knew in my right mind that I’d rather eat my boot than date him,” (“Thanks.”) “...but when it hit me I was overwhelmed with this mind-numbing rage. Almost throttled Sam, it was so powerful. Constance was putting all her emotions on me, that’s for sure.”

Dean’s grin was ear-to-ear. “I cheated on you,” he echoed, and you immediately leaned forward and pinched him on the arm. “Ow!” Dean whined, “Jesus, how old are you?”

Across the room, Sam’s nose was a couple inches from a spray of articles on the wall. One of them in particular had caught his eye, and when he honed in on it, his expression cleared of all doubt. The sound of everything clicking together in Sam’s brain was so loud you turned to him to get the verdict.

“That’s what the link is. Adultery,” he breathed, “and look here—Dad figured it out too.”

Sam flicked on a desk lamp to get a better view, lighting up the underside of his face with a handsome orange glow. You followed his eye to the article you’d found on Constance at the library. “That’s the one!” You read John’s label for the two of them: “She’s a… woman in white?”

Dean shot the wall of men a shit-eating grin. “You sly dogs.”

At your confused look, Sam filled in: “They’re female spirits associated with tragedy. Stuff like accidental death, murder, or suicide, but mostly some kind of betrayal by a husband or a fiancé.”

“That explains what I felt,” you sighed. “Man, it’s been so long since we’d hunted one of these, I’d almost forgotten. Had to be… what,” you shrugged at Sam, “my third or fourth hunt ever?”

“Yeah…” You could hear the smile growing on Dean’s face. He snapped his fingers, trying to recall, “yeah, that chick in Sedona. I got heatstroke from being out in the desert all day.”

You rocked back your head and groaned at the mere memory, playing up your annoyance for them, “I had to shove a bag of ice down his pants. And both armpits. Both! He’d sweat off all his deodorant, Sam! Fuckin’ unbearable. Never met anybody half as stubborn. Or smelly.”

Dean spun around, spread his arms to the room, and bowed at the waist like a humble prince. “What can I say? I’m a ladies' man.”

You were glad that, at least on the surface level, that was a happy memory for Dean. The two of you and John had been out in the desert all day, searching for where your woman in white had been buried, John barking at you to force something out of your gift and you barking at Dean to go back to the motel. You still carried the vivid image of his neck shining red in the high noon sun, the back of his shirt dark with sweat as he staggered along. John was no help in trying to convince Dean to take a break. After you’d snarled at him with an impressive amount of disgust for a girl your age, John had ordered you—and a swaying, incoherent Dean—back to the motel. Dean must’ve been too comatose to remember that part, but at least he remembered the better half: laying in your lap on the motel bed, while you dipped your hands in ice water and ran them through his hair. You’d put on Terminator 2 for him and fed him cold ice cream cake, mind flushed with unchecked fantasies of loading him into the Impala and driving as far away as you could.

You hadn’t even had your license, but the way Dean had been prepared to chug on for another four hours if you hadn’t tormented John into sending you back… and John would’ve let him…

Now, Dean swung around to turn off one of the lamps, giving you a glimpse at the spray of freckles on the back of his neck. You looked guiltily away from the result of the sunburn. “All right,” he said, “so if we're dealing with a woman in white, Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it.”

Sam was still looking at the article. “She might have another weakness.”

“Or something else keeping her here,” you added, carefully picking at the emotions you’d felt on the bridge. They seemed separate from you, now, less like something you’d felt and more like the lingering emotions of an argument you’d resolved or a weird movie you’d watched.

“Well, Dad would wanna make sure.” Dean started to pry off his jacket, the buttons on the collar jingling against each other, “He’d dig her up. It say where she’s buried?”

You shook your head. “No. Or if she was cremated.”

“If I were Dad, though, I'd go ask her husband.” Sam tapped the article, drawing your eye to a picture of Joseph Welch. Whatever lingered from the spirit’s tap into your mind made your stomach clench just seeing his face. “If he’s still alive. This article’s from 1981.”

Dean scratched his chin. “All right. Why don't you, uh, see if you can find an address, and I’ll go pick up some food.”

The promise of lunch was so alluring that you and Sam groaned in mutual starvation, and Dean went out of the room blowing kisses and humble of courses, in typical Queen of England fashion. You already had half an order formulated via text by the time the door shut. It was a good thing he’d escaped on time too, because Sam’s stomach was making the room shudder.

“Could you go grab us a room?” Sam asked, rubbing his stomach, “Use the cash Dean gave me. I think I’m gonna…”

He stopped. Concerned, you rotated carefully around the salt circle on the floor to join him by the mirror on the wall. At first you thought the rosary hanging from it had grabbed his attention, but the sag to his shoulders indicated the small picture stuck in the frame instead. Sam plucked it free, holding it in one shaking hand and sinking a few inches into the floor.

You gave him a moment, then braced his trembling wrist with a squeeze, teasing. “I wonder who those two cute little rascals are.”

In the photo (which must’ve been more than ten years old), John, Dean and Sam were sitting on the hood of the Impala, the youngest in his father’s lap and grinning that toothy grin that you hadn’t seen Sam wear in years. Dean wasn’t trying to look cool or sly; he just leaned in with his cheek on John’s jacket, freckled and just… tiny. So tiny. You could hardly believe any of you had been that young.

“I think your mom took this picture,” Sam murmured. He stuffed it into his jacket, and you didn’t comment on it or the hollow look on his face.

“I have whole bins of photo albums back home, brimming with pictures like that…” You smiled to yourself. “I haven’t looked through them in forever. Sometime, you should bring Jess up for the weekend and I can embarrass you with all the cute photos of us as kids.”

