The bar smelled like stale beer and desperation. Reed sat alone at the counter, watching ice melt in her third whiskey as the world slowly died outside. The strange twilight had persisted for hours now, reality gradually unraveling at the edges, but she couldn't muster even academic interest anymore.
When it happened, it was like a switch being flipped. The sickly half-light vanished, replaced by harsh afternoon sun streaming through dirty windows. The bartender muttered something that sounded like thank god, but Reed didn't move, just watched dust motes dance in the sudden brightness. Her brothers had done something. Again. The thought should have meant something.
Then she felt it.
Not pain, exactly. But a pressure building in her chest, like the moment before a drowning victim's lungs give out. Her fingers tightened on her glass as something vast and familiar reached across an impossible distance.
The first thing she felt was Dean's voice saying her name the last time she'd seen him. The raw devastation in it hit her like a physical blow, and she had to grip the bar to stay upright as every protective instinct she'd buried came rushing back at once. The love she had for him - fierce and unwavering and completely overwhelming - crashed through her restored soul like a tsunami.
Then Sam. God, Sam. She remembered his careful eyes watching her spiral, remembered using his own soulless experience against him like it was just another tactical advantage. The shame of it burned in her throat.
Her hands started shaking as months of empty decisions slammed into her newly restored conscience. Every cold calculation, every person she'd used and discarded, every moment she'd looked at her brothers' pain and felt nothing - it all came rushing back with perfect, merciless clarity.
Then Castiel.
The glass slipped from her numb fingers, whiskey spreading across the bartop unnoticed. She remembered everything. Every touch, every moment she'd used his body for her own gratification while Lucifer... while she'd let him...
The weight of it drove the air from her lungs in a silent gasp. She'd known exactly what she was doing. Had calculated the advantages with cold precision, using Castiel's face and form like they meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.
Her soul felt like it was being torn apart, trying to process months of emptiness and wrong choices all at once. Every memory carried the full weight of restored emotion - love and guilt and shame tangling together until she could barely breathe through it.
She made it to her feet somehow, legs threatening to buckle as her restored conscience screamed at her. The sunlight outside felt like judgment, too bright and real for what she'd become. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking as she fumbled her keys from her pocket.
The Chevelle's familiar leather seats felt wrong against her skin now. Everything felt wrong. She could still taste Lucifer on her tongue, could still feel the empty satisfaction of letting him... of choosing to...
The sound that escaped her wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a sob. Just a broken thing that clawed its way up her throat as she pressed her forehead against the steering wheel.
She remembered everything.
And now she had to live with it.
Her hands finally steadied on the wheel as she started the engine. The road stretched out ahead, offering the only thing she could think to do now.
Run.
From her brothers who she'd abandoned.
From the angel she'd violated.
From everything she'd let herself become.
She drove, and for the first time in months, she felt every mile like a knife.
•๑ ๑•
The shrill ring of Dean's phone shattered the uneasy silence of the bunker at 3 a.m., jolting him from the light, restless sleep he'd been pretending was enough. He fumbled blindly for it, squinting at the unfamiliar number glowing on the screen. Late-night calls from hunters weren't rare - usually someone needing backup, advice, or just another shoulder to bear their latest disaster.
"Yeah?" His voice was gravelly, heavy with interrupted sleep.
The line hummed with static, then uneven breathing.
Dean sat up sharply, the instinct that had saved his life more times than he could count now flaring red-hot in his chest. "Hello?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the darkness like a blade. "Who is this?"
The only response was a sound so quiet it barely registered - a broken, shaky breath that hitched halfway through. His heart pounded in his ribs, faster with every second of silence.
"Who is this?" he repeated, louder this time.
"Dean."
The voice was fractured and faint, but it cut through him like lightning. He'd know it anywhere.
"Reed?" He was already on his feet, the room tilting as the name hit his lips. "Where are you? What's wrong?"
