Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited: by: KariGorsuch

The Impala's door shut with a solid thud, but I didn't so much as flinch. I set my jaw, tugging my jacket tighter around me, Dean's presence at my side like static—loud without saying a word.

He was trying. I could feel it in every step he took closer than necessary, in the quiet weight of his attention as we climbed the steps to Bobby's front door. He'd always burned hot—all leather and fire and stubborn gravity—but I didn't react.

Not on the outside.

Inside, I was screaming.

I slipped off my jacket the second we stepped in, stretching just enough for my shirt to lift, a flash of skin catching the dim light. Behind me, I heard Dean exhale—short, sharp.

"Alright," he muttered, almost to himself. "We're doin' this."

I smirked where he couldn't see.

In the kitchen, I rolled my shoulders back, slow and deliberate, chasing out some invisible ache. I could practically hear Dean's eyes dragging down my back. When I reached up for a glass, I knew exactly what I was doing—and so did he.

The silence between us pulsed.

Dean shifted behind me, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. "Y'know," he drawled, trying for casual and landing somewhere near desperate, "most people talk to their boyfriends."

I took a long sip of water, turned, and met his gaze with nothing but ice. Then, slow and silent, I stepped past him—close enough that I felt the tension in his body ripple like a live wire.

He had to press back against the counter just to avoid touching me.

I reached behind him, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and poured myself a drink—still holding his gaze, still saying nothing. The clink of the glass on the counter sounded louder than it should've.

Dean huffed a breath, part-laugh, part-growl. "Oh, you're enjoyin' this, aren't you?"

I tilted my head, letting a smile ghost the corner of my lips—all innocent eyes and wicked intent.

His hands twitched—like he was barely restraining himself from grabbing me, from dragging words out of my mouth with his own. Instead, he edged closer, his voice low, dangerous.

"I could make you talk."

I held his gaze, cool and unreadable, like I was evaluating a piece of decor I wasn't quite sold on. My bottom lip arched outward slightly, thoughtful, then my eyes flicked—disinterested—to the half-empty coffee pot beside us.

My heart was slamming against my ribs, but I didn't let it show.

Dean stepped in closer, brushing my hair off my shoulder with a touch that was almost tender. His breath ghosted over my skin, and my body betrayed me—aching for him to do more. Just a kiss. A graze. A bite. Anything to match the fire burning between us.

But instead, he whispered, voice molten and devastating:

"I could make you scream."

I snapped my gaze to his, fire to fire.

God, I wanted him. I wanted to tear that leather jacket off his body, slam him into the kitchen door behind him, and set him on fire from the inside out.

But then the reminder hit—cold and sharp. A line neither of us could afford to cross. Not yet.

Still, I didn't flinch. I didn't break. I let the weight of my silence say everything.

Dean's nostrils flared. My hand moved, slow and calculated, as I reached past him for the coffee pot again—making damn sure to brush against him as I did—then turned and walked away, leaving nothing but the burn of my heat behind.

"Damn it, Eve." His voice was a low growl, raw and wrecked.

I smirked as I disappeared down the hall, knowing he was watching every single step.

Let him suffer.

The warm glow of the desk lamp painted gold across the room, casting long shadows over stacked books and yellowing papers. Bobby hunched over a thick tome, glasses low on his nose, his fingers drumming absently against a nearly empty cup.

He didn't look up when I walked in.

"Find anything?" I asked, crossing to him and topping off his mug without waiting for an answer. I set the pot down on an empty shelf behind his chair, letting the silence stretch before continuing, casual. "On—" I paused, scanning the page beneath his fingers. My eyes widened, letting just enough alarm bleed through. "—crossroad deals?"

Bobby grunted, flipping a page with more force than necessary. "Plenty. None of it good."

"Nothin' that don't sound like a suicide mission." Bobby's eyes slid toward mine with a suspicious glint. "Back from a night of impressive grand theft auto, I see..."

I grinned at the mix of exhaustion, curiosity, and reluctant amusement on his face—but the moment didn't get the chance to settle.

Dean's voice cut in from the doorway behind me. "Well, look at that. She speaks!"

I didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just moved past Bobby and planted myself on the far side of the desk, flipping through a loose stack of notes like I hadn't heard a damn thing.

