The next morning you woke up, your cheek pressed against a warm shoulder, a large hand resting on your hip. Your heart started beating rapidly, and when you opened your eyes it didn’t stop. Your eyes fell on Dean, who was sleeping, soft snores escaping his lips. For a moment you were awestruck by him, the freckles on his cheekbones, the thickness of his lashes and the delicious curve of his lip. You’d love nothing more than to trace his defined cupid’s bow with your fingers, feel his breath on your skin.
The rules are as follows: go to page 7 of a WIP, skip to the 7th line, share 7 lines(or however much you want) and tag 7 more writers to continue the challenge.
(Oh, if you haven’t seen the pond yet, and you like SPN, go take a look- it’s a new SPN fanfic network that supports newbies. Like me.)
Okay, so this should hopefully, eventually, be part of a Winchester sister fanfic I’m posting on AO3 .
-
“I’m glad you two are okay.”
She wrapped her arms around herself tightly as she left the room. Sam and Dean stared after her silently. When Sam got up to follow her upstairs, Dean stayed where he was.
“You need sleep too, Dean,” Sam reminded him.
“Someone needs to be awake when she has a nightmare. We owe her that much.”
Sam shot him a disapproving look, at which he just shrugged. “You can’t tell me it’s not going to happen.” His voice was bitter, angry.
He moved back in front of the sofa, his arms folded. “Dean, you’re not blaming yourself for this, are you?”
-
I’m going to tag a few more guppies because, well, newbies should stick together. None of you have to do it if you don’t want to :)
This is a college AU. Instead of the professor/student relationship, how about a student/student one? Reader x Dean, with some familiar characters thrown in. This will be angsty at times, sad at times, and maybe definitely smutty. ;) Title borrowed from a Martina McBride song. As always, feedback is more than appreciated. ;)
The much-requested Part Four! Hope you all enjoy. Italicized portions are flashbacks.
SUMMARY: Dinner and a walk with your roommate and her family. WARNING: Moment of verbal abuse (if you squint) and a canon flashback WORD COUNT: 2056 TAGS:@screeching-pterodactyl-fangirl@spnfanficpond
Jo crossed her arms over her chest, pouting in the backseat of the vintage car.
“I’ve spent all summer craving that sushi place, because do you think there’s one in freakin’ Nebraska? Hell no. First chance I get to go there, are we going? No. Why?”
Jo leaned forward, whispering where only you could hear her.
“Because somebody’s got her panties in a knot for my brother. Ow!”
You looked down at your nails, pretending you hadn’t just tugged—hard—on a long piece of Jo’s blonde hair. She glared at you and you gave her a smile.
“One night, Jo. We’ll get sushi tomorrow. Or … you know. Soon.”
Jo rolled her eyes, and you settled back in the front seat. Dean climbed into the driver’s side across from you, while Sam climbed in the back with Jo. You glanced back and Dean let out a quiet laugh.
“Dad and Ellen are following in the truck. No possible way we could have gotten all of Jo’s stuff, plus the five of us, in this car. Baby’s good, but she’s not a miracle worker.” “Shut up, ass.”
Dean laughed again, this time with you and Sam joining in, and Dean started the car. You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you when the car started with a roar, then settled into a rumble you could almost feel in your bones. You glanced over and Dean was giving you a wide smile.
“She’s awesome, right?”
You laughed again, nodding your head.
“She is awesome.”
Dean twisted a knob and the car filled with a very recognizable guitar riff. Jo and Sam groaned, both leaning up to voice their opposition, Dean already loudly telling them to shut up, and every one of them fell silent when you reached over, turning the volume up more. You looked from dark brown to hazel to grass green eyes, then shrugged your shoulders.
“What? I like Guns ‘n’ Roses.”
They all blinked in unison, and you giggled at the sight, and Jo and Sam fell back into their seats with no other complaints. Dean nodded, smiling widely as he put the car in gear and slid onto the highway.
I caught Sam staring at me for the fourth time that day and smirked. He quickly looked away, staring at his laptop. We had been playfully flirting for weeks, but so far nothing had come of it.
“Sam!” Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s face. “Couples are disappearing and…?”
Sam shot Dean a look and said, “And then they’re found a few days later, eviscerated.”
“Okay, so…werewolf?”
“That’s what I’m thinking, but Sam doesn’t think so,” I said. Sam looked at me and I stuck my tongue out at him.
“We’re gonna check it out, right?” Dean asked.
“Yep, I’ll be ready in five,” Sam closed his laptop and slid it off the table, leaving the room.
It was Christmas Eve and you and Dean strolled along the snow covered streets, admiring the Christmas lights and decorations that painted the city. You weren’t ready to head back to the bunker, not ready to let the night end, not when it had been such a special one. It had been filled with you and Dean sitting in a little diner downtown. You had decided to order every dessert on the menu, along with a bottle of wine, pigging out and laughing until nearly 2am.
There was a small park up ahead of you, snow covering the benches. Strings of twinkle lights were wrapped around the light poles, in the trees and strewn across the walkways and you dragged Dean across the street, over to the swings.
“I haven’t sat on a swing set in… God knows how long.” Dean said, pushing off the small amount of snow that had gathered on the seats, before you both sat.
