Chapter 1: Gunpowder and Soap
Chapter Text
My head was foggy, and my eyes wouldn't focus on anything past a smear of light and shadow. It was the kind of dizzy that comes from either cheap tequila or a solid knock to the head. The one clear thought that cut through the noise was run. My arms and legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Heavy and clumsy that I had to force to move.
I hit a wall, shoulder-first. The impact was a dull thud I felt more than heard. Fine. I could use it to stay upright. A quick mental inventory came up empty: no idea where I was, how I got here, or who I was running from. The only thing I knew for sure was that standing still was a good way to get killed.
'You don't belong here.'
The voice wasn't a sound. It hit my brain directly, a loud, layered mixture of words, like something I'd already heard once and couldn't shake loose.
'Angels... Winchesters... Magic...'
My face was wet. Great. Crying. Just what I needed. A glance down confirmed the obvious: blood. A lot of it, soaking the front of my shirt and jeans. The pain was just a background hum, drowned out by the adrenaline keeping me on my feet but probably not for long.
"Who are you?" I yelled, my voice cracking. "What do you want?!"
The only answer was the ringing in my own ears.
The floor came up to meet me, fast. I threw out my left hand to break the fall and earned a spike of white-hot agony for my trouble. Bad move. The floor was gritty, and it ground into the cuts already on my palm. Son of a bitch.
Get up... The words surfaced again, followed by a low mumble I couldn't catch.
Okay, anger. I could use anger. Anger was a tool, solid to hold onto when everything else was spinning. I let it push back the fog. My vision swam, but I locked my knees, found the wall with my good hand, and forced myself upright.
I shuffled along, my hand tracing the surface, searching for a door, a corner, anything. A new smell cut through the metallic tang of blood, something sharp and strangely clean. I know that smell. Soap...and gunpowder.
That was my last thought before the world went black.
—
"Really, Dean? Two whole pies?"
Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he didn't have the energy to fight about it. He held the passenger door of the Impala open, watching as Dean carefully arranged the cardboard boxes on the back seat like they were priceless artifacts. They'd just finished a greasy-spoon meal, and somehow Dean had still managed to score dessert.
"You do realize you can probably feel your arteries hardening in real time, right?"
Dean rolled his eyes, giving the boxes one last pat before sliding behind the wheel. "Dude, it's got fruit in it. It's practically a salad." He turned the key. The '67 Chevy Impala roared to life, vibrating through the worn leather seats. He let out a slow breath, shoulders easing as he pulled out of the lot.
"That's my Baby," he murmured, brushing a hand over the dashboard as he headed towards the freeway. The engine's low rumble kept him grounded. It was his dad's car, still doing what it always had.
"Dude, you try wrestling those monsters on an empty stomach," Dean said. "This is a job perk. End of story."
Sam shook his head, a smile slipping through as he glanced back a the boxes. One of them had a name scrawled across the top in looping cursive, followed by a phone number.
"Looks like Ilana the waitress felt compelled to pay you personally." He lifted his fingers in air quotes.
A slow smirk spread across Dean's face. "What can I say? I'm adorable." He stole a glance at the rearview mirror and adjusted it anyway.
Sam didn't bother responding. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, the rumble of the engine settling into something almost soothing. It had been a long week, a salt-and-burn in a forgotten cemetery, and all he wanted was a real bed and a roof that didn't come with a checkout time.
"See, this is your problem, Sammy," Dean started. "You don't appreciate the fine art of the hustle. Reminds me of this one time in Flagstaff... there were these twins---"
He trailed off. Sam was already out, his long frame folded awkwardly in the passenger seat.
"Bitch," Dean muttered.
The road was dark and empty. He was beat, but the thought of what was waiting for him kept him moving. Home. Beer. Pie. In that order. He grinned and jabbed the button on the radio. Highway to Hell blared through the car as he cranked the volume.
He had no clue what he was actually driving home to.
Chapter 2: The Rude Awakening
Chapter Text
Waking up to the barrel of a gun isn't on anyone's top-ten list of pleasant experiences. For me, it wasn't a gentle awakening so much as a full-body jolt, like being doused with ice water. One second, darkness. The next, the cold, hard reality of a .45 aimed squarely between my eyes.
My first thought, fuzzy and slow, was that can't be right. I blinked and tried again. The gun didn't vanish. Okay. Real. My second thought was that I should probably be screaming, or at least panicking. Instead, a strange, detached curiosity settled in. My gaze tracked from the gun, up the steady arm holding it, to the man attached. His eyes were a furious green, his jaw clenched so tight I half-expected his teeth to crack. He looked more than ready to pull the trigger.