Sam tilted back his head, giggling, “Maybe, yeah. I dunno if Jess needs any more ammo against me. And some of them, uh, might be incriminating…”

You’re sure he means the random occult objects and the like caught in the background, but you can’t help but bump your hip against his and snort, “Oh, I agree. Those pictures of you and Dean dressed up as Batman and Robin are so adorable, they’re illegal.”

Now that he’s softened up a bit, you’re tempted to ask him what he and Dean had argued about earlier. For Sam, that wouldn’t be an out-of-line question to ask, and if you did then he’d likely give you at least the short answer. But the more you learn about John’s reasons for leaving… the longer you’re realizing this trip is going to take. The longest Dean could usually stand you was a month, then you toed the line a little far with your Gift and he’d drop you off to take a hunt by himself. It was normal for people in close quarters to get itchy after a while, but the armor Dean would slowly build up when you’d finished his sentences one too many times could hurt. It wasn't his fault or yours—Dean was protective of his privacy, and the boys always softened you so much you forgot about stifling your Gift altogether, the way you did with your mom. You shouldn't have to hide and Dean shouldn't have to have someone glimpsing his thoughts. Still… it hurt more than it should.

You don’t know what it’d do to you, if Sam was the one needing a break from you that way. Sometimes you couldn’t help your Gift. But if you wanted to last more than three weeks with the boys, you would need to learn how. Maybe it’d be best to use it only for the hunt, and give Dean and Sam some room to get used to each other again. Yeah. That sounded workable.

Like he could sense you resolving to stay out of things, Sam hefted up the trunk on John's bed and made room for the two of you to sit. “But hey, before then, we've got a little time…” He plopped down. “Catch me up on your psychic stuff?”

You winced when he moved John's trunk, but his inviting, careful smile made the room feel less like a mausoleum that shouldn’t be disturbed. Careful not to break the salt line on the carpet, you took the spot next to him and tried to think.

“You don't talk about it much over the phone,” Sam commented.

“It makes it seem silly, I guess,” you rubbed your palms down your knees. You tried not to talk about hunting on the phone with him too, because someone could overhear and talking about hunting usually meant talking about Dean. It surprised you that they were already on the road to making up—but then again, they’d been attached at the hip for so long… “And I'd rather tell you in person. It's… hard to explain.”

“Well, here I am, live and in person,” Sam folded his hands in his lap, giving your shoulder a playful nudge and you a shy smile. “Hit me.”

Suddenly having your powers under the spotlight like this made you totally blank. Searching for a place to start, you asked him, “...What do you remember my Gift being like?”

Sam tilted his head, bangs waving to one side with the direction of his thoughts. He played with the bracelet on his wrist. “You could pick up… vibes, I guess, is the word I'm looking for. Sometimes you saw apparitions when we went hunting. From the start you could touch people and see things—their memories, or their feelings and thoughts.”

And if you hadn't been raised with him, you would've never noticed how hard he was playing subtle, adding, “And dreams. You had dreams of things… happening.”

Okay. Pushing that weird reaction into the back of your mind for later, you abandoned the bed and immediately started to pace. “Damn—well, a month or two after you… left, everything started... doubling. It wasn't triggered by a hunt or anything, I was just at home, n’ Dean was over making dinner. Those awesome fuckin’ chili bowls he makes—anyway, I went to bed and Dean couldn't wake me up the next day. We were halfway to the hospital when I woke up in the car, completely fine, and after that my Gift was… bigger. Broader.”

Sam's frown made his entire face look jagged and worn. “Dean never told me about that.”

“I mean, it was nothing. I wasn't hurt, there wasn't any lasting damage…” You shrugged, gut dropping into your toes. Shit. He looked hurt you hadn't called. “You know if it was anything serious I would come out of a coma to make Dean get you, right? But it wasn't serious. He took me to my mom's, and she said that I barely felt different. My powers had just… matured really fast.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, and stared into the middle distance in thought. “Psychic puberty?”

You stopped putting a trench in the floor and set your hands on your hips. “I dunno. Part two?”

For a long moment, Sam drew in a cavernous breath and stared through the wallpaper. You deflated a little. This seemed like Sam’s normal heavy, thought-filled pauses, just heavier. “I mean, when we were kids, it wasn’t exactly that. You just… had it. You used to faint, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s normal,” you said, and Sam shot you a look that made you add, “—for us. My mom fainted when her powers were developing, and so did my Grandma before that. But neither of them ever had a black-out episode like mine.”

Sam had moved into Stage Three of Deep Sam Thinking, which involved a hand on his chin and a hard squint. He rubbed his jaw, and you were struck by the fact that he was here, next to you, after two years of only his voice. Whatever had brought on the nostalgia urged you to sit next to him again, and Sam shuffled back so it was easier for him to look at you.

“But that’s just when I started noticing things—” you said, just as Sam built up the courage to ask, “Did you dream about anything?”

You stared at him. He stared at you. “During my episode? Yeah, how’d you know?”

Sam didn’t answer your question. “What did you dream about?”

“Oh,” you balked, and any attempts to hide it were useless against him—Sam’s eyes were big and soulful, like your response to his interrogation would make or break him. That kind of hyper-focus from him made tougher hunters than you melt. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. A nightmare or some kind of vision. But I don’t really remember it.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, realizing you were getting suspicious of him. “Sorry,” he ran a hand through his hair, eyes creasing with apology, “I interrupted you. That was just the start?”

You put a hand on the back of his arm, like it would be possible to coax out whatever he was thinking with a little affection. Then you remembered: you already had. Sam had shown you before, the moment you’d reunited, and the memory of just what he’d been worried about rattled through your skeleton like a cold wind.