You smiled at him. The excitement in his expression and the way the lights strung across the pillars reflected in his eyes and shone on the freckles dusted across his cheeks, made your heart sing.
“Did you mean it?”
“What?” You asked, lightly swaying yourself with your feet.
“When you said you saw hope.. you know, for us?”
“Of course. I mean I’m terrified and it’s dangerous, obviously, in this life,” You sighed. “But you’re worth it.” You tried to sound nonchalant, trying not to sound to sappy. “What do you think?”
“Well, the idea of you and me as a couple… all I see are problems. Big problems. I’m talking… immense danger, chaos, riots in the streets, explosions, natural disasters, a freakin’ avalanche of emotional chaos. It’s really a bad idea. And I’m sorry but… I’m in, for all of it.” He shrugged, like his little speech, that sounded like it came out of a damn romance novel, wasn’t a big deal.
“Like you said, it’s worth it.”
“I said you’re worth it.”
“Yeah, well so are yo-,” Before he could even get the last word out you cut him off him a passionate press of your lips to his.
You giggled as you pulled away from him. “Who knew Dean Winchester was so sappy.“
“Yeah, yeah. Shut up.” He looked down, shaking his head at you, trying to mask the grin making its way across his flushed cheeks.
Sweet Jesus, he is so cute. That man is going to be the death of me. You thought, smiling to yourself.
“C'mon. Let’s head back, it’s fucking freezing out here.” He said with a laugh, standing and holding his hand out in your direction. You laced your fingers with his, following his slows steps away from the swing set.
You noticed a pile of snow that had collected at the bottom of the slide to your left and stopped, an idea forming in your head. You reached out to grab a palmful. “Did you and Sam ever get to play in the snow as kids?” You questioned as you let your hand slip from his.
“Not really, I mean it snowed in different towns my dad was working cases in but, John Winchester didn’t really make "playing” a priority on our daily to-do list.“ He watched you smashing the snow in your hand, forming a ball.
"Don’t even think about it. Don’t do what I think you’re about to do,” Dean warned, watching your lips curve into a smirk.
You turned to look at him, your face holding an expression of mock innocence.
“What would I be about to do?” you asked crouching down and collecting some more snow.
“Y/N,” he said slowly pointing a finger at you. “I know you, seriously don’t do it. You’ll regret it sweetheart."
You held the now perfect snowball in your hand, tossing it into the air slightly.
"Oh will I? You sure about that Winchester?”
Whatever he was about to say next was lost as you threw it at him, getting him right in the chest. He looked at you, exasperated and almost shocked that you actually did it, but you could see the smile hiding just behind it.
“You really shouldn’t have done that babe.” A mischievous smile now gracing his face.
You shrieked running toward the snow covered grassy field, to get away long enough to make another snowball.
“No you don’t!” he yelled, and you could hear his footsteps catching up with yours. You were fast but Dean was so much faster and he caught you in his arms from behind lifting you easily, laughing and spinning you. Your heart fluttered and butterflies exploded in your stomach at the feeling of his arms around you and the warmth of his torso pressed to your back. He set you back down but kept his arms around you until you stopped struggling to get away, still laughing.
His hand pushed down the back of your shirt dropping a bit of snow down it causing you to squeal. Your back arched away from it as you squirmed, losing your footing and falling backwards; taking Dean down with you. He landed flat on top of you with an “unnff”.
He began tickling your sides, the sound of your uninhibited laughter making him smile. God, he loved you.
“Okay okay,” you squealed. “Truce!”
He ceased his attack on your sides. “On one condition.”
“What condition?"
"Kiss me.” He whispered, eyes flickering to your slightly quivering lips. And you did, with lips tasting of chocolate and white wine. Your hand caressed the fabric of his worn out jacket as the smell of cologne wafted to you; with a feeling of home attached to both of them. Light snow began to fall as you kissed the boy you definitely hadn’t mean to fall for, but are so glad you did.
A/N: This one is difficult for me for some reason. Not really sure why. Feedback encouraged and appreciated!
You had just pulled up to a little crappy gas station somewhere in Oklahoma. You weren’t really paying attention. “Alright, I figure we’ll hit Tucumcari by lunch, then head south and hit Bisbee my midnight.” Dean said to you and Sam. “Sounds good to me.” You said hopping out of the car to stretch your legs. Sam wasn’t paying any attention to Dean or to you. He was fascinated by his Palm Pilot. “Sam wears women’s underwear…” Dean continued. “I’ve been listening.” Sam replied. “I’m just busy.” “Whatchya doin’?” you asked through the window, sticking your face in the window to see for yourself. He put his palm over your face and pushed you back out the window. “Hey! Rude!” you giggled. He laughed at you. “I’m reading emails!” he said, as Dean joined you outside the car to pump the gas. “Emails from who?” Dean questioned. “My friends at Stanford.” Sam said, and you could see a small flicker of sadness cross his face. “You’re kidding…you still keep in touch with your old college buddies?” Dean scoffed. “Why not?” Sam asked.