Dean clicked his tongue. "Huh. Thought maybe I was imagining you forgot how."

I kept my expression neutral, narrowing my eyes at a scribbled diagram that meant nothing—at least, not right now.

Bobby let out a gruff chuckle, shaking his head. "Boy, you're pushin' your luck."

Dean scoffed. "What? Just pointing out the facts. She steals my car, goes full mime—we get back and suddenly she's chatting it up with you, probably whispered sweet nothings to the coffee pot too." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at his mouth. "But me? Nada. Not even a grunt."

I finally looked up, the warm desk lamp casting shadows across my features. Our eyes locked—his burning, mine cool—and I gave him a slow, unimpressed blink before glancing back at Bobby.

"Guess you're just special, Bobby."

Bobby barked out a laugh, standing and grabbing his cup. "That's what I keep tellin' people." He moved past Dean, shaking his head as he disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something about caffeine and sainthood.

Dean muttered something under his breath too—low and sharp—but of course, he wasn't done.

"See, here's what I don't get," Dean went on, stepping fully into the room, boots scuffing across the floor like punctuation. "You can glare at me. You can breathe the same damn air as me. But when it comes to actually speaking to me?" He whistled low. "That's where you draw the line?"

I flipped the top page of notes to the bottom of the stack without looking up.

Dean let out a dramatic sigh, like he was starring in his own one-man show. "Gotta say, sweetheart, if this is your idea of punishment, I expected more."

I didn't dignify it with so much as a blink.

"Oh no," he said, clearly relishing every second. "She's immune." His weight shifted again, a subtle creak of old floorboards, and then he was beside me—too close, too warm, too familiar. "Too bad I know exactly what buttons to press."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his hand drifting to the loose button on my flannel. A casual tug—barely there, but enough to send heat curling low in my stomach.

I grabbed the pen beside me and tapped it against the open book, slow and steady. "You done?"

Dean's grin was pure sin. "Oh, so she can respond."

From the kitchen doorway, Bobby returned with a fresh mug and a worn-out stretch of his spine. He took one look at the scene and let out a low, amused grunt. "Y'know, Dean, most men would be smart enough to quit while they're ahead."

Dean didn't take his eyes off me. "Good thing I'm not most men." He leaned in, close enough that his breath danced across my cheek. "Right, sweetheart?"

I didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

Just grabbed the book in front of me and shoved it into his chest without warning.

Dean caught it on instinct, hands wrapping around the spine before it could fall. He stared down at it, then at me—brows raised, lips twitching into something between admiration and challenge.

"Look at that," I said flatly. "I can respond."

Bobby burst into full laughter this time, shaking his head as he crossed the room.

Dean, still clutching the book like I'd handed him a live grenade, looked half intrigued, half turned on.

I dropped into Bobby's desk chair without another word as he pulled a kitchen chair into place beside me. Dean dragged his usual armchair across the floor and sank into it on the opposite side of the desk—never breaking eye contact.

"Where's Bri and Sam?" I asked, ignoring the heat of Dean's stare as I flipped back to the notes like nothing had happened.

Bobby jerked a thumb toward the stairs behind him.

"Recharging, which is what I would say you two need to be doin'." Bobby smirked, shooting a look between us like he already knew the battle lines had been drawn and neither of us planned on waving a white flag anytime soon. "But I know you barely sleep," he added with a nod toward me before pointing with his glasses at Dean, "and you won't do much without that one, so..."

I caught Dean's gaze the moment it slid to me—equal parts exasperated and amused. My brow lifted in silent agreement just before Bobby plucked the book from my hands and replaced it with another. "Time travel first," he said, tone brooking no argument. "If we divide and conquer, we'll get further."

Damn it.
Of course he'd redirected me before I could even build an excuse to help with the loopholes—before I could stand beside Dean, shoulder to shoulder, just close enough to drive him insane.

I let out a quiet sigh and opened the new book, flipping past a few handwritten notes and yellowed pages until I found something that looked halfway promising.

I glanced at Dean, expecting to catch him with some smug little grin or a raised brow like he'd won a silent round. But his expression surprised me.

No smirk. No cocky glance.

Just focus.

