Come Hell or High Water Chapter 14: Like A Virgin, a supernatural fanfic

Content Warning: This chapter includes a long-awaited scene of consensual intimacy between Dean and Beth—things get a little steamy. Rated M for sensual content, language, and unresolved sexual tension finally getting resolved.

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

LIKE A VIRGIN

Sioux Falls
Bobby's House

The last few weeks had been some of the hardest Dean and I had faced in a long time. And that's saying something.

Bobby's basement looked the same as always—dusty, cluttered, a resting place for things that were too dangerous, too broken, or too cursed to stay out in the open. A place where things went to be hidden.

But I wasn't paying attention to any of that.

My focus was locked on one thing—and he was sealed behind the iron door of the panic room Bobby built years ago.

Solid iron. Salt-lined. Etched top to bottom in sigils and wards, enough to keep out anything with fangs, claws, wings, or worse. It was built to hold the monsters out. And now there was an angel inside.

An angel with his arm elbow-deep in my brother's chest.

Dean and I stood just outside the threshold, powerless to stop it. All we could do was watch—and pray for some good news.

The smell of old cement and metal filled my lungs. It always did down here. Bobby's basement had seen more trauma than most hospitals, and now Sam was adding to its legacy—silent, motionless on the cot behind that heavy door.

Dean stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest, tapping one finger rhythmically against his bicep like he was counting down the seconds to a detonation.

Without trying I could feel the angelic power pulsing faintly against the lining of my skin—the slight energy shift that happened when Cas was around - when any of the angels from his line were present.

Then came the familiar metallic scrape of hinges.

The door creaked open. Castiel stepped out, rolling down his sleeves with steady, deliberate movements, as though he were finishing up a routine examination. Except this wasn't routine. Not even close.

Dean's voice cut through the room like a snapped cable. "Well?"

Cas didn't even blink. "His soul is in place."

I let out a slow breath—but the knot in my chest refused to loosen.

Dean didn't move. "Is he ever gonna wake up?"

The answer came too quickly. "I'm not a human doctor, Dean."

Dean's scowl deepened. "Could you take a guess?"

A pause. Then, calmly: "Okay. Probably not."

Dean let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, well, don't sugarcoat it."

I grimaced. Not at Dean's sarcasm, but at the way Castiel didn't even react to it.

He'd always been blunt, even oblivious, but this… this was different. His detachment didn't feel like inexperience anymore. It felt intentional. Hollow. Angelic in the oldest, coldest sense of the word.

Maybe it was the war in Heaven grinding him down. Maybe he couldn't afford softness anymore, not with so much riding on his shoulders. But still, the distance in his eyes unnerved me. Like whatever part of him once understood love, or grief, or us… was being burned away, inch by inch.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas added, his voice level but distant, like someone reciting a eulogy they didn't want to give. "But I warned you not to put that thing back inside him."

Dean stepped forward, his voice rising. "What was I supposed to do? Let T-1000 walk around, hope he doesn't open fire?"

Castiel tilted his head, a faint flicker of confusion pulling at his brow.

I sighed. "Movie thing," I muttered to the angel. "Killer robot. Looks like a guy. Turns into liquid metal. Bad attitude."

Cas looked between us with absolute sincerity. "Sam cannot turn into liquid metal. He is still human."

Dean blinked once, then dragged a hand down his face. "Great. Just perfect. That's not what—I didn't mean—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You know what? Never mind."

His voice cracked just a little on the last words.

Castiel either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Let me tell you what his soul felt like when I touched it. Like it had been skinned alive," he said, looking from Dean to me. "If you wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright."

The silence that followed hit harder than the words. Like all the air had gone out of the room.

Before either of us could respond, Castiel vanished.

Dean looked over at the door to the panic room. "What if we broke him, Beth? What if putting his soul back just… shattered him?"

"Dean…" I swallowed hard. "He let you get turned into a vampire without a single thought for what that would do to us. Didn't warn you. Used you like bait to get to the Alpha—like you were disposable."

Dean's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

I kept going, the words thick and rising like bile. "No hesitation. No care for what losing you would've meant. To me. To Lisa. To the kids. If the cure hadn't worked…"

My breath caught unwittingly.

"I could've lost you," I whispered instead.

Dean finally looked at me, and something in his eyes cracked. No bravado, no quip. Just that look he gave me when words didn't cut it.

His hand found mine. Rough, warm, steady.

"You didn't," he said softly. "I'm still here."

I let out a wavering breath and nodded.

"And of course, he knew I wouldn't," I said after a moment, my voice quieter now. "But it was the lack of consideration… he just didn't care."

I glanced toward the panic room, heart heavy.

"That version of Sam—it isn't him. We did what we had to do to get him back, Dean."

He reached up and scrubbed a hand over his face, his voice rough around the edges. "Cas looks at him like a ticking time bomb."

I nodded. "Maybe he is. But that soul? It's Sam. And whatever's left of it is worth fighting for."

Dean's eyes locked on mine, and in that glance, I saw it again—that fierce, exhausted devotion that had carried both of us through fire and blood and back again.

He gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Okay."

"We stick to the plan," I added, "and hope for the best."

Dean let out a short, shaky breath, then pulled me into his arms. No words. Just warmth and weight and the quiet understanding that whatever came next—we'd face it together.

The desk was old, scarred with use, corners softened by time and stacks of lore. Its green leather top—usually stacked full of books and papers arranged in a kind of chaos only Bobby understood—was mostly clear today, aside from a notebook and a bottle of whiskey within easy reach. A battered vintage desk lamp cast a pool of amber light across the pages of a couple of newspaper clippings Bobby was mulling over, humming softly like it had been there since the house was built.

Familiar. Steady. Like Bobby himself.

Dean dropped into the chair across from him, silent, pensive. He looked like he'd just finished carrying the weight of the world up the basement stairs.

I moved in behind him, laying my hands on his shoulders. The weight he carried wasn't just in his posture—it was in the silence, in the way his body refused to relax. I began to knead gently between his shoulder blades, wishing I could press out more than just muscle ache. Wishing I could reach whatever part of him still thought this was all on him.

After a moment, his hand slipped back behind him, brushing lightly against my leg—just the edge of his fingers, the smallest of touches, enough to say I know you're here. It wasn't a show, not something Bobby would catch. But it steadied something in me all the same.

Bobby reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out a spare glass, poured out two fingers of whiskey, and pushed it toward Dean. The bottle clinked gently as he set it down again.

"Like my daddy always said," Bobby said with a half smile, raising his own glass in the air, "just 'cause it kills your liver don't mean it ain't medicine."

Dean lifted the glass to his mouth, taking a gulp, and swallowed with a nod in response to Bobby. He couldn't seem to meet the older man's gaze, so Bobby glanced up at me, and I shrugged, my hands smoothing across Dean's shoulders as I finished my short massage, leaning down to kiss the top of his head.

"Sam still asleep?" Bobby asked, tone carefully neutral.

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

Bobby didn't push. Just gave it a beat, then said, "He'll wake up."

"Yeah," Dean echoed, but his voice was low and flat. Like he didn't quite believe it.

I trailed off to the kitchen, and poured myself a coffee, then returned to the desk and splashed a generous amount of whiskey in with it. It wasn't the most lady-like, but I never claimed to be that. I'd learned how to drink with the best of them during my time with the Winchesters - coffee and whiskey were par for the course.

I pulled another chair up to the desk and settled into it, taking a sip and savouring my brand of 'medicine'.

Bobby leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Dean, he's been through how much? Somehow, he always bounces back."

Dean's eyes lifted to meet his. "He's never been through this."

The silence that followed was heavier than the whiskey.

Then Dean's eyes flicked down to the paper on Bobby's desk. "Job?"

"Might be," Bobby said, sliding it across. I leaned forward as Bobby spun the paper upright to face us, and read the headline—SMALL PLANE CRASH KILLS TWO. It was accompanied by a picture of wreckage, broken trees and smoke rising.

"Can we help?" Dean asked, already straightening a little. "Send us to the library? Anything?"

The itch of the open road was evident in his voice. Dean had never liked sitting still. He hated feeling useless.

We'd just spent ten days watching over Sam in shifts while he remained comatose. In that time, we managed to get home—really home—for a few days. Lisa welcomed us like she always did, with warm food, a brave smile, and no judgment. She never asked questions she didn't want the answers to, just told us to come back in one piece. It wasn't conventional, what we had. But it worked. Our own version of a family pact.

Sophia had clung to Dean like she thought he might vanish again. Ben pretended not to care, but I caught him watching Dean when he wasn't looking—scanning him like he was trying to measure how long he had us for this time. And Lisa… she smiled, held it all together. We'd started making plans for Christmas, discussing in quiet tones whether there would be a family trip to Sioux Falls, or if we'd stay at our home. As always, Midnight Mass was the hotly debated topic - which town changed what church, Ben had his own opinions about that, but at the end of the day he was just happy he could stay up late.

But beneath it all, I saw it—the weight we left behind every time we walked out that door. The fear. The waiting. The unspoken truth that no matter how many times we made it back, it was never guaranteed.

We were always straddling that line—between normal and necessary, between the world we wanted for the kids and the one that kept calling us back. There were moments, curled up on the couch with Sophia asleep between us and a movie playing low on the TV, where I could almost believe we belonged there. That we could hang up the salt and silver for good.

But it never lasted.

The hunt pulled at Dean like a tide, and if I was honest, it tugged at me too. Not just out of obligation, but out of something deeper—something inherited. A need to protect, passed down through blood and bone, even before we understood what we were. It was in us. And walking away? That never felt like peace. It felt like surrender. And neither of us were built for that.

We didn't talk about it much—not when we were home. But every time the phone rang, or a headline like this one popped up, I could feel it. The shift. That ache in both of us to do something. To matter. To fight.

There was a lure to what waited in the dark, something just beyond the edges of normal life that kept calling us back. The road offered no promises, only freedom—and part of us needed that hum beneath the wheels to remember who we were. The road was in Dean's bones. And after fifteen years riding shotgun, it had gotten into mine too.

I blinked, pulling myself back from the drift of thought just in time to catch the tail end of Bobby's sentence.

"—wreckage was just found in the woods," Bobby said, tapping the paper.

"Couple of Buddy Hollys?" Dean asked.

"Doesn't really seem like News of the Weird," I jumped in, sliding the printout closer.

Dean leaned back in his seat, relaxed, and picked up his drink—like he just needed to give his hands something to do.

"Pilot was found seventeen miles away. Flambéed."

I looked up sharply, first at Bobby, then at Dean, who was watching the older man curiously.

"Girl's just gone," Bobby continued. "No body, no nothing."

"Okay, I'm not changing the channel," Dean said carefully, nodding.

I watched him, a little smile tugging at the expression on his face.

He was already gone. Already working the case. Halfway to Oregon in his head.

And I knew better than to try and pull him back.

Because this—this was how he survived. Not by sitting still. Not by waiting. But by doing.

"Dean."

The voice came from behind us—soft, hoarse, completely unexpected.

Dean set his glass down hard—the sound cracked through the quiet like a gunshot.

He spun around like he wasn't sure he'd really heard it. I did the same, pulse spiking.

Sam stood in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, his expression dazed and uncertain. As he stepped toward us, Dean rose from his seat—drawn to him like a magnet.

"Sam?"

Before another word could fall, Sam closed the distance and pulled Dean into a tight hug.

Dean hesitated for just a second—then his arms came up, and he held Sam tight, his face still caught between shock and something heavier. Something that might have been hope.

Sam's eyes closed, and he let out a sharp exhale, like he was finally able to breathe after a lifetime of holding his breath.

Then Sam stepped away, turning to Bobby with a smile. I watched the older man's eyes widen—he didn't move, didn't speak.

Without hesitation, Sam crossed the room and embraced him. It was clumsy, earnest.

Bobby gave in a breath later, his arms wrapping around Sam. "Good to see you," he muttered, the words thick, as he gave one pat to Sam's back.

Sam pulled back, blinking rapidly as his gaze inspected Bobby's face.

"Wait. I saw you," he said, voice trembling. "I—I felt Lucifer snap your neck."

Dean and Bobby exchanged stunned glances before Bobby opened his mouth.

"Well, Cas kind of—"

"Cas is alive?" Sam let out a surprised breath, turning to look at me.

I nodded. "Yeah, Cas—Cas is fine."

He laughed softly, like a weight had lifted in that single breath—and then he pulled me into a hug, his arms locking around my shoulders. My head fit beneath his chin, tucked close, and I could feel his heart pounding against my ear.

And for a moment, I let myself sink into it—into the warmth, the closeness. Into how long it had been since my little brother hugged me like this. Like there was nothing between us but love. No walls. No silence. No anger.

I heard Dean shift behind us, his steps slow, uncertain.

His voice had gone soft, cautious. "Sam, are you okay?"

Sam pulled back, glancing between me and Dean, his eyes flicking around the room like he was taking quick stock of himself—and us.

"Actually, um... I'm starving."

Sam was halfway through a sandwich that I'd made him, hunched over it like it was the best thing he'd tasted in years. Dean sat across from him, nursing a beer, fingers drumming absently against the bottle. Bobby leaned against the counter, arms folded - clearly dubious about the whole situation.

I'd made myself a fresh coffee - no whiskey this time - and positioned myself next to the table, leaning casually against the wall next to the bank of phones that Bobby used for impersonating the various FBI agencies and so forth. I felt jittery, quite sure the coffee wasn't helping with that, but drinking it anyway.

Dean on the other hand, he couldn't take his eyes off our brother.

"Sam…" Dean started, cautious.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, swallowing a large mouthful of bread and ham.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Sam paused, his brow furrowing as his eyes took on a wistful, far away expression. "The field. And then I fell."

I exchanged a look with Dean, surprised, but stayed silent.

Dean's shoulders tightened. "Okay. And then?"

Sam shrugged. "I woke up in the panic room."

Bobby straightened a little. "That's it? You really don't remember—"

"Let's be glad," Dean cut in, as if barking an order while he shot Bobby a warning look. The older man fell silent.

He turned back to Sam with a half-smile. "Who wants to remember all that Hell?"

Sam smiled, letting out a short breath. "Well… how - how long was I gone?"

"About a year and a half," Dean replied quickly, almost dismissively.

Sam's eyes widened. "What? I was downstairs f—" He cut himself off, blinked, then shook his head. "I don't remember anything. So… how'd I get back? Was it Cas?"

I watched the line of Dean's jaw tighten. He hesitated just long enough for Sam to notice.

"Not exactly," Dean said, uncomfortable.

Sam's eyes hardened as he stared his brother down. "Dean, what did you do?"