Title: Blood is Thicker, Chapter 2 Pairing: Eventual Castiel/OC. Very very very slow burn. Word Count: 4720 this chapter only Warnings: Violence in this chapter. Monster killing. No smut. Tags:@abaddonwithyall@scruffandyarn@ladyfae@kittenofdoomage@spnfanficpond Summary: “She’s a nephilim. An abomination. The only one on earth.“ Was she really the only one, though?
The actress I’m picturing for Gabriella, Ellen Page:
Title: Blood is Thicker, Chapter 2 Pairing: Eventual Castiel/OC. Very very very slow burn. Word Count: 4720 this chapter only Warnings: Violence in this chapter. Monster killing. No smut. Tags:@abaddonwithyall@scruffandyarn@ladyfae@kittenofdoomage@spnfanficpond Summary: “She’s a nephilim. An abomination. The only one on earth.“ Was she really the only one, though?
The actress I’m picturing for Gabriella, Ellen Page:
Other tags: wincest, incest, masturbation, master/slave dynamics, submissive Dean, mentions of knotting, mentions of underage sex, public sex
Summary: Monsters have taken over and established a slave trade. Dean is caught during a hunt and sold at auction. Sam is able to procure ownership of his brother, but now the two of them must navigate this new dynamic.
Written for SPN Dystopia Bang and fills master/slave square for @spnkinkbingo
Summary: Sam Wesson has been wrongfully accused of murdering his college roommate. Convicted and sentenced to life without parole, he is on his way to prison when the transport van crashes, presenting him with a chance to escape. Desperate for freedom, he goes on the run. He vows that he will do whatever he has to do to stay out of prison. US Marshal Dean Winchester is on his trail. His job is simple: capture Sam and bring him back to prison. At least it started out as simple. But two unexpected things happen: he becomes attracted to the fugitive and he begins to suspect that Sam is innocent. In a clash between desire and duty, which side will win?
Summary:You’re always waiting. Waiting on something or someone else to decide how you’re going to feel, what you’re going to do. Fuck, you’re so sick of waiting.
Rating:15+
Pairing:Dean x Reader // Dean x Jo
Tags:Cheating, affair, major angst, age gap, mentions of smut, heartbreak, break up
A/Ns:I’ve once again written a fic based on the song Illicit Affairs by Taylor Swift because it’s a stunning song and it gives me endless inspiration for angsty fics! Hope you enjoy the heartache!
This fic was posted 4 weeks ago on my website and Patreon - link in my bio to find out more!
“What the actual fuck am I doing?” You slam on the brakes of your car, stopping still in the middle of the country back road, your headlights pooling in front of you, illuminating the empty path ahead and trees surrounding you. You’d not been expecting to come to this realisation right here and now, almost at your destination. “What the actual fuck am I doing?!” You repeat out loud to yourself, looking around your car.
It’s almost two A.M. You’d previously been wrapped up in bed, a hot water bottle strapped to your stomach as you willed your period to arrive so you could get it over with. But just like everything else in your life it has been keeping you waiting. You’re always waiting. Waiting on something or someone else to decide how you’re going to feel, what you’re going to do. Fuck, you’re so sick of waiting.And your period hadn’t been the only thing you’d been waiting on. You’re ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. You’d laid there, constantly lifting your phone off of the nightstand, tilting the bright screen towards you to check you’d not missed the sound of a notification.
Warnings: Other than the obvious, Dubcon for John unaware it’s Dean.
Sunmary: During a hunt in Memphis back in 2002, Dean dips out on John to scratch an itch. When John shows up at the same bar with the same itch, Dean’s all too happy to keep this scathing little secret to himself.
Rating:Explicit Words:8,436 Tags:Rape/Non-Con, See work for additional tags, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Summary:
Tonight will be bad for Dean, Cas thinks, but it will bring home the point of Cas’s kindness. With the invite, he made sure to call attention to the only rule for the event: do whatever you want, as long as the damage won’t take more than a handful of days to heal.
Warnings: angst. Seriously…like–way too much angst.
Summary: in one of the most heartbreaking moments of Dean’s life, he and Team Free Will say their goodbyes. (Dean’s POV)
She’s so beautiful. The way the light shines on her face makes me have to catch my breath every time. I look at her and it’s like staring into the sun, though I can never look away.
She does this thing when she’s thinking, she’ll just nibble on her lip without even noticing she’s doing it. Her skin smells like gentle lavender like the flowers just bloom under her skin. And her eyes–oh, those eyes take me somewhere far away with every glance.
On the horizon, I can see the sun beginning to set. The water is practically still, though the breeze still blows softly through her hair. She’s a force of nature all on her own.
As I study her with tears in my eyes, I watch the final colors left in the sky make her skin glow. Never have I longed for someone the way I do her, and I know that I never will again.
Welcome to my series rewrite masterlist! I hope you enjoy and find yourself wanting to join the hunt with me and share our heroes’ journey together.
“Wayward Hearts”
Summary: As Sam and Dean begin the search for their father, a chance encounter with another hunter will change the roads ahead. Riley Munroe is a hunter, raised by her father after her mother tragically died when she was only six months old. Brought together by loss, grief, and the family business, Sam, Dean, and Riley join forces. They’ll find that their stories are intertwined and lean on each other as they search for answers and to avenge those they’ve lost. They’ll face evil, darkness, and hell itself…as a family.
