Act of God

by juliiawrites

Summary:

Damned by their parents. Blessed by each other.
Or something.
Bobby Singer has a daughter, and she wants to hunt. Growing up with the Winchesters occasionally stopping in, she picks up on a few things, even though Bobby would prefer she stayed as far away from monsters as possible.

Takes place pre season 1 and into the show, probably ending around season 5 (for now).

Chapter 1

Notes:

Song: Cherry Bomb by The Runaways

The first time you ever saw Dean Winchester, it was on the other side of your shotgun.

You were seven years old. It wasn’t technically your shotgun, but your fathers that you took when you heard voices you didn’t recognize in your house. Sure, you heard him somewhere amongst them, but he never had guests and something had to be wrong.

It was the bad guys. The ones that had killed your mom, that had nearly killed you as just a baby. Your father had told you the story a few times before, usually after a few of his favorite drinks, and would always say and then I had no choice at the end, right before the part where you know he had pulled the trigger. You only knew because you’d heard him apologizing to the walls, the air, and the wind over and over and over again, wishing it had gone some other way, saying he didn’t know how to do it without her. How to raise you without her.

You didn’t think he was doing a bad job. You were strong. Stronger than your mother had been. You wouldn’t let the bad guys in. Wouldn’t let them hurt your dad again, wouldn’t let them get to you. So you’d gone into his bedroom and grabbed his shotgun from the corner where he kept it, loaded with salt rounds just incase, and made your way down the stairs on quiet, socked feet with it tucked between your tiny, straining arms. Dad had never let you shoot the shotgun before. He said it had too much kick in it for you yet, and one day soon when you were bigger he’d let you give it a swing, but not right now. Right now, he’d teach you how to work the tiny pistol, which was for self-defense only and wouldn’t do much good against a real bad guy, but it was a starting point. He said your mother would kill him if she could see her little girl shooting cans out in the junkyard, the stray bullets whacking the broken old cars and leaving holes. But that ha only been for a little while- you’d gotten good with the tiny gun fast. He’d make you wear headphones over your ears for the noise, and would stand behind you with his arms crossed giving you pointers, and would end the day by making you walk through how to safely put the gun away before he’d take it, lift you in his tired arms, and ask how dinner sounded. You’d always say it sounded real good. Mostly for his sake. Even then, with those tiny arms and big eyes and little gun, you knew he needed to feel needed. That just being called “dad” wasn’t always enough. That if he didn’t feel like he had a purpose passed just keeping himself and you alive, he’d get all shadowy and sad and that’s usually when the drinks would come out. So you’d always say that sounds real good to his suggestions, only to make him feel like his ideas were good ones, and that you liked them all. You couldn’t put into words then, but you knew that’s how you felt looking back.

The shotgun, though, felt heavier and sturdier in your arms. The little pistol was tucked away for lessons only somewhere in the basement- you weren’t allowed in the basement right now while dad worked on a project- so the shotgun would just have to do. And sure, it was bigger, but how much worse could it really be. It wouldn’t matter once you saved him from the bad guys anyway.

So you rounded the end of the staircase and held the gun up with weak arms, your bottom lip pressed hard between your teeth- you’d just lot one of the front ones, so your lip puffed up between the two adult teeth you already had there- and paused when you heard footsteps coming towards you. Footsteps that certainly weren’t your dads. They were lighter, their cadence slightly too fast and wide. You swallowed and held the gun up despite the protest from the muscles in your arms, knowing this could be your only chance. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears, so you tried to focus your breathing, your hair- loose and tangled from a few days without brushing- falling over your eyes. You widened your stance, your feet slipping only a little on the old wood floor, and bit down harder on your lip.

“Sure, dad, I’ll just-“

You gripped the gun harder in your confusion.

Confusion because, despite knowing the bad guys were really bad, there was a kid looking at you from the archway leading to the living room. And sure, he was a big kid- bigger than you, at least- but dad never said anything about bad guys being kids. At least, not that he’d ever seen yet. Yet.

The kid put his hands up slowly, his brows raised nearly to his hairline, his dark hair sticking up and flopping slightly over his forehead. You furrowed your own brows, wondering if you should pull the trigger now or wait for him to try and talk first, but the gun was heavy and he didn’t look particularly bad.

You were about to speak when he tilted his head, his eyes studying you, a little smile growing on his lips. It made you mad.

“If you’re gonna shoot me, you might wanna take the safety off that thing first,” he said.

You had half a mind to just lift the gun over your head and throw it at him, but suddenly there were a bunch of footsteps coming towards you both, one set of them definitely being your dads, and you were running out of time. Plus, he still had that goofy smile on his face.

“What the hell do you think you're doin’ with that?” Dad snapped, stomping over to your and grabbing it away so fast and easy that you nearly fell backwards. And he looked mad. Real mad. It didn’t take long for you to realize that the people you had thought were bad guys were two kids and a man in a thick, dirty leather jacket with a patched up cut on his forehead. And he looked mad too- not real mad like dad did, but still mad. And maybe a little curious. The little kid, though- littler than you, you note- looked scared. And maybe a little angry. And suddenly you were embarrassed. Your face flushed hot, and your palms were suddenly sweaty and you wanted to yell or run or fight. But then dad was down on his knees in front of you, grabbing you but the upper arms, his face stern and voice hard. You hardly ever heard that voice.

“Are you crazy?” He asked, shaking you just slightly- not enough to hurt you, never enough to hurt you. “I’ve told you not to touch that damn shotgun, it’s too big and you’re still too small for it- and what the hell are you thinkin’, waving it around at our guests-“

“Bobby,” the grown up said, clapping a hand on the big kids shoulder. “It’s alright. Nothin’ happened.”

“Yeah, but it could’ve,” Dad said, barely sparing him a glance. “And she knows better- John, she knows better than to be touchin’ my stuff like that. I promise the boys’ll be safe here for a few days, and I’ll keep the guns out of their reach.”

“Really, Bobby,” the grown-up said again, shaking his head with a chuckle. “If anything I’m glad to see you got a watchdog. You alright, Dean?”

You frowned, chewing on your lower lip between the teeth you still had, as Dad stood back up and let you go.

“I’m alright,” the big kid- Dean- said.

“We’re not used to company,” Dad grumbled, wiping a hand down his face and adjusting the cap on his head. “But it’s fine, John- I’ll watch yer boys while you go back to finish that thing.”

“Thanks, Bobby, I owe you one-“ John said, looking back to you. “And you, little Singer. Make sure you keep my boys out of trouble, hear?”

You shrugged, still flaming with embarrassment.

John pulled the boys back into the living room, probably to say goodbye and maybe debrief about how crazy Bobby’s kid was, and Dad sighed and shook his head.

“What were you thinkin’?” He asked, “Coulda killed somebody.”

You shrugged again, but he raised a brow at you and you let your head fall back with a groan.

“And don’t give me none of that attitude, Kiddo. Tell me. What had you scared?”

You huffed and scratched at your head.

“I dunno,” you grumbled, not bothering to meet his eyes. “I heard some people I didn’t know, and I thought maybe they were the bad guys.”

Dad deflated at that. You could almost feel his anger melt away as he sighed, the tension in his body fading into the creaky floorboards and he bent in half to meet your eyes.

“Listen, Kiddo,” he said softly, “I’m sorry for gettin’ so angry like that. But those guns ain’t toys, an’ I know you know that-“

“But I thought-“

He lifted a hand, cutting you off.

“I know whatcha thought. And it’s alright. I’m glad you're careful and safe, and that you wanna look out for me. But I need you to remember- if a bad guy ever makes his way in here, the best place for you to be is hidden so I can take care of it. Understand?”

“But I don’t-“

“No buts, Kiddo,” he said, and though his tone was still soft, there was a finality to it that you knew not to question. “Especially not until you learn how to handle those type of weapons. And soon you will. But for now, I need ya to promise me, if you think there’s bad guys around, you go an’ hide ‘till I find you, got it?”

You nodded, defeated, and he squeezed your shoulder.

“Now come on. I’d like to make some proper introductions.”

You trudged along after him, feeling much smaller now than you did with that giant shotgun, and hid half behind him as you came face to face with the strangers again.

“Hey there, little Singer,” John said, his voice lilting into the words. “These are my boys, Dean and Sam. I need them to hang out here while I go-“

He glanced to Dad, and he nodded.

“While I go finish a hunt I was workin’ on. Boys,” he turned back to the two boys standing with him, “I need you to be on your best behavior for Bobby here, alright?”

“But she was gonna shoot Dean-“

“Sammy,” John said, his voice firmer than Dads had been, “nobody’s getting shot. I’ll call Bobby when I’m on my way back, then we’ll find our next haunt, alright?”

Dean nodded before Sam did, and maybe you would’ve liked him if he hadn’t smiled when you were trying to kill him. And maybe Dad was wrong, maybe they were the bad guys and he didn’t even know it yet.

“Keep an eye on your brother,” John said. Then him and Dad went to the front door, and once it closed, you found yourself alone with the two boys. They might as well have been your mortal enemies at that point. Despite that, Dean seemed unfazed. He plopped down on the couch- in your spot- and clicked on the TV.

“What’d’ya wanna watch, Sammy?”

Sam watched you while you watched him. He didn’t looked scared, really- maybe protective, maybe uncertain. You sighed.

“How old are you?” You asked.

“Five,” Sam said. “Dean’s nine.”

“I’m seven,” you said. “And Dad has movies in the cabinet. Disney and stuff.”

Sam lit up for a second, and then Dean scoffed.

“Disney’s for girls,” he said, clicking through the different channels. At least the volume was still low. “Like you, Little Singer.”