That's when the panic finally showed up. I screamed.
I scrambled backward on the bed, my brain catching up to the situation. Rule one: don't get shot. Rule two: figure out how not to get shot.
"Please, don't hurt me," I begged, the words tumbling out between gasps. Tears streamed down my face, which was annoying. Crying is a weakness, and this guy looked like he fed on weakness for breakfast. "Please... I'm harmless. I'm..." My mind went blank, scraped clean of anything useful.
"Alright, let's cut the crap," he growled. He took a step closer. "Who the hell are you? And what son of a bitch sent you here?"
The questions hit like physical blows. I had no answers. "I... I don't know," I stammered, and the frustration of it was almost as bad as the fear. How could I not know?
I risked a quick glance around the room, trying to get my bearings. It was a man's room, no doubt. A record player sat on a low shelf beside stacks of vinyl. Zeppelin, Sabbath, the classics. Above the headboard where I sat, an arsenal of shotguns and pistols was mounted to the wall. My scare-o-meter, already in the red, shot off the charts.
Whoever this guy was, he wasn't just some homeowner with a pistol.
My hand went to my neck out of habit, fingers brushing bare skin. Then more bare skin. I looked down. The only thing between me and the world was a thin, white sheet.
My blood ran cold, then boiling hot. "Where are my clothes?!" I demanded, fear eclipsed by a surge of pure rage. "Did you rape me? What did you do to me?!"
I checked under the sheet, hands shaking as they found tender bruises along my thighs and the raw sting of cuts. My mind scrambled for an explanation and landed on the worst one. It was a horrifying conclusion...and, given the evidence, a logical one.
He actually looked confused for a second. "Whoa, settle down. I didn't touch you, princess," he snapped, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't even know who you are. Now you're gonna shut your pie hole and start talking, or I swear to God."
The threat worked for about half a second. A sob slipped out before I could swallow it, and I clutched the sheet to my chest like it was body armor. Then the anger hit. Shut your pie hole? Oh, hell no. I am not the kind of woman who lets some leather-clad Neanderthal give me orders.
A good-looking Neanderthal, my brain added, which was not helpful. Didn't matter. He could be Adonis himself. You don't tell me what to do. I squared my shoulders beneath the sheet. He would not see me break.
"Repeating 'I don't know' doesn't seem to be getting through to you," I bit out, my voice dripping with a sarcasm. "So let's try this another way: I--Have--No--Clue. Is that simple enough for you, or do I need to find some crayons and draw you a picture?"
That was, apparently, the wrong answer. He crossed the room in a blur of motion that my eyes could barely track. One second he was by the door, the next his hand clamped around my arm like a steel trap, and I was hauled off the bed. The floor slammed into my back, knocking the air from my lungs.
I fought back, flailing, furious, useless. I kicked for his knee, twisted against his grip, clawed for any scrap of leverage. It didn't matter. He wasn't just bigger; he was stronger in a way that had nothing to do with muscle. Solid. Relentless. Predatory.
I'd been right about him being a professional. No wasted motion. One knee pinned my hip, his weight crushing the air from my lungs.
I might've been impressed. Just not right now.
His face was inches from mine. "Give me your hands," he barked. "Now."
He produced a length of rope from somewhere. Of course he did. This wasn't his first rodeo. The knots came fast and tight, biting into my wrists and cutting off circulation almost immediately. Great. This just got worse.
I was dead weight as he hauled me upright and dumped me onto a hard wooden chair. Duct tape around my ankles to the chair legs. At least he kept the sheet in place. Small mercies.
"I'd love to help, really," I spat. "But my schedule's a little tight right now what with being tied to a chair and all."
He ignored me. Turned his back on purpose and walked toward the wall of knives, his boots thudding slow and heavy against the concrete. Each step dragged out the moment.
This was it.
I watched as he stopped in front of the display. Metal whispered against leather as he drew a long, thin blade and lifted it, turning it in the light. A quiet sigh. Back into its sheath. Another knife. Hefted. Rejected.
He was taking his time.
A whimper slipped out before I could stop it. His hand stilled. Then settled on the hilt of a curved dagger with a gut hook. Steel slid free with a soft shiiing.
"Yeah," he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. "This'll do."
My brain screamed one looping command: Move, you idiot. He's going to kill you.
