Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited by: KariGorsuch

Warmth.

Sunlight streamed in through a skylight, lazy and gold across a ceiling I didn't recognize. The bed beneath me was too soft—expensive soft. The kind of softness that felt suspicious.

I shifted. The sheets slipped like silk over bare skin, and that's when I felt it—long cotton brushing high on my thighs, loose at the shoulders. The hem just barely decent.

A shirt.

Not mine.

Sam's.

And I was wearing nothing else.

I sat up slowly. The shirt slipped lower on one shoulder, the fabric still warm from someone else's skin. My mouth was dry. My heart beat too loud for how quiet it was.

The air smelled like linen and cedar and something familiar I couldn't place.

Then I heard it—water shutting off.

A puff of steam rolled out of the bathroom like something out of a fantasy novel. And then—

Sam stepped out.

Completely naked.

Dripping wet. Towel in hand. Not using it.

His hair was pushed back from his face, wet and unruly, and water still tracked down his chest in slow, smug little rivulets. My brain hiccupped. Stalled. Died a little.

"Morning," he said, voice rough with sleep and smug as hell.

I stared.

He grinned, like he'd won something. Like he did this every morning and knew I couldn't look away.

"You're naked," I said flatly.

He glanced down at himself, then back up with a shrug. "You weren't complaining last night."

My jaw actually dropped.

"Or the night before that, or before that..." he trailed off with weird heat that wasn't usually meant for me. He stepped closer, unbothered and unhurried. "You're staring."

"You're still naked."

"And you're in my shirt." He let that hang between us, heat curling at the edges of his voice. "So technically, I'm overdressed."

"Sam—"

He reached me before I could finish.

Fingers brushed along my jaw, slow and maddeningly gentle, tilting my face up. His eyes searched mine like he knew every version of me—and then he kissed me.

Hot. Firm. Like he knew how I liked it. Like we did this all the time.

His mouth moved with the kind of certainty that didn't ask permission—it remembered. Like kissing me was just muscle memory, like this was ours.

And I didn't move.

Couldn't.

My lips stayed still under his, caught somewhere between what the hell is happening and---strangely---please don't stop.

He slowed. Pulled back just enough to look at me.

His brow creased. "This about the girl from the bar last night?"

My stomach dropped. "What?"

He gave me a look. "You've got that face. The one that says I'm gonna smile and nod while secretly plotting to strangle you with your own hoodie."

"I wouldn't use a hoodie," I muttered.

"Uh huh." He scoffed, stepping away like we hadn't just kissed in general, let alone kissed like lovers in the middle of a fever dream. Like I hadn't just sat there frozen, stunned, and half-naked in his bed.

He walked to the closet, still entirely nude, flipping through hangers with casual grace.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

There was no girl. No bar. And definitely no us like this.

Sam tugged on a pair of jeans like it wasn't a war crime to still be that confident, shirtless, and dripping wet. He didn't bother with boxers. Just shimmied the denim up those long legs and left the zipper undone as he leaned one arm against the closet frame, watching me.

Like I was the strange one.

"Hey," he said, voice still syrup-slow, like nothing about this was strange. "You good?"

I looked up.

He studied me—shirtless, damp, smug as ever—but his eyes flickered with something sharper underneath. Like maybe he had noticed I hadn't kissed him back.

"If you're not," he added casually, "and that's why you canceled on Brianna yesterday—so you could stay in and absolutely wreck me—I'm just saying, I'm not complaining."

My brain...quit.

I blinked.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

Hard.

"Brianna?" I echoed, the name scraping down my spine like a blade.

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Bri. Your best friend? Kind of hard to forget her."

"Where is she?" I asked, too fast. Too tight.

Sam didn't catch it—he just pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. "Across the street. Where she and Dean have been going on three years now." His grin tilted. "Still weird how he tolerates small dogs, but hey, love changes a man."

The floor shifted beneath me.

But he just kept talking, oblivious. "Anyway, you should wear that sundress I got you last week. The blue one." He nodded toward the dresser. "It does things to me. Like, felony-level."

I didn't move. I couldn't even breathe.

Sam crossed the room with casual ease, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. He leaned down, pressed a kiss to my cheek, and—before I could react—gave my ass a full, confident squeeze. Firm. Familiar.

My breath hitched.

Only one other person in the world knew how to touch me like that.

And it wasn't Sam.