“That’s not my name,” you said, your tongue heavy in your mouth. The weight of the embarrassment eased slightly into more anger, and you mustered up as much venom as you could hold in your little body. “And if Sam wants to watch Disney with me, then he can.”

Dean sighed, tossed the remote down.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, looking between you both. “We can watch whatever Dean wants.”

You were about to cause a scene when Dad walked back in, the door closing shut behind him as his footsteps made their way back to you.

“Alright, kids,” he said with a sigh. “I guess I’m the damn babysittin’ service now. How do we feel about me orderin’ a pizza?”

Sam smiled and dean practically cheered, but when Dad met your eyes you just shrugged. He sighed, gave your shoulder another squeeze, and made his way to the kitchen to place the order. Sam slumped down on the couch next to Dean, who returned to channel surfing not long after, and you watched for a few more minutes before you turned back to the staircase.

So maybe they weren’t bad guys. But you weren’t happy about it. You especially weren’t happy about Dean. He was big kid, and usually you though big kids were cool, but he just made you mad.

Sam looked over the back of the couch as you climbed the stairs, meeting your eyes for a moment before you couldn’t see him anymore. When you got back to your room, messy with old toys on the floor and your bed unmade, you slumped down to the carpet with a huff and hugged your knees to your chest.

And maybe they were worse than bad guys. Maybe they were just kids- kids like you, that knew about the bad guys- and maybe Dad would like them more than you. Because they were boys, or because Dean knew about the safety on the gun and you didn’t, or because there were two of them and one of you.

You stayed in your room brooding until Dad called you down for pizza, having already seemed to forget about the shotgun and pulling out his VHS tapes for you all to go through. You went with whatever Sam picked.

Just to make Dean mad.

 

—-

 

The second time you see Dean Winchester, it’s almost one entire year later. You were eight now, which meant you were almost big enough to hold the shotgun and learn how it worked, and were getting to be a good shot on the small pistol Dad let you practice with. You still played with dolls- the barbie kind, not the baby kind- but dressed them like hunters and made them fight bad guys like your Dad did, and like all his friends- John, Ellen, Rufus, and everyone else you’d met that called you Little Singer.

Dean was standing in the door with John, a bit taller at ten than he was at nine, his hair trimmed neatly now and his wrist adorned with a small watch. His face was serious, and he looked a lot like his dad when he wasn’t smiling. Sam, though, looked like he was his own. Six wasn’t much different than five, but now he was wearing Dean’s hand-me-downs and his hair was just barely short of covering his eyes. He looked much more excited to be here, his eyes finding you on the staircase immediately. Dad was smiling, too. As much as he grumbled about those damn Winchester boys turning his house into a daycare center, you knew liked having them there. It gave him more to do than just look after you and read his endless books on monsters and bad guys- he’d tell you about them sometimes, but you weren’t allowed to read them yet. He said they’d give you nightmares.

“Hey Bobby,” John said, his voice a bit hoarse. “Sorry to drop in with no warning.”

Dean kicked at the rocks by his feet and wouldn’t look up. You sat down on the staircase, your spindly legs pulled into your chest, and waited.

“It’s no big deal,” Dad said, stepping aside and motioning for them to come in. “You got a hunt you need ‘em to hang back for?”

John sighed, glancing down at both the boys before ruffling Sam’s hair and nodding.

“Got myself in a bit of a tussle with the law a few states over. Someone reported a guy living out of a motel with his kids, and I hadn’t enrolled ‘em in school over there because we were only gonna be a week or so, but-“

Dad nodded and held up his hand.

“It’s hard, movin’ around so much,” he said. “You can always bring ‘em here. Hell, it’s hard enough for me to keep up with her bein’ in school while I’m huntin’.”

“Yeah,” John said, and Sam kept looking between him and you. “Alright Sammy, go ahead.”

Sam made his way to the bottom of the staircase and looked up at you with a smile.

“Wanna play?”

You looked over to Dean, still in his own world and looking down at his boots, and nodded.

“Sure. Dad got me those toy guns for my birthday. Wanna see?”

Sam nodded, shuffling up the stairs to follow after you.

You couldn’t help but glance back at Dean, who was watching you both carefully, and you couldn’t tell if it was because Sam had run from his side to yours so quickly, or because you’d mentioned the toy guns.

“Dean, why don’t you go on ahead with them,” Dad said. You heard him as you lead Sam to your room, which was a mess- as usual- with dolls and toys and a few books here and there.

Sam landed on one of those books before you could even show him the guns. You didn’t blame him, but you’d been so excited to show him and have someone to play with that wasn’t Dad.

“What’s this about?” Sam asked.

“Oh, that ones scary stories. Dad said he doesn’t like me readin’ them, but I like ‘em.”

Sam flipped through a few pages.

“Can I borrow it while we’re here?”

You nodded.

“I finished it, so you can keep it.”

He lit up and was about to speak when Dean was in your doorway, looking between you both.

“Dad likes us to travel light, Sammy,” he said softly.

“But it’s just one more book-“

“I know,” Dean said. “All I’m saying is don’t let him see it. Got it?”

Sam smiled again and nodded.

You held up your guns, knowing that Dean would probably play with you even if he wasn’t your favorite, and Sam could sit and read.

“They’re Nerf,” you said, fiddling with the fake bullets.

“Cool,” Dean said, sitting on the floor between you and Sam. He didn’t seem very excited or interested at all.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, loading up your fake gun with soft bullets.

Dean shrugged. “Nothin’. Why?”

“Because you look like somethings wrong,” you said. “Are you mad you’re dad is leaving you here again?”

Dean looked over to Sam, who hadn’t reacted, his nose buried in the book.

“I told him I could help. And I don’t even like school that much.”

“Dad says we gotta go. That everyones gotta go.”

“I think it’s dumb. I’m just gonna be a hunter anyway, like him.”

You nodded and held out the gun you’d prepared. After a moment of looking, Dean took it.

“I’ve been doing targets,” you offer, motioning to the notebook paper taped to your wall with your scrawled target drawn on it. “But maybe we can make up a game with ‘em since there’s more of us now.”

He weighed the gun in his hand.

“It’s pretty light,” he said.

“It’s not the same as a real gun,” you said.

Dean raised a brow at you. He didn’t say anything though, just lifted the gun towards one of the paper targets and pulled the trigger. The little bullet fell short on the wall.

“They aim different, too,” you said. “Like this.”

You aimed your own at the same target and pulled the trigger, watching as you hit your target just off center. Dean raised his brows.

“You’re a good shot,” he said.

“I know,” you said happily. “Dad told me, too. I gotta wait to learn the bigger ones, but I think I could do it.”

“Like that shotgun from last year?” He asked with a chuckle.

“If I’d wanted to shoot you with it, I would’ve,” you grumbled.

Dad called up from the staircase then, saying he was gonna order in because he didn’t have enough to feed three kids. You were sick of pizza, so you hoped he went for Chinese or something different for once.

Dean aimed the gun at the target again and shot. This time he hit the bullseye, just shy of the center, and smiled before putting the gun down.

“What’re these?” He asked, reaching forward and lifting up one of your dolls by the leg. Her hair was cut short and you’d scribbled dark makeup onto her eyes with a marker.

“My dolls,” you said.

“You play with dolls?”

“Um, duh,” you said, squinting. “She’s a hunter like Dad. She saves everyone, and sometimes she brings her friends with her.” You picked up two other dolls, both older and one slightly chewed on, to wave at him.

“Looks like a werewolf got to her,” he said. You rolled your eyes.

“They haven’t fought a werewolf yet,” you said.

“What have they fought?” Dean asked.

“Um, ghosts. Even some demons. And a vampire.”

“What kinda demons?” He asked.

“Uh, I don't know. Just demons. Bad ones.”

“They’re all bad,” he said.

“Duh.”

He rolled his eyes and dropped the doll to the floor.

“Whatever. I’m gonna go see what Bobby’s ordering,” he said. You frowned, snatching your doll up from the ground and smoothing down her hair. “And don’t get Sam playing with dolls. Those are for girls.”

You scrunched up your face and stuck your tongue out at him as he left the room, only glancing to Sam once he was gone. He didn’t even seem to notice. He was still reading his book.

That year, the Winchester boys came around a bunch. You and Sam shared a lot of books, even going as far as to sneak into Dad’s growing library when he wasn’t looking, but Dean had ratted you out. You didn’t spend much time with Dean, your interactions usually ending with shouting or him laughing at you, and Dad always said you got on about as well as oil and water. He’d only ever get involved if you were too loud or threatened to shoot him, which you had a few times. But it was his fault.

By the end of the year, you and Sam were friends. Maybe best friends, but you didn’t know because you’d never had one of those before. It made it that much harder when, just after your ninth birthday, they stopped coming around for a little while. Dad said it was just because John was on the east coast for a while, trying to follow some kind of lead on something. You didn’t really care why they stopped coming, just that you felt left behind. And you hated it. It didn’t help that Dad was starting to call in favors from friends to watch you while he went out hunting, too. So you spent most of nine waiting for people to come back.

 

—-

 

The third time you met Dean Winchester, when they were back in your part of the country, he was thirteen and too cool for you and Sam. Anytime you’d try to make up a game, he’d roll his eyes and say that was kid stuff. If you pulled out a pile of books for Sam to read, he’d get bored and start flicking through the TV. He never took off his leather jacket, and his boots were muddy, and he wore a necklace around his neck that he kept tucking into his t-shirts. He’d go out into the junkyard with Dad a lot, coming back with his hands greasy and dirty, and Dad was always saying that he stunk and that he was gonna eat him out of house and home. And he had always been a big kid, but now he was a teenager. And that was a lot different than being a big kid. That meant he was almost untouchable to you and Sam- Sam who, unlike you, seemed to worship the ground his brother walked on. You’d think he’d collect the dirt from his boots and bottle it for good luck.

