#practically magic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

trektraveler · 2 years

Text

Practically Magic Chapter Six: The Black Dog

Summary: Growing up in the same tiny mountain town, Y/N Owens and Dean Winchester despised each other. The only thing they ever agreed on was their need to escape. Life took them in opposite directions and neither of them ever looked back. So, when their paths cross over a series of gruesome murders in their hometown it was no surprise that old friction heated up again.

Dean never dreamed he’d be teaming up with a psychic, the FBI frowned on that sort of thing, but he was desperate. When that psychic turned out to be Y/N Owens, Dean knew two things for sure. One, Y/N was the real deal and two, he was in real trouble.

Pairing: Agent!Dean x Psychic!Reader, Dean x Reader, AU Dean x You Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Bobby Singer

Warnings: Slow Burn, Serial Killer Elements, Witches, Haters to Lovers, Claustrophobic Elements, Murder Scenes

Author’s Notes: This is an AU taking elements from the film Practical Magic and applying them to a fictional world where Dean Winchester is an FBI Agent. You will find parallels from that movie here, some quotes and other elements that capture the essence of the world of the Owens Witches. Hopefully! Additional Author’s Notes: This is a unique reader insert story as I have given the reader a physical description including hair color, eye color and body type. Chapter Six: The Black Dog Word Count: 3819

“You spend all your energy trying to fit in, be normal. But you’re never going to fit in, because we’re different!” – Gillian Owens

You efficiently shuffled the over-sized deck of cards as you sat at the kitchen table. The familiar smooth edges and worn corners soothed your nerves as you repeated the mindless task. It had been a week since you started working with the Winchesters and so far, you hadn’t been much of an asset. You’d had no visions, no prophetic dreams, not so much as a spooky shiver! Nothing! You felt frustrated and utterly useless. It was only a matter of time before the killer struck again and the pressure to produce something tangible was intense.

Sam was the most understanding; patience being one of his many strengths. He seemed pleased to have you around and always asked for your opinion on potential suspects. Although, you produced nothing of substance, he was quick to assure you that your help was needed and welcome.

Dean, on the other hand, avoided you almost entirely. He shut himself up in his office, pouring over case files and drinking vats of sour coffee. When he did emerge, it was to leave and interview potential witnesses or revisit crime scenes. Or brood. Lord knows he’d been an expert at that when you were children and he’d perfected his technique in recent years. You couldn’t help but notice that even Sam’s deputies steered clear of him. Silverton was a small town and shared their law enforcement with three other communities. This was likely the first time these local boys had teamed up with someone of Dean’s clout. The whole station was a bundle of nerves and anxiety.

Which is exactly why you were in Gran’s kitchen. You needed space to breathe and to get your spirit in alinement to receive.

“Dear me, back to the training wheels, is it?”

You continued to shuffle, watching your grandmother glide over to the stove and put a kettle on. “Tarot is a perfectly viable tool for divination.”

“Oh, I am well aware… that is my deck, you’re using.”

“I have better luck with yours.”

You laid out two cards in quick succession. Five of wands and the four of cups. Conflict and melancholy.

Viv glanced over your shoulder and clicked her tongue. “Those cards always were on the sharp side.”

You groaned, “It’s not going well.”

She filled two cups with steaming tea, offering one to you as she sat across from you. “I could have told you that. Nothing ever goes well with the Winchesters.”

“Not even with Sam?” You asked, peering innocently over the rim of your teacup.

“Samuel’s good nature is not enough to counter the chaotic nature of his brother. He’s not safe, Y/N.”

“He’s an FBI Agent and Sam is a sheriff. Public safety is in their job description.”

“Pretending ignorance doesn’t suit, so let’s not dance around the subject. Its Dean who concerns me and should concern you.” Viv stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea. “I nearly lost you because of him and here you are… giving him an opportunity to do it all again, this time permanently.”

You looked down, unable to face the directness of your grandmother’s gaze. “It’s in the past, Gran.”

“The past has a way of repeating itself. Especially in this family.”

“Not this time.” You rubbed your thumb over the palm of your right hand, another childhood habit. “The ties that bound us together were severed long ago. Nothing is going to happen with Dean, I’ve made sure of it.”

Remorse reflected in Viv’s dark eyes, “I know, my darling girl. But that doesn’t make it easy. For either of you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you agreed. “But stopping this killer is more important that our comfort. It’s the gift. The call, I have to answer it.”

Vivienne reached across the table and flipped over the third card, The Moon. Intuition.

“So, it seems. Take the Obsidian, the weather is turning.”

You maneuvered your old Jeep down the winding road that would deposit you in the middle of downtown Silverton. Reliable, durable, and older than you, it had been a birthday present when you turned sixteen. Black with a double pinstripe in neon purple. You parked it in the garage when you left to seek your fortune, never knowing that you’d one day be right back where you started. A Stevie Nicks cassette was still stuck in the ancient tape deck and seemed appropriate.

Gran’s Black Obsidian pendant was hidden under your shirt and sat over your heart. The large piece of volcanic glass was a sword against negativity and dated all the way back to the Mayans. Your clothes were black too, and close fitting. Modern day armor, you donned when you needed to project strength you didn’t quite feel. Fake it ‘til you make it. Today certainly fell into that category.

