Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited by: KariGorsuch

I exhaled sharply, crossing my arms as I peered through the next morning's fog that crept over the salvage yard. For a moment, I held my breath, listening to the familiar rhythm of heartbeats echoing through the house. Everyone was asleep—except for one.

My eyes narrowed as I caught movement near the GMC parked in front of the house. A shadow shifting inside. Uncrossing my arms, I turned toward the coffee maker, which was finishing its quiet, gurgling protest against the silence. Hesitantly, I grabbed a mug from the cabinet, pouring a fresh cup as the machine stilled.

The familiar scent curled into my nose, tightening something in my chest. I ignored the craving, inhaling deeply before snatching a few packets of sugar and a handful of creamer from Bobby's lazy Susan. I eyed the carefully prepared peace offering before glancing over my shoulder.

Sam and Dean were out cold—Sam sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown over his face, Dean sunk deep into the cot, an arm hanging off the side. The kind of sleep only exhaustion could buy.

With one last flicker of hesitation, I moved.

Cup in hand, I eased onto the porch, the chill biting through my sleeves as I made my way to the GMC. Reluctantly, I set the coffee, sugar, and creamer along the edge of the truck bed before tapping lightly on the passenger-side window.

The response was immediate. A rustle, then sudden movement inside. I barely stopped myself from flinching as John Winchester's face appeared in the window, his eyes sharp and wary even through the haze of interrupted sleep.

The door creaked open, and he stepped out, stretching his back with a grunt. "Mornin'?" His voice was rough, edged with suspicion. His jaw was already tight, like he'd woken up ready for a fight. "You need something?"

"I figured you could use something this morning." I shrugged, nodding toward the coffee and the scattered sugar packets on the truck bed. "Y'know, after sleeping in the truck all night."

John's eyes flicked to mine, assessing, before shifting toward the steaming cup. He didn't reach for it immediately. Instead, he braced one hand on the doorframe and leaned down, shoving a boot onto his foot. Then the other.

I took the silence for what it was and turned to head back inside. "I'll leave you to it then—"

"Evelyn, right?"

His voice carried through the cool morning air like something heavy, something meant to stick. I hesitated before slowly turning back to face him.

"Eve," I corrected, shifting my stance, my boots scraping against the gravel.

John nodded, almost mockingly, as he straightened up. "Eve." Like he was testing how it felt on his tongue. Then, finally, he picked up the coffee and shut the truck door behind him. "What made you do this? After yesterday?"

"You're human," I said simply, meeting his gaze. "Snap judgments, mistakes—they happen."

His lip curled slightly. "If you think this—" he raised the coffee cup, glancing at the sugar and creamer, "—is gonna make me accept you, or give you my blessing—"

"I don't need your acceptance or your blessing, John." My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't back down. When his eyes met mine, I squared my shoulders. "The only people in my life I give a damn about are still sleeping." I jerked my chin toward the house.

John watched me, his expression unreadable, before finally reaching for a sugar packet. He tore it open with his teeth, poured it into the cup, then grabbed another and stuffed the extras into his jacket pocket like they were some kind of peace offering.

Then, he stepped forward.

Close.

Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat. The scent of old leather, sweat, and the faintest trace of motor oil clung to him.

His eyes bore into mine, searching, waiting for me to flinch.

I didn't.

"Dean's a grown man, John." I let the words settle, then exhaled sharply, uncrossing my arms and resting my hands on my hips. "He makes his own decisions. Same goes for Sam."

John shifted slightly, his grip tightening around the coffee cup before bringing it to his lips. He took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.

Finally, he cleared his throat and smirked. "Tell you what, kid," he muttered, rolling the remaining creamer between his fingers, "if you and the brunette make it through what's coming? I'll consider it."

"Save it." I shot, glaring harder at him.

I let the silence stretch, thick and unyielding, watching John with a level stare. For a second, I considered snatching the coffee back, just to make a point. Instead, I turned on my heel and made my way back into the house, John following close behind.

