"My fourth mistake?" Bri pushed, stepping forward, heat licking under every word. "Thinking it could mean something. Thinking maybe, maybe, this time I could mean something, we could mean something, to someone."

I exhaled sharply, glaring up at the rafters as I pushed off the wall and pushed past Dean and Bri's staredown. It was so quiet now, I could hear everyone's heart beating out of sync.

Bri's might as well as pried itself out of her chest.

Dean's was like a war drum.

Sam's was sputtering as his eyes locked on Bri.

That was when I slammed the door completely shut, hearing it latch—cutting the tension in half. Dean's stare hit my back like a loaded gun. Sam exhaled behind him, that long, tired sigh he always gave when the weight of the world felt too fucking human.

I didn't flinch. Didn't slow. Just grabbed the rusted iron bar bolted to the safehouse door and slammed it down into place. The old farmhouse lock—a chunky relic from a century ago—let out a sharp crack as it hit the strike plate, loud enough to silence the ghosts and whatever goddamn argument was still brewing.

Dean's voice cut through it a second later. "What are you doing?" he snapped, tone lined with leftover heat from Bri's 'list'.

I turned to him slowly, one brow raised and all fire. "What does it look like, Winchester? I'm going to bed."

Dean didn't back down. Not immediately. "If this is about the deal's time limit—"

I turned on my heel so fast it startled the silence. "Oh? Is there more?"

His mouth snapped shut, jaw flexing like he was chewing on a confession that couldn't survive the air between us.

Didn't matter. The damage was done.

The time limit. The bounty. The Trickster's mindfuck. Everything was stacked tonight.

I didn't wait for his response. Just stepped between him and Bri, grabbed my duffle off the floor, and stalked down the hallway like the house itself might try and stop me.

Dean didn't follow.

Smart.

I slammed the bedroom door behind me—not hard enough to splinter it, but enough to make the frame shudder.

The quiet hit like a brick wall.

No shouting. No safehouse banter. No stupid, flirty nicknames. Just the creak of floorboards settling and the sound of my own goddamn breath.

For a second, I just stood there.

Frozen in the dark.

Listening.

And then—

Nick's voice crawled up my spine like rot.

"You remember the first time you tried to leave me?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

"I do," he said. "You shook just like that. Same whimper, too. Same lip."

His hand shot out, fingers ghosting my jaw.

I flinched.

He smiled wider.

"You still taste like weakness, Evie."

The flame vanished. The dark swallowed him whole.

"Now let's talk about what really happened."

I dug my nails into my palms, grinding my teeth so hard it made my jaw ache.

Not real.

Not here.

He's not here. But he felt close.

Too close.

Dean's voice followed—gravel-thick and quiet, from that damn highway confrontation.

"A year."

Bri's voice layered in next, brittle and burning and terrified.

"I won't be the reason you die. Not again."

Then Jesse's warning, Caesar's too.

"She's got a bounty, Dean. We're just doing the job."

I shoved the duffle onto the bed, unzipped it with more force than necessary, and started pulling things out on autopilot—shirt, shorts, socks.

My hands shook anyway.

I tried to change calmly. Focused on each motion like it was a ritual. Shirt off. Tank top on. Jeans peeled off. Shorts slipped on. Hair tied back.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Don't break.

Don't break.

The room was cold. The silence was colder.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, then slowly slipped beneath the blanket like maybe it could shield me from my own damn brain. The sheets smelled like cedar and dust. Old wood and cleaner. Not like motel sheets.

I curled onto my side, gripping the blanket at my shoulder.

But the quiet didn't help.

It just gave the voices more room to echo.

Nick's whisper.

Dean's countdown.

Bri's heartbreak.

That goddamn Trickster's smirk.

I closed my eyes and tried to summon stillness.

All I got was fire.

At some point I must of drifted off because the next thing that came into view was him;

The dark wasn't empty.

It was watching me.

A giggle slithered out of the shadows—high, sharp, and wrong. Like it came from the mouth of a child who'd just pulled the wings off a butterfly.

My spine locked. My hand froze mid-reach for the lamp. I didn't breathe.

Then— Click.

The hiss of a Zippo. That orange flame.

And behind it— Nick.