You parked in front of the sheriff’s station and checked your reflection in the rearview before getting out. The tousled pixie cut still did its job of accentuating your features while conveying confidence with a touch of sex appeal. A small, petty part of you hoped Dean was struggling as much as you were. Why should you be the only one squirming? If looking good was the best revenge, then you were going to serve it hot!

The wind that had been blustering all morning came to an abrupt stop as you reached for the front door of the station. There was a smell of something burning, smoldering and sulfuric. You felt eyes on you, boring into your back and when you slowly turned there was a huge, black dog. Eerie and still as death, its eyes burned. Drilling into yours with intensity that stole your breath. Serpentine smoke slithered and swirled around its feet. It threw its head back and let out the most horrific sound.

A howl that sounded like it came from the gates of Hell itself.

Then it was gone! Jagged images like broken glass tore through your mind and snippets of conversation in strange voices. The information was overwhelming and crashed over you in unrelenting waves until your head threatened to split apart!

All you wanted was for it to stop, but you couldn’t break free. Was this what happened to your less fortunate ancestors with the sight? Is this how they went mad? Luckily, you were saved from the same grisly fate by two hands on your shoulders pulling you back into the present.

“Y/N! What the hell are you doing?!”

The dog, the smoke, the hellish images all gone. Only the jade green eyes and a sinful mouth pulled into a tight line remained. Those hands shook you roughly and you blinked.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me! What were you thinking running into the middle of the street like that? Old man Perkins nearly flattened you with his pickup!”

Your brows drew together in confusion. Then, glancing around, you understood. You weren’t in front of the sheriff’s station anymore, you were three blocks over on Main Street. Judging from the vehicles stopped in the intersection and shaken drivers, you’d walked right into oncoming traffic.

“Oh.”

“Oh, she says.” Dean straightened to his full height and ran a hand over his mouth. “Jesus, Pip... you nearly gave me a coronary.”

You brought a hand to your head and looked around for any trace of your vision. “Sorry, there was this… black dog. And I heard…”

Dean saw your hand tremble and he softened. He was in the coffee shop when he saw you standing on the sidewalk staring off into nothing. The vacant look on your face pricked at his instincts. He was already heading for the door when you darted out into the street. A hatchback missed you by inches and Dean reached you just in time to snatch you from the path of that ancient Chevy truck.

“Come on,” he said, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get out of here.”

Twenty minutes later you were seated on the sofa in Dean’s office. A mug of hot tea in your hands helped you to finally stop shaking. You’d had countless premonitions in your life, they could be intense, but this was different. Never had a vision displaced you in reality. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but for the moment you were content to keep your own council on the matter. The Winchesters wouldn’t understand it and if your Gran ever caught wind of it… well, best to not think about that.

The door opened and Sam walked in with Dean behind him. They made an intimidating pair, and you sat up a bit straighter out in spite of yourself.

“Hey, Y/N. Feeling better?” asked Sam, leaning against the desk.

“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, I know you were worried.”

The lanky giant scratched the back of his neck, “I just don’t have a lot of experience with psychics. I wasn’t sure how to help.”

You gave him a reassuring smile, “Sam, you’ve known me since kindergarten. A quiet space and a little time usually fix just about anything.”

“So, you remember it then? Your vision?”

It was Dean who asked. Your gaze snapped to his in surprise. He’d never been exactly at ease with your magic roots, even whispering about visions seemed to make him squirm. It must be his unfailing professionalism that had him treating the very idea with a measure of respect. Or desperation.

“I remember, but the information is kind of all over the place. Disjointed.”

“Did you see him?”

“No,” you replied with a frown. “But I heard him. I think he was talking on the phone… he said something about going home.”

“Home where?” asked Sam.

“I saw something in his hand, but I don’t know what it means.” You walked over to the desk and scribbled the strange words down on a steno pad. “His voice was smarmy, smooth like a Bond villain selling used cars.”

“Dieu et mon Droit,” Dean muttered, reading over your shoulder.

“Latin. Um… God and my right,” Sam supplied. “It’s on the UK passport.”

“Bond villain.” Dean paced as he thought, “Going home to England. So what? He’s skipping the country?”

“He won’t be gone long,” you replied. You closed your eyes and repeated the words of the killer, “Back by the new moon, Mrs. Kennedy waits for no one.”

Dean moved to a massive cork board that took up the entire south wall of his office. It was covered with visual evidence. Pictures of each of the victims, crime scenes, possible suspects. Newspaper articles and a timeline of the murders. Many of the papers had multiple pinholes in them, obviously moved around countless times as the Winchesters worked the case.

He tapped the calendar with his index finger, “That tracks. So far, he’s dropped a body every two weeks, give or take. It’s all part of his ritual. The hearts, the body placement, the timing.”

Sam joined him at the board, “Is there a Kennedy in the suspect pool? The profile didn’t peg him as married, but that could always be wrong.”

“I don’t think it is, this dude has the ultimate love/hate relationship with women.”

The voices of Sam and Dean faded into the background as you studied the board. You’d seen it countless times and it always seemed very random. Aside from the fact that all the victims were women, they had no other qualities that linked them. They were from different backgrounds, ethnicities, professions, and ages. Beautiful, vibrant women. Lives cut short in their prime, some even before their prime. The frozen bride had been younger than you originally thought, only fifteen.

One more picture came into focus in your mind, and something clicked. Your hand went to your churning stomach as your thoughts stumbled upon a disturbing realization.

“She’s a crone.”