"I'm mowing the lawn," he said brightly, like that was the most normal thing in the world. "Don't forget sunscreen, babe."

Babe.

The word felt like it came from underwater—like it passed through some invisible filter before it hit me.

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

And I was alone.
Standing in a stranger's shirt.
In a house that looked like mine.
In a life that absolutely, definitely wasn't.

I climbed out of bed like I was diffusing a bomb—slow, deliberate, trying not to breathe too hard in case the world decided to shift again. My legs were bare. Sam's shirt—his actual shirt—brushed the tops of my thighs like it had a goddamn attitude.

I scanned the room.

Too neat. Too lived-in. The kind of place people actually chose furniture for. A nightstand sat on one side of the bed—not mine. Just one coffee mug, one phone charger, and absolutely zero sign that I lived here full-time.

Definitely not married.

Not even close.

A framed photo on the wall caught my eye: Sam and me, on a dock somewhere, grinning like idiots. My arm slung around his waist, his fingers curled loosely in my hair.

I didn't remember taking it. Didn't remember being that girl.

That was supposed to be---is Bri!

Then Sam's voice played on a loop in my head.

"Across the street. Where she and Dean have been going on three years now."

Three. Years.

Married?

Bri and Dean. Married.

I dropped to my knees in front of the dresser like it might hold answers—or pants. I yanked open drawer after drawer in rapid-fire panic.

Underwear. Bralettes. Folded tanks. Four different shades of lipstick. And an entire row of sundresses and barely-there shorts.

I stared at the options like they were mocking me.

"No jeans? No sweats?" I muttered. "Not even a panic hoodie?"

Apparently, this version of me dressed like every day was a beach date and a flirtation away from poor decisions. Nothing functional. Nothing serious.

Just cotton and color and a deep refusal to cover anything below mid-thigh.

With a groan, I grabbed the newest-looking sundress—soft blue, barely wrinkled, backless in a way that screamed touch me—and tugged it over my head.

The fabric slid into place with the smug ease of something well-worn and well-used. It smelled like summer and... Sam.

My eyes snapped away before I started judging myself-not-me too much.

I stepped into the open closet Sam had used. One half was Sam's—plaid, flannel, denim, jackets with worn leather. The other half?

Mine.

Or her's—the version of me that lived here.

There were stacked boots. A jewelry dish. A tote bag I'd literally almost bought last month but didn't because it was too expensive.

"Oh, great," I muttered. "We've reached that you-gave-me-a-drawer-half-a-closet-and-my-toothbrush-is-here stage of friends-with-benefits where he's got half your closet memorized."

I sighed, glancing back over at the single nightstand, the single coffee mug, the single phone charger and the single bed impression of where he slept.

The house felt like his. I visited. I crashed. There were more pictures of Sam and Dean on the walls than of Sam and me. Even more of him, Dean and Bri than there were really any at all involving me.

More evidence of his life than ours.

Which meant I wasn't a live-in girlfriend.

I wasn't a wife.

But maybe the "not-so-casual" in a very complicated "casual" arrangement.

I drifted into the hallway, opening doors. Kitchen drawers. Bathroom cabinets. Perfume I hadn't worn since college. Everything familiar—but off, like someone built a life from the idea of me.

And then—

Laughter.

I froze, one hand on a drawer of mismatched silverware.

A dog barked.

Then came more laughter—two voices.

I followed the sound across the hall and into a living room that was somehow even more spacious than I expected. Light poured through wide bay windows. Sheer curtains drifted with the breeze, framing the scene like a goddamn oil painting.

I could smell the freshly cut grass, small echoes of sprinklers sputtering across some concrete, and a distant radio playing some 90s grunge music.

And there they were.

Across the street.

Dean and Bri.

Married.

He was barefoot in the grass, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt like he was auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. His laugh—God, I hadn't heard it like that in ages.

He caught Bri around the waist, spinning her once with playful ease. She squealed—actually squealed—and swatted at him, and he ducked just to kiss her on the cheek.

Then her neck.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, they both turned to crouch and call over the world's smallest dog—some wiry-haired gremlin in a bandana that barked like it had opinions.

Bri scooped it up. Dean leaned in and scratched behind its ears. She laughed again, eyes bright, glowing.

And he looked at her like she was his whole damn world.

Something in my chest cracked.

Not like a break.

Like a fault line.

