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wwwafflewrites · 4 years

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Never Fear (The Winchesters Are Here)

As a Kite

"Dean?!"

"Right here, kid. Right here," he yelled from below. His words were steady, but his heart was not. "You able to get down?" He was pacing, though he didn't stray too far from you.

You shuddered, held tighter to the inclined platform, and shouted down, "No." Most of your weight was on the backboard of the basketball hoop, which was held up horizontally by pulleys on the ceiling. It was a twenty foot drop from where you sat, which was a fatal fall—or worse, paralyzing. If Bobby was any indication, that wasn't fun.

"Do you want me to come up there?" He was already gauging the structure, figuring out how to get to you.

"No," you said miserably, stopping him. Because what would that do? Then you'd both be stuck up here.

"Okay, okay, just—" A loud banging from outside the gymnasium cut him off.

The minotaur was close.

"Dean, you need to get out of here," you urged.

A minotaur was not something you wanted to tango with unless you had the right weapon. They were bulls on steroids. If your research sessions with Sam had taught you anything, it was that bullets were hardly going to tickle this thing.

Dean edged closer. "No way." He was both frustrated and scared for you. "How did you even get up there?"

"Do you really not see the person sized hole in the ceiling?!"

"I see it, I just—" another banging rattled against the gym's doors, which made you both flinch. "I fail to see how you always end up in these kinds of situations!"

"Better this than five feet in any other direction!" Ironically, you were very lucky to land on the basketball hoop, and not straight down onto the polished hardwood floor.

"Right, I forgot. You're the luckiest unlucky person I've ever met, and that's saying something, considering I've met myself."

You snorted, but it felt forced.

Dean paced, raking a hand through his messy hair and looking desperately around the gym. Then, he abruptly stopped, muscles tensing as an idea came to him. "I got an idea, but you're not gonna like it," he said. "At all." He began walking over to the doors.

"Dean?" No reply. "Dean?!"

For a second, you thought he was going to open the doors for the minotaur, but then he paused right in front of the control panel and picked open the lock. "Do you trust me?!" he shouted across the gym. Even from so far away, the look in his eyes was intense.

"I—yes—but Dean—!"

He flipped a switch.

Without warning, the hoop lurched into motion. You scrambled, clutching onto any handhold for dear life as the backboard slowly got steeper. "DEAN?!"

"Easy, easy, I'm right here." He was beneath you again, watching your every move.

You were tense, heart beating against your ribs like a bat in a cage. "A little warning would have been nice!"

"Trust me, okay? Just sit tight, I'll catch you if you fall. You're going to be okay, you hear me?" His arms were ready just in case you slipped.

The hoop was halfway down when the wooden gym door shattered.

The minotaur had rammed through it, having heard your commotion, and it was huge. It had horns as long as your entire leg; beady, soulless eyes; and clouds of dust stirring from its flared nostrils.

Your blood ran cold. "Run!" You kicked your right leg for emphasis, despite the risk of falling.

Dean hesitated.

The minotaur charged, leaving Dean barely enough time to roll out of the way.

It's horns drove deep into the hardwood where he missed, tearing up the floor like butter.

Somewhat of a silence overcame the room, only to be filled by your hoop noisily clanking in place.

The minotaur paused, reared its massive head around to look at you, and growled.

For once, you were glad to be high up.

Until it stood, that is. It was at least nine feet tall, horns adding an extra few feet to its height. It could most certainly ram its head into the hoop and kill you.

Dean's eyes were blown wide as he made the same conclusion. "Hey, you!" he shouted, pulling out his gun. "Pick on someone your own size!" And he shot it point blank.

As predicted, it just made it angry—except, it was too stupid to know who to be angry at. Funny, since it had nested in a freaking public school—because apparently they were the modern day labyrinths. But mostly not funny, considering it attacked you.

It roared, and the entire gym trembled.

Dean booked it for the doors. You couldn't blame him, but... man, that was cold.

The minotaur stomped toward you until you could feel its furious breath in your face, its grunts sending all your hair flying back. This was it.

Without warning, everyone—including the minotaur—stopped to listen to another obnoxious creaking which overcame the room.

You were like a statue, still staring into the dark eyes of the beast, not even daring to turn your head in the direction of the sound.