Sam turned to you, “You saw her?”

You gave a nod, “Elderly, white hair, hunched back, nailed painted bright pink.”

Dean arched an eyebrow, “Crone? That’s not very P.C.”

“It’s a technical term, not for her age but for what she represents.” You wedged your way between the brothers and began marking out the calendar. “She’s part of the Triple Goddess.”

Always quick minded, Sam caught on first, “Maiden, Mother, Crone. You might be on to something; it fits with the timing.”

“The Triple Goddess represents the different stages of womanhood as they correspond with the phases of the moon. The Maiden, or in this case virgin, is youthful and pure. Represented by the waxing moon.” You circled the estimated time and date of death for the body discovered at your party.

“The Mother is the full moon. Abundant and fertile.” You added two circles that matched up with two of the victims.

“The Crone,” you circled the date from Sierra Thompson’s murder. “She’s the waning moon, wisdom and courage.”

Dean’s face hardened as he considered the calendar, “With this kind of ritual killing, its more about when the kill is performed rather than the discovery of the bodies. Especially since he’s harvesting their hearts.”

“So, Mrs. Kennedy completes the cycle for this group of murders, what about the first group? There’s only two of them.” Sam speculated, “Maybe he didn’t get to it.”

“That’s not his M.O.” Dean muttered with a frown, “He’s planned this whole thing down to the last detail, he wouldn’t just miss one because he got busy.”

“It’s called the Triple Goddess for a reason; you can’t have one without the others.” Your knees went weak and leaned against the desk. You felt drained as you did the day you went to the yellow house with Sam. Your temple still ached from the vision. Although you’d be hard pressed to admit it, this was taking a toll on you in more ways than one.

“There is another Maiden, you just haven’t found her yet.”

Dean insisted on driving you home. And on picking you up the following day, since your Jeep was now stranded in town. The man was relentless when his protectiveness flared up.

“Your color’s not right,” he grumbled, helping you into the passenger’s seat. “I’m not going to let you pass out behind the wheel and drive that hunk of crap off the side of the mountain.”

“I thought you appreciated a classic vehicle.”

“I do when they’re properly maintained. When was the last time that deathtrap had an oil change?”

“Um, senior year?” you guessed.

“Pathetic.” Dean turned down the narrow road leading to the Owen’s house. “And your tires are practically bald, you’d be safer on a three-legged mule.”

“Maybe you’d prefer I ride my broom.”

“Can… can you do that?”

A small smile tugging at your lips as you turned your attention to the passing scenery.

He mulled it over for a minute, “Does it have a seatbelt?”

A few minutes later, Dean escorted you to the front door, his hand on the small of your back. You weren’t sure if the slight contact was meant to reassure you or him, either way it was welcome.

“Come in,” you said, stepping over the threshold. “I’ll go grab those books I was telling you about.”

Dean watched you disappear down the hallway, your stride quick as you navigated your family home. It had been years since he’d stepped foot in the Owen’s house, and it hadn’t changed a day. Still a fascinating mix of Victorian apothecary and Gothic romance. He’d grown up hearing all kinds of rumors about the place. Everything from ghostly apparitions appearing on the widow’s walk to the untimely deaths of every man who dared pursue an Owen’s woman. He never put any stock in it. To him, your house was just like you. Hauntingly beautiful, utterly warm, and a complete mystery.

Growing bolder, he ventured into the Great Room. Still a bit too fancy for his tastes, with its velvet settees and fringed curtains, but it smelled the same. Like jasmine and incense. There were countless pictures in heavy silver frames on every surface. Some in black and white, obviously family heirlooms. Others were more recent. Some of Vivienne Owens in her youth; wearing a mini skirt and Gogo boots. Grinning as she stood proudly next to the Compendium, a sold sign under her arm. Your mother, a fragile beauty who died when you were six.

Dean came to the collection on the fireplace and stopped. His own face stared back at him. He pulled the picture down from its perch and muttered a curse.

“Son of a bitch.”

It was the night of your senior prom. Sammy was supposed to be your date, but he was laid up with the flu. Dean was back for a few days before he left again to start a new job in Denver. He never could deny his little brother anything, so he showed up at your house wearing one of his Dad’s old suits and a grin.

“Thinking of better days?”

Startled out of his reminiscing, he quickly turned to you. “Ah, yeah. Well, no…I just haven’t seen this in a long time.”

You set down your stack of books on a small table as you took the frame from his hands. Your warm fingers brushed his and a small zap passed between the two of you. If you noticed it, you didn’t mention it. Dean watched the light come to your eyes as you gazed at the picture and smiled. You were standing close enough for him to detect your perfume. You always seemed to smell like the season, today it was heady and warm. Like clove studded oranges with a touch of amber.

“I really loved that dress. Gran had it up in the shop for ages, I must have tried it on a dozen times.”

“It was beautiful,” Dean agreed, his voice going a bit rough. “You were beautiful. Still are.”

You never were sure what to say when a man complimented you. Somehow, hearing them express their attraction made you automatically shut down. Not with Dean. You wanted him to go on and on and on. In that deep, honeyed whiskey voice that warmed you to the core.

This was a disaster.

“Dean…”

“I’m surprised you held on to it, after everything that happened. How things went down… I figure you’d burn it or use it for target practice.”

