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spn-rewrites · 2 years

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01x01 (PART 1)

Season One Episode One: Pilot

A/N: hey guys, I re-edited the pilot and am going to work my way down and because they weren’t originally posted on this account, I’m gonna re-post them here - all tags will stay in tack.

Summary: Dean and Y/N go find Sam

Word Count: 3.1k

Part 2 Part 3

It’s been a few years since you and Dean let Sam run off and go to college. He wanted out of this life and there wasn’t really much you could have done to stop him, so you and Dean went off on your own. You took up Sam’s position, doing research and finding jobs. Sometimes you followed leads from John, but it really was just the two of you.

For ten years you had been hunting things with these boys. It wasn’t your first choice of a life, much like it wasn’t Sam’s. But you learned to embrace it because like Dean, you owed your life to John Winchester.

The flames were behind you, englulfing the only home you had ever known, and you were sitting on the side of the road with your knees pulled up to your chest praying to a God you no longer believed in. That’s when an older, scruffy haired man kneeled down in front of you and put his hand on your knee. “I’m John Winchester, a friend of your mom’s. We’re gonna take care of you, okay?”

You weren’t sure how you knew you could trust him but something in his eyes told you that you could. You had seen photos of him and your mom around the house - it was a vague memory but it was there.

The boys behind him didn’t look familiar but John introduced them to you as his

sons and the older one immediately took you under his wing and the younger one made you a bowl of cereal when you got back to the hotel that they were staying at and a few months after your fifteen birthday, you were learning about the lore of demons.

That’s how you found yourself sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala that Dean loved so much, on your way to Standford to go get Sam from college. He made a noble choice, leaving the hunting life. One that maybe you could have made if leaving Dean behind didn’t feel like ripping out one of your own ribs.

However, John was on a hunt and hadn’t come back yet. Being gone a few days at a time without hearing a peep wasn’t unusual, but it had been weeks at this point and Dean was getting worried, so you guys packed up to go collect Sam in hopes he’d help you find him. You had tried to silently protest involving the younger brother, knowing he didn’t want to, but Dean wasn’t one to argue with.

“What is it with you? You don’t want help?” Dean accused, glancing at you from the road.

“That’s not it, I just-”

“You just what, Y/N?” He interrupted you. Your eyebrows raised and you took a breath, ready to fight back. Sometimes Dean just knows exactly where to push your buttons.

“Sam doesn’t want this, Dean. What part of that don’t you understand? He’s happy, he’s got a girlfriend,” you blurted out, your words stopping in your throat as soon as you said it. That was not something that Sam wanted you to tell Dean, but it was too late now and Dean just stared at you. “Her name is Jess,” you sighed out.

“Jess? Seriously? He didn’t think to tell me this?” The Impala started driving faster, picking up speed down the road.

“Can you slow down?” You braced yourself out of habit, used to Dean driving reckless as hell but when he got mad, the reckless seemed more dangerous.

“I’m just pissed, okay?” Dean snapped. You held your hands up in defense and Dean pulled back, taking a deep breath and letting his foot off the peddle. You drove the rest of the way in silence.

You stood outside of the apartment complex that Sam lived in and tried to investigate a way to get inside. “We could use the fire escape,” you suggested. Dean looked down at you with a grin growing on his face, “what?” You deadpanned, still kind of irritated by your last conversation but Dean was smiling now so maybe it was over.

“I like the way you think, kiddo.” Dean patted your back and he started scaling the fire escape, you followed him until you reached a window. The hallways were dark and damp and you wondered how Sam even lived in a place like this before you remembered that this was an upgrade compared to the hotels the boys grew up in.

Dean shushed you as he slowly opened the door to the apartment, and you followed him inside. There was a rustle coming from the other side of the room, a door cracking and then you saw a shadow emerge, most likely Sam.

Sam caught Dean off guard, trying to get him from behind but Dean was not that easy to take down and the two brothers began fighting, Sam blocking Dean’s punches and Dean trying to tackle him to the ground. Eventually, the bigger of the two pinned the smaller. “Whoa, easy, tiger,” Dean grinned.

“Dean?” Sam exclaimed, looking up at his brother and then seeing you. “Y/N? You scared the crap out of me!” Sam was breathing heavier now as you stood next to the two boys, looking down at them with a smile on your face.

“That’s 'cause you’re out of practice,” you said smugly, although you didn’t do any of the fighting and had no reason to be except to push Sam’s buttons. Sam grunted and flipped Dean over, now pinning the older brother.

“Guess not,” Dean sighed. “Get off of me,” he groaned and pushed Sam off of himself and almost into you, but you put your hands out to stop Sam from falling and as soon as he felt your touch he turned around, a smile plastered to his face.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he wrapped his arms around you tight, your heart fluttering at his nickname for you as you hugged him back.

“Sam?” You let go of him as a figure came out of the shadows, Jess you assumed. Sam had told you a lot about her the past year or so, as you guys were in constant contact unlike Sam and Dean, however, you had never met the girl. She was a lot prettier than you imagined, a blonde bombshell.

“Hey, Jess,” Sam said, his face almost seemed disappointed that he had to introduce you and Dean to her finally. Part of you wondered if he wanted to keep his family at an arms length for the rest of his life. “This is my brother Dean and my friend, Y/N,” he introduced.

Dean clearly noticed how pretty Jess was, his eyes falling on her face and then her chest. “I love the smurfs,” he smiled, referring to her pajama shirt but also only noticing because of her boobs. “I gotta tell you, you are completely out of my brother’s league.” Dean flirted, Jessica’s face unamused.

“Well, let me just put something on,” Jess said, turning to walk away, clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation.

“No, no. I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean protested. You snorted from behind Sam and Dean turned around to glare at you. You smiled back and Dean turned his attention back to his brother. “However, I do have to steal your boyfriend here to talk about some private family business, but nice meeting you.” His last words had a flirty tone to them and you smacked Dean in the arm when he finished.

“What is your problem?” You whispered to him but he just smiled and raised his eyebrows because he knew that you already knew exactly what his problem was.

“No,” Sam said, his tone was suddenly more serious. “Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her.” Sam moved to stand next to Jess, wrapping his arm around her waist. That was a bold move for the younger Winchester and you sucked in a deep breath.

“Okay, um, Dad hasn’t been home in a few days,” Dean said with no hesitation.

“So, he’s working overtime on a ‘Miller Time’ shift, he’ll stumble back in sooner or later.”

“John’s on a hunting trip, Sam.” You said, putting emphasis on the word ‘hunting’ causing Sam’s face to drop and dismissing Jessica from the conversation. You waved goodbye to her as she went back into the other room.

Sam thought it’d be better to talk outside, so you followed them down the stairs, your little feet having a hard time catching up with theirs and being a whole flight of stairs behind them, you only caught a small amount of their conversation - Dean begging Sam to help us find John. “Dad’s missing. I need you to help us find him.”

“You remember the Poltergeist in Amherst or the Devil’s Gate in Clifton? He’s always missing and he’s always fine,” Sam said, their voices getting louder as they stopped at a landing and waited for you to catch up. You were out of breath when you reached them, “and you said I was the one out of shape?” Sam joked as you put your hands on your knees to help catch your breath. You fake laughed as Dean kept going.

“Not for this long, now are you going to come with me or not?”

Sam started following Dean and you hesitantly chased after. “I’m not,” Sam’s words made you stop, although you knew that that would be his answer.

“Why?” You asked. Sam turned around to look at you, his features suddenly softened.

“I swore I was done hunting, for good.” Sam sighed and you almost took a step towards him, but you stopped yourself.

“Come on, it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t that bad.” Dean said, but you knew that that was a weak attempt to make Sam change his mind about coming with us. Dean turned and walked away, but you only followed after Sam did.

“Yeah? When I told Dad I was scared of the monster under my bed, he gave me a .45,” Sam said as we started to exit the building.

“Well what was he supposed to do?” Dean said. You chuckled and looked at him, cocking your head to the side wondering what it was that Dean thought John was supposed to do. Sometimes, you thought Dean was just so delusional that he thought all of this was normal.

“Seriously Dean?” You asked, knowing full well that Dean would do and say anything to defend his father’s name, even to Sam.

“I was nine years old,” Sam said, his voice going quieter and you bit your lower lip. You felt sad for him for a moment, never really understanding how traumatized Sam was with his growing up. For you, it started later. You knew it wasn’t normal and you knew how life was supposed to be for a kid but Sam never got that and his yearning for it was clear. “He was supposed to say, ‘don’t be afraid of the dark’”

“Don’t be afraid of the dark? You should be afraid of the dark!” Dean’s voice got louder, “you know what’s out there. Look at Y/N for Christ sake, she didn’t get a .45 and look what happened to her.” Dean mumbled and pushed open the gate and went outside. You were taken aback by Dean’s words, gasping a little. He had a tendancy of saying things he didn’t mean but he didn’t bring up your past very often.

“What the hell is your problem?” Sam tried to defend you but you grabbed his arm, making him stop. Dean threw open the front door of the building, the traffic from outside coming in for a brief morning until the door closed behind him. “What? That’s not okay!” He snapped back at you, but sighing and letting out a breath when you looked at each other.

You nodded, “I know, but just let it go.” It took a second, but Sam finally agreed. You motioned for the front door and with a deep breath, Sam pushed it open and you followed him outside. With the cold air hitting your faces, Sam continued to fight back with Dean like nothing happened.

“Dad’s obsession with killing the thing that killed mom, the way we grew up, killing everything we can find because we can’t find it,” Sam argued.

“We save a lot of people, Sam.” Sam just scoffed at his brother’s reply.

“You think mom would have wanted this for us? You think Penelope would have wanted this for Y/N?” Sam made Dean stop dead in his tracks and he turned around to face his brother, anger in his eyes. “The weapon training and melting silver into bullets?”

“So you’re just going to live some normal, apple-pie life?” Dean snapped.

“No, not normal. Safe.” Sam spat as you three got to the car, your mind still reeling. You put your hand on the door handle as they argued. You wished you could just disappear, any mention of your mother makes you wanna die. You weren’t sure you ever fully got over her death and accepted the fact that this was your new life now, hunting ghosts and demons and any other creepy crawling that lurked at night.

“Dad is in real trouble right now, if he’s not dead already. I can feel it,” Dean pleaded. His whole demeanor changed, sometimes at an astonishing rate.

You pushed yourself away from the car, forgetting about the pounding in your head and put your hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He’s not dead, Dean.” Dean just looked at you, sadness in his eyes and you felt bad for him. Maybe that was the reason you could never actually stay mad at him, because no matter what he said to you, you knew he never meant it.

“We can’t do this alone,” Dean said. “We don’t want to,” his voice softened when he said this and you looked up at Sam, a small smile playing on your lips.

Dean popped the trunk to the Impala and started looking for John’s files while Sam and you leaned against either side of the trunk, looking in. You remembered the basics of John’s hunt so you started talking, not waiting for Dean anymore. “He started to look at this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California.”

“About a month ago, this guy,” Dean found the file and handed Sam a picture of the guy who went missing, “they found his car but he’d vanished.”

Sam looked at the photo and speculated, “well, maybe he was kidnapped.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed the next photo from the file in Dean’s hands, “here’s another one in April, and then December ‘04, ‘03, ‘98, ‘92… 10 of them over the past 20 years.” Dean handed Sam all the articles and photos belonging to the cases you just listed off. You both looked at him smuggly, knowing that you debunked his speculations.

“All men, too. All the same 5-mile stretch of road, it started happening more and more so Dad went to go dig around,” Dean said.

“That was three weeks ago, we haven’t heard from him since,” your voice softened as Sam looked up at you. You held eye contact until Dean spoke.

“And then, we get this voicemail.” Dean pulled out his phone and played the voicemail that John left you last night, the whole reason that you booked it to go get Sam.

“Dean, something is starting to happen..I think it’s serious

I need to try to figure out what’s going on. Be very careful,

Protect Y/N. We are all in danger.”

You watched Sam the whole time as he listened to it, his facial structure not really changing. “You know there’s EVP on that,” Sam said, nodding to the recording.

“Not bad, Sammy. Kind of like riding a bike isn’t it?” Dean smiled between his brother and you but then continued to explain to Sam how you slowed down the tape to find out what that EVP was saying. When Dean played it back, all it said was “I can never go home.”

Sam whispered it back to him while Dean slammed the trunk and then leaned against it. You walked over to stand in front of him, your arms crossed, “we really need your help, Sam.” You begged.

“In almost two years, we never bothered you or asked you for a thing,” Dean tried to guilt trip Sam which you did not agree with but it was hard to stop Dean from doing what he wanted. Sam sighed, finally agreeing to go.

“I’ll help you find him, but I have to get back first thing Monday morning.” Sam warned but you didn’t wait for him to finish speaking. You ran to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulder and he couldn’t help but chuckle and hold you up by your waist. You were excited that Sam was coming back, if only for one hunt. Although you and Dean had become the best of friends over the years, Sammy always held a special place in your heart. He was kind and sweet and quiet, just like you used to be before your mother died. He reminded you of your youth.

“What’s on Monday?” You asked as you pulled yourself away from Sam and he started walking back into the apartments to collect his stuff.

“I have an interview,” Sam said, looking at Dean.

“A job interview? Skip it,” Dean shrugged his shoulders but after Sam said ‘interview’ you remembered exactly what he meant. Sam had told you just a few days ago that he had gotten an interview for the Stanford Law School and that was on Monday.

“No, it’s a law school interview,” you whispered, looking at Dean. Dean’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked at you.

“It’s my whole future on a plate,” Sam explained, Dean giving him the same confused look he gave you. “We got a deal or not?” Sam asked, Dean eventually nodded and Sam left to go get his things while the two of you stayed in the Impala and waited.

“You knew about all of this and didn’t tell me?” Dean asked, his voice sounded a mix of anger and disappointment but you didn’t know what to make of it.

“Sam asked me not to and all this stuff is important to him, Dean.” You explained yourself, throwing your hands towards the apartment building where Sam was building a life.

“We were important to him at one point, too, Y/N.” You sighed, knowing Dean was right but you still defended Sam.

“Drop it, okay? You know now and that’s all that matters.” You knew that wasn’t going to fly especially when Dean scoffed and looked out his window instead of at you.

Tags: @ kaelyn-lobrutto24

#supernatural #supernatural rewrite #01x01 #spn #spn rewrite #sam x reader #dean x reader #supernatural pilot #season one episode one #spn fic #spn imagine #reader insert #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader

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grim-work · 2 years

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i haven’t even seen all or most of her episodes but the darkness was such a wasted concept. she just does generic evil shit. she’s supposed to be the opposite of god, the biblical god, the opposite of creation. imagine if they ran with that. imagine if sam and dean get word she’s been in a town and head out to find her, but then get lost and come to find the town isn’t on any maps anymore. it’s gone from signs and books. the people there aren’t dead, they’ve ceased to be. she has undone them. she doesn’t kill, she extinguishes. they meet someone who can’t return to their home or family because all trace of it has been erased. she spares dean once and plays on his intense suicidal ideation because she could do him one better - she could let him fulfill the promise he made to his mother back in s5, to be never born and fine with it, she could undo him and nobody would ever think to miss him. she tempts sam by implying she could do the same to lucifer - no more fear of a being that never was. she could undo all of history if she wanted, truly lay siege on everything her brother ever did by not destroying it, which leaves some record of what he did, but simply evaporating it. think how cool the actual opposite of creation could have been

#or they could have just done a zombie season. that’d be cool #spn meta #amara #spn rewrite #spn writing gripes

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uncouth-the-fifth · 2 years

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imagining sam and pythia!reader starting out playing wordle really casually and innocently but as time goes on it turns into a full blown war and whoever wins has bragging rights for the day. competitive glares from across the breakfast table while dean gets uncomfortable basking in the wordle-based tension and has to take his breakfast to his room

i feel like you've reached into my mind bc this is literally the next episode of pythia's plot 👁 so enjoy some dumb headcanons! read my supernatural rewrite if you haven't here, for more tasteful word-game shenanigans. forgive me for romanticizing scrabble.

but fr tho their thing as a relationship has to be Words, and Literature, bc there's nothing better to care about when you're a hunter-kid in the 90s.

they started off playing scrabble around high school, bc it was the only board game they had and were good at. i feel like she knows more actual words while sam is better at coordinating them on the board to get more points; she has breadth and he has strategy, so they're pretty evenly matched.

since dean is never too eager to get in on their nerdy game, it becomes one of the few times where it's just the two of them - so, simultaneously, they plot to use the game as a device to get each other alone. it is also a game that requires you to sit next to each other, so they could get away with all the arm-brushing and flirty shoulder-shoving they wanted.

reader gets Sam the deluxe traveling edition for the road. they keep the same notebook inside, where they have pages upon pages of tallied games. the same year, he gets her a Vocabulary For Dummies, which begins the vicious cycle of word-game revenge.

he also has the little brother instinct to be a competitive monster, so he slowly starts dropping bets as they play. "whoever loses has to do the other's homework for a week," "first to three rounds gets lunch from the loser," etc. but she is ALSO a competitive monster, specifically bc she loves to impress/infuriate/arouse/confuse sam, so she devours these bets without hesitation.

they get to the point where they can play it like mf speed chess, which results in even worse sexual tension bc their hands keep touching when putting down words, or she has to pick her new letters out of Sam's big, warm palm after he fishes them out of the bag for her. cause you know the hand-touching would be EVIL.

post-stanford, they're off their game. reader has no one to play with, but lays in wait for the day when her skills will be needed again, mourning the only man she'd ever loved (to play scrabble with), her only equal. she weeps over crosswords. her puzzle books grow dust in the trunk of the Impala. Dean offers to play with her, but two turns in, her skin crawls with disloyalty. what kind of scrabble opponent would she be if she played against anyone but Sam?

while away, sam tries to play with other people, but ultimately realizes he has only one true Scrabble Soulmate - only one person who could ever challenge him at the written word. he sits on the hood of his car and broods about it. Jess gifts him sudoku puzzles and he tears through them all, starved to replace such a crucial piece of himself. but despite all his attempts, he can't help but hone his vocabulary and stare at reader's picture in his wallet, waiting for a game he's unsure will ever come.

okay I was joking but also I'm a little serious about it. like this much 👌

the first time it's mentioned again they stand across from each other like cowboys in a quickdraw duel. "I'd love to see a rematch," Dean jokes, but he's unknowingly looking for bloodshed.

finally, they can't stand it anymore. sam can't sleep and she doesn't want him to be up lonely, so they leave Dean in their motel room and put the board down on the Impala's bonnet at 3 in the morning. they both feel alive again!! miraculously, they tie somewhere in the 110s, and thus the second wave of their nemeses-with-benefits rivalry begins.

through the following years of their lives, they play other games: poker, chess, Catan, codenames. their wordle phase lasts the longest, and grew to a point where Dean had to stage an intervention for everyone's health.

when they do play with others, like Dean and Beth on family nights or (living) friends, it goes unspoken that they have to be on the same team together - unless everyone wants to be witness to the most drawn-out, elaborate playing schemes known to man. Garth still talks about the time Sam deliberately and ruthlessly wiped out him, Dean and Bobby just to get "his lady love" all to himself for a game.

it's just best that he and reader stick together :)

tags: tags: @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-loou

#sam winchester #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester headcanons #sam winchester x reader headcanons #supernatural rewrite #spn rewrite #uncouthspn #supernatural #spn #there ain't no me if there ain't no queue

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winchestress · 1 year

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#supernatural #dean winchester #mary winchester #arthur ketch #twigs and twine and tasha banes #12x20 #spn rewrite

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raevenswritingdesk · 1 year

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The Women in White - Chapter 1: Prologue

(Series 1, Book 1 of Wayward Sons: a Supernatural re-imagining)

Warnings: supernatural themes, violence, blood and gore, graphic depictions of violence, death, character death

Summary: Estranged brothers Sam and Dean Winchester were trained by their father John from a young age how to hunt the creatures of the supernatural. Years later, the night before Halloween, Sam is visited by his older brother. Turns out, their father has mysteriously disappeared on a recent hunting trip. The creature in question? The same monster that killed their mother, 22 years ago. A darker alternate re-imagining of the pilot episode of Supernatural. The Winchester boys you love, but just a little to the left of how you know them.