"Everyone's still asleep. Or is it too much to ask for you to be considerate?"

John chuckled at that, low and amused, as he stepped inside. He didn't respond—just smirked as he dropped into the armchair near the cot where Dean was sprawled out, dead to the world.

I hesitated for a moment, my eyes flickering toward John, studying him before settling into the chair behind Bobby's desk. I pulled the laptop open, its glow illuminating my face as I dove back into the research from the night before.

The night before.

Flashes of Dean—his eyes, his kiss, his touch—crashed into me, making my gaze snap up over the top of the laptop screen. He was still, his breathing slow and steady, for once not plagued by nightmares.

So peaceful.

So tempting.

Movement caught my eye—John shifting in his chair, adjusting his jacket. When I looked up again, his knowing stare was already on me, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I bit back a reaction, smirking instead as I flicked my eyes back to the screen, fingers moving lightly over the keys.

Fifteen minutes passed in near silence, the only sounds filling the room being the rhythmic tapping of my typing and the soft snores from both Winchesters. I'd nearly forgotten John was even there when his voice, low and quiet, cut through the air.

"If I can ask," he started, and I realized he was already halfway across the room, moving quietly. The man was a hunter through and through. "What are you working on?"

I stiffened slightly, fingers hovering over the keys. My brain worked through the possible responses before finally settling on the truth—at least part of it.

John shot me a small smile as he stepped around the desk, waiting.

"Time travel," I murmured, clicking out of a window before he got too close, "and... entities that can do said time traveling."

"What was that?" John gestured toward the screen, placing his coffee cup down on the desk. "What you just clicked out of?"

"Nothing." I smirked, not meeting his gaze.

"Secrets?" His voice was edged with something light, teasing—but there was something else beneath it, something knowing. His gaze flicked toward Dean. "That won't go over well."

My jaw tightened.

John ignored me, leaning over just enough to glance at my screen. Too close. I tensed, barely resisting the urge to shove him back.

The cot creaked.

"Dad?"

Dean's voice, thick and husky with sleep, cut through the tension. His eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, widened when they landed on John—but when they found me, they softened.

"Eve."

I exhaled, shoulders easing as I pushed up from the chair, stepping away from John's hovering presence.

"Dean," John nodded, casual, as he slid into the chair I'd just abandoned. He rested an elbow on the desk, settling in as he took over the laptop like he had every right to. "Your girl here brought me coffee this morning—"

"You slept in the truck?" Dean asked, his voice still rough with sleep as he sat up.

I felt his gaze follow me as I crossed the room, stepping into the kitchen. The warm scent of coffee filled the air as I poured two fresh cups, adding a little sugar and cream to one before turning back toward the office.

"Eve, what are you—?" Dean started, watching me with curious amusement.

I caught the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as I handed him the cup.

"You didn't have to—"

I leaned in and pressed my lips against his.

Short. Firm. Just enough.

When I pulled away, I could feel John's stare like a weight pressing on the side of my face, but I didn't acknowledge it. Dean, however, was studying me with a faint flush dusting his cheeks, his hand tightening slightly around the coffee cup.

I turned to the couch, where Sam was blinking rapidly through a yawn, still shaking off sleep.

"Sam," I said softly, catching his attention.

He sat up, slinging his legs over the edge of the couch as I handed him the second cup. His brows lifted slightly as he studied the coffee's color.

"How did you know how I take my coffee?" he asked, eyeing the slightly blonde liquid.

"Bri." I grinned.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but his gaze turned skeptical as he looked between me and the cup.

"So, does this mean you don't hate me anymore? Or is this poison?"

I rolled my eyes. "I never hated you, Sam. And if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't be this subtle about it."

Dean chuckled beside me, shifting on the cot. He stretched, muscles flexing under bare skin, and yeah—not a bad sight. Not complaining.

John was still watching, studying the easy way we interacted, his face unreadable. I met his gaze, jaw clenching. Dean caught it, his eyes flicking between us before narrowing slightly at his father.