Getting back to the family business over the next couple weeks. With all the fandom drama going on and no more SPN to feed our hunger for more…I hope this series rewrite helps fill the void.
Stay tuned and keep a look out for new chapters coming soon :)
Welcome to my series rewrite masterlist! I hope you enjoy and find yourself wanting to join the hunt with me and share our heroes’ journey together.
“Wayward Hearts”
Summary: As Sam and Dean begin the search for their father, a chance encounter with another hunter will change the roads ahead. Riley Munroe is a hunter, raised by her father after her mother tragically died when she was only six months old. Brought together by loss, grief, and the family business, Sam, Dean, and Riley join forces. They’ll find that their stories are intertwined and lean on each other as they search for answers and to avenge those they’ve lost. They’ll face evil, darkness, and hell itself…as a family.
Getting back to the family business over the next couple weeks. With all the fandom drama going on and no more SPN to feed our hunger for more…I hope this series rewrite helps fill the void.
Stay tuned and keep a look out for new chapters coming soon :)
But, I’m having surgery next week and will be on bedrest for 2-3 weeks. So…I’m thinking that might be a good time to get back into writing the SPN series rewrite “Wayward Hearts”.
I think about this series all the time and I’m constantly missing being a part of the story of Sam, Dean, and Riley. My life has been so chaotic (in mostly good ways) that I just haven’t had the time or energy to work on it. But, with no work, the kiddo out of town, and time off school…I think it’s as good a time as any to bring back our heroes. We still have at least a season and a half to go!
I will have more information for you over the coming two weeks. I’m eager to get back into this rewrite and to get back on the road with you all.
I love you, my friends and I hope you are all well and safe. Keep a look out for updates on our series :) (yes–it’s ours)
Check out the SPN series rewrite “Wayward Hearts”<—and get all caught up before we continue the hunt.
Dean flashed you a cheesy grin. “You did good out there tonight. Proud of you.” His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, but he still seemed mostly sober.
He was checking out the group of women up at the front of the bar, who wore more revealing clothing than you dared.
You envied their confidence. Sometimes you wished you had the grit to do that stuff.
Dean didn’t fake reluctance to leave you or Sam. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get it. When he finished his drink, he made his move, leaving the table, and you and Sam with it.
The younger Winchester smiled at you awkwardly. You could tell he wanted to leave as well—he and some girl at the bar had been making googly eyes at each other since he walked in—but was conflicted on leaving you.
“Sam,” you said impatiently. “That girl has been giving you the eyes since we walked in. And don’t think I don’t see you sending them back. If you don’t get up now, I’ll push you over there.”
You were glad that women weren’t assuming you and Sam—or Dean—were together; it made everything much less complicated. Both of the Winchesters were way out of your league. You were more likely the sister they never had.
He was a little surprised, and a little amused by your attitude. “Oh, really?”
“Don’t test me,” you joked.
He laughed, collecting his jacket and walking away.
Your deluding smile fell from your face once you were alone. Bars were usually their choice of festivity, but they mostly just made you uncomfortable.
You were now alone, as both of the boys hit on some chicks and snuck off to get laid. You were used to it. It wasn’t your ideal celebration, but if it made them happy, you’d bear it. You supposed they just assumed your interests matched theirs. Even if all you wanted to do was go home and sleep.
Anyway, the faster the Winchesters both left with broads, the faster you could leave. It was just that simple.
You sipped your whiskey that Dean had paid for. It was strong, and hard to swallow, but in small portions it was tolerable. You appreciated the gift, even if it wasn’t your preferred drink. Dean had a big heart, and you wouldn’t ruin your sweet moments with him because you were feeling picky.
You let your mind wander to a darker place.
You were still coming to terms with hunter life. And from what you’ve gathered, it was cruel, unfair, and thankless.
The Winchesters didn’t sugarcoat it, either. Everything that society looked down upon—the suspiciously cult-ish tattoos, borderline or over-the-line alcoholism (a line you were uncertain where Dean fell), and cheap clothing with leather jackets—was a signature of a hunter’s life. Not to mention the trigger-happy hands, suspicious glares, and their off-putting, dark looks.
It opened your eyes.
That “gothic” girl you saw in your neighborhood? That might have looked like a satanic tattoo, but it was actually an anti-possession tattoo that she got because she was terrified of the demons that wanted to kill her. And those knives in her pocket and backpack? That was for her safety, and probably yours, too.
Or that shady alcoholic up the street? Werewolves brutally murdered his friends, and he has to live with the survivor’s guilt. He drinks while obsessively researching how to hunt them down. Though he’ll likely die of a failing liver before ever taking on the pack.
The point was…
Looks weren’t always transparent.
And, well, you were everything hunters weren’t.
Your pain tolerance was pathetic, for one. Tattoos? Big nope. You hated all things needles, and despite tattoos looking cool, you liked to avoid pain, thanks.
Second, your wardrobe. As if that wasn’t blatantly obvious.
And, last, you were a hopeless lightweight. A few shots and you were tipsy. Dean thought it was hilarious.
