Written by: gooberlanes13

Edited by: KariGorsuch

My throat was raw.

My eyes stung.

My skin was crawling.

My muscles ached.

My heart, broken.

The dark crawled in around the edges of my vision. Thick. Suffocating. Like someone poured wet cement into my lungs.

And then his hand— Nick's fingers brushed my jaw.

Again.

Gentle. Slow. The way someone touches something they think they own.

"Shhh..." he whispered. "No more screaming. Be good for me, baby."

Something inside me cracked.

Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a hairline fracture. Quiet and deep. Like ice splitting under weight.

I didn't scream. Didn't flinch.

I just... gave out.

My knees buckled. My chest hollowed. The breath left my body like it was done fighting.
And for a second—just one—I didn't feel scared. Or angry. Or anything at all.

Just stillness.
Just dark.

His voice echoed somewhere behind my eyes—"That's my girl..."

Then silence. Heavy. Pressed in close.

Until—Something flickered.

A buzz. A high, electric hum behind my teeth. Like static trying to crawl out of my mouth.

And that's when I realized— I wasn't standing anymore. I wasn't even in the room.

I was somewhere else.

The air smelled like dust and ozone. Cold beneath my feet. Slick glass stretched in every direction, floor to ceiling. A maze of reflections.

But the mirrors weren't showing me now. They were showing before.

I fought the tremor throughout my body as I pulled myself upright, flinching at distant noise that my mind couldn't comprehend. I took one step, barefoot now, against the tile and the first mirror flared to life.

Me.

But younger.

I couldn't have been more than fourteen. Sitting on the front steps of a sagging porch, arms wrapped around scabbed knees. Backpack slung to one side. Eyes too hopeful for someone who already knew better.

She was staring down the driveway. Waiting. "He promised," she said softly. "I believed him."

She didn't look at me. I didn't need to.

I did remember that day. I didn't remember crying that quietly.

As if I was examining an art exhibit, I moved on.

Another mirror shimmered—colors sharpening like a bruise.

This one depicted concrete walls, peeling cots. That cold green light every military base has. She—me—sat hunched on a bunk, arms locked tight around herself, knuckles split and bandaged. Dog tags hung loose from her pocket, the chain twisted to hang from a belt loop instead of my neck.

She looked thinner than I remembered.

Harder.

"They told me to shut up," she said, eyes flicking up just once. "So I did. Until it burned."

She didn't blink.

I didn't move.

Memories of what happened flashed through my head, my chest tightened and my jaw ticked at the rage I could see flaring up behind her eyes.

With a knot in my throat and a heavy heart, I stepped away to the next mirror shimmering into existence.

There sat a queen-sized bed, barley made. There was dim light glowing from the bedside lamp. Then there was her—me—in PJ shorts, black tank top, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and pre-loss grief setting in.

I watched as she struggled to help a trembling Grandma back into her side of the bed. I flinched as Grandma flinched, struggling to work with me to get back into the bed, constantly apologizing for needing the help—only for me to half-heartedly threaten her to hush and get some rest.

Grandma's voice was muffled through the glass—slurred, exhausted, scared.

I was smiling. Soft. Tired. Crying a little and pretending I wasn't.

"She said she loved me," she said. "That was the last thing she said..."

That one almost stopped me.

But I kept walking.

The next one hit like a punch to the ribs.

It was us—me and Dean—frozen in that moment at the abandoned Grandé Hotel. His body pressed to my chest. One arm braced in front of me, the other gripping his gun. Eyes locked on something out of sight. Protecting. Shielding. Breathing hard.

My head was tilted up, just barely, beaming at—what I knew was—the werewolf that Sam and Dean had just saved Bri and I from.

This was our first real interaction that didn't involve flirting, car chasing or alcohol.

"He said I was trouble," I whispered. "But he stayed anyway."

That version of me wasn't smiling, but was curious—this was when the Hunter's world was opened up to me, and I knew this was where I belonged.

I eyed the next mirror as it glistened into view, there was another version of myself on her knees.

Mud and blood smeared into the hem of her jeans, mascara streaking down her cheeks. She was clutching Dean's jacket—fistfuls of it—pulling him toward her like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

"Please don't—please," she sobbed. "I'm not ready to lose you."

She kept crying anyway.

The implication broke something open in my chest, and I felt my eyes start to sting as I studied her—my—tense figure, how hard I was white-knuckling that jacket.

I took a breath before moving to the last mirror.

It wasn't a memory I'd buried. It was one I'd been dragging behind me like a corpse.