“Your nightmares,” you sat up, holding tighter to him, “you’ve been having nightmares too. About—?”

The hand you had on his arm was covered by Sam’s, which was twice as big and twice as warm. It came with twice as much warning, too. Drop it. “I’m okay. Just, uh, just a stupid thought. Your blackout was just the start of everything, you said?”

You blinked at him, and Sam did an excellent impression of Dean avoiding the subject. Two years apart had done nothing to their similarities, then. You knew it would take nuclear warfare, an apocalypse, and the weight of Mount Rushmore to make Sam even consider not emulating his big brother. If it hadn’t been two years and you weren’t a little scared of where the boundary line stood, you might have pushed it.

But Sam looked so anxious. You let it go.

“Yeah,” you swallowed, “Yeah. That happened, and then I could do so much more. Everything that my mom had to struggle for and learn, I stumbled on overnight. The things she can do: reading people without touching them, getting visions when she’s awake, n-not always fainting when she gets them… I can just do them now. This never happened to her, my grandma, or anybody else. A-and I don’t know why.”

Sam’s brows ticked up with concern, all gooey and understanding. It was awful, how good he was at throwing his own feelings under the rug and stomping right over it for others. “I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t necessarily sound like a bad thing. You’re not fainting anymore, you’re getting stronger… This just means you’ll be able to protect yourself more.”

“And other people,” you added. That must’ve been your impression of Dean, because Sam scoffed through his nose the way he did when Dean said something too in character. You were all caricatures of each other, sometimes. “I dunno. I’m just… I don’t like what this could mean, me falling out of pattern…”

“Whatever it is,” Sam’s hand closed on top of yours, “we’ll figure it out together, okay? You don’t have to worry.”

Your heart picked up like a starting gun had fired, taking off on racing hooves too fast for you to catch. Just as quickly as it’d pitched up, it slowed in realization. Sam still had his interview. This promise, if it lived past this weekend, would be a long-distance one. As soon as disappointment starts to settle in your stomach, you remind yourself of all the little things you imagined Sam doing in the last two years: studying in the library and falling asleep in his coffee, staying up late with Jess to watch Criminal Minds, floating through all of his classes, in his element. He could be safe. Far away from here, but safe. How long had you been wishing that for him, anyway?

Sam followed you down to the front desk, where you got the three of you a room with two queens. It was easy for him to find Welch’s address, so Sam spent a few minutes listening to Jessica’s messages from the night before and making one of his own, guest-starring you. He was so bubbly just thinking about her. You’d seen plenty of the boys’ dates come and go, but Sam had always been a little too nervous to get too invested. Even if it was only once or twice, you’d kill to meet Jess—she seemed to represent everything that had changed about Sam.

Dean shouldered open the door just a minute later, towing some takeout bags and bringing with him a chilled swell of fall air. He was doing an impressive balancing act, eating a burger as he walked, cradling your food and Sam’s, while fighting to shrug off one of the sleeves of his coat. You were already on your feet to relieve him before the door was fully shut.

“Find it?” He asked, still chewing. You dropped the plastic bag on one of the beds as Sam rattled off the address. “Good! I’m poppin’ in the shower, then we can head out,” Dean scooped up his open tray bridal-style, “n’ your coming with me, pretty girl.”

Your brain stalled, heat crawling up your neck—until you saw the intimate moment Dean and his burger were having. The words you planned to say fell right out of your mouth, and thankfully, Sam picked them up for you: “Hey, man, ____ was thinking that Joseph might be a little skittish, by the looks of his address—maybe he doesn’t need three ‘reporters’ hounding him. She and I can leave to talk to him now, and meet up with you later about what we find?”

Halfway through his burger already, Dean winked. “Sounds like a plan. M’ gonna check Dad’s room, see if there’s anything in there I missed. You two crazy kids be careful.”

“Who you calling kids?”

In slow motion, you and Sam fell into the front seats of the car and shut your doors in unison. A thoughtful silence filled the Impala. The fields outside Joseph Welch’s house were alive with fizzing cicadas and other chirping bugs, the tall, blonde grass swaying in the wind. It was sunset now, so the front windshield was a whiskey color in the light. Evenings like this brought you back to when you’d walk the woods around Bobby’s house with the boys, eating off the blackberry bushes and throwing them at each other. Remembering something so innocent at a time like this made your chest swell with guilt.

“You didn’t have to go so hard on him,” you murmured, trying to be playful.

Sam’s version of hard was very different from Dean’s, who you were used to playing alongside as the good cop. However, you realized now that you’d never seen Sam work a suspect before, and like everything else, he was unfortunately good at it.

“I needed to get a reaction out of him, see if he was lying about his and Constance’s perfect marriage.” Sam frowned to one side like he wasn’t all that pleased about it either. He jammed the key in the ignition and shot you a look, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged a shoulder and ran your hands down your pant legs. “Yeah. Just, some jobs get to you more than others. Can you even imagine? Being so heartbroken that you drown your own children?”

Sam put the car in reverse, frowning into his dimples. “No, I don’t think I can… Just think of it this way: soon, Constance will be put to rest and everyone can finally move on from what’s happened. All of this will be over, n’ everyone will be safe.”

You couldn’t conjure anything to say to that, so you accepted it with a nod and dissolved into your thoughts. It was natural at this point to roll down your window and lean out to clear your head with a little breeze therapy. The sunset wouldn’t last for long, so you tried to enjoy it to smooth yourself over for what was ahead. Joseph Welch had cheated on his wife, and his wife had in turn killed their children and herself for what had happened. She was, without a doubt, a woman in white, which meant that you’d have to salt and burn her. You didn’t always get so mushy on a hunt; maybe it was Sam’s influence.