Notes: Soooo turns out this is the first thing I'm posting to ao3 on this account (and this tumblr writing wise) and what better way to kick it off than with what's most likely going to be a rather lengthy series if I actually commit to it and don't give up halfway through (fingers crossed that doesn't happen lol). This primarily started out as a writing exercise; a passion project and a way for me to explore my writing style in a creative way through one of my favourite shows. I'm an aspiring author and what better way to practise my skills and prepare myself for (hopefully) the future than to do a re-write/re-imagining of the series that still has the internet in a choke hold even years after its rather…uNique ending shall we say. I'm not entirely sure how I'm going to go about this just yet, whether i do it episode-by-episode of every episode, or if I just focus on main plots but we'll see how this first episode goes and figure it out from there, shall we? Let me know what you think and let's go on the shitty joyride together :)

Next ->

Read on Ao3

November 2nd, 1983…

During the day, John and Mary mainly kept to themselves, but if you were to ask any neighbour, any at all, they would all tell you stories of how lovely the young couple were. They were quiet and kind, and were more than happy to raise their two young boys that way in the peaceful American suburbia. To an outside eye they appeared like the perfect happy family.

If only things were that simple.

Mary Winchester loved her boys. With all the tragedies the young mother had faced in her life, the smile on their little faces whenever they looked at her was the blessing she never knew she craved, but that she'd give anything to have again and again. As she carried her eldest into the family nursery that night he sported this very smile; eyes a little dreary from sleep but happy. Oh so happy

“Come on Dean,” she whispered, flicking on the lights. “Let's say goodnight to your brother.”

The young boy had already stirred, turning his small body towards the the door as she set the older of the two sons down, his previous fatigue withering away as he perked up and ran to the wooden crib across the room.

“G’night Sammy,” Dean smiled, leaning over the side of the crib to kiss his brother's forehead.

Resting her hand on his shoulder, Mary leaned over the crib to kiss her baby boy as well, brushing his fine hair back as she did so. “Goodnight my love.”

“Hey Dean,” a masculine voice called from the doorway, causing the pair to turn.

“Daddy!” Dean squealed, running to his father who scooped him up in a tight squeeze; his dark hair messy and eyes sullen from the day's events, but a loving expression plastered on his face nonetheless.

Whilst Mary was all freckled smiles, wild blonde hair and even wilder eyes that had seen much more than their owner would admit, her husband was the exact opposite. John was smoke and whiskey, dark features and even darker clothes, with eyes that screamed ‘get back’, but if examined close enough, held an aspect of warmth and playfulness that threatened to melt that cold exterior away. And it was that warmth that Mary saw as he played with the sandy haired boy in front of her, holding him upside down by his feet as he giggled in protest.

“So what do you think Dean? John chimed, bouncing the now upright boy on his hip. “Think Sammy here’s ready to toss around a football yet?”

Dean just laughed in response, shaking his head. “No Daddy.”

“Thought not,” John chuckled.

“You got him?” Mary whispered, passing the two on her way out of the room.

“Yeah, I got him.”

John hugged Dean closer to his chest as he reached for the light-switch.

“Sweet dreams Sam” he spoke, voice softer than a whisper as the room went dark, not noticing as he walked away that the small night light next to his son's bed had begun to flicker. Or that mere moments after he left, that the clock behind his crib would fail to ever tick again.

…

Mary awoke to the sound of static, with flickering lights gracing her vision as she stirred. Turning to face the baby monitor on her nightstand, she groaned; a familiar concoction of love and annoyance settling in as she rubbed her eyes.

“John?’ she called out, before turning with a sigh to see the right side of their bed unoccupied.

Making her way down the hall, Mary began to shiver, her white nightgown failing to keep out the sudden chill of the house. Did we leave a window open?

As the young mother opened the door to the nursery she noticed her husband had already beat her to it; his tall silhouette standing over their child's bed, cradling the little bundle of blankets in his arms.

“Is he hungry?” she yawned, leaning against the door frame as her drowsiness caught up with her.

The man, obscured by the shadows of the night-lit room, turned; raising a slow and precise finger to his lips without taking his eyes of of baby Sammy.

“Shh.”

Part of her wanted to protest, but with her limbs too tired to comply, all that came out was a soft chuckle.

“Well, all right, join me when you’re done.”

Turning back the way she came, Mary only got about half way down before something caught her eye, a light; its bulb flickering in and out like a rhythmic heartbeat in the night. Curious, she approached it and hummed, tapping on the glass until the pulsing steadied. Squinting at the bulb skeptically, Mary turned her attention to the stairwell across from her, strange lights once again grabbing her eye as she noticed faint light bleeding out of the living room downstairs.

Frowning, Mary made her way down the steps to investigate. First the bulbs and now this? She thought to herself. We only just replaced them and no one should be down here, has the TV decided to quit too? Poking her head around the corner, the mothers frustration turned into relieved sigh as before her lay John sprawled out in his recliner with some old war movie murmuring on the TV to an unconscious audience.

John must have fallen asleep watching it she thought, smiling and reaching for the remote to turn it off. She was about to fetch a blanket to tuck the sleeping man in before it dawned on her.

Wait…

If Johns down here…

Then who was upstairs?

Without a second thought, Mary Winchester rushed back up the stairs, not caring when she tripped on her dress or missed a step; not bothering to wake John in her panicked dash.

“Sammy! SAMMY!” she screamed, heart racing as she flung open the 6-month-old’s door once again. She was about to yell again, fear consuming her thoughts when she suddenly stopped short at the scene before her.

It was only then that John Winchester woke, startled to life by the sound of his wife screaming from the floor above.

“Mary?” John called out, taking in his surroundings as the eager pull of sleep left him.

Silence.

“MARY!”

The young man erupted from his chair, paying his aching limbs no heed as he scrambled up the stairs to his wife's aid. Bursting through the once again closed nursery door he was greeted with an empty room; no occupants except for tiny Sam in the corner, seemingly untouched.

“Mary?” he called again, soft and pleading as he cautiously entered the room.

Approaching Sam's crib slowly, he leaned over to check on the young boy, stroking his head. “Hey Sammy, you okay?”

Suddenly, something dark and damp landed on the sheet next to the boy's head, causing John to falter. He reached across to touch it - wet and warm - and as he did so two more droplets fell on the back of his hand, the dark crimson staining his skin as he realised what it was.

Blood. It was blood.

John felt his breathing hitch as he dared glance at the ceiling above, not sure what to expect, and not in any way prepared for the horrific truth.

There on the ceiling, sprawled out like a lifeless doll, was Mary; the stomach of her once ivory nightgown, now a bloody scarlet. Her once bright eyes now glazed over and wide in a forever frozen state of shock.

The man fell to his knees, his trembling body no longer able to hold his weight as he struggled to breathe. The figure was limp and pale - barely human - but it was unmistakably her.

“No! Mary! NO! ” he cried, as the fresh blood continued to drip down on the room from above, as if the universe were making a morbid mockery of his tears.

Sam began to whine in the crib behind his father as the ceiling of the nursery suddenly ignited, hungry flames engulfing the form of his mother.

John just stared, his body frozen in place as his voice died in his throat; unable to do anything but watch as the woman he loved disappeared from view in the raging fire.

The young father, grieving too fast and too soon, only barely snapped back to his senses as Sam's cries turned into wails, scooping the young boy up hastily on shaking legs and bolting out of the smoking room.

Rushing from the scene behind him, John managed to all but knock over Dean, who had left his room to investigate the matter, hair still tousled from sleep.

“Daddy?” the young boy murmured, his tiny voice placid, yet full of concern.

Without answering, John shoved Sam into Dean's arms in a panic and grabbed him by the shoulders.“Take your brother outside as fast as you can Dean you hear me? As fast as you can and don't look back! Now go, Dean, GO!”

Dean simply stared up at his father for a moment, a thousand emotions stirring in his small head all at once. But with one look at his baby brother - small, defenceless, and clearly distraught - he nodded, taking off down the stairs as John turned towards the fiery room once more.

With a shaking breath, he called his wife's name one last time, before running head first into the flames.

As Dean burst his way through the front door he wasn't sure which was louder; the cries of his brother or the approaching sirens in the distance. The 4 year old was just as concerned, and just as distraught, but he didn't show it. He didn't know what was happening and he didn't know what this all meant but that didn't matter right now. Instead, he simply focused on comforting his baby brother against his chest.

“Shh it's okay Sammy,” he whispered, gazing up at the fire now blazing out of the nursery window. “It's gonna be okay.”

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theimaginativesoul · 1 year

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After rewatching Supernatural, now I get it what event Chronos was talking about. (I think this is what it is besides the Leviathans, but I'm pretty sure it's this)

#cw supernatural #supernatural castiel sacrifice to save dean #supernatural #spnfamily #spn castiel #spn #spn rewrite #castielss #castiel winchester #castiel #dean #deancas #dean winchester

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deanswaywardgirl · 1 year

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On The Head of a Pin

Okay, so this is a rewrite of season 4 episode 16. Enjoy! Feedback is much appreciated. :)

Pamela Barnes was dead. And Faith could tell the Winchesters felt responsible, not to mention fed up with the whole thing. To Faith, they were fighting a war that would determine whether the apocalypse would even begin. During war, there were casualties, whether they liked it or not, but that didn't erase the frustration and guilt they were all feeling. She swallowed hard as she listened to the two of them, able to hear them even though she was half asleep.

"Ruby will meet us outside Cheyenne. She's been tracking some leads." Dean rolled his eyes and breathed deeply in response. "Look, I know she's not exactly on your Christmas list, but if she can help us get to Lilith--" "Hey, man, work with Ruby, don't. I don't really give a rat's ass." "What's your problem?" "Pamela didn't want anything to do with this, and we dragged her back into it, Sam." Sam paused, the guilt flashing across his features. "She knew what was at stake," he said quietly. "Oh yeah. Saving the world. And we're doing such a damn good job of it." "Dean--" "I'm tired of burying friends, Sam," Dean cut his brother off, licking his lips as he sat up in the seat. "Look, we catch a fresh trail--" "And we follow it, I know. Like I said, I'm just-- I'm just getting tired." "Well, get angry." Faith sat up, giving up on the car nap idea. "Alright, you two, enough." "Oh, she speaks," Dean commented, his voice still rough from sleep. "Well, with you two up here bickering, makes it hard for a girl to get her beauty sleep." It wasn't long before Sam pulled up in front of their motel room.

"Ah, home crappy home," Dean grunted. Sam trudged in behind him and flipped on the lights, revealing two angels who were well and truly hated amongst the three of them. "Winchester, Winchester, and the abomination," Uriel commented, his hands in his pockets. Castiel stood back, off to the side, silent. Like a slave obeying his master.

"Oh come on." Dean growled. "You're needed," Uriel said, ignoring his jab. Faith rolled her eyes as she put her backpack down on the table. "Needed? We just got back from needed," Dean snapped at the angel. "Now, you mind your tone with me," Uriel warned. "No, you mind your damn tone with us," Dean pressed, taking a step toward the angel, his fists clenched at his sides. Sam moved between them, pressing an arm against Dean's torso, his eyes moving to the angel. "We just got back from Pamela's funeral." "Pamela. You know, psychic Pamela? You remember her. Cas, you remember her. You burned her eyes out. Remember that? Good times. Yeah, then she died, saving one of your precious seals. So maybe you can stop pushing us around like chess pieces for five freaking minutes!" Dean shouted.

Faith rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and moved to Dean's side, glaring at the angels. "Alright! Enough! Dean, enough. Uriel, what the hell do you want? Besides to piss Dean off and raise his blood pressure?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. "We raised him out of Hell for OUR purposes," Uriel said, his voice still calm, though Faith could tell he was getting impatient. Dean came to flank Faith, his eyes on the angel. "Yeah, what were those again? What exactly did you want from me?" Dean asked.

"Start with gratitude," Uriel replied, his eyes moving to Dean, just over Faith's shoulder. "Oh." Dean sarcastically smiled and touched his chest, before he dropped it, his eyes moving to Castiel. "Dean, we know this is difficult to understand-" the angel spoke. "And WE don't care," Uriel finished, after giving Castiel a significant look. "Now, seven angels have been murdered, all of them from our garrison. The last one was killed tonight." "Demons? How they doing it?" Dean asked. "We don't know," Uriel replied. "I'm sorry, but what do you want us to do about it? I mean, a demon with the juice to ice angels has to be out of our league, right?" Sam asked, cutting in. "We can handle the demons, thank you very much." "Obviously not," Faith replied. "Or you wouldn't be out seven angels. Its a real shame you're not one of them," she added, sliding her hands into her back pockets. "So, you need our help hunting a demon?" Dean asked, leaning on the back of a chair. Castiel stepped forward, joining the small group, but still standing behind Uriel. "Not quite. We have Alastair." "Great. He should be able to name your trigger man." "But he won't talk. Alastair's will is very strong. We've arrived at an impasse." "Yeah, well, he's like a black belt in torture. I mean, you guys are out of your league."

"That's why we've come to his student." Dean's eyes darkened and Faith's head shot up as she turned around to face the angel, growling under her breath, coming to stand beside Dean. "You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we've got," Uriel continued, his eyes narrowed. Dean looked down, and swallowed hard. "Dean, you're our best hope," Castiel told him, regret on his face. "No. No way. You can't ask me to do this, Cas. Not this." Dean glanced up at Castiel, his eyes pleading, but otherwise no emotion on his face.

"Not a chance in Hell," Faith added, her eyes cold as she glanced between Uriel and Castiel. Uriel slowly approached Dean. "Who said anything about asking?" he asked. Faith had a hold of Dean's jacket, and the four of them disappeared from the room, leaving Sam behind. "Damn it!" Sam exclaimed.

In the barely lit room stood Dean, Faith, Uriel, and Castiel. He moved towards the door on the other side of the room and glanced through the small window to see the demon chained up and trapped on a hexacle standing in the middle of a devil's trap. "This devil's trap is Old Enochian. He's bound completely," Castiel told Dean. Faith glanced at Uriel, her jaw clenched. Dean turned and moved back to Faith's side, she being the only one in the vicinity that he trusted.

"That's fascinating. Where's the door?" "Where are you going?" Castiel asked. "Hitch back to Cheyenne, thank you very much," Dean replied. He and Faith walked past Uriel, then stopped, Uriel blocking their way. "Move it, asshat," Faith growled, her fists clenched, the angel getting on her last nerve. Uriel glared at them both with a sadistic smirk. "Angels are dying," he reported, his eyes on Dean. "Everybody's dying these days. And hey, I get it. You're all powerful. You can make me do whatever you want. But you can't make me do this," Dean growled, turning to glance at Castiel over his shoulder for some assistance. Castiel approached the three of them.

"This is too much to ask, I know. But we have to ask it." Dean watched Castiel for a moment, then turned back to Uriel. Faith ran her hand through her hair with a sigh, shaking her head at Castiel, her jaw clenched. "I want to talk to Cas alone," Dean told Uriel.

"I think I'll go see revelation. We might have some further orders," Uriel said, his eyes still on Dean, who smirked. "Well get some donuts while you're out." Uriel laughed. "Ah, this one won't quit, will he? I think I'm starting to like you, boy. Can't say the same for your abomination, here," he said, his eyes flashing on Faith.