He was flipping through the book I'd handed him, brow furrowed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His fingers skimmed the margins of the page like muscle memory, like he was tracing something familiar. Like maybe—for once—he was actually trying.

I looked away before he caught me staring.

About an hour slipped by—quiet but loaded. The kind of silence that hums. That crackles.

The soft turning of pages, the occasional grunt from Bobby, and the weight of Dean's gaze every time I shifted in my chair. Every time I reached for my coffee. Every time I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

He was watching me.
Always watching me.
But I didn't give in.

Not directly.

Instead, I let the game play out my way.

I stretched—subtle, languid—arms up, back arching just slightly in my chair. Letting my shirt ride the tiniest bit. I could feel the heat of his stare slide lower.

I flipped a page, leaned forward with my elbow on the desk, fingers curled around the pen I'd been twirling since we sat down. My lips curled just barely at the edge, feigning deep thought while I dragged the end of the pen along my lower lip.

A chair creaked sharply across from me.

Dean shifted, not even trying to hide it now.

The hours dragged on, morning's soft blue glow beginning to fill in the black void of the windows. With a heavy sigh, I slid a sticky note onto a page to mark my spot and let my eyes scan the room.

Bobby was slumped over his side of the desk, glasses askew, out cold.

Dean sat opposite him, arms crossed, head tilted back against the wall. His breathing was steady, slow. Asleep.

Leaving just me.
Alone.
In the silence.

It should've felt peaceful. Maybe it would have, if I weren't so used to silence meaning something was about to go wrong.

I rose as quietly as I could, the old floorboards creaking under my weight as I made my way toward the kitchen. I paused beside Dean, watching the book he'd been holding slowly slide off his lap.

I rolled my eyes and caught it before it hit the floor, setting it carefully on the desk. Then, with a soft sigh, I pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over his sleeping form. He didn't stir. Just let out a barely-there exhale and turned slightly toward the warmth.

He looked so still like that.
So at peace.
It almost hurt to look at him.

I hesitated for a moment longer, then pulled myself back—shoving the feeling down—and turned toward the kitchen.

Of course, the coffee pot was empty.
Figures.

I glared at it like it had personally betrayed me, then reached to start another brew, moving with quiet precision. I was halfway through the motions when the floor creaked behind me.

I stilled.

Closed my eyes.

Listened.

The heartbeat that reached me wasn't Dean's.
Wasn't Bobby's.

It was Sam's.

The tension in my shoulders melted before I could stop it. I heard him step through the office, heard the soft breath of his silent laugh as he passed the two slumbering bodies. Then... he stopped in the doorway behind me.

I hit the brew button and finally turned to face him.

He looked different.
Older.
Not in the way people age, but in the way people carry ghosts with them.

Still, he was here.
Alive.

Our eyes met, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before I closed the distance and pulled him into a hug.

A real one.

"Oh," He scoffed, taking the hug by surprise and hesitantly wrapped his arm around me. "Hi..Eve, didn't expect anyone to be up"

"I barely sleep, remember?" I smirked, muffling my voice into his shirt.

He just chuckled slightly as he tightened his grip around me.

In that moment I realized, I had never hugged Sam—but I had missed him. I had missed the other level headed Hunter on our team. I had missed the way he grounded Dean, Bri — and apparently the way he grounded me.

"I'm glad you're back," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. And I meant it I pulled away slightly, pecking him on the cheek. "You were missed."

Sam smirked as I pulled away completely, stopping the brewing coffee pot long enough to pour him a cup, only to pause before tugging another cup from the cabinet and pouring a second.

"You can drink this now?" Sam asked, appearing next to me.

"Nope—' I started, but Dean's voice cut through the moment.

"Damn, you're handing out hugs, and I missed it?"

I stiffened, but didn't move. I placed his coffee cup on the opposite side of Sam, glaring down at the pot as I placed it back on the burner, pressing resume for it to finish.

Dean moved into the kitchen, standing just close enough that I could feel him without turning to look. He winked at me as he picked up his coffee cup and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes on his brother. "So, you feeling like yourself?"

Sam gave a half-shrug. "I'm here."

"Yeah, well, that's a start," Dean muttered before his gaze flicked toward me. "What about you?"