I pressed a hand to the window frame, fingers trembling. My other hand fisted in the hem of the sundress like I could anchor myself to fabric. To anything.

This wasn't just some dream.

This wasn't even a nightmare.

This was worse.

This was peace.

This was Domesticity.

God it felt like the worlds worst fucking hangover---excluding flashes of the night before.

Dean Winchester smiling like he'd never held a blade in his life.

And it didn't include me.

The air outside was stupidly perfect.

Blue sky, warm breeze, birds doing their little background harmony thing like it was a staged production. I stepped barefoot onto the porch, trying to breathe like that might help. It didn't.

Across the street, Bri was laughing again—something about the dog trying to eat a dandelion—and Dean bent to pick up the leash, still grinning. He looked like something out of a damn life insurance commercial. Happy. Settled. Married.

To her.

I nearly sat down on the steps and dissolved into mulch when arms wrapped around my waist from behind.

"Caught you sneaking off again," Sam murmured, his voice low and sun-warmed as his sweaty bare chest pressed against my back.

I stiffened automatically.

He leaned down, lips brushing the edge of my jaw—

And without thinking, I turned my head.

Smooth. Natural. Total deflection.

His kiss landed somewhere near my ear.

Sam stilled for a half-second, just enough to feel it.

I felt his breath pause, his arms loosen ever so slightly. Not in anger—just... awareness.

He pulled back a little, and I turned in his arms to offer something like a smile, something like "I'm totally fine and not about to implode."

From across the street, I caught movement.

Bri stood in the yard, a leash in one hand, the dog squirming in the other. Her gaze met mine squarely.

It wasn't judgmental. It wasn't smug.

It was... knowing.

And then Dean turned.

His eyes found mine like he felt me. Like even in this world—this curated, postcard-perfect world—he still recognized something. The moment held for a second too long. My pulse stuttered.

Dean blinked first.

Then Bri looked away.

Then—too late—so did I.

Sam's arm slipped from around me. I felt the hesitation ripple through him as he followed my line of sight.

He let out a low breath that was half laugh, half groan. "Guess I need a shower round two, huh?" he said, forcing a grin as he stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly too aware of how close we'd been. Of who had seen.

But his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

And I still felt Dean's gaze like static down my spine.

"Or sunscreen," I said lightly, trying not to look over his shoulder. Trying not to look at them.

I took the trash out that evening, like it might give me answers. Like maybe I'd find my name scratched into reality on the side of the bin.

Instead, I found Dean.

He was crouched by the curb across the road, doing something unnecessary with the hose—coiling it like it was a ritual. Like he needed something to do with his hands.

I stopped cold.

He looked up. Our eyes locked.

Time, space, and common sense decided to take a lunch break.

"Hey," he said, voice low. Rough. A heartbeat of hesitation under it.

I swallowed. "Hey."

For a second, we just stood there, two neighbors in broad daylight pretending nothing felt different.

But it did. The air charged like lightning against skin. The kind of pull I remembered too well. Too deeply.

His eyes flicked down to my dress. "You look good," he said, and it sounded like a sin.

"Thanks," I breathed. "You've got... a dog."

Dean huffed a laugh. "Her name's Moxie. Bri picked it."

Of course she did.

Something shifted. He stepped closer, just a little. And I swear to God the world tilted.

"Eve," he said, and it wasn't a question. It was a warning. A sigh. A goddamn invocation.

Whatever was between us flared, sudden and electric. The memory of a hundred looks. Of almosts. Of could've beens.

I stepped closer.

He didn't stop me.

Our hands didn't quite touch, but they could have. Our lips didn't quite meet, but they almost did.

Then Dean exhaled, sharp. Like it hurt.

"It can't be like that again," he said, low and gutted. "Not after what happened. Not after I married Bri."

The words sliced clean. Not angry. Not cruel. Just... honest.

I took a shaky breath.

And then he looked me dead in the eye.

"You shouldn't be here."

I didn't wait for Dean to say anything else. Didn't trust what might happen if I stood there one second longer.

I turned on my heel and walked away.

Fast. Hard. Like I could outrun it.

The ache in my chest had turned sharp. Confused. Heartbroken. Everything about this place, these people, this life—it all looked like mine from far away. But up close, it didn't fit. None of it did.

I stormed across the yard, the sundress catching at my knees, the plastic trash bin thudding behind me as I shoved it to the curb like it had personally offended me.