The minotaur flared its nostrils once more, pivoting on an angry hoof to look at the basketball hoop that was slowly but surely descending from the other side of the gym.

Your heart lifted, and you spotted Dean beaming at you from the control panel, probably high on relief.

You gestured around you. Excellent work, but don't get too smug, now. We still gotta get me out of here.

Dean mouthed one word, pointing to his phone: 'Sam.'

Well, that was good news. If Sam was on his way, then he probably had a weapon to kill it.

You both jolted as the minotaur slammed its monstrous head into the adjacent hoop and ripped it to shreds. Glass and plastic the size of plates dropped and shattered on the surrounding floor. All that was left were the beams that once held the backboard.

That would have been me.

Dean ran to you—having set off the third, fourth, and fifth hoop—and urgently mimed for you to jump into his arms.

You mimed back that, no, that was not something you could do. But you paused, his words from before coming back to you. Do you trust me?

And, yeah, you trusted him. You trusted him with your life.

So you clamped a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming and pushed yourself off of the hoop.

Dean caught you with bent knees, cushioning the impact of your landing. One hand supporting your legs, and the other catching your back. He set you down, and, locking eyes, gave you a proud nod before turning a wary head toward the minotaur.

The hoops still occupied it, as it violently bashed its head into one hoop after another. Glass rained down in sheets, gliding dangerously on the polished ground until there was a small mountain of glass surrounding the minotaur.

You tried to stand—to get away—but your knees were weak.

Dean noticed, slipping your arm over his shoulder, hauling you up, and guiding you to the emergency exit all in one move. His priority was you.

You held your breath as a heavy rumble reverberated from outside the exit. At the moment, you wanted to strangle Sam for the worst timing ever.

You and Dean shared looks, glancing back at the minotaur who was aware of you once more.

Dean scooped you up, not even bothering to deal with your uncooperative legs, and tore his way to the exit. He barreled through the door, tumbling onto the concrete, with you falling out of his arms.

You watched, stunned, as the minotaur rammed at the door. It's horns were too large, locking in inside the building, for even it, for now, was no match for the sturdy brick that held it in place.

Dean interrupted your daze by breaking into a random fit of laughter. There he was, on the ground of a wet, public school parking lot, throwing his head back and enjoying himself for no obvious goddamn reason.

You weren’t sure whether to be concerned or laugh with him. "What the hell is so funny?"

"S—" he could barely spit it out. He couldn't breathe. "S-Sam's got a—ahaha—aha—hehehe's got a—haha—"

You turned to see what on earth Sam had and felt your eyebrows rise to your hairline as you watched a freaking wrecking ball crane align itself with the gym.

You had heard of the Winchesters 'borrowing' equipment, but this was next level. Where had he come across a wrecking ball?

And that bass you had heard from before? As Sam came nearer, it became more distinct.

Your jaw dropped.

Sam was blasting the song ‘Wrecking Ball’.

Dean's howling laughter only became louder as Sam drove closer.

You could tell Sam was smirking, obviously aware of what he was doing to Dean. As Sam hit the brakes, you could see him grin and chuckle—oh he was patting himself on the back for this one.

The minotaur, dumb as a rock, was still slamming itself at the doorway. If it had any brains, it would know to get out of the way because something much larger was about to come through those doors.

Dean eventually sighed, wiping tears, sitting up to watch the demolition.

"You think the cops'll show?" you asked.

Dean shook his head. "Nah. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be blasting music at midnight for the entire neighborhood to hear with a wrecking ball crane on school premises." He stood and offered you a hand.

You took it. "Good point."

The wrecking ball collided with the doorway. It caught the minotaur by the chest, crushing every bone in its body.

"If it isn't the Winchesters. And... Winchest-ee."

Crowley.

"Did I miss the party?" When you both glared at him, he smiled. "Is Sam enjoying his little gift?"

"You gave it to him?"

Crowley hummed. "I'm letting him borrow it. In exchange for one minotaur."

"You want the dead minotaur?" you asked. "Why?"

"I'm going to mount it on my wall." Crowley shrugged.