Smiling like we were still together. Like he hadn't carved pieces off me and called it love. He let the flame hover a second longer, just enough to light the jagged scar along his lip.

Dean gave him that back in Colorado.

And still—he grinned like he was proud of it.

"Miss me?" he whispered. He snapped the lighter shut. The dark swallowed us again.

I backed into the wall, heart battering my ribs like it wanted out.

"Still flinchy," he murmured. "Cute."

He circled me. I couldn't see him, but I felt him—boots echoing against sterile tile, breath skating down the back of my neck.

"You remember Chicago?" he asked, voice syrup-slow. "That basement with the chains? How sweet you looked with a split lip and my name in your throat?"

My stomach lurched.

"You begged, Evie," he said, almost tender. "For me to stop. For me to keep going. It all blurred together after a while, didn't it?"

I didn't move. I couldn't.

A hand grazed my hip—barely there, but it sent panic clawing up my throat.

"I used to kiss you right here," he murmured, brushing my jaw. "Right before I'd bite. So gentle. So fucking easy to break."

The flame sparked again.

He was inches from me now, face tilted like he might kiss me again. Like that wasn't the thing that still made me wake up screaming.

"You still taste like weakness," he whispered. "And God, I missed the sound you make when you snap."

The lighter went dark.

So did I.

I came up swinging.

Sheets tangled around my legs like restraints, breath caught in my throat like barbed wire. My fists connected with something real—not the nightmare, not the chains—real flesh. Warm. Solid.

"Eve—hey!" Dean's voice, rough and ragged, not angry—just scared. "It's me, baby, it's me—"

Another hit landed somewhere near his ribs. He grunted, gently taking my wrists and didn't let go.

I thrashed harder. "Get off me! Don't—don't touch me—"

"Shit." Dean wrestled me down gently but firmly, one arm around my back, the other bracing my wrists. "It's me, sweetheart. You're dreaming. Wake up. Please—baby, come back to me."

The bedroom door crashed open, bouncing off the wall.

Bri stumbled in first—barefoot, hair wild, Sam on her heels. Her oversized sleep shirt was on backwards, but she didn't seem to notice.

"What's going on—" Sam croaked first.

"Oh my God—Eve," Bri gasped, rushing forward.

"Don't," Dean barked, not cruel—protective. "She's not all the way back yet."

I screamed again—shoving at his chest, twisting to get away. "He's here. He said he missed me. He said—he said Chicago—"

Dean flinched at that. But he didn't let go.

He just buried his face into my shoulder and tightened his arms around me. "You're safe, sweetheart. I've got you. You're not there anymore."

His voice—his voice. It was the only real thing.

I sobbed, still caught in the fog, clawing at air, at memory, at skin I couldn't peel off.

"Sweetheart—look at me," Dean said, voice cracking. "I'm right here. Not him. Just me."

My breath hitched. My eyes blinked open, unfocused and wild, but they landed on his face. Sweat dampened his hair. His eyes were storm-green and locked on mine like he'd hold me there if it killed him.

"D-Dean," I choked, the word barely more than a gasp. "It was—I saw him."

Dean let out a breath like he'd been underwater for a year. "I know, sweetheart, I know. But he's not here. Just us. Just this."

I collapsed into him. Every bone went slack. The shaking didn't stop, but I wasn't fighting anymore.

Bri crouched beside us, gentle, one hand on my leg. "Hey," she whispered, eyes glassy. "You back?"

I nodded weakly. Or maybe I didn't. I just needed to not be alone.

Sam stepped closer, his voice low. "We can give you space—"

"No," I rasped. "Stay."

Dean shifted us slightly, maneuvering so he could rest his back against the headboard, still holding me tight against his chest. One hand moved slowly up and down my back, anchoring me with every pass.

"I've got you," he murmured again, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. "You're okay now. I swear it."

I closed my eyes. And for the first time since the dark, I almost believed him.

Bri was the first to retreat—quietly squeezing my leg one last time before rising to her feet. Her flannel pants were twisted, her eyes still puffy from sleep, but she didn't say anything else. Just gave Dean a pointed look, like don't screw this up, and padded back down the hall.

Sam lingered longer. Watching me. Watching Dean.

Eventually, with a small nod, he turned and headed back through the front of the house, the old floorboards creaking under his weight. A beat later we heard the thump of a pillow being dropped and the faint creak of the couch frame settling.