Still, you drank your whiskey, feeling guilty that you hated it.
You were tired. It was dark out, and you could already feel the whiskey in your system. You just wanted to go home.
So the last thing you expected that night was for a guy to hit on you. You, feeling unlike yourself—and very drunk—warily flirted back.
He was charming. Thing was, with your buzzing vision, all you noticed were his eyes and handsome smile. You didn’t notice the more important things, like, say… the roofies dissolving in your drink.
Too bad you hadn’t—because you wouldn’t have let him breathe down your neck like he had been… or breathe at all, for that matter.
Your words slurred, and you leaned into him when he stood. “Hey, hey, h-hey, mister. Wheeere ya’ goin’ off to?”
You were smashed.
You didn’t feel too hot, either. You were practically dangling off his shoulders as he helped you from your chair, and your stomach churned. “I don’ feel so guud…” you slurred, keeling over to vomit on the pavement. Huh. You were outside?
You made out two shapes that looked dubiously like him. Albeit one may have very well been a trash can. “Yeeuur kindouf prr…retty.”
He snickered, though you weren’t sure what was so funny. “Just let it sink in,” he said. “It’s okay, babe.”
What was he talking about? You frowned, troubled. “Doe… don'ttt… calmeh that.”
There was only a muddy sense of direction. You fizzled in and out of consciousness, and your memory escaped you.
You were completely at this man’s mercy.
///
You woke up feeling like hell. The lights… the sounds…it was all too loud.
Your head felt like a crushed soda can. You turned—inch by inch—trying to get a view of the entire room, tied up—which, yeah, was a big red flag—and leaned awkwardly against the wall. When you finally saw behind you, you met the eyes of multiple other women in your same predicament.
The previous evening was a haze. Your mind was still catching up with the present, much less the past.
Something in the shadows of the room moved, and you watched as two figures loomed over an unconscious woman covered in dark, bloody bites around her neck and chest.
“Vamps,” you spat. But it came more like “vamffptss” through your gag with a few lisp-y expletives.
They spun around, smiling to themselves. A vampire crouched down to your level, taunting you, “Ah, so there is more to her than a pretty face! Who would have known? Are you a hunter, babe?”
A memory clicked as he said that. You might say it rang a bell—an alarm bell, anyway—but you couldn’t place it. His voice was bouncing around in your head and it was hard to focus.
“Sssgrew you.”
He stood, gave you a smirk, and drove his foot into your abdomen. Hard.
“Wow. I mean, you were a little feisty at the bar, but I never would have envisioned you’d have so much kick.” He winked at you, then turned back to his goonies. “Alright. Ship ‘em. Mark the pretty ones. They’ll be worth more.”
You puffed, still recovering from the harsh blow, as a skinny redhead yanked you up by the ropes. He was watching you like one looks in a microwave at their meal.
You thrashed. It was a weak move, hardly knocking him back on his heels, but it was also a minor triumph.
Then said vampire punched your throat, and all smugness disappeared.
The lead vamp turned to see the commotion and erupted, “Are you kidding me? Christ—get the gag off her, will you?!” When the others looked at him in alarm and skepticism, he barked, “She’s no use to us dead! Do you want her suffocating?”
Carrot Top worked the gag from your aching jaw, and you just laid there, winded, like a dead dog.
The Lead Vamp grabbed the shirt collar of your redhead attacker. “Hey, maybe don’t punch 'em in the throat next time. They’re gonna squirm a little—it’s what they do. So ignore it.”
“Yessir’.”
“Good. And, hey, guys—bag the ugly ones. I got a client for them.”
You coughed, propping yourself up by the elbow. You were concerned. Am I ugly?
The redhead vamp kicked you down by your arm, hissing, “Not you. We got a special guy for you. Likes the fighters.”
You were so tired and weak and helpless. Couldn’t do anything but lay there. You could only watch as the other vamps manhandled poor, terrified women.
“Leeches,” you said, earning you a foot to the face.
“Do yourself a favor and shut up.”
It was hard to not comply. As your head lolled, you spat blood at his feet. You would not go down easy.
He hauled you up, and his punch cracked like a whip.
You stared at his bloody knuckles, feeling your own arms twitch. The ropes were loose. You wondered briefly if you could even run—
Another strike had your vision swimming with stars.
“Hey. I got a question—huff—” You said, taking the punches like a champ and distracting him. “Has anyone ever told you—uff—that you look like—guh—Strawberry Shortcake?”
The ropes worked off your wrists and when he swung, you ducked—or fell, more like—away from his swing. Breathless, you pulled yourself to your feet to run.
The adrenaline was really the only thing keeping you going. Thing was, adrenaline didn’t give you accuracy, it just gave you strength. And little that strength was.
And, woah, was the ground spinning. You gagged as you watched the hallway sway. You were not in any shape to run, but you sure as hell tried to. You stumbled down the hallway, your knees giving out multiple times before you couldn’t pick yourself up again.
The vamp’s yell echoed down the hallway. “You’re not a hunter anymore, little lamb! You’re the hunted!” It probably wouldn’t take much for him to follow the sound of your hummingbird heart.