"That's… it? Taxidermy?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Yes. Do I need a better reason? It's cool. Obviously, I want it in Hell. Why, did you expect I'd want his soul or something? Well... of course, I want his soul, but that would never happen. We all know he's smarter than that, Dean, no need to go full mama bear."

Once Sam dismounted the wrecking ball crane, it vanished with a dark smoke.

Crowley sighed. "Well, I suggest you skip town—I’m expecting the school won't be happy about your renovation." Crowley began walking toward the now destroyed exit, disappearing into the dust and not walking back out.

Sam made his way over, smirking at the ground with his hands in his pockets. "So, how did it go for you guys?"

"Horrible."

"Great."

Sam was glancing between you both. "Well, someone's lying."

You shot Dean an odd look. "If you count me getting stuck on a basketball hoop twenty feet in the air with a minotaur trying to kill us, then you have a twisted idea of 'great'."

"Oh, c'mon, you handled it like a champ."

Sam's eyebrows quirked. "You were on the basketball hoop?"

"I fell through the cheap ceiling."

Dean snorted. "Guess they needed a renovation anyway."

You socked him in the shoulder. "You're an idiot."

"You love me."

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wwwafflewrites · 4 years

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Never Fear (The Winchesters Are Here)

Six Feet Under

You woke up to a deep ache in your shoulders. It was sore all the way down your back. Probably bruised to hell.

You grunted, and your breath fanned back onto your face. You attempted to move, despite your smarting back, and your hands brushed against loose dirt and flaky wood. You tried to adjust your eyes, but there was nothing to see. Just… black. Wherever you were, it was a narrow space. A dirty narrow space.

Was it time to mention you were also slightly claustrophobic?

You were sweating. The air was stuffy. But there was something cold right next to you. Something cold and yielding. You reached for it, blindly patting with your hand flat out, until your fingers curled around something with contour.

You mapped out the dimensions of the object before recoiling in horror. That was no object—that… that was a body.

Which, with your odds, meant you were in a coffin. An oddly large, though still cramped, coffin. Underground. With no way out but through the suffocating dirt.

Freaking ghouls.

Your first instinct was to scream. To pound up against the wood and holler until your throat was raw. It wasn’t that you wouldn’t, either; it was that you couldn’t.

You couldn’t breathe.

There was something in your chest right now. There had to be. A void where your lungs had been, like a vacuum that swallowed up all the usable air. Your heart was in your throat.

Were you running out of oxygen? Was it already too late? Your shallow breaths were burning a hole in your chest. You couldn’t breathe.

You reached over to the corpse, this time with urgency. Cold but still flaccid. The body had been fresh for about an hour, then. Rigor mortis hadn’t even begun.

Does it matter? a part of your mind reasoned. It sounded a little like Dean. There’s a cold, dead body next to you, you’re on your last round of air, and you still can’t stop being a nerd?

"It matters," you muttered to yourself. "Matters ‘cause that means I’ve been stuck down here for about an hour. Takes about five hours total to run short on oxygen. Means at the very least, I’m not dying… yet."

As hard as a transition was going to be, you needed to breathe deep and slow. But there was still a tightness in your chest.

Relax your shoulders, you could almost hear Sam chiding.

"A little… difficult to do… suffocating in a pine box," you said, but you relaxed them anyway. You then took in your first, full breath since you woke up. That was progress.

You couldn’t count on the Winchesters finding you in time, or at all. You were going to have to take matters into your own hands and try to climb out of the grave. Dean had done it before, so you could too.

Dean’s also, like, 200 pounds of muscle, Sam cautioned.

If you were going to climb out of your grave, you needed a mask to protect your face from the dirt. Which meant you were going to need to work your shirt off of your head. You brushed your hand over your stomach. Well, you must have put up a fight. Your shirt was shredded, so… that was a no go.

The dead guy had a shirt, Dean said.

Fantastic.

You looked over to your left, to the corpse you couldn’t see. You reached over, awkwardly pulling the shirt up. Its cool skin grazed yours as you worked the fabric over its head.

The neck didn't jerk about; it was rigid, but the arms weren't. Rigor mortis was kicking into gear. Which meant you had been down here for roughly two hours. Working as a hunter, you needed to have some level of knowledge on the dead.

Such a nerd, you could see Dean rolling his eyes.