Once you were off the back-road that led to Joseph’s property, Sam slid his cell out of his coat and shook his head, brow worried. “I just don’t understand why Dad hadn’t salt-n-burned her. If he was here, n’ he’d talked to Joseph, then the first thing he would’ve done was take care of the body.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe that’s not what she’s attached to,” you offered, one elbow out the open window. “Or he could’ve skipped town halfway through, right where we’ve found ourselves. Did Dean get anything?”

Sam gave his phone to you. “Can you check for a text?”

You blinked slowly at him, forgetting for a moment which brother you were talking to, and accepted the phone with a vicious smile. “Of course Sam Winchester doesn’t text and drive. You’re adorably responsible, you know that?”

Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes, pouting. “What? It’s dangerous,” he said, and you knew instantly by the tone of his voice that he hadn’t been marked off once on his driver’s test. “Don’t look at me like that, ____. Just because I do monster-dangerous doesn’t mean I do driving-dangerous.”

You barely subdued the cheek-aching smile that little line gave you as you checked his messages. “No text from Dean, Mr. Driver’s Ed.”

Just to prove how very cool and very non-responsible he was, Sam tipped his head to check the rear-view, then the road ahead, and once it was clear he gave the entire car a very bold swivel in and out of your lane. Once his stunt show was over, he put on a smooth face and waited for you to be impressed.

“Yeah, yeah, you Winchester men are all born-again street racers,” you snorted, patting Sam’s knee, “M’ calling Dean and telling him how wild you’re getting with his car.”

You heard Sam mutter something like, I ain’t scared a’ him, but the motor was loud and the nearly-dead sunset was playing on his profile like it only did in the movies, so you forgot all about it. When Dean picked up your call, you stalled for a moment on the line.

“Sam?” He questioned.

“S’ me, he’s driving,” you spoke. “We talked to Welch—just like we thought, Constance is a woman in white. Their story follows the normal bits of the legend. He said she was buried behind their old house, so that’s where your Dad must’ve gone. Don’t know why he didn’t dig her up, though.”

“Cause he booked it,” Dean snapped. At that, you turned on speakerphone and moved it between the two of you to listen. “Dad did leave Jericho, just like your vision-crap said. And I know where to.”

You glanced worriedly at Sam, who sighed through his nose. “Really? How do you know?”

There was a subtle smack on the other end of the line, then the familiar sound of rifling papers. Dean scoffed, “I found his journal in the motel room.”

Plenty of hunters you knew kept journals, all for the same reasons: necessity, practicality, and then sentiment. Back when all of you had been fighting evil in corsets and buckle shoes, information—like how to kill a werewolf or the signs of demonic possession—was not commonplace. And in a world where your body had to be burned and no literal piece of you could remain on this planet, a hunter’s journal was her will, her body, and her legacy. It was how your generation of hunters had any idea how to do shit. The information had been noted by one perceptive hunter back in ancient times, then a thousand years later dug up by you or Dean or Sam researching on a hunt.

Along with being the entirety of a hunter’s own personal legacy, journals contributed to the greater history of hunting as a being. In simple terms, beyond being resourceful, it was an old hunter tradition—and doing a job as lonely as this one would make anyone want to be a part of something bigger. Hunting often felt like swimming an ocean alone, so participating in an old practice was a reminder that you weren’t alone. All of you were a piece of a community.

You knew that John didn’t care much about the whole brotherhood thing, since he rarely hunted with others. Still, the significance wasn’t lost on you. A hunter’s journal was his body, his legacy. And he’d passed that body, by force or willingly, onto his sons.

“Holy shit,” you said, just as Sam’s shoulders sank. He muttered, “He never goes anywhere without that thing.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, well, he did this time.”

You’d only seen a few select pages of John’s journal, but you suspected it was probably his fifth or sixth, since twenty or so years of hunting definitely filled up more than one book. He’d probably gotten the first one from an older hunter, also per tradition. You’d received yours as a gift from your mom after your first hunt. John had done the same with his boys, and Bobby had made special leather-bound ones for you, Sam, and Dean when you filled up your firsts. The antique shop had a mini-library of them on display, but not for sale, a dozen legacies from people you’d never known. Dean had you convinced to this day that every single one was haunted.

To get—to earn one of those journals was the mark of a real hunter, so you and Dean had been geeking about it long before your first hunts. You’d cleared out the entire sticker bin at the record store for the cover of his book, which was written in an unreadable Hill cipher (and his already eligible handwriting). If the Black Sabbath and AC/DC logos didn’t ward civilian readers away, then the inner contents certainly would. Sam’s was inviting by comparison. Everything was written in his perfectly printed script, on lined paper, with annotated, color-coordinated sticky notes you’d bought him yourself. You’d never seen Sam as enthusiastic about hunting as he’d been writing in that thing. In turn, you’d filled your own notebook with colorful glitter pen (from Dean) and a planetary bookmark (from Sam).

Thinking about John’s journal made you realize that, somewhere down the line, you’d stopped writing in yours. In fact, your current journal was probably shoved in your sock drawer. Sam had definitely dropped his somewhere on the way to Stanford. Dean hadn’t touched his in a while, either. It made your chest ache with a curious wistfulness. You knew your body as it was now would never be buried with the Winchesters, but maybe your journal would be in between Sam and Dean’s on an archive shelf someday. That didn’t sound half bad.

“What does it say?” Sam asked, and you blinked your way out of your thoughts.

“Ah, the same old ex-Marine crap, when he wants to let us know where he's going,” Dean grouched, “Coordinates, I think.”

Your mouth became a flat line. The sky was dark now, and Sam flicked on the headlights as you asked, “Where to?”