I focused longingly on the coffee pot instead of answering, still refusing to meet his eyes. It was childish, maybe, but I wasn't ready to let go of my anger yet.

That didn't stop Dean from closing the distance. He sat down his coffee cup before his arms wrapped around me from behind, warm and solid, and despite everything.

My body betrayed me, melting just a little into his hold.

Damn him.

I let it linger for a second before stepping forward, slipping right out of his grip. I tugged a third coffee cup out of the cabinet as I poured it full before turning to make my way back into the office.

"Found something," I said over my shoulder, ignoring the way my heart was hammering. Dean and Sam followed, but I didn't look back as I gently shook Bobby, passing him the fresh cup of coffee before he could register what was happening.

Picking up Bobby's coffee cup for disposal, I pointed at the book on the desk, tapping the page. "The Chronos Ring," I announced, barely containing the thrill of the find. "Looks like we just found our way to the past."

"A ring?" came a sleepy voice from the doorway, drawing all our eyes.

Bri stumbled into the office, still tangled in exhaustion. I flashed her a small smile as she flopped onto the couch, eyes closed but clearly listening.

Bobby grunted, blinking himself back to life as he clutched the fresh coffee I'd handed him. It did more to revive him than anything else could've. He took a long sip, then another, before finally peering down at the book I'd pointed to. His eyes narrowed, scanning the faded text.

"Chronos Ring, huh?" He rubbed a hand over his face. "Didn't think we'd be lucky enough to find a lead this fast."

I smirked. "I'm just that good."

"Debatable," Dean quipped next to me, but I still didn't acknowledge him.

Bobby snorted, shaking his head as he traced the rough sketch on the page. "I remember readin' about this thing years ago. Never thought I'd have to give a damn about it."

"Guess today's your lucky day," I said, leaning against the desk and flipping another page for him. "It lets the wearer travel through time—but only once per lunar cycle. And if we don't use it right..." I trailed off, tapping the passage with deliberate emphasis. "We're screwed."

Sam leaned in, brows furrowed as he scanned the writing. "Meaning what? We get stuck?"

"Yep." I tapped again. "Use it wrong, and you're stranded wherever—or whenever—you land."

Dean gave a low whistle. "Well, ain't that a kick in the ass?"

"Most things in this job are," Bobby muttered, taking another swig of coffee. He sighed and rubbed his temples. "Alright. Where's the damn thing now?"

I hesitated, then turned the book so they could see the scrawled note: Last known owner – Kansas City, 1958.

"That's the problem," I said. "Last lead was sixty-six years ago. A collector with a vault full of cursed artifacts."

"Road trip!" Bri yawned from the couch, still not opening her eyes.

Sam chuckled and moved over, gently lifting her head to place it in his lap. She grumbled something unintelligible, and he just started stroking her hair with a grin.

"I'm not a damn cat," she muttered, though she didn't move.

"Shh." Sam cooed in return, earning a round of quiet laughter from the rest of us.

Dean groaned dramatically. "So we gotta track a time-travel ring... through time?"

I fought the smirk pulling at my lips. "Starting to sound poetic, isn't it?"

"Unless it's still here," Sam said, gaze still on Bri. "Maybe the family kept it. Or it never left Kansas City."

"Yeah, well, poetry's overrated," Dean smirked, then nudged my arm—just enough to remind me he was watching. Always watching. "So, what's the plan, Oh Wise One?"

I finally turned my head, giving him a slow side-glance. "We start digging. And you don't slow me down."

Dean's grin widened like I'd handed him a win. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

I rolled my eyes, burying the flicker of adrenaline that lit beneath my skin. My pulse had no loyalty.

"She's talking to me..." Dean stage-whispered across the desk, smug as hell.

Bobby just shook his head. "You're real proud of yourself, huh?"

Sam cleared his throat like the voice of reason he always tried to be. "Alright then. Looks like we've got work to do."

"Again!" Bri's voice was dry, sarcastic, barely conscious. She was clearly drifting back to sleep on Sam's lap, too comfortable to care.

Bobby let out a long sigh and reached for another book. "Ain't that always the case?"

I smirked, standing straighter as I flipped a page. "Let's go find ourselves a relic."

"Slow down," Bobby said, his voice different this time—heavier. He snatched the book from my side of the desk and shut it with finality.