Dean gently pulled her behind him and watched him vanish, then turned to Castiel. "You guys don't walk enough. You're gonna get flabby." Faith snorted, but they didn't receive a reaction from Castiel. "You know, I'm starting to think junkless has a better sense of humor than you do." "Uriel's the funniest angel on the garrison. Ask anyone." Dean sighed and walked up to Castiel. "What's going on, Cas? Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?" "My superiors have begun to question my sympathies." "Your sympathies?" Dean asked, arching a brow.

"I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You. They feel I've begun to express emotions. The doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment." Dean closed his eyes and stepped past him towards the door, looking through the small window. "Well tell Uriel, or whoever...you do not want me doing this, trust me." He swallowed hard, hoping this last attempt would convince Castiel. "Want it, no. But I've been told we need it." "You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out." Castiel glanced at Faith. "This is why we've allowed her to be here." Faith glanced from Castiel to Dean and back. "Me?"

Dean turned and glanced at Faith, swallowing hard. "I don't want her seeing me like that." She sighed and moved to him. "Dean, nothing you do will make me look at you differently. Alistair's a demon, he deserves this, especially for everything he did to you in the basement. If you want, I'll do it." "No." Dean shook his head as he glanced at her. "I won't let you be like me." Faith smiled. "Dean, there's nothing wrong with you, believe me, I know." She winked at him and held her hand out to him. "Trust me. I won't let anything happen to you in there," she said. Dean sighed and licked his lips as he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Dean wheeled a loaded cart covered with a cloth into the room where Alastair was imprisoned. The demon watched Dean as he entered, and grinned, starting to sing and moving within the chains as though he was dancing.

"Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak. I seem to find the happiness I seek, when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek..." Dean pulled the cloth off the cart, revealing an assortment of torture implements, earning a laugh from the strung up demon. Dean ignored him. "I'm sorry. This is a very serious, very emotional situation for you. I shouldn't laugh, it's just that--I mean, are they serious? They sent you to torture me?" Dean turned to face him and swallowed.

Faith settled in a backwards chair, out of the way but within eyesight. Her eyes were dark with hatred for the demon in front of them. There was a part of her that wanted to tear him to shreds. "You got one chance. One. Tell me who's killing angels. I want a name." "You think I'll see all your scary toys and spill my guts?" "Oh you'll spill your guts, one way or another. I just didn't wanna ruin my shoes." Alastair's eyes flashed down to his shoes and worked their way back up. "Now answer the question." "Or what? You'll work me over? But then, maybe, you don't want to. Maybe you're a little scared to," he said in a sing-song voice. "I'm here, aren't I?" Dean asked, his face reading no emotion. "Not entirely. You left part of yourself back in the pit. Let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we?" "You're gonna be disappointed," Dean remarked, turning to head back to the cart. "You have not disappointed me so far. Come on, you gotta want a little payback for everything I did to you. For all the pokes and prods. Hm?" Dean ignored him, but Faith knew Dean and could see the slightest flinch in his features, and the smallest stiffen of his shoulders. "No? Um...how about for all the things I did to your daddy?" Faith's eyes widened as she watched Dean's head raise up. "Uh oh," she said softly.

Back at the motel, Sam opened the door for Ruby.

"I can still smell them. Seriously, Sam, I'm not exactly dying to tangle with angels again." Sam closed the door and turned to her. "I need you to find out where they took Dean." Ruby's brows furrowed. "Not sure I see the problem. You know they have Alastair strung up six ways from Sunday. Dean cuts himself a slice, Al's reduced to a quivering heap, and the good guys get the goods. What's wrong with that?" she asked, shrugging. "He can't do it," Sam said, simply. "Look, I get it. You don't want him going all torture master again." "No, I mean, he can't do it. He can't get the job done. Something happened to him downstairs, Ruby. He's not what he used to be. He's not strong enough." "And you are?" Ruby asked. Sam sighed and swallowed hard. "I will be." "I had your pop on my rack for close to a century," Alastair told Dean. "You can't stall forever," Dean countered, focused on what he was doing. Faith was now standing against the wall on the other side of the cart, her eyes on Dean, praying she could pull him back from the edge. "John Winchester. Made a good name for himself. A hundred years. After each session, I'd make him the same offer I made you. I'd put down my blade if he picked one up." "Just give me the demon's name, Alastair," Dean said, calmly ignoring his subtle jabs at Dean's control. "But he said nein each and every time. Oh, and damned if I couldn't break him." Dean slid his leather jacket off his shoulders and handed it to Faith with a wink, earning a soft smile and wink back from her as she folded it over her arm. "Pulled out all the stops, but John, he was, well, made of something unique. The stuff of heroes. And then came Dean. Dean Winchester. I thought I was up against it again."

Dean drank from a large of bottle of something Faith guessed was alcoholic. "But Daddy's little girl, he broke. He broke in thirty. Oh, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?" Dean stiffly put the bottle down. "Now." Dean finally glanced up at Faith, who swallowed hard, before he turned to Alastair.

"You know something, Alastair? I could still dream. Even in Hell. And over and over and over, you know what I dreamt? I dreamt of this moment." A nervous look took over Alastair's features, and Dean picked up a rather large needle. "And believe me, I got a few ideas," he said as he filled the needle from the jigger, sprayed a little water from it, and moved over to Alastair. "Let's get started." Faith swallowed as she watched Dean. From the next room, Castiel stood, his eyes on the door as he heard Alastair's screams.

"Oh man. Ooh," Alastair cried. Dean laid the needle back on the cart with his other tools. "Let me know if you want any more of this. There's plenty left." Alastair weakly lifted his head. "Go directly to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars," he commented, causing Faith to scoff and shake her head. Dean smiled. Ruby chanted, holding a lit candle to the corner of a map. Sam watched the fire spread around the edges. "Relax, the fire's our friend. Besides, the only part of the map we need is the 'where's Dean?' part. Out." The flames instantly vanished, the map charred to unreadability; a small circle in the middle completely untouched. "There. Your brother's there," Ruby said, pointing to the small town in the center. "It's a good thing angels aren't concerned with hiding their dirty business. Not used to being spied on. I mean, who'd be stupid enough to try?" Sam turned halfway, his eyes on the floor. "Ruby, its been weeks. I need it." "You don't seem too happy about it." "You think I wanna do this? This is the last thing I--" Sam sat on the bed an sighed, glancing up at her. "But I need to be strong enough." Ruby straddled him. "It's okay. It's okay, Sammy. You can have it." She leaned in and kissed him before pulling a knife from an ankle sheath and cutting her arm, drawing blood. Sam leaned down and attached his lips to her arm, drinking it straight from the vein while Ruby stroked his hair. "It's okay, Sam," she whispered, smirking.

Dean held up Ruby's knife while Alastair looked on. "There's that little pig-poker. I wondered where it went." Dean dipped a ladle into a large bowl of holy water and poured it over the blade. "Do you really think this is gonna fix you? Give you closure? That is sad. That's really sad. Sad, sad." Dean approached Alastair, watching him for a moment, then stabbed him, his lip curling as a sizzling sounded in the room. "I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There's no going back," he growled. Faith's eyes slightly narrowed as she watched the exchange between the two and stood up off the column. "Maybe you're right. But now it's my turn to carve." "No!" Alastair cried in pain. Unbeknownst to all three of them, a faucet in the back corner of the room turned, beginning to drip right onto the chalk of the devil's trap on the floor.

Faith stepped closer to Dean, but gave him a moment. "Dean...hey!" she called, then gently touched his arm, startled when he ripped his arm away from her, his attention still on the demon in front of him. "Dean, hey, look at me," she said and firmly turned him to face her, cupping his face in her hands. "Come back to me," she whispered, swallowing hard. "It's me," she said, ignoring the demon behind Dean. "You're here, I'm here, its okay," she reassured him, smiling warmly when he blinked and glanced down at her, his eyes softening. She released him and licked her lips before gently patting his chest before moving away from him.

It was then the lights above them flickered that Faith looked up at the ceiling before looking back out the door to see a certain red headed angel. Her fists clenched at her sides before she turned back to Dean. "I'll be back, okay? I'll be right back."

"Why are you letting Dean do this?" Anna asked Castiel. "He's doing God's work," Castiel said, his hands in his pockets. "Torturing? That's God's work? Stop him, Cas. Please. Before you ruin the one real weapon you have." "Who are we to question the will of God?" Castiel asked, still not facing her. "Unless this isn't His will." "Then where do the orders come from?" "I don't know. One of our superiors, maybe, but not him."

The red headed angel, Anna, touched Castiel's hand. "These orders are wrong, and you know it. But you can do the right thing. You're afraid, Cas. I was too. But together, we can still--" "Get the hell out," Faith growled, having been standing in the room the whole time. "What the hell do you want?" she asked, having earned Anna's attention. She opened her mouth to say something when Cas spoke. "Together?" He yanked his hand away from under hers. "I am nothing like you. You fell. Go."

Faith arched a brow as she clenched her jaw, gripping her blade tightly in case she tried anything. "And while you're at it. Stay the hell away from my boys, you traitorous poisonous bitch." The light above Faith blew to pieces as her eyes glowed. Anna turned back to Cas. "Cas." "Go," he ordered once more, his expression daring her to test his patience. As she vanished, Faith nodded at Castiel before turning and going back into the room with Dean and Alastair.

The demon spit out blood and holy water, his eyes moving to Faith. "Welcome back, princess. You missed all the fun stuff," he said, giving her a sadistic smile. Faith smiled as she moved up to Alastair and back handed him across the face, her eyes glowing. "Don't talk to me, you disgusting monster." "Ooo, I like her, Dean. She has fire. Come on, hit me again." He licked his lips as his eyes traveled over Faith and back up to her face. "Don't you want a real man, sweets? I know Lucifer would love a piece of you," he said. Dean snarled as he came up beside Faith, but she gently touched his chest before she turned back to Alastair and leaned up to his ear. "Then tell him to come get me. I'll be waiting," she said before backing away. Alastair sighed and turned to Dean, shaking his head.

"You're just not getting deep enough. Well, you lack the resources. Reality is just, I don't know, too concrete up here. Honestly, Dean...." Dean ignored him once more and poured salt into another container. "You have no idea how bad it really was, and what you really did for us." "Shut up," Dean whispered. "The whole bloody thing, Dean. The reason Lilith wanted you there in the first place." "Well, then I'll just make you shut up." Dean grabbed Alastair's chin. "Lilith really--" Dean cut him off by pouring salt into Alastair's mouth, the demon trying to scream around it.

Alastair spit out blood and tried to breathe. "Something caught in my throat. I think it's my throat." "Well strap in, 'cause I'm just starting to have fun," Dean said, then turned and went back to his cart. "You know, it was supposed to be your father," Alastair continued, watching Dean pour out more holy water. "He was supposed to bring it on. But, in the end, it was you." "Bring what on?" "Oh, every night, the same offer, remember? Same as your father." Dean shook salt onto the blade of Ruby's knife. "And finally you said, 'sign me up.' Oh, the first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch...." Dean turned to face the demon when he didn't finish. "That was the first seal." Dean didn't visibly react as he stepped closer. "You're lying." "And it is written that the first seal should be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break."

Dean turned away, his eyes moving to Faith, her own eyes on the floor, a sad look apparent on her face. "We had to break the first seal before any others. Only way to get the dominoes to fall, right? Topple the one at the front of the line." Faith could see the fear and shock on Dean's face and dropped her eyes before closing them completely. "When we win, when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester." Dean closed his eyes, trying not to react. "Believe me, son, I wouldn't lie about this. It's kind of a religious sort of thing with me." The demon glanced behind him and noticed the dripping faucet and the broken edge of the devil's trap. "No, I don't think you are lying. But even if the demons do win..." He picked up Ruby's knife, but didn't notice the look on Faith's face, her eyes widened with fear. "You won't be there to see it," he said and turned to see Alastair there behind him, out of the chains. "You should talk to your plumber about the pipes." The demon punched Dean and sent Faith flying into a column where she crumpled and curled into a ball, laying there for a moment to clear the blurriness at the edges of her vision.

Faith watched from the floor where Alastair was holding her as he punched Dean repeatedly before dropping him and lifting him by the throat and pinning him to the hexacle, his feet not touching the floor.

Faith screamed and tried to move, the demon's hold too strong. Tears of fear fell down her cheeks as she looked on helpless. She only hoped someone would come in that door, her eyes moving to it, almost willing Sam or Cas to walk through it. She moved her eyes back to Dean. "NO! ALASTAIR!" she cried. "You've got a lot to learn, boy. So, I'll see you back in class bright and early Monday morning." Faith felt the hold on her loosen and glanced up to see Castiel behind Alastair with Ruby's knife. The demon dropped Dean and focused on Castiel.

Faith crawled over to Dean and gently rolled him over, holding his head in her lap, caressing his cheek before glancing up at the angel and demon fighting. She turned her blue eyes back down to Dean and smiled sadly, her tears falling onto his face. "Get out of here, Faith. He'll kill you." The girl shook her head and stroked his cheek. "I'm not leaving you, ever. You hear me?" she asked.

Castiel stabbed Alastair in the heart with the knife. It sparked gold light, but not as much as when it kills. "Well, almost. Looks like God is on my side today." Castiel lifted his hand twisted the knife. Alastair grunted in pain and pulled the knife out before tossing it away and charging Castiel. Faith glanced back down at Dean to see him close his eyes. "Dean, stay with me, okay? Come on, Dean, you're gonna be okay." She looked up at the angel and demon, stroking Dean's cheek with her thumb, for the moment not caring that she was covered in his blood. "Well, like roaches, you celestials. Now, I really wish I knew how to kill you. But all I can do is send you back to Heaven." The demon started chanting in Latin, a blue light appearing in Castiel's eyes and mouth. The chanting stopped when Alastair was slammed against the far wall, Castiel slumping against the wall. Faith and Castiel both glanced up to see Sam, one hand raised. "Stupid pet tricks," Alastair said. "Who's murdering the angels? How are they doing it?" Sam asked. Faith sent a quivering cold glare at the demon, just glad Sam was there with them. At the moment, she was grateful for his abilities. Her eyes dropped back down to Dean, still unconscious in her arms. "You think I'm gonna tell you?" Alastair asked Sam, his head moving around as if he were trying to squirm out of Sam's hold. "Yeah, I do," Sam replied, then twisted his hand, causing Alastair's eyes to roll white and to choke. "How are the demons killing angels?" "I don't know." "Right." "It's not us. We're not doing it." "I don't believe you." "Lilith is not behind this. She wouldn't kill seven angels. Oh, she'd kill a hundred, a thousand." Sam dropped his hand, but stood just as tall. Faith glanced up at him and swallowed hard, then glanced down at Dean and brushed a tender kiss to his forehead before taking his hand. "We're all here, Dean, you'll be okay. You're safe now," she whispered against his head. "I promise. I'm not leaving you. Ever." Another tear fell down her cheek as she rested her head against his and closed her eyes. "Oh, go ahead. Send me back, if you can." Sam smirked at the demon. "I'm stronger than that now. Now, I can kill." Sam lifted his hand again and a gold light flared inside Alastair as he screamed. The host holding the demon collapsed, dead.

Having managed to get Dean to a hospital and stabilized, Faith finally felt like she could breathe, though every time she looked at the bruising, more tears would fall. She didn't let go of his hand and laced their fingers together, smiling warmly as she looked up at Sam when he gestured that he was stepping out for a moment. She glanced over her shoulder to see Castiel standing there. Anger flashed in her eyes as she stood up and looked down at Dean. She leaned down and kissed his cheek. "I'll be right back." She followed Sam out of the room and shoved the angel against the wall, an angel blade to his throat. "You bastards did this to him."

"Faith-" "No, you listen to me. Heal him now. He didn't want to participate in your little exercise with Alastair. You and Uriel put him in there with that animal." "No." Sam gently pulled Faith off him and glared at the angel. "Heal him. Miracle. Now." "I don't know what happened. That trap...it shouldn't have broken. I am sorry." Faith shook her head, snarling. "Shove it up your ass. And next time, do the torturing yourself. Cause if this EVER happens again, to either of them, you won't have to worry about some angel killer. You'll have me to deal with." She moved past him back into Dean's room. "This whole thing was pointless. You understand that? The demons aren't doing the hits. Something else is killing your soldiers," Sam said. "Perhaps Alastair was lying," Castiel tried, grasping at straws. "No, he wasn't." It wasn't long before Sam came back into the room, but lingered in the doorway with a sigh. "Where's the angel?" Faith asked, holding Dean's hand again, afraid to let go. "He went to see if he could find Uriel. How is he?" Sam asked. Faith shook her head, more tears falling. "Same." "You really care for him, don't you?" he asked, circling back around to his own chair. Faith slightly blushed. "Am I that obvious?" she asked with a warm smile. Sam chuckled. "Please, you might as well have it written on your forehead." Faith smiled and laughed softly, shrugging one shoulder. "Wow, I can only hope he's clueless, then." Her eyes moved to Dean before her smile faded and her eyes fell. "Hey," Sam said softly, earning her attention. "He's gonna be okay. You know Dean, it'll take alot more than this to keep him down."

Faith nodded. "I know. Its just bad memories. Last time he was in a hospital, he was in a coma. I can't lose him, Sam. I can't lose either one of you," she said, smiling softly. "You're my family."