"Speaking of Bri—" I started, taking a step toward the office exit.

Before I could move, Dean caught my wrist, tugging me back to him.

He didn't hesitate, tilting my chin up before pressing his lips to mine, slower this time, deliberate. Welcoming.

When he pulled back, I exhaled, smirking. "Good morning to you too."

Dean grinned, but his expression flickered when he turned and caught John's hard gaze. My own smile faded as I tightened my grip on Dean's bicep for just a second before stepping away.

I didn't need to see how that conversation was about to go.

I stepped out of the office, heading upstairs, only to pass Bobby in the hall.

"Eve," he greeted with a nod as he moved past me.

"Bobby, there's coffee made." I gestured toward the kitchen, earning a small approving smile from him before turning the corner.

I reached mine and Bri's bedroom door, turning the knob.

"Bri—?"

I stopped short.

That smell.

Metallic.

Fresh.

Too much.

"Bri?" My voice rose in alarm as panic hit like a freight train. The door swung open—

And my stomach plummeted.

The bed was unmade. The room, empty.

But the scent of blood was thick.

I barely gave myself a second to process before bolting toward the adjoining bathroom door.

Another locked door. Another sharp kick of my boot.

The second it gave way, my chest tightened with horror.

Bri stood in front of what was left of the mirror—shattered, glass scattered in the sink and across the tile. But half of the mirror still clung to the frame, reflecting the nightmare before me.

Her body convulsed, muscles locked in a violent tremor. Her fists clenched, white-knuckled, around jagged shards of glass. Blood dripped, pooling at her feet, slithering into the cracks of the floor.

"SAM! DEAN!" I screamed, my voice raw, desperate, before surging forward.

I grabbed the nearest towel, lunging at her just as another violent tremor wracked her frame.

"DEAN!" I screamed again as I yanked her away from the mirror.

She buckled, her body giving out, and we hit the floor hard.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, distant but closing fast.

I barely registered them.

Hands shaking, I pried the glass shards from Bri's fingers, her blood slick against my skin. I forced her hands around the towel, pressing it tight to stem the bleeding.

"Bri, stay with me—stay with me!" I whispered, my heart hammering as I cradled her trembling body.

The pounding footsteps reached the doorway.

And then—

"What the hell—?" Dean's voice, sharp, edged with panic.

"Bri!" I called, repositioning her against the tub, hoping the cool surface would ground her, pull her out of whatever this was. The convulsions had begun to slow, but her hands still trembled in mine, her fingers slick with blood. I squeezed tighter, applying pressure to the wounds. "Can you hear me?!" My voice cracked as I freed one hand to brush damp strands of hair from her face. "Bri... answer me!"

"Eve?" Dean again, stepping forward. Three figures loomed in the doorway—John, Bobby, and Sam, all tense, eyes wide. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

"Bri!" Sam's shout was raw, breaking through the charged air as he shoved past Bobby and John, dropping to his knees beside me. "What...?" His voice faltered as he took in the scene. Without hesitation, he replaced my hands over Bri's, his grip firm but careful.

Dean pulled me to my feet, steadying me.

"I don't know—" The words spilled from me, but my body was reacting in two separate ways. Tears burned behind my eyes, but beneath that, something else was rising—something darker. My fangs ached, pressing forward of their own accord. The scent of blood—fresh, thick—curled around me like an intoxicating whisper. I could feel my instincts clawing at my restraint.

I should've thought to retract them sooner.

"- I came up here to wake her, and I smelled blood—"

"What the hell?!" John's voice cut in, sharp and accusing.

Bobby went pale. His eyes flicked from Bri, to me, to the growing tension in the room.

Dean stiffened beside me, his gaze flicking—too quickly—down to my lips. A second too late, I realized what he saw.

Fangs.

Shit.

My hand shot up to my mouth, horrified.

Dean moved fast, stepping in front of me, his arm wrapping around my waist as a silent barricade between me and his father.

John saw.

Dean knew it.

I knew it.