It wasn't a plan. It was a panic button. Adrenaline flooded my veins, and I threw my weight to the side. The chair tipped, crashing to the floor with me still taped to it. Pain exploded up my hip, and my head bounced off the concrete with a sickening thud. The world went fuzzy for a second.
Then his footsteps cut through the haze. Slow. Unhurried. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He wasn't rushing. He didn't have to. That, more than the pain, got me moving. I was a tangle of limbs and splintered wood, but I started to crawl, dragging the chair with me. My cheek scraped against the rough floor, the rope biting deeper into my wrists. I didn't care.
Every inch was a victory. Every inch was one more second I was alive.
His voice cut through my panic, mocking me. "Whoa there, speedy. Where do you think you're goin'?"
A shadow fell over me before I could process the words. His hand closed around my arm and yanked me backward, stopping my escape cold. Then came the impact. Chair slammed into the wall. My head snapped back, and the world didn't go white. It just disappeared.
Goodbye, world.
The thought was surprisingly calm.
Chapter 3: Good Cop, Bad Cop
Summary:
Bound. Bleeding. And accused of breaking into the most secure bunker on Earth.
Chelista Murphy/Reader doesn’t remember how she got here. But her body remembers things she doesn’t. When holy water fails and her own name won’t change, the Winchesters are left with an impossible question:
Is she a monster… or something worse?
Dean doesn’t plan to wait for the answer.
Notes:
Content Warning: physical restraint / captivity, threats and intimidation, interrogation under duress, weapon use (knives, firearms), concussion / head injury, non-consensual physical contact, psychological distress, strong language, 1st POV
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Chelista Murphy (OFC/Reader)
Chapter Text
Just as the world was about to wink out, a new voice cut through the haze.
"Dean!"
Huh. So that was his name. It sounded...wrong. Everything was a blurry mess, my head throbbing in time with my pulse. Courtesy of the wall.
I couldn't see who had yelled, but the interruption was welcome. For half a second, I thought, rescue. Then I remembered the ropes and the knife. Hope is a dangerous thing. I curled in on myself, trying to disappear.
"Dean? What the hell's going on in here?" the blurred figure in the doorway asked.
The question wasn't for me. "I saw the blood by the kitchen. And torn clothes." He was closer now. I felt his gaze land like a physical weight. "Uh... what are you doing?"
Dean let out a frustrated sigh, and the dagger that was pressed so close I could feel its cold promise against my skin was gone.
Relief came with a bite, a sharp ache as every muscle in my body finally unclenched. My voice was a wreck, but I forced the words out anyway. "Gee, thanks." The words came out pure acid. Politeness was a luxury I couldn't afford.
He was on his feet in one smooth motion, the knife disappearing. He turned to the tall guy. "She won't talk," he snapped, flicking a dismissive hand in my direction. "Just sits there and spouts attitude. You ask her."
"Maybe if you put the knife down and used your words, you'd get some answers," I shot back. My voice shook, but I didn't care. Landing even a small verbal punch felt like a win.
Dean took a step toward me, his whole body tight with aggression. The tall guy stepped between us without hesitation.
I flinched when he reached for me, my muscles tensing for another rough grab. But his hands were careful. His fingers found the knot at my wrists. He didn't yank, just worked it loose with a patient, practiced touch that spoke of someone who knew how to untie things without making them worse. The rope fell away, and a sharp rush of pins and needles tore through my hands as the blood flooded back.
He moved to my ankles, peeling the duct tape off my skin with a slow, steady pull that minimized the sting. The sudden freedom was so overwhelming, so unexpected, that for a second, I just sat there, limp. Hallelujah. Yeah, sure.
"Sam, what the hell are you doing?!" Dean exploded. "You just cut her loose? She broke into the bunker. Through the wards. For all we know, she's a demon playing possum!"
Sam. The fuzzy tall dude had a name.
"Um, hi," he started, his voice cautious and kind. He knelt in front of me, but his face was still a blur. "My name is Sam Winchester, and the jerk---" he flicked a glance over his shoulder, "--as you already know, is my older brother, Dean. And you are?"
"Hi, Sam," I said, trying to inject some sarcasm into my voice. "The... welcoming committee, I assume?" The words felt slow and clumsy. "Sorry if I can't see you straight. Your brother... redecorated... with my head." I pointed vaguely in Dean's direction. "Pretty sure I've got a concussion."
"Up yours, Winchester!" I snapped. The words came out clean. I tried to push myself up, and my body immediately voted no. Spatial awareness: gone.
If embarrassment had a name...