Sam glanced up from the porch where he was fiddling with the hose (too?), his eyes narrowing when he saw my face. "Eve—?"

I didn't stop.

I shoved through the front door and slammed it shut behind me, the sound echoing through the too-perfect house. My bare feet padded heavy across the hardwood as I searched—hallway, corner, door on the left—there.

Bathroom.

I nearly ripped it off its hinges.

The lights were too bright. The tile too white. My pulse was a drumline in my ears. I gripped the edges of the sink like the world was tilting.

And then I looked up.

And froze.

It was me.

But not.

Not the girl in the sundress, lips still kiss-swollen, hair tousled from sex and sleep. Not the one with daylight in her eyes and Sam's scent on her skin.

The mirror showed something else.

Me—

Screaming silently.

Covered in blood.

Hair soaked, clothes torn, eyes feral.

The bathroom behind her was the same—same sink, same window—but the light was gone. The walls cracked. The mirror frame splintered. Everything looked older. Dirtier. Abandoned.

She reached out in the mirror, hand slamming against the glass—

And I stumbled back, choking on a gasp.

The image flickered—gone.

Just me again. Just Eve.

But I was shaking.

And the silence in the house suddenly felt a lot less peaceful.

I opened the bathroom door like it might bite me.

Sam stood just outside, leaning casually against the wall—arms crossed, face unreadable. He looked like the same half-sweaty, too-charming mess from earlier.

But something in his posture felt... off.

"Eve," he said, voice too smooth. "You okay in there?"

I froze.

Because when I looked at him—really looked—his eyes flashed yellow.

Not gold. Not brown. Yellow.

And just for a second, a split second, it wasn't his voice that came out.

It was Azazel's.

Deep. Cruel. Familiar like a nightmare.

"Still chasing ghosts, sweetheart?"

My heart stopped. My lungs forgot how to work.

Then it was gone.

The yellow. The voice. Sam blinked at me like nothing had happened.

"What?" he said, brow furrowed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I couldn't speak.

Because maybe I had.

"Okay," he said, more serious now. "That's it. You're pale, you're jumpy, and you've got that whole 'I just saw the Devil in my boyfriend's face' look going on. Which, hot as it is, kind of screams concussion."

Sam looked me up and down with concern that might've felt more comforting if he hadn't been the reason I was this wrecked to begin with.

If it wasn't him looking at me like that.

My chest tightened at the thought of Dean's face outside.

"I'm fine," I muttered, brushing past him.

"You're not," he said, following. "You've been off since last night."

"Oh, you mean since you—?"

"I know I rocked your world, Eve," he cut in, deadpan, grabbing his keys off the counter. "But if I gave you a head injury, it wasn't intentional."

"Ew."

"Ew?" He echoed, tossing me a crooked grin. "Come on. ER's just ten minutes out. We'll tell them it was a hiking accident."

"We live in Ohio."

Wait, how did I know that?

"Exactly. No one hikes in Ohio. It'll make it sound really tragic."

I rolled my eyes, but the walls still felt too close, so I followed him out the front door.

And that's when I saw him.

Dean. Still across the street. Kneeling in the driveway, fiddling with a lawn trimmer that looked brand new. His hands weren't even moving—just hovering over the plastic cord like he was pretending to fix something.

I narrowed my eyes.

He looked up.

And his eyes—Black.

Solid, inky, demonic.

No sclera. No pupil. No Dean.

I froze. Breath gone. Blood like ice.

"Shit." I whispered, feeling my reflex kick in as I attempted to reach for my blade—only for nothing to be there.

Then he blinked—and they were hazel again. Normal. Confused.

"Eve?" Sam said, hand lightly pressing the small of my back. "Babe, come on."

I dropped into the passenger seat of his Prius like it was a lifeboat.

Too fast. Too hard.

He raised an eyebrow as he climbed in. "Weird way to show enthusiasm for free healthcare, but okay."

I didn't answer.

Because my heart was hammering, my fingers were ice, and I couldn't stop staring at Dean through the windshield.

Whatever this place was—it was cracking.

The ER waiting room was cold.

Too bright. Too clean. Too quiet. Sam sat beside me, flipping through a magazine like this was normal. Like I was normal.

I wasn't.

I kept my arms wrapped tight across my middle, trying to ignore how the nurse had smiled at Sam, how he'd smiled back. How everyone seemed to believe we belonged here—together.