You placed the frame back in its place of honor on the mantle. “The bad things that happen don’t erase the good things. I needed reminding of that for a long time. This was a good day, a great day. So much was lost, it didn’t seem fair to lose that too.”

Dean looked down, his mouth pulling into a line. “Yeah.”

“There was something else,” you said after a beat. “About that vision today. There was a black dog.”

“I take it you’re not talking about a Labrador.”

“It pops up in all kinds of lore, usually interpreted as a death omen but this one was more specific than ones I’ve read about. I wasn’t sure at first, but now… I think it was a Hellhound.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up then came down as he realized that you were serious. “A Hellhound? That’s a real thing?”

“It wasn’t just a warning; it was a threat.” Your big, brown eyes betrayed you. You were afraid for him. “Dean, please just… just be careful. This guy is playing games with you now, but that’s just the prelude. He wants you dead.”

He drew you into his arms and held you tightly. His warm hand cupped the nape of your neck while his chin came to rest on the top of your head. You wrapped your arms around his torso and buried your face in his chest. You fit together perfectly and for one brief moment, everything was right with the world.

“It’s gonna be alright, Sweetheart.” He ran his hand up and down your back, comforting you, “We are going to make it through this with flying colors, you’ll see.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, on top of my years of experience in the field and the fact that my brother the boy genius is on the case, I’ve got this kick-ass witch helping me.”

“Really? Anyone I know?” You sassed.

“Maybe… she’s this pretty, little redhead with dangerous curves and big brown eyes. The kind of eyes a man can get lost in. And at the same time, he’s found. Cause when she looks at you, it’s like you’re being seen for the first time. Because she knows you, all the way down to your bones. And she never turns away from what she sees, even though she should.”

Your eyes widened at his words, then shuttered closed as he ghosted his fingers over your jawline. A tiny electric current raced along your skin, growing stronger as he maintained contact. You were certain that if he continued, you’d literally light up like a Christmas tree!

He curled a finger under your chin and ran his thumb over your bottom lip, causing your face to tip up to his. Consenting to his silent request. His lips were mere inches from yours when the grandfather clock sounded from deep within the house. Six chimes of the bell noted the hour and broke the spell.

Dean released you, his hands fisted at his sides, as if he really had to work not to reach for you again.

“I better get going,” he said, picking up the books as you blinked up at him. “I’m really going to be in trouble if Viv catches me.”

You took a steadying breath, trying to regain your composure. “The big, bad FBI guy isn’t scared of a little old lady like my Gran, is he?

“Hell, yes he is! Last time I was here she threatened to turn me into something with four legs and a tail.”

You had to laugh at that, “Yeah, I remember. Still, she wouldn’t actually go through with it… I don’t think.”

“Agree to disagree, Sweetheart.”

“In that case, here,” you unhooked the silver chain around your neck and fixed it around Dean’s instead. The pendant fell to rest over his heart. “Obsidian, for protection.”

He tucked it under his shirt then quickly kissed your forehead and took off towards the door.

“I’ll be by at eight a.m. to pick you up, okay?”

“Sure,” you replied, following him to the foyer.

The wind blew in when he pulled the door open. Bitter. Swirling with fallen leaves and melancholic nostalgia.

You wrapped your arms around yourself in an effort to ward off the chill. And the regret as you watched Dean Winchester walk out the door, again.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

“Hmm?”

The corner of his mouth lifted into not quite a smile, but his eyes carried kindness. “Lock up behind me.” TAGLIST @deans-baby-momma @muchamusedaboutnothing @peterpangirl21 @ficbreaks @teresa-67 @sacriceria @verytoadpapersoul @heartbreak-of-a-marauder @savspersonalproperty @deanwanddamons @jenwinchester40 @perpetualabsuridty @starryeyeseunbyul @sexyvixen7 @katsbratsupernaturalwhore @agirlwithdemonblood @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @imthedoctorlove @roonyxx @smellingofpoetry @deanwinchesterswitch @thinkinghardhardlythinking @pink-sparkly-witch @barewithme02 @deadlynightshadeindustries @jc-winchester @mrswhozeewhatsis @kinderousmaster @lyarr24 @aphorism-001 @onlinecemetery @allonsy-yesiwill @myeagletoadmaker @panicking-outside-the-disco @haylie-spnfam4ever @lauraashley93 @foxyjwls007 @bluedragonflylady @foxyjwls007

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #agent!dean x psychic!reader #agent!dean x reader #spn fic #supernatural #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen x reader #practically magic

60 notes · View notes

trektraveler · 2 years

Text

Practically Magic Chapter Five: Times Change

Pairing: Agent!Dean x Psychic!Reader, Dean x Reader, AU Dean x You Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Bobby Singer

Warnings: Slow Burn, Serial Killer Elements, Witches, Haters to Lovers, Claustrophobic Elements, Murder Scenes

“When you find yourself at the center of attention, it’s not that they hate you. It’s that, well… we’re different” – Aunt Francis Owens

Dean checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. It was very nearly seven o’clock. You weren’t late, not yet. Growing up, you had a remarkable habit of being perfectly on time. Never early and certainly never late. Sam had been the one to point out that you didn’t wear a watch. The materials used in most timepieces caused your delicate skin to break out in hives. It was a curious thing and when Dean asked you how you managed it, you gave a cheeky wink.

“Magic.”

He took a swallow of beer and tried to ignore the nerves swirling in his belly. After all, he had absolutely no reason to be nervous. None at all. You were a childhood friend.