I turned to him, eyebrows raised. "What now?"

"There's somethin' else we need to talk about," he said, settling back in his chair with that look—the one that told me he'd been holding this in for too long. "Before we go off huntin' for a ring."

Something about the pause in the room, the way Dean shifted beside me, spine straightening just slightly, made the air feel different. Thicker.

I looked at Bobby, and I didn't miss the way his gaze softened just a touch. It wasn't judgment. It was concern.

And that was somehow worse.

He didn't ask like it was casual. He asked like he'd already decided it mattered.

"Do you want to be cured before we go?"

Bobby didn't say another word. He just watched us—eyes narrowing, jaw twitching—and then with a long sigh, he stood.
"I'll give y'all a minute," he muttered, brushing past us and leaving the office with his mug. The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence dropped like a stone. Heavy. Immediate.

Dean was the first to break it.
"You know what I think," he said, voice low—too low. Too careful. "You've been pushing yourself harder than ever. Not sleeping. Barely talking to us about this whole thing, unless it affects a hunt. You're not fine, Eve."

"I am fine," I snapped, straightening like I could physically hold the line. My arms folded tight across my chest. "I'm better than fine. I'm better this way."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bri muttered, dragging herself upright from the couch and leaning against the nearest shelf, arms crossed. Her eyes were rimmed in sleep, but the look she gave me was anything but soft. It was weary. Worn. Real.

I glanced between them, heart pounding against ribs I couldn't protect.

"I'm stronger," I pressed, voice sharpening with each word. "I can take more hits. I can track better, hear better, fight better—I'm more hyper aware. You all trust me in the field because of what I am. Not in spite of it."

Dean took a slow, deliberate step toward me. His expression didn't harden—if anything, it softened. His voice followed suit, warm and playful at the edges.
"You really think that's why I trust you?"
He brushed his fingers against my wrist, barely there—just enough to pull my attention without demanding it.

Our eyes locked.

"Babe... you think I didn't already think you were terrifying before the fangs came out?"

The corner of my mouth twitched—traitor—but I didn't let it spread.

"You're not just a weapon to us, Eve," Sam said, voice quiet but firm. His gaze was steady, his words layered with memory. "You seem to barely remember who you were before. But I do. I remember enough. You smiled. You laughed. You let people in."

"Yeah, well, maybe that version of me wouldn't have survived," I muttered, my voice brittle.

Sam shook his head, gentle but unyielding. "Maybe. Or maybe you didn't give her the chance to try."

Dean looked away, jaw locking hard. "This isn't on her," he said, his voice rough around the edges. "It's on me. She got turned... 'cause I wasn't—"

"You didn't let it happen." I cut in, sharp. I turned on him, feeling the fire rise in my chest. "You saved me—you all did." My eyes swept the room before finding Dean's again, locking on hard. "You brought me back from whatever the hell I could've been. I'm not some mindless bloodsucker out there killing teenagers in cornfields. You keep me in check, Dean."

My voice softened, but the words carried just the same.

"I wouldn't want to disappoint any of you... especially you."

Dean's eyes flickered, pain and guilt warring behind them.

"You saved me, Dean."

"I also changed you." His words were a whisper, as if admitting it out loud would solidify the guilt he already carried. He exhaled, barely holding it together. "You never asked for this."

"And yet here we are."

A heavy pause settled between us.

"Eve—" Bri's voice cut clean through the tension.

I turned toward her, finally, her face unreadable—expression neutral, arms still crossed—but her eyes? Her eyes were loud.

"Come with me," she said, tone even.

"Bri—"

"I'm not asking."

Before I could brace, her fingers wrapped around mine, tugging with quiet insistence as she pulled me toward the kitchen.

"Y'all good?" Sam called after us, half-joking, though his voice cracked just enough to betray the edge in it.

"No," Bri answered flatly, not even glancing back. "But we're gonna be."

The door to the back step creaked open, letting in the quiet sounds of morning—birdsong and wind and everything I'd ignored for weeks. We stepped out into it like it could cleanse us.

She didn't let go of my hand.