Dean let out a long, frustrated sigh. You could imagine him bent over the table back at the motel, scratching his head and running a careful hand over his father’s words. “...I'm not sure yet.”

The phrase made you clam up. Feeling suddenly cold, you started cranking the window shut and turned on the heat. The airflow didn’t start. You tried it again, but the damn car was messing with you.

“I don't understand,” Sam scowled. He jerked into the next turn a little harsher than usual, coasting you fast around a wide curve in the forest. Despite how fast you were going, the wind seemed to go silent. “I mean, what could be so important that Dad would just skip out in the middle of a job? Dean, what the hell is going on?”

Sam’s knuckles on the wheel turned white. You studied it, and as the entire dash began to double and sway in your vision, you grabbed the edge of the bench with a free hand. A picture flashed in your mind.

“Sam! The road!”

He jammed the brake. The figure on the blacktop didn’t move. For a breathless, soundless moment, the two of you floated off your seats as the car’s momentum hurtled you forward, straining against the lap belts and covering your faces with your arms—you could hear the tires squeal—smell the rubber burning—the figure was bigger and bigger in the headlights—

The car skid right through her.

You came to a brutal stop, and the Impala heaved forward and then settled back on its wheels. Sam’s arm thudded into your chest, pinning you to your seat instead of letting you hit the dash. His phone had spiraled somewhere by your feet. You had a fistful of his shirt in your nearest hand, like you could physically pull him back into safety. Dean was screaming on the other end of the phone. The two of you startled back to life at the same time, gasping for breath and sharing a wild-eyed look—

Constance Welch was in the backseat.

“Take me home.”

The sweet, picturesque woman captured in the newspaper was gone.

Constance’s face was now gaunt and gray, when it wasn’t whirling and flickering the harder you tried to focus on it. Staring at her face for too long put that dragging feeling in your gut, like you were hanging over the edge of an endless fall, and Constance would be there to push you over. It didn’t feel right to call her by her old name, either. She was someone else now. Something else.

“Take me home!” She said again. Her voice punctured the heavy silence like it was coming from the inside of your mind.

Sam found his voice, gasping, “No.”

Her glare turned your blood to ice. All at once, the doors locked with a resounding chk, chk, chk, chk, sealing you and Sam inside. The air turned brittle and cold. You and Sam lurched for the doors anyway, trying to pry them open, but it was no use—

The Impala’s gas pedal depressed, and the wheels stampeded ahead.

When Dean had first gotten the car for his eighteenth birthday, he’d sworn up and down that he’d treat her carefully, and then immediately took you out for a joyride. You remembered how different the car had felt, even if the boys had grown up in it; now that it was Dean’s car, you were twice as excited to see it pull up to your house. He’d driven until you had five miles of straight road between you and the rest of the world. Your heart still fluttered at the memory of him taking your hand, his face close enough to scratch his stubble on your temple, and the rumble of his voice as he told you to count to ten. He’d gunned it. Through shrieking laughter you’d counted, and at ten you were whipping down the road at a hundred miles an hour.

This felt faster than that.

The Impala flew off its tires, the power of the engine vibrating through the entire car. Sam scrambled to get a hold of the wheel as you hurtled toward a turn, but it was whirling back and forth so fast that he recoiled. He hissed at the new scrapes on his hand. Between yelling, gripping your seatbelt for dear life, gripping Sam for dear life, and trying to keep your head from slamming into something, you watched Constance’s form in the backseat vanish.

You whipped to look at Sam, and he glanced at you, the fabric of your furthest shoulder fisted in his hand like that alone could save you in a crash. You could feel the panic in his body turn his grip to steel.

“The house!” You screamed over the roar of the car, “She’s taking us to where she’s buried!”

You almost wanted the drive to last longer—maybe it would give Dean more time to reach you.

Even if he couldn’t, you’d rip her to shreds to protect Sam. You could feel your blood pumping more than anything else, could feel the hot, unpiloted rage Constance had given you before overclocking your mind. Her tears were pouring out of your eyes so hard it felt like your skull was going to explode. The Impala suddenly hurled to the side and thundered fast over a thicket of bushes, flattening them until the overgrown path she’d taken you to looked more like it would’ve years ago. All you could see through the windshield was a wild spasm of snapping branches and twigs, then the shape of a house loomed out in front of the sky.

As sharp as a gunshot, the Impala surged in front of the house and jammed itself to a stop. The engine shut off, and the headlights went with it.

You and Sam could finally hear your strangled breathing again, and your eyes fixated on the steam climbing fast out from under the bonnet, trying to focus. Salt. Iron. Was Sam okay? How close was Dean?

You hate him, Constance’s voice flushed through your mind. Kill him, she begged. He did this to you, he lied to you, she urged.

And for a moment it worked. The hand cupping Sam’s arm over your chest turned into nails, pressing hard into his skin—he cried out, and with a shock you dropped the grip. I hurt him! The realization surged oily guilt through your body, and the overpowering emotion, the complete impossibility of you ever hurting Sam, forced Constance to unshackle the hold she had on your mind.

“Don’t you touch her!” He snarled, which was right when Constance shattered the passenger’s side window with your face.

You came to only a few seconds later, your vision filled with bubbling, constellating black dots. It was so dark without the headlights that you couldn’t see either way. But you could hear Sam roaring with pain, and without thinking, powered by instinct and rage, you jammed your foot under the glove box, hooked the crowbar hidden there up into your hands, and batted Constance into a cloud of smoke. You were only sure it had iron in it once it was over, thanking whoever was out there that Dean was consistent.

An instant later she was in the backseat, and you were swinging again before you could double-check. The faceful of deathly smoke that came afterward confirmed it.