And then you weren’t.

Now you were merely an old acquaintance. Whether or not you showed was of no consequence to him. He had a job to do, and this was… well, he didn’t know what this was. A long shot? A courtesy? A passing fancy? A terrible idea?

He checked his watch again and mumbled a curse. Seven on the dot. Unable to deny his own curiosity, he drew back the curtain looking out to the street.

“Son of a bitch.”

You were there. Standing by his Impala, running your gloved hand over the beautifully waxed ebony surface. Petting it and speaking softly as if the car was a living being. An old, dear friend you hadn’t seen in far too long. A delighted smile lit your face and Dean found himself smiling too. He thought back to that summer the two of you spent working on Baby. You knew nothing about cars, but that didn’t stop you. By the end of the season, you were just as knowledgeable about his Baby as he was. Better with a socket wrench than Sam could ever hope to be.

You stood and smoothed the hem of your coat over your hips; Dean tugged the curtain closed again. There was enough tension between the two of you without him spying on you.

You ran a hand through your hair to tousle the roots and gave the door three quick knocks before you could chicken out. You’d been talking yourself out of this meeting all afternoon. Getting mixed up with the Winchesters always went sideways. But you couldn’t just ignore it. For whatever reason, the universe had summoned you home. To be here at this time, with these people. It was fate, and you would be a fool to fight it.

The door swung open. Dean’s broad frame nearly filled the opening. No tie, his white button down was undone at the neck and sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His expression wasn’t pleased, but his smile was polite.

“Y/N, right on schedule. As always.”

You stepped over the threshold, briefly scanning the room as you shed your gloves and coat. It was decidedly feminine. Ruffled curtains matched the frilly canopy bed. Large cabbage roses decorated the bedspread and pillows. A dainty settee sat near the cozy fireplace and was buried under piles of file folders and banker boxes. Just as well, as it would be a poor fit for a man of Dean’s build.

The whole room was a poor fit for a man of Dean’s build and that had you completely amused. Mr. Traveling Riverside Blues himself was sleeping in a dollhouse.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Fitz was still taking lodgers.”

Dean made use of the tiny closet by the door, hanging your coat along side his. “A lucky break, otherwise, I’d be bunking with Sammy and Jess. The last thing those honeymooners need is a third wheel.”

“Gran mentioned they got married that’s great!”

“Yeah, he carried Mom’s ring around in his pocket for a year before he popped the question. You know how superstitious Sam gets about that stuff. Said the moon had to be right.”

You hid your smile has you pulled the silk scarf from your neck and folded it into your purse. Your Gran mentioned that too. Sam went to her for a consolation, a proposal was far too important to leave to chance.

“Speaking of Sam, is he running late? I didn’t see his car.”

“He’s not coming,” Dean replied as he disappeared into the small kitchenette. “Got held up at work, so you’re stuck with me. Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

You silently swore. At least if Sam was around, he could act as a buffer. You talked to him just a couple of hours ago and he never let on that he was going to duck out on tonight’s meeting. Now you were going to have to play nice with Dean all on your own. Knowing Sammy as you did, that was likely his plan all along. The rat!

You sent off a quick text to the missing Winchester.

“Really?!”

“Sorry, 😉”

Dean came back with two opened bottles and handed one to you.

You pulled a package from your bag and handed it to him in exchange.

“Its rude to show up empty handed.”

Curious, he unwrapped the plain, brown paper and twine. It was a copy of your newest novel. There was a sprig of lavender tucked inside the cover next to an inscription.

Dean,

I may have lost my shoes, but I never lost my way. Remember… The star that guides you shines brightest in the dark.

Always – Y/N

You felt embarrassment heat your face as you watched him thumb through the novel. After all this time, it shouldn’t matter what a hard-ass like Dean thought of your writing. The rest of the world was still singing your praises over your first book when the sequel hit the best seller list. It sky-rocketed to the top just like your first. But even after everything that happened, a small part of you wanted his approval. You hated it, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“You brought Henry back; I wasn’t sure he made it after the cave-in.”

Your head snapped up at the mention of the protagonist from the first book, “You read The Witch in the Well?”

“Well, yeah. I didn’t want to be the only guy in the free world who hadn’t. There was a whole category about it on Jeopardy.”

“Can you believe it?” you grinned, still thrilled by it. “It was crazy.”

“It was brilliant,” Dean said, his tone sincere. “You deserve every bit of this success. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.”

For a moment, you looked so much like the girl he grew up with. Guarded and shy with pretty much everyone, but for some inexplicable reason, open with him. He was never certain he was worthy of your trust. In the end, he’d proven how unworthy he was. He was determined to do better this time around.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

Dean chuckled, “Me too. I ordered in the from the Baker.”

“Oh, this is an occasion,” you replied. You slipped off your shoes and sat in one of the over-stuffed chairs by the fireplace.

There was a large, low to the ground coffee table covered in more FBI files. One folder had a few black and white photos spilling out. Your curious fingers grazed the corner, pulling it out just enough to see that it was an enlarged picture of a crime scene. That unpleasant feeling that washed over you in that house yesterday was back. The chill that ran down to marrow of your bones.

“Y/N?”

You looked up with a start as Dean held out a take-out container to you. If he noticed your snooping, he didn’t mention it.

You settled the container on your lap and opened it as Dean took the adjacent chair. As you suspected, it was a poor fit.