The door creaked closed behind us, soft but certain, sealing off the voices, the books, the pressure. The sun was barely peeking through the vein-like branches at the back of the property, its light weak but steady. I wondered for a second if she could feel my pulse thudding against her skin.

Bri didn't speak.

She tugged me across the yard, barefoot and quiet, guiding us toward the old Firebird resting at a crooked angle in the grass. Without a word, she climbed onto the hood and patted the space beside her.

I hesitated—but only for a second—before pulling myself up too. The cold metal bit through my leggings, drawing a shiver from my spine. I looked from the house to her half-lidded gaze.

Still, she didn't speak.

Her hand was still wrapped around mine, and she gave it a small squeeze—gentle, grounding, like this wasn't the kind of moment that could change everything.

But it was.

I looked away, eyes scanning the trees instead. Letting the silence sit. Letting the guilt settle deeper into my ribs.

"I'm not broken," I said finally, voice low, cracking at the edges. "You don't need to fix me."

"No," she said softly, her gaze still locked on the treeline. "But you need someone to remind you that you were whole before this. And you're still whole now."

I clenched my jaw, swallowing down the lump building in my throat. "I'm better now. Stronger. I don't get tired. I can fight harder. I can—"

"Eve." Bri's voice cut in—still soft, still steady, but suddenly flat and unflinching. "You don't eat. You barely sleep. The only time I see anything close to a smile is when we're doing something stupid—like stealing the Impala—"

We both snorted quietly, the memory bubbling up despite everything.

"Or when Dean isn't being an asshole." She waved a hand vaguely with a smirk that didn't touch her eyes. "You don't even laugh anymore."

My hands curled into fists in my lap. "I don't have the luxury of laughter."

"That's bullshit," she snapped, finally turning toward me, letting go of my hand. "That's not you. It never was."

She paused, breathing hard through her nose like she had to steady herself. Then she reached for my hand again. This time her grip was firmer.

Fierce.

"I watched you get knocked down over and over, Eve. I watched you take orders from men who didn't give a damn about you—who saw you as nothing but a piece of ass in uniform. I was there. When you came back after signing that no-contact order, after your chain of command chewed you up and spit you out—you still suggested dinner. You still picked nights to hang out near the training fields by the lake. You still sang in your Jeep, danced like a damn idiot at the barn... You smiled. You laughed."

My chest constricted. The Firebird beneath us, the sun, the trees—it all slipped away into the fog of those years. Her words echoed louder than the birdsong.

"I saw you after that night," Bri continued, voice cracking now. "After the worst of the assaults. You wouldn't leave your room unless you'd taken two more showers by the time I got there—and I knew there had already been two before that. I saw what it did to you. I saw you scraping yourself back together like you had to be fine or else the world would fall apart."

My jaw tightened as the memories came flashing back—white tile, dim lights, shaking hands, my knees on the cold floor.

"You never said it, Eve. But I knew. And I never said enough. I was too scared to make it real. But you kept moving. You kept fighting. You carried your own damn weight... and everyone else's too."

Tears pricked at my eyes, but I blinked them away. "I should've—could've—needed to be stronger."

"You already were," she whispered, squeezing my hand tighter. "You were human. And still the strongest person I'd ever met."

I finally looked at her—really looked—even though my vision blurred. "Then why does this feel like the only version of me that works?"

She gave me the saddest, most honest smile. "Because you think pain equals power. But that's not true. It's just familiar."

I swallowed, the lump in my throat too big to ignore. "I chose this. I chose to stay this way."

"I know," she said gently. "And I'm not asking you to undo that. I'm asking you to remember who you were before it. Because that Eve? She could light up a damn room. And this one?" Her voice softened even more. "She's forgotten how."

My breath hitched. "What if I can't go back?" I paused, then added, quieter, "Mentally, I mean."

"Then don't." Bri shrugged like it was simple, even though we both knew it wasn't. "But don't pretend you're alone in this. Don't shut me—or the boys—out because you think you have to carry it all by yourself."

She pointed toward the house, and we both caught it—the faint movement behind the office window. Three unmistakable figures pretending they weren't eavesdropping, hearts probably pounding louder than their feet ever could.

The wind stirred, threading through the trees and tossing strands of my hair around my face. The sunlight cracked through the leaves in slanted beams, dappling the overgrown grass in light like it had missed us too.