"Me and Death—"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Death?! The horseman?"

"I had leverage," Dean said quickly. Sam shot a look at me, I kept my face neutral.

"It's done." Dean reassured him.

Sam paused, chewing on that. "You sure?"

Dean didn't flinch. "It's over. Slate's wiped."

Bobby practically rolled his eyes at them both, his voice low and unimpressed. "Well, isn't this just neat and clean?"

"Yes, it is," Dean snapped. "For once."

I didn't say anything. Just kept watching Sam. The way his shoulders moved. The way he chewed. The way his hands didn't shake at all.

Calm.

Sam took another bite, then glanced up. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Dean hesitated—too long for comfort.

My eyes drifted to him, watching the tension pull across his jaw, that flicker in his eyes I knew too well. He was weighing the truth. Weighing the cost of it.

But in the end, he shook his head.

"No."

He stood, already heading toward the fridge. "Another beer?"

Sam blinked, uncertain. "Uh, yeah."

As Dean moved, I caught his eye for just a moment. That brief, silent beat that said not yet. That maybe he wasn't ready. That maybe we'd both seen what happened to a soul laid bare too fast.

And I couldn't blame him.

The floor creaked under our steps as Dean and I moved upstairs.

Sam had settled on the couch watching TV and battling fatigue. Bobby had retreated behind a book for the evening—mostly, I think, to keep an eye on Sam as he worked his way through the rest of the whiskey bottle. The quiet pressed in, thick and expectant.

Dean didn't speak until we reached the room. It had been ours for as long as I could remember.

Cole had moved out years ago—last we'd heard from her, she'd gone south, far south, and was running a little bar in Bolivia or Peru. She'd decided it was easier to keep her son - John's son - JJ safe in a third-world country than it was hunting in the US. Maybe she had a point. Either way, her bedroom in the attic had become Sam's space, while Dean and I had continued to claim the room we'd all shared as teens.

That came with mixed memories—mostly good, some sad, and more than a couple of angst-ridden, frustrated moments from a time before Dean and I had given in to our feelings for each other, yet still shared a bed—tortured by touches we couldn't steal.

Those days were long gone now—and I smiled a little as I watched him moving around the room.

We hadn't actually had sex since Death put Sam's soul back. Not once.

The stress, the travel, the sheer weight of it all—it had settled between us like fog. Worry, guilt, the constant back-and-forth between Sioux Falls and home… it had dulled something in us. Not love. Not want. Just the room for it.

There'd been touches. Kisses. The occasional half-hearted attempt to lose ourselves in each other—but nothing that stuck. Nothing that pulled us out of the spin.

Now that Sam was seemingly okay, I found my libido racing as I closed the door to the rest of the world, turning to watch Dean in the dim light of the Christmas lights he'd hung so many years ago—before he'd gone to Hell.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face like he could scrub the guilt off with skin.

"He asked," he said finally. "And I lied."

I pursed my lips slightly, seeing that he was still stuck in his head—and I was going to have to draw him out of that and into his body, using our bodies.

I moved to stand in front of him, resting my hands on his shoulders. "You did what you had to."

"Yeah," he muttered. "That's what I'm always doing."

"Well, he can't scratch at a wall he doesn't know about," I said softly. It was a conclusion I'd come to almost as soon as Dean had dodged the question downstairs.

"You think?"

"Yeah…" I breathed. "Let's not make it tonight's problem."

When he looked up at me, the weight in his eyes nearly knocked the air from my lungs. Too many thoughts. Too many ghosts.

So I kissed him.

I leaned in, brushing my nose along his before pressing my mouth to his—soft at first, searching.

His hands took a moment to reach for me, warm and steady as they settled on my hips.

He kissed me back, but not like he usually did. Not like the man who knew my mouth as well as he knew the weight of a gun.

This kiss was slower. Quieter. Too careful.

His lips moved with mine, but there was no hunger behind it. No heat rising between us. Just motion. Instinct. Habit.

I deepened it anyway, pressing my hips forward slightly, threading my fingers through his hair, trying to meet him there—wherever he was.

For a second, I thought I felt him start to follow me into it.

But then he hesitated. A beat too long.

His mouth stilled beneath mine, and his body stayed tense—like he was here, but not with me. Still caught in the current of everything he wasn't saying. Still back in the kitchen. Still holding the lie.

I lingered for a moment longer, my mouth brushing against his, soft and searching.

Then I slowly pulled back.

My voice dropped to a whisper. "Dean?"

His eyes flicked open, and I saw it—the tug-of-war behind them. That part of him that wanted to pull me closer, and the part still circling some dark, endless loop in his head.

"If this isn't what you need right now…" I said gently, my fingers still laced at the back of his neck, "we can stop. I mean it."

He blinked, startled—like the option hadn't even occurred to him. His hands were still on my hips, but they weren't guiding. Just resting. Holding.

"I don't want to stop," he said after a long breath. "I want to, I do. You know I always want you. I just… I'm not all the way here yet."

I knew that look. I'd seen it before—in the weeks after his escape from Hell, when Dean would freeze in the middle of a touch, his mind dragging him back to places his body hadn't escaped yet. And now, watching Sam walk free and whole… maybe it had scraped something raw.

I'd pulled him back then—slow, steady, patient. I could do it again.

I leaned in again, slower this time, brushing a kiss just beneath his jaw. Then another, lower, against the side of his throat. My fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, not urgent—just warm, steady contact.

"Let me lead tonight," I whispered into his ear.

I eased back just enough to stand, my hands sliding from beneath his shirt and breaking contact with him as I stepped out of his lap. His eyes followed me—still uncertain, still caught in the undertow—but focused now. Awake.

Slowly, I peeled off my shirt, letting it fall to the floor. I didn't look away from him. Not once. His eyes darted down, but then locked with mine again.

My hands skimmed over my ribs, my waist, teasing down the lines of my hips as I slid free of my jeans, turning slightly as I reached down to pull them over my feet, exposing my ass to Dean as I ran my hands along the length of my bare, smooth legs - just as he would have, any other day.

I looked over my shoulder to see his eyes drink in my buttocks, but then run the length of my spine to meet my gaze.

I smiled, standing straight again and flicking my hair over my shoulders. I reached behind me and unhooked my bra, letting it drop to the floor before cupping my breasts, and kneading them softly. I squeezed one of my nipples between two of my fingers, and let out a soft sigh, and I saw movement under the boxer briefs he was wearing.

Progress.

When I saw Dean lick his lips, I let my fingers trail lower, just enough to press between my thighs over the lace of my underwear, not for show—but for feel. My breath caught, and I didn't hide it.

His gaze darkened, his jaw tightening with it.

I dipped my fingers beneath the band and traced a soft, deliberate circle around my clit, swallowing a moan, my eyes locked with Dean's.

His breath hitched, and I knew I had his full attention.

There was less distraction in his eyes now.

I took a couple of steps into him, my hips now pressed between his two thighs as he remained seated on the bed. I licked my lips and slid my fingers back and forth a few times more. Dean watched, eyes darkening.

Without speaking, he reached for me, sliding his hands behind my buttocks - simply holding as he pulled us closer together.

"Keep going," he whispered, his forehead dropping to my chest, his breath coming short and quick against my skin as he looked down the length of my body, watching my hand.

I moaned softly, enjoying the way I excited him.

I slipped my fingers a little further, they slid easily through the excitement pooling between my legs, giving me plenty of lubrication to continue stroking against the hard nub that was now thrumming under my attention.

Dean's hands tightened on my buttocks and he returned my moan with a small, guttural sound himself.

I dropped my head back the more I got into it, letting my breath tell him exactly how excited I was, and how I was edging closer to what I knew was going to be a powerful orgasm.

His hands splayed further apart, like he was trying to touch more skin as he involuntarily pulled me closer and tighter to him. One hand moved to rest against the small of my back, and when I slid a finger over my clit, causing me to buck against him, he held firm, gasping softly into my skin with his own excitement.

We did this, over and over, until I felt the small tremor building in my groin, starting to course through my legs… my belly.

"Oh… Dean," I whimpered, letting him know what he was doing to me - what we were doing together.

His hands left my skin for half a second—long enough for him to grip my wrist and still my fingers. I looked down, startled, but his eyes were locked on mine now, dark and burning.

"Let me," he rasped.

He didn't wait for permission—just shifted forward, lifting me in one smooth motion and laying me back across the bed. His movements had gone sharp, purposeful. Like something had snapped into place. The fog had cleared and all that was left was this.

Me.

Us.

He hovered over me, fingers tugging my panties down my legs and tossing them aside with a flick of his wrist. Then his mouth was on me before I could even gasp—tongue firm and slow, tracing the path I'd left behind.

I cried out, hips bucking, but he held me still—one arm braced across my waist as he devoured me like he'd been starving.

"Dean," I gasped, my fingers fisting the sheets. "Oh, God—"

He hummed against me, that low, growling sound vibrating straight through my spine.

When I was shaking, right at the edge again, he pulled back just enough to kiss the inside of my thigh, shuck his underwear to the floor, and crawl up over me, pressing the length of his body against mine. He was hard—so hard—and he ground his hips into me with a deep, rough groan, like he couldn't wait another second.

"Come on, baby. I need you." I urged.

That was all it took.

He lined himself up and slid in with a single, aching thrust. We both gasped—my back arched, his jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as he sank all the way inside.

"Beth," he breathed, bracing one hand beside my head as the other gripped my thigh and hooked it high around his hip.

He moved slowly at first, like he was reacquainting himself with every inch of me, every breath and pulse and moan. But it didn't stay slow for long. The pressure built fast, and I met him with every thrust, nails raking down his back, legs wrapping tighter around his waist.

Our bodies moved like they knew the way home.

"Come with me," I whispered, voice wrecked and breathless.

His forehead pressed to mine. "Not going anywhere."

And then—

Everything tipped.

Pleasure coiled tight, exploded like a wave crashing through me as I cried out his name.

Dean followed a heartbeat later, burying himself deep as his body jerked and stilled, a raw sound tearing from his throat as he came with me, lost and found all at once.

We stayed like that for a while—just breathing.

His weight settled over me, grounding, solid, every inch of his body pressed to mine. His head rested in the crook of my neck, his breath still hot against my skin, rising and falling in time with mine.

I ran my fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, soft and slow, like I was drawing him back from wherever he'd gone.

He didn't speak. Neither did I.

Not yet.

There was nothing that needed fixing in the silence.

After a few minutes, he shifted, kissing the hollow of my throat before rolling to his side, pulling me with him so I was tucked against his chest. One hand splayed over the small of my back, the other drifting up to trace lazy lines across my spine.

I pressed a kiss to his collarbone, then nestled closer, thigh slung over his hip.

"That was…" he started, then stopped, huffing a breath.

I smiled against his skin. "Yeah. It was."

He kissed the top of my head, holding me tighter. "Thank you."

I knew he wasn't speaking just about the release—though I was pretty sure it had reset his nervous system. It was deeper than that. Like he was thanking me for being his lifeline. For pulling him back when he couldn't do it himself.

"Always," I murmured. "You bring me back, too."

His fingers found mine and laced them together, our hands warm between us. Steady.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he let out a sound that wasn't tension, or sarcasm, or pain.

It was just a sigh. Soft. Easy. Content.

I closed my eyes, breathing it in.

We were still in the middle of the storm—but tonight, we had this.

The Next Day

The air in the garage was crisp with morning, the kind of cold that clung to your skin even beneath layers. I stood just outside the kitchen door, sipping slowly from a steaming mug, watching my breath fog the air. In the garage I could hear the low clink of tools and the muffled scrape of Bobby working under one of the cars. Dean's boots echoed on the concrete as he crossed toward him, two beers in hand.

Last night had helped to soften the edges he'd been carrying around lately, but not fully - as was evident by the early morning drink. I shrugged it off, I knew once we hit the road that would stop, for now, I let him have what little pleasures he could get.

"Hey," Dean said, holding one out.

Bobby didn't look up, one hand holding an under-hood work light, the other a wrench as he looked at the underbelly of the car. "Morning…" Bobby drawled back in response, ignoring the proffered beer.

Dean set the bottle down on the bench, cracking the other open before sinking onto the nearby stool. I watched him for a moment—his shoulders were looser than they'd been in weeks, but there was something in the set of his jaw that told me this wasn't over. Not inside his head.

"So, how is he?" I asked, claiming my own seat.

Bobby stopped tinkering, and shot us a glance before he let out a heavy sigh.

"Well that's the million dollar question isn't it?"

Dean frowned. "He seems good to me. Really good. Better than I could've hoped."

"Uh-huh."

Dean gave him a sideways look. "What? Why the poopface?"

Bobby finally straightened, hung the light up, and stepped over to place the wrench on the workbench. He hesitated for a moment, looking around at the yard surrounding us like he was searching for the right words. I bit my lip, waiting for the verbal blow that seemed to be coming.

"I'm glad he's better. I really am," Bobby said, throwing his arms out in submission. "But... that kid went straight-up Menendez on me not ten days ago. And now it's all just… erased? Sorry. I'm having a bit of a hard time even looking at him."

Dean's reply came fast. "It wasn't Sam."

Bobby didn't flinch. "Well, maybe it wasn't all Sam. But it was him, Dean."

Dean dragged a hand through his hair, took a long pull from the bottle. "What do you want to do, Bobby? You want to tell him everything?"

"No." Bobby shook his head. "Just wish I could, that's all."

I saw the defeat in Bobby's shoulders - the grief. What Sam had tried to do, it was unfathomable, even without a soul. It stood to reason that he couldn't just shake it off as easily as we had. It reminded me of what it had been like, after Sam had been possessed by Meg - causing the miscarriage that had killed my baby - and how hard it had been to get over that. Sometimes, in the very still of the night, in vulnerable moments, I still felt that twinge.

"Yeah, but if we start throwing that crap at him," Dean said defensively, "we don't know what's gonna happen. It could—it could crack the wall." He mirrored the exact argument I'd said to him last night, I smiled ruefully.

"I know. I know." Bobby conceded.

Dean's voice dropped. "So, you know what? As far as I'm concerned, it's a gift horse, and I'm not looking for teeth. I'm sending Death a damn fruit basket."

Bobby paused, brow furrowed as he looked from Dean to me.

"He's gonna find out, you know. One way or another, someone'll tell him. Or he'll figure it out on his own. He's not dumb. He should hear it from us."

I chewed on my lower lip, I knew he was right. But I wasn't ready, not yet. My mind kept wandering to Christmas - two weeks out - I just wanted to have that for our family, before the mess that was our lives crashed in around us again.