Pain hit fast. My legs, officially overcooked noodles, gave out completely. I pitched forward with a frustrated groan. A strong arm caught me before I could meet the floor.
"Easy," Sam said, low and steady in my ear. "I've got you." He helped me straighten, his grip the only thing keeping me up. I glared weakly over his shoulder in what I hoped was Dean's direction.
"Alright, let's get you off the floor." Before I could protest or even process the words, he was already moving. One arm slid behind my back, the other under my knees, and he lifted me with an ease that surprised me. After Dean's rough handling, the gentleness was a shock. He was strong, no doubt about it, but controlled. Careful.
He carried me the few feet to the bed and set me down without jarring me. Tucked briefly against his shoulder, safer than I'd felt in longer than I could remember, I hated the instinct to owe him something for it.
"My name is..." I started. The wrong name came out. "Chelista Murphy."
I stopped. No.
I tried again. Same name. Same wrongness.
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. What the hell was happening to me?
I was just glad Sam didn't seem to hear my heart pounding like it was leading a drum circle in my chest. He just set me down on the bed gently. Nothing like Dean. The mattress was soft. Of course it was.
Then the older brother cleared his throat. The sound cut through the room.
"So, we went from 'I don't know' to a full name just like that?" he mocked. "That's one hell of an epiphany, princess."
"Dean." Sam's voice was a warning, one he'd already used today.
Dean ignored him, his focus locked on me. "Okay, after-school special's over."
He moved fast. Too fast. He grabbed a cup from the nightstand and, before I could even flinch, threw whatever was in it straight at me.
Ice-cold water hit me full in the face. I choked, blinking it out of my eyes. "What the hell was that for?!" I snapped.
Sam let out a sharp, disbelieving breath. "Dean—what—"
"Checking for a demon, Sam! What does it look like?" Dean yelled back, gesturing with the empty cup.
If I were a demon, we'd all know. Holy water burns.
It hadn't.
How the hell did I know that? Let's file that under 'questions for later.' Right now, I was more concerned about the two armed men in the room.
"Obviously not a demon," I said.
My vision was still off, everything slightly skewed. But I could make out the dark weight in his hand. He'd had the gun on me the entire time.
"Holster it," I added. "You've made your fucking point."
He let out a short, humorless laugh and finally put the gun away.
He moved to the bed and sat on the edge. The mattress dipped under his weight, forcing me closer. He was too close. His presence filled the space, heavy and unavoidable.
"Alright. Playtime's over." He leaned in, close enough that I could smell him.
"You're gonna start talking, and you're gonna tell the truth. No games."
His hand came up, fingers closing around my chin, grip firm enough to hurt. He forced my head up. I didn't know why, but the idea of locking eyes with him felt dangerous. Like opening a door I wouldn't be able to shut. I fixed my eyes on his cheeks.
"You lie to me, princess," he said quietly, "and you're gonna wish you never woke up."
My body screamed to give up. To stop.
Not happening.
Chapter 4: The Hunger
Summary:
Trapped in the Men of Letters’ bunker, Chelista/Reader watches, waits, and fights her own body as much as Dean and Sam. The more questions they demand answers to, the more something inside her pushes back. And it was hungry, greedy, and dangerously out of her control. When a single name cracks the moment open, the past refuses to stay buried.
Notes:
Content warning: Loss of bodily autonomy, verbal threats of torture/death, references to physical abuse/violence, PTSD & flashback, captivity, weapons
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Chelista Murphy, Castiel (mentioned), Karrin Murphy (mentioned)
Words: 1K
Chapter Text
My body ached in places I didn't know I had, and for reasons that were disappointingly non-recreational. Thanks to Dean, I felt like I'd been used as a human piñata: dragged, straddled, tied, and almost knocked out. If Sam hadn't stepped in, I had a feeling Dean would have kept swinging until the candy came out. A shiver went through me. Whatever had happened, it hadn't been fun, and the fact that my body was reacting at all pissed me off.
The brothers huddled in a corner, giving me the illusion of privacy. A cease-fire. For now.
I didn't relax. There was no time for that. My eyes kept moving, hunting for an advantage I didn't have.
There was a door across from the bed and a sink to the right. Odd layout. But above the headboard hung his toys. Shotguns. Pistols. Rifles.
A sawed-off double-barrel caught my eye. My hand twitched at my side, fingers curling around a phantom grip. Shoulder. Stance. Recoil.
I didn't know guns. But my body did.
Bad idea. I killed the thought before it went anywhere useful. Pissing off one brother was bad enough; I didn't need to give both of them a reason to shoot me. Or worse, kill me.