That was enough encouragement to get anyone on their toes. Even someone who was shaking like a leaf.
Whatever roofie they’d given you, it was enhanced. Everything was so hot and bright and loud. You wished the world could just be quiet. Your heart was beating so loud you could feel it in your teeth.
You clambered to the exit, reaching for the doors to push them open.
Just then, a hand pitched you backward, pulling down on your shoulder. You yelled out, petrified.
“It’s me, it’s just me,” Dean whispered quickly, easing you through the door, around the corner, and to where Baby was parked.
Your heart was still jack hammering in your chest as he pulled you in for a hug. You were high as a kite on adrenaline.
“Been looking all over for you.” The pitch in his voice was more stressed than usual. You were like a little sister to him.
You leaned into his embrace. It was warm and solid and safe. And it was exactly what you needed to ground yourself.
“He drugged me,” you blurted. “He drugged me. I couldn’t—he just—”
He paled. “Did he touch you?” When you paused, his expression darkened. “I’ll rip his lungs out. I’ll kill every single one of them. I'll—”
“He didn’t touch me,” you interrupted. “Not like that.” You rested your forehead against his chest.
“Thank god.”
“But I think they would’ve.” You practically melted as he smoothed your hair down. “They’re human trafficking. Selling women as blood bags.”
Dean turned to Sam, who was leaned up against the Impala, and nodded at him. Sam took that as his cue to go ahead without Dean. “I got Sammy on it right now. You sure you’re alright?”
His arms around you were the only thing keeping you standing. “Just tired. And my head really hurts.” Gunshots went off behind you, and you flinched. Your ears were still sensitive.
“Sounds like nothing a little sleep can’t fix.” Dean patted your back and opened the back of the Impala.
You crawled in and fell asleep before Dean could even pull out of the parking lot.
You tried following your heart, once, as a senior in college with straight A’s, a bright future, a career so close you could almost touch it. You were so close to satisfaction. So close to that diploma.
And all at once, that dream ceased to be. And all you could think was my heart must be very very lost.
It all began on a cloudy Friday evening, you were just about to end your shift with the dogs. It was a tangled mess of leashes when you made it back to the animal shelter. Sweat and dog hair covered you, and after a good shower of puppy kisses, you finally untangled yourself from the mass of dogs and return them to their rightful cages.
You refused to meet their sad eyes. You made that mistake, once, and had spent half an hour reassuring each heartbroken dog that they were, indeed, a good boy.
“I’ll see you guys in the morning!” you promised with a wave and a jangle of your dog whistle, and after a reply of barks, you left the building at dusk.
The road was silent, the street lamps weren’t on yet, and the clouds had become heavier in the sky. You had read in the forecast it was going to rain, but hadn’t expected this.
The tightness in your chest only continued to build as you made it to the campus. The sun was just barely visible behind the storm clouds that had rolled in. The wind had become cool, and the wind had picked up, sending chills up and down your spine.
Perhaps it was just a combination of paranoia and reasonable worry for a woman walking alone at night to her college dorm, except your blood chilled the moment you unlocked your room and entered.
The hair on your arms and the back of your neck were on end. Your eyes adjusted to the dim light, and you realized that the window was open, and the harsh breeze was whipping past you.
You laughed it off, feeling silly. Though that night you slept with your cover tight against your chest, back against the wall, and your little silver paring knife under your pillow.
The next day, you experienced the same fear. Except, this time, it was sunny out.
What was triggering these feelings of dread? It was like you couldn’t focus anymore. Everything just felt… itchy. That was the only way you could describe it.
With each day that passed, the source of your terror was slowly revealing itself. Little, weird things that wouldn’t be so noticeable to an outsider, but as someone who valued cleanliness and order, it might as well have been an elephant in the room.
Things were never as you left them. On Sunday morning you couldn’t find your hairbrush. Monday evening, your bed was mysteriously unkempt, even though you’d recalled making it that morning. Tuesday, the caps of your perfume bottles were all off and littered on the floor of your bathroom. Someone had been in your dorm.
You didn’t have a roommate.
You called the police at midnight on Wednesday, and they showed up to your dorm to find you locked in the bathroom. They chalked it up to a wild imagination. You were three floors up, after all. Nobody was breaking in. You were just a stupid, homesick college student.
Right?
Pah, it wasn’t like you were a senior, or anything. Or that you’d ever even cried wolf in the last three years of living alone. But yeah, sure, call it paranoia.
Three weeks later, there was a knock on your front door.
It startled you enough to send you on your ass. You stared at the door from the floor, and it loomed over you like a bad dream.
Your stalker had been your shadow for almost a month at that point. A gaze that burned into the back of your skull, even when there was no one around. You wanted them to keep their distance.
You stood like a whisper, careful not to make any noise as you tiptoed to the peephole of your door. This was it. There would finally be a face to your terror. Someone you could blame.
A weird combination of disappointment and relief washed over you when you saw two FBI agents instead. Your fear of it being your stalker morphed into a fear of the justice system. Had they come to laugh at you just as the police had?
When they knocked a second time, you opened the door.