Dean's eyes flicked toward the ground, then back to Bobby. "Can we just leave it alone for the moment, please?" His voice was low, flat, like he was on the edge of something that might break him.

Bobby held up his hands, surrendering. "Okay," he said shortly, grabbing the wrench off the table and turning back to the car. "But you better prep for the B side. 'Cause when Sam realises we're shining him, it ain't gonna be cute."

Dean didn't answer. He just drank, and after a moment of silence, he stood up and walked away, toward the Impala, as if indicating that he'd made a decision.

I slid off the stool, placing my coffee on the bench before crossing to Bobby, interrupting the work he was doing with a soft hand, taking the wrench from him so he'd look at me.

"We hear you, Bobby, okay?" I said.

"I get it," I whispered to him, letting him see in my eyes that I understood. "You know that I do."

I glanced at Dean, sighing. I watched the way he held himself, shoulders hunched, not as heavy as they'd been the night before—but far from easy.

"You're not wrong," I added, "I'm sorry you have to hold this, and we will do whatever we can to help you through it."

Bobby's face didn't soften right away, but he didn't pull back either. That was something. I held his gaze, steady and unflinching, until I felt some of the tension bleed out of him.

He sighed, long and low, like he was letting go of something he hadn't meant to hold so tightly.

"I know you do," he said finally, his voice rough around the edges. "That's what makes this suck so much."

He looked past me toward Dean, then down at the wrench still loosely in my grip.

"I hate lying to him, Beth. Hell, I hate lying, full stop. Never sat right with me."

"I know," I said gently, offering the tool back to him. "You taught me that."

A beat passed. Bobby took the wrench, but instead of turning back to the car, he reached up and gave my forearm a squeeze.

"You're doin' right by him," he muttered. "Both of you."

The words hit harder than I expected. I nodded, suddenly thick in the throat.

"We're trying," I said, quieter now.

His grip lingered, then let go. "That's all any of us can do."

He started to turn back to the engine, but I didn't let him.

I stepped in and wrapped my arms around him—tight, solid. No preamble.

Bobby stilled for a second, like his brain hadn't quite caught up to the gesture. Then I felt him sigh, and those weathered arms came up around me, strong and sure. He hugged like he meant it. Like maybe he needed it, too.

We stayed like that for a beat longer than either of us would probably admit to. Just enough.

Then I pulled back, squeezing his arm once more before letting go.

He didn't say anything. Didn't have to.

I watched him for a moment longer as he turned back to the engine—his quiet presence, his calloused hands, the weight he carried for all of us without ever asking to.

The kind of father you earn, not the kind you're given.

"Bobby?" I said, before I could think better of it.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Thanks for not giving up on him."

He snorted, grabbing a ratchet. "Kid drives me crazy, always has. But giving up?" He shook his head. "Ain't in my blood."

Neither was it in mine.

He gestured toward Dean with his head.

"Don't know how you rein him in, baby girl. But damn if it don't work."

I gave him a small smile, almost blushing when I thought about last night.

"He wrangles me, too, when I need it," I said with a shrug. "Two halves of the same loaded gun."

Bobby huffed a breath, shaking his head like he couldn't believe the pair of us.

"Hell, I don't know how either of you manage it. But you—" he gave me a look, one part affection, one part hard-earned respect, "—you're the only one who ever figured out how to ride the bull without gettin' thrown."

I chuckled, and gave Bobby's arm one last squeeze. I let myself feel the steadying weight of his quiet loyalty, anchoring all of us when the storm got too loud.

"Don't give me too much credit—he's tamer than he looks," I said softly, glancing toward the Impala.

Dean caught my eye, watching us with that familiar, quiet look—part curiosity, part caution, —like he wasn't sure if he should interrupt our little moment, or wait it out.

It was time to move.

We had a long road ahead, and whatever waited in Oregon, we'd face it together.

We were barely out of the woods. But we were moving again.

And right now, that had to be enough.

Dean slammed the trunk with a solid thunk while I double-checked the map spread out on the hood. Bobby stepped up beside me, duffel in hand, eyeing the Impala like he wasn't thrilled about being a passenger for the ride to Oregon.

"Sam still asleep?" he asked, tossing the bag on the back seat.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Let him rest. We'll call him later."

"Call me from where?"

We all turned at the sound of Sam's voice. He was standing on the porch, fully dressed, with an open expression. Alert. Present.

Dean blinked. "Oh. Uh… there's this thing in Oregon."

Sam nodded, moving down the steps, like it was already decided. "Great. I'm in."

"Whoa, whoa," Dean said, stepping forward. "You just got vertical."

"Exactly. I'm up. I'm good."

"Well, a few more days of crap cable couldn't hurt."

Sam raised a brow. "Right. Because that's what you did when you got back from Hell."

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it. I didn't say anything, but I exchanged a glance with Bobby, who was already shifting his weight, his expression tightening.

Dean cleared his throat. "All right. We'll all go, then."

Bobby reached in through the open door window to grab his duffel, then stepped back from the car.

"Actually," he said, "you three go on ahead. You've got it covered."

I frowned. "Bobby—"

He cut me a look, and I saw it—don't push me. "I forgot I promised that idjit Rufus I'd work the phones for him. So…"

"You sure?" Dean asked, brow furrowed.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Bobby said with a slight nod. "Three was pushing it anyway. Four would be overkill."

"You three enjoy catching up, okay?"

He shot me one last glance—something unspoken in it—and then turned, heading back toward the house.

Sam squinted after him. "What was that?"

Dean gave a tired shrug. "One part age, three parts liquor."

I climbed into the passenger seat as Dean moved toward the driver's side. Sam hesitated just a moment longer before tossing his bag in and sliding into the back.

Three was likely going to be overkill on this case.

But if it meant giving Bobby some breathing space, it was worth it.

The tires hummed beneath us, steady and constant; Jethro Tull's A New Day Yesterday filtered through the Impala's speakers, the gritty chords keeping pace with the steady rhythm of wheels on blacktop . I rode shotgun, , half-turned toward the back as Sam spoke into his phone.

"You got it, officer. Thank you. You too."

Sam hung up and leaned forward, his voice cutting through the lull.

"So, get this—besides the crash, there were two other disappearances in town this week."

Dean glanced in the rearview. "Really?"

"Yeah. Last weekend, a college girl vanished from her apartment. On the seventeenth floor." He paused to let that sink in for a moment. "Then, three days ago, another girl didn't make it home from school."

"They know each other?" I asked, shifting to face him slightly.

Sam shook his head. "No connection. Just young and female, like the plane-crash girl."

Dean exhaled, drumming his fingers lightly on the wheel. "What would disappear a girl out of the sky, anyway?"

"Good question," Sam said, but there was something behind his tone. Not quite ready to move on.

A beat passed. Then—

"So, you guys never even tried, huh?"

Dean's posture stiffened, like he'd been waiting for that shoe to drop.

"Tried?" he echoed, flat.

"To go live a life," Sam said quietly. "After. You do remember you promised that, right?"

"Yeah, I remember," Dean said. His voice was tight. Controlled.

Sam looked at me, inspecting, as if only seeing me for the first time since he'd returned.

"The baby…" he said quietly. "You haven't… did you?"

"She's fine," I said softly.

"A girl?" He said with a half-smile.

"Yeah," Dean said, and even he couldn't keep from the proud look on his face. "Sophia."

"Sophia…" Sam echoed. "After your grandmother?" He looked at me, I nodded.

"That's… that's great." He pondered that for a moment.

"So where is she?"

"With Lisa," I replied softly.

"Yeah," Dean said, almost defensively. "Where they're safe."

"But why aren't you guys there? Why didn't you stop?"

Dean's grip on the wheel shifted, jaw flexing. "What makes you think we didn't?"

Sam leaned in slightly. "'Cause look at you. Look at this. You're exactly the same."

Dean was quiet for a long moment. I wondered if he was thinking over how much to tell Sam. Worried about whether too much information might jog his memory of the last year. It was definitely hard to come up with a good reason to explain why we were back on the road.

Things were the same, but not exactly. Some things had changed.

Then, almost reluctantly, Dean said, "We were with them for over a year. Ben and Sophia."

My heart gave a little jolt. Not just because he said it—but because it was the first time he'd used the word 'were' out loud. That shift in tense. A subtle thing. But it landed.

"A year?" Sam repeated, surprised.

Dean nodded, eyes still fixed ahead.

"So then what?"

Dean shrugged. "Didn't work out."

I looked at him curiously, but didn't contradict what he'd said. Sometimes it was easy to pretend we weren't living in two worlds - especially where others were concerned. No one understood our situation, the agreement we had with Lisa - how we could leave our baby behind to go hunt monsters. Even other hunters didn't get it. So we kept those worlds as apart as possible.

For Dean, the conversation was clearly over. He reached forward and turned up the volume, letting the music fill the space that his words left behind.

It was a new day yesterday, but it's an old day now.

I didn't say anything. Just sat with it. With him.

I could feel Sam watching the back of Dean's head like he was trying to puzzle out a version of him he didn't quite remember. But I remembered. I'd lived it.

The last few years had been different. Hard, yes—but real. Messy and human and honest in a way few things in our lives had ever been. It had changed us, how we saw the world. By the end, the decisions we'd had to make, it had broken us.

And I knew something Sam didn't.

Dean hadn't just walked back into hunting when Sam came back —he'd been dragged back by the weight of it. By whatever thread in his chest always put Sam before everyone else.

And I remembered something else—something Dean had told me once, while quiet and half-drunk- that Sam had told him to go. To take me. To make a life.

Dean had tried. Really tried.

He fixed the gutters. Worked the garage. Took Ben fishing.

Me? I tried too. But mine looked different.

While I was growing a new life inside me, I couldn't stop looking for ways to save the one we'd lost. My days had been filled with lore and leads, ancient rites and desperate prayers.

Dean had lived the life Sam asked for. I just couldn't stop reaching backward.

Maybe that was the difference between surviving and letting go.

Sam read the tension in the car, and sat back—letting the topic drop. I reached over and brushed my fingers against Dean's thigh. He didn't look at me, but his hand came down to cover mine a moment later, warm and familiar.

We passed a sign that read: PORTLAND – 20 MILES.

And still, not a word more was said.

But it was enough.

For now.

Portland, Oregon

The woman at the door looked like she hadn't slept in days—eyes swollen, jaw tight. She wasn't crying, not anymore. That part had passed. This was the numb part. The part I knew too well.

Dean stepped forward, flashing his badge. "You're, uh... Penny Dessertine's sister, right?"

She nodded slowly, arms crossed over her chest.

Sam's tone was warm, careful. "We'd just like to ask you a few questions."

Her eyes narrowed. "The cops already came by. I'm tired. So, if you don't mind—"

"I get it," Sam said, his voice gentling. "I really do. I know how hard this must be. We're just trying to figure out what happened. It'll be quick. I promise."

And there it was. That look. That voice. The puppy-dog eyes.

The eyes that made women hand over their trauma like he was soft and safe.

Her shoulders eased, just a little. "Okay. Fine. Come in."

Inside, the house was tidy but lived-in. A photo of Penny sat on the mantle—soft smile, bright eyes.

Her sister led us to Penny's bedroom. The walls were pink, sun-washed from years of light through the curtains. There were soft toys arranged neatly on the bed, flower prints in white frames, and a collection of mismatched books and delicate little bottles lined up on a shelf. A framed photo of a man sat beside a jewellery box and a half-used tube of lip gloss. A whole life paused, mid-sentence.

I followed the boys in, letting my eyes move slowly across the room. For a grown woman, the space was startlingly childlike—sweet, gentle, untouched by the harder edges of the world. There was something heartbreakingly innocent about it.

I thought of Sophia's room. Smaller, sure. Messier. But already filled with the kind of wonder Penny had never quite seemed to outgrow.

"She was very shy," her sister said, easing down on the edge of the bed. "Kept to herself. Not at all what you'd call adventurous."

Dean raised a brow. "What, like flying through a lightning storm in a two-seater?"

"She was terrified of that thing. She just did it for Stan."

"Stan?" Sam asked.

I glanced again at the bedside photo just as she gestured toward it.

"She didn't want to seem, you know... not interested." Her voice cracked on the last word. "I just wish I'd told her to stay home. We don't even have a body to bury."

I watched Sam as she spoke. The tilt of his head. The quiet, open way he listened. The weight in his eyes. This wasn't the soulless version of him who would have bulldozed through a grieving witness to get to the facts. That Sam would've barely blinked. This Sam? He felt it.

I caught Dean glancing at his brother too—just for a second. Like he was seeing it, too. The difference. He seemed pleased at the change.

Our latest motel room was peak roadside Americana—seventies wood paneling, flannel curtains, and a massive mural on the back wall: a painted forest scene with a lake, deer, and mist curling over snow capped mountains.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed next to it, sipping the last of my coffee and letting my eyes blur out the details. If I squinted hard enough, it almost looked real. Peaceful. Like somewhere I might actually want to be.

Dean kicked the door open with his foot, a tray of Big AZ cups in one hand and a crinkled takeout bag in the other.

"Lunch is served," he announced, tossing the bag onto the table where Sam was already hunched over his laptop.

I swung my legs around and padded over to the table, rifling through the bag to pull out a burger and unwrap it, my stomach growling.

Sam didn't look up until Dean set the drinks on the table.

Dean stripped off his suit jacket, hanging it on the chair with a sigh, then leaned over to quickly peck me on the cheek, a small smile on his lips. "What've you got?"

Sam nodded to the screen. "Those other girls who went missing? Both baked cookies for the Lord."

Dean blinked. "Is that code?"

"No," Sam said, half-smiling. "Church choir, bake sales, promise-ring clubs—the works. They were good girls. But Penny wasn't even a Christian, so—"

"I have another theory," Dean cut in, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the same small black notebook I'd seen on Penny's nightstand - complete with multi-coloured stars and a broken flimsy padlock - like something a 16 year old girl kept under her mattress.

"Penny's diary?" I asked, raising an amused eyebrow at him.

Sam looked up sharply. "Did you steal that from her room?"

Dean shrugged with a smirk. "I love that you even asked me that."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"No reason," Dean replied casually, already flipping the diary open and ignoring the fact that a few months ago, it would have been Sam stealing the diary, and who knows what else from that room.

"So—girl-nappings. What if it's not about religion. What if it's about purity?" Dean asked.

Sam raised an eyebrow - we all paused a beat. "You think they're all—?"

"Virgins, Sam. Virgins." Dean nodded, throwing me a crooked grin.

Sam frowned. "Penny was twenty-two."