The house went still again.

Only the sound of my heartbeat in Dean's chest and the whisper of his hand moving rhythmically up and down my back.

I shifted a little, just enough to lift my chin. "So... are they sleeping in the same room again after all that?"

Dean let out a low, rough huff—half laugh, half sigh. "Nah. Sam's on the couch like a good little brother. And Bri..." he tipped his head toward the kitchen, "...claimed the loft above the stove. Told us it's hers now. Said anyone who tries to argue gets a boot to the face."

I managed a weak smile. "Sounds about right."

Dean's hand paused on my spine just a second too long.

I looked up at him—face still close, moonlight streaking across the room in long, broken slants through the half-opened blinds. Dust drifted through the silver beams like something ancient and watching.

"Where are you?" I asked softly.

Dean blinked. His brows twitched, confused.

"I mean..." I adjusted my hand on his chest, right over his heart. "Where are you sleeping?"

He looked away. Down. The tension in his throat jumped.

"Across the hall," he said, voice low. "Didn't think you'd want me around."

That cracked something.

I sighed heavily, letting my head fall back against his chest.

The silence stretched for a while. Not uncomfortable. Just... dense. Moonlight swam across the ceiling in fractured strips, the only thing moving in the stillness between us.

I didn't realize I was crying again until my voice broke.

"You should've told me," I whispered. "About the year."

Dean tensed. Just for a second. "I was gonna."

"When?" I asked, my voice sharper than I meant. "When it was almost up? When you were halfway in the grave already?"

He didn't answer.

I closed my eyes. "You told Sam. You told Bri."

"You weren't supposed to matter like that," Dean said quietly.

I froze.

He backpedaled fast, pulling his hand from my back and running it through his hair. "Shit. I didn't mean it like that. I meant—"

"No," I said, sitting up a little, wiping at my eyes. "You meant it. And I get it. If you kept me in the dark, it wouldn't matter when you were gone, right? One less goodbye."

Dean looked like I'd punched him.

I bit my lip, trying to steady myself. "But it does matter, Dean. You matter. And I've watched too many people die without warning already. Don't make me watch you count it down."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard.

"I'm not mad because you made the deal," I said softly. "I would've done the same. I'm mad because you didn't let me be there."

I dropped my head against his chest again. Felt his breath catch.

"And for the record," I murmured, "I was jealous. Of Lilah. At the gala."

Dean froze.

"I saw the way she looked at you. Like she still had a claim," I said, voice brittle. "And I hated that it bothered me that much."

He didn't speak. Just slid his hand back to my side. Let it rest there, fingers gentle against my ribs.

"I'm terrified, Dean," I whispered.

"Of what?" he asked, barely breathing.

I looked up, eyes glassy and open. "You."

His whole body went still. "Eve—"

"I don't mean you-you," I said, voice cracking. "I mean this. Us. What it means to feel this much and know I could lose it. Lose you. You scare the hell out of me."

Dean stared at me, jaw clenched, eyes too soft for how hard his life had been.

Then his voice, rough and raw: "Yeah," he said. "You scare the hell out of me too."

After a few minutes of calm, soothing silence, Dean exhaled slowly, then dipped his head—lowering until his lips brushed my forehead.

The softest kiss I'd ever felt. The kind that meant everything without saying a word.

It shattered me.

I tilted my face up, eyes finding his in the broken moonlight. They were so damn green it hurt. And so guarded, like he didn't know if he was allowed to want this.

But I did. I wanted.

So I leaned up slowly. No rush. No breath. Just us. And I kissed him.

Not desperate.

Not fiery.

Just a real, raw press of my mouth to his.

Dean inhaled sharply through his nose, like it caught him off guard—like maybe he hadn't thought I would. But then his lips moved with mine, steady and aching, one hand sliding from my ribs to cradle the back of my neck.

We kissed in silence.

The kind that doesn't beg for more.

The kind that says I'm still here. I'm not running.

When we finally pulled apart, his forehead lingered against mine. His breath was steady, but barely.

"You're not gonna lose me sweetheart," he murmured. "Not without a fight."

I tightened my grip on his shirt. "Then don't pick one with me."

He gave a crooked half-smile, just shy of cocky. "Deal."