“Come get some, fucker!”

You whirled around, kneeling on the seat and crazed with adrenaline, catching her going for Sam again, and again, whenever she appeared, and then a sluggish arm hauled you into the shield of Sam’s bloody chest—

“I’m taking you home,” he sneered, and the Impala kicked forward.

You woke up pinned between the wheel and Sam’s ribs, the crowbar clutched still in your sweaty grip. The air reeked of rotten wood, metal, and sawdust, which you hacked up, sputtering and coughing as you dragged yourself off Sam as best you could. You managed to get onto your knees, stabilizing yourself with one hand and trying not to sway. Sam’s seat was pushed back. You blinked at him in the dark, coughing wetly. There may have been bits of glass in your face, but Sam...

His hoodie was open. He was bleeding. A sudden cold flushed down your spine—Constance, she was here still, you needed to protect Sam—

The passenger’s side door wrenched open, spraying broken glass across the seat. Every muscle in your body tensed, and on instinct, your grip tightened on your weapon and you blindly swung behind you, snarling like an animal.

“Jesus!” Dean yelled. His hands were raised in surrender, “It’s me, s’ me! You’re okay, I’ve got you—c’mere, we’ve gotta get Sam out—”

The familiar image of Dean, shaken and opening his arms to you, ripped you back to the present. You instantly flew into his hold, letting him haphazardly pull you from the wreckage with your hands scrambling across the back of his jacket. You could care less how he'd gotten here, whether he'd stolen a car or fuckin' ran, blinded by adrenaline and relief at the sight of his face. The sight of yours made him wince. Constance introducing you the window must've looked worse than it felt. He propped you against the side of the car, cooing reassurances, and once he was sure his pretty face wasn’t going to be rearranged, trusted you with the crowbar again.

Standing there as he gave Sam a hand out, you clutched the iron like a bat and scanned the room. The Impala had shoved the ragged dining room into the kitchen of the first floor, which now had an open floor plan. Pieces of fence, porch railing and the front door hung on the hood of the car. The only thing that had survived the house’s decay and Sam’s greeting were the stairs.

At the base of them, more solid than you’d ever seen her, was Constance.

There was a heavy photograph in her hands, and her back was turned to you. Immediately, you pushed off the car, stormed forward and heaved the iron over your head. A hand on your arm reeled you back.

“Wait,” Sam warned. His weight was almost entirely on Dean’s arm, but he was okay. Both of them were. You felt the raw muscles in your hands relax, almost dropping your weapon in the process.

Constance looked up at the word. In the swirling void of her face you could almost make out something that surprised you. Beside the burning, world-shattering rage and all-consuming grief that she’d been showing you for the last day, there was something new which Sam had recognized: fear.

She threw down the portrait with silent disdain, and the second it shattered a bureau flew away from the wall and pinned you to the too-hot bonnet of the Impala. Dean and Sam were forced apart as the bureau crammed you in between them, wedging the heavy wood against your hips and burning the bases of your spines on the steaming car. You screamed as the boys hollered in pain, which began a desperate but short-lived struggle to break free.

Constance’s figure closed in, her image stuttering and doubling like a technical glitch. This close, you watched the human piece of her melt away, and then she looked indescribable—like grief, like loss, like malice, like regret. She was featureless. Bodiless.

Her hand raised, reaching. Then, like a fire being lit, the sconces in the stairwell began to flicker.

Constance turned to meet them, slowly, hauntingly, written all over with fear. There was the squeak of a faucet turning, and you paused your struggle at the sound of flowing water. Dean reached across you to fist Sam’s shoulder, bracing you close to him. Each of you forgot how to breathe.

Ushered forward, by her own will or something stronger, Constance turned to face the glow billowing from the top of the steps. From here, you could only make out the shadows of their stringy wet hair and soaked clothes. Constance’s face, her human face, explained everything else. You flinched; the two children were suddenly behind her, and before Constance could take them in, apologize, or speak for what she’d done, a ferocious white light struck the room, expanding out with the pressure of a sonic boom. A scream ripped so viciously through the air that your ears rung.

It cleared. The bureau tipped back and crashed to the floor. Everything went dark, but heat glowed beneath your eyelids from the sudden burst of light.

You wobbled on your feet. Somewhere along the way your crowbar had thudded aside, but your first instinct wasn’t to reach for it. Instead, your hand felt around until it was closed around Dean’s sleeve, and the other cupped the top of Sam’s back. It took a full minute for the pins-and-needles feeling to begin to pass, but you knew you’d be feeling it for several days afterwards. You imagined it was how all spirits felt, intangible yet overloaded with sensation.

“Holy shit,” you spoke for the three of you.

Dean was working his jaw and blinking furiously, no doubt trying to force some feeling back into it. He peeled his boots off the floor and teetered around to Sam’s other side, tilting one way to peer up the steps. “So this is where she drowned her kids…”

Sam did his best to nod, but it looked more like he was dipping in and out of consciousness. “That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.”

Seeing as it’d been two years since Sam had been in the game, you felt your heart fill with quiet pride and terrible pain. None of you could ever escape this. Dean, of course, held a different opinion, and dipped to support Sam’s other shoulder with a blazing smile. “You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.”

“I just drove,” Sam mumbled, smiling dryly, “____ was the one taking a swing at Casper half-conscious.”

“You animal,” Dean’s eyes gleamed up at you in the dark, “Almost took my teeth out with that thing. Remind me not to mess with you, Mean Swing.”

You shrugged a shoulder, warmed all over with relief, love, and probably a little blood. “I’m useful beyond being eye-candy and team morale, y'know,” you smiled, and the boys dropped their heads to snicker.