You tied the bottom of the shirt which took a little while with your arms pinned down and the pitch darkness to guide you. Finally, though, you made a tight knot.

You pulled the shirt over your head like a bag and sat there for a moment. You wished the Winchesters could talk you through this.

That's when you broke at the pine box. The dirt was cold, dry, and thankfully loose. It fell in clumps around your shoulders, and you shoved it down at your feet.

Climbing your way past the dirt was no joke. It was grimy and freaking difficult. It was like those foam pits that gymnasts use that are nearly impossible to work your way out of, except in complete darkness with limited space. In other words, a freaking nightmare.

But you kept working. Kept pushing up while pushing the dirt down. Six feet, Sam reminded you. Just six feet. Once you’re standing, just work upward. Should be about as tall as I am, yeah?

You made a risky move upward, throwing your hand up as far as it could go, and touched air. A light breeze fell over your skin.

To say it was encouragement was an exaggeration. You worked twice as hard, shoving your way to the top. When your hand felt hard dirt, you crunched your abs and pulled until your chest hit the surface. You frantically dug your legs out before collapsing on the ground.

You went into a fit of hysterical laughter, a result of your adrenaline high and the last throes of your panic.You threw the filthy t-shirt off of your head, inhaling the air that you had once taken for granted.

In your brief delirium, you recalled Dean Winchester retelling his old raising-from-perdition story. He had hardly mentioned climbing out of his grave, as if it hadn't been important. His focus had mainly been on the mystery of the angels and how they turned out to be douches. He had made this part sound like a. Slice. Of. Pie.

And, well, you got a freaking reality check today. Because it was an entire body workout, and it was exactly as terrifying as it sounded—no, worse. Waking up in pitch darkness, in a small space, with a corpse, six feet under the ground? Hell naw. You were lucky you'd had enough trauma to know how to push back your panic. Because two years ago, you probably would have rotted down there, helpless.

It left you to wonder, though. Why the ghouls left you alive, and not the dead guy. All the other grave desecrations had been long dead—but you were the first to live.

First, you were going to have to get back to the motel. You already knew the boys were gonna freak.

///

When you opened up the hotel door, the Winchesters sprang out of their chairs, barking your name in surprise. "You're—you're…" Sam stammered as he took in your state. You couldn't blame him; the grave had covered you in dirt from neck to toe.

"Alive. I know," you said. "I'm also really dirty. You mind if I use your guys' shower?"

Sam blinked. "No, not at all, but uh, seriously—what happened?"

You let out a halfhearted, breathy laugh. "Nothing I couldn't handle." You tried to shrug past Dean, but he caught your arm.

"You were gone for three hours," he said.

"Look, we're just worried about you. Could you humor us?" Sam added. His eyes were pleading and damn hard to say no to.

You scowled. "You two gotta tell me what happened on your end first. Deal?"

"Deal," Dean said. "You know most of it. Several grave desecrations of old gravestones, but fresh bodies where bones should be. People in town go missing a few days before that. We split: you went to check on the newest body, while we checked the cemetery. We ganked the ghoul, figured you were coming back from the morgue, but you never showed. After about three hours of looking, we came back here to see if you had maybe come back at all. Actually, we were just about to leave again." Dean clapped his hands. "Did you ever find anything at the morgue?"

"Yeah, the guy had died from…" …asphyxiation. You trailed off. "Oh crap…"

"What? What is it?"

"Asphyxiation. The guy… he, uh, he had died from asphyxiation. Originally, I mean. The ghoul had been burying his food to eat later. Like… like a squirrel. Must have taken the guy out to snack on, but he was already dead." It was all coming together. "The ghoul was either stupid or confident because he got sloppy. Probably because he was too hungry to care. That's why… why I… why I..." Damn it, you let that slip. You peered around them, looking for escape. "Guys, hey, can I just shower? I really just wanna—"

This time, Sam caught your arm. He was gentle, but he had a firm grip. "That's why you what?"

You clammed up, peeling your eyes away from them. "Why I… uh…" you couldn't think of an excuse, and the silence was becoming too long to make a convincing one on the spot. You should have walked into this room with a workable lie in mind, but all you had wanted was to shower, scrub all the dirt off your skin, and to lather soap where you had touched that god-awful corpse. You just wanted to be clean and to sleep.