For a room belonging to a guy who treated duct tape like a fashion choice, it was surprisingly clean. My attention jumped from the weapons to a framed photo on the nightstand. It was old, with worn edges, but the glass was clean. Someone cared enough to keep it that way. I couldn't see the faces from this angle, but it didn't matter.
The sound of hushed, heated voices dragged my attention away from the photo. I glanced toward the corner.
Dean.
My body leaned forward before I could stop it.
It wasn't attraction. It wasn't interest.
It hit hard. Sharp. Uninvited. Heat crawled under my skin. A tight pull in areas that didn't need it. My breathing went uneven. My heart started racing without a clear reason.
I went still, annoyed and uneasy. This wasn't fear. It wasn't anger.
I forced myself to look away, clamping down on the reaction before it could go anywhere else.
It didn't stop it.
I could register the basics. His height, build, the fact that he wasn't hard to look at. My body reacted anyway. My focus snagged where it shouldn't have, stuck for half a second too long.
A sudden and unwelcome pull spread through me, knocking my breathing out of rhythm. And my pulse kicked up. Hungry. Hollow.
I clenched my jaw when I realized I'd licked my lips without meaning to. A soft, humiliating sound escaping. This wasn't attraction. It didn't feel like choice. Whatever this was, it didn't care that he'd nearly killed me.
That scared me more than the reaction itself.
"Hey!" Dean's sharp voice cut in.
I jumped. He'd been watching me.
I couldn't read his expression, but I felt it anyway. The weight of his attention, guarded and curious in a way I didn't like. I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the headboard, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the tremors in hands.
Too tired to fight. Not too tired to be a problem.
"Look, asshole," I growled. "I'm fucking over it. Let me go."
I dragged in a rough breath to steady myself. "I don't know how I got here. I don't know what you're accusing me of. The only fucking fact I've got is my name."
"I'll say it again," I said flatly. "Chelista Murphy."
I lifted my chin, staring just below his eyes. "You want answers? Try thinking instead of swinging. And if that's too advanced, ask your brother to explain it slowly."
That did it.
Dean lunged, but Sam was already there, a solid barrier between us.
"Sam, move," Dean growled, shoving against his chest. His attention wasn't on me anymore; it was entirely on Sam. "Are you seeing this? She's mocking us, and you're playing defense!"
Mocking. Right. Because not rolling over counted as a joke now.
I didn't say anything. Didn't need to. I refused to give him anything else.
Sam stayed planted between us, eyes locked on his brother.
"Dean. Stop." He didn't raise his voice. "Just stop. You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. Pushing her like this isn't getting us answers. It's just gonna get someone hurt."
"Move, Sam," Dean warned, shoving into him. "I'm not doing this again."
His voice cracked around the edges that sounded like panic. "We try to do the right thing, and it blows up in our faces. Every damn time. People we care about disappear. Or die."
He shoved again, harder. "Not tonight. I'm not adding another name to the list."
Whatever list he was talking about, I wasn't the first name on it.
As they argued, my focus drifted to Sam's back. Briefly. And against my will.
My body reacted again. Picked a target without checking with me first. My attention snagged. His stance. His movement. How close he was. Heat radiating off him. Details my brain recorded automatically.
I froze. This wasn't nerves. Wasn't adrenaline.
It happened with Dean, too.
And I didn't like it any more now than I had then.
Their argument was getting louder now, words cutting through my head.
"...torture her? Look at her, Dean! She has been through enough!" Sam's voice was tight.
Torture?
That word cut through everything else.
"Not when I'm done with her," Dean shot back.
That did it. They weren't bluffing.
"Dean. Before you do anything else," Sam said, desperation creeping in. "Just try Castiel. Please. He might know something."
Castiel?
The name hit me. Not new. Not recent.
Old.
The room spun. Dark. Blood. Wet dirt.
Cold metal biting on my wrists. Tight enough to burn.
A voice cut through it. Deep. Wrong. Not human.
"I'm Castiel."
A pause. "An angel."
Angel?
That name though didn't feel unfamiliar. It felt like it was something taken away from me.
Pain hit me immediately, sharp enough to fold me in on myself.
Hands caught me. Careful hands. But not human.
Wrong in a way I couldn't explain.
"Stay with the Winchesters."
"I'm sorry, Karrin."
My mother's name. Spoken like he knew her.
The room came back all at once, air burning in my chest as I gasped.
Castiel. I knew that name.