John's eyes darkened as he pointed, his tone razor-sharp. "Did I just see—?" He cut himself off, shifting his glare from me to Dean, searching for an explanation.

Dean's jaw clenched. He didn't move his arm from my waist. Instead, he reached down, taking my hand, entangling our fingers in a show of unwavering solidarity.

The weight of the moment thickened, pressing against my ribs like a vice.

A small shift on the floor—Bri.

Sam's body tensed as he adjusted her, carefully pulling her against his chest. My eyes darted down.

Her eyes were closed now. Not rolling, not white. Her breathing had slowed, the heaving gone.

A small victory amid the rising storm.

John's tension only grew. He took a step forward. "I asked you a question." His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. His gaze bore into Dean, then flicked to me. "What did I just see?"

My grip tightened on Dean's hand. His fingers squeezed back in unison.

"John!" Bobby's voice snapped through the air, cutting through the thick silence. "Downstairs. Now."

John's expression flickered—disbelief, irritation. Then a slow smirk crept onto his face. He didn't move. "Bobby, she—"

"- I said now!" Bobby's voice thundered through the bathroom, shaking the walls.

Bri jolted awake at the sheer volume.

"Bri!" I gasped, dropping Dean's hand and squatting beside her, my heart hammering. "Can you hear me?"

She stirred in Sam's arms, her fingers twitching against his shirt.

"Get away from her!" John's bark lashed through the air like a whip.

I barely had time to react before he moved.

John stepped forward, but Dean was faster.

Dean shifted, blocking his father's path in an instant, his stance solid—unshakable.

But John was faster than I expected.

With one sharp shove, he knocked Dean aside just enough to make his point.

"Dean—"

Before I could fully process what was happening, John's rough, calloused grip locked onto my bicep.

The second his fingers tightened, something inside me snapped.

I barely registered Bri stirring in Sam's arms as I turned toward John, muscles coiling, fangs projecting before I could stop them.

John's eyes widened—just slightly—but his grip didn't loosen.

"John," My voice was low, seething, vibrating through my body like a live wire. "You have two seconds to let—me—go."

He didn't flinch.

Neither did I.

We stood there, locked in a silent standoff, the air thick with the kind of tension that only came before an explosion.

"Dad!" Dean's bark cut through, raw and dangerous.

Before I could react, he lunged in, prying John's grip off me with a force as sharp as his voice. "Let her go!"

John's arm jerked back, but his expression remained like stone. "But she's a—"

"-Vampire." I spat the word through clenched fangs, daring him to say it.

And that's when I felt it before I saw it—the shift in the air.

The cold weight of a gun barrel pressed against my forehead.

It happened too fast for me to react.

But Dean moved faster.

Smooth. Calculated. Lethal.

In a blink, he stepped between me and the barrel, his body an immovable force.

His jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles ticking, his breath slow and controlled, his eyes locked onto John's. And for a moment—just a moment—everything else in the room faded.

"Put. The damn. Gun. Down."

Dean's voice was so low, so lethal, it sent a shiver down my spine.

John didn't move.

Didn't waver.

Didn't even blink.

His stillness was somehow more unnerving than the gun itself.

"She's a damn vampire, Dean," John scoffed, his voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade.

Dean's knuckles flexed at his sides. "I know what she is."

Then—he smirked. Not amused. Not cocky.

A challenge.

"And I don't give a damn."

John let out a humorless scoff, rolling his eyes. "You don't give a damn? She's a monster, Dean. You should be putting her down, not protecting her."

"She's not a monster."

Dean's voice was thick—with conviction, with warning.

"She's saved my life. Hell, she's saved all of our lives."

John's eyes flickered—something like frustration, something like disbelief.

"Are you hearing yourself right now?" He almost laughed, but the gun in his hand didn't budge. "Jesus Christ, Dean, she's—"

"-Family."

The word cut through the air like a blade.

It didn't come from Dean.

Or Sam.

It came from Bobby.

He'd been leaning against the wall, where John had shoved him.

Now, he stepped forward.