And you seriously were trying to tell them things. Lying sucked, but this? You weren’t sure if you could tell them this and come out of it in one piece.

Sam softly said your name again, trying to bring your eyes back to his. It was too easy. He knew your tells. Your eyes always gave you away if you lied.

We're never going to let this die, your inner Dean voice sang. And you internally swatted it away.

I know, you thought sourly. Behind your eyes, a pressure built. Just let me go so I can cry alone. I can't cry in front of you. I can't. "He—it… might have… buried me alive." It took everything you had in you for your voice to stay steady.

Both of them rocked back a little. Dean looked a little dazed, and Sam looked pale. Sam tilted his head, "Excuse me, buried—?"

"It explains the dirt," Dean sighed. "No offense, sweetheart, but you smell like a toilet."

Oh, shove it, Winchester.

"Yeah, I know. That's why I just want to shower—"

"Hold on," Sam said. He had his hands combing his hair. "Hold on, hold on, just— am I the only one bothered by this?! She— you could have died!"

"But I didn't," "But she didn't," you and Dean said in unison. He winked at you and you rolled your eyes back.

"Sam. I have been through a lot. You know it, I know it. I'm not that girl from two years ago. You said it yourself once before: I'm a Winchester now. And I'm not a Winchester without a few near death experiences."

Sam scowled. "You two are so frustrating. Fine, go. Go take your shower. This conversation isn't over, though."

Thank God. You could handle this later. The conversation alone had keyed you up. You were burning with tension, anxiety, and trauma. You waved a hand at him. "Fine. But can we do it in the morning? I am so frickin' exhausted." It wasn't a lie; you had bruises lining your entire back, and your face muscles hurt from all the fake expressions you were sending Sam.

They can't know that I'm weak. How hard could it be, anyway?

Dean did it once, like a freaking champ. Why couldn't you just suck it up and be a big girl?

He looked on at you with that sad, thoughtful look of his. Complete with the infamous Winchester puppy eyes. "Yeah, sure."

You were happy to get out of the conversation—and this hunt—relatively unscathed. Hopefully, you would never have to go through that crap ever again, or you really didn't think you'd be able to keep yourself together like you just had.

When you shut the bathroom door behind you, you let the silent tears run down your face. You bit your hand, heaving, wishing you had the freedom to scream. But you couldn't, so you didn't. All you did was turn on the shower right as you let out a quiet sob into a towel to muffle it out.

Why did your life suck so bad?

///

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wwwafflewrites · 4 years

Note

is there gonna be more of ‘a rewrite of history’? i may have binged it and gotten slightly obsessed lol idk how i’m only just now finding your blog. amazing!

Yes! There is so much more to come out. I'm just a terrible procrastinator (seriously its really bad. I feel really bad for the people who endured it during the entirety of my Daydreams and Realities series hahaha) and I've been working more on art stuff aha. But yeah! I really need to get that on my priority list again. Thanks for the ask, it was an eye opener at how long I've been putting that off. :)

Me realizing thats its been literally 2 months since I updated Rewrite of History oh god I'm sorry guys:

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wwwafflewrites · 4 years

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Never Fear (The Winchesters Are Here)

Catch You Later

You wanted to scream in frustration.

You and Sam had been wrapping up a wendigo case. The wendigos had been twins, so you had split off. You and Sam taking on the first one, and Dean on the other side of the park taking the second.

Shortly after ganking the first wendigo twin, Dean called Sam for backup… which apparently didn't include you, because Sam hadn’t even blinked when he abandoned you with the Impala.

It was ten miles up this stretch of road. Course, it wouldn’t take Sam very long. But you? That was at least a two-hour walk, if not three. Running would be faster, but you were wiped after being out in the blistering sun all day.

The sky was dimming, too. Even if you had ganked the wendigo, walking alone in the woods at dark was a big hunter no-no. Your pistol was useless against a wendigo, and Sam had taken the flare gun.

You could take a shortcut through the woods to get to the campground. Less than a half a mile in, and you'd be right next to tents and RV’s. Surely you could hitch a ride from that point, if not, hot-wire a car.