I nearly choked on the bite of burger I was chewing, and coughed to dislodge it from my windpipe. Dean snorted and handed me a drink from the tray, patting me between the shoulders with the diary, since he had no hand to spare.

"Maybe try chewing, sugarpie?" He suggested with sparkling eyes.

His eyes said what his mouth didn't. I'd been twenty-one when I'd lost my virginity to him, so for me at least, 22 wasn't much of a stretch.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, worried.

I nodded, eyes a little watery from the choking as I gulped down some cola, sighing with relief as the food passed my throat and I could breathe again.

"I'm good," I almost squeaked, shaking my head.

"Oh yeah you are," Dean added with a knowing smile.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "Look, it's obvious man. Pink room. Stuffed teddy bears."

Dean had picked up on the same innocence of Penny's bedroom that I had. I shouldn't have been surprised - he was a master at observing his surroundings, and he sure wasn't stupid.

Sam made a face. "Fine. But you really think—"

Dean opened the book with a flourish and read aloud, "'I've decided I'm going to give Stan my most precious gift.'"

Sam recoiled. "Wow. That sounded really creepy coming out of your mouth."

Dean grinned. "I think I delivered it."

Sam looked unconvinced.

"You know, you—you could've just led with 'the diary'. Anyway, let's say you're right. Fine. Who wants virgins?"

"You got me," Dean said without missing a beat. "I prefer ladies with experience."

I was mid-sip and nearly lost it—drink half down my throat, the rest trying to come out my nose. I choked, sputtered, and barely managed to keep from spraying cola across the table.

Grabbing a napkin, I shot Dean a look and bolted for the bathroom, still coughing.

"Smooth, Dean. Real smooth," I heard Sam mutter as Dean stepped into the bathroom after me and pulled the door shut.

I was hunched over the sink, catching my breath, damp towel pressed to my mouth. Dean came up behind me and gently began to knead my shoulders. I looked up, catching his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes were soft—barely veiled concern flickering beneath the usual smirk. That tenderness he rarely let show, except with me.

"You know I didn't mean that, right?" he asked, quiet now.

The room felt still. Dim and familiar. Like all those stolen moments in the early days, sneaking touches and whispered promises behind locked doors before we'd dared let anyone know—not even John.

"I know," I said, and gave him a smile.

"I, uh… I kind of like that you… you know…"

"Waited?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," he said, eyes caught somewhere between pride and apology. "I'm sorry I didn't."

"Dean, no—you don't have to—"

"Yeah, I do," he cut in gently. "I should have."

"Things were different back then," I murmured. "I didn't make it easy."

"Dad didn't make it easy," he said. "You were just trying to do right by him."

"I should've been doing right by you," I whispered. "You were the one who was always there."

He was quiet for a beat. Then his eyes went distant, like they were trailing back through time—through last night, through everything.

His hands tightened slightly on my shoulders as he exhaled, long and low.

"Don't say it…" I groaned.

"You do right by me now," he said anyway, that familiar smirk ghosting the corners of his mouth as he ignored my plea.

I laughed, and he pulled me back against him, his arms wrapping around my front as he kissed the side of my neck. I could feel his hard arousal pressed into me, and I let out a wavering breath.

"You know the only problem about Sam having his soul back?" Dean whispered in my ear.

"What's that?"

"We're back to sharing a damn room with the Tin Man - only now he has a brain," he sighed, his meaning evident.

"That was the scarecrow," I pointed out.

Dean rolled his eyes at me, "good enough."

I smirked. "Well, there's always the car."

Dean groaned, low and dramatic. "You trying to kill me?"

"Just keeping things interesting."

The Next Day

Steam hovered in the small motel bathroom, clinging to the mirror in hazy swirls as I stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped tight around me. My hair dripped down my back, skin flushed from the heat. For the first time in weeks, I wasn't thinking about soul walls or what-ifs or looming darkness.

The door creaked open behind me, and I caught Dean's reflection in the mirror—shirtless, jeans half-buttoned, eyes already locked on me like I was the only thing worth seeing.

"Well, good morning," he drawled, stepping inside and nudging the door closed with his foot.

I raised an eyebrow, reaching for my toothbrush. "You forget how to knock?"

He grinned, unrepentant. "After last night? I figured you wouldn't mind."

"Confident," I said around the toothbrush, but I didn't push him away when he wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned in to kiss my shoulder.

"Can you blame me?" he murmured against my skin. "You were naked and wet, and Sam's finally not brooding in the next bed over. I'm only human."

I laughed, the sound catching in the warmth between us. He pulled me tighter, nose brushing the side of my neck, his body pressed firm and eager behind mine.

It hit me then—how easily this came back. How quickly desire returned when fear took a backseat. We hadn't had that in a while. Not like this. Not with the constant weight of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I missed this," he said softly, and it wasn't just about sex. It was about this—being close, playful, unguarded.

"I did too," I whispered.

I turned, leaning back against the sink as he stepped in close, the heat of his body making the cool tiles behind me feel colder. My towel slipped just a little, and his eyes tracked the movement like a hawk.

His voice was low, rough with want. "Beth..."

I reached up, ran my fingers through his damp hair, tugged lightly. "Yeah?"

"I've been thinking about you all night."

"Pretty sure you were snoring into my shoulder by ten."

"That didn't mean I stopped thinking about you." His lips brushed the side of my neck. "Still am."

His hands slid to my waist, warm and familiar, fingertips dragging up under the edge of the towel like he was teasing himself as much as me.

It felt like it was the first we'd had a chance to breathe in months. The air was clearer. The weight was lighter.

And I felt it in the way he touched me—less desperation, more intention.

I parted my knees a little, letting him press in. "Feels like you're trying to make up for lost time."

"Damn right I am." His mouth found mine, slower this time. Surer. Tongue sweeping in with that familiar hunger, but the kind that burned low and steady instead of frantic.

He kissed me again, deeper. One hand came up to cradle the back of my head, the other still anchored at my hip.

His mouth moved with slow hunger, like he wanted to taste every part of me, relearn me in the light of a quieter morning.

Our bodies fit together like muscle memory—chest to chest, heat meeting heat—and I could feel him, already hard beneath the low slung denim he hadn't bothered to finish zipping up.

He rocked against me, just once, like he couldn't help it. My breath caught in my throat.

My palms flattened over the warm skin of his stomach, sliding up his ribs, tracing lines I already knew by heart.

He hissed softly between his teeth, pressing his forehead to mine.

That was when my towel began to slip - just enough for Dean's breath to hitch—his eyes dropping to my breasts, one hand moving to cup the flesh in his palm, pupils dark with want.

But then—

A car door slammed outside.

The creak of the motel room door.

"Guys?" Sam's voice, too loud, too close.

Dean groaned against my mouth, forehead thudding against mine.

"Every. Damn. Time."

I pressed my face into his shoulder, biting back a laugh. "Welcome back to the real world."

He sighed, stepping away just enough to fix his jeans, his voice still low and frustrated. "World sucks."

"In here!" He called out to Sam, cracking the door enough to nod at his brother while keeping the room private to me. "You better have breakfast," he added.

I chuckled and brushed a hand through my damp hair and grabbed clean clothes from where I'd left them on the toilet seat, watching Dean watch me with lingering hunger even as the moment faded.

By the time we emerged, Sam was already halfway through explaining that instead of breakfast, he'd found a lead—

A girl. A hospital. A near miss.

Dean sighed, "We'll the least you could have done was get breakfast," he muttered. "I'm starving."

His eyes met mine as I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and smiled sympathetically. What Sam couldn't see at that moment, was that Dean's hunger might have returned, but it sure as hell wasn't for breakfast burritos.

It made more core tense, just at the thought.

But the case was moving, with or without us.

The hospital room had that familiar antiseptic smell combined with cheap soap—clean, but far from comforting. The victim, Melissa sat propped up in the bed, looking impossibly young in her oversized hospital gown. Her eyes were puffy, rimmed with fear and disbelief. I stood near the window, keeping a respectful distance as Sam took the lead.

"It happened so fast," Melissa whispered, her voice thin.

Sam nodded gently, settling in beside her. "It's all right, Melissa. What came at you? You can tell us."

She hesitated, glancing between the three of us. "It—it looked like a... a giant bat."

A pause, as she waited for one of us to smirk, or tell her she was crazy. We did neither.

"You think I'm making it up, right? That's what the other man said."

Sam leaned forward, voice calm and sincere. "Well, I'm not the other man."

That landed. Melissa gave a shaky exhale and relaxed just a little.

"It came right at me. It was huge. I swear. That's how I got this." She pulled her gown forward, revealing raw gashes down her back.

I flinched internally at the sight, but didn't let it show. Dean's jaw ticked. Sam just nodded.

"So it attacked," Sam said softly. "And then what happened?"

"I don't know. I passed out. When I woke up, it was gone."

Sam glanced at us, then back to her. "Is there anything else you can think of? Anything that seemed weird or out of place? Even if it doesn't feel important?"

Melissa frowned. "Well... my ring got lost. Or else that thing stole it, if that makes any sense."

Dean perked up. "What kind of ring?"

"Gold promise ring."

Dean glanced at me, then back at her. "Promise ring. So, uh... from like a church? Like... a purity ring?"

Melissa nodded slowly. "Yeah. Why?"

I saw the look flash in Dean's eyes a second before he opened his mouth and thought—please don't make this weird.

"I gotta ask," Dean said carefully, holding up his hands like he was approaching a wild animal. "Melissa... look, nobody's judging anybody here, okay? Believe me. But... should you really be wearing that ring?"

Her mouth fell open. "Well, I—I mean, I am—"

Dean raised an eyebrow.

Melissa flushed. "Matt Barnes didn't count!"

Dean blinked. "Okay then."

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing, and Sam cleared his throat loudly, redirecting the conversation before Dean could dig himself any deeper.

"Thanks, Melissa. You've been a huge help," I said gently, stepping in as the buffer. "We're going to look into this, okay?"

She nodded, still red-faced but grateful to be believed.

As we stepped into the hallway, Dean ran a hand over his face. "Matt Barnes didn't count?" he muttered, half to himself. "What does that even mean?"

"Means we've got our pattern," Sam said.

"And our first non-virgin victim," I added.

Dean gave me a sidelong glance. "Well, that wasn't awkward at all."

I smirked. "I'm surprised you didn't ask her what didn't count."

"I've got my theories."

"I'm sure you do," I laughed, shaking my head.

I'd had my own over the years.

While Dean had technically been my first, there'd been a night with a music store owner in Texas—charming, soft-spoken, kind. It was just before Dean and I had finally given in to what we felt for each other.

I hadn't gone all the way—but we'd definitely crossed some lines. I'd stopped things before it got too far, not because I didn't want to, but because, if I was being honest, I'd been madly, hopelessly in love with Dean.

And I'd only spent that night with the guy to piss Dean off—after he'd told me not to go. Told me. Like I was a kid. Like he wasn't sleeping with whoever he wanted at the time.

It was petty, I know. But it was the kind of pain that burned through the cracks and made you reckless. Those were some of the longest days of my life—angst-ridden, aching for someone I didn't think I could have.

We'd talked about it since. How much time we wasted.

Sometimes I wondered if that was part of what made us the way we were now—intense, insatiable, tangled up in each other every chance we got. Years of waiting. His time in Hell. My entrapment in the Underworld. All the chaos of trying to keep Sam alive, keep the world from falling apart.

It felt like we were always making up for lost time.

Sam had gone ahead, like he could sense the tension still hanging between Dean and me. That in itself was another telltale sign he was really back—soul and all. Sam had spent enough time with us over the years to know when to make himself scarce, especially when we needed space to work through whatever was bubbling under the surface.

Dean was quiet for a few steps as we moved down the hospital hallway. Then he said, casually—too casually—

"So… Matt Barnes didn't count. Did Ewan?"

We hadn't said that name out loud in over a decade.

I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together as we pushed through the doors and out into the cold morning air.

"This isn't like you, Dean," I said, slowing a little as we crossed toward the car park.

He nodded, mouth twitching toward a smile. "Yeah. Just… sometimes I think about that night in Texas."

I winced. Guilt tugged hard. I hadn't done anything he hadn't done—hell, had been doing that whole summer—but I'd still stayed out all night with Ewan. Not because I wanted something real with him, but because I was angry. Because I wanted to prove a point. Because Dean had gotten to stay out all night and sleep with every pretty girl he came across.

"He didn't count," I said quietly.

"No?"

"You're the only one who's ever counted, Dean."

His thumb brushed across my knuckles. Soft. Reassured.

"If you want me to tell you what we did that night, I will," I offered. Maybe it was the not knowing that still itched at him.

"Yeah?"

"If you want," I nodded, then gave him a grin. "But we didn't do anything even close to what we've done over the years."

That made him laugh. A real one. The tension broke a little.

"You know what's more disturbing," he said, glancing sidelong at me. "I know—like know—that following night was Sam's first time. And we totally ruined it."

He was talking about that motel room. How we'd come back drunk, tense and wound-up, practically confessing everything we weren't supposed to feel.

I laughed, soft and rueful. "Yeah, I don't think it was exactly a stellar memory for him."

Dean chuckled. "God, we suck as siblings."

"We do," I agreed with a grin. "We totally do."

We were still laughing softly when we stepped out into the car park. The air had that wet Oregon chill to it—misty, bone-deep, clinging to everything. I tugged my jacket tighter, fingers from my other hand still laced through Dean's as we crossed toward the Impala.

Sam was leaning against the hood, arms folded, his breath fogging slightly in the morning air. He raised an eyebrow at us as we approached, but didn't say anything about our lingering pace.

"So," he said instead, deadpan, "what, you think Batman tried to rape her?"

Dean didn't miss a beat. "Well, he does carry a lot of rage. But he rejected her because she was already dehymenated, huh?"

I scrunched my nose. "Ugh, really, Dean?"

"What?"

"Dehymenated?"

Dean shrugged. "Word of the day."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You think?"

Dean gave him a flat look. "No, dude, there's no actual word of the day. That crap's just made up for laughs."

"I meant, you really think he rejected her for not being... pure?"

We all hesitated. It was stupidly awkward, trying to tiptoe around the word like we were teenagers again.

Dean shrugged. "I think it just goes to show that being easy's pretty much all upside."

I snorted. "Wow. That's a real needlepoint sentiment right there."

Dean smirked at me, then looked back at Sam. "So what kind of thing likes virgins and gold?"

"P. Diddy?" Sam said dryly. I snorted.

Dean stopped in his tracks, then slowly pointed at him, brows lifting with exaggerated approval. "Now that's funny."

Sam rolled his eyes as he pushed off the Impala's hood. "You know, it's actually kind of comforting."