Sam was busy reading a book on the couch and eating some leftover pizza when you spotted Dean outside, the summer sun beating down on him as he sweat through his dirty white shirt, his hair slicked back and lanky arms straining to tighten something under the hood of some car Dad had started fixing up. Cars had never really been your thing, but seeing Dean do it with Dad made you mad. Like somehow, even though he had his own perfectly fine dad, he was fixing up cars with yours just to steal him.

Still, that childish anger was abated slightly as you watched him lift up his shirt to wipe away some muck and sweat. You felt your cheeks flush and your head get warm, and suddenly you felt dizzy and wrong. You turned away from the window, looking around for something- anything- to clear your mind of the image.

You don’t know why it bothered you so much. You’d seen shirtless people before, a lot of times on TV, and skin didn’t freak you out. But Dean’s skin did. And somehow that only made you more mad, once you got over the unsettling embarrassment of it. How was he still embarrassing you, even when nobody else was there to see? Well, nobody except for-

“You okay?”

You turned to Sam, your lips pressed into a flat line, doing your best not to glance back to the window so he wouldn’t look out and ask why you were being so weird about his super cool big brother.

“Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged.

“What’re you reading?” You asked.

He held up his book, the paperback cover wrinkled and dirtied, and old library barcode taped onto the back.

“The Outsiders,” he said.

“I haven’t read that one.”

“Dean was supposed to read it for school last semester. He never did, so it was just sitting there.”

“What’s it about?” You asked, curling your legs up to your chest and resting your head sideways on your knees.

“There’s this kid that goes out and accidentally gets someone he doesn’t like killed. And all his friends- they’re like his brothers, really, I think- they all try to protect each other. It reminds me a lot of Dean.”

You hummed.

“Anyway, it’s good so far.”

You were gonna respond when the front door creaked open and you knew it wasn’t Dad walking in. Your heartbeat picked up, knocking on your ribcage, and you grimaced.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean said, his voice cracking. “Dad called. He said he’ll be around to grab us in a couple days.”

Despite how much Sam admired and loved Dean, his eyes seemed to glaze over at that. Dean sighed, wiping his hands on his shirt, and crossing his arms over his chest.

“What is it?” He asked.

Sam shrugged, glancing to you. Your raised your brows.

“I’m just sick of moving around,” he said, his voice low. “I- I wanna go to one school and make real friends. I wanna have a real family.”

“Sammy,” Dean said, his voice rough and irritated. “We are a real family. We got us, and dad, and we don’t need any-“

“But it’s not the same. All the other kids- they have moms and grandparents and aunts and uncles and don’t live in motels-“

“We got Bobby- and Little Singer here doesn’t have all that stuff, either-“

You swallowed. Sure, you went to one school, but he was right- you didn’t have friends. Aside from them and that little girl Jo that came around once in a while. And yeah, maybe you didn’t have a mom or grandparents, but you had Dad. And you had never really considered that he wasn’t enough.

Sam sighed.

“I’m just- it just makes me sad. I feel like a ghost everywhere.”

“You ain’t a ghost, Sammy.”

“Duh,” he said, and Dean looked from him to you, a knowing look washing over his face as he realized where Sam had learned that one from.

“Look,” Dean said, propping his hands on his hips now. “We’ll be here for a few more days. Maybe we can do some mushy family stuff. Cook a crappy dinner that doesn’t come in a box or a paper bag. Watch some cheesy movie.”

Sam looked back down to his book and fingered the page he was on.

“Sammy, we don’t need all that stuff- we’re tough. We got Dad, and he’d do anything for us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam grunted, dog-earing the page and closing the book. “Fine. Do you know how to cook?”

You looked up at him, not expecting to be brought into the argument again. You shrugged.

“Pasta, I think,” you said. “But that comes in a box.”

“Well, it’s not put in a microwave,” Dean offered. “Gotta put it in a pot and everything.”

Sam nodded.

“I’ll tell Dad our plan,” you said, standing up and glancing between the brothers. When Dean met your eyes, you felt your cheeks get hot again. You turned around quickly, not bothering to put any shoes on before hopping out into the dry, arid dirt.

Dad was bent over an engine doing god knows what when you walked up.

“Hey Dad,” you said.

He jumped a little, turning to you and pulling his wrench from the bowels of the old car.

“Hey Kiddo- I was expectin’ Dean back out here, not you- hey-“ he pointed to your feet with the wrench, his eyes narrowing. “What’d I tell you about comin’ out here with no damn shoes on. Gonna catch tetanus or somethin’.”

“Sorry,” you said, wiggling your toes in the grass. “I was just gonna tell you that Sam wanted to make a family dinner tonight. I told them we had pasta, so I was gonna-“

“Pasta? For a family dinner?” He asked, propping his hands on his hips, and it looked a lot like how Dean had done it inside, and then you were thinking about Dean again, and you bit the inside of your cheek.

“I dunno,” you said, curling in on yourself slightly. “It’s not like we have, I don’t know, a fancy steak or something.”

Bobby chuckled and tossed his wrench to the side before wiping his hands together to get rid of some of the grime.

“You’re right, we don’t,” he said. “But we can hit the grocery store in town. Pick out something a little nicer ‘an pasta.”

You wanted to ask what was so bad about pasta, but then you thought back to what Sam had said. And maybe Dean was right, you were more like them than you thought, just without moving from state to state so often. Maybe you didn’t even know what a real family dinner was supposed to be outside of some pasta or pizza.

“Maybe it’ll be fun,” Bobby said. “Hell, it’ll keep you three busy and in my line of sight for a few hours, at least.”

You turned as he walked by, his hand reaching around your shoulders to give you a squeeze. You squirmed, grabbing his wrist and looking at the oil and filth all over him.

“Dad,” you groaned.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I forgot. You don’t like the car stuff all over you.”

You sighed and picked at your nails, which were still dirty from when you and Sam had ventured out into the heat and found some sticks and rocks to play with. You didn’t mind getting dirty. You just didn’t like the way the car stuff smelled. It reminded you of fire and screeching tires and smoke.

When you got back inside, Dad yelled at Dean for sitting on the couch in his dirty clothes, and told everyone to get cleaned up before the trip out to the grocery store. Sam had lit up at that. Dean suppressed a groan.

You avoided looking at him, suddenly very aware of yourself and the space you took up next to Dad. You were only more aware of everything when he came back down from his quick shower, smelling like cheap soap and his hair wet over his forehead.

You bit back your embarrassment- because you couldn’t really think of another word for it- and tried to stay busy with Sam the rest of the night. You told yourself you still didn’t like Dean Winchester. He was annoying, gross, and thirteen. And you’d tried to shoot him when you met, because something in your little body back then had known you didn’t like him.

It had never been hard to look him in the eyes, though.

Chapter 2

Summary:

You are determined to hunt. Sam isn't sure about it. Dean just needs to keep everyone safe.

Notes:

Song : WE WERE KIDS by Carter Veil

and we were kids / and life was ephemeral / you still laughed at comedy central / through the wires, through the heat

On your fourteenth birthday, John Winchester dropped his boys off for an extended stay at Hotel Singer, and you were pissed.

Not because of Sam. You were glad to have Sam there for your birthday, especially because he’d brought you a couple books he’d managed to get ahold of, one of which was The Outsiders. When you’d read it last year in school, you’d told him you really liked it.

Dean, however, was another story.

For three years you’d been worse than oil and water, as Dad so often liked to say. He’d tease you relentlessly, sometimes hanging in your doorway and asking if you still played with those little dolls, and you’d throw a pillow at him and tell him to get out. The few times they’d been back over the years, he seemed to be bigger every time. Taller, his voice deeper, even growing some stubble along his jaw, and it made it that much harder to look him in the eyes. Because you hated him.

One time last year, he’d seen you reading some girly romance novel and nearly keeled over laughing. He asked if it was like a porno, and you turned beet red and threw the book at him hard enough to give him a faint black eye. Dad had asked if he deserved it, and you said yes.

John hadn’t noticed when he picked them up. You were glad you didn’t have to face that.

And you would tease him too, except that he didn’t seem to care about anything. Nothing fazed him. Nothing except for Sam, and you never made fun of Sam, because he was him and also that would be a whole lot like making fun of yourself. And he just kept carrying himself like he thought he was the coolest, with his leather jacket, talking about how John had his sawed off shotgun in the impala, and he’d gotten to use it on his last few hunts.

You’d rolled your eyes at him. For your thirteenth birthday last year, Dad had taken you out to shoot the shotgun- finally- and a few other bigger ones he said would be good to know your way around. But he’d never let you hunt with him. Said that, if he could help it, you wouldn’t ever have to.

But you wanted to. And you hated that Dean got to go all the time. At sixteen, sometimes he’d pop in to say hi when they stopped by, but leave with John to go finish a job without Sam. And Sam didn’t seem to like it- he never talked about it, but you assumed if you asked, he’d say that he hated hunting anyway, he just hated being babied even more.

But on your birthday, you were determined that this year would be the year you did it. You’d get Dad to take you to an easy one, some salt and burn that would be in and out, and you’d see a real ghost and help real people. He’d probably keep trying to convince you to focus on other things- to make friends your own age, go to a party or something, anything except reading his damn occult books.

You didn’t want those things, though. You wanted to help people. And you were the weird kid in school anyway- it was too late for that friend business. You were starting high school, and everyone already had their friends figured out, and besides, you couldn’t stand most of them. Most of the girls your age would just wanna talk about boys, and you wanted to talk about demons and hell and how far you’d been able to read in latin before looking up a translation. And the boys your age- well, they were worse than Dean. They’d laugh at the stupidest stuff, say the worst things, and were too awkward for much else.