With that, you veered off the trail. The terrain was muddy and covered with old, dead leaves. "Stupid Winchesters," you said, kicking at the tall grass and brooding. It was like you were a freaking balloon. Appealing, but easily forgotten. Replaceable. Dispensable.

You kicked again at a tree and a rock. And when that wasn't satisfying, you kicked a patch of grass.

Excruciating. Pain.

Your vision whited out, momentarily going numb, then refocusing entirely on your leg. Your scream echoed back into your ears.

You had fallen. You wheezed, trying and failing to collect yourself before finally sitting up. Carefully, you moved your leg in front of you to look at the injury. Your teeth tore at your lip to hold back a scream when the movement jolted your leg.

It was a bear trap. The muscle and fat had cushioned most of the blow, but it had cut deep enough to let blood seep into your jeans.

You could still wiggle your toes, which was a good sign. It wasn’t like the movies; they designed bear traps to catch the leg of a bear, not cut it off. But holy hell if it didn’t feel like it had.

You need to push down on the springs. Dean's voice bounced around in your head.

"Springs…" you muttered. "Okay, okay, springs." You pressed down on each of the springs with all your might and the trap pried open. You pulled your leg out, releasing the trap altogether and letting it snap onto itself.

With your leg free, you rolled your jeans up so you could assess the damage. You had multiple stabs from where the spikes drove into your skin, and each spike had made about a centimeter long incision into your calf. You had dry blood caked along your leg, so it was hard to see how bad it really was.

Wearing layers as a hunter always came in handy. You ripped a large strip of fabric from your shirt, wrapping it around your leg wound; zipped your jacket closed; and pulled your jeans down over the wound, thankful that they were dark enough to hide the blood stain.

Now, to get help. Sam took the flares, so you pulled out your phone. You could probably call emergency numbers. Except… the Winchesters didn’t need ambulances, cops, or authorities snooping around until this Wendigo thing blew over. You would just be putting more people in danger.

You scrolled through your contacts, muscle memory bringing you to Dean's number first, since it was alphabetical.

It rang for two beats before something clicked.

"Hey, what's up?"

You fell back with relief. "Dean, hey, could you pick me up? Your stupid brother left me stranded out here."

You could almost feel the glare Dean was giving his brother in his voice. "Course, where are you?"

It would probably be smarter if you had him pick you up on the trail, rather than search for you. "Sammy knows where it is. Same stretch of road."

You could walk back. It wasn’t too far.

"Alright. Be there in a few." And then he hung up.

You wiped the stray tears from your eyes and prepared yourself. You stood with the help of a tree, teetering. Your leg was painfully tender, and your knees rocked under your weight.

It was possible to walk, sure, and it wasn't far on two good legs, but you had largely underestimated the effort you were going to need to get there.

You were going to take a helluva long nap when this was all over.

///

When you made it to the road, you took it upon yourself to sit down at a large stump. The day had faded into night, and you could hear the raccoons shrieking.

Finally, the low rumble of the Impala could be heard over the cicadas. You stood, albeit a little wobbly, and somehow walked closer to the road without limping.

Headlights washed over the ground and made long shadows. Dean's window was rolled down, and his eyes drank you in. Satisfied that you didn't look too roughed up, he motioned to the back door.

Sam had a tight smile. "Hey, I'm sorry about—"

"It's cool," you said. "Seriously. No harm done, I just wanna get back to the motel and shower." Well, yes harm done, but the shower is the escape. I just need to escape for a little while. The last thing you wanted was the Winchesters getting all freaked.

Dean looked at you a little skeptical. "Forgiven that easy? Dude, if he had done that to me I'd've punched him."

Sam scowled at his brother.

You laughed. "Yeah, well, I'm not one for grudges. I know he didn’t mean it." Or did he? Then, you went quiet.

Dean was giving you ‘the look’ in the rearview mirror, and you tried not to acknowledge it, but you could tell that he knew something was off. Did you leave blood somewhere?

"You sure you're okay? You're kinda pale," he questioned.

You wanted to retaliate, to shout, Dean, shut up, I'm literally fine. But then he would know. So you shrugged instead. "I'm cool." You stretched, careful to set your leg somewhere comfortable before resting your head on the window.