"Faith...hey.." The brunette stirred in her sleep before sitting up and seeing Dean's eyes open. "Where's Sam?" he asked, his voice scatchy from not using it. Faith rubbed her eyes. "Uh, he went back to the motel a couple hours ago. I insisted that I'd stay. And I'm glad I did. How you feeling?" she asked, relieved that he was awake and talking. "Like I got punched by a pissed off demon," he said, turning his head and closing his eyes before glancing back at her and swallowing hard. "Can I have some water?" he asked. Faith nodded and grabbed the cup with the straw before moving to the sink and filling it up. She then moved back to the bed and lowered the straw to his lips, letting him drink for as long as he needed. When she pulled the cup back, she set it close by and turned back to him. "Better?" she asked, earning a nod. "You shouldn't be here." "Dean, why wouldn't I be here?" "Come on, Faith, you heard what Alastair said. He wasn't lying." Faith closed her eyes and licked her lips with a nod. "I know. Dean, I am so sorry." Dean shook his head. "For what? Starting the apocalypse? Wait, that's on me. Faith, I'm a monster," he said, tears welling up in his eyes, turning his head from her. "No." Faith gently turned his face back to her, but a stern look was on her face. "Dean Winchester, you listen to me. This was not your fault. You're human, and even more, you had no idea." "I broke the first seal, Faith, knowingly or not." Faith shook her head as she stroked his cheek. "I'm a monster." "No, you're not. You're a hero." She gently gripped his chin. "You're MY hero. To be honest, Dean, you were the only one down there I cared about. Cause at the end of the day, you and Sam were all I had here. So, I don't care. You and Sam have beaten every single big bad you've come up against, we'll beat this one too. Lilith or Lucifer. Doesn't matter."

Dean couldn't help but smile at the girl. "You're insane." The girl shrugged. "I know. Duh. It's a gift." She winked down at him and smiled, then looked up when Castiel appeared. Faith glared at him, laying the angel blade across her lap. "Are you alright?" the angel asked. "No thanks to you," Dean said, swallowing hard. "You need to be more careful." "You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap." "That's not what I mean. Uriel is dead." Dean glanced at the angel sat beside him. "Was it demons?" he asked. "It was disobedience. He was working against us."

Faith scoffed and shook her head. "So I was right. Dean's here for nothing." She stood and glared at the angel across from her. "Faith.." Dean gently touched her shoulder and nudged her back down before laying his arm back down. "Is it true? Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?" he asked, swallowing hard. Faith glared at Castiel, shaking her head as her eyes dropped. "Yes. When we discovered Lilith's plan for you, we laid siege to Hell and we fought our way to get to you before you--" "Jump started the apocalypse," Dean finished, cutting him off. "But we were too late." "Too late? What the hell took y'all so long? My god, Castiel, you're a bunch of dumbasses," Faith scolded, getting up and going to the window.

The room was quiet for several minutes before she returned to Dean's side. "Why didn't you just leave me there, then?" Faith gently squeezed Dean's hand, not knowing what to say to help him feel better. "It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate. The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it." Faith shook her head as she looked up at the angel. "Lucifer? The apocalypse? What does that mean?" he asked. Faith growled. "Answer him, dammit. What does it mean?!" "I don't know," Castiel said. "Bull!" Dean replied. "I don't. Dean, they don't tell me much. I know our fate rests with you."

"Well then you guys are screwed. I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. Alastair was right. I'm not all here, I'm not--I'm not strong enough. Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me." Faith kept her glare on the angel. "Hey, you and me. Outside. Now." She glanced at Dean and stroked his cheek with a warm smile. "As for you, remember what I said. I don't care what the winged dicks say, you're not doing this alone, and you never will. I'm here, and Sam's here. We're with you, no matter what they say." She turned back on Castiel before going out of the room. When he showed, she hit him. "How dare you, you stupid son of a bitch. You winged dingbats epically fail to save him from Hell, and now you tell him that the fate of the world is on his shoulders?" "Faith, its his destiny." "That's bullshit, and you know it. I've never believed in destiny. You assholes failed to save him from Hell, that's on you, so you fight your own war. Leave the Winchesters out of it. You tell Michael to stay the hell away from Dean. Or, since you people can't do anything right, send him to me, and I'll do it myself. Get out of this hospital before you find out how much of a monster I can be." Her eyes glowed before she went into Dean's room and slammed the door behind her before leaning her head against it and closing her eyes. "You alright?" Dean asked. Faith turned to face him and nodded. "I should be asking you that. You're the one in a hospital bed with a drip attached to you." She sat back down beside him and turned the tv on, switching it on to Golden Girls. She glanced back at Dean and smirked. "You know you love this show." Dean smirked and shook his head before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

@twinkleinadiamondsky @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior @wearywinchester @avanatural @mvdeanw

#spn rewrite #Dean Winchester #Dean x Faith #Dean angst #Dean and Faith fluff #Faith Delaney (OC)

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payphoneangel · 2 years

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@caswap asked for a peep at my Kevin PPT so woe: alternate Kevin lore be upon ye (as always please click for better quality tumblr hates images)

Idk how this version of Kevin would impact the narrative as a whole but I just think that Kevin deserves to be 1) happier 2) more chaotic and 3) given more agency. PLUS spn is sorely missing an unhinged scientist character and as an ex AP student I think Kevin could fall into that role nicely.

#vinny types #kevin tran #spn rewrite #this is a portion of a greater PPT that I was showing to peeps who hadnt seen kevins season. hence the intro slide for him #Kevin having a pet hellhound that he stole from Crowley just makes me SO #the show loved to highlight that kevin was a smart kid just to add to the tragedy of how fucked his life got after becoming a prophet #similar to Sam in law school #but like i think it should IMPACT THEIR CHARACTERS #so kevin was a smart smart cookie in highschool AND made it all the way into college which is when he started actually #tracking+experimenting the supernatural #i DO think it would be fun for his gf to be supernatural of some type #vamp or werewolf maybe #they could eventually join garths pack :)

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b1zarr3vel · 1 year

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When a show is so inconsistent and all over the place but you can’t stop thinking about it so you decide to rewrite it as a comic.

Anyways look at this handsome little autistic psychic boy I drew :)

#original #b1zarr3vel #art #artwork #supernatural #spn rewrite #supernormal #fanart #supernatural au #au #sam winchester #spn #spn au

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foreverwayward · 1 year

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ATTENTION “WAYWARD HEARTS” READERS!

Well hello, strangers! It has been quite a while since we last spoke. To say life has been crazy is a vast understatement.

However, I have been brainstorming over the last few weeks. I am considering redoing the series--keeping the meat of it but tweaking parts of the story and some of my writing/format as when I started, I had never written a series in my life. I’m going to be changing certain plots, the relationships between Riley, Sam and Dean, and a few other things as I’m ready for this series to be more cannon. Now that I know what I’m doing, I want to do this right.

This time, we would be renaming the series to “Supernatural: A Series Rewrite” or maybe “Supernatural: The Winchester & Munroe Chronicles”. I am also up for possible name suggestions. Let’s be honest, I did horribly naming this series lol

I know it’s been a few years since we really got into this story, so if you are in the taglist and have lost interest, let me know and I’ll remove you (or you can remove yourself on the link in my bio)--I will totally understand. Hell, I don’t even know how many of you are even still on Tumblr lol maybe you’ve even changed your name. But, if you’re ready for a somewhat new story with a canonical feel...let me know because I think I’m ready to go for round two.

Let me know what y’all are thinking and if you’re still wanting to be a part of the adventure. I love you all and have missed you like crazy. Here’s to returning to the Supernatural world.

Taglist: @waywardmoeyy @maraudingmeme @arctusluna @salt-n-burn-em-all @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away-blog @becs-bunker @squirrelnotsam @x-waywardaf-x @death-unbecomes-you @themoonandotherslikeit @wndamaximov @flamencodiva @aaspiringhero @gemini0410 @love-nakamura @klinenovakwinchester @cemmia @deans-baby-momma @paintballkid711 @da5haexowin @a-manduhhhhh @winchestergirl82 @spnbaby-67 @sandycub @bunnybaby121115 @erins-culinary-service @lauravic @moonxdance @knights0fkylo @local-anxious-ace @screechingartisancashbailiff @wiredandwayward @the-children-of-the-stars @rosey1981 @mylovelydame21 @titty-teetee @walkingchemicalfire @saaamsayshi @fandom-princess-forevermore @fangirlxwritesx67 @itsafreakingtouque @teddybeardoctorr @janndishsstuff @irelandsharpie @dracosassismine @accioromancff @shira82828 @lostinwonderland314 @teresa-67 @suckmyapplejacks @winchestergatina @ravennnnwinch @winchestersistertho @superdoclock42 @imescullen @cra-zy-vib-es1999 @negansnympho89

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spn-rewrites · 2 years

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01x01 (PART 2)

Season One Episode One: Pilot

Part 1 Part 3

Summary: The Impala drives itself

Word Count: 4k

As the three of you entered Jericho, the dirty sign passing you guys, Sam was calling every morgue and hospital in the area. You weren’t used to riding in the backseat anymore, ever since John let Dean have the Impala and let the two of you go on your own hunts without him. Sam now had your seat, but you were okay with it. It was spacious back here and sometimes, if you focused really hard, you could zone out the music and Dean’s bad singing. “So there’s no one matching dad at any of the hospitals or morgue, so that’s something I guess,” Sam said.

“Not really if this ghost or whatever isn’t leaving bodies to be found,” you put a damper on Sam’s parade, and the two boys looked back at you, “what?” You asked innocently as Dean looked back at the road.

“Check it out,” he pointed to the side of the road where cop cars were lined up and police were scattered around what seemed to be an abandoned car. Dean pulled over and grabbed the box out of the glove compartment that held all the fake ID’s and FBI badges and whatnot, grabbing three fake wallets out, each with a fake badge and ID in it.

You headed over to the cops that were inspecting the car and listened to them as they said the car was spotless, absolutely clean. Then, they mentioned that the victim was dating another cop’s daughter. “You guys had another one like this last month, didn’t you?” Dean asked, not seeming bothered that he interrupted their conversation. The cops stopped talking and looked up at you guys curiously.

“And who are you?” The cops asked, taking the few steps in between the three of you and the car. They were eyeing you all up and down, gauging your dirty outfits that did not scream I am a cop.

“Federal Marshall’s,” Dean held up his fake badge and the cop eyed it.

“You three are a little young to be Federal Marshals aren't you?” The cop asked, his eyes stopped on you and scanning your body. You froze and stepped behind Sam just slightly so that the cop couldn’t look at your body anymore.

“We’re flattered,” Dean smirked and looked closer at the car. “You did have another one just like this, yes?”

“Yeah, about a mile up the road,” the cop said.

“You knew this victim?” You asked, remembering their conversation from earlier that you so rudely interrupted.

“A town like this, everybody knows everybody,” the cop smirked at you but you gave him a smug grin in return.

“Any connection between them? Besides they’re all men?” You asked again, keeping up a professional persona as Dean investigated the car and Sam stood next to you, catching wind of the cop’s creepy behavior towards you.

“Not as far as we can tell,” the cop replied. You nodded at him and walked away, towards Dean and the car. You could hear Sam continue to question the cop.

“What’s the theory?” Sam asked.

“Honestly, we don’t know,” the cops voice seemed to change between talking to you and the boys. Less flirty and more professional. It made you sick. “Serial murders, kidnapping ring, could be anything.”

“That’s exactly the kind of crack police work I’d expect out of you guys,” Dean cracked, you stomped on his foot just hard enough for him to feel it, the cop giving you guys a weird look when Dean groaned.

Sam thanked the police for their time and the three of you walked away from the crash and back towards the car, Dean pinching you on the back of the arm. “What the hell was that for?” You screeched, grabbing the back of your arm where it hurt.

“Did you have to step on my foot like that?!” Dean yelled through his teeth.

“Did you have to talk to the cops like that?” Sam deadpanned, defending you once again to his brother. You smiled, sticking your tongue out a little bit at the older Winchester.

+++

The three of you drove around Jericho, hoping to find someone that could give you more information on the missing kid, Troy. Just outside of downtown, you saw a girl hanging up Troy’s missing persons posters. Dean parked the car and you all got out, walking to the girl. In John’s journals, he wrote Troy had a girlfriend, Amy. You assumed this was her.

“Yeah, I’m Amy,” she said, pinning the poster, not glancing at us at all.

“Troy told us about you, we’re his uncles. I’m Dean, this is Sammy and my wife Y/N,” Dean pointed between the three of us, you smiling at her as she glanced but then she walked away.

“Troy never told me about you guys,” she replied.

“Well, that’s Troy, I guess,” Dean said as we walked with Amy as she continued to put up posters, ignoring us. “We’re not around much, we’re up in Modesto.” Dean said, you decided to grab his hand as part of the facade and he happily took it, sticking his other one in his pocket.

“We’re looking for him, too. Asking around and stuff,” you said, slightly leaning into Dean to face Amy more. “Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” You asked, your motherly voice coming out as it usually does when you’re investigating cases and talking to the victims loved ones.

As you guys were talking, one of Amy’s friends showed up and all five of you squeezed into a diner booth to get Amy’s side of the story. You squeezed in between the two boys, Dean’s hand finding yours over the table, you assumed for the show you guys were putting on.

The story was pretty cookie-cutter, she called him while he was driving and he said he would call back, but never did. It was starting to feel useless until her friend started talking about rumors going around in the town about a local legend.

“This one girl, she got murdered out on Centennial like, decades ago. Well, supposedly, she’s still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up, well, they disappear,” she explained. The three of you exchanged looks, bid your goodbyes and immediately started researching.

You sat at the library, Dean on the computer and you and Sam on either side of him. Usually, you were the one doing the research, however Dean insisted he help this time. You think he wanted to try and show off for Sam, showing that he can do this without him which in truth, you two could do it without Sam but you knew that Dean didn’t want to. It wasn’t the same.

The showing off didn’t work too well, seeing as Dean couldn’t find a damn thing and Sam took over, shoving Dean in his rolling chair backward. “You’re such a control freak,” Dean sighed as Sam started typing away. You laughed and pulled Dean’s chair next to yours.

“Maybe it’s not a murder,” you said in between laughs and Sam nodded in agreement, typing in suicide instead of murder in the search engine. 1 result came up. “This is why I do the research,” you gloated to Dean but he just glared at you in response.

“This was in 1981, Constance Welsh, 24 years old jumps off Sylvania Bridge and drowns in the river,” Sam read off the article.

“Did it say why?” Dean asked, you leaned on your elbows to try and read the screen but Dean’s big head was in the way. You pushed back his shoulder a little bit and he looked at you, moving out of the way.

“Yeah, an hour before she died she made a 911 call. Her two little kids are in the bathtub, she leaves them alone for a minute and when she comes back, they aren’t breathing.” You sucked in a breath, tragic stories never get easier for you to hear even after all these years. “‘Our babies were gone and Constance couldn’t bear it’, said husband Joseph Welch.” Sam read the quote from the article, pulling up the picture of the crime scene, the same bridge where Troy’s car was found and where he went missing.

+++

On the bridge, you walked over to the spot where Constance jumped, “you think John would have been here?” You asked Dean, looking over the bridge and out onto the river that was running fast, waves crashing on the rocks.

“Well, he was chasing this case and we’re chasing him. This might take a while,” Dean said, turning and walking down the road.

“Dean, I have to get back by-”

“Monday, I know,” you cut him off and started walking down the road, running your finger along the metal rail of the bridge.

“You’re really serious about this aren’t you? You think you’re going to become some lawyer, marry your girl?” Dean taunted. You looked behind you at the two boys. Dean’s hands were in his pockets, a grin on his face. Sam looked like a child about to be scolded by his dad.

“Maybe,” Sam shrugged and Dean scoffed.

“Does Jessica know the truth about you? Does she know the things that you’ve done?” Your eyes narrowed at Dean in disgust but he wasn't looking at you, he was dead set on Sam.

“Who cares, Dean? Let him be happy, he’s helping us and that’s all we asked for,” you snapped, which caused the boys to look over at you. You were already tired of the bickering.

“You can pretend all you want, Sammy but sooner or later you’re going to have to own up to who you really are,” Dean said. He turned around to walk back to the car and then said, “one of us.”

“No, I’m not like you. This is not going to be my life,” Sam yelled. You took a little offence to that, but let it slide off of you because deep down you knew you wish you could cut it off, too, just like Sam did.

“You have a responsibility,” Dean said. Sam was now right behind Dean, grabbing his arm and turning him toward him. You stayed where you were, frozen, watching. You hated it.

“To dad? And his crusade, you know if it weren’t for the pictures, I wouldn’t even know what mom looked like, so what difference does it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, mom is gone. Fighting these things is never gonna bring anyone back.” Sam looked behind Dean’s shoulder at you but you looked out into the water. You knew that Sam was right but this was the only life you had after your mom passed and Dean vowed to take care of you so you stayed.

You looked up when you heard a bang and saw Dean pinning Sam against a post that held up the bridge, you ran to the boys, putting your hand on Dean’s arm. “Hey, stop!” You yelled as Sam held his breath.

“Don’t talk about them like that,” Dean whispered, slowly letting go of Sam and turning away. You straightened out Sam’s jacket and asked if he was okay, he nodded and wrapped his arm around your neck in a comforting motion.

“Uh, hey guys.” Dean whispered. The two of you turned in his direction and saw a woman standing on the rail of the bridge, dressed in all white, before she jumped off. The three of you ran to where she was standing, looking over into the water but not seeing anything.

“Where did she go?” You asked, trying your best to see in the dark when you heard the engine to the Impala rev and the headlights turn on

“What the-” Dean whispered. You stared at it, wondering who was driving it but knowing that it was no one. Dean didn’t say another word as he slowly grabbed the keys from out of his pocket, having them dangle in his fingers. You screamed as the tires to the Impala squealed and the car came lurching forward.

The three of you took off on feet as fast as possible but you were shorter than the boys and hence, moved slower. You moved as fast as you could and watched where the boys were going but it was hard for you to keep up. You felt an arm wrap around you and you followed its guidance, jumping over the rail of the bridge. The car screeched to a stop as soon as you jumped. Sam’s hand was holding tight onto yours as he grabbed a piece of metal that was hanging off the bridge. You grunted as you grabbed onto the asphalt, one hand gripping it and the other gripping Sam’s.