I should've left it there.

Should've let that moment hold. But I couldn't. Not tonight.

Not with everything crashing down inside me—Nick's voice, the Trickster's game, Bri's heartbreak, the fucking clock ticking in Dean's blood.

So I kissed him again.

Harder.

Hotter.

Dean responded instantly, his hands catching my hips like reflex, like he'd been waiting for permission. I shifted into his lap, straddling him in one slow, deliberate move. Our mouths dragged and clashed, messy and deep, all tongue and aching breaths.

His hand skimmed under my shirt, thumb grazing the edge of my ribs. I grabbed his wrist before he could go further and pulled back just enough to speak.

"Let me."

Dean blinked up at me, chest rising and falling fast. "Eve—"

"I want to remind you," I whispered, mouth brushing his as I rocked my hips forward, slow enough to make him hiss, "exactly what you'll be giving up when that time runs out."

Dean's jaw clenched. His eyes darkened.

"Jesus—" he rasped.

I leaned in again, kissing down his neck, nipping at the same spot I knew made his breath hitch. My hands moved with purpose—lifting the hem of his shirt and dragging it off him in one fluid motion. He let me, his eyes never leaving mine, like he was trying to memorize me from the inside out.

I kissed down his chest, then back up again, shifting my hips just enough to feel him hard beneath me. His hands flexed on my thighs.

"You sure?" he asked, voice ragged. "We don't have to—"

I rolled my hips again, harder. Watched his mouth drop open.

"I'm not asking."

Dean groaned. "Fuck—okay. Yeah. Yeah."

I smirked, just a little, and dragged my shirt off, tossing it to the floor. The room was silver-lit, quiet, and warm only because of us. I leaned in and kissed him again, this time slower—tongue and teeth and something close to grief wrapped in lust.

His fingers dug into my hips, trying not to take control, trying to let me lead. I kissed down his jaw, down his neck, scraped my nails down his chest just hard enough to make him twitch.

Then I shifted back and undid the string on his PJ bottoms.

He sucked in a breath, watching me. "You really gonna—?"

Dean's hands fisted in the blankets behind him.

I didn't answer him.

Didn't give him comfort. Didn't give him control.

I just stared at him—half-naked in the silver dark, chest rising like he was bracing for a storm.

Good.

Let him.

I slid off his lap with slow, deliberate grace, holding his gaze as I shifted lower on the bed, to my knees between his legs. The look in his eyes shifted instantly—hunger and heat bleeding into something tight, raw. He opened his mouth to say something—

I stopped it with a single finger pressed to his lips.

"No talking."

He went still. Chest heaving.

I curled my fingers around the waistband of his PJ bottoms, tugging the rest of the way until he was freed from the fabric, hard and wanting and already twitching with need.

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Jesus, Eve—"

"Shh," I murmured.

Then I leaned in and tasted him.

Slow. Torturous. A drag of tongue that made him groan, low and deep, hips twitching as he tried not to move. My hands pinned him, palms firm against his thighs as I worked my mouth around him—taking him in, inch by inch, until he hit the back of my throat.

Dean let out a strangled curse, his head dropping back against the headboard. One hand fumbled into my hair but didn't guide—just held, like if he let go, he'd lose gravity altogether.

I set the rhythm, not him.

My lips, my tongue, my pace.

Slow at first, then faster—messy and deep and intentional, like I wanted to ruin him.

Because I did.

I wanted to make him remember this. What it felt like when I took him to the edge and dragged him back, again and again, until he was shaking.

Dean was panting now, trying to stay quiet, but he couldn't. His hips bucked once—hard—and I pulled back just enough to glare up at him, breath hot across his skin.

"Stay still," I warned.

"Fuck, Eve—please—" he groaned, biting down on the back of his hand to stay quiet.

I smiled. Sharp and dangerous. Then I swallowed him again.

It didn't take long.

His thighs trembled. His jaw locked. His whole body tensed under my hands as I moaned around him, deep in my throat—just to watch him fall apart.

He came hard, gasping my name like it burned, one hand fisted in my hair and the other shaking against the edge of the mattress.

I didn't stop until he was empty.

Didn't say a word.