There I stood, still in the ballroom dress. But it wasn't the woman who flirted with danger or threatened Lilah.

It was the one who'd just learned the truth.

The hallway outside the auction glowed like a bruise—soft, gold, echoing. I could almost smell the champagne. Feel the silk tight across my ribs.

She stood there, arms folded, jaw clenched so hard I could hear the grind of her teeth in my chest.

Eyes rimmed red. Not from crying.

From holding it in.

Dean was behind her, a step too far to touch. Not calling out. Not reaching.

She'd just asked how long.

He'd just said a year.

And then let her walk away.

"You watched me cry about this. You let me beg you not to do it. And you went and did it anyway—then didn't even have the nerve to tell me you're on a goddamn timer?"

Her hands were at her sides, fists clenched like they'd break something if she moved.

"That's not your call."

She was still frozen in that moment.

So was I.

Because this wasn't Eve-before. This was me right now.

And she didn't yell. Didn't plead. She just looked at me like she was still deciding whether to burn the whole world down... or just walk away from it.

I didn't want to keep looking.

But I did.

Because she was the only version of me that didn't blink.

Didn't break.

Didn't forgive.

She just watched.

I turned away from her—From me—And started walking.

But the mirror didn't go quiet. Behind me, glass groaned. Not like breaking. Like breathing.

The hallway shifted. I felt it. The floor dipped beneath my feet—not a fall, not yet, just a slant. Like gravity was reconsidering its priorities.

Then—A sound. Low. Wet. Familiar.

Laughter.

My breath stuttered.

I turned—And the hallway was gone.

A mirror came into view as I stepped forward. It reflected me as I am right now, but it almost felt like the mirror itself was bracing for something.

That was when the color pulsed red. Not light. Not fire. Just a glow that bled from the mirror itselves—like the glass was trying to scream.

My reflection flickered. Once. Twice.

And then it changed.

A version of me emerged from the mirror like oil rising in water—same face, same body, but wrong.

Eyes black as pitch. Veins snaked up her neck like ivy. Her smile was sharp. Wet at the corners. Mouth still painted in someone else's blood.

She looked like a nightmare written in my bones.

"You could've had it all," she purred, tilting her head. "Strength. Power. Hunger, sated. No guilt. No leash."

She leaned in, pressing her hand against the glass, "But you choose to bleed for them."

I didn't answer.

Her laugh cracked like a whip. She slid her hand over her mouth, and ran her hand down the mirror that separated us, smearing the stranger's blood down over her own reflection.

I flinched.

She peered through the smeared blood and grinned wider.

I glared into her dark eyes, but movement to my right caught my attention—a mirror dropped from above me, as if from nowhere.

This was blinking like a glitch in a dream.

This Eve was pale. Sickly. Human. Her hands were red—dripping. The walls behind her looked like a slaughterhouse.

She was shaking.

Smiling.

"They said the cure would fix me," she whispered. "Said I'd feel clean again." She held up a knife—small, serrated. A steak knife, like from a motel drawer. "But I remembered the taste. And they wouldn't shut up."

Blood dripped from her knuckles onto the floor.

"Dean screamed first," she said, giggling. "Then Sam. Then Bri. All of them."

Her eyes were bright. Not with tears—with clarity.

I stumbled back.

The mirror laughed.

I collided with something hard behind me, as I spun I noticed another mirror had materialized and the third Eve leaned against the glass—too close, too real.

She wore Bri's jacket. Held Sam's gun. There was a ring on a chain around her neck—Dean's.

Her hands were shaking. Her eyes were red, raw, wrecked.

"Please," she said. "You have to help me." there was a beat of silence before she sniffled, looking around her world, "They're gone. Everyone's gone. I wasn't enough."

She reached out—palm pressed flat to the mirror. "You can still fix it."

My breath caught.

Because I believed her. Even when I knew she wasn't real. Even when the gun in her hand shifted like it had other plans.

There was a hum to my right as another, and what I would hope would be the final mirror slammed itself down with a theatric thud, echoing around the void that surrounded us, even the other Eves seemed to turn their attention to it.

The last mirror didn't show anything at first.

Just fog. Empty space.

Then she stepped forward.

Same face. Same eyes. But dressed sharp—like Lilah with my smile. Cold. Beautiful. Clean. And not a trace of blood on her.

She looked me over like I was a rusted-out car on a lot.

"You think they'd love you without the damage?" Her voice didn't echo.

It embedded.