"She's family." His voice was firm, unwavering. "And you know damn well what that means."

John's grip on the gun faltered—just a flicker, but I saw it.

We all did.

John's eyes flicked to Bobby, but before he could respond, Dean cleared his throat.

That's when I felt it.

Our hands—intertwined.

His fingers squeezed mine, firm and grounding, a silent reassurance cutting through the storm of tension. And when John's gaze dropped to our grip, Dean spoke again—low, raw, and unwavering.

"She's more than family, Dad."

The air in the room shifted.

It was subtle, but I saw it—the flicker of something crossing John's face. Hesitation. Frustration. Fear. As if Dean's words carried a weight heavier than he'd expected.

Dean saw it too.

And he didn't let up.

He stepped forward, closing the space between them, his voice dropping even lower—if that were possible.

"She's everything to me."

The words hit like a gunshot.

Louder than anything else that had been said.

My breath hitched.

My heartbeat roared in my ears, so loud I thought everyone could hear it. But I didn't dare move.

Neither did John.

His mouth tightened, fingers twitching over the grip of his gun.

"No. No—she's not." His voice was a quiet fury now, thick with something else, something deeper. "You think you can trust her? She's playing with your head, boy. You think she won't turn on you the second she gets the chance?"

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

Because I knew what he was doing.

And the worst part?

He was digging into something real.

Something Dean had struggled with since Casper. Since the turning. Since the moment I became something he should fear, something he should hunt.

And yet—

Dean didn't waver.

His grip tightened around my hand, his confidence unshaken.

"She's had a hundred chances already." His voice was steady, absolute. "If she wanted me dead, I'd be dead."

A sharp exhale left John's nose. His jaw flexed, his grip on the gun rigid.

"She's not human, Dean."

Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

Then—John's voice dropped, something grim laced beneath it.

"What if she loses control?"

"Then I'll handle it."

Dean cut him off, stepping even closer, his voice ironclad. "But that's not gonna happen."

The standoff stretched, thick and suffocating, a silent battle of sheer will—until Bobby broke the tension.

"Come on, John." His voice was smooth, but there was steel behind it. "Ain't no one dyin' tonight."

John's eyes flicked to him, and we all saw the conflict etched into his face.

His jaw clenched again as his gaze snapped back to Dean. "You're making a mistake."

Dean didn't blink. His voice dropped, quiet, lethal. "No. You are."

A beat.

Then—finally—John lowered the gun.

The tension didn't ease, not really. Not as he slid the weapon back into his holster, not as his sharp, unreadable glare flickered to me.

And then—to Bri.

She was barely upright, pain flickering across her face as she struggled to keep her head up.

That was when John smirked.

It was subtle, but it was there. A small, knowing curl of amusement at the edge of his lips, like he had figured something out.

He turned on his heel, but Bobby wasn't having it. With a heavy shove, he forced John toward the door. "Out."

The door slammed shut behind them.

And then—silence.

No one moved. No one even breathed.

Finally, Dean let out a sharp exhale, his shoulders dropping slightly as he turned to me. His expression softened—just barely.

"You okay?"

"Y-Yeah..." I blinked, trying to force my mind to catch up, to retract my fangs, to steady my breath.

And then—our eyes locked.

Something inside me snapped.

Before I could even think, I cupped his cheek, my other hand sliding behind his neck. I pulled him into me, pressing my lips to his—firm, desperate, real.

Dean grinned into the kiss, his hand catching my face as he deepened it—grounding me. Anchoring me.

"Guess the cat's outta the bag, huh?"

Bri's dry, exhausted voice cut through the moment like a knife, dragging us back to reality.

We broke apart, breathless, turning toward her as she winced, touching her ribs. Her expression was caught somewhere between amusement and complete exhaustion as her gaze found Sam's relieved one.

"What the fuck just happened?"

Dean smirked, still so damn close to me. His fingers laced through mine again, squeezing—reassuring.

He didn't even break eye contact as he answered.

"Long story, sweetheart."