Sam gave you the books he’d collected as soon as they got in. Dean was behind him, his shoulders relaxed and brow raised.

“Happy birthday, Little Singer,” he drawled, and you felt your cheeks get hot. “I’d’ve brought you something, but your little boyfriend found all the decent gifts before me.”

You rolled your eyes and went right back to hating him.

“Dean,” John said, his tone edgy, and he motioned for him to follow him and Dad to the kitchen.

That was another thing you despised about Dean. Dad and John always included him in stuff now. And you knew he hadn’t even memorized an exorcism in latin. You barely ever saw him touch a book written in English.

“Sorry about him,” Sam said.

You waved him off, fingering the pages of the books he’d given you.

“Thanks for these,” you said.

“Sure. Dad told me I could only take them if I’d give ‘em to you, so…”

You laughed.

“So these are what you wanted to read.”

“Well, not The Outsiders.”

You hummed, examining the copy before putting the books down beside you.

“I wish they’d let me go with them,” you grumbled, glancing over your shoulder towards the kitchen. “It’s like they think I can’t do it.”

“Dad says its dangerous,” Sam tried.

“Dean was hunting at my age,” you said. “I can do whatever he could at that point.”

“Yeah,” Sam grunted, his eyelids heavy.

“Have you gone with them?” You asked, scanning his face.

“I- well- not on purpose,” Sam said. “But a few times, yeah.”

You felt your face go cold and your heart sunk. Dad always told you John Winchester was too willing to bring those boys into dangerous places, and that he had half a mind to say they ought to just stay with you both all the time, but in that moment all you wanted was to slam down the books Sam had given you and lock yourself in your room because the world was so unfair and you hated Dean. You didn’t want to hate Sam. So you pushed your anger off onto his brother.

Sam must’ve noticed your mood shift. You tightened your jaw over and over, grinding your teeth together so hard it almost hurt. You stared down at the books he gave you, thinking hard about all the things you’d never been allowed to do. You’d been able to do them. You’d been perfectly proficient in shooting, hell- even in hand-to-hand. Dad hadn’t been too keen on teaching you much, but he insisted you at least know basic self defense. But you kept practicing, punching at that beam in the basement wrapped in old pillows, whenever you got the chance to be down there. And that was another thing- you were sick of being kept at arms length about stuff happening in your own home. Maybe it wasn’t yours, sure, but you lived there. And it made you so angry your hands started to shake. You squeezed them into fists to try and stop it.

“It’s not-“ Sam tried, his voice cracking from the effort. “I don’t even like it. I don’t even wanna do it.”

“Well then don’t,” you half-yelled, your frustration venting out in an aggravated sigh. You stood just as Dad, John, and Dean emerged from the kitchen, John and Dad laughing at something while Dean wore that stupid, mysterious, too-cool, smug face that made you so angry and also made your heart fill in your chest. And that just made you angrier.

You turned to the stairs and stormed towards them, your steps heavier than necessary, just to try and get something out of you, to let something out.

“Hey, Kiddo, where’re you goin’-“

“To my room,” you grunted, not bothering to look down as they all probably watched. You had half a mind to follow John when he left, find whatever monster he’d been about to hunt and kill it your damn self.

You heard Dean trying to say something right as you slammed your door. You didn’t care. You weren’t gonna be like all those other girls you’d heard him talk about, who hung on his every word and followed him wherever he’d take them. Sam had told you it was true, too. So perfect Dean Winchester got to hunt with his dad, hang out with girls, and do basically whatever he wanted while you were stuck on lockdown most of the time, barely earning any trust from good grades or good shots.

The anger was bubbling in you so rapidly and terribly that hot tears stung at your eyes. You paced back and force in your room for a moment, shaking your hands and trying to cool yourself off. But you wanted to punch something. Wanted to throw something hard enough to break.

You heard the front door close downstairs and glanced out the window to watch as John rolled away in the impala, the black body shining under the hot sky, and Dean wasn’t in it. That satisfied you at least a little bit, that John didn’t let him go on every hunt.

There was a knock on your door, low and careful, and you closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths before you trudged over and opened it.

You looked up at your dad with flat, glossy eyes and pressed your lips together to avoid the attitude he’d claimed you’d been giving him lately.

“Kiddo, what’s-“

“Nothing,” you snapped, your eyes shifting away from his for a second as you swallowed.

“Well, something must’ve happened, because you ran up here like bat outta hell-“

“Nothing happened,” you breathed.

“Sam say something to upset you? ‘Cuz if he did, I can handle that right now-“

“Just stop,” you said, blinking frantically to try and quell the onslaught of tears pushing at your eyes. “Just stop trying to make everything better all the time. Stop babying me.”

“Kiddo, take a breath,” Dad said, holding up a hand to you as though that would calm you down. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I just- I want- It’s my birthday and all I’ve wanted forever is just to go on a hunt with you, and even Sam has gone out, and-“

“Alright,” Dad said, his face morphing from tepid concern to controlled anger. “Sam ain’t have any business goin’ out there, and neither do you. You know where I stand on this. This ain’t a life you want for yourself. And sure, I try to keep you educated and prepared so you can be safe just in case, but once you’re in this life, there’s no gettin’ out of it- and that ain’t what I want for you-“

“Why is that your choice?” You yelled, tears finally breaking the surface. The feel of them skipping down your cheeks irritated you even more, and you wiped them away with a rough fist to your face. “Why can’t I choose my own life for myself?”

“Because you don’t know a damn thing about what’s out there,” Dad yelled back. “These things took your mama from us, could’ve took you if I hadn’t-“ he pressed his lips together hard, his face red. “You think you know what you want, think you know everything, and I get it, ‘cuz I was a damn teenager once too. But not this. I won’t budge on this. You don’t know.”

You tightened your jaw, a few more stray tears slipping from your eyes.

“I could know. And I could choose then-“

“No,” Dad said, his voice echoing in the hall. The house was strangely quiet after that, like even the walls had to hold their breath, like Sam and Dean downstairs had even bit their tongues. “That’s final. I’ll teach ya to shoot, to fight and defend yourself, hell, I’ll even let you have your own guns and read some of my books if it’s what you want, but you’re not goin’ out there huntin’. You’re just not.”

You knew it was a bad idea, but you slammed the door shut on him then. Twisted the old lock closed so he couldn’t barge back in, threw yourself down on your bed, and let yourself cry it out. You’d never be good enough- not like Dean and Sam were to John- to help. To keep dad safe just as much as he wanted to keep you safe. To be a good guy, to be a hero.

 

—-

 

It was a few hours later when you decided to risk going downstairs to find something to eat. The sun had set, setting the sky ablaze with pink and orange, a few grey clouds floating through. You hoped nobody would be down there, but odds are, the boys would be in the living room and Dad would be in his study. So you crept down quietly, wanting to get a feel for what the energy was before taking the plunge. You’d rather go to sleep hungry than have to face another argument about all the things you weren’t allowed to do, especially not in front of Dean.

Sam was sitting on the couch facing the TV, his head nodding slightly as he looked down at a book in his lap. You heard muffled voices in the kitchen and sighed, about to turn around and give up before you caught a few of Dean’s words and froze.

“-’s just a salt’n’burn, Bobby. I’ve done hundred of ‘em by now with dad.”

“It’s a little too close to home for my comfort. And I don’t want her hearin’ about this- if I have to tell her no one more time I might lose my damn mind.”

A beat of silence. You felt the tears stinging again.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if-“

“Don’t you start with me too,” Dad said quickly. “Your daddy raised you how he thought he needed to, and I won’t stand here and talk bad about him to his boy, but huntin’ ain’t no place for any of you. Especially not my daughter.”

More quiet. You furrowed your brows, trying to understand why Dean would be trying to defend you, but quickly gave up on the thought as they kept talking.

“We could go deal with it tonight,” Dean said. “Once Sammy and her are asleep. It seems real quick- you got the old obit showing where the guy is buried that’s probably haunting ‘em, so we could just go salt and burn his bones before anyone even notices.”

You swallowed, your ears ringing. Dad would take Dean hunting on your birthday. The betrayal felt like a splash of ice cold water.

“I don't know, Dean. His bones won’t disappear in a few days, and a spirit can’t really hurt nobody too bad. And maybe it isn’t-“

You sat down on the stairs, glancing to Sam in the living room to make sure he hadn’t noticed you, and waited with shaking hands until their conversation faded- thankfully- into dads study. You stood carefully, silently, and crept down the rest of the way and through the hall behind Sam until you were in the kitchen, and you could still hear Dean and Dad talking about weird monsters in the other room.

You looked down at the kitchen table, at the newspaper articles that dad had no doubt collected as intel on the case- not even a couple miles down the road into town- and the obituary Dean had mentioned with the location of the grave. Just a salt and burn, he’d said. Dad had even insisted it wasn’t big enough to have to do something about soon.

You pocketed the obituary, glanced over your shoulder at Sam dozing off into his book to the sound of cartoon reruns, and let out a careful breath. You turned to the cabinet where dad kept the condiments and spices, grabbed the new jar of salt from behind the one he’d been using to cook, and then snagged one of his old lighters from the drawer next to the fridge. You tested it once to make sure it worked, and when it did, you capped it quick and headed back upstairs just as quietly as you came.

You locked the door behind you, grabbed a small duffel, and tossed in the salt and lighter. You’d need to grab the lighter fluid from near the fire pit outside, and one of the sawed-off’s dad hid around the house, loaded with salt rounds. You dropped onto your bed, your eyes drifting to the window, and watched as the sky settled into the night.