"I'm scared," I admitted, the words so soft they nearly got lost in the breeze. "I don't even know of what anymore."

Bri leaned her head against mine. "Then let me be scared with you," she murmured. "You don't have to be invincible for me. You just have to be you."

And for the first time in weeks, I let the silence settle between us without flinching. Without trying to smother it with fire or noise or denial.

She didn't ask me to choose anything. She didn't beg me to change. She just sat there and held my hand like it still meant something.

The low murmur of Bobby and Sam faded away as the backdoor popped shut behind us, Bri bringing up the rear. We stepped back into the office, the scent of old paper and dust welcoming me like an old friend—familiar, grounding—but the silence that followed our return was anything but.

Dean's eyes snapped to mine the moment we crossed the threshold. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, like he'd been holding onto a dozen things and now couldn't pick which one to start with. But I didn't give him the chance.

"I'll stay like this," I said, voice clear, even as I swallowed hard. All eyes turned to me at once. "Until after we take down that Bitch Eve—whatever the hell we're calling her." My tone left no room for argument. "After that... we already have William's blood?"

I looked to Bri and Sam. Both nodded.

"Grabbed a good vial when Dean took him out," Sam confirmed, his eyes flicking briefly to his brother.

Dean let out a breath, half scoff, half memory. "That wasn't pretty..."

"Nothing about that night was pretty," Bri cut in, her voice sharper than it had been outside.

I managed a crooked grin, more strength than humor, then turned to Bobby. "That's when we'll cure me. But until then..." My eyes moved to each of them—Sam. Bri. Bobby. Dean. I let them see the fire behind the decision. "You're going to need me strong. You'll need this strength. So until then, you've got it. Take full advantage. I'm not slowing down, and I'm sure as hell not sitting this one out."

No one moved.

Bobby's brow knit in concern, but after a long breath, he nodded—slow and deliberate.

Sam looked torn. You could practically see the war behind his eyes. But eventually, he dipped his chin in quiet understanding. Trust.

Bri's gaze was steady. Heavy. Unyielding. There was no lecture left in her—just that unspoken promise we'd made outside, still thrumming between us like a heartbeat.

Then, finally, Dean.

He stepped forward, just a pace. His mouth opened, but he stopped himself. Looked at me. Really looked. Not through me. Not past me. Not at the version of me he remembered or wanted. Just... me.

Dean scoffed, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. "You always gotta make things difficult, don't you?"

I gave him a look. "You'd be disappointed if I didn't."

His lips twitched, his eyes scanning over me slowly, thoughtfully—but he didn't argue. Didn't need to. The tension between us said more than either of us ever did out loud.

Later that afternoon, I stood at the top of the front porch steps, arms wrapped around a bundle of wrapped blades, watching as Dean popped open the Impala's trunk. The familiar creak was like a battle cry. A warning. A welcome.

He moved with precision, pulling out weapons one by one, the metal clinking like thunder against the quiet. Silver blades. Relics. Ammo boxes packed with old wars and new regrets. Sunlight glinted off gun barrels—but it was his forearms that caught my attention. Tight. Tense. Controlled.

He didn't look at me when he spoke.

"You sure you're good to lug all this around with your undead strength and all?"

I descended the steps, letting the blades thud beside him with a dull clang. "Thought you wanted me at full capacity."

His eyes slid to mine—slow, heated, dangerous—and I felt it down to my ribs. "I want you alive."

"Newsflash, Winchester," I said, stepping in close, the blades behind me and the storm between us, "This is alive for me now."

His jaw ticked. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

I scoffed, heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline. "You lost the right to an opinion about my ordeals the second you signed your life away like a damn martyr. Don't act like you get to weigh in now."

Dean slammed the trunk shut with a decisive thud, closing the distance between us in two sharp steps. The air between us crackled with intensity, charged with something far heavier than the weight of weapons and tension.

Close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, the faint smell of soap and gunpowder mixed with the familiar scent of sweat and something darker. His presence was suffocating, magnetic.

"I always get to weigh in when it comes to you," he said, his voice low, a rough edge to it that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Is that so?" I grinned, letting my gaze drift down his figure, studying him like he was an unfinished puzzle. When my eyes met his again, the teasing tone bled away. "You always wait until the last minute, though."