They showed you their badges and introduced themselves. “Mind if we come in?” Agent Young asked. He had longer, brown hair and kind eyes. You couldn’t hold a gaze with him worth your life.
Strangers in your home, even authorities, made your hackles raise. What the helllllll was all you could think as you welcomed them into your tiny dorm as your legs shook.
A million questions raced around your head at once.
“Could we ask you about the death of your professor? Mr.Cleveland?”
Your heart plummeted and all hope died within you. Oh. This was about that whole freak-show. “What about it?” you said. Your feet shifted.
“Well, it’s said that you were there at the time of his death. Is that true?” Agent Scott asked. He was more intimidating—more rough around the edges—but you supposed he was just professional.
“Um. Uh, yeah. It…” the agents were watching you with intrigue, and you looked to the carpet. “It was horrible.” And it was. It was bloody and scary, and all your fault because you had just stood there—watched as the professor died right in front of you.
Upon seeing your haunted look, Agent Scott spoke a little gentler. “Did you see what happened?”
“I—yeah… I saw it all. He—he had been helping me with something. An essay. I was flunking and he suggested a one on one.” That had only been a week ago. Your grades had suffered as you juggled your classes. When Mr.Cleveland died… you abandoned college altogether and let the dog whistle collect dust.
“I don’t know… he just…” started dying at your feet. You hadn’t even tried to pick up a phone. You just stood there, and you watched. Your breath picked up. “…he just—”
Agent Young’s voice was sympathetic. “He started coughing up blood?”
“Yeah. I didn’t—I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking about…” the stalker, you thought. I couldn’t stop thinking about the stalker. “I froze and, a-and I just watched—”
“Easy, easy. It’s okay. We just need to know the details,” Agent Scott said.
You paused, then. Something didn’t add up. “Wait… why is the FBI interested in a guy that died of a lung disease?” When the agents exchanged glances, you squinted at them, your anxiety briefly replaced with confusion.
“We don’t think it was, erm, lung disease,” Agent Scott said. “We think he might have been…” He searched for the word a little too long for your liking. “…uh, poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” you yelped. “Who could have… oh god, that makes me a suspect, doesn’t it?”
“Unfortunately.”
Your stomach sank, and that anxiety returned. “You guys have to know I wouldn't—I would never—”
“If we thought it was you, you would be in custody,” Agent Scott informed you curtly.
Agent Young frowned at his partner as if to say not helping and then turned back to you. “We just want to know what you saw that day. Anything weird? Strange noises? Smells?” He narrowed his eyes. “Is there anyone you know who would want to kill Mr.Cleveland?”
This was your chance to tell them about your stalker. If there was anyone who could help you, it was the FBI.
Yet you clammed up. "No, not really,“ you blurted. "Nobody I can think of, honest. Not to be rude, but I have finals tomorrow. Could you… leave?”
Who were you kidding, your grades had dropped so low lately that even finals wouldn’t save you. But they didn’t know that.
…probably.
They offered you a trained smile that didn’t reach the eyes. “Of course. We’ll get out of your hair. If you think of anything else, here’s our card.” And with that they left the room.
The tightness in your chest did not ease.
///
That night, you had dreams of monsters and of evil people that could poison someone and smile. You dreamed of your stalker, and them laughing as you choked on your own blood.
You woke up in a cold sweat, eyes snapping open to the glow of an agape window. It was shut when you fell asleep, but it was open now, blowing in a breeze that chilled your blood.
Your dog whistle was gone.
It was a fear like no other. Your gut was screaming at you to launch for the phone. You did, automatically dialling the number on the business card that laid discarded on the other end of the room. You had memorized it after hours of staring at the numbers, debating whether or not to call them, then ultimately deciding not to with anxiety gnawing away at you.
They answered it on the second ring.
“Hello?” said a gruff voice. Agent Scott.
“I remembered something,” you blurted. “You-you said to call… if I thought of something…” You trailed off when you saw the clock. “Oh god, it’s three in the morning. Maybe this can… this can… this can wait…” It couldn’t wait.
“No, wait. What is it? Might be important if it’s got you up at three in the morning. Unless it’s just finals?”
You shook your head and then realized he couldn’t hear that. “Not finals. Someone’s been stalking me for the past week. I thought… maybe, I was paranoid. I was… constantly told that I was paranoid. But someone was in here while I was asleep. And might… might still be close.”
“Okay, you got a knife?”
“A knife?” You squeaked.
“Yeah. A knife. To defend yourself.”
“Oh. Right. Right, okay. Uh. Well, uh, I have a paring knife?”
“You have… a paring knife,” he repeated.
“Um, yeah? Is that okay? The dorms have rules against big knives. For safety reasons. It’s a silver p—”
“Silver? Okay, you know what? That’s fine. That’s good. Use that. Is it sharp?”
“Sharp enough, I hope.” You ran over to your cabinet, pulling out the knife and holding it to your chest. Your ragged breaths were loud in your ears. “Now what?”
“Well,” he said, and you could hear an engine starting in the background. “We should be there in a few minutes. Stay on the phone, you hear me?”
“I—should I have called 911? This has never happened to me—”
“You’re doing fine. Now, what made you so sure that someone had been in your room?”