“Tiramisu!” You exclaimed in delight.

Dean opened his own cheeseburger and fries, “I wondered if you still ate your dessert first.”

Your mouth was barely big enough to accommodate the bite you balanced on your fork. A swipe of mascarpone lingered on lips, and you let out a delighted hum.

“Food eaten at the beginning of the meal, by definition, cannot be dessert,” you replied, going for another bite. This time your eyes closed in appreciation. “Damn, that is good.”

“And pancakes at dinner are not breakfast, I remember.”

Dean watched you with a mixture of admiration and fascination. He’d never known anyone, man or woman, who enjoyed their food like you did. It was as if every bite was the most pleasurable experience of your life. As a kid, it was funny to watch you dive into an ice cream sundae and end up with whipped cream on your nose. As a woman, it was downright sinful! The tiny moans of delight were enough to drive a man to distraction. This was going to be harder than he thought.

“If this book writer gig doesn’t pan out, you should hit up the Food Network.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?” You asked, scraping the bottom of the container with your fork. “Just last month I had a show offer for farm-to-table, cold-pressed recipes with a magical slant.”

“You’re kidding.”

“They called it Curse the Calories. For witches watching their waistline.”

“Christ,” Dean shook his head and finished his beer with one swallow. “How much did they offer you?”

Your response of a casual shrug had him cursing again.

“Don’t do it. You have too much integrity for that crap.”

Something flickered deep in your dark eyes, just for second before you looked away, “Wow.”

“What?”

“That’s two compliments from Dean Winchester in less than an hour. Things must be dire.”

The weight he shouldered seemed to double making you wish you could snatch back your flippant words. A sharp wit was a writer’s curse. It worked so well on the page, but that wasn’t always the case in real life.

Dean took your empty container and his back to the kitchenette and returned with a worn file in his hands. He sat on the table in front of you, his thumb tracing the worn binding on the file. The muscle in his jaw twitched, a tell he’d had since his youth. He was torn on something, trying to weigh the options before proceeding.

“Yesterday at the victim’s house you mentioned she was missing her heart. How did you know?”

“The same way I’ve always known things, it’s my gift. Dean… you know that. You know me. I understand it makes you uncomfortable, but you aren’t oblivious to it.”

He shook his head, “That’s not what I mean. How did you know, exactly? Did you have a vision of the murder, or did you notice something in the house?”

Your brow puckered; you’d never really gone into depth about your process with anyone before. Not even your Gran. With your family, it was always unspoken but understood.

“It’s difficult to describe.”

“Try. Please.”

“Well, it was the feeling. The physical sensation of blood loss, I suppose. Cold, lightheaded, drained of lifeforce.” Your hand went to your sternum in an absent motion, “There was a pain in my chest and a sound… not cutting but tearing. Wet tearing, like he used a hunting knife. Brutal. He likes that part the best, everything else is so precise and planned but the actual cutting out of the heart allows him to be savage. Barbaric.”

Dean actually suppressed a shiver. You had described the killer quite astutely with only a reading, it had taken him and his team weeks to come to that conclusion.

“You’re rubbing your chest. It hurts you, doesn’t it? It physically hurts you.”

“Every gift has a price.”

“Damn it… this isn’t one of your party tricks, where you see someone’s future in your crystal ball and walk away with a headache. This guy is torturing and murdering women for kicks!”

Unable to stay still, he stood to pace and ran a busy hand through his hair.

“Pip, leave. Please. Go back to Hollywood and get that movie deal. Write a hundred more best sellers. Sail around the world a few times, just… leave.”

“I can’t, not if I know I can help. It’s that inconvenient integrity of mine. Besides, you and I here at the same time after all these years? We’re meant to work together.”

We’re meant to be together.

The thought hit you like a thunderbolt and made your heart jump. Dean was right in his concern about you getting hurt. The gory details of the case you could handle, it was Dean himself who posed the real threat.

“You and me in the same place is just a coincidence, Y/N.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidence.”

“Times change.”

November 10th, 2005

You sat on the brick retaining wall outside the shop class entrance. You swung your restless legs and chewed nervously on your thumbnail. The bitter wind blew down from the mountains and stung your cheeks. Winter was just around the corner. Snow had fallen a few times already but melted away when the sun rose. Soon it would come to stay, and the little town of Silverton would be cut off from anyone without four-wheel drive.

The rest of school had been let out an hour ago, but Dean was still inside. Serving detention.

Suddenly the metal door swung open, and a group of teenagers burst through. Bringing up the rear was Dean. Clad, as always, in his father’s leather jacket. It was a tad big for him, but you could see that he would fill it out in time. His jeans had one knee worn through completely and his biker boots were scuffed at the toe. In the past few months, he’d developed scruff on his chin. A fine blonde that looked nearly gold when the light hit just right.

He’d always been a bit of a dreamboat, but he sure hit his stride in his senior year. All the girls whispered about him when he passed them in the halls, giggling when he graced them with a wink. But that was just big kid stuff to you. You and Sam teased him about it relentlessly, only to have the older brother shake his head with a sigh.

“You kids will understand when you’re older.”

You were skeptical, but every now and then you felt a tiny flip in your stomach when he was around. It was odd. It never happened with Sammy.

“Dean!”

He stopped with a grin, “Hey Pip! What are you doing here?”

You hopped down from the wall and ran over, “Waiting for you.”