He could hear her struggling to speak, the sound of her trying and failing to form words. Dean froze, the phone glued to his ear. Her voice wasn't the cold, calculated tone he remembered - the one he'd grown to hate. No, this was something else - something raw and broken.
"I-" Her voice cracked like glass under too much weight.
"Reed," he said again, his grip tightening around the phone until his knuckles ached. "Talk to me. Please."
A sound that wasn't quite a sob escaped her - a desperate, painful thing that twisted his stomach into knots. And then: a laugh. A broken, bitter laugh. Dean's knees nearly buckled.
That sound…
Oh God.
"Reed," he breathed. The truth crashed into him, more terrible than any demon's blow. "Your soul-"
"I have to go." Her voice was barely audible, each word fractured and drowning. "I just... needed..." She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
"Don't you dare hang up," he said, panic rising in his throat like bile. "Tell me where you are. Please. Let me-"
The line went dead.
"Reed? Reed!" He pulled the phone away, staring at the number on the screen. He tried to call back, his fingers trembling as he hit redial. The automated message hit him like a slap: This number has been disconnected.
He stayed there, perched on the edge of his bed, phone clutched in his hand like it was the only thing tethering him to her. Minutes passed, maybe ten, maybe twenty, the stillness of the room pressing in on him.
"Dean?"
Sam's voice came from the doorway, but Dean couldn't look away from the phone, still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. His jaw worked silently as he hit redial again, the automated message hitting him like another punch: This number has been disconnected.
"She's back," Dean finally managed, his voice rough. "Amara... she gave her back."
Sam went completely still in the doorway. "What do you mean back?"
"Her soul." Dean's laugh was bitter, borderline hysterical. "That's what she meant - what I needed most. She gave Reed her soul back and now she's out there somewhere-" He cut himself off, running a hand down his face.
"She called?" Sam moved into the room, that focused intensity taking over his features. "What did she say?"
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to steady himself, his throat tightening as he replayed the sound of her broken voice in his head. "She said enough."
Sam sank into the chair by Dean's desk, the weight of Dean's words crashing down on him. "She hung up?"
Dean nodded, his knuckles white around the phone. "Yeah. Couldn't even get out a full sentence."
They sat in heavy silence, both picturing Reed somewhere out there, drowning under the weight of everything she'd done while soulless.
Neither of them said it aloud, but they were both thinking about Cas. About what had happened while Lucifer wore his face. About how Reed had let it happen.
Sam's voice broke the quiet, filled with panic. "Dean, we have to find her. You don't understand - when my soul came back..." He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "She's out there, dealing with all of it at once. What she did with Cas and Lucifer, whatever else she's been doing these last few months..."
Dean didn't move, didn't speak. Sam's panic was infectious, seeping into his bones.
"She shouldn't be alone," Sam continued, his voice rising. "She can't be alone right now."
Dean swallowed hard, watching his brother unravel. He knew Sam wasn't wrong. "Call Jody," he said, standing and reaching for his boots. "Get her to put out feelers. I'll call Garth. See if anyone's spotted her."
Sam nodded, already pulling out his laptop.
They both knew it was a long shot. Reed had been tactical enough to vanish when she was soulless. Now, with the full weight of guilt and shame crashing down? She'd be even harder to find.
But they had to try. Because somewhere out there, their sister was drowning under the restored weight of everything she'd done. And after months of searching empty rooms for her, of hoping they could somehow fix what she'd broken - they couldn't lose her again.
Not like this.
Dean's hands shook slightly as he dialed Garth's number, Sam's voice a low murmur behind him as he talked to Jody. Just hours ago he'd been searching the bunker for her, hoping Amara's promise meant... And now? Now she was out there somewhere, alone with the crushing weight of her restored soul.
Some gift.
•๑ ๑•
The creak of the bunker door shattered the tense stillness of the war room. Dean was on his feet instantly, gun raised before the sound fully registered - a week of desperate searching, of calls leading nowhere, of imagining every worst case scenario, had left him raw and reactionary.
But it wasn't a threat.