He nodded at you as he let go of your hand and you brought it up to the road and pulled yourself up, not feeling safe until your butt reached the cool pavement. You helped Sam finish getting up as well and you looked down at the river to see Dean, covered in mud.

“Are you alright?” You yelled down to him as Sam panted, out of breath next to you.

“Super!” Dean yelled back, putting a thumbs up in your direction and you couldn’t help but laugh at him now that you knew he was okay.

After retrieving the older Winchester, you leaned your back up to the Impala as he inspected his baby, looking for any damage the ghost may have done to it. You couldn’t help but chuckle at Dean’s current state, his face and clothes completely covered in mud. “That Constance chick, what a BITCH!” Dean yelled out into the abyss, sitting on the hood of the car.

“Well, she doesn’t want us digging around that’s for sure,” you commented. Sam came around the corner and stood in front of the two of you. Sam laughed and sat down next to Dean on the hood, sniffing the air.

“You smell like a toilet,” Sam said.

Dean slammed his stolen credit card down on the counter of the nearest motel. The clerk looked at the card and mentioned that someone else with the same last name bought a room for the whole month. The three of you made eye contact with each other, all knowing that it was John.

After paying for your own room, you found the room that John paid for. Dean picked the lock, something he was really good at. Upon entering the room, you immediately notice how dirty and messy it was. Food lying around, salt trailed all around, papers pinned to the walls.

You watched as Dean smelled an old burger sitting on the desk, “well he hasn’t been here for a few days at least.” You nodded and started looking at all the papers, all of them are victims.

“Salt, cat eye shells. He was worried, trying to keep something from coming in.” Sam said, playing with the salt trail on the ground.

“All these papers are the victims of Constance, it doesn’t make any sense. All different men, job, age, ethnicities. There has to be a connection, right?” You asked, studying the victims as if something else would come out at you. Sam walked to the other side of the room, Dean following as you looked at them.

“He figured it it,” Sam said as you walked over to them to see what they were looking at.

“You sly dogs,” Dean said. “A woman in white,” Dean repeated from the paper that John wrote on, pinned to the wall.

“So if we’re dealing with a woman in white, he would have found the corpse and burned it, right?” You asked, Dean nodding but Sam disagreed.

“She may have another weakness,” Sam said.

“He would have wanted to make sure,” Dean stated with full confidence. “Where is she buried?” He asked.

“It doesn’t say, but John would have probably went to talk to her husband,” you commented, pointing to the picture of her husband in the same article that you read earlier. Dean nodded as Sam looked around at the other papers on the wall, telling us to find an address.

“I’m going to go get cleaned up,” Dean said, shutting the bathroom door behind him. You sat down on the bed and watched Sam until he looked at you.

“Hey, what I said about your mom earlier, I’m sorry.” Sam said, walking over to you and putting his hand on your shoulder, looking down at you. He didn’t outright say it, but it was insinuated. Even after all these years, no one knew what happened. Not for sure, anyway.

“It’s okay,” you said, a small smile playing on your lips.

“It’s not, I didn’t mean that.” You nodded and Sam sat down next to you, wrapping his arms around you and you hugged him back, getting lost in his scent. He will never get old to you.

As Dean got out of the shower, Sam’s phone alerted him to a missed call. “I’m hungry, going to grab a bite at the diner down the street. You guys want anything?” Sam shook his head with his phone pressed to his ear. You, on the other hand, asked for a bacon cheeseburger and a side of fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

Dean just laughed at you as you laid back on the bed in the room. Not only a minute after Dean left, Sam’s phone beeped. “It’s Dean?” Sam said, as he answered the phone. You couldn’t really hear what Dean was saying on the other side, but Sam’s face was staring intently. “What about you?” He asked, nodded, and then hung up the phone.

“What the hell happened? Is he okay?” You asked, frantically standing up rrom the bed. Sam grabbed your hand and pulled you to the wall, both of your backs pinned to it. Sam poked his head out the window but the curtain covered up any sign of him.

“The cops are outside, they’re coming in. Let’s go.” Sam pulled you into the bathroom, closing the door softly as you climbed the toilet, steading your feet before Sam came next to you, putting his hands on your waist and hoisting you up, steadying you himself. “Hurry, Y/N.” Sam whispered.

“I am,” you whispered harshly at him as he glanced to the door. You opened the window as far as it could go and squeezed out of it, jumping to the ground. Not a moment later, Sam’s head stuck through the window and you held your hands out in case he needed any help. He didn’t, and he stuck the landing before you two took off into the trees behind the motel until the coast was clear and you could sneak around and get into the Impala.

“What happened to Dean?” You asked, as Sam drove to the Welch’s house.

Sam just shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know. He said the police spotted him so I’m assuming he’s in custody.”

“We have to go get him!” You stopped looking out the window and looked sharply at Sam.

“And what? All three of us get arrested? No, we have to go figure out how to stop this ghost and find my dad, and then we can go get Dean. He can handle himself,” Sam argued. You scoffed and looked off at the road.

“That’s ridiculous, all of the sudden you care about this case and finding your dad? When your brother needs us!” You yelled at Sam, his face softening as he put his hand on your knee.

“That’s not true, okay? The best thing we can do, what Dean would want us to do, is figure this shit out now. We’re close, Y/N.” You sighed, scratching your forehead before agreeing.

The two of you finally made it to the Welch’s house and Sam banged on the door, an older man in a baseball cap answered. “Hey, are you Joseph Welch?” Sam asked.

Sam took out a picture of John and the boys when they were kids and handed it to Joseph, asking if he had seen him. You didn’t even notice Sam had snagged that photo back at the motel. “Yeah, that was him. He came by three or four days ago, saying he was a reporter.” Joseph said as we walked around his front yard.

“Yeah, we’re all working on a story together,” you said, selling again another facade that you guys put up to gain information from people.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of story you guys are working on with the kinds of questions he asked me,” Joseph said, shaking his head. Sam had the picture in his hand and he was fumbling with it.

“About your late wife, Constance?” Sam asked and Joseph nodded.

“He asked me where she was buried,” Joseph told you. Sam asked him to repeat the answer but Joseph furrowed his brows. “I gotta go through this twice?”

“Fact-checking, if you don’t mind,” you smiled at him, using your charm.

“In a plot, behind my old place over on Breckenridge,” he said. You nodded, taking notes in your head to remember.

“Why did you move?” Sam asked.

“I’m not going to live in the house where my children died,” Joseph shook his head and you asked him if he ever married again after Constance died. “No way, she was the love of my life. The prettiest woman I have ever known,” you smiled at him and then looked up at Sam. You couldn’t help but wonder if Jess was the love of Sam’s life, or if you would ever find yours.

“So you guys had a happy marriage?” Sam asked.

Joseph hesitated before answering, “definitely.” Sam nodded and you thanked him for his time, the two of you turning back to the Impala, Sam hesitating to get in the vehicle.

“Hey Mr. Welch, you ever heard of a woman in white? Or sometimes a weeping woman?” Sam asked, you looked at him, your eyebrows furrowing wondering what in the hell he was doing bringing this up to a civilian, but you let him continue on. “It’s a ghost story, well more a phenomenon really. They’re spirits,” Sam left the car and walked closer to Joseph, “they’ve been sighted for hundreds of years in dozens of places, in Hawaii and Mexico. Lately in Arizona and Indiana,” Sam kept walking towards Joseph, but you stayed put watching this unfold, unsure of where Sam was going with this. “All these are different women, you understand, but they all share the same story.” You watched Sam walk closer to Joseph and how Joseph’s shoulders tensed up the closer Sam got.

“Boy, I don’t care much for nonsense,” he said before turning away from him.

“See, when they were alive,” Sam raised his voice and kept going. “Their husbands were unfaithful to them, and these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children.” You finally got what Sam was getting at, not noticing more in the hesitation that Joseph made when saying their marriage was happy. This is why we needed Sam, you thought. Joseph stopped walking away and turned to face Sam again. “And when they had finally realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking backroads, waterways, and if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him and he is never seen again.” Sam’s voice was unassuming, but Joseph's face was shaking in either anger or fear, you weren’t sure.

“And you think that this has something to do with Constance?” He asked.

“You tell us,” you said, stepping forward to stand next to Sam. Joseph looked at Sam and then looked at you, glaring before tears formed in his eyes.

“Maybe I made some mistakes, but no matter what I did, Constance would never have killed her own children. Now get the hell out of here!” He yelled before staring at us for a few moments and turning to walk away. When he was out of our line of sight, you sighed and looked at Sam.

Tags: @ kaelyn-lobrutto24

#spn #spn rewrite #supernatural #supernatural rewrite #01x01 #pilot #supernatural season one #season one episode one #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam x reader #dean x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x reader

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roleplay-captain · 2 years

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Post Supernatural Destiel RP.

Am I extremely late to the finale of Supernatural? Yes, absolutely. Am I aware of the tension between the actors and the way they decided to run the last season of the show? Also yes.

Do I believe part of it was focused on the ambiguous conclusion to Castiel's feelings for Dean and his lack of confirmation or denial? Absolutely.

Supernatural holds a special place in my heart and always will, but I am aware it is a show that should have ended a while ago and began to notice the cracks in what I otherwise loved about the writing and what made our characters so lovable. Especially Dean.

I've recently managed to start work from home again after my time in University and decided to ask if anyone would like to RP a sort of canon divergent Destial plot? Both to heal the way it made my heart break and how we can make the show and them live in in some creative writing. J have no preference for playing either Dean or Cas as I've done both and love either perspective.

However, if you do pick one, please try and play them true to their characters. Castiel is still like... an ancient angel despite how lovable and clueless he is, and Dean can still be pretty macho as a hunter and how John probably raised him. Especially with how unlikely it would be that Dean would ever consider his feelings for Cas instead of having just ignored them before this point.

Totally open about smut, but what I love the most? Smut that clearly shows how Dean is clearly out of his depth as well as Cas as in Canon we only know the two to have ever been with women and for the most part, women they wouldn't have had such great feelings for as they do for eachother. Sexuality should be normalised but for people like Dean it would be a new experience entirely that he hadn't considered before. Really just these two trying to figure things out together which I love.

Just DM if you're interested and have some ideas! I do prefer lit and paragraph format with third person as well, as an added part about the way I RP.

#destiel roleplay?#destiel roleplay #destiel #supernatural dean #castiel #sam winchester #gabriel spn #spn family #spn fanart #supernatural #team free will #roleplay #spn rp #spn rewrite #fix it au

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uncouth-the-fifth · 2 years

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Pythia, A Supernatural Rewrite. Dead in the Water, p.3

read it on ao3. masterlist.

words: 12,769

notes: howdy! sorry for the delay, i didn't want to rush this one and land you w an uggo chapter simply because i couldn't find inspiration. i did eventually tho! includes some cute researching, snow bonding, and hot chocolate <3 idk about you but it's still mf snowing where i live, so winter vibes ig.

LAKE MANITOC, WISCONSIN - NOV. 17th, early morning.

By the time Dean got back to the motel, it was three in the morning and snowing mercilessly.

None of you had any solid clue as to what Lucas’ drawing meant, but either way, the Carltons needed to be kept under a close eye. You took shifts watching them for the next few days. Sam took the first, you spent the following day listening to audiobooks in the Impala and squinting at the house, and Dean had the next night. It bored all three of you to tears—you hoped for the Carltons’ sake it stayed that way.

Between shifts, the research machine worked with more endurance than usual. This was now your third hunt together as a famil—a unit, and without John to shove everyone into order, you’d been a little worried that things might fall apart. As much as you loathed John, he kept you in line, no matter how many nails, stitches, and layers of glue it took. Sam had never been old enough to go hunting alone with you and Dean, so if he did it was under John’s supervision. For the first time, it was just the three of you.

Maybe it was insensitive, but you felt like you could breathe again.

It started snowing at around eight, which is when you traded places with Dean. Sitting in the Impala all day had numbed your ass and your brain, which Sam knew, and was ready for. He loved making lists, so you imagined the one he’d mentally prepared for your researching bash together: reheat her Chinese food, give her the comfiest chair next to me, leave the curtains open so she can watch the weather. Either you were predictable, or he knew you a little too well.

You claimed your seat next to him with a deep sigh, which sunk into a dry smile as Sam—like always—slid a pen in front of you to cross-analyze the vics. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell this is where Sam’s relationships thrived: in soft, productive silences. He would do his research and you would do yours, but when the reading got too rough and your remembered this spirit had killed real people, you could feel him there and he could feel you. When Sam’s thinking became especially sullen, you cheered him up by pretending to be his personal assistant. Mr. Winchester, you have a call on line two. It’s Andy again, about your meeting for this month’s monster-killing projections? And from behind his book, Sam would bite his lip and smirk, Tell him I’m busy. In fact, cancel all my meetings. I’m going on vacation.

But the general numbness that came with the hunt was just one thing. After sharing your emotions with Sam about the spat with Dean, you realized just how much he was burying. Sam really was Dean’s little brother, in all the ways that gutted you. Dean took all his fear about his dad and crammed it in a pine box, six feet under, just so his brother didn’t have to worry; and Sam raked all his grief into one pile, so you and Dean never saw it. He felt like the weak link. The least experienced hunter between the three of you, with few ways to help find John and fewer to avenge Jessica.

You made a list in your head for him, too. Make sure Sam’s sleeping. Make sure Sam knows we listen to him. Make sure Sam doesn’t eat himself alive over this.

Until midnight, you kept each other awake. You started smacking and pinching each other when one of you nodded off, which kept Sam tickle-vigilant and you hyper-aware of every tuggable strand of hair on your head. Eventually, Sam fell asleep with his cheek to a book and you didn’t have the heart to wake him. After checking in with Dean through a text, you tugged on Sam’s arm and sleepily he gave it to you to rest your head on.

You woke up a few hours later in amber lamplight, in bed, and tucked in. Your shit motel room apparently had shit heating to match, so Sam had put you to bed and had thrown his comforter over you for good measure. He was hunched over his laptop, clicking away when you jerked awake.

“Did I wake you?” Sam winced.

All you could do was shake your head and rub the seal of sleep from your eyes. Sam watched you from a safe distance, since you’d probably punched around a little while you were under. You crawled out and stood to meet him, and Sam, peculiarly, made an effort not to look at you.

“Up,” you said to him, taking his elbow.

“The Carltons are totally clean. I still can’t find a thing. We should—” Sam was saying, but you shook your head and gave his arm another tug.

You insisted. “Shh, we’ll have time later. Five-minute break.”

Sam tilted his head back to look at you, bangs splayed across his forehead and his under-eyes smeared with purple exhaustion. “Can’t sleep either?”

“Nightmare,” you explained to him, and without word, Sam hefted himself out of his chair and let you guide him toward the door. “It’s our first snow of the year, and we haven’t had one second to enjoy it. C’mere a minute. It’ll wake you up.”

Sluggish with sleep, you and Sam put on your coats and fumbled around for gloves and shoes. A rattle of icy air purged your room the second you opened the door, but you pushed past it to meet the darkness, which was blacker under the stark flurries. Though it was coming down fast, all was silent. Sam shut the door behind you, and the wind stole the sound. It was so dead quiet that you checked Sam’s mouth for movement, just in case he’d spoken and the strange atmosphere of the storm had kept the sound in his chest. The only light handling its own against the snow was the lamplight from your room. It poured sweetly on one side of Sam’s face, who emerged from his research daze blinking snowflakes out of his lashes.

He noticed you staring. Sam hesitated to speak, afraid to disturb the holy quiet. “Do you wanna talk about your nightmare?”

Standing there beside him on the stoop, you felt again like you’d been flattened to something solid. You could feel the bumpy surface of it under your nails, could feel the cold of it where the backs of your bare thighs and arms met it; your stomach pressed forward, like gravity was pulling it and you out of your own skin. A gross shock of ice-metal pain phantomed across your lower belly. All of the sensations were cold, yet you knew you were burning.

You covered your stomach where that pain had bloomed in your dream, and pretended Sam didn’t notice.

“Spiders,” you lied to him, and Sam spared some of his energy to snort at you.

With all the gentleness of a worshiper at an altar, you got comfortable on the stoop and gazed out at the yawning darkness, swirling with the movement of snow. If you looked hard enough you felt like you could see the wind instead of the flakes riding it, curling and ebbing in all directions like the limbs of a vast being. Sam paused behind you, endeared by your fascination for the scenery. When he fought his limbs long enough to join you sitting on the cement, he gave a dramatic shiver and inched closer to you. Sam sighed once. Then he sighed again, and a third time.

“Wimp,” you smirked, but you gave Sam your arm anyway—extra warm from sleep—and opened your hands to the sky. Tiny flakes peppered over your hands, dissolving instantly into the heat of your skin.

Sam did the same, and for a heart-bursting moment you thought he planned to reach out and take your hand in his. All thoughts of taking a break from research or calming your mind whipped out into the wind. Sam had long, handsome hands that gathered two times as many snowflakes as yours did. The flakes melted on his skin even faster than they did on yours, so you didn’t have to wonder what it would feel like to hold them. You knew they’d be encompassing and warm and familiar—

“Dean’s back early,” you blurted, and snapped the fist of your right hand, the one closest to Sam, instantly shut. Sam’s went limp into his lap.

A minute later, the Impala cut smoothly through the flakes, making them flutter around the car in one surging rush. Like a massive, unseen creature taking in a breath miles away. It seemed to emerge from nothing. You couldn’t make out Dean until the car was pulling into park, and even then you only saw his eyes illuminated strangely in the Impala’s headlights. Both you and Sam were too exhausted to stand when he evaporated out of the driver’s seat.

Dean snapped the driver’s door shut, rubbing his hands together. “Will Carlton’s dead,” he said, severely.

As one, you and Sam shot off the stoop. “No fucking way,” you said, as Sam shook his head in disbelief. “How? In the lake?”

“In his sink,” Dean grimaced.