Dean glanced over, half-curious. "What is?"

Sam shrugged, heading for the back seat. "I died for a year, came back, and you're still not funny."

Dean scoffed, reaching for the driver's side door. "Shut up. I'm hilarious."

He opened the driver's door and climbed in like he'd just won an argument with God himself, while Sam slid into the back with a resigned sigh.

I laughed under my breath. Same old brothers. Same old bullshit. And honestly? I wouldn't have traded it for the world.

I rounded the front of the car, smiling to myself as I reached for the handle. We were barely keeping the pieces together—but this banter? This familiar rhythm?

It meant we were still in it.

Together.

By the time we made it back to the motel, the cloud cover had thickened, casting the room in a bluish-grey hue. The heater hummed in the corner like it was doing its best but coming up short—more noise than warmth. Dean kicked the door shut behind him, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, keys jangling in the other.

Sam was already planted at a small table that was flanked by two chairs, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard with grim purpose.

"This can't be possible," he muttered, eyes locked on the screen.

Dean tossed the key on the table with a clatter and lobbed a wrapped burger at me with sniper precision. "Try me," he said to Sam as I caught the burger and inclined my head in silent thanks.

Sam sat back, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I googled 'fire,' 'claws,' 'flying,' 'stealing virgins,' and 'gold.'"

I raised a brow from my spot on the bed. "Can't wait to see what the FBI thinks of that search history."

Sam ignored me. "And it all takes me to the same place."

Dean was already peeling back the paper on his burger. "Where?"

"World of Warcraft fansites."

Dean blinked. "I don't know what that means."

I bit back a grin. "It means your nerd brother thinks we're hunting a video game character."

Sam gave us both a look. "No. I think we're hunting a dragon."

Dean froze mid-bite. "Dragons, dude?"

Sam nodded, clearly not loving the words even as he said them. "See? Told you. Not possible."

I stopped chewing, the burger cooling in my hands. My mind went straight to ancient texts—legends, myths, knights and hoards and maidens who didn't make it out.

"Actually... it might be," I said slowly.

Dean turned his head, staring at me like I'd lost mine. "You're not serious."

Sam frowned. "How? In what reality?"

I shrugged. "It's been a weird year."

Dean exhaled, sat back in his chair, and gave a low whistle through his teeth. "Well, guess it's time to figure out how to kill a creature that shouldn't exist."

I raised my burger again. "We're gonna need a second opinion."

The couch was upholstered in that scratchy, rust-orange fabric every roadside motel seemed to favour—like someone had sealed the 1970s in polyester and called it comfort. Dean sank into one end with a sigh, stretching out as he placed two cold beers on the nightstand between the couch and Sam's bed. I curled in beside him, our thighs brushing, using the excuse to reach across him for one of the beers to get closer, yearning to touch him - even in the smallest of ways.

Dean slipped his arm around my shoulders, as if reading my mind and accommodating, then reached for his phone and flipped it open.

"Who are you calling?" Sam asked, as he stood and stretched.

"Second opinion," Dean said, smirking at me as he tapped on a couple of buttons then hit dial.

"Bobby?" I asked.

"Bobby," Dean nodded.

Sam snorted and shrugged. "Yeah, well I'm going out for a walk - my body is so stiff," he complained, rolling his shoulders. Dean and I exchanged glances - up until two weeks ago, Sam hadn't slept, so his body wasn't really accustomed to mundane things like sitting around or lying in bed.

He left the room just as the line clicked and Bobby's unmistakable grumble crackled through the speaker.

"Yeah?"

Dean didn't waste time. "What do you know about dragons?"

There was a pause. "What?" Bobby snapped. "Nothing."

"Seriously," Dean said, his fingers tracing lazy designs across my shoulders. I shivered at his light touch. "Dragons, Bobby."

"They're not like the damn Loch Ness monster, Dean," Bobby said. "Dragons aren't real."

I raised an eyebrow, curious - the Loch Ness Monster was real?

"Yeah, well," Dean said, glancing at Sam and me, "neither was half the crap we've hunted in the last few years. Can you make a few calls?"

"To who?" Bobby barked. "Hogwarts?"

I covered a laugh with a cough, but that had just given me an idea, my mind started churning.

Dean grinned. "Humour me."

Bobby sighed. "Fine."

"You're a gentleman and a scholar," Dean said, full of false charm.

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby muttered. "Hey—how's Memento doing over there? He catch you in any lies yet?"

Dean looked up in alarm - that was usually when our luck would have run out, but Sam was still, thankfully, out of the room.

"Everything's fine," Dean said after a beat. "Sam says hey."

Dean hung up, tossed the phone down on the coffee table, and reached for his own beer.

"My turn," I said, dialing one of the favourites on my phone.

"Who?" Dean asked after he swallowed a long gulp of beer.

"A gentleman and a scholar," I replied with a grin. Dean looked curious, not clued into who I was talking about yet.

He picked up on the third ring and since we were still alone, I switched it to speaker for Dean's benefit.

"Hey Princess, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Jefferson's English accent flowed smoothly over the phone line and I smiled unwittingly. The man was like our very own James Bond. Maybe cooler than Bond. This Englishman hunted real monsters, not just Russians.

"Dragons," I said simply, and the line went silent.

"Where exactly have you seen dragons?" He asked after a moment.

"Well, we haven't exactly seen one, not yet - but we think that's what we're hunting," I said. "We're in Oregon."

"Oregon?" Jefferson scoffed. "What, couldn't find anywhere colder and gloomier?"

"I suppose we could go back to Scotland?" I quipped and he laughed softly.

"Well, that's where you'd be more likely to find one of the Old Flamekeepers—buried deep in the rock, dreaming of gold and fire, just waiting for some fool to wake 'em."

I blanched at the fool comment, though I didn't disagree.

"Well, apparently Oregon has enough dreary and foolery to go around," I responded.

"And what makes you think you're after a dragon?"

"Gold, Wings, Claws… Virgins," I replied.

Jefferson was silent for a moment before letting out a long breath.

"Virgins you say?"

"Mhmmm."

"Sure sounds like a dragon," he said.

"I knew it!" I said triumphantly. "Bobby, Dean and Sam don't believe they exist."

"They're not exactly known to travel abroad. You'll usually find them in Europe and Asia- even there I've not heard of any encounters for - well, centuries," Jefferson replied, which made me curious.

"There's been a lot of that in the last year," I said quietly, and Jefferson murmured his agreement. We'd spoken a while ago —him fresh off an Amarok hunt in Seattle, me helping Bobby to identify a Lamia that Dean and Sam had been chasing. Jefferson had rattled off a list of misplaced monsters like it was a shopping receipt: Aquabuamelu in Reno, Camazotz in Dallas. Creatures that didn't belong here, crossing oceans and mythologies just to end up in our laps. This dragon, if that's what it was, fit the pattern. Another impossibility made real, clawing its way into the present.

"Indeed," Jefferson agreed. "Leave it with me, I'll text you some information within the hour."

I thanked him, and he hung up.

"How long's it been since you two caught up?" Dean asked, taking a sip of beer from his bottle.

"Uhhh, not since Scotland," I answered, feeling a little tug of sadness.

"Is he okay?" Dean asked - and the tone was clear. Jefferson had been a bit of a guardian angel for us - longer than we'd realised. He had worked with my Dad, long before I had any idea what hunting was, or that my Dad had been involved in this life. When Dad had died and I'd gone with John, Jefferson had popped in from time to time, but he'd mostly left my care to my new father - and John had seemed to prefer it that way.

After John had died, Jefferson had taken a more active role in our lives - particularly when Dean had been in Hell, when he'd picked me up from the field where we'd buried him, broken, starving, unable to go on, and taken me to Blue Earth to heal and plan my next steps.

"Yeah," I said with a nod. "I think so. He's just been busy with his own hunts - you know he was chasing a Gogmagog in Montreal back in July?"

"A Gogmagog?" Dean scoffed. "They aren't real." He echoed my own thoughts on the matter back when Jefferson had first told me.

"Apparently they're another English phenomenon," I said.

"You gotta love the British for coming up with bizarro creatures," he replied, biting into his burger and chewing loudly.

"Like dragons?" I asked.

"Hmph," Dean nodded, swallowing. "Exactly!"

Dean glanced around the motel room, eyes glinting with mischief as his fingers slipped into my hair.

"Alone again," he said, all heavy suggestion.

I grinned—and in one smooth motion, swung a leg over his lap, settling against the hard press of him with a slow, deliberate roll of my hips.

He groaned.

"You're a tease," he muttered. "You know Sam'll be back any minute."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" I breathed, emboldened by an ache that had been building all day. Forty-eight hours since our night at Bobby's - the day Sam had woken. Since we'd been anything more than overheated glances and near misses. I was desperate.

The burger was quickly discarded. Dean's hands found my waist, grip firm. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

That was all it took.

His mouth met mine hard—hot, hungry, no hesitation. I ground down as he worked my jeans open, pushing them down over my hips with impatient hands. I stood just long enough to strip them off, underwear and all, then sank back into his lap.

He groaned again, unclasping my bra with a practiced flick and shoving his own jeans down and out of the way. We didn't waste time shucking them completely.

I wrapped a hand around him, guided him to me, and slid down in one slow, slick stroke.

We gasped together.

There was no teasing. No lead-up. Just need. Friction. Heat.

His hands gripped my hips, urging me faster. I rode him hard, head tipped back, chasing that edge with everything I had.

Dean met me thrust for thrust, mouth dragging along my neck, breath hot against my skin as his rhythm stuttered—

I came first, sharp and sudden. A cry caught in my throat.

He followed with a growl, locking me to him as he spilled inside, body jerking, teeth buried against my shoulder to muffle the sound.

We stilled.

Breathless. Sweaty. Spent.

Still no Sam.

I breathed a sigh of relief and curled into Dean's chest, heart racing, the heat of him grounding me. For the first time in days, the ache had quieted. My mind, finally still.

Dean let out a low, satisfied groan and leaned back enough to look at me—lips parted, eyes heavy.

"That was... really fucking needed," he murmured.

I smiled, soft and lazy, and rested my forehead against his.

"Yeah," I whispered. "It really was."

Dean was still towel-clad and half-distracted, rummaging through his duffel for clean boxers while I stood at the sink, one of his oversized AC/DC shirts brushing the tops of my thighs. Toothbrush in hand, I hummed around the minty foam, watching him in the mirror with a lazy kind of affection.

The afterglow still lingered—warm, soft, grounding. Every brush of his arm, every glance he tossed my way was tinged with that dopey fondness we didn't bother to hide anymore. Dean cursed softly, bending to grab a stray sock from the floor, towel slipping dangerously low as he moved.

I rinsed and spat, grinning. "You could try folding clothes sometime."

Dean shot me a look like I'd insulted his honour. "And ruin the system? This is curated chaos."

I chuckled, stepping out of the bathroom to wrap my arms loosely around his waist. "You're lucky you're hot."

"Damn right I am," he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of my head as his arms came around me, warm and solid.

We were tangled up like that when the door opened.

Sam froze in the doorway, eyebrows lifting just slightly. His eyes flicked from me in Dean's shirt to Dean—still towel-damp, flushed, and clearly fresh from a shower… or something like it. His face didn't change, but there was a pause, like his brain was trying to recalibrate.

"You guys okay?" he asked, tone too even. He'd seen us like this before—curled into each other on bad days, when the weight of it all got too much. But this? This wasn't grief. This was glow.

Dean peeled away from me just long enough to tug a shirt over his head, flashing a grin that was all satisfaction. "Fabulous. Your timing is impeccable."

Sam stepped in, arms full of snacks and library books—then dropped everything on the table with a grunt and a shake of his head. "You two are insufferable."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Sammy," Dean said. He let go of me, and started to shove his clothes back into his duffel.

Sam raised a brow but didn't bother replying, flipping open a book titled Dragons in British Folklore as if seeking to lose himself in its pages.

I padded over to the table and picked up one of the books—a battered, dog-eared copy of The Hobbit. The cover was cracked and sun-faded, pages yellowed with age.

It had been a long time since I'd read that story.

A while later, I was back on the orange couch, thumbing my way absently through The Hobbit, letting the familiar weight of the story settle around me like an old blanket. Dean sank into the other end of the couch with a fresh beer, his thigh brushing mine again. He looked thoroughly satisfied—sated, smug, and already twitching with that restlessness that returned after too much quiet.

Across the room, Sam was sprawled in an armchair, John's journal open on his lap, eyes flicking back and forth like the words might rearrange themselves into something useful if he stared hard enough.

"Bobby say anything?" Sam asked without looking up.

Dean shook his head. "Nope."

Sam turned a page with a soft hiss of paper.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dad never wrote anything about dragons. I promise. I'd remember if I read The Neverending Story in there."

"Was that actually a dragon?" I asked, frowning slightly as I tried to recall the movie.

"Yeah, he was like one of those big ass lucky Chinese dragons," Dean said. "Didn't you know that?"

I shrugged. "I didn't really like the movie."

"What?" Dean asked. "Show is a classic! And right up our alley - I mean, come on - world is being destroyed by the big bad Nothing, boy meets girl, saves girl, saves the world. Practically writes itself."

I chuckled and leaned over to kiss him. "You are just full of surprises," I commented, brushing my nose against his.

Sam looked up from John's journal at us, brow furrowed. "Hey… did we hunt a skinwalker lately?"

Dean glanced over at him.. "Doesn't ring a bell," he said, not missing a beat. "Why?"

"I don't know. Just… déjà vu or something. I could've sworn—"

"Your eggs are still a little scrambled, remember?" Dean said gently, but his eyes met mine, suddenly wary. "But yeah. I'm sure."

Sam nodded slowly. "Right. Yeah. Never mind."

Dean's phone rang, vibrating against the nightstand. He picked it up and answered with a casual, "Hey, Bobby. What do you got?"

I leaned in slightly, listening.

Bobby's voice crackled through the speaker. "Can't believe she didn't jump right to mind. Dr. Visyak. Medieval Studies, S.F.U."

Dean grabbed the notepad beside the bed and jotted the name down. "Dr. Visyak, S.F.U. Got it. Thanks." He hung up without any fanfare.

My phone buzzed next to me, signalling an incoming text message. I unlocked the phone to see a text from Jefferson.

Visyak. SFU. Good hunting.

I chuckled, showing it to Dean. Seemed the Englishman and Bobby were running down the same leads.

"Well then, that's two votes for California," he said.

"If we leave now, we can be there by morning," I pointed out. The lure of the blacktop was calling. Dean's expression took on a look like he was already halfway out the door.