“Well, the open window. I live up a few floors. There is no way they could have opened it unless—”
“Unless someone had been in your room. Alright. Just sit tight, okay? Don’t hang up.”
“O-okay.” The agents will be here soon. They will help me. You had the knife and phone held so close to your chest and tight in your fist that your knuckles were white.
I will not die.
Without warning, you choked. It was wet, coppery, and lukewarm on your tongue. You clawed at your neck for air. You fell to your knees. The phone clattered on the wooden floor’; it buzzed with muffled shouting, but you couldn’t pick it up, nor could you answer.
Just then, a massive shadow crawled in from your window, and it grunted like an animal. You barely had enough strength to look at him as trails of red spit hung from your face.
The man had claws. The man had claws. The man—the thing, had—for the love of God, inch long claws.
Down the hallway, there was a muffling of running feet. They would be too late. You realized then: you were probably going to die. You were no fair match.
You could feel the monster’s breath on your neck when the beast abruptly fell down like a sack of potatoes, howling and twisting.
Blindly, you stabbed it in the chest with all your strength, twisting the blade and then collapsing once again into a fit of retching.
The agents burst into the room.
But instead of moving to help you, they tore the room apart in search of something. You couldn’t help but sob in despair. Why weren’t they helping you?
But when Agent Scott whipped out a little bag from your drawer and lit it on fire, the choking miraculously ceased.
You melted into the floor to catch your breath again. For a minute everyone just breathed. You really appreciated the minor break.
Agent Young helped you up, closely inspecting your heavy, slightly bloody, zoned-out face, and decided you were okay.
You licked your lips, still not processing any part of the last hour. “What,” you said, “just happened.”
The agents exchanged looks.
You looked at them. Really looked at them. “You’re not FBI, are you?”
Agent Scott shrugged at his partner. “You gonna give her the talk, Sammy, or should I?”
///
“Were-witches,” you deadpanned. Monsters, hunters, hex bags, and were-witches.
“Yep,” Agent Scott—or Dean Winchester, you were now learning—said. “He probably got a whiff of you covered in dog hair or something. You’re lucky we got here in time. The pervert was, I kid you not, jellifying human hearts with dark magic. Like, alive. And then he’d make you regurgitate—” He caught the hard look from Agent Young—Sam—and shut up. “But, yeah. Were-witches.”
You frowned. “I can accept witches and werewolves, but… were-witches? For real?”
“Trust me, we didn’t know they existed either,” Sam informed you.
Dean laughed to himself. “Hey Sammy, should we call him a son of a witch or a son of a bi—” His smile faltered with both Sam and your glaring. “Get it? Witch jokes? Dog jokes? Sheesh, okay, you guys are seriously no fun.”
Sam sighed. “We should probably take the, um, dead werewitch, out of here.”
You followed his eyes to the heap of fur on your floor. Seeing your stalker dead was a major weight off your shoulders. It was such a relief that you felt high.
Sam was still talking. “—and you have finals?”
You sobered. “Right. Those.” Like you would do anything except bomb them.
Sam must have known the look. “You haven’t studied, have you? At all.”
Shaking your head, you slumped into the mattress. “Nope. This stalker thing screwed me up big time. There’s just no way.” You sighed. Sam’s dark look made you squint at him. “What?”
“I just, uh, know the feeling,” Sam said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “I got a free ride to law school before the hunting life took me away. I was already a hunter, I didn’t have a choice. But you still do. You can still have that life you want.” He tapped the card, still on the desk from his last visit. “Stay out of trouble and call us whenever. Especially if it’s three in the morning.”
Right then, you noticed the dog whistle was back, as if it had never left. Realization hit you like a brick to the head. “You did that! You blew the whistle.”
“Yeah, well, I knew it was a werewolf. So I took a gamble and… borrowed it. Guess I didn’t think you’d miss it—it was pretty dusty.”
“You stole my whistle!”
“Hey, no, I borrowed it—”
“You gave me a heart attack! I thought the werewitch had stolen it! That’s what set me off and made me call you—not the window!”
Dean cracked a smile. “Hey, it saved you, though, yeah? If I hadn’t taken it, who’s to say I could have saved your damsel ass?”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch,” Dean said automatically.
You blinked in surprise at the speed of his reply.
His eyes widened. “Sorry. That's… uh, Sam usually says that and I respond with…”
You laughed. Really laughed. You doubled over, struggling to breathe for the second time today, but this time it was welcome. The Winchesters inevitably joined in as you howled. You wiped away your tears of laughter, occasionally breaking into a smaller fit.
“You good?” Dean asked, grinning,
You sighed, the hysteria wearing off. “God, it wasn’t even that funny! You just caught me by surprise. Thanks, though. For saving me, and all.”
Dean smiled, patting you on the back. “No problem, kid.”
You settled into a comfortable silence. You were still trying to calm down as they watched you with looks of fondness.
“Are you going to be able to sleep?” Sam asked.
You knew what he meant: were you going to be able to sleep alone? And honestly, you had a feeling you would sleep like a baby tonight. However, you had no purpose staying here anymore. “Would I be stepping too far if I asked to come with you? Just for the night.”