I just looked up at him, wiped my thumb across the corner of my mouth, and rose back up the mattress to lay on my side, taking in his agony and his breathing—slow and steady, like I hadn't just shattered him.

Dean blinked up at me, dazed and wrecked, chest rising and falling like he couldn't quite catch air.

"Still think I'm easy to forget?" I asked softly.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

I leaned in and pulled his chin up for his lips to meet mine, pressing a hard, deep kiss before I tossed one last line over my shoulder—

"Didn't think so."

I woke to the sound of Dean snoring softly, one arm flung over my waist like he'd locked me in place overnight.

The sun was just beginning to slice through the crooked blinds. Silver beams painted the dust in the air, soft and harmless now. No nightmares. No blood. Just quiet.

For once.

I shifted carefully, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before slipping out from under the blanket. Dean stirred, but didn't wake — too warm, too wrecked, and maybe, just maybe, finally at peace for more than ten minutes.

I padded barefoot across the old floorboards and into the kitchen.

The safehouse was cold, but the stove worked. I found a skillet, some eggs, bacon, and even bread that wasn't green yet. A small miracle. I started cooking — slow, steady — letting the scent fill the house like a truce flag.

Then the coffee pot gurgled to life. A few minutes later, so did the footsteps.

First came Sam, sleep-rumpled, rubbing his eyes from the couch. Then Dean, shirtless and squinting from the back hallway. Bri appeared last, climbing down from the loft above me, her hoodie pulled tight around her frame, hair in a messy bun, eyes wary but awake.

I set three mugs on the table. Coffee. Coffee. Tea.

And no plates.

"Morning," I said sweetly. "Sleep well?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "What's the catch?"

"No catch." I flipped a piece of bacon and smiled. "Just... house rules. You get food when you fix your shit."

Sam blinked. "Come again?"

"You heard me." I turned from the stove and leaned back against the counter, arms folded. "We're not starting this day like we ended yesterday. Not with sides, not with guilt, not with silence. You three can fight all you want after breakfast. But first, you make up. Or no eggs."

Dean groaned. "Are you serious right now?"

"Deadly." I nodded toward the plates stacked behind me. "Make it quick. I'm a generous hostage taker, but not a patient one."

Sam sighed, casting a bleary glance toward Bri.

To her credit, she met his eyes this time.

No flinch. No fire. Just something quieter. Worn.

Dean stood motionless behind his chair, arms crossed tight. Watching. Weighing.

Then his eyes cut to me.

I took a slow sip from my mug, the ceramic warm against my lips. The bitter hit of coffee grounded me. I didn't blink as I watched them — all three — waiting to see if they'd flinch, fold, fight.

"What about your issues?" Dean asked suddenly, voice low and sharp. "You just get to throw the rules down and walk away clean?"

The silence that followed was loud enough to hear the coffee pot sputter one last drop behind me.

I didn't break eye contact. Didn't move an inch.

"First off; yes, I woke up first—therefore I get to do that." I shot, smirking, making the three of them snort. "Also, I said what I needed to say last night," I replied coolly, setting my mug on the counter with a soft clink. "And I did what I needed to do too."

Dean's gaze didn't budge. If anything, it burned deeper.

He wasn't just looking at me—he was tracing me. The set of my shoulders, the curve of my jaw. Like he was cataloging every piece of me he hadn't quite let himself touch.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip.

A twitch. Barely there.

But I saw it.

I tilted my head in return, just enough to answer the look. Just enough to say, I remember too.

My hip met the counter like punctuation, and I held his stare as heat coiled low and slow in my stomach—echoes of last night curling back into my bloodstream. The way my hands had moved. The sound of his breath catching. His lips on mine, again and again, like he couldn't decide between devouring or worshiping.

Dean's eyes flicked to my mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. And when they came back up—

Darker. Wrecked. Grateful.

Full of everything we hadn't dared say out loud.

Everything still humming between us.

Behind him, Sam cleared his throat. Bri shifted slightly.

But Dean didn't move. And neither did I.

That look — that promise — hung between us like smoke. Slow-burning. Dangerous.

And even as I turned back to the stove to finish frying the bacon, I felt it. Still there. Still heavy. Like his stare was branded between my shoulder blades.

The kind of look that stayed with you.

The kind you woke up craving. The kind that didn't end in daylight.

Not this time.