His eyes flashed, narrowing with a mixture of frustration and something else, something dangerous. The space between us crackled with the tension of a storm waiting to break.

His hand brushed mine—accidental? Maybe. But the electric jolt that shot through me said otherwise.

"You really think I wouldn't burn the whole goddamn world down to keep you breathing?" he growled, the words like gravel in his throat.

My pulse quickened. I swallowed hard, but it was no use. "Then maybe you should've told me before signing the dotted line with Hell."

His gaze dropped to my lips, lingered for a second too long before trailing lower. "You're not the only one haunted, Eve."

My chest tightened at the words, the familiar ache building like a weight on my ribcage. I wanted to scream, wanted to push him away, but I couldn't. Not with him standing so close, not with the words swirling in my head, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

I stepped forward, my chest brushing against his. I didn't care that it was reckless, or that it hurt. I was so damn tired of holding everything in. "Then stop pretending like this doesn't wreck you too."

His fingers brushed my hip, slow and deliberate, the touch sending sparks up my spine. His voice dropped to a whisper, thick with something darker. "You make it hard not to lose my goddamn mind."

I inhaled sharply, my heart pounding. "You make it impossible."

And then we collided.

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, yanked him toward me, and kissed him with everything I had. It wasn't tender. It was reckless, brutal, all teeth and fury and everything we'd been holding back for too long. He groaned into it, deep and low, like he was drowning and I was the only thing keeping him afloat. His hands landed on my hips, pulling me in like he wanted to brand me into memory, his fingers digging into my skin.

I could feel the weight of him against me, the heat of his body pressing into mine, and for a moment, everything else—the hunt, the stakes, the endless guilt and fear—faded away. It was just us. A battlefield of our own making.

But then, just like that, I broke it. I shoved him back with one hand on his chest, the heat of the moment nearly consuming us both. My breath was ragged, chest heaving, and I forced my gaze to the ground, trying to steady myself. My heart was racing, cracking in ways I couldn't explain.

"We've got a timeline," I whispered, my voice unsteady, but I couldn't let it show. I couldn't let him see how badly I was breaking.

Dean didn't answer at first. He stood there, staring at me, breath coming just as hard, eyes dark and unreadable, like he was trying to decipher a puzzle that didn't have an easy solution.

Finally, he exhaled, a long, slow breath, like he was trying to regain control. But the way his eyes lingered on me, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, told me everything. This wasn't over.

Dean's smirk was the kind of thing that made me forget my own name for a second.

"You know..." he drawled, his voice rougher than usual, "it's nice to hear your voice again. I was starting to think I got ghosted at that dive bar."

That made me look up at him, eyebrow arched. "You deserved the silent treatment," I shot back, though I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching despite myself.

His grin curled, mischievous and sinfully charming. "Maybe. But I gotta say..." he paused, taking a step closer, "angry looks good on you."

I scoffed, though there was a lingering heat behind the words. "You're lucky I didn't stab you."

The corner of my mouth twitched into something close to a grin as I absentmindedly drew a blade from my thigh holster, twirling it in my fingers with practiced ease. The flash of steel in the sunlight caught his attention, and his eyes followed the motion with a look that was too intense to ignore. That heat, that damn fire, reignited between us, and I swore my knees almost gave out.

Dean popped open the trunk again, eyes never leaving me as he began pulling the wrapped blades from the ground and stacking them into the trunk with a small scoff. He paused, then turned back to face me, his expression softening ever so slightly, his voice dropping to something that made the air around us crackle with unspoken things.

"You know," he said, his words more casual but the weight of them there all the same, "the back seat's more comfortable than it looks."

I arched a brow at him, fighting off the warmth creeping up my neck, the blush I wasn't going to let him see. "You offering?"

His grin was still there, but his eyes were darker now, searching me, daring me. "Only if you promise not to bite."

I let out a breathless laugh, letting the blade spin between my fingers as I stepped closer. "No promises, Winchester."

He tossed me another blade, still smirking, but there was something else in his eyes, something more than playful. The way he was looking at me, with that intensity that had me caught between two worlds—familiar and dangerous. He didn't need to say anything more; everything he felt was in those eyes.