The peace didn't last long. The Impala went over a pothole, jostling your leg and you cursed out loud before you could bite your tongue.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"I'm trying to nap back here," you snapped. "You’re shakin' the whole car."

"My bad."

You rolled your eyes.

The rest of the ride went fine. Until you had to get out of the car. You swung your leg around, but when you put pressure on it, you nearly fell on your face. Fortunately, you caught yourself, gingerly shifting your weight onto your other leg.

"I knew it. I knew you were hurt," Dean growled, coming over to haul you up by the shoulder. "Why do you insist on hiding this stuff from us?"

You let him shoulder most of your weight, leaning on him. "Because you baby me!"

"We don't baby you, we make sure you're freaking okay, so we don't screw your injuries up even more. And you're not really the reliable type," Dean said, scowling.

He pulled you into the motel a little roughly. He was irate—the upturn of his lips were not a smile, rather, a sneer. Yeah, he was sick of your crap. You didn’t blame him.

He sat himself on the bed across from you, clapping his hands together. "Let’s see it."

You didn’t move. You needed to explain first. "Dean, before you—"

"No. I don’t want to hear it."

"I was—"

He said you name in a low, warning tone.

Welp. You let your shoulders drop, sulking. "You’re not gonna like it."

"I figured, when you decided not to tell me about it. Show me the damn wound, or so help me—"

"Promise you won’t yell."

"I’m not making promises I can’t keep."

That shut you up. You reached down reluctantly. Rolling up your jeans, you brought your eyes to the wall. You didn’t want to see his face. When he was silent for longer than you were comfortable with, you mumbled, "It was a bear trap."

"Yeah, I’m seeing that," he snapped.

That's when Sam walked in with the bags. His expression crumpled. He murmured your name in alarm, tossing the bags on the adjacent desk. He looked so disappointed in you. "What the hell? You said you were—"

"I was fine. Cool. Yeah, I know. I lied, okay?" you admitted uncomfortably. "You two are just a bit overwhelming sometimes. I was going to tell you—"

"When? When were you going to tell us?" Dean barked.

You knew Dean loved you and was protective, but sometimes he was so pushy. "I don’t—I was handling it, okay?"

Sam’s expressions shifted into realization. "Hold up, did you walk back to the road?"

Dean analyzed you, and did not like his findings. "She did," he announced. "She freaking—" he stood up and disappeared into the bathroom.

You sighed, pulling your head into your hands.

Sam shook his head. "The bear trap would have been in the woods, and we picked you up at the road."

"I took a brief detour, which never would have happened if you hadn’t ditched me!"

Sam snapped his mouth shut.

Dean came out of the bathroom with a med kit. "Lets see how bad this thing is." You stuck your leg out on display, wincing as you placed it on the bed.

Dean dug out the alcohol and cotton balls. Right. He had to sterilize the wound.

Not much missed Dean Winchester. He could read your body language pretty dang well. He watched as you stiffened, and his expression softened. He nodded to Sam, who moved to sit beside you on the bed.

You breathed deep, a slow panic setting in, and it hitched as Sam’s hands fell onto your shoulders. "Relax your shoulders", he said. "It’s going to sting a little, but it's nothing you can’t handle."

Winchesters. In all irony, as much as they left you in the worst freaking moments, they were also there when you needed them afterward.

Or maybe that was just you getting sentimental before Dean agitated a painful wound of yours.

You hissed as he first dabbed the cotton ball onto the lacerations. He wasn’t harsh with it, but he wasn’t gentle, either. His movements had a clinical urgency to them— quick and fluid.

You leaned into Sam’s loose embrace, which tightened a little as you settled yourself.

Dean hummed at his work. "You’re lucky. It worked deep, but it’s nothing that some stitches can’t fix. You’ll have some ugly bruising tomorrow, though."

That was some good news. You sent them a soft smile. "Thanks, guys. Really. I know I can be a bit… secretive. Sorry for that."

"We just want you to open up a little more. That’s all we’re asking."

You huffed a little laugh, then squirmed as Dean drove the needle in for the first stitch. "I wonder who I learned it from."

Dean drove in the next stitch a little harder.

"Hey! Ow! Okay, okay. I'll… open up."

"Good."

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