He paused just long enough to take a last sip of beer, then looked at his brother.

"All right. We're going to San Francisco to figure out how to kill these things. You figure out where they are."

Sam frowned, seemingly unhappy with the decision.

He sat up, looking at Dean. "W-wait. D-did Bobby say where they like to park?"

"Nope."

Sam exhaled hard. "Great. Back to the lore."

Dean rolled his eyes, glancing at the book in my hands. "Which says what? That they live in Middle-earth?"

"Caves," Sam and I said at the same time.

Dean looked at Sam like he was the world's biggest nerd. When his eyes flicked to me, though, they softened—no judgment, just mild amusement. Typical.

I let The Hobbit fall shut in my lap, tapping a finger against the battered cover. "Jefferson mentioned something about that, actually."

Both of them turned toward me.

"He talked about the old Flamekeepers—dragons buried deep in the rock. Said they tend to burrow underground when the world changes too fast. Like… sleeping giants, waiting for some idiot to wake them up."

Dean raised a brow. "So what? We're looking for a mountain lair now?"

"Wouldn't be the first time a myth pointed us in the right direction," I said, holding up the book. "Smaug. Hoards gold. Nests in caves. Wakes up when someone pokes the wrong pile."

Sam nodded slowly. "Actually… that tracks."

Dean groaned. "Fantastic. We're hunting Smaug. What's next? A magic ring?"

I smirked. "You already wore one. Didn't take."

Dean muttered, "Yeah, well, I'm hardly a hobbit." He shot me a grin, eyebrow waggling.

I stood, leaned over, and brushed a kiss to the side of his neck—letting my breath trail across his skin, warm and deliberate.

"No," I murmured, "you're definitely more Aragorn."

Dean's grin deepened. "I can live with being compared to Viggo."

"Oh, you've got him beat by a mile," I teased, pulling on a bra, then hopping into my jeans and jacket.

The way Dean's eyes tracked every movement told me he was picturing something far less practical than layering up.

I had the same thought—if we hit a quiet stretch later, maybe we'd make time for a more… leisurely detour in the back seat.

By the look in his eyes, Dean was already planning it.

And just like that—we were back on the road.

San Francisco, California

The house loomed like something out of an Edith Wharton novel—stone facade weathered by time, broad verandas draped in ivy, the kind of architecture that whispered wealth and academia in equal measure. It didn't surprise me that Bobby's contact lived somewhere like this. San Francisco had always carried a touch of the mythic for me—fog, hills, secrets—and the woman we were here to see fit right in.

Dean pressed the buzzer beside a set of heavy double doors and leaned down for the camera. I stood slightly behind him, arms folded tight against the chill of the Bay air.

A crisp voice crackled through the intercom. "Yes?"

"Dr. Visyak. My name's Dean Winchester."

"Office hours are Monday and Friday."

Dean leaned toward the speaker, undeterred. "Bobby Singer sent me."

Silence.

He glanced at me, one brow lifted in uncertainty. "Hello?"

Another pause—and then the heavy door creaked open.

A striking woman stepped onto the front porch. She was elegant in a way that didn't try too hard—mid-fifties, Platinum-blonde hair swept up in a perfectly sculpted French twist, not a strand out of place. Her silk blouse—a shade of deep sapphire that made her eyes even sharper—fit like it had been tailored by someone who took their art seriously. Two silver necklaces layered at her collarbone, the pendants catching the weak daylight like they had stories they weren't quite ready to tell.

She gave Dean an appraising once-over, equal parts curiosity and appreciation. I couldn't even fault her for it. He was standing there with that easy grin, all rumpled confidence and charm, and yeah—he looked like trouble. The good kind.

"Hi," he said, just flirtatious enough to be polite.

She didn't smile, but she didn't close the door either. And that, in our world, was basically an invitation.

It was Bobby's name that got her attention—meaning we were in the right place. And judging by her sharp eye and cooler-than-thou posture, I had a feeling this wasn't going to be your average lore consult. She looked us over, half-curious, half-skeptical, then gave a short nod like we'd been deemed worthy.

"Come in," she said, then turned on her heel and vanished back inside, leaving the door ajar. Dean stepped through like he belonged. I hesitated just a beat longer—call it instinct, or maybe just the way the air inside the threshold felt old. Like walking into a memory not your own.

The entryway was all dark wood and soft lamplight, bookcases lining the walls like silent sentinels. Not a speck of dust in sight, but it didn't feel lived-in either. More like a stage set: everything placed just so and if you moved one thing out of alignment, the whole place might unravel.

She led us down a hall lined with paintings—portraits, mostly, the kind with eyes that seemed to follow you.

"Nice house," Dean said, his voice casual but pitched to cut through the silence.

Dr. Visyak didn't look back. "Thank you, I like it."

We followed her into a study that looked more like a museum than a room anyone actually used. Dark wood panelling, ornate moulding, and a fireplace that looked like it hadn't seen a real flame in decades—but had almost certainly witnessed things fire couldn't cleanse. Every surface was curated: old books with cracked spines, tribal masks, brass instruments of unknown purpose. There was a small bar tucked beneath an oil portrait of someone who looked vaguely colonial and malevolent.

Dr. Visyak moved behind her desk like a queen returning to court. She didn't ask if we wanted anything—just uncapped an ornate crystal decanter, poured herself two fingers of something dark, and looked at us as if we'd already overstayed our welcome.

Dean shifted beside me, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze flicking from an antique globe to ornate daggers and busts like he was trying to take stock of what could kill him and what was just for show.

She gestured vaguely with the decanter in hand. "Drink?"

He shook his head once. "Appreciate it, but I'm good."

That was unusual. Dean never turned down whiskey in places like this—old-world and slightly haunted. Normally he'd make some comment about the vintage or joke about poison. But now? He just looked… wary. Not of the drink. Of her.

I didn't blame him.

She raised an eyebrow, amused. "Suit yourself."

She recapped the decanter and placed it back where it belonged, then picked up her own glass and took a sip of the amber liquid.

"Bobby Singer…" She said, rounding the desk and leaning back against it, contemplative. "Tell him something for me next time you see him," she said, swirling the drink in her glass like she was weighing options.

Dean lifted his brows. "Hmm?"

"Actually," she said, taking a sip, "just kick him in the jewels. That's more poetic."

Dean blinked. "No love lost between you two, huh?"

"No," she said with a dry smile. "Just the opposite."

"Oh?"

She glanced at him over the rim of her glass. "That's his story to tell. He's the idiot." Another sip, sharp and final.

I smiled at the unspoken fury behind her eyes. I liked her immediately.

"So. What's this about?" She gestured to the pristine white couch that flanked the fireplace, and Dean moved over to it, hesitating at first like he didn't want to risk leaving a mark, then took a seat. I joined him.

Dean shifted slightly, clearing his throat before speaking.

"Well, uh… dragons."

Visyak raised one perfectly arched brow. "Really?"

Dean gave her that lopsided, half-dare grin. "What, no twelve-sided-dice joke?"

She didn't bite. Her voice flattened, eyes gone sharp. She rounded a second couch, opposite us, and sat down, eyes steady and unamused.

"We can joke about them because they've disappeared. But they aren't funny. At all."

"Well," Dean said, casual as ever but with that flinty edge I recognised under the surface, "one just flew in Stateside."

Visyak's expression sharpened. "Are you sure?"

"Fits the lore to a tee."

"Not exactly the kind of thing you miss," I added, folding my arms tighter. "Big wings. Penchant for virgins."

"But how?" she said, half to herself. "I mean, why? It's been seven hundred years."

Dean spread his hands. "Banner crop of crazy all the way around these days, Doc."

She took another sip of her drink, slower this time. Like the words needed a chaser.

"So," she said, looking us dead on, "you want to know how to kill it."

"That's right."

"You'll need a blade," she answered cryptically.

Dean frowned. "Uh… okay. What kind of blade?"

"One forged with dragon's blood."

That landed heavy in the room. Dean raised his brows. "So you need one to kill one, but you gotta kill one to make one. How does that work out?"

A shadow of a smile touched her lips, dry and ancient. "There aren't many dragon swords around anymore. Five or six, tops, worldwide. I mean, there's the sword of Saint George… and of course, Excalibur. And there's—"

"You know a lot about this stuff, don't you?" Dean asked, and his tone had shifted. Less banter. More respect.

Visyak held his gaze for a moment. "Well, I sure as hell better."

Something passed behind her eyes—something old, and private, and sharp enough to cut through more than just skin. I felt it before I understood it. The way you feel when you walk into a chapel that's still thick with incense. Like whatever lived here didn't live in books.

Then she said it.

"I have one," she murmured. "In the basement."

Dean blinked. "You have one."

I stared at her, then exhaled through my nose. "Of course you do."

She was already moving toward the hall, voice breezy but threaded with intent.

"Come on. Let's go see it."

I looked at Dean. "I like her," I said, "I like her a lot."

Dean gave me a look—half grin, half what the hell are we walking into—and stood. I followed, heart picking up speed as we stepped out of the warm, curated comfort of the study and into the darker spine of the house.

The hallway led toward the back of the house, the air growing cooler and more still. Dean walked just ahead of me, close enough that I could see the subtle shift in his shoulders—loose, but alert. Dr. Visyak led the way, like this was all perfectly ordinary. Like she gave sword tours to houseguests on the regular.

"Finding it took two decades," Visyak said, descending a wide staircase lit up by floor to ceiling stained glass windows at the top. She moved with the grace of someone used to high heels and secrets. "Countless hours… and some really bad sex with an Eastern European ambassador."

Dean blinked. "Wow."

"Yeah," she said, with a faint smirk. "But I got it."

At the bottom of the stairs, she opened a heavy double door with a key that looked older than Bobby's entire book collection. What lay beyond didn't feel like a room—it felt like a vault.

The walls were stone, the lighting minimal. But right in the centre, catching the cold light from an overhead chandelier, was a massive slab of what looked like ancient granite. And rising from the heart of it was a sword.

Embedded.

Clean. Bright. Deadly.

Dean let out a low whistle. "That is not real."

He turned to me, almost whispering. "Is that real? Is it Excalibur?"

"No," Visyak said, stepping closer with an odd sort of fondness in her voice. "This… is the Sword of Brunswick. Love of my life." There was a softness to her, just for a moment.

Dean squinted at the stone. "So, uh, what's with the cement shoe?"

"You know," she said, brushing her fingers lightly over the stone, "binding sword to stone used to be all the rage. To protect them."

"Right," Dean muttered. "So how do we get this puppy out?"

Visyak laughed—an elegant, dry sound that echoed faintly off the stone walls.

"Oh, come on. You know this one," she said. "We need a brave knight who's willing to step up and kill the beast."

Dean looked sideways at me, gave a short, sardonic little bow, then turned to the sword. "All right. I'll, uh… give it a whirl. You mind?"

Visyak shook her head, stepping back. "Be my guest."

I folded my arms, one brow raised. "No pressure, Aragorn."

Dean smirked, then planted his feet and reached for the hilt.

His arms flexed. He pulled.

Nothing.

He shook himself, perplexed, tried again, digging in with a grunt, and promptly lost his balance, landing on his ass with a sharp thud.

"You okay?" Visyak asked, too polite to laugh—but only just.

"Never better," Dean muttered, pushing himself back up and brushing invisible dust off his jeans.

I didn't bother hiding my grin. "Very regal."

He gave me a look—half challenge, half watch this—then squared up again, planting his feet with theatrical determination.

Dean wrapped both hands around the hilt, braced his legs, and pulled like the fate of the world depended on it.

Veins popped in his forearms. His jaw clenched. He let out a grunt that was entirely too close to a powerlifting noise for me to take seriously. The sword didn't move an inch.

I leaned casually against the wall, biting back a smile. "You want me to cue up Eye of the Tiger, or…?"

Dean huffed through his nose "I don't see you lining up, princess," he quipped, using Jefferson's nickname for me. I grinned, as did he, then he reset his grip, and tried again—this time with a grunt so loud it echoed. He shifted his stance, rocked his weight back, and strained with every ounce of righteous Winchester bravado he could muster.

Still nothing.

Not a rattle. Not a whisper of give.

He staggered back, chest heaving slightly, hands on his hips as he stared at the sword like it had personally offended him.

"Oh, son of a bitch!" Dean growled, stepping back. "That's really in there!"

"Yeah," Visyak said, in a tone that said she already knew this. "Afraid so."

Dean exhaled and tilted his head, calculating. I could see it happening in real time—the shift from brute force to Plan B.

"Well," he said slowly, "I have another idea."

Visyak arched a brow. "What?"

Dean hesitated, then looked right at her. I knew what was coming before he opened his mouth.

"You're not gonna like it," I said, beating him to it.

He tilted his head in agreement, lips twitching.

Visyak's eyes narrowed, like she was bracing for a storm she'd seen coming but hoped wouldn't arrive today.

"Do I want to know?" she asked.

Dean offered her a tight, apologetic smile. "Probably not."

The sun had dropped behind the buildings, leaving the alley cast in shadow. I leaned against the Impala, arms crossed, watching Dean charm—or threaten—his way through a conversation with two guys who looked like they belonged in a Guy Ritchie film. His posture was casual, but the tension in his jaw told me the price was steep, and the product wasn't exactly legal.

I didn't ask. I already knew what he was buying.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I slid it out, thumbed the screen, and answered without moving from the spot.

"Hey, Sam."

"Hey. Uh… where's Dean? He's not answering his phone."

"He's a little busy right now, negotiating with folks who don't take ."

"Right…" Sam said, clueless to what I was talking about. "Well, while he's doing that, I've been trying to figure out where this thing might be nesting. A little help, maybe?"

I shifted my weight, gazing down the block as Dean nodded once, then slipped a thick envelope into someone's waiting hand.

"Well, what do you have?"

"I've been looking for caves, but there's nothing around here for miles that fits."

"Okay, then think less literally," I said, contemplating other options. "What else is local that's cold, dark, and wet? Subway?"

Sam paused. "Uh… well, there's no subway lines. But sewers. That could be it."

"Yeah, that's a great option," I agreed.

"Thanks."

A pause.

"Beth… is Bobby okay?"

That caught me a little off guard. I glanced at Dean again—he was walking back now, jaw set, expression unreadable.

"You mean other than his usual, grumpy self? Of course, " I said. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Besides the way he'd been acting and talking? Nothing. Is there something I should know?"

I exhaled through my nose. "It's Bobby, Sam. Whatever is bothering him will blow over, you know that. All we need to focus on is where Godzilla's holed up."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Beth, what happened to Bobby this last year?"