You covered your mouth. The last time you’d seen Will… He’d been bent over his sink in the Carlton kitchen, head hanging, fingers digging into the counter’s edge. That had been days ago. And yet you could still chase the feeling that final look at him had given you, like all the world’s gravity dragging down a guillotine blade. Fever rolled in your stomach. What? The visions, the fainting, the nightmares—none of that was enough? Now you had death omens, too?

Your reaction must’ve been a little intense, considering Will was a stranger and combined, you, Sam, and Dean had probably watched hundreds of people die during the hunt. Your first instinct was to tell Dean about the feeling you’d had. A death omen? That was something he should know about. But you were startled out of your spiral by his hand on your shoulder, and found trepidation in his face instead of comfort.

“You good?” He asked, and now Sam was looking at you too.

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, jolted by the sound of your own voice in the hollow blizzard. “Just—man. In his own sink?”

“One more reason we have for putting this spirit to rest,” Sam assured, and turned to his brother. “What happened?”

“I get the feeling the spirit knew we were watching the house.” Dean’s hand slipped off your shoulder, but he kept close to you, subconsciously putting you in the warm space between him and Sam. “I know m’ not the psychic one or anything, but the spirit didn’t lure Will out to the water, where I was watching—he killed him quietly, in the house. I’m sitting there and all of a sudden a shitload of cops pull up.”

“Bill found him?” You winced, and Dean nodded, his face as silent and telling as stained glass.

Sam worked his jaw in thought. “Civilians… they’d look at a guy drowned in his own sink, alone in a house but for his dad, n’ they’d think…”

“That Bill drowned his son himself,” you finished. How many people today, you wondered, had been jailed for something a monster had done?

“That’s what I thought too,” Dean explained, and shoved his hands in his pockets to warm them. “Figured’ they’d drag him out of the house in cuffs, since what else could they think. But nope.”

“There’s no way. They believe that someone had to drown Will, and if the only other person home is his mad-with-grief father, well. That’s probable cause for filicide. And they still didn’t arrest him?” Sam rubbed his jaw.

Dean pretended to shiver, or maybe it was a bit real, since the snow was starting to find its running legs. He notched a lazy grin. “You know I love it when you go all lawyer on me, Sammy.”

Sam rolled his eyes. He looked to you for help, but admittedly, Dean had taken the words right out of your mouth. The phrase probably cause for filicide endearing you to a person probably let on just how messed up you were, but hey. Dean was smiling a little too. Law boy.

“Seriously.” Sam shouldered through all the fond looks being thrown at him, “Any reasonable cop would arrest Carlton, for sure. This has to be a cover-up.”

“You don’t think Sheriff Devins…?” You trailed off.

Dean hummed, eyebrows jumping. “He was there. First on the scene.”

“Then that’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Sam said, now surging with conviction, “Bill Carlton’s two children both die in water-related accidents all in one month. Instead of rightfully arresting him, Devins lets him get away with it. Why?”

“Because he knows it’s a spirit, not Bill,” you breathed, “they’re our spirit’s killers.”

“70-30 chance, I’m betting. Maybe they’re just old friends and that’s why Devins is getting him out of it, but… but…” Sam lapsed into such intense thought that he paced in a circle, drawing figure-eights in the snow with his boots. You and Dean shared a look—Sam’s nerdy old self still existed, then. He snapped his fingers. “Lucas’ Dad—he was Bill Carlton’s godson, and Devins’ son-in-law.”

“That sounds like it’s all clicking,” Dean decided. He sighed through his nose, which joined the fog of your warm breath in the icy air. “But that thirty percent—just in case, I say we keep looking for our spirit’s name before we go knocking any heads around.”

“I agree. But me and Sam’s research hasn’t turned up much,” you grumbled. Pausing, you tried to sort all the evidence out in your mind, flattening it all down like a piece of crumpled paper. Paper. Drawing paper. You made a grabby hand at Dean, “Hey, you still have that drawing Lucas gave you?”

“Yeah, of course.” Dean fished it out from his jacket, where it’d been neatly folded into quarters. He hesitated for a second to hand it over, which you would’ve teased him for, had your train of thought ever slowed down. “Uhm. If Lucas drew the Carlton house before Will died, you think…”

You caught the piece of paper between your thumb and forefinger. Then, you were out.

The icy familiarity of a vision swarmed over you, dragging you under black, artic currents. First you were in the water, which was so cold and all-encompassing that you could feel the tips of your limbs melting like ice. Your skin was almost too numb to feel the tickle of bubbles flooding out of your nose and mouth. Your last breath floated up and up, popping on the surface. Then, you were someone else. The suffocating feeling of drowning became the stifling feeling of sobbing. You were on a floating platform in the middle of the lake, clutching your knees to your chest and sobbing and sobbing and waiting for dad to resurface. Something had dragged him under. He never came back up. It dragged him down, and it dragged Sophie Carlton down, and it dragged a hundred other people into the depths with it. You saw Will Carlton at his sink, face seared against the drain like he could be pulled through it into the lake. You watched Bill Carlton from the water, waiting for a moment to strike. To them the water was cold, but to you it was a million times worse—the summer heat had died with you, so they’d die the same way. They all would. They all would.

“They all would,” you were saying.

Sam put his hand on your forehead. It was so warm on your freezing skin that it hurt, but you were too cold to resist. “They all will what? ____?”

“She’s coming out of it,” came Dean’s voice.

You blinked against the blazing lamplight, which Sam immediately spun around and turned off. Again, they’d maneuvered you under the covers, having shirked you of your cold boots and snow-dusted coat. Sam’s hand turned over, testing your forehead for a fever. His knuckles felt sinewy and calloused.

“She’s not too warm,” Sam judged. His brows were creased together. “You okay, hon’?”

“Ugh,” you said, and Sam sighed in relief, collapsing back.

Dean offered you a mug of something hot. Immediately, you sat up and took it into your hands, soaking in the heat burn as it melted your ice burn. Without looking, you slumped sideways against the headboard and took two huge gulps, and immediately regretted it. Irish coffee. “Jesus,” you gagged, eyes watering almost to tears, “warn a girl.”

“There’s like one shot in there. S’ more coffee than whiskey,” Dean scoffed, and gave you a hearty pat on the back.

To his credit, it did shock you awake, and you sat there for a moment shaking off the nasty taste. You flexed your hands in front of you and digested the vision, which was muggier and more confusing than usual. It all felt newborn and raw to you, similar to the first few visions you’d ever had. The images blended together in your mind, all of them walking on knobby lamb knees, fresh to the world and exposed.

“I think,” you coughed, “Lucas is a psychic.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Unsure, but trying to help, Sam said, “...You did get a vision when you touched his drawing.”

“Yeah,” you passed the drink to him, “I think it showed me one of his visions. It didn’t feel… like my brain. It felt like his brain. I saw his dad pulled under the water… and the vision that probably made him draw the Carlton house in the first place.”

“Wait, wait,” Dean waved a frantic hand around the air, laughing breathlessly, “you think he’s drawing because he’s having visions?” He lost some of his humor, and stilled. “Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died.”

You paused, and wrung your hands in thought.

“...I got my Gift after my dad’s accident.”

Again, Sam and Dean stared at you. To be honest, they probably remembered your dad’s death better than you did. It’d been twelve years ago, making Dean a freshman at some random Colorado highschool and Sam a fifth grader. Your dad had always hunted with his “biker gang,” which was really just a group of his hunting buddies who appreciated a good motorcycle. You had a vague memory of waving goodbye to them as they’d poured out of the parking lot of your dad’s autoshop. The motors roared so loud, but you wanted to impress your dad by not covering your ears. Ray had been the caboose in a pack of seven men—seven—because he always had the backs of his hunting partners; he was famous for his reliability, and even hunters ten states over knew to call him when they needed help. Even Uncle Bobby asked him for help, that’s how good your dad was.

You don’t remember where you’d been. All you knew—when your mom had explained it to you, weeks later—was that one moment you’d been standing, and in the next you were bent over, wailing and clutching your stomach. Even she had been too scared to give you many details beyond that. You eventually got it out of Dean, who told you that Beth had found you like that after she’d had an episode of her own. She knew exactly what happened; at the same time, with miles and miles between your dad and you and Beth, the two of you had felt him die.

Dean said your dad and his entire gang—seven whole men, seven whole capable hunters—had been killed by a shapeshifter. You went into some kind of psychic coma as a result, and for weeks there was nothing any of them could do.

After that you could start to fill in your own memories. You remembered ten-year-old Sam reading books to you at your bedside, Dean spoon-feeding you soup, Bobby chasing them out of your room while you slept. Weirdly enough, you remembered John being there too. He and your mom talked for hours into the night. When you weren’t catatonic with grief you pestered her about it, and then Dean when she wouldn’t answer.

She wants to get the shifter back, was all he’d said, stiff-lipped and dull-eyed. Me and Sammy are gonna be here with you, though. We’re gonna be here s’ long as you need.

All the while, your Gift, freshly born, stretched its legs. Any time your mom or the boys tried to get you out of bed, you’d be dragged into nonsensical, prophetic dreams. The entirety of your life had been spent preparing for the moment you’d get your Gift. For every time you’d asked about what it would be like or how you’d get it, your mother had answered. It’ll be hard. But you’ll get through it, and we’ll all be here for you. That’s what she’d always said. She was lucky; she got her Gift in a hunting accident. Still, no explanation or example could’ve even hoped to prepare you. You couldn’t even touch a person without devouring every possible thing they could ever do with their life. Every dream they’d ever had. Every ending they could ever get.

This is why, during this time, you stuck most closely to Sam. Bobby had put a wet rag on your forehead and you’d been gutted by every brutal, flesh-tearing death he could possibly find on the hunt. Dean had tried to braid your hair, and just the brush of his hand to your skin had roared a blaring white light over all your senses, a light with a thousand eyes and lion’s heads and boar’s heads and wings. Both times had been so terrible and gruesome that your nose had bled and you'd blacked out. Your mom had tried to soothe you with her own Gift, but just looking at her provoked images of your dad’s death.

Sam’s was different. With him, there was no explosion of sensation or skin-shredding mental pain. Ten-year-old Sam, who shoved newspaper in his hand-me-down shoes to fit in them, had the scariest, most unnerving future. His was tangible; it wasn’t a blind, restless pile of pain or the indescribable. He’d pull your comforter up to your chin or pass you a glass of water, and when his knuckles would brush your cheek you’d have a vision of a Sam twice his age. Even older than Dean was now.

And he’d only say one word: yes.

You told yourself that it was a happy yes. A yes, I’ll marry you, or a yes, the baby’s born and healthy. But you knew Sam, and even if he was older and changed, you could recognize the pure, unshakeable terror in his voice. In that single yes. You got the feeling he was accepting something terrible—submitting to an incredible, unimaginable evil.

But his future was quiet, the whisper of a yielding man, so he was the only one who could come close enough to help you.

After years of telling silences and interrupted conversations, you had a guess as to why John was there. Your mother had wanted revenge, but she couldn’t get it herself while her daughter was undergoing severe mental torture. John’s whole life was hinged on killing what had killed a loved one. It was his job, in every sense of the word, and your mother had enough favors saved up to pay the fee.

The difference between you and the Winchesters was that your revenge had been so swift and so silent that all that was left for you was the grief; and for them, revenge was everything, so grief had no room left to live.

“We need to talk to Lucas again,” Dean decided.

“And Bill Carlton,” Sam agreed.

Seeing as Dean was making the best progress with Lucas, you and Sam left for the Carltons’ at sunrise. Few people had left their beds, so the only other vehicles on the road were snowplows, pushing the pristine sheets of powder into sludgy roadside banks. It was a gray and ugly snowing. You kind of liked it. Beyond the roads, fields of pure white remained untouched by humans. You drove the Chief a little slower than usual, for the sake of the slippery road and Sam’s sight-seeing. He was “riding bitch,” as Dean would say, and crouching closer to you on the bike to avoid the windchill. His helmet bumped against yours every once in a while, and eventually it got annoying enough that he gave up and kept them pressed together.

You were anxious about Bill Carlton; after both of his kids dying, and dying in ways connected to the lake, he had to have realized what was going on. Or at least a notion. You wished that when civilians like him—murderers or unlucky people or whoever—found out the truth about… what’s out there, that it was easier. Every time you’d had to give someone the speech, it’d been at the worst possible time, when their world had been wedged upside-down by something they couldn’t even quantify. You wanted it to be easy.

There’d been a time once when everybody knew about the supernatural. Maybe that’d been during the Medieval Ages and everything, but you got the feeling that if all this was commonplace, spirits, protection sigils and hunting, maybe everything would be easier. It would just be another one of those things that humans had domesticated, like electricity and food. One day, hunters could be as normal as exterminators or firemen. Maybe then, telling somebody you’re being haunted by the spirit you created would sound like your sink’s broken.

“You okay?” Sam asked. He pat your shoulder where it’d twisted into knots.

You drew the Chief to a stop in the Carltons’ gravel driveway, eyeing the snow-layered house. “Bad feeling,” you explained, and unsaddled your bike. “C’mon.”

Sam started up for the house. You hesitated, lingering at the sight of the lake through the trees.

The quiet of the early morning couldn’t hold a candle to the quiet of the lake; it’d be snuffed out. Something about the snow muffled every step, every breath, so even the ringing of your inner ear and the pulsing of your heart was silent. There was no wind. The Chief’s motor hushed. Sam was too far away to hear. And the lake was more than soundless—it sucked the sound out of the air, drawing it in and capturing it. You could see the water in the finest detail, twisting and writhing beneath the lake’s ice, pushing and pushing against the surface. A thick shield of white ice separated you and that water. Your nails suddenly itched, and something told you that the only way to satisfy that itch was to fall to your knees on the ice and dig. Dig until your nails were in shards and your fingers were bloody.

You forced yourself to turn around, where Sam was patiently allowing you to do your thing. The sight of his face seemed to flush some color back into the air. In a daze, you asked him, “How do your nails feel?”

Sam drew his hands from his pockets and shot you a curious look. “Uh…cold, like the rest of me. Why?”

You could see in your mind’s eye the water seeping up from the cracks in the ice, black blood oozing from a wound.

“Nothin’. The spirit. Let’s knock, huh?”

Sam tried the door. From what you could see through the frost on the windows, it was just as Dean had said. Devins and his men had cleaned the scene fast, too fast, so any sign of Will’s death in the kitchen was in the wind. Probably not in an evidence bag somewhere, either. Even the dinner you’d seen him prep in your vision—well, Lucas’s vision—had been trashed. You understood keeping things quiet not to start a panic, but Dean was right. A few hours and the crime scene was already wiped? Definitely a cover-up.

“Mr. Carlton!” Sam yelled. He gave the door a couple more bangs, growing increasingly urgent.

“I guess I wouldn’t want to be in the house where my son had just died, either,” you sighed, “but where could he have gone?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. He spied over his shoulder for onlookers, frowning. “But we should look here while we can. You don’t sense anybody in there?”

“Not a soul,” you shook your head. “Everything’s dead out here.”

With that, Sam reached into his coat and unfurled his lockpick. For a moment everything was fine. You slid in front of him in case someone were to walk up the wooded drive and discover you, but facing this way forced you to look out at the lake again. When seers talked about there being a veil between what was living and what was dead, it was more literal than most people expected; when you turned away from the lake, you could hear the jiggle of the lock and Sam’s soft breathing; when you faced it, the anxious, organic pound of your heart in your ears silenced and the world grayed.

You kept your eyes away from the lake, now conscious of its effect on you. There were little indents in the snowy branches where a bird had landed. Sam’s tracks in the snow closely followed yours, twisting in a circle around the bike and dancing up to the house.

“Wait,” you tapped Sam’s back, “Do you see those tracks? Under ours?”

Sam did. He shared a glance with you, and together you bolted down the porch toward them. “Fresh,” Sam cursed, pushing into a sprint, “and they lead to the dock. Shit.”

“There!”

You veered to a stop on the bank of the lake. The tracks circled the shore… made impressions on the snowy dock… tested the surface on shaking legs… and walked in a death march to the eye of Lake Manitoc.

Against the black outlines of the trees on the other side, you almost missed Bill Carlton. Still marching.

“Mr. Carlton!” You screamed. It ripped out of your ferociously, tearing the clinging silence away with it. “Come back! You have to come back! Carlton—!”

Sam’s eyes raked over the ice, chest heaving. Your yelling wasn’t working. He raised his boot to chase Carlton across the ice—you heaved him back by the sleeve, barking, “No! It’ll take you too!”

“We have to help him!” Sam’s voice broke.

“We—we—” you whirled around, pacing the edge of the bank, spitting snow and sludge up from your heels. Bill was still walking. “I-I can—”

You thought you knew why Bill wasn’t responding. That was the effect of the lake, of your spirit, right? It had warped Lucas’ mind and your mind and Sophie Carlton’s mind. Winter had come, yet Sophie had swam and you’d nearly joined her. It entered your thoughts and made you forget how cold the water was, promising, urging, knowing that you’d be safe with it in your lungs and your ears and your nose.

You’d barely heard Sam and Dean when under the spirit’s influence. But Bill… even so far away, you saw him look back. This was a choice.

The spirit had taken his children. If he gave it himself, too, then maybe all this would be over.

Under Bill’s feet, the white ice was cast in shadow. That shadow blistered through the surface, forcing itself through the cracks and oozing up from below. He ignored your screams and Sam’s. When the cracks were too long and the web on the ice was too large, Bill Carlton let the spider take him.

Dean felt like an asshole.

He’d managed to pry another drawing out of Lucas, successfully scaring the shit out of Andrea. Everything had started fine. Well, fine as in terrible, because terrible was Dean’s fine. You know, I, uh, I wanted to thank you for that last drawing. But the thing is, I need your help again, he’d said pathetically. Lucas had colored and colored, a million miles away from them. Dean saw now that he was drawing black spirals and red bicycles all the time—then cramming them into the trash, under his bed, and in the garbage disposal. Andrea hadn’t been happy. She’d been even less happy when Lucas had come out of his daze, chased Dean out to his car, and broke down in front of him.