"You're the afterthought. The thing they got stuck with. Sam needed a cause. Dean needed to be punished. Bri needed to feel stronger than someone."

She smiled.

"And you? You needed to feel chosen. Even if it was out of guilt."

I backed up.

She stepped through the mirror.

Didn't break it. Just walked out.

"You're not the hero. You're the debris."

"No—" I whimpered, stumbling back against the first mirror again, and that's when they all began to come down on me.

My head began to throb. The red light deepened—more pulse than glow. A heartbeat. A warning.

They were all around me now. All four.

Vampire Eve hissed something feral.

Cured Eve was laughing. Wet and broken.

Widow Eve was begging.

Cruel Eve was just silently smiling.

And they all started talking. Screaming. Crying. Whispering.

I covered my ears. It didn't help.

"You let him die—"

"You were never enough—"

"You should've burned—"

"They lied because you're weak—"

"Kill them all—"

"You loved it—"

"You loved it—"

"YOU LOVED IT—"

My hands went to my scalp—digging. Tearing. Trying to shut it out. I dropped to my knees, breath gone, throat raw.

"STOP—"

The mirrors cracked.

"STOP—"

The light flared.

"SHUT UP!"

My scream ripped through the air—and the maze shattered with it.

Mirrors exploded outward in every direction, raining down like falling stars. Light fractured. The red glow collapsed in on itself.

And then—Silence.

I was on my knees in the middle of it all.

Surrounded by shards. Breathing like I'd just escaped a war. My hands were in my hair. My nails were slick with blood.

The world wasn't spinning—but I couldn't make it stay still either.

I blinked once. twice.

And then—

"Eve?"

I froze.

That voice.

My head snapped up—and there he was.

Dean.

Standing a few feet away, looking like he'd just been shoved through hell. His hair was a mess. His shirt torn. One cheek bruised. Eyes wild, scanning the wreckage like he was seeing it for the first time.

His voice cracked. "Jesus, Eve..."

He started toward me.

I scrambled backward like I'd been burned. Glass cut into my palms but I didn't care.

"No," I whispered. "You're not real."

His face twisted. "What? Eve—"

"You're not real!" I shouted, hands flying up like they might protect me. "This is another trick. Another fake."

Dean slowed.

Stilled.

His chest rose and fell, sharp and fast—but his eyes never left mine.

"I swear to God, it's me," he said softly. "It's really me. I don't know how I got here—one second I was... I was somewhere else. And now—" He took a breath. "Now I'm here. With you."

I shook my head. Buried my face in my knees.

I couldn't do this again. I couldn't survive another version of him that wasn't him.

My body curled in on itself, knees tight to my chest, rocking back and forth as the weight of it all pressed down. My skin itched with leftover screaming. My ribs ached from holding in sobs.

I felt the ground shift beneath me.

Then—I felt his hands.

Warm. Real.

Dean knelt down and gently pulled my arms away from my knees. I resisted, weakly, but he didn't stop. Didn't force it. Just held my wrists like they were breakable and said my name again, lower this time.

"Eve."

I looked up.

God, he looked wrecked. His voice was wrecked.

But his eyes—His eyes were real.

Still, I couldn't say it. Couldn't let myself believe it.

Not until—He cupped my face with both hands, trembling slightly.

And kissed me.

Not like it was a goodbye. Not like it was an apology. But like it was a prayer. Like he was trying to breathe me back into the world.

My hands rose on instinct, fisting in the front of his shirt. The kiss deepened—hungry and tender and desperate in the way only truth can be. He kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive. And maybe, in that moment, I was.

The world shifted. The light flared.

Reality cracked. And then—

I gasped.

My back hit marble. Cold. Real.

Dean hovered over me, chest rising and falling like he'd run miles—but it was the silence between us that hit harder.

A second ago, we were surrounded by mirrors.

Now—The ballroom.

Back.

Still dressed to kill.

Literally.

My silk gown was torn at the hip, glass clinging to the fabric like sequins. Dean's suit jacket was half off one shoulder, blood at the collar, shirt rumpled and open at the throat. He looked like a war god who'd been forced into formalwear and chose violence instead.

Around us, the auction was in ruins.

The chandelier above the stage crashed down in a thunderclap of crystal and sparks. Demons shrieked as magic tore through the air like live wire. The rich and cursed were running—heels snapping, masks falling.

Screams echoed off the gold-leaf walls as wards ruptured mid-spell. Something winged and wrong flew overhead.

I ducked. Dean didn't flinch.

A blade hit the floor a few feet away, still spinning.