You heard Sam go to bed first, the guest room door closing softly. Dad wasn’t too far behind, grumbling in the hall as he walked, stopping briefly outside your room before deciding whatever he was gonna try to say wasn’t worth it. Dean usually stayed up late in the living room before knocking out on the couch lately, so you knew taking the stairs wasn’t an option. He’d clock you in a second, as much as you hated to admit it. And he wouldn’t get it. He never had to fight to be good enough for anyone. Ever since you first met him, he just was.

You unlocked your door and padded out towards the grandfather clock that hadn’t worked in years. You pried open the bottom where you knew dad had stashed some emergency supplies, and pulled out the small sawed-off and a box of salt rounds before replacing the wood. You’d put it back when you got home, ideally before sunrise, and he’d never know. It’s not like you’d need the ammo, anyway. But even if you used one or two rounds, and he ever got suspicious, you’d just shrug and say maybe your memory is going, old man. And he’d tease you about how this is where you’re headed, so mind what you say. And you’d roll your eyes and laugh, and that’d be that.

You slipped back into your room and locked the door again, no one the wiser, and tucked the gun into your small duffel next to the salt and lighter. You carefully crossed the strap over your shoulder and made for the widow, which you had already unlocked and left cracked so you wouldn’t make too much noise. You slid it up slowly, glanced down at the rough roof tiles that were over the small porch, and let out a breath into the warm night.

It was barely even a hunt. All you needed to do was dig up the body, sprinkle in the salt, light it up, and head out. Dad had told you about a hundred cases like it- the easy ones, that always left him relieved and home in time for dinner. Dean had talked about them too. Sam would roll his eyes and ask him to talk about anything besides hunting for once, and usually, Dean would just chuckle and shrug at him.

What’s the matter Sammy? It’s just the family business.

You stepped out onto the roof carefully, squatting low and holding your breath. The roof of the porch to the grass wasn’t terribly far, but you’d never snuck out before, but fuck it, it was your birthday, and you were about to start high school, and you were the weird quiet kid that liked ghost stories and horror movies and read obscure books bound in leather instead of cardboard.

You hopped down as quietly as you could and stood. The night spread out before you, a gentle wind pushing at your hair, and you drew in a deep breath. You imagined that this is what freedom felt like. And it felt good. More than good.

Amazing.

You walked carefully out to the fire pit where dad had been burning some old wood and brush, and probably a few unruly monsters, and grabbed a bottle of the lighter fluid to shove in your pack. You hurried back to the porch, grabbed your old bike from where it was resting against the railing, and rolled it out to the driveway before you pulled out the obituary and checked the address again.

Then you hopped on the bike, pulled into the road, and smiled.

You’d never felt so right. And it was so stupid, sneaking out to hunt a ghost. And nobody would even know. And even better- dad and Dean wouldn’t get to do it.

 

—-

 

The cemetery was peaceful. You walked your bike down the dirt path as you searched for the name- Jameson- and dropped it haphazardly against another old gravestone once you found it. The grave had the space for another name, but it was long abandoned, by the looks of it. The guy had died like fifty years ago almost to the date, and the space next to him had never been updated. You figured whoever was supposed to rest next to him eternally had gotten cold feet, or maybe met someone new, and that was reason enough to make a bitter spirit.

You’d read a lot about spirits. About how people refuse to cross over, or whatever actually happened, and their soul rotted away as they hung around for years and years and years. And unfinished business could torment them.

You didn’t know the details of this case aside from what you’d overhead and glanced at in the articles on the kitchen table, but it didn’t matter. The outcome would be the same. Salt and burn.

You grabbed your shovel, your fingers narrow and cold despite the warm night, and stabbed it into the dirt in front of the grave.

“Alright, Mr. Jameson,” you said to the wind, a hand on your hip. “You need to move on, and I have a point to prove. Let’s get this show on the road.”

After about two hours, you estimated that you were almost there. And you were covered in dirt and sweat, your clothes reeked of the earth, and the moon had risen high into the sky. It was hard work, especially by yourself, but every shovel-full of dirt you heaved out of the way felt like another success. You were doing it. You were in it.

When you finally hit the coffin, you let out an exhausted, satisfied sigh. You wiped your brow with the back of your hand, probably smearing a little bit of dirt over your skin, but you didn’t care. You even liked it. It was physical, dirty, and gave you a spark of adrenaline whenever you’d hear an animal crack a branch or a bird rustle in the trees.

And you didn’t realize how much you’d like just being alone, out in the night, with nobody around to bother you.

You jammed the shovel into the opened of the coffin and pried it up with a grunt. You’d never seen a full skeleton still in its coffin before, especially not like this, and you felt a sick sort of excitement as you tossed the shovel out of the hole and hoisted yourself up to get the rest of your supplies.

You sprinkled most of the salt jar into the grave, covering the dude in a blanket of the stuff, before you tossed what was left back in your duffel and started spraying the lighter fluid in next. You weren’t sure what the best amount would be, so you sprayed in what was left of the bottle before tossing that back, too, to throw away in the outside garbage when you got home. You’d need to shower when you got back, too. If dad asked why the hell you were in there so late, you’d just tell him you couldn’t sleep.

Your birthday had officially been over for a few hours, but you’d forgone the cake and candles for moping in your room, but this felt even better. Like one big candle you didn’t have to blow out, just ignite, and you’d really be fourteen.

You turned to grab the lighter, and stopped.

You’d never seen a skeleton in its grave before. You’d also never seen a real ghost.

But there it was- Mr. Jameson, based on the picture attached to the obituary any our pocket- with a sour face and a long fancy coat, an old hat, and a pocket watch in his hand. You blinked, a lump in your throat overwhelming your ability to swallow and breathe, and racked your brain for the best thing to do in this situation.

Well, you knew what that would be. Light the bitch on fire asap, and watch the ghost burn. And he couldn’t hurt you, not really, because he was just a one-off spirit. You could grab the shotgun, send him flying from the sting of the salt for a minute to give you time to drop the lighter, but that would be loud and it was so quiet out- and you were so close to getting home without using any of dads salt rounds. And it would be easier to put them all back then to be missing one, even if you did know what you were going to say for cover.

So you bent down and grabbed the lighter, flicked it open, and-

Shit.

It didn’t light. Not at first.

Mr. Jameson started to yell, the sound like a dry, sucking screech, and you winced as the pain spread through your ears. You flicked the lighter a second time, and a third, and he was getting closer to you and your heart was pounding in your chest and-

Someone came running up and swung at him with an old twisted scrap of metal, their leather jacket catching the moonlight and shining. Their hair was greasy, slicked slightly back, and you flicked the lighter again and the flame sprung up and you sighed, relieved, before you tossed the whole thing in and watched the body erupt in the flame, coffin and all.

When you turned back to whoever had decided to help you, your mouth ran dry.

Dean was staring at you, the scrap metal clutched in one hand, the other hanging limp at his side, half covered by the long sleeve of his leather jacket. And he had that stupid smug look on his face, one brow perked slightly higher than the other, and his eyes were reflecting the clear sky in a way that made your heart feel full again. The heat from the fire behind you made your face feel obscenely hot, so you stepped away from it, your throat tight. You kept your eyes on his, your jaw tight, and waited.

“Busted,” he said, his lips spreading into a goofy grin. And then he laughed. And the sound made your heart swell and your cheeks flush- though that could have been the flames still- and it also made you so angry.

“Did you follow me?” You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest, your shirt cold from the dirt stains.

“Of course I did,” he said, tossing the scrap metal to the side and flicking his chin towards the grave. “Looks like you ganked the guy, though.”

“Of course I did,” you mimicked, moving your hands to your hips. “Why did you follow me.”

He shrugged, “so you didn’t do something stupid.”

You rolled your eyes, and it was your turn to laugh.

“Right. Do something stupid, like forget one of the many, many steps to a salt and burn?”

He smiled again, glancing between you and the shovel on the ground.

“Dig it up yourself?”

“Duh,” you said.

He chuckled.

“Bobby would kill you if he knew you snuck out to hunt,” he said.

“It wasn’t even a hunt,” you said, motioning behind you. “Didn’t have to figure anything out, even. Just had to roast the old guy.”

“Sure,” Dean shrugged. “But he would still kill you.”

You swallowed, your cheeks feeling hot again.

“Are you gonna tell him?” You asked, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

“Depends. What’ll you do for me?” He asked.

“For you?” You grumbled, crossing your arms again, because you didn’t know what to do with them and with the fire lighting you up in the dark, you somehow felt too exposed. “What do you want?”

Dean glanced from you to the fire, which was settling slightly, and back to you. He shrugged again. It pissed you off.

“Guess you’ll owe me one,” he said.

Your frowned, watching him for a moment before sighing and turning to pack your supplies back up.

“You know, it was stupid, coming out here alone,” he said, his voice softer now, slightly different from his usual smug, cowboy tone.

“Well, clearly, I wasn’t alone,” you said.

“You know what I mean,” he added, reaching down to pick up your bag for you. “Even if it was just a salt and burn, it could’ve been more that we didn’t know about-“

“Save the lecture, Dean,” you grumbled, taking your bag and tossing it over your shoulders. “Nothing bad happened.”

“You sure? Because you seemed a bit panicked there, when that lighter wasn’t-“

“But it worked,” you snapped. “I had it under control. And plus, it’s not like he could’ve hurt me. He would’ve just, I don’t know, flown through me or something.”

“Maybe,” Dean said, catching your eyes again. “But you never know. And hunting by yourself is just stupid.”

“Your dad teach you that?” You asked.

“Yeah, he did,” he said. “Safety in numbers and all that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have to go by myself, if my dad didn’t treat me like some fragile little baby that can’t do anything right-“

“Hey,” Dean said, propping his hands on his hips and frowning at you. “Bobby’s just tryna protect you-“

“No, he’s just trying to decide my life for me-“

“No, really,” Dean said, his voice firm, serious. “He doesn’t want you to get hurt. And I- I get it, sort of, that feeling. I mean, I don’t have a kid or anything, but it’s my job to protect Sammy, and if he pulled something like this, I don’t even know-“

He stopped to take a breath and looked to his shoes. You waited for him, your lips pursed and body tense, before he finally sighed and me your eyes again.