Dean still couldn’t shake the feeling of Lucas clinging to his leg and sobbing. His eyes had been so big and round and hopeless, pleading with him in the only way he could. To do what, Dean wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he’d seen what these… powers did to people, and knew some poor kid from Wisconsin didn’t deserve to suffer with them.

He picked up Sam and ____ outside the police station. Driving up, for a second he thought Sam was actually going to let himself be angry about everything—but no, ____ was fuming behind him also, so something had happened. They both were trembelling in the cold. Dean cranked the heat, then watched them turn as one toward the sound of the incoming Impala.

“Why all the long faces?” Dean greeted, slowing the car to a stop.

The two lugged into Baby. Another time, Dean would’ve definitely nagged them for slamming the doors so hard. Sam jammed his legs into the footwell, scowling in earnest. “The spirit killed Bill Carlton, too. And there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.”

Dean seeped into his seat, shaking his head. He gave the wheel a harsh thump. One spirit, and it had all three of them chasing their fuckin’ tails. “Damn it. Lured him out to the water?”

From the backseat, in the gentlest, least-angry voice she could manage, ____ said, “No. He went on his own.”

He studied her through the rear-view, where she’d already dragged the spare blanket up from the floor and pulled it over her lap. ____’s gaze drooped out the window, and she brooded there for a moment, exhausted to the bone. Her Gift had very obvious limits, but she never failed to ignore them (and Dean) when those limits were stressed. He felt useless asking her to nap or sleep in, since every time it did less and less—like rest wasn’t the problem. A part of him wished he’d never asked her to help him find John. A larger, more selfish part feared what would happen to her if she wasn’t where Dean could see her.

She felt Dean looking, but those intense space-girl eyes never turned to his. ____ rested her cheek on the spine of the front bench, sighing into the upholstery, and Dean wondered if she’d be bothered if he pat her hair. ____ looked like she needed it.

“We went in to report this to Devins, maybe get an idea about his culpability,” Sam nodded back at the police station. “The second we get there, he uncovers us. Said he wants all three of us to,” Sam snorted, “put this town in our rearview mirror and never darken his doorstep again.”

There was a whisper of old panic in his closed fists, and if Dean pried, he figured Sam was replaying their run-in(s) with CPS over in his head. He’d always hated getting caught. Sam reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, letting wary eyes settle on the station, like he could sense Devins watching them. Dean was sure he was. He kept this to himself.

“A little dramatic, if you ask me,” ____ murmured into the leather. “Darken his doorstep? He has to be involved with our spirit, he has to be.”

“We can’t just leave,” Sam grimaced—apparently impersonating government officials was on the table for him, but not being hunted by cops. “There are still so many people at risk.”

“Oh, yeah, leaving is out of the question,” Dean laughed mirthlessly. “Some pansy-ass pig with an uneven dye-job ain’t keepin’ me from workin’.” He glanced at Sam, then ____, and at least one of them hid a smile at his jab.

With a sigh, Dean unfolded Lucas’ new drawing from his inner jacket. It was of a plain white church—which only added to Dean’s heeby-jeebies—a quaint yellow house, and a boy with his bicycle. All in a child’s crude style. Like some kind of horror movie bullshit.

He hung an arm over the bench of the Impala, still feeling like a jerk, and laid a gentle hand on ____’s hair before he could convince himself not to. He couldn’t say how, but she brightened a little. The whole affection thing always worked on her more than it’d ever worked on him and Sam. Well, maybe just Dean. He could look at Sam and the idiot would call it babying, but ____ tenderly brushed the hair away from his eyes and both of them pretended that wasn’t weird at all. Nerds.

He offered the drawing to her. “Think you can do one more?”

“I can come back there, if you need me too,” Sam said, but ____ just shook her head.

She took in a cavernous breath, pried herself off the seat, and flexed her right hand like she was about to throw a mean-ass fastball. If the vision caught her off guard, it was a lot like getting a sledgehammer to the face. Most people fainted. But after a moment of gathering herself, all she needed to do was close her eyes and take the paper in her hand.

In darker moments, Dean wondered what she saw when she went into her visions. Was it flashes of pictures, or full-on movie-style flashbacks? Both? He got the impression that her nightmares were always first-person, so were these the same? The few times he ever allowed ____ into his head, he just thought about the flood of what he wanted to say and somehow she just kind of… knew. He hoped it wasn’t messier on her end.

Sam and Dean held their breath. All the sound seemed to be drained right out of the Impala, like it was possible to pump it out through the seams in the windows. Dean’s chest felt prickly, and he looked at Sam to see him anxiously rubbing the raw middle of his right hand.

____’s eyes fluttered open, and her pupils undilated to the size of lighter flames.

“9384 Briarwood Street. That’s this house that Lucas drew,” she said, cooly, “and—our spirit had a red bike when he went missing. Lucas saw a lot of that.” ____ waved a hand at the road ahead, a nervous smile in her eyes. “So. Shall we?”

Like always, the boys did the talking. Dean summoned the fog of natural expertise he kept in his back pocket, suspiciously good at being someone else, and Sam spoke surely, falling into the rhythm of his disguise and taking Mrs. Sweeney with him. She made the three of you tea. Unused to company, she squeezed the three of you onto a plastic floral couch. You sat down and breathed in the steam, scrutinizing the street outside as much as you soaked in the house.

There wasn’t much to sense. Mrs. Sweeney lived in a quaint yellow house just a stone’s throw from the town’s church, both buildings scrubbed with the same moss and seamed with the same grit. Sitting in Mrs. Sweeney’s house reminded you of the few times you’d ever been to church. Everything was warmer and cozier because of the influence of the cold, candlelight filled each dark corner, and somehow the cluttered space felt as expansive as a cathedral ceiling. Yet something heavy pressed on your back. Unfortunately, you knew what it was at a glance.

Peter Sweeney had gone missing thirty-five years ago. The police… I never had any idea what happened. He just disappeared, she’d said. Now you knew that wasn’t true.

Mrs. Sweeney had shown you pictures of Peter, bright-eyed and dimpled in his scouts uniform. She said he was shy, that he stood up for anyone despite his size, that he’d once replaced the cold silence of her house with the flutter of turned pages. He loved to read. He liked archeology, and he’d been trying to teach himself card tricks before he disappeared. Your heart always ached for the people you helped. But this time, Peter Sweeney’s death felt personal somehow.

You reached out with all your senses, but not much came through. There were other ways to dig into the soft impressions left in the air of Mrs. Sweeney’s house, but you doubted she’d let you meditate in a circle of candles on her kitchen tile or consult a crystal ball. Beyond the more literal sixth sense you had, a strong gut feeling told you that there wasn’t anything else to find here. You would be able to tell if he’d attached himself to any of his belongings when he died. And given your vision, you would bet money it was the red bicycle from Lucas’ drawings.

All you’d uncovered was a picture in Mrs. Sweeney’s photo albums. She’d immortalized so many of his pictures that you’d almost missed it, but Dean was sure—those two toothy, naive kids beside Peter at scout’s camp were Bill Carlton and Jake Devins. That was proof they knew the spirit when he was alive. Now, all three of you were certain it was them.

After you’d given Mrs. Sweeney your condolences, you and Sam waited on the sidewalk for Dean to pull around the car. It was hard not to think of that freckly little kid, so much like the man next to you, and wonder how he’d become the eye of black water churning in the lake. The card-trick-loving rascal Sweeney had described was somehow the murderous spirit of the water. You’d read hunter’s journals theorizing about what exactly made spirits so enraged in death. As a seer, you had a unique insight as to why, but the question had never fully been answered even for you. The distortion of the mind after death? The waiting, for the end or unfinished business? If the will for revenge was so strong that it kept spirits in the mortal world, then…

You thought about Peter’s dresser in Mrs. Sweeney’s house, its silk magician’s hat and faded yellow cards preserved by his mother. A cop car rolled passed on the street, and you spoke to Sam as you ducked behind Sweeney’s fence together.

“I remember how crazy you were about the whole sleight-of-hand thing. You remember any of your old magic tricks?”

“No,” Sam said, and your heart stopped.

In the corner of your eye, something shifted. You twitched to look, only to go still head-to-toe against your will, halfway through lifting your head. Sam had reached out to touch your face. His hand radiated heat against your cheek, and the split-second contact of his knuckle to your cheekbone tingled through your entire nervous system with embarrassing ease. A bolt of lightning through a spider’s web.

Sam flourished a quarter out from behind your ear. His smile was sly, and his eyes even more so. Trying to perk you up.

“Well,” he said, dropping the quarter into your palm, “maybe a little.”

Now, in the backseat of the Impala, your cheek was still tingling. Sam’s little magic trick had definitely not cheered you up. While he and Dean were crouched in the front seat and honed in on Sheriff Devin’s house through binoculars, you couldn’t think of anything else. The only thing left to do was find Peter’s bike and destroy it. You were supposed to be scanning the property for it in case Devins had buried it there, but your Gift derailed constantly to swirl around Sam, and refused to learn its lesson after the fifth time you’d dragged it back to the house. People could die, and your Gift was still a flock of thousand-eyed moths with a girlcrush. Ugh.

“Can you turn down the music?” You cleared your throat. It was already just a notch above silent, but you couldn’t hear yourself think.

Dean responded by never taking his eyes off the house, reaching for the volume dial, and gently winding it up. Aerosmith’s eerie opening guitar in Dream On crept into the circulated air of the backseat, adding to your unease. All three of you were fully dressed for a fight. The snow had stopped midday, leaving behind an entire town holding its breath. Most days the Impala felt safer than the Proctor House, but it too was under the pall of the lake tonight. All that lived on the street was Dean and Sam in front of you and the lamplight in Andrea’s window. Still, you felt like a damn creep.

Devins and Andrea were still awake in the house—and still very much in danger, along with a sleeping Lucas. Spirits claimed their patterns and stuck to them, so Peter would torture Devins the same way he’d tortured Carlton. His family would be taken first, making the killer broil in grief like Peter’s mother had. Then they’d drown, too. They all would, Peter had said.

Well, something that used to be Peter.

“Anything?” Dean tipped his head back toward you.

“It’d be easier if I was actually there,” you shook your head. “But I can feel the bike. It’s buried somewhere, I think.”

Sam frowned one side of his lip. “We’ll have to wait until they go to sleep—”

A panicked chuckle jumped out of Dean’s chest. “Orrr, right now,” he decided, and dropped his binoculars.

The driver’s side door of the Impala was ripped open, forced onto its springs. Dean barked in protest, outraged, and the sound had you out of the car and on your feet without a single thought. Sam’s boots scraped the asphalt just behind you. Dean hovered in place at the wheel, instantly annoyed—he hated when civilians intervened with a job, and he hated guns being shoved in his face even more.

Sheriff Devins may have had only one service pistol to point with, but his sweeping glare kept you and Sam pinned too.

“I gave you a chance to get out of here,” he snarled, his weapon arm certain and still, “you’ll regret not taking it.”

An icy wind fluttered under your jacket, prickling the hairs already on end at the base of your scalp. The moon was nowhere to be seen tonight, hiding from the cold, so Devins was a trembling silhouette against a void of blackness and innocent small town homes. The disc of faraway street on the horizon veered the same way in each direction, arching toward the lake. In the strange lightless night, it felt like even the houses were inclined toward it, everything within a mile radius spiraling into the water. You shifted on your feet, trying to regain your own ground and remind yourself what you were here for.

“Sheriff,” you and Sam warned in the same pleading voice. You felt Sam hesitate, gauging who would take the lead, and you willed him to do it with you. “We know about Peter. What he turned into, and what he did to Bill Carlton, ” you raised a shaky, open palm at the cop. “Let us help.”

“Your family is in danger,” Sam stressed, “Lucas and Andrea—”

Devins ignored you both. He didn’t look at you, but his terror and confusion steamed off him so powerfully that you could feel it without touching him. It was hard to make out his face in the dark, but you guess he was sneering at Dean, his face peculiarly frozen that way. Like if he shifted the wrong foot or blinked, you’d all know how he was really feeling. Too late for that.

“Get,” he hissed, “out of the car.”

Your gut twisted. After a heavy pause, Dean shuffled to the edge of the bench and stepped out. A flicker of something touched his face when he met your eye, and your stomach fell; Dean was gonna attack him. You prayed he just disarmed him, but Devins’ desperation made him dangerous—the guilt he’d been fostering his whole life had returned from the dead, killed his friend and dozens more innocent people. His past mistakes were literally coming back to haunt him. For fifty-something years, Devins had lived in a perfectly normal and reasonable world, and suddenly that was all being rearranged right in front of him. He didn’t just think the three of you were crazy. You saw it in the iron-wrought trembling of his aim. He thought he was crazy, too.

Sam raised his hands in surrender. “Put the gun down, Jake.”

“You’re under arrest. All damn three of you,” Sheriff Devins said. He didn’t have handcuffs on his belt, and didn’t make any move toward Dean, so you willed the two of them to stay that way.

“Peter’s bike.” You uttered, and Devin’s snapped to look at you, ugly recognition tensed in his shoulders—

Dean whirled around, whipped Devins’ wrist to the side, and ripped his pistol out of his grip. In less than a second it clattered to pieces on the street, and Dean’s snarl met Devin’s. “Don’t be stupid,” he barked, “we’re here to help you! Now listen to the girl, cause’ she might just save your ass.”

The three men turned their eyes on you, but everything you planned to say was dragged under the current.

Your knees buckled; icy water burned through your chest, bursting through every fissure in your lungs. Invisible nails punctured your arms and ribs, trying to drag you down. You stumbled back to catch yourself on the Impala, only for Sam to take you by the elbow and tether you upright against his chest, panicking through ten feet of black lake water. Your head swam.

“____? ____, what’s wrong?!”

“Andrea…!” You managed, but there was no need for another warning.

Lucas burst through the front doors and threw himself off the front porch, streaking toward the four of you at a crazed, sobbing stumble through the snow. His face was drained of all color, so he appeared like a ghastly death omen by the light of the house. He was doing something with his hands, signing something over and over—Devins whipped around to face him, “Lucas! Lucas, it’s okay—get, get back inside—”

He hurled himself around Dean’s arm, anchoring him down by a whole foot. Lucas couldn’t speak, so he shook Dean with all the same fervor a shout could give, barefoot and blue-limbed. Again, he signed. “Mom,” Sam translated. “Shit.”

“Your mom, Lucas? What happened?” Dean’s look pierced him, then you, and that was all it took. He took off for the house like a sniper’s bullet.

Andrea’s son led the way, Dean on his heels, and you, Sam and Devins in Dean’s dust. The bootprints of snow on the doorstep had turned to sludge. You bolted inside, up after Sam, and registered with horror that the dirt on his boots had softened into mud—that the stairs were slippery with water, soapy water—that the bath upstairs was roaring. Sam overcame the staircase four steps at a time, and you matched his with two. As soon as you flew up the top step, you almost collided with Lucas as he veered out of Dean’s way. The bathroom door took one slam of Dean’s shoulder, two, three, brown water gushing from its seams. Lucas clamored for hold of something, and you let that be your jacket as you hid his face in your mud-flecked shirt.

“Move!” Sam barked. As soon as Dean was aside, Sam bashed in the weak door by its knob, smashing it against the sink inside the bathroom.

Dean, Sam, and Devins disappeared inside. You cupped Lucas’ hair, securing him in a calm, assured bubble of warmth, willing him to tune out the rushing water and Devins’ yelling and Andrea’s panicked shrieking.

Lucas covered his ears. You laid your hands over his, forcing back the influence of the spirit.

LAKE MANITOC, WISCONSIN - NOV. 17th, late night.

You risked another glance at the lake over your shoulder, perched above it on Sheriff Devins’ back stoop. A hill of spindly trees separated you and Peter Sweeney, who filled the whole lake with frothing, furious hatred that melted the ice in patches near the shore. Boot tracks in the snow drew two lines between you and an innocuous spot within a copse of trees. It took digging up the snow and puncturing the permafrost, but you managed to touch the earth and sense it: Peter Sweeney’s red bike.

This side of the house was mostly square, white-framed windows, so Sam could see you from where he was comforting Lucas and Andrea on their couch. Andrea was dry now, and huddled close to her trembling son. The soft turn of Sam’s brow made sympathy burn in your chest. He was explaining what had happened to them. Somewhere beyond, Dean and Devins’ shadows crossed in the lamplight of the front hall. It impressed you how little yelling there was.

You thunked the two shovels you’d fetched from the Impala’s trunk beside the door, scraped off your snow boots and entered their dark kitchen. Sam caught your eye through the archway, and you gave a nod. Found the bike, you mouthed, not sure he’s linked to it. His face hardened with focus, which is when Andrea and Lucas followed his eyes to you.

Uncomfortably, you stepped into the equally dark living room. You did your best to smear away any strangeness in your body language, in case it was obvious that you’d just been sensing around their backyard—learning that ghosts were real was one thing, so adding psychics into the mix wouldn’t help anybody. But Andrea had this new weariness in her face when she studied you. Sam and Dean had saved her life; you shared her son's sickness. Feelings were definitely mixed. Nobody actually wanted to know their future.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Andrea,” you offered, “Do you have a suitcase you could use? I can, um, help you pack…” you gestured blandly over your shoulder, at the stairwell. It reeked of lake water, permeating it through the rest of the house.

“Linen cabinet. Top of the stairs, on the left…” she trailed off. You nodded, and her gaze floated between your shoulders as you walked away, like you were one of the supernatural entities Sam was claiming were real. She looked at you like you were proof of something. Quickly, you ducked out of the room.