Dean grabbed my hand. "Up. Now."

I let him yank me upright, legs shaky under silk and shock.

Across the room—Bri was standing on the stage. She looked stunned. Staggered. Her curls were frizzed, one strap of her gown hanging off her shoulder, makeup smudged like war paint.

Sam was behind her—bleeding from the side, tux slashed at the ribs, trying to keep his hand gun between her and the chaos.

My brain caught up in pieces.

Whatever world we'd just clawed our way out of—it had spit us back into the moment everything went to hell.

Dean moved first. "We need to move. Now."

I nodded—once—shaky.

We pushed through the crowd. Someone lunged. Dean threw an elbow without even looking.

"Sam!" he barked, shoving a fallen table out of the way.

Sam's eyes snapped to us, relief washing over him like a wave. "There you guys are—Jesus. Where the hell were you?"

"Nightmare," I croaked, catching Bri's arm before she fell off the side of the stage. "Still got it?"

She nodded, her fingers were blistered around the ring. She didn't let go.

"We all saw different things," she whispered, voice hoarse. "It wasn't the ring. I don't think. Something else—" Her eyes flicked past me. "Doesn't matter. We have it now."

Dean grabbed a silver dagger off the ground without missing a step. "Talk later—leaving now."

Sam nodded. "North hallway. Service exit. Let's go."

We ran.

Blood trailing. Magic and energy still tearing holes in the floor behind us.

I heard a scream—human. Then not.

Dean took point. Sam covered the rear. Bri clutched the ring like it was fused to her bones. I tried not to think about the sound of glass shattering—jolting my mind back to the mirrored void I got out of, or how the scent of my perfume still clung to me like none of that had happened.

We tore down a velvet-lined corridor, one that had felt elegant earlier. Now it looked like a warzone with better lighting.

A demon came around the corner, snarling—black eyes.

Dean didn't hesitate. He hurled the blade. It hit square between the eyes.

"I am not ruining this suit for nothing," he muttered.

Bri slammed her shoulder into the exit door, and the four of us spilled into the alley behind the estate.

Cool air hit my face.

Freedom.

Almost.

The street was chaos too. Guests scrambling. Cars screeching. The air smelled like fire and blood.

Dean pulled me toward the Impala like he'd rip through anything in the way.

"Go," he growled. "Get in."

I didn't argue.

Bri opened the back door and climbed in first. I followed, tucking the small train of my dress in before the door was shut. My knees hit the leather with a sound that felt too loud, too final.

Sam slid into the passenger seat, pressing a hand to his side. "Still bleeding," he muttered. "Perfect."

Dean started the car like it owed him something.

And we drove.

Silk stuck to my thighs. Blood dried behind my ear. My reflection blinked back at me in the glass—in the rearview mirror—and I caught myself waiting for it to distort.

The scent of blood clung to my wrists. My knees still remembered the glass. And as Dean floored the Impala out of hell, the only thing I could feel—truly feel—was that we weren't safe.

We weren't done.

And I wasn't okay.

Not even close.

The engine hummed like a warning.

We didn't speak for a while.

The road blurred under the wheels, headlights slicing through the dark. My dress itched. My skin buzzed like it still had blood in the seams. Bri was silent beside me, her eyes locked on something invisible out the window, hands still clenched around the ring like it might disappear if she let go.

The engine purred like a warning we hadn't earned yet.

We didn't speak for a while.

The tires hissed against the wet asphalt, the road bleeding past in streaks of gold and shadow. My dress clung to my legs like regret. My hands still smelled like blood and perfume. Beside me, Bri—brunette, scraped-up, silent—had her knees pulled up to her chest like she was afraid the world might split in two if she let them go.

Then Dean exhaled.

Sharp. Rough. Loaded.

"Someone wanna explain what the hell just happened?"

His voice cut through the Impala like a blade. His eyes stayed on the road. White-knuckled grip on the wheel like he was still fighting his way out.

Sam answered first.

"I remember the stage," he said slowly, like dragging the words from somewhere he didn't trust. "We were on opposite ends. I saw your shadow behind the curtain, and then..."

He hesitated.

"Then what?" Dean asked. Tense. Sharper now.

Sam frowned. "Then I was in a house. Not ours. Not really. It looked like it belonged to us, but everything was off."

He paused. "You weren't there. But she was."

He didn't need to say her name.

"She was smiling like we'd been married for years. Hair in a messy bun, wearing that ugly yellow cardigan she loves—the one with the pie stain she swears isn't from pie."