It was Reed.
She stood at the top of the stairs, white-knuckled grip on the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. A week of her restored soul's weight had carved hollows under her eyes, left her looking haunted in ways that made Dean's chest ache. She'd lost weight - she looked almost fragile, like something barely holding together.
"Reed?" Dean's voice cracked on her name, the gun clattering forgotten onto the table. His pulse thundered in his ears as Sam's hurried footsteps echoed from the library.
Sam skidded to a stop beside him, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of their sister. After a week of searching, of following dead ends and cold trails, she was just... there. Looking small and broken in ways neither of them had ever seen.
She didn't move from her spot on the stairs. Her mouth opened, closed, like every word was a battle she wasn't sure she could win. The railing creaked under her grip.
"I know it's selfish," she finally managed, voice raw like she'd been screaming. Or crying. Or both. "Coming back here. After everything I-" Her throat worked as she swallowed. "But I needed... I had to see you. Both of you. I needed..."
She didn't finish.
Dean didn't wait.
He was already moving, taking the stairs two at a time with Sam right behind him. He saw Reed flinch when he reached for her - a sharp, instinctive movement that hit him harder than any physical blow. The Reed they'd known before Amara, the one who'd practically raised them, had never flinched - not from knives, not from monsters, not even from Lucifer.
He pulled her into his arms anyway, feeling her trembling against him, her entire body shaking under the force of something Dean couldn't fix, couldn't fight, as Sam's arms wrapped around them both. She felt smaller somehow, like the weight of her restored soul had somehow hollowed her out.
"I'm sorry," she choked out against Dean's shoulder, her voice catching on every word. "God, I'm so sorry. The things I said. The things I did-"
"Stop," Dean cut her off roughly, his own voice unsteady. He didn't loosen his grip, couldn't bring himself to let go. Not after a week of imagining her alone somewhere, drowning under the weight of everything she'd done while soulless. "Just stop."
"But-"
"No." Sam's voice was fierce with understanding that only he could offer. He'd been here - maybe not exactly here, but close enough to know. "You're home. That's all that matters right now."
Reed made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Her fingers twisted in Dean's shirt like he might disappear if she let go. "Home? After everything? After Cas, after Lucifer, after-" Her breath hitched again, tears streaking silently down her face.
Reed tried to step back, but Dean's grip tightened. So did Sam's. They weren't letting her go.
"I can't be here," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her words. "I don't deserve to be here."
Dean's hands shook where they gripped her, his knuckles white with the effort to stay steady. Relief and fear tangled in his voice as he answered, rough and unyielding. "That's not your call to make."
"Dean-"
"No." He cut her off sharply, his voice rising before he reined it in. "You disappeared for months, Reed. When you were soulless, we didn't know if you were even alive half the time. Then we get one broken phone call and another week of nothing? Of thinking you might…" His throat closed up, the rest of the sentence hanging between them, heavy and unsaid.
He shook his head, jaw tight. "You don't get to decide you don't deserve to be here. You don't."
Sam's hand tightened on her arm, his grip steady and grounding. "We're not letting you leave again," he said quietly but firmly.
Reed sagged, the fight draining out of her like their words had cut the last strings holding her up.
"Hey." Dean pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands gripping her shoulders. His eyes searched hers desperately, looking for his sister under all that pain. "You're our sister. This is your home. No matter what."
Her breath hitched as tears carved silent paths down her face. A week ago, sitting in his room after saving the world, he'd searched empty spaces for her. Now she was here, breaking apart in his arms, Amara's final gift feeling more like a curse with every tear that fell.
But she was here. She was home.
Everything else - they'd figure out everything else later.
I know I keep saying this, but there's one more after this.
We're almost at the end kids. I swear, there is a happy(ish) ending. There's also an alternate ending that I'm working on which is more Lucifer-centric if anyone is interested in that. If you've read and enjoyed it, I'd love if you could drop a comment. Hell, even if you hated it - tell me about it.