Devins was in the shadow of the front hall, facing away from Dean and now you. “...this can’t be real, it’s not rational…” he’d been saying. Devin’s voice retched with shame, and you could feel his remorse, his regret, his guilt, all the way from outside. He stopped at the beat of your footsteps.

Dean tilted his head to hear you, the rest of him a cross-armed pillar at the foot of the stairs. You leaned into his shadow, and tried ignore how Devins pinned you with his eyes like his daughter had—like you were some other spirit, haunting him. It wasn’t new to you. Sometimes, when people found out about the supernatural the hard way, all they could assume was that everything “other-worldly” was bad. Including you. This was a prejudice hunters sometimes carried, too. It needled, but you empathized with them too much to say anything.

“I don’t think Peter’s connected to the bike,” you whispered to Dean. “Even if he was, we can’t burn the metal. N’ it’s gonna be a bitch to dig up through the ice.”

Dean’s lips pressed together. “We can bless it. Buy us some time, since we can’t hide the whole town… But they dropped his body in the lake. All your visions were right. He n’ Carlton drowned him.” He shook his head, and the little hope you’d been holding onto—that Dean would have a solution that you weren’t thinking of—quietly died. “All we can do is get them out of here. You shut off the water to the house?”

“Yes,” you said, though you got the feeling that wouldn’t stop Peter. Judging by Dean’s face, he knew this too, so you gave his arm a squeeze.

Dean flashed you an unfocused smile. “Devins is gonna drive them out of state. You n’ me will get the bike, and Sam can bless it. Yeah?”

“Way ahead of you,” you agreed, and pulled a bundle out of your jacket to give to him.

Dean took it, slightly annoyed. It was a Latin bible and rosary, bound together in bloodroot twine. For all practical reasons, Sam was the logical first choice for anything Latin, reading, or pronunciation-related, and both you and Dean would’ve chosen him to bless the bike first. But Dean was the only one out of the three of you who was baptized, so blessing it with a bible would only work with him. Maybe if you had one of the big blessing tomes Bobby kept around on you, you and Sam could do it, but for now you’d have to work with what you had. You wondered sometimes why Mary and John hadn’t baptized Sam; maybe it'd been too late.

Over Dean’s shoulder, you risked a glance at Devins. Your stomach dropped to your toes. A raw, bleeding sense of finality rolled through you as you looked at him, and again you were overwhelmed with the compulsion to warn him about something, to save him and his family. Another death omen. Four times as powerful, rippling over your senses like a final breath.

You had no idea how set-in-stone these omens were. But there was one thing you could do about them, at least. You turned up the stairs to pack for Andrea and Lucas, puddles splashing under your shoes.

You’d just started shoving close into Andrea’s suitcase when the shouting started downstairs. A series of bangs shook one side of the house, and before you knew it you’d chased them into the kitchen. Sheriff Devins had just plunged into the snow, and Sam burst after him, both careening over more tracks in the yard as the screen door rattled behind them. You ripped it open and cleared the stoop in one jump, throwing snow up under your heels. Already, your heart was pounding in your ears, nerves singing—blindly, you sprinted toward the sound of screams, lungs bursting.

It was so dark that you almost lost Sam through the trees. As much as you’d prayed for something else, you knew they were all heading for the water.

“Lucas!” Andrea wailed. Dean roared right along with her, Jake crying out in shock. Above them all, Andrea’s hoarse, terrified sob pierced your senses. “Lucas! Baby, stay where you are!”

You ran faster.

The trees parted. For a split second, Lucas’ silhouette on the dock was clear, illuminated strangely against the reflection off the lake. You watched in slow motion, Dean and Andrea and Devins and Sam all charging for the water, as Lucas ignored them. He reached into the glimmering void of water. The chunks of ice parted for something under the surface. You could almost hear it, the surging, warbled whisper of the spirit calling to him.

Lucas reached. A hand blackened by frostbite seized his arm. He was ripped under the water so violently his foot caught against the wood of the dock, twisting his leg in one sick lurch.

Dean hit the water first, boots pounding against the wood, his arms slicing through the surface with deadly precision. Sam dove a millisecond later, shooting diagonally over the edge and sinking like a rock into the murk. Your lungs crystalized in the icy air—it burned, but you spurred yourself even faster. You tore your dagger out of your waistband, clipping Devins with your shoulder as you went. He’d stilled on the bank. His eyes bored into the water, his strength and composure cracking like lake ice.

Devins met eyes with Peter Sweeney’s spirit. Then, the spirit sunk under the surface again.

You skidded to a stop at the end of the dock, gasping for breath. Andrea was ripping off her sweater and weeping, angling for the water too. “Oh my god!”

“Andrea, don’t!” You reeled her back with your free hand, and on instinct, set yourself in front of her.

“What do we—” she sobbed.

You scoured the water with your eyes and your Gift, scrambling for any sign of Lucas, Sam, or Dean—Peter was impossible to sense on his own, encompassing the entirety of the lake’s wrath. Adrenaline abandoned all sense of cold in your limbs. You jerked off your coat, panting over the edge of the dock, and tried to decide—stay with Andrea and Jake to protect them, or dive in to protect Sam, Dean, and Lucas? Three outnumbered two. Maybe you could hold the spirit back. Your dagger was an iron alloy, you could—Sam and Dean weren’t surfacing, they weren’t coming up, you couldn’t feel them anymore, Peter’s influence was too vast—you couldn’t feel them—

Sam’s outline broke through the water on one side, almost impossible to see without moonlight. Your Gift slammed back onto its rails at the sight of him, and stilled when he barked, “Stay there!”

Andrea’s voice tore. “No! Lucas!” she yelled, just as you cursed, “Sam!” You didn’t sound as brave as you’d like.

“Stay with her! We’ll get him!” Sam ordered, and disappeared under the waves again.

Andrea collapsed over the edge of the dock, face in her hands. You put your jacket around her, rubbing her back to a hypnotic rhythm you couldn’t follow, dagger ready in one hand. Somewhere behind you, Devins was laboring for breath beside the water.

Dean came up, arms empty. He swiveled to his right, where Sam surfaced. “Sam?” He asked, but his brother shook his head. They descended again.

Andrea despaired at her reflection. Her cheeks were drowning in tears. “Lucas, where are you?”

There was a splash over your shoulder. You jerked sideways, dagger raised, and felt your gut singe with horror: Jake had waded into the lake.

“Dad—” Andrea cried, and you cursed him, urging him back, his daughter clutching your free hand like it held the last wisps of her life, her son’s life, and now her father’s life. Devins ignored you both.

Fifty years of self-loathing and regret chilled him, froze him, so his slow walk into Lake Manitoc was all too easy. He wept freely. He spread his arms, and gave you one last look—it pinned you to the spot. Bill Carlton had looked at you in the exact same way. There was terror and confusion and guilt there, and acceptance somehow too—resolution. If this is what it took, he would do it.

“Peter, if you can hear me...please, Peter, I'm sorry. I'm so—I'm so sorry.”

Andrea screamed. You had to fish your arm around her shoulders, reining her back onto the dock. “Daddy!” She cried, and behind you, Sam and Dean burst through the surface. They still couldn’t find Lucas.

Devins was up to his waist, now. “Peter. Lucas—he's, he's just a little boy. Please, it's not his fault, it's mine. Please take me.”

“Jake, no!” Dean roared.

You put as much power into your voice as you could. “We can find another way!”

Devins was up to his neck. It was too late. The lingering sheets of ice watching from the lake splintered, and a massive shadow surged for the air; then it shrunk, and shrunk, until it was no smaller than a child’s body.

Jake closed his eyes and stopped kicking. “...Just let it be over.”

The spirit’s hands, twice as small as yours, burst up from behind him and took Devins by the shoulders. In one sinister push, he was shoved face-first into the water. Peter held him there. Devins sank.

He let the spirit take him.

Andrea lurched, clawing out of your grip, desperately trying to reach her father. You held on, no matter how hard her nails seared into your arms. No matter how much she tried to escape. You couldn’t lose all three of them. This couldn’t be for nothing. Her guttural scream pierced the air, the water, and for the first time you could hear her, hear everything, over the thrashing, writhing lake.

Dean and Sam dove again. Where Jake went under, the ripples from his struggle bloomed out like the blood expanding on an altar. The ice on the surface stilled. The water calmed, purifying. But Lucas still hadn’t come up.

You heard Sam gasp for air. Again, you swiveled to look at him, and again, his arms were empty. He shook his head.

All was still. Andrea keeled back into your hold, her voice lost. You couldn’t make Dean out under the water. Sam staggered, limbs stiff with hypothermia.

“Please,” you prayed to yourself.

Right where Devins had gone under, at the epicenter of the new health billowing out through the lake, Dean broke through the surface one last time. Relief burned through your freezing limbs. He tilted his head back, soaking up the flush of moonlight breaching the fog, breathing in the lake’s first clear breath of air in thirty-five years.

Lucas was over his shoulder, alive.

LAKE MANITOC, WISCONSIN - NOV. 18th, midday.

The parking lot of your motel had become Lake Manitoc’s latest snowball battleground. Being one of the only lots in town yet to clear out its snow, the local kids had flocked to it, eager to enjoy the first day of the season with sun. You two young boys race past the Impala, shrieking with glee as a girl their age pelted the backs of their hand-me-down jackets with snowballs. The girl had some wicked aim. She nailed the taller of the boys in the head with a solid fastball, squealing and red in the face, I do not have a crush on you! He ran away in stitches, his freckled brother pushing him into a snowbank.

You checked that the rosary was still tight around the handlebars of Peter’s bike, cinched its garbage bag shut, and mimed clawing it with three fingers—an old gesture to ward away evil. A day’s trip would take you to a friend of Bobby’s who could melt it down. Beside you, Dean was suavely pretending he wasn’t freezing his ass off. He tried to do the gesture too, but his joints still ached from his swim. You’d done your best to force the boys into every layer you’d ever owned. Sam stubborned his way into forgetting the hat and gloves, claiming his case wasn’t all that bad. Dean was doing a great impression of someone who didn’t want to be babied, even though he’d laid his head in your lap all night and whined for more warm washcloths.

Sam closed the driver’s side door with a familiar creak, then moved to hover at your side. The three of you paused and leaned against the trunk. Lake Manitoc was alive again, its streets bustling with people pre-shopping for Thanksgiving, its businesses reopening after the blizzard, and its lots booming with giggling kids. You could feel it in the air how much things had changed. Maybe it was the lake’s effect on you alone, but there was a new comfort in the air. Things felt safe again, even if no one around you could say why.

Peter Sweeney had gotten his revenge. His unfinished business was finished now, and Lake Manitoc was finally clean.

On your left, Dean sunk a bit into his boots. You nudged him with your elbow, worried about the far-away look in his eyes. “I know it doesn’t feel right, but we can’t save everybody,” you tilted to look at Sam, “we helped two people, and prevented bad things from happening to a lot more. You two should be proud.”

“And you,” Sam reminded. “We wouldn’ta found Peter’s mom or his bike without you.”

“N’ Dean pulled Lucas out of the water. You helped look for him, and together you got Andrea out of that bathtub.” You held up your fingers, threatening them with a list of all they’d accomplished, and in the same, unsatisfied way, Sam and Dean turned away to play with their hands.

For effect, you slapped both their hands and put on your best, morale-summoning grin. Cheesily, you lifted your chin and gazed off into the distance, like somehow, somewhere, there was a grand future for you on the horizon. “I couldn’t ask for two better hunting partners.”

“Oh, you can say that now that Sam’s here, huh?”

You considered hitting Dean with a snowball, but with how much he’d been complaining, there was a chance he’d keel over and die from frostbite first. If you were lucky. You were about to lean over and snuggle against his arm to embarrass him—but he’d kill you for stealing his chance with Andrea.

She and Lucas emerged from the crowd of playing kids. Framed against them as he’d been before, you expected to see that small, sullen kid, standing among the other children as soundlessly as a pillar. Maybe that kid hadn’t quite left Lucas, but you could sense a change in him too. It reassured you, after everything.

“Sam, Dean, ____,” Andrea greeted.

Her smile was a reach for optimism, but it was hard, almost impossible, to find hope when three reminders of her father’s death—her husband’s death, even—stood in front of her. She separated herself from you with a platter of food. Something told you it wasn’t a wholly grateful gesture—maybe, she just needed to make something to distract herself. You’d been there.

Dean pushed off the Impala’s trunk, careful to keep his tone disarming. To you, it bled with empathy. “Hey.”

“We’re glad we caught you,” she spoke for herself and her son, “We just, um, we made you lunch for the road.” Andrea hung there for a moment, like she was going to teeter on her toes or do something with herself, but had no energy to go through with it. “Lucas thought you’d appreciate some hot cocoa in the cold.”

Lucas signed briefly with his free hand. Sam translated for him, smiling warmly, “With milk. That’s wonderful, Lucas. Thank you. We’re, um, we’re freezing our butts off here, so…”

“They’re freezing their butts off,” you tried to joke, and immediately worried if mentioning the reason why would be insensitive. “Probably because they like watered-down hot chocolate, like crazy people. Milk-lovers like us don’t freeze, huh?”

Lucas smirked, hiding behind the tray of styrofoam cups. He seemed hesitant, embarrassed even, to speak with you, and the reason why burned behind your ribs. Still, he presented the drinks to you first. A peace-offering. You took the one in the middle, forcing down a sudden surge of loathing for your Gift.

“For the record,” Dean plucked up his drink, his smile finding its footing, “I like both.”

Sam said nothing. You were 80% sure that he was lactose intolerant, but that was something to lord over him another time. As Andrea offered the sandwiches she’d made to Dean, flushed into her ears, Sam offered you his elbow. You shared a glance with him—could he really read your mind that clearly, knowing you’d planned to do the same for Dean? Or maybe you just wanted the same things. Again, your brain found the worst time to remind you of his hands and the melting snowflakes, or his hands and the quarter, and suppressed the soul-burrowing urge to scoop his fingers into yours.

“Come on, Lucas, let’s load this into the car,” Dean invited, and Lucas pursued him faster than you could blink.

With him gone, Sam softened his voice for Andrea. “How are you holding up?”

“It’s…” Andrea choose her words carefully. “It’s going to take a long time. To, to sort through everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam sighed, and you joined him to say, “I wish we could’ve done more. I-I wish…”

“You saved my son,” Andrea shook her head. “I-I can't ask for more than that. Dad loved me. He loved Lucas. No matter what he did, I just have to hold on to that.”

For someone so fresh out of something so terrible, you were impressed by how ready she was to face it. If this was how she was fresh out of… well, seeing what the world really looked like, then. Then she’d be fine, and so would Lucas.

He appeared at his mother’s side again. Dean strode in, offering his hand to Andrea. After a long, weary look, she took it with both hands and gave it a single grateful shake. “If you need anything…” he advised, and Andrea nodded, “We have your number.”

Well, this was your last chance. As much as you hated to put it out in the open, it needed to be said. You slipped from the safe warmth of Sam’s arm, moved your hair away from one side of your face, and bent to Lucas’ height.

You didn’t have much experience with kids, so your voice stuttered out, somewhere between stern and precautious and comforting. “If you start drawing that way again, or the nightmares come back…” you pulled a folded piece of paper from your jacket, presenting it to wide-eyed, jaw-clenching Lucas between two fingers. “You can call me personally. I’ll know exactly how to help you, okay? It’s—it’s—”

It’s normal, you wanted to say, but you couldn’t lie to him.

“It’s not evil,” Sam said, over your shoulder, and whatever it was in his voice—that softness, that softness he always saved for you—could’ve made you burst into tears. “It helped us. You helped us with it, Lucas. And you saved your mom.”

You stood up with a jolt, unable to look at Lucas. Sam’s broad, warm hand settled sideways on your shoulder, and you let that comfort bleed into your system, wanting more than anything to believe what he said. You turned for the Chief and grabbed your helmet.

“Now, uh, since you’re feeling up to it now, I need to teach you this important phrase,” Dean said, from behind you. He looked skyward, fumbling with his hands, and to your absolute, overwhelming delight and shock, Dean signed for Lucas: “Zepplin Rules!”

A giggle bubbled out of you. Dean looked over, flushed, but Lucas repeated the sign back to him. Satisfied, Dean raised his hand, “Up top, man.”

Lucas gave him a high-five, and Sam seemed to give Dean a bit more credit. His brother really was good with kids. Where had that come from? Sam mouthed to you. You pointed at him, which just confused Sam further. It was impressive, how he could read your mind and have something obvious completely fly over his head on the same day.

Andrea gathered her son under one arm. She said a final, choked, “Thank you,” and with Lucas in tow, dissolved into the crowd of gleeful children.

You watched them walk away, roamed all over by a strange, indescribable feeling again. You’d almost killed yourself saving their lives, yet you’d never see them again. You were proud of what you’d done. There was no better way to spend this life, and your Gift, than to help other people. But the Carltons and Sheriff Devins were all dead, and that was all on you. Turning to Sam and Dean, you saw the same guilt settling back onto their shoulders—and decided that if you didn’t like it on them, then it didn’t look any better on you.

“Ma wants us back for Thanksgiving,” you reported.

“We could check in on that hunter in Michigan, before then,” Dean suggested, “get a lead on Dad. Winter’s full-on monster sleep season—we’re gonna have plenty of time to look for him.”

“Alright,” you agreed, “but um, before that,” you raised your hot cocoa, hand warmed through the styrofoam, “a toast?”

Sam hummed in thought, and raised his cup too. “To supernatural hibernation.”

Together, you clanked your cups in cheers, each taking a long, fulfilling drag of the cocoa. It wasn’t often that you got homemade anything on the road, so the drink was a full-body balm. Dean drank down whole marshmallows, hooked arms with you, and hoisted his cup to the clear winter’s day sky.

“Sleep deep, ya sick son a’ bitches! See you suckers in five months!”

tags: @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-loou @dakota-dream

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