Team. The word, even as a substitute for something else, was familiar and welcome. When Sam had conspired with you four years ago to do pre-law online, you’d urged him, practically begged him to do it, even if it’d felt like a crossroad’s contract. You knew that the time you had with him would be cut short. That was only four years to treasure your childhood with him and Dean, which had turned into two after John found out. It’d been like watching yourself bleed out, knowing Sam was going to leave—and he’d taken your youth and everything that made it worth surviving right along with him.

You never thought you’d see those golden summer days again; learning to hunt with the boys, saving people with the boys, storytelling and dreaming and growing with them. Each of those rose-colored memories had a padlock on them now. Good things like that never lasted long in this world, not for you. Sam would graduate to be some big top lawyer with an innocent, happy family, and you and Dean would watch from afar but never come close enough to infect. Your path had forked a long time ago.

But here, it’d connected one last time. Maybe as a parting gift. One last hunt with your boys, before Sam was safe from it all and you and Dean drove off without him.

It was supposed to give you closure.

Yet here you were, selfishly yearning for more time.

PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA - NOV. 2nd, night.

The rain died out a few miles out from Sam’s apartment.

You tried to stay awake through the drive, knowing they’d be your last moments with Sam for a long time, but the soft coo of their voices in the front seat, combined with the rain on the car, knocked you out hard. The Impala’s backseat was still curved to your shape. After the most comfortable sleep you’d had in months, you woke up slowly and apologized to Dean; right now was about when you’d switch off. He could drive Baby forever, but you had a rule about being at the wheel with such little sleep, and Dean hadn’t even thought about a bed since before he’d picked you up. It seemed he didn’t want to miss his time with Sam, either.

Unfortunately, the ride to California flew by, even with Dean avoiding interstates and going the speed limit. Since the way to Sam had dragged, his stories about Jess and “home” (not Bobby’s, not your mom’s, not even the Impala) stole the time. You’d also looked into the coordinates John had passed on, which would take the three of you—the two of you up to Colorado.

You pretended you were glad. But it was hard to be glad about Sam living the apple pie life when all you could focus on was how you were going to say goodbye to him. Worse: none of this felt final. It would’ve been easier if you couldn’t imagine you and Dean picking up Sam again next weekend, and finding some other small way to save the world before Monday. When had you gotten so selfish?

At around two or three in the morning, Sam started to recognize street signs. The Impala put a Herculean effort into pulling into the lot, a pregnant silence filling its interior, and it was barely parked when you flung yourself out of the backseat. Sam stepped out too. Dragging his feet, Dean left the key in the ignition and trudged into the circle of amber light cast by a street lamp outside Sam’s building.

You tried to compose yourself, but the corners of your lip burned with the effort. The street was dead quiet and cold, so your shaky breath was seen and heard to both brothers, who sagged in tandem. You just stood there, trying to summon something to say, but all you could think was, it’s over, it’s over, why aren’t I happy for him?

But of course, these were the boys you’d grown up with. You and Sam had shared cribs as toddlers, for god’s sake, and Dean himself had taught you how to drive and bought you your first drink. There were no two men who knew you better in this world, so you didn’t need to say a single thing.

Sam drew you into a deep, leeching hug, and that was enough to get your shoulders hitching with your sobs. At first it was gentle, a hug for you, then one of his breaths came a little too sharp and Sam’s hold became near-bruising, for himself and no one else. One of his palms cupped the back of your head. The gesture was small, but for whatever reason it almost made you lose it—so with the last of your rationality, you peeled yourself away from him.

You looked to Dean. He was trying his hardest to be nonchalant, even awkwardly half-smiling as if he had any will to joke left in him, and like Dean always did when he needed you, he gently clutched the back of your jacket. The familiar weight settled warmly on your shoulders. At least you still had him. For that reason, you spoke for him now.

“We love you, Sammy,” you sniffed into your sleeve, “Don’t worry about me and Dean, okay? I’ll take care a’ your brother and he’ll take care a’ me. Get some sleep, have a big breakfast, give Jess a kiss for us, and then go destroy that interview. Okay?”

Sam nodded. The line of his mouth was hard and he wasn’t letting you see how wet his eyes were, his shadow crossing with yours on the pavement.

You tried to laugh, but it came out delirious and tear-soaked. “If one of us goes to jail, we’re gonna need a really good lawyer.”

To your surprise, his eyes heaved away from the concrete and looked past you to Dean, a smile on his face. “I’ll be the best,” he swore, “...and we’ll meet up later, okay?”

Sam took two steps forward, crossing a mile-wide chasm to open his hand to his older brother.

“Call me if you find him?”

John. Right. This was all because John was missing. That had never left Dean’s mind like it’d left yours, though, because he gave a stiff nod and found the strength to take Sam’s hand. You thought that they would shake on it, but Sam could read the grief in Dean even better than you could. They embraced, and after that first touch, without any reservation, Dean returned it.

“Yeah,” Dean cleared the frog in his throat, “Yeah, alright.”

Sam adjusted his bag on his shoulder, then leaned down so you were eye to eye with him. Your brain stalled, but it caught up when Sam gave a teasing dip of his cheek in your direction.

Immediately, you laid the back of your hand against his face, and for once allowed the connection to have equal input.

Just as you were greeted with Sam’s regret, his gratitude, and his love, you greeted him with something of your own. You showed him a memory from before all of this had started, when Dean had parked in front of Sam’s apartment and stared up at his window for hours, praying for the first time in his life—praying that his brother, his kid, wouldn’t push him away. It was a plea: Please. Call him. Talk to him, like you talk to me.

You turned your hand over to stroke Sam’s cheek, and he nodded into your palm, face too deep in shadow to read. “I promise,” his voice broke.