“Obviously, I mean what are you doing out here in the cold? It’s freezing!”

“I didn’t think you would take so long. Why were you serving detention?”

He lifted a shoulder, “Meh, I was late getting back after lunch.”

“You’re always late after lunch and they always give you detention, but you never go. So, what gives?”

“See you tomorrow, Deanie!”

You looked over your shoulder to see a pretty brunette waving as she got into her new, shiny Mustang.

Dean instantly straightened his slouching posture and waved back, “Have a good night, Sweetheart!”

You snorted a laugh, “Lisa Braeden?! Seriously?”

“What do you know about it, Pipsqueak?” he returned, pulling your purple, stripped stocking hat down over your eyes.

You pulled the hat back up with a huff, “I know she’s a cheerleader. And all the cheerleaders use their tongues when they kiss. Marcia Armstrong said so and her mom is the cheer coach.”

“Oh, well if Marcia said so.”

A disturbing thought suddenly occurred to you, “You don’t tongue kiss, do you?”

Dean chuckled and slung his arm around your shoulders, “Come on, let’s get’s out of here. We can hit up O’Malley’s on the way home for a hot chocolate.”

“Oh my God, you do!”

“One day you might not think it’s so bad, Y/N,” he said, walking you to the Impala.

You tossed your backpack into the back seat and slid into the passenger side while Dean got behind the wheel.

“Maybe, but I still don’t think you should do any kissing with Lisa.”

“Why not?”

“Because she called you Deanie in that annoying, little girl voice,” your nose wrinkled in disgust. “If she had self-respect, she wouldn’t do that. You should never degrade yourself just to get a boy’s attention.”

Dean smiled as he pulled out of the high school parking lot. At thirteen, you already had more integrity than most adults he knew. It set you apart from your classmates. Yet you didn’t let that pressure to fit in force you to do things that went against your conscience. If it was wrong, it was wrong. End of story. Maybe it was your upbringing, Viv was much the same. The code of honor the Owens’ lived by.

It was one of your many qualities that he admired, and he hoped you never lost it.

“So?”

“So what?”

“You didn’t read it, did you?” You asked, crestfallen.

“Of course, I did. I promised.”

Your big, brown eyes widened in anticipation. “And?”

Dean pulled up in front of the tiny coffee shop and parked. “I loved it.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“I read it five times. Seriously, I don’t know how you did it, but I couldn’t leave it alone. That part about the Indian scout and the arrowhead. I mean… wow.”

You practically beamed at the praise. You’d dreamt of becoming a writer for as long as you could remember, but you never let anyone read your stories. They were so close to your heart that you couldn’t bear the thought of them not being well received.

“So… you think I have a shot at getting into the Young Writer’s Conference?”

“Keep writing like that and you’re a shoe in.”

“Thanks Dean, that means a lot.”

The two of you got out of the car and headed towards the shop. The huge windows framed the familiar scene. Teenagers from every class were crammed inside, making good use of the free internet and bottomless sodas. It was the most popular hang out in town for anyone under the age of twenty.

“Out of curiosity, why didn’t you have Sam read your story? Seems more like his kind of thing.”

“I wanted a real review, and I knew you’d give me one. Sammy’s too nice. If it sucked, he’d never say so.”

“Couldn’t you just click your heels together and make him tell you the truth?”

You frowned, “It doesn’t work like that.”

It always struck you as odd that people who were not born to the craft simply assumed that witches popped out of the womb automatically an expert on the intricacies of magic. Like you just twitch your little nose and poof! Perfection! Everything you could ever want at your feet with a simple flick of the wrist.

The Owens blood flowing through your veins gave you a sixth sense with which to observe the world, but it did not provide you with the ability to interpret it. That came with study, practice, and time. A witch’s magic grows and matures as she does. Half natural born talent, half hard won skill. A process as painful and chaotic as any other adolescent experience.

You were hot and cold at once, the very pressure of the air on your body almost unbearable. There was a ringing in your ears like you’d been in a bell tower at noon and time seemed to stop. Life around you halted, people froze in place. Cars stopped in the middle of the intersection. The clouds ceased their trek across the sky and the autumn wind stilled. It was stranger than any dream, but there was a familiarity to the sensation. The world slowed and amplified.

Your gran taught you about something called chakras. The spiritual energy centers within the human body. A lone wolf howled in the distance, and you felt as if those points of energy lit up like a Christmas tree! You were aware of every cell in your body, thrumming with life and power. Plucked like the string of a guitar.

When time suddenly resumed, you were thrown to the ground by the force of it. The pavement scraped your palms when you caught yourself, landing on hands and knees. You were vaguely aware of Dean talking to you but couldn’t concentrate on him. You were consumed by the sharp pain in your chest. It radiated out to your shoulder and down your left arm.

“Y/N?!” Dean was kneeling beside you, completely freaked out by the look on your face. “Hey, Pip… talk to me!”

You whimpered and curled in on yourself, the pain was agony! Like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Tears ran down your cheeks and all you could do was suck in air as you tried to ride out the pain.

Dean watched the color drain from your face, and he panicked, “Stay right here… I… I’m going to go get help!”

That jolted you out of the pain cycle enough to respond. You grabbed the sleeve of his jacket like a lifeline. “No! No, don’t go! I need you!”

“Y/N, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s happening,” he begged, smoothing the hair away from your face.