“You owe me one. Big time, Little Singer.”

You grunted and shoulders passed him to your bike. “Fine. And don’t call me that.”

You could feel his smirk burning into your back. When you propped up your bike and turned, he was hauling a rusty old thing from the bushes where he must’ve been watching you. You raised a brow.

“Dad’s old bike?” You asked. “Really?”

“Hey, it’s not like I could just steal a car from the lot. He’d definitely notice that.”

You hummed, looking him up and down, and wondered why he’d bothered to follow you. How he’d even known you’d do this.

“How’d you know?” You asked.

“What? That you’d do something stupid like this?”

You pushed your bike towards him and rolled your eyes.

“The obituary was gone when we got back to the kitchen,” he said with a shrug, tossing his leg over the bike. “Bobby didn’t notice before I picked up the pile, but I did. And after that fight you had upstairs after Sammy and I got here-“

You opened your mouth to say it wasn’t a fight, it was Dad being unfair, but he raised his brows and stopped you short. Maybe because his expression was back to being so stern. Maybe because, in the moonlight, his jaw looked strong, his hair dark, and the reflection not he necklace Sam had given him looked like a little star.

“Just, I got it. You know. Wanting to prove to yourself you could do it.”

You looked away from him, down to a spot of dry dirt on your wrist, and blinked. How could he possibly understand that? He’d been hunting with John forever. He’d never had to prove he was good enough or strong enough. He just was.

“But if you do it again, I’m definitely telling Bobby,” he said, kicking off the ground and pedaling down the path.

You frowned, hurrying after him.

“I guess next time I’ll just have to be more careful and make sure you don’t know.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he laughed, glancing back at you. “Now stay close and hurry up. I wanna sleep at least a little bit before Bobby wakes us up for breakfast.”

You pedaled hard, doing your best to keep up with him- he was taller and stronger than you, and you were already covered in sweat- but the air felt nice in your hair despite the ache in your lungs. The dark sky felt nice on your skin despite the exhaustion seeping into it.

“And hey-“ Dean said, turning back to you one last time, that stupid, goofy smile on his face- “happy birthday.”

Chapter 3

Summary:

You've got a plan to hunt. Sam and Dean show up. Everything goes well- until it doesn't.

Notes:

Song : July by Noah Cyrus

I've been holding my breath / I've been counting to ten / Over something you said

A few months into your junior year of high school, John Winchester showed up with Dean and Sam unannounced, apologetic but hardened, his face rougher than your memories of him were. You still pictured him as he was when you were a little kid, his soft smile and fluffy hair, but he wasn’t that man anymore.

You’d been sitting in the living room flipping through college brochures with dad, trying to bite your tongue and stop yourself from shouting that you didn’t want to go to college, you wanted to hunt. But it made dad happy, going through them, planning for a future you’d never accept, so you let him. The doorbell rang as you got to one for Stanford, all the way in California, and you looked over your shoulder as dad stood to see who it could’ve been.

You almost felt guilty, watching him walk with a brochure in his hand to the door. You never told him about your adventure into the cemetery, when Dean had followed you and practically lectured you about the dangers of hunting. And you hadn’t told him about the many other times you’d snuck out to check out a lead, or salt and burn another body, or watch some hunters that were passing through while they worked. And maybe it was because he didn’t wanna see it that he never realized, and you felt guilty about it, but he still wouldn’t let you go out with him. Hell, you were sixteen and change, old enough to decide what career you wanted for the rest of your life, but not to go with dad to hunt. Even if being a hunter was your career choice.

When Dean walked in, Sam in tow, you couldn’t stop your smile. Sam had hit another growth spurt, and he was already lanky and taller than you and Dean and Dad, his hair long and hanging over his eyes. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been smaller. And Dean-

Dean was far from a kid, now. He looked a lot like John- walked like him, with that swagger finally figured out- with his leather jacket and blue jeans, his hair trimmed and roughly styled, probably with his fingers and some water from a motel sink. He had filled out, gained some muscle and a few scars. And he’d finished high school. Or, at least, he was done with it. From what you’d heard, he’d sort of stopped going, and eventually just got his GED to get it over with. And, just like when you were eleven, something about him immediately made your throat tighten. Ever since he’d followed you out to that grave for your first salt and burn, and promised not to tell your dad, that feeling inside of you had just gotten worse. And whenever he’d come around, even if it was only when they dropped off Sam, he’d crack a joke to you about getting a lock for your window or draining the air from your bikes tires. And you’d roll your eyes and elbow him, or shove his arm, but you’d laugh, too.

“Hey, Little Singer,” he said, smirking as he caught your eyes. “Get in any trouble lately?”

“Nothing I’d share with you,” you said, leaning over the back of the couch. “Got a hunt nearby?”

Sam rolled his eyes and dropped his backpack on the couch next to you before he sunk into the cushions.

“Uh, well,” Dean started, shrugging. “Dad got a call from a contact, somethin’ he’s gotta check out, said me and Sammy ought to take break-“

“Sure, Dean,” Sam grunted, glancing over to him. “He definitely didn’t say it was too dangerous and he needed you to keep an eye on me.”

Dean pressed an awkward grin to his lips, and you laughed. Sam leaned forward over the coffee table, the old thing stained from years of misuse and covered in college brochures and pamphlets.

“What’re these?” He asked.

You shrugged. “College stuff.”

Dean raised a brow, glancing between you both as he sauntered over and picked one up at random.

“You too good for us now, Little Singer?” He asked, flipping through the pamphlet in his hands. “Don’t given Sammy and wild ideas, now.”

“Please,” you grunted, glancing to the door to make sure Dad and John were still talking. “This is all for him. I don’t wanna go.”

Sam looked up at you.

“Why not?”

“Because, it’s just not what I want,” you said.

Dean watched you then, and when you met his glance, he raised his brows. He knew what you meant. You’d only go to college if it was hunter university, and if the required reading was latin, and if instead of pencils and paper you needed guns and salt rounds.

Sam frowned, picked up the Stanford pamphlet, and settled into the couch as he read it. Dean dropped the random one he’d picked up back onto the table with a thwap and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“How long will you be around this time?” You asked.

“Dunno, probably a few days. Told Dad we coulda just stayed in the motel by ourselves, but he said we were close enough to Bobby’s, and he’d rather us be where someone could keep an eye on us.”

You were secretly glad John had always been so insistent on leaving them where someone- Bobby- could watch them. Especially now, when Dean could so easily just go out and find his own thing to do, but still always did what he knew his dad wanted. You’d never admit it, though. Not under threat of torture or for anything.

You loved Sam like a brother. He’d been your best friend since you were both small, naive little things. But you also loved seeing Dean.

He never looked at you like that. Never even hinted at it. If anything, you were almost positive that you were like a sister to him, even though the thought bothered you. Because even though Sam was like your brother, Dean certainly was not. Every time you saw him after your fourteenth birthday, that feeling always seemed to get worse. And sitting there in the living room, talking about college but really talking about hunting, you felt it as strong as ever.

Just a stupid crush, you told yourself. But you wrote about him in your journal, which you’d started keeping the more you snuck out. Wrote about that night a couple years ago, and how you still technically owed him one. About that one time all three Winchesters had shown up exhausted and a little beaten up, just needing a place to clean up and reorganize, and Dean had a little cut through his eyebrow and the slightest black eye, and even though your chest swelled with worry, you also thought it was attractive. But you’d never tell anyone that. Not even Jo, who’d been coming around more and more since her dad died in some hunting accident- another example Dad liked to give you for why you wouldn’t be a hunter.

You realized you were staring and cleared your throat, turning your attention back to the table. Sam had picked up another handful of brochures, skimming through them with a curious frown on his face.

John didn’t even pop in to say hello to you or goodbye to them. When Dad came back, he wiped a hand down his face with a huff, and propped his hands low on his hips as he looked over the three of you, much bigger than you had been the first time you’d all gathered in his living room.

“Well,” he said, nodding to the table. “We can finish that later, Kiddo. Unless Sam and Dean wanna help you narrow down your choices.”

You swallowed and nodded, glancing to Dean as he watched you, and didn’t move until Dad had fully disappeared into the kitchen, probably to take stock of how little food he had to feed two additional teenage boys.

“You should tell ‘im,” Dean said, and you shot him a sharp, sudden look. He lifted his hands in surrender, biting back that smug smirk you hated so much.

Hated. You thought about your journal again, and how you’d written about that stupid smirk. You certainly didn’t write about it like you hated it. And maybe you were just lying to yourself, and had been for years, and that Dean maybe wasn’t actually so bad.

“Can I keep these?” Sam asked, looking up at you but not bothering to glance to Dean. You did, though. He had his lips pressed into a flat line and knitted his brows.

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug. “Whichever ones you want. Maybe one of us can get a use out of them.”

He tucked a few into his backpack at his feet, still not looking to Dean, and you wondered if he’d really do it. If he’d leave behind his father and brother, the life he’d been raised in, participated in, and if he’d get away. Dad had told you in no uncertain terms that once you were in, there was no getting out. But if anyone deserved it- if anyone wanted it badly enough- it was Sam. And maybe you didn’t get it, but you respected it. Maybe understood it just a little. He wanted more from life than monsters and mud and blood, and he could do it. He had the brains for just about anything, the dedication, and he knew how to protect himself if he needed to. Even if it would break Deans heart to see Sam go, you hoped he did. Almost as much as you hoped Dad would wake up one morning and realize you were in it for the long haul, and that you’d be safer at his side than behind his back.