Like this was something we did.
Weekends at the lake. Late-night injuries. Inside jokes.

My stomach turned.

Because it should've been Dean.

Not Sam's name on the check-in form. Not Sam holding my hand like it meant something.

I looked down as he tugged my hand, then there was our hands—linked across the armrest.

I pulled mine back.

He didn't say anything. Just glanced at me like I was a puzzle he thought he'd already solved.

I stood abruptly.

"Bathroom," I said, already halfway across the waiting room before he could ask.

The hallway was narrow. Humming.

Everything felt tight—like my own skin didn't fit right. Like a dream with teeth.

I shoved through the bathroom door, hands shaking, breath caught somewhere behind my ribs. Gripped the sink like it might tether me to gravity. To reason.

I looked up.

The mirror looked back. But not with my face.

She looked like me—but hollowed out. Skin too pale, lips too still, eyes... vacant. Like someone had carved out the part that could fake being human.

Then she moved.

Closer.

"This was your choice."

The voice came from everywhere. Not just her lips. It echoed from the drain, the ceiling, the mirror glass itself. Cold. Clinical. Almost kind.

"This is what you wanted. Right?"

I didn't answer. She didn't blink.

Neither did I.

But something cracked in my chest. Not a sob. Not a thought. Something deeper. Like a rib snapping under weight I couldn't name.

"What the fuck—" I gasped, the words barely air. My knees buckled. My body followed, slamming into the tile wall as I clawed at my scalp, trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

A tear slipped free. Then another. Then too many to count. My breath fractured, shallow and fast and wrong.

Too fast.

Too ragged.

Too... human.

Tearstained and all, I paused as my bottom lip trembled.

The realization shot through me like a needle: I could feel everything. My heart pounding. My lungs burning. The ache in my knees, the sting of my palms.

All of it.

Raw. Unfiltered.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd hurt like this. Not since—No.

No, no, no.

The lights overhead flickered.

Once. Twice.

Then stuttered like they were dying.

Buzzing. Failing. Screaming in silence.

The air... changed.

It tilted.

Thick, humid, choking like hospital air gone sour. Like the world had stopped pretending.

I forced myself up, hands sliding against tile now slick with condensation—or sweat—or something worse.

But the floor was no longer tile. It groaned.

Old wood. Wet. Warped beneath my bare feet.

I blinked.

The mirror shattered.

Not like a spiderweb. Like a gunshot—silent but seismic. Shards snapped outward in a slow-motion explosion, each jagged piece bleeding rust, not silver.

Each piece showed something else.

Me—on the floor, shaking.

Me—covered in blood.

Me—laughing, manically, mouth too wide, teeth too sharp.

Dean, silent. Cold. Arms crossed like a stranger watching a fire.

Sam, walking away.

Bri, screaming—screaming—this keening, gut-twisting wail echoing like it came from a cathedral buried in hell.

"No—no, no no—" I turned, but the room was melting.

Tiles sagged like wax in a kiln. The sink folded in on itself. The fluorescents blew out with a final buzz, replaced by a pulsing red glow from nowhere.

Then came the voices.

Bri. Sobbing.

Sam. Yelling.

My name again and again like it was a warning.

And then Dean. But not my Dean. Not the one who held my hand. Not the one who came for me.

This one was ice.

"You left us."

"You always choose wrong."

A pause. Then:

"I should've let you burn. Let you starve to death in that cell in Casper."

I collapsed. Hands to ears. Nails digging into my scalp. "Stop—please—just stop—"

The air broke open.

Screams. Crashes. Tires screeching. A dog yelping. Glass exploding. My name—

"Eve—!"

I opened my eyes in an attempt to get my bearings, only for the room to continue to fluctuate as if it was breathing, I snapped my eyes shut again.

"—Eve!"

The knot in my throat seemed to be forcing itself up into my mouth as my tears overflowed, dripping off my chin as my chest tightened. Threatening to cave in, almost.

"EVE!"

My knees cracked to the floor. Splinters stabbed into my skin, sharp and wet.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't think.

I was breaking.

And this time...I couldn't heal.

"This is what you wanted," the mirror hissed.

Again.

And again.

"This is what you wanted. This is what you wanted. This is what—"

Then silence.

Total. Complete. Violent.

The final shard fell. Hit the floor. Shattered again.

And the world went still.