You closed your eyes and concentrated, reaching down deep like your gran had taught you. It took a lot of effort, but something clicked inside, and you understood.

“Bobby.”

“What about Bobby?”

Your eyes reflected your fear along with absolute certainty. “He needs help. He’s hurt!”

A crowd began to gather. Several kids who had been studying and laughing with their friends in the coffee shop were now in a huddle around you. Curious about the spectacle on the sidewalk.

Sam rushed out and joined his brother at your side, “Dean, what happened?!”

“It’s Bobby!” You sobbed, your voice rising in urgency. “Go now, before it’s too late!”

You were having a vision. It took Sam all of thirty seconds to recognize the signs, but he’d never seen you caught in one so intense. “Go, I’ll stay with her. Go!”

Sam and Dean were always in sync. They communicated so much while saying very little. Dean didn’t hesitate, he jumped to his feet and raced down the street towards the sheriff’s station.

Sam wrapped his gangly arm around your shoulders while shocked whispers rippled through the swarm of teenagers. You buried your face against Sam’s shoulder and wept.

“I want my Gran.”

You didn’t go to school the next week. Vivienne closed her shop and canceled all her appointments. Although the whole town was buzzing with renewed interest in the Owens family, the only person who dared seek them out was Sam Winchester.

“Hey, Ms. Viv. I’ve got homework for Y/N.” Sam said softly, kicking the floorboards with his shoe.

The corner of Viv’s mouth lifted, but her eyes remained somber. He was nearly as tall as she was now, growing up so fast! What she wouldn’t give to keep you all children for just a while longer.

“Sweet boy,” Viv ran a fond hand over Sam’s unruly hair. “Come in.”

She directed him to the tower. The majestic turret that jutted up in the middle of the rambling house. The top deck was an observation space, complete with a telescope and rolled up maps of the constellations. When you were little, you and Sam had sleep overs there, pretending it was the mast of a pirate ship or an abandoned castle. Better days long gone.

“Hello, Sam.”

Your back was to the door, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when you spoke.

“Y/N. Hi.”

You turned and tilted your head sadly, “I scared you.”

“No,” Sam rushed to reassure you. “I’m just jumpy.”

You studied your best friend with new eyes. You could see his hesitation, but no fear. Same old Sam, honest down to the ground.

“Looks like I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“You missed a few quizzes, and we started reading Great Expectations in Lit class. Nothing major, though. I can help you get up to speed.” His smile was hopeful, “Do you think you’ll be back on Monday?”

“I don’t know,” you chewed on your bottom lip. “There are still a few things I need to master before I can go out again.”

“Witchy stuff?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, unsure how much you should say about it. You weren’t even sure how much he would understand. It was all so strange. “Hey, um, how’s Bobby doing?”

Sam blew out a breath as he flopped down beside you on the padded window seat. “Onery as ever. He keeps flirting with the nurses, so they’ll give him extra pudding cups and granola bars. What he really wants is a burger. Even tried to bribe me to sneak in a blue plate special from Don’s Diner.”

“But he’s okay? The surgery went okay?”

“He’s okay. He quit smoking and he asked Dean to get rid of all the liquor in the house. I think the heart attack scared him straight, you know?”

“I’m glad he’s better.”

“What about you, Y/N? Are you okay?”

You shrugged, “Its all new, I just have to get used to it. Gran said its like someone with bad eyesight who suddenly gets glasses. The world looks different now, it takes time to adjust.”

Your gaze dropped to the pile of books and papers Sam put on the bench between you. A familiar notebook was sticking out of the stack. You pulled it out with a frown.

“Ah, Dean sent that along. Said he was finished with it.”

It was your story, the one you had him review for you. “This was his copy; I gave it to him. It was a gift.”

Sam saw the sorrow build in your brown eyes, and he hated it. He had seen it when you were passed over in class or rejected by the other kids. It killed him every time.

“He’s just a little shaken up about Bobby. Just give him time and he’ll come around; you know how he gets.”

Sam was trying to be kind, you knew that. But it was no use. You could sense things you couldn’t before and there was no going back. You couldn’t unsee this new world any more than you could stop drawing breath. Loss of innocence was part of growing up, or so Gran said. You never imagined that embracing your power would mean losing Dean.

A single tear slid down your cheek as you looked out towards the horizon. “Yes, Sam. I know… times change.” TAGLIST: @deans-baby-momma @muchamusedaboutnothing @peterpangirl21 @ficbreaks @teresa-67 @sacriceria @verytoadpapersoul @heartbreak-of-a-marauder @savspersonalproperty @deanwanddamons @jenwinchester40 @perpetualabsurdity @starryeyeseunbyul @sexyvixen7 @katsbratsupernaturalwhore @agirlwithdemonblood @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @imthedoctorlove @roonyxx @smellingofpoetry @deanwinchesterswitch @thinkinghardhardlythinking @pink-sparkly-witchly-witch @barewithme02 @deadlynightshadeindustries @jc-winchester @mrswhozeewhatsis @kinderoutoforder-blog @lyarr24 @aphorism-146 @onlinecemetery @allonsy-yesiwill @myeagletoadmaker @panicking-outside-the-disco

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #spn fic #jensen ackles fanfiction #supernatural #dean x reader #dean x you #jensen x reader #jensen x you #agent!dean x psychic!reader #agent!dean x reader #practically magic

77 notes · View notes