You stepped back to Dean’s side. Sam gave you both long, wet looks, putting on that sweet, toothy grin only his younger self knew, and disappeared into the curling shadows behind the front gate. The rattle of the metal on its hinges as it closed played through your mind on loop.

In the same breath that Dean slid a finger through one of the belt loops on your hip, you ran your hand under his jacket and scratched gently at his undershirt, pulling each other closer.

You didn’t look at him, and Dean didn’t look at you. You’d already had to watch Sam cry.

Somehow, the two of you managed to load back into the car. You took your old spot in the front seat, still warm from Sam’s body heat, and wallowed there as Dean shifted the Impala into drive. The streetlight cut the edges of all shadows sharper, which turned the bone-deep exhaustion on his face into a scythe. It struck you then how young Dean was. Having his experience and his influence above you for long, you forgot often he was only two years your senior. You forgot how young you both were, despite what you were dealing with.

You wanted to reassure him, but the future hadn’t given you anything yet. He needed proof, real proof, that everything would be alright, and right now that wasn’t something you could give to him.

Before he pulled out of the lot, Dean ducked his head and stared into his lap, one hand on the wheel. “So…” he cleared his throat, “where to?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but paused at the weight in his expression. This was not a, where are we going next? But a, are you coming with me? It honestly made you wonder what kind of friend you were if Dean didn’t know the answer to that question—and he did, but after all the bad luck he’d had, Dean couldn’t believe that anyone would stick around. Even you. That, at least, was something you could prove to him.

Scooting closer to his side of the car, you gently turned his chin so he was facing you. Sighing through his nose, Dean’s dewy eyes flickered from the dash to you, more brown than green, and in exchange you made it obvious you were admiring him. A little humor came back into his eyes. Maybe boosting his ego wasn’t the smartest way to cheer him up, but you were both stupid. You wished you had the strength to say it, but there were upsides to this: Sam would be safe, doing something he loved, and you and Dean would be on the road together again. That was better than anything else you’d been stuck with, anyway.

“A motel, definitely a motel. We haven’t slept in forever, Dean. Then? Colorado,” you relaxed back in your seat, giving him some time to compose himself while you fought with your seatbelt. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Winchester.”

Dean finally stopped taking you in like this was the last time he’d ever see you, and finally started to drive. He pulled out to the right and then spurred out of the parking lot. Between keeping his eyes on the road, you could feel him stealing looks at you, admiring you as you had him—realizing you were the last thing the other had.

“Card’s nearly dead, you know. Are you prepared to share a single with me? I haven’t showered in, like, a week.” Dean rumbled.

You snorted, swiping the tear streaks out from under your eyes. It was nothing short of impressive how ready he was for you to bolt. “And you think I have? We’ll suffer with each other. Snuggle and rent Terminator or something.”

“T2?” Dean suggested. He almost sounded excited.

Maybe if you could make this next week good for him, you could both scrape through your Sam withdrawals without burning up inside. You could make it for Dean. You always had, before.

Feeling a headache coming on, you bent forward, rubbing circles into the pressure at the center of your forehead. “Gah,” you complained, “I can’t wait to go to… to, uh… sleep...”

When you opened your eyes again, you were in a vision.

The apartment was dark but warm, the air flush with sticky summer humidity, thick enough that a match might set the whole apartment alight. You welcomed the contrast to the chilly parking lot and padded down the hall in your socks, wondering why Jess was in the shower so late at night. You paused outside the bathroom door… She had probably just waited up for you. The hunt and Dean and ____—they’d all set you on edge, that was all. At least she wouldn’t see you crying.

Tossing your travel bag down by the bed, you let the texture of Jess’s signature cookies melt in your mouth and collapsed face-first into the mattress, still chewing. The clean smell of laundry detergent in the sheets still surprised you, after so many years in shitty motels—

Something wet dripped onto your neck. You startled up onto your hands, feeling the hot liquid slide down your skin and into your shirt.

Turning onto your back, you flinched as another droplet hit your cheek.

Then, you saw her.

Every streetlight on the block had burst. Without them, the only light to be found was the unnerving flash of red and blue police cruisers, firetrucks, and an ambulance. You doubted you could ever think of this night outside those two frames. There were the deep blues of Dean’s haunted silhouette among the crowd of observers, then the deeper reds outlining the stillness in Sam’s shoulders. You felt like the lightless void in between them, swallowed whole by what you’d seen in that apartment—by what Sam had seen now, and what Dean had seen when he was four.

Your hands were still shaking, but you hid it by turning your rings around your fingers in one hand, feeling stupid for wearing them. They were supposed to bring good luck. They were supposed to ward away evil. But you’d never felt anything eviler than that thing inside that apartment, the thing that’d killed Jessica Moore. Mary Winchester. God knows who else.

And you still couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen that vision before.

Sam’s face was soot-stained, soaked with tears, and yet harder than you’d ever seen it. Nothing about the soft baby-face you adored had changed, but something behind it was hollowed out and ransacked, a violated grave. He’d spent the last hour rifling ceaselessly through the trunk of the car, searching for the imaginary weapon that could finish this. Every once in a while he paused to scrub at his neck. You stood behind him, mindlessly rubbing his back and watching the too-black smoke whirl into the moonless sky.

Dean emerged from the crowd of on-lookers soon after, face somber and cold. Without a word, he filled the empty space at Sam’s other side, and together you watched his younger brother throw a shotgun into the trunk and shut the spare tire compartment. He grit his teeth.

For the first time in hours, Sam spoke:

“We’ve got work to do.”

NEXT PART: wendigo, p1.

#supernatural #uncouthspn #sam winchester #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you

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