You wondered which of you had a better chance.

It wasn’t long until Dad was calling out that he was headed to the grocery store for the second damn time this week, to stock up on all the stuff Dean and Sam liked to eat. Their visits had been dwindling as you all got older, especially as Dean took on more and more hunts with his dad- nearly all of them now- and even through his grumbling, you knew Dad was happy. He liked having a full house, to feel the life in the place nearly bursting at the seams. He liked the distraction. And you did, too.

Because you had a case. Two towns over, a short drive- you’d tell Dad you were headed to a party and wouldn’t be back too late. And with the boys here, Dad probably wouldn’t ask too many questions. Would give you the no drinkin’ and drivin’ speech again, and you’d offer him a lazy salute and toss the keys to yourself by the door, your hunting bag already tossed in the backseat of the fixer-upper Bobby had pulled out of the junkyard for you to use now that you had your license.

It was more than a salt and burn this time. You were nearly certain it was a siren, operating out of an old dive bar down the way, luring men into her embrace and sucking them dry. And maybe it was a big case, especially to handle on your own, but you’d read nearly every book you could find in Dad’s office about the nasty creatures, and you had the bronze dagger tucked into your kit already. The only hard part would be the blood-of-the-last-victim thing, but you had an idea stirring in your head, and the vague formation of a plan following it. And if it was too much, you’d turn tail and go home. You knew your limits, and more than that, you knew if Dad had to pick you up at an ER with your guts hanging out of your stomach, you’d be grounded for the rest of your damn life. Forget college, forget parties, forget hunting especially. The only life you’d know would probably be between your bedroom and the bunker he’d finally finished in the basement.

So you knew your weaknesses. You weren’t terribly strong, and while you were a good shot and had the tools you needed and could throw a solid punch, you didn’t know how to fight for real. You’d read about how to stitch up a wound, but hadn’t gotten around to stealing a slice of meat and practicing without Dad noticing, so you couldn’t patch yourself up if you got snagged too bad. You’d thought about signing up for a first aid course at school, or maybe the fucking wrestling team, but you didn’t wanna raise suspicion. Especially because when Dad asked what you’d major in at one of those fancy schools, you’d just grunt and say history or something.

Sam moved to the kitchen table to do some homework, the brochures tucked safely into his backpack and sticking up just barely enough for you to see over his textbooks. Dean dropped onto the couch next to you where Sam had been, leaning back and resting his ankle lazily over his knee.

“So, got any wild plans this weekend?”

You raised a brow and looked at him, your attention still half on the TV and half on your planning for the siren.

“You mean like real plans, or hunting plans?” You asked.

He smirked, glancing over his shoulder at Sam, and then back to you.

“Either, I guess,” he said.

You considered it. Really considered telling him all about the dead bodies, the psychotic episodes, the bar it all seemed to orbit around, and the bronze dagger you’d snuck from Dad’s office a couple days ago. He hadn’t needed it for a hunt in years, so you figured it was safe enough to borrow for a little while without him noticing.

He squinted at you, leaning in just slightly, and your heart picked up just enough to send a rush to your head and no, you couldn’t tell him. He’d distract you. And he would be something else to worry about, when it came to Dad. Something he could hold over you.

“Come on, Singer,” he said, nudging you with his shoulder. “You owe me one, remember?”

You flashed back to the cemetery- your first salt and burn- and tried to blink the memory away. Of Dean cutting through a ghost with an old metal pipe, of his unkempt hair and his cocky, stupid smile. Of his voice, dropping as he lectured you, and his jacket waving behind him as you followed on your bike.

“That was years ago. Are you seriously trying to cash it in now?” You asked, hoping your cheeks didn’t look as hot as they felt.

Dean shrugged, and he was close enough that you could feel it.

“Hey, I don’t forget what I’m owed,” he said easily. “Plus, I’m pissed Dad took this one without me. I don’t think he even has friends out there meeting him, like he said. So I could use a good hunt.”

You thought about it, about being off the hook for him following you and making sure you were okay the first time you’d snuck out to hunt, about no longer worrying if he’d turn around and tell Dad what Little Singer had really been up to in her down time. Because it certainly wasn’t studying or parties or debate team after school.

“Fine,” you said, a weight draining from your shoulders. You knew you wanted to say yes, wanted an excuse to spend time with him without Sam between you, if only so you had more to write about in your journal.

Dean smiled that wide, goofy smile that was much better than that stupid smug one. It made your chest light up, but you cleared your throat and glanced back to Sam in hopes he wouldn’t pick up on it. He couldn’t know you were happy about it, or that you probably would’ve said yes without owing him.

“So what is it?” He asked, dropping his voice as you ticked up the volume on the TV a few notches.

“Siren. At a bar a few towns over. I have a plan,” you said.

He raised his brows, his eyes wide.

“A siren. That’s- that’s kinda big game, sweetheart. Think you could handle it?”

You swallowed. Sweetheart. You nearly shook yourself to try and regain your sense. Now was not the time to fawn over a boy. Especially not Dean Winchester. Get it together, you thought.

“Think you can’t?” You asked, propping your feet up on the coffee table, nudging away some of the loose brochures still splayed out in front of you.

“‘Course I can,” he grunted. “Didn’t think you’d done many monsters ‘side from ghosts and shit.”

You didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. And the part of you that burned whenever he turned his eyes to you wanted him to be impressed. Wanted him to think, damn, she really is a hunter.

“I got everything packed in my car. Bronze dagger, books, sawed-off, salt rounds- all I need is the blood of the last victim. And that’s where my plan comes in.”

Dean waited, toying with the ring on his finger as you strung the words stuck in your head into a coherent play-by-play.

“It should be hunting tonight, if it sticks to its cycle. I’m gonna stake out the bar, see if I can set up some broken glass or something to be a mirror, and when it walks out with its next victim, I’m gonna sneak up behind him, slice him to get his blood on the dagger, then stab the thing with it.”

Dean listened, his eyes moving through the empty space in front of him as he followed your words. He shrugged.

“The broken glass is a decent plan,” he said, sitting back again. “Assuming it comes out of the bar to do its dirty work.”

“It has, according to the reports. Each man was last seen leaving the bar with some attractive woman, stumbling around with her, and they’d show up dead not long after. So she leaves with them at some point.”

He nodded. “Fine, but what if she sees you coming before you can get the blood you need?”

You shrug. “She won’t.”

It was the weakest part of your plan.

“If she sees you, you’re as good as dead, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart, again. You tightened your jaw.

“Not if she doesn’t know I’m hunting her,” you said.

“With a huge bronze dagger in your hand?”

“I’ll keep it hidden till I’m close enough,” you said. “And if they see me, I’ll just say, like, oh, sorry, I- I didn’t know you were here-“

Dean waved you off and laughed.

“Well, half the fun is improvising, anyway,” he said.

So it was good enough for him, your plan. And something about that was incredibly satisfying.

When Dad finally went to sleep, Dean met you on the porch, a smirk spread on his face and his hands shoved into his pockets. The jacket still looked slightly too big on him, but he’d grown into a lot since he’d started wearing it. Probably still would, a little bit. You couldn’t help but grin as you padded down the old steps and towards you car, the old thing rusted and still in the moonlight. Dean checked it out, running a hand over the hood, before tugging open the door and settling into the passenger seat. You’d expected him to ask to drive, but he stayed quiet, watching as you set it in gear and slowly, quietly, pulled out onto the road and turned your headlights on.

“Bobby give you this from the yard?” Dean asked, leaning forward to check out the radio and fiddling with the knobs.

“Yeah, why?”

Dean gave the dash a pat before he leaned back and rolled his window slightly down.

“I helped ‘im work on it a little bit, last summer,” he said, resting his elbow on the door. “She’s a good car. Reliable enough. Didn’t know he was gonna give ‘er to you.”

“What?” You asked, sparing him a glance, “you think he was gonna toss you the keys one day?”

“Me?” He asked, his voice a breathy chuckle. “Nah. And anyway, I’m gonna get the impala one day- Dad said so. And that’s a beauty worth waitin’ for.”

“Don’t you wish you had a little more freedom, though? Like, to go somewhere without your dad?”

Dean shrugged, opening the glove box and tugging out a few old tapes.

“Nah. Doesn’t bother me. We do everything together, y’know? It’s him and me and Sammy against the world.”

There was something tight in his voice, and you were gonna ask what it meant before he held up a tape and made a face.

“Who stocked your music collection, Singer?” He asked, waving the tape around. “What is this? Funk?”

You shrugged.

“’S whatever was in here. I don’t usually play anything while I drive.”

“You don’t-“ he breathed, sitting forward and facing you. “You just drive like this, in silence, by yourself?”

It was your turn to laugh now, and you did.

“Is it really that bad, Dean?” You asked. “I’m usually just thinking, or maybe talking to myself. Plus, school’s not far and I don’t ever really go anywhere else. Usually try to take the bike to hunt if I can.”

“Driving without music should be a sin,” he grumbled, tossing the tape back into the glove box and closing it with a thunk. “And we need to get you some real music, none of this random crap. You need some Zeppelin, maybe some-“

“Yeah, yeah,” you groaned, waving him off. “All the tough guys like classic rock. I get it.”

He scowled and sat back against the seat, his legs spread and arm back to resting on the door.

“It’s good music,” he said, resting his chin on his hand. “Sorry only one of us seems to have taste.”

You laughed again, your eyes stuck on the dark, empty road, as the silence spread around you. You liked it quiet. Liked being able to think, especially about a hunt. And it wasn’t so bad with Dean beside you, either.

When you pulled into the bar, the parking lot was mostly empty. For a Friday night, not many people seemed happy to take the risk of indulging at the same place that had mysteriously taken a few lives recently.