"No more than usual," I said quietly. "It's got nothing to do with you, Sam. How could it?"

I hated lying to him, I did. But for now, I agreed with Dean, we needed to see where things landed. To make sure Death's patch held, before breaking Sam into the truth.

"Right," he said, and I heard the way he swallowed that.

"Call me if you need anything. Hopefully we'll be back by morning."

"I will."

I ended the call just as Dean reached the car, sliding the duffel into the trunk like it was just groceries.

"All good?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "Let's just say, if this sword doesn't budge after this, we'll be digging pieces of it out of the walls."

I wasn't sure how I felt about that declaration.

Back at the vault, Dean was crouched at the base of the stone, wiring the last of the C4 with focused precision. His mouth was set in that line that meant he wasn't open to suggestions, comments, or divine intervention—unless it came holding a Glock.

The stone pulsed with its usual self-importance, the sword still lodged like it had never once considered coming quietly.

"You know what?" Visyak said, her voice climbing with every word. "I—I don't like this at all. You do realize this is the single most valuable artifact you've ever touched?"

Dean didn't even look up. "It's also the only weapon we've got."

He clipped the last wire into place and stood, brushing off his hands with a little too much satisfaction. "Look, I know what I'm doing, okay? I actually learned it all from Bobby."

That caught her attention. Her jaw twitched, but she didn't interrupt.

Dean glanced her way, voice softening just enough to hint at whatever lay between them. "Hey, whatever happened there… you know he's a genius at this. Do you want me to kill that dragon or not?"

Visyak sucked in a breath—sharp, grudging. "Okay."

"Trust me."

I trusted him with my life. But that didn't always mean his plans went off without a hitch. And right then, I felt a flicker of sympathy for the anxious woman standing beside me.

She gave him a tight, bitter nod. The closest thing to surrender we were gonna get.

"You rocks think you're so smart," Dean muttered, patting the slab like it was a smug enemy.

He stood, unspooling the lead wiring, eyes still fixed on the stone. "Welcome to the twenty-first century."

He backed up toward the double doors. Visyak lingered on the threshold, casting one last anguished look at the stone before Dean shut them with a low, resounding creak.

"All right," he said, bracing one hand against the door while raising the detonator in the other. He looked at us—just a few feet away—offering Visyak a quick, reassuring smile.

"Get back."

I stepped beside her, reaching for the rosary at my neck. My fingers closed around both the crucifix and the small non-possession pendant that hung next to it. I whispered a quiet prayer—not to anyone in particular, but prayer nonetheless.

Dean took a deep breath and—click.

The explosion shook the air like a god clearing his throat. The pressure surged against the doors, but Dean held firm. I flinched, bracing, hoping the damage wasn't nearly as bad as it had sounded.

Dean, on the other hand, looked pleased. He dropped the detonator and grabbed the wrought-iron handles, pulling the doors open with a grunt.

The stone had cracked clean through—five deep fractures spider-webbed across its surface. The sword still rested between them, lodged at a tilted angle and now blanketed—like everything else—in a thick, lung-coating layer of dust.

Dean grinned back at us, victorious.

Visyak didn't move. Her face stayed fixed in wary apprehension.

Dean stepped forward, reached for the hilt, and pulled.

It came loose easily.

Too easily.

He stopped dead, back still to us.

I knew that tension in his shoulders like I knew my own pulse. "What?"

Dean turned around slowly, sheepish.

The sword had snapped clean through the centre—jagged and broken.

Visyak looked like she was about to faint.

"You've got insurance for this, right?" Dean asked with a grimace.

I dragged a hand down my face, stifling a groan.

I looked at him and shook my head—endeared in a way I was sure was the complete opposite of what Visyak was feeling right now.

"Congratulations. You broke history."

Dean met my eyes, gave me a helpless shrug, then turned back to the pieces like maybe, just maybe, he could will them back together.

Portland, Oregon

We were back at the motel, and the sword was still broken.

Sam was holding what was left of the sword in his hand, staring at it in confusion.

It still looked vaguely noble. But it was most definitely in parts.

I sat cross-legged on the bed with a cup of coffee - regretting that I hadn't stopped at a drive through on the way through town because this tasted like watered down bath water.

"What are we supposed to do with this, Dean?" Sam asked, waving the splintered blade at his brother. "Give it a booster shot?"

Dean didn't flinch. "It's what we got, all right? We're just gonna have to get a little closer. That's all." He answered, reaching for the sword and taking it from Sam. "Where are we on the caves?"

"Nowhere," Sam said, brushing his hands together to rid them of the dust that still clung to the sword. "Sewers, on the other hand…" He gestured to a map he had spread on the table and tapped it with two fingers. "Here. Check this out."

I climbed off the bed, leaving my coffee on the nightstand, and joined them as Sam pointed to a section on the map labelled MARKET DISTRICT. It lay over a complex set of sewer plans, which Sam had circled.

"Two of the disappearances happened within a mile of here. So I think we start there and work our way around."

Dean groaned under his breath. "Awesome. Who doesn't love sewers? Let's go." He pushed up from the table, nodding.

I hesitated—just for a moment.

Sewers were never fun. The stench, the dark, the way sound echoed like it had too many mouths. But as hunters, we spent a lot of time where the excrement of the world ended up. You got used to it.

Still, St. Louis came to mind. The Skinwalker in Dean's face—his voice, his memories—using them like weapons. Twisting what was ours into something ugly. And for a second, I'd believed it.

But it hadn't broken us.

I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair.

"After you, my King."

Dean paused, just long enough for the corners of his mouth to twitch—not a full smile, but enough to tell me he'd caught the reference. His eyes warmed, then flicked to Sam.

The tension shifted. Sam was still standing there, looking like he wanted to say something but hadn't.

Dean turned to him. "What?"

Sam looked up, mouth opening as he let out a long breath—then seemed to think better of it.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Uh, yeah. Let's go."

He turned away too quickly for it to be nothing. I watched him a second longer, that flicker of hesitation still hanging in the air like a curtain that hadn't fully fallen. But I didn't push. We had a dragon to find, a sewer to crawl through, and a Hobbit-sized weapon to swing.

Sewers

The sewers were a maze of damp brick and iron. Low ceilings, long shadows, rusted ladders leading to nowhere. Our flashlights cut through the dark in narrow cones, bouncing off slick stone and stagnant puddles. Every step echoed like it didn't belong.

Dean gagged audibly beside me. "Ugh. God. Just when I get used to a smell, I hit a new flavour."

I grimaced, catching a whiff of something wet and sour, scrunching my nose. Dean was right about the smell—it clung to everything: the walls, our clothes, the back of my throat.

He waved a hand through the air like that would help. "We've been down here for hours. There is nothing. I think the lore is off."

He paused, eyes flicking over. "Hey, what if, uh… what if dragons like nice hotels?"

"Room service?" I joined in. "Continental breakfast, wake-up call from Hell?" He grinned at the banter.

Sam ignored us, pushing past and shining his flashlight down yet another long tunnel.

"What is that?" he said, voice shifting.

"What?" Dean asked. He turned, sweeping his light into the gloom. The beam reflected off a shining pile of what I hoped wasn't bile—my memory unwittingly flashing back to the discarded skin and muck that came from a recently transformed Skinwalker. I shuddered. Dean noticed.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," I said, shaking it off and stepping toward the shining pile. This wasn't Skinwalker mucus. This was shinier.

"Holy crap," I breathed.

Gold. Not metaphorical gold. Real gold. Coins, goblets, jewellery—nestled like treasure, straight out of The Hobbit.

"Whoa," Dean said.

He stepped forward and bent down, picking up an old gold watch.

"Okay, maybe there are dragons here," he muttered, turning it in his hand with the casual awe of someone who'd seen the impossible and still liked to pretend he hadn't.

Then—of course—he started shoving it in his jacket.

"Dean," Sam warned, already moving down a side tunnel. "Not now. Check this out."

But Dean wasn't done. He grabbed my hand, tugging me beside him, and started stuffing a handful of loose coins into my jacket pocket.

"Here, take this," he said, barely looking up.

"Really?" I asked, feeling a little ambiguous about pocketing the already-stolen hoard.

"You realise this could fund a whole trunk full of ammo. Like, silver-tipped, holy-water-blessed, Vatican-certified—"

I reached down and picked up a glinting necklace. Diamonds. Real ones. My eyebrows lifted. "Okay, you've convinced me."

I started collecting the pieces that looked easy to hock or melt down —mostly rings and tennis bracelets - things that had no business in a sewer. Dean grinned and kissed my temple.

"We're robbing a dragon hoard," I said under my breath. "How is this our life?"

"Because monsters don't pay taxes," he murmured. "Now hurry up."

"Guys!" Sam whispered urgently, sticking his head around the corner. "Not the time!"

Dean rolled his eyes but picked up his flashlight, casting a sad glance at the treasure we'd have to leave behind. Then, with a cheeky grin, he took off after Sam. I followed close behind.

We rounded the corner into an alcove, coming up short beside Sam, who was standing in front of a bricked-in ledge. On it was an assortment of lit candles, jars of herbs, dirt, and other occultish items—spell or summoning ingredients—circled around a leather-covered journal and a tray of burned offerings.

"A little arts-and-crafty for a giant bat, right?" Sam asked, as Dean picked up the journal.

"Huh," I murmured, gazing curiously at the item.

Then a voice echoed from down another tunnel. All three of us turned.

"Hello? Is someone there? Hello?"

Girls' voices.

My heart kicked hard. They were alive.

Sam took the lead across a narrow causeway—metal instead of brick now—his flashlight slicing through the dark. He scanned either side of the railings, and that's when we saw them.

A dozen girls, maybe more, caged beneath a thick iron grate in the floor. Dirty, terrified, reaching for us like we were the last flicker of hope they had left.

"Hey," Dean called, crouching. "We're gonna get you out."

"Quick," one girl said, voice trembling. I recognised her as Penny from her photo. "He's coming back."

The moment we turned toward the grate, all hell broke loose.

Sam was yanked backward like he'd been snared by an invisible rope—dragged down the tunnel by something fast and solid. Dean cursed and drew the sword.

The thing that stepped into the light wasn't breathing fire or flapping leathery wings. No, this "dragon" looked human—broad-shouldered, dark hair cropped short, skin like limestone. But his nails were clawed and thick, green-brown like old copper. His eyes were wrong too—something ancient, lurking behind human bone.

"Where do you think you're gonna stick that?" the creature sneered.

Dean didn't answer—just slashed the broken blade across its forearm.

The thing reeled back with a scream. A burning gash simmered along the dragon's arm. "Aah! Where did you get that?"

Dean glanced at the sword, visibly surprised it had done any damage.

"Comic-Con," he shot back.

I would've laughed if his next lunge hadn't ended with the dragon knocking the sword clean from his hand.

It clattered between the iron grates, slipping just out of reach.

The dragon's hand began to glow—red-hot, lit from within like coals in a fire. Heat shimmered in the air around it as he advanced, slow and sure, toward Dean and me. Dean pushed us both back a few steps, one hand anchoring at my hip so he knew where I was in relation to him—preparing for hand-to-hand combat.

This was gonna hurt.

Without warning, Sam sprang to his feet behind the creature and cracked it across the head with a metal crowbar, drawing its attention.

Dean lunged for the sword, fingers scrabbling.

I scanned the area, looking for something—anything—to break open the grate holding the girls. What I really needed was the crowbar in Sam's hands.

"Come on, come on," Dean muttered, breath ragged as he strained through the grate. The hilt was just out of reach. I couldn't help—not from this angle, and he had the longer reach anyway.

In the background, Sam swung again. The creature caught the crowbar mid-air. The metal melted in his hands, forcing Sam to drop it or risk burning. He backed off fast.

I was moving to help him when a second figure surged from the shadows.

Another dragon—Christ, there were two—grabbed Dean from behind as he lay on the grate. It lifted him clean off the ground and flung him down the causeway like he was nothing but dead weight.

"Dean!"

I changed direction—but the first dragon recovered faster. After landing a blow on Sam, it came for me. I ducked beneath its swing and drove my full weight into a shove, knocking it sideways into a rusted pipe. But its hand—still glowing molten—snapped around my bicep.

I screamed. Even through the leather, the heat was unbearable.

Sam stepped in, landing a brutal kick that sent the thing staggering. It let go of me. I fell back, clutching my arm, the pain already blooming under the skin.

Sam dove for the grate and snatched the sword.

Dean was already back on his feet, lashing out with a punch, then a powerful two-legged kick, using the railing for balance. The second dragon stumbled. I lunged forward and kicked it behind the knee, knocking it off balance. It dropped to one leg, then rose again—eyes burning, hands now hot as lava—as it kept us both at bay.

Sam raised the sword, turning it between the two dragons—then made his call.

He slashed the first one across the arm again. Skin sizzled, the wound deep and furious. The creature hissed and retreated a few steps.

Without pause, Sam pivoted. The second dragon lunged at Dean—and Sam drove the sword straight through its back.

The roar that tore through the chamber was not human. It crackled with static and fury before the creature buckled and fell.

The other dragon hesitated, saw the odds had shifted—and ran.

Just like that, it was quiet again. Except for the thud of my heart and the whimpering of the girls beneath our feet.

Dean reached me first, hands at my arms, eyes sweeping over me.

"How bad is it?" he asked, voice low.

I winced as his fingers brushed near the burn. "Bad," I admitted, giving him a look.

The heat still pulsed beneath the leather, like lava under my skin.

"Water," he said immediately, glancing to Sam.

Sam nodded, sword still in one hand, eyes scanning the tunnel.

"Go," he said. "Before it gets worse."

Dean hesitated—but only for a second. We'd passed a reservoir a few tunnels back. We'd be there and back in under ten minutes.

We didn't talk as we ran.

The reservoir was maybe three turns back—one of those wide open flood chambers built to funnel stormwater through the city. The air there was no less foul, but the space felt cleaner somehow. Like the rot hadn't had time to settle.

Dean jumped in first, splashing knee-deep, then turned and helped me down. His hands were steady, but his face was wrecked with worry.

"Jacket," he said, breath still ragged.

I nodded, teeth clenched, and eased out of the sleeves with a breath that shook harder than I wanted it to. The leather peeled back stiffly, fused at one seam. I hissed. Dean flinched just watching.

"Jesus, Beth…"

"It's fine," I lied, voice thinner than I wanted it to be.

Dean crouched, started pouring water over the burned sleeve of my shirt, trying to cool the fabric before it did more damage.

But it was already too late for that.

My skin was still burning. That deep, silent kind of burn—like the nerve endings couldn't decide if they were dead or screaming. With a third-degree burn, they say the pain can fade because the nerves are too damaged to register it. This wasn't that.