Next to me, Bri made a noise. Not a word. Just breath catching in her throat.

"There were pictures on the wall," Sam went on, staring straight ahead. "Me, Jess, and a little girl. Blonde curls. Eyes like mine. I sat at the table and didn't say a word. She asked what I wanted for dinner."

Dean stayed silent.

"I knew it wasn't real," Sam said. "I knew it. But I didn't leave." His voice dipped. "Not for a long time."

Dean's jaw ticked once. "What pulled you out?"

Sam didn't answer right away. Then: "She told me she loved me. But it wasn't her voice."

That quiet hit hard.

Dean tapped the wheel. Once. Twice.

"My turn?" he muttered.

Sam nodded.

Dean's eyes didn't move from the road. "Mine was a motel room."

Sam blinked. "Seriously?"

"Shitty one," Dean said. "Curtains didn't close right. Sheets were all threadbare. Weapons laid out like we'd just wrapped a hunt."

He paused, throat working.

"She was there too."

I didn't breathe.

"Wearing my shirt. No pants. Hair tangled. Drinking the last of the beer, laughing at something I said." His voice got lower. "She crawled into my lap. Told me we were done running. That it was over. That we'd earned peace."

He was quiet for a beat too long.

"I believed her," he admitted. "Even when the world started glitching. Even when the silence wasn't silence anymore. I didn't wanna leave."

Sam looked over. "What snapped you out?"

Dean's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "She said I didn't have to save anyone anymore. That Sam was already gone. That Bri was dead. That it was just us now."

He risked a glance at the rearview.

"She wasn't you."

The weight of it fell like a stone. No one reached for it.

Then Bri spoke. Quiet. Grounded.

"Mine was a house," Bri said quietly, voice like a bruise.

Sam turned to her. Dean did too—just a flick of the eyes—but neither said anything.

"There was sunlight. Breakfast. Dean at the stove, humming Owl City, of all things." She gave a short, humorless breath. "He said we were married."

Dean's hands twitched on the wheel. "Married?" he echoed, startled—half a laugh, half a cough.

Bri didn't look at him. "There were photos. A wedding. A perfect life. I almost believed it." Her voice tightened. "But it wasn't real. None of it was."

Sam glanced at her like something cold had lodged behind his ribs. "What gave it away?"

"You weren't my husband," Bri said, quiet but certain. "That's how I knew it wasn't real."

Dean's head turned slightly—just a fraction—but his grip on the wheel tightened. "What?" he asked, voice rough.

Bri didn't flinch. "He made eggs. Knew how I liked my toast. Kissed my forehead like he'd done it a hundred times." Her eyes stayed on the road, unfocused. "But he wasn't mine. Because you were across the street."

Dean stiffened, breath caught halfway in his throat.

Sam turned to her slowly. "With who?" he asked.

Bri didn't answer. Not with words.

She didn't have to.

She just looked at me.

And I didn't look back.

Couldn't.

I kept my eyes on the stitching of the Impala's bench seat, tracing the curve of the leather like it was the only thing keeping me tethered. Like if I met anyone's gaze, the whole world would crack open again—like the mirrors might still be watching.

The silence hit slow, then all at once.

Thick.

Suffocating.

Dean checked the rearview mirror.

Not casually this time.

His voice broke the quiet. "Eve, sweetheart?"

I didn't answer.

Didn't move.

The bench beneath me hummed with the engine's vibrations, but I felt weightless. Untethered. Like maybe I'd never fully made it back. Like maybe I was still kneeling in a maze of mirrors, waiting for the next version of me to bleed through.

Sam shifted in the front seat, his concern turning sharper. "Hey. You with us?"

I heard him. I heard both of them.

But I couldn't speak.

Because I hadn't left.

Not really.

The mirrors were gone, shattered, but the echoes stayed. The glass lived under my skin now—tiny slivers that pulsed every time I blinked too slow or breathed too deep. My dress clung to the wounds I didn't know how to clean. My throat was raw from silence I hadn't meant to keep.

My hands twisted in my lap, knuckles white in silk and dried blood.

The window beside me caught my reflection, faint and flickering in the glass.

Still.

Expressionless.

Waiting.

I held my breath.

Waiting for her to turn her head. To smirk. To scream. To beg me to let her back in.

But she didn't.

She just stared.

And I didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Because I didn't trust my voice not to break apart.

Because I didn't know how to explain that I was still kneeling on the glass floor, surrounded by myself—by all the worst versions.

Still hearing them whisper. Still shaking in the dark.

And I didn't know how to come back yet.