You pulled a small bag from your duffel in the backseat and opened the door, and Dean reached out and grabbed your arm before you could hop out.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

“Do put the broken mirror down by the door,” you said, frowning. “The plan?”

His jaw ticked, but he let you go, and you hopped from the car and hurried to the front of the bar, hoping nobody would come out right as you set up the pieces. You angled the bigger pieces towards you car and squinted until Dean gave you a thumbs up, and you hurried back. When the door closed, you turned the car off, cut the lights, and drew in a breath. The bronze dagger was in your lap, glinting softly under the streetlights, and you could feel Dean watching you.

“Maybe I should do it, sweetheart,” he drawled.

You rolled your eyes.

“I didn’t agree to bring you with me just to let you do all the dirty work,” you said. “This is my kill.”

“If somethin’ happens to you, Bobby’ll string me up-“

“Then it’s a good thing nothings gonna happen, and that nothings happened before, either. I got this, Dean.”

“Have you ever ganked a siren before?”

You shuffled in your seat, not bothering to look over at him watching you carefully.

“Have you?” You asked finally, squeezing the blade of the dagger in your hand.

“No,” he said easily, leaning forward. “But I’ve killed other things-“

“So have I,” you snapped.

“They’re not all the same,” he said. “Definitely not all the same.”

“If you’re just gonna sit here and be nervous all night, then I can bring you back to the junkyard,” you said, turning your eyes to his, finally.

He bit his lip and looked forward again, grumbling to himself about Sammy being home alone. You were about to retort when the door to the bar opened, a bell jangling from the inside, and you turned to watch as a couple stumbled out, hanging on each other, flushed and laughing. It was almost a little embarrassing to witness with Dean right next to you, but he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes trained on the broken mirror. You fought to ignore the heat rising in your cheek, focusing on the woman as she pressed a sloppy kiss to the mans neck, and you saw it. The quick flash of her eyes in the mirror, the dark ravaged skin. Dean saw it at the same time you did, and you gripped the dagger hard before tucking into the inside of your jacket. It was one of Dad’s old ones, that he’d given you when cleaning out the house a year or so ago. It was big on you, but comfortable. Smelled like fire and dirt and a bit of oil. A little bit like home.

“I’m going with you,” he said through his teeth, and you turned to him quickly, eyes wide.

“That’s not the plan-“

“It’s a half-assed plan anyway. Just follow my lead- and act fast, got it?”

You pressed your lips into a flat line and nodded after a second, hopping from the drivers seat as he climbed from the passenger side and met you in front of the car. You were about to ask what follow his lead meant when he draped an arm over your shoulder and winked, and you felt your heart rise into your throat, your face burning. But there wasn’t a lot of time to think about it as he tugged you forward, stumbling slightly and laughing. You did the same, using it as an excuse to look down and hide your face against his chest, where he kept pulling you, and he smelled warm. Like leather, and maybe something a little woodsy- not expensive, maybe cheap soap- and smokey. For a split second you closed your eyes and let the world be how it was, just you two gallivanting through a parking lot and around the side of a dirty old dive bar, laughing and smiling. And he was smiling, and holding you a bit tighter as you noticed the couple up ahead, and in the reflection of the lightbulb above them you could see again that it was the siren.

Dean kept tugging you along, slurring and whispering about something you couldn’t quite make out, and you added a giggle and balled your fist in his shirt, nearly falling over yourself. The more clumsy and out of it you looked, the less she’d anticipate your blade.

And your heart was pounding in your ears. This was your first big hunt, and Dean’s arm was around you, and you only had a few more second before Dean’s off-kilter steps brought you right to the couple.

And he stumbled over just a bit more, loosening his grip on you in a silent order. You let yourself fall towards the guy- an older man, with a sad face and sad, sagging clothes- and he reached out and grabbed you before you could fully fall.

“Oh- I- sorry-“ you tried, putting on a show of finding your balance. “I didn’t-“ you giggled again, squeezing the sleeves of the mans jacket, and in the corner of your eye you saw Dean tighten and shift towards the siren, and it was go time.

You reached into your jacket and grabbed the blade, slicing it hard right across the mans hand where he held you. He winced and jumped back, looking down at his bleeding palm, and Dean wrapped his arms around the siren behind you. She hissed and cawed, her face transforming before you, and the man looked over-

“What the fuck-“ he grunted, and he was about to reach for you again, but you had his blood on the blade and all you needed to do was-

You turned hard and bit your tongue as you jammed the dagger right into the gut of the siren, and she flickered for a moment, just as the man grabbed your shoulder with a hard tug.

You twisted the blade in her gut with a feral grunt, your hair whipping in front of your face, and she yowled as she dropped to the ground. Dead.

The man pulled you back, seeming to fight the daze slightly, and was about to say something or maybe try to hit you, when Dean tugged you hard out of the way and punched him right in his jaw. He fell over, mouth open and eyes closed, a bit of blood bubbling over his lip where he must’ve bit it.

You swallowed, feeling the phantom touch of Dean’s arm over your shoulder, and glanced between the man and the dead Siren.

“You good?” Dean asked, shaking off his hand and turning back to you.

You nodded, your mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming out. You did it. You did it.

“Alright,” he said, looking around quickly. “Gonna carry her to that dumpster, then salt and burn it, for good measure.”

You nodded and let him hand you back dad’s bronze dagger. You wiped it on the mans jackets, figuring he wouldn’t mind since you’d just saved his life, and looked over just as Dean heaved the siren up and carried her over to the trash cans. He tossed her in like it was nothing, and you felt his chest under your palm again, his shirt twisted in your fingers.

The fire went up easily, and it was time to run. When you got back to your car, Dean held out his hand.

“What?” You asked, frowning.

“Keys, sweetheart,” he said.

“But it’s my car,” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“And we gotta make a quick getaway. Or did you wanna linger and see how quick the fire department could get here?”

You rolled your eyes and tossed him the key before sliding into the passenger seat. He started her up and grumbled about not having any music, and after a few minutes on the road, the ringing in your ears seemed to finally cease. You hadn’t even noticed how loud it was in your own head until it quieted, and Dean looked over to you, something like worry on his features, and grunted your name.

“Yeah?” You asked, meeting his eyes.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Great,” you said. “Siren’s dead. That guy’ll live.”

Dean swallowed and nodded, his eyes turning back to the road, and you both stayed quiet until he turned the headlights off and turned back into the junkyard, the house barely lit as Dad hopefully slept. Dean turned the car off and sat back, looking down at the wheel for a second before he sighed.

“You never killed a monster before,” he said, looking back to you.

“I have-“

“Not like that,” he said. “I saw it all over your face when that knife went in.”

You looked down at your hands, not really thinking about how it had felt to sink a knife into the thing, but more about how Dean had felt beneath them. He didn’t need to know that, though.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed, doing stupid shit like that,” Dean said, and when you looked up at him again, his face was stern.

“But I-“

“You didn’t, I get it,” he said, dropping  his hands from the wheel to his lap. “But- if Bobby doesn’t know what you’re doin’ and where you’re goin’-“

“Why do you care?” You snapped, turning to face him completely, your heart rising to your throat again. “I mean, it’s not like- you’re never really here anymore, haven’t been in years- and it’s- we’re not even-“

“I’m just telling you the truth-“

“It doesn’t matter,” you half-yelled, glancing back to the house to make sure no lights had turned on. “Okay? I’m gonna do it anyway. It’s what I want- it’s- I’m Bobby Singer’s fucking daughter, and I grew up with hunters coming in and out and I wanna be like them. I want to help people. I want to kill all those stupid monsters before they can hurt someone else-“

Dean looked at you- really looked at you- and you suddenly felt small under his glare. Like he was reading your mind, or that your thoughts had exploded out from your head and could be read all over your face.

“It ain’t your fault your mom got possessed-“

Something shot through your like electricity, and you sat up straight, your hands starting to shake from that anger again. This had nothing to with her. You didn’t even know her. She was just photos on the wall and stories Dad would tell you when he’d drink too much and stuff tucked into closets that never got used or moved.

“Of course it ain't my fault,” you spat, and you tossed all your stuff into the backseat before pushing open the door and stomping out. Dean followed, closing his door quietly and glancing to the house, before he was right on your tail.

“No, stop, because you’ve been pushin’ this for as long as I’ve known you-“

“You don’t know me at all, Dean,” you said, tears welling in your eyes. “And just because you’ve been hunting with your daddy doesn’t make you an expert on everything.”

“But I know-“

“No, you don’t,” you said, balling your hands into fists and stepping closer to him, your face only inches from his. “And if I die doing this, then at least I die making a difference. At least all of this-“ you gestured around yourself- “will have been worth it. For something. For someone. And you don’t get to walk in here and choose when you-“

Dean swallowed, his hand finding your shoulder, and the touch sucked all the air out of you. He kept his eyes on yours, squeezing his fingers over your jacket, and shook his head.

“I’m just sayin’, I don’t want anything to happen to you. I- It’s my job to look out for Sammy, but also for you.”

You wanted to fall into him. Wanted to be close to him like you’d been in the parking lot at the bar, but you couldn’t. He dropped his hand awkwardly from your shoulder, his head turning to the door where a light had flicked on upstairs. You sniffed and wiped at your cheeks, tugging the front door open before Dad could come down and see you both standing outside and ask what the hell was going on.

Dean followed you in, but stopped at the front door while you hurried to the bathroom. You could hear Dad call down to him, could hear him say something back, and then the house was quiet.

You sat down on the toilet and dropped your face to your hands, trying to force away the feeling of Dean touching you. You’d helped someone tonight. You’d killed a monster.

So why didn’t it feel good?

Notes:

Thanks for reading!

Notes:

Thanks for reading!