This was pain running under the skin. Wrong and raw and endless.

Dean's jaw tensed as he watched the redness spread across my arm.

"You need to get in," he said. "All the way in. Under."

"It's cold," I whispered.

"Exactly." He met my eyes. "You'll cook from the inside if we don't stop it."

I didn't argue. I stepped into the water up to my chest and sank down slowly, the cold biting so hard it made me cry out.

Dean was in after me in a second, fully clothed, arms wrapping around me from behind to hold me steady.

"I got you," he murmured, his breath at my shoulder. "Just breathe through it."

I did. Barely.

Minutes passed. I lost count of them. The pain didn't stop, but it dulled—muted under the weight of the cold.

Dean shifted behind me, pulling me closer.

"You're gonna have a scar," he said, voice quiet.

"Yeah," I murmured.

He paused. "You'll match the one I got when Cas yanked me out of Hell."

That made me blink. I turned slightly, catching the faint curve of his mouth.

"Sexy," I whispered.

"Not funny," he murmured, but he didn't pull away.

I sucked in a few long breaths, then my attention returned to Sam - there was still one dragon out there, what if it came back? My heart started to race, Dean seemed to pick up on it.

"If you're okay, let's get back," he said, voice low. "Sam's probably scaring the hell out of those girls."

"Only fair," I murmured. "They scared the hell out of us first."

Dean grinned faintly, helped me to my feet, and - dripping wet - we headed back through the tunnels.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Bobby's yard never changed.

It smelled like oil and rust and salt. It had that soft, humming quiet you only got in places where things got lost or discarded. The sun was low and golden, slanting through the open bay doors of the garage, warming the dust in the air like firelight in a cathedral.

Dean sat at the workbench, poking at one of the dragon's gold watches with the bored fascination of someone who hadn't yet decided whether to melt it down or wear it to a poker game.

I smiled at the way the light hit the Impala, gleaming off her freshly buffed exterior. The interior had also received a complete overhaul from Dean as soon as we'd hit the car yard—he'd been panicked about the damage our wet clothes had done to the leather seats after our swim in the reservoir.

I giggled, drifting in the soft edges only made possible by killer pain meds, and looked at Dean.

"What?" he asked, a half-smile on his face as he took in my appearance. I was perched on the edge of a work stool nearby, my arm bound and slung across my front like it was posing for a war memoir. Everything blurred golden—syrupy and slow.

"You never worry about the state of the leather after we've been in the back seat," I commented, raising an eyebrow at him.

Dean's mouth dropped open, and he stared at me.

"Well… that's different," he said after a beat.

"How so?"

"For one, we don't spend our days sitting around in sewerage," he said, nodding.

"No, but we do get good and messy," I giggled, waggling my eyebrows at him.

Dean stood, crossed the few steps to me and cupped my face in his hands, shaking his head with a chuckle.

"You are incorrigible," he murmured, kissing my nose.

"Hey, that's my line!" I protested, but I smiled just the same at the kiss.

He pulled back to peer into my eyes like he was assessing how I was really doing under all the pain meds and bravado.

"I'm okay," I whispered after a moment. His jaw twitched.

"Really," I insisted. "Although, I will not complain about a bit of doctoring…"

He snorted softly, an amused upturning to his perfect mouth. I voiced that thought.

"You have... the most perfect mouth. I ever tell you that?"

His eyebrow raised just a little. "Don't believe you have, sugarpie," he commented.

His lips found mine—warm and careful, a feather-light kiss that didn't try to steal anything, just settled into the space between us. I leaned into it, into him, letting the whole world still for that heartbeat.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine like he wanted to say something more. But he didn't need to.

I smiled, lopsided and blissed out. "You gonna kiss me again or just stand there getting sentimental?"

Dean chuckled, low in his chest. "I swear, you get mouthier every time you almost die."

"And you get sweeter," I said, nudging his nose with mine.

He pressed another kiss to my temple, just as the sound of a boot crunching gravel signalled Sam's arrival.

Dean dropped his hands away at the sound and turned to the bench, grabbing the gold watch and holding it up to his brother. "Hey, Sam," he said. "Ask me what time it is."

Sam paused, then gave a tired scoff. "Why don't you cut to the chase and just roll in it?"

Dean dropped back onto his stool, gesturing grandly at the duffel. "I rarely have wealth," he replied, running his hands through the treasure in front of him like he was Scrooge McDuck.

Sam didn't smile. His expression shifted, quiet and sombre. He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time since he walked in, and then he sank onto an empty stool, turning to his brother as he struggled to speak.

"Dean…"

"Yeah?" Dean replied, not looking up from a new watch he was now inspecting.

"I am so… so sorry," Sam said apologetically, his voice soft, haunted. His eyes flicked between the two of us. "I can't even begin to say."

Dean sat up straighter, the mood tilting. "For what?"

"You know what," Sam said, the unspoken reason hanging in the air between them.

He knew.

I sucked in a breath. Sam turned to look at me with shining eyes—clearly tortured. I didn't speak. Just met his eyes, let the weight of this new awareness hang. My silence wasn't cold. I simply didn't know what to say.

Dean's voice hardened. "Did Bobby—?"

"Cas," Sam answered quietly.

Dean made a sound under his breath. "Cas. Friggin' child."

"You should've told me, Dean."

"You weren't supposed to know."

"What I did? To Bobby? To you?" Sam's voice cracked. "Of course I should know."

Dean sighed. "Sam, Death didn't just shove your soul back in, okay? He put up the great wall of Sam between you and the things you don't remember. And trust me when I say the things you don't know could kill you. That's not a joke."

"All right," Sam said, nodding in understanding. "But I have to set things right. Or what I can, anyway."

"It wasn't you," Dean snapped.

"You know, I kind of feel like I got slipped the worst mickey of all time," Sam said. "And I woke up to find out that I had burned the whole city down. And you can say it wasn't me, but... I'm the one with the zippo in my pocket, you know? So I'm not sure it's that cut and dry."

Sam kept going, like he had to get it all out.

"And, look, I appreciate you both trying to protect me. I really do. But I've got to fix... what I've got to fix. So I need to know what I did."

Dean shook his head, defiant.

"But Sam, you don't know how dangerous that could be," I said finally, willing him with my eyes to let it drop.

"What would you do?" Sam asked, looking from me to Dean.

A beat as Dean contemplated an answer, but there wasn't one.

"Right," Sam said, a knowing tone to his voice. "Same thing."

Dean exhaled hard. The silence between them thickened.

"Sam…" he started, but before anything else could pass between them, Bobby stepped into the garage from the house.

"Guys," he said, looking a little preoccupied. "Something I think you ought to see."

That, mercifully, ended the current conversation as we all followed Bobby back indoors.

Along with the gold and the armory budget for the next five years, we'd also picked up the leather journal Sam had found near the altar in the sewers. He'd tucked it under his arm like it might bite, and Bobby had been buried in it ever since we got back.

I'd flipped through it on the ride back to Sioux Falls—more out of curiosity than clarity. The script was some form of Latin, that much I recognised, but I was too doped up on pain meds to do more than squint at the syntax and wonder if the words were moving.

Still, I remembered the feel of it in my lap. The leather cover was smooth and weathered, like something carved out of time. Old. Ancient. Majestic. Like it belonged on an altar—or in a tomb.

Now it sat on Bobby's desk, lit up by the desk lamp. Bobby sat down at the desk, and spun the book upright to face us.

"Now, as near as I can figure it, this dates back around the fourteenth century," Bobby said, tapping a line with his pen.

"What language is it?" Sam asked.

"Da Vinci Code. Real obscure Latin," Bobby grumbled. "Gonna take me my golden years to translate it all."

Sam flipped through a few pages, as if trying to translate it via touch, then reached for a chair so he could sit down, like he was going to start an all-night reading session.

"Oh, and FYI—that ain't paper," Bobby said.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"It's human skin," Bobby said grimly.

We all grimaced. Sam froze and lifted his fingers from the pages, looking at them like he'd been tainted.

Even Dean, who hadn't touched the book in over a day, rubbed his palms against his jeans like the knowledge alone made his skin itch.

I looked down at my own hands, a flicker of unease twisting in my gut. That book had sat in my lap the whole ride home. I'd traced its cover—admiring the ridges, the age, the sheer craftsmanship of it—thinking the book felt almost ?

Now that I knew what it was, it seemed sacrilegious.

A shudder rippled through me, revulsion curling low in my stomach. I pushed the thought aside as Bobby kept going.

"Okay. I'm fairly clear on this first bit. Basically, it describes this place. It's like the backside of your worst nightmares. All blood and bone and darkness."

I stepped in a little closer, arms folded, my slinged one cradled against my chest. The script was old—medieval, fractured. But I recognised the cadence. I'd read verses like this before, buried in apocryphal texts and glossed-over footnotes in seminary studies.

"Filled with the bodies and souls of all things hungry, sharp, and nasty," Bobby added.

"Monsters?" Sam said.

"It's monsterland," Bobby confirmed. "According to this, it goes by many names, most of which I can't pronounce. But I'm thinking you know Purgatory."

"Purgatory?" Dean let out a low breath, looking at me. "You're the expert."

I pursed my lips, drawing on years of scriptural study.

"Purgatory isn't in the Bible," I said, glancing between them. "Not canonically, not in the Protestant tradition anyway. It's a construct—a theological space that showed up more in Catholic doctrine and Second Temple writings. A place of purification. Fire, trial. A holding pen between Heaven and Hell."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sounds cozy."

I tapped the edge of a page. "This lines up more with the apocryphal stuff. 2 Esdras, The Apocalypse of Peter. They described something more chaotic—darker. A landscape of torment, held apart from both Hell and Heaven. Not judgment. Containment."

Dean made a face. "So not a pit stop. A prison."

I nodded. "For things too corrupted to redeem… but too dangerous to destroy."

"Like supernatural solitary," Dean muttered.

"Worse," I said softly. "Solitary with teeth."

Dean let out a low breath. "Awesome. Well, that is good to know." He reached across the desk for the ever present bottle of whiskey and a spare glass, clearly unsettled by this new information. He poured himself a tall drink as Bobby finished the rest of his.

"So, you're saying that these, uh, dragon freaks were squatting in the sewers and reading tone poems about Purgatory?" Dean asked, sitting down on the couch. I moved to sit next to him, reaching for the glass and taking a sip while he spoke.

"Oh, no, no, no," Bobby said, his eyes widening. "They're reading an instruction manual."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Yeah. If you're nuts enough to want access to a place that gnarly, this book'll show you how to open a door."

"A door to Purgatory," Dean mused. He took the glass back from me and raised it to his lips.

"Well, I know a demon who would love to know about that."

Sam's face contorted, like he was trying to hold too many pieces of the puzzle at once. My own thoughts were racing. I reached out and let my fingers rest lightly on Dean's knee, grounding myself in the feel of denim and muscle, in something warm and human. I wasn't sure if I was steadying him or me.

Crowley had been hunting Alphas, tearing up the supernatural food chain to find the first of every kind. We'd thought he was building an army. Power play. Dominion. Demon King stuff.

But the Vampire Alpha had said it himself—Crowley wasn't after them. Not really.

He was after a location.

Purgatory.

He wanted to open it.

I felt my stomach twist. If this book was what it claimed to be—an instruction manual, a roadmap—then maybe the Alphas weren't the goal. Maybe they were the key. The originals. The ones closest to the source. If anyone remembered the way back in, it'd be them.

"So, how do you open it?" I asked, curious.

Bobby sighed, and flipped to a section of the journal where a page had been torn out.

"Ask Cloverfield. I'm pretty sure he's got that page," Bobby said grimly.

I leaned my head back against the couch and exhaled, the weight of it all sinking into my chest. There was only one reason the dragon would have torn a page from that book.

It wasn't just scripture. It was a key.

"This isn't just theological," I murmured. "It's ritualistic. Whatever was on that page… I'd bet anything it's essential to opening the door."

Dean turned toward me, brow furrowed. "You're saying this… actually works?"

"It's not just lore," I said, jaw tightening. "It's liturgy."

"It gets worse," Bobby muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam leaned in, instinctively bracing. "Worse?"

"This ain't talking about how to visit Purgatory," Bobby said. "This is about opening a door to let something in."

Sam's expression shifted, a flicker of dread under his brows. "Bring something here. What?"

"I'm working on it," Bobby said.

Dean's voice sharpened like a blade. "Could you give us something?"

Bobby didn't flinch. Just shrugged, eyes still on the book. "I got a name."

Dean straightened, tension coiling across his shoulders. "Okay."

"Mother."

Sam blinked, the word hanging between us like smoke. "Mother? M–mother of what? Mother of dragons?"

"I wish," Bobby said dryly, flipping to a different page without looking up. "It says it a few times here. Mother of all."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before—like the journal had just exhaled something ancient into the room, and we were the ones left holding our breath.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What the hell does 'Mother of all' mean?"

Bobby shook his head, voice low. "I don't know."

It was the unknown that frightened me. Not the monsters, not the blood—but the dark in-between, the things we hadn't named yet.

My arm throbbed, a dull pulse that cut through the last edges of the pain relief I'd been riding. Like the weight of this conversation had flushed it all from my system. I shifted, uncomfortable, rolling my shoulder without thinking—only to feel Dean's arm slide around me, his fingers finding the tension at the base of my neck where the sling rested heavily.

He didn't say anything. Just worked the knot with slow, practiced pressure. Like he knew I wouldn't ask for it. As if he'd been waiting for the moment I finally sagged.

Because I did. The last couple of days hit me all at once—bone-deep exhaustion settling into every muscle and thought.

God, I was tired.

Not just from the pain or the fight. From carrying this much unknowing.

I leaned a little more into Dean's side, and let my eyes slip shut for a beat longer than a blink.

Maybe it was too much to ask—but right then, I wished we could all just pause.
Just take a breath.

What I really needed… was a holiday from all of this.

Authors Notes

The song for this chapter is Hurt by Nine Inch Nails

I wanted to honour the beats of Supernatural's original "Like a Virgin," while weaving in the emotional aftermath of Beth and Dean's reconnection, the return of Sam's soul, and the deepening mystery surrounding Purgatory. It's an episode heavy with lore and tension—and now, a little extra intimacy, gallows humour, and dragon robbery.

This fic runs on hot-and-heavy detours, Winchester smirks, and reader reviews. If you laughed, gasped, or had to take a cold shower because of Dean and Beth, I want to hear about it. Favourite moments, emotional gut-punches, or even just a "still here" all help keep this thing going. Thanks for reading.