Written by: KariGorsuch

I shifted, glancing between the table and the door. Dean and Eve had figured something out, judging by the look he was giving her.

"There's no making up to be done," I snapped, hugging my hoodie tighter around me. "I said what I needed to say. I'm over it."

No one moved, so I stepped past them all onto the porch. The door creaked behind me, then clicked shut. The morning was sharp- cold enough to bite through my sleeves, sharp enough to remind me I was still here, still breathing, whether I wanted to be or not.

I pulled my hoodie tighter, fingers curling around the cuffs like armor. The porch boards groaned under my steps, familiar and tired.

Just like me.

Behind me, inside, I could still hear them. Footsteps. The scrape of a chair. The soft clink of a mug on wood. But I didn't turn around.

Let them fix their shit. I was fine.

I crossed the porch, bare feet making no sound, and leaned against the railing. Frost clung to the grass, sparkling where the sun had just started to break through the trees. It was quiet out here. Still. Like the house had swallowed all the noise we'd made the night before and buried it.

My breath fogged in front of me. I watched it dissipate, counting the seconds as I pushed my emotions back into their box.

One. Two. Three.

A creak behind me broke the count. I didn't look back, didn't need to. The quiet way the door clicked shut told me exactly who it was.

Sam.

He didn't speak right away. Just stood there. I could feel him- warm, solid, stubbornly patient, and entirely too close to me.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe. If I stayed still enough, maybe the ache in my chest would dull into something I could carry without folding in on myself.

"You cold?" he asked softly.

I shook my head. "Not the kind that blankets fix."

Another pause. Another breath between us that felt like it could shatter everything.

"You always do that," Sam murmured.

"Do what?"

"Act like you're fine. Like nothing touches you. Like last night didn't happen."

"I am fine," I muttered. "I'm bottle back up- I won't do that again."

Sam didn't move. Didn't speak. Just let the silence stretch between us like a wire pulled taut- one breath too sharp and it'd snap.

"You say that like it's something to be proud of," he said finally, voice low and rough. "Like locking yourself down is a win."

"It's survival," I bit back, too fast. Too sharp. "Don't preach to me about coping, Sam. Not when you spent years burying yourself in vengeance."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.

"Last night was a mistake. I shouldn't have lost my temper." I exhaled hard, fingers curling over the porch railing until the cold bit into my skin. "Everything thats happened... the Ball- the Trickster... and you standing there like you still see me the same after all of it- like none of it shook you-" I broke off, the words too jagged to finish. "I don't know how to carry that."

I felt the heat of his hand before it brushed my waist. He hesitated there- barely touching, like he was testing my reaction. His expression didn't shift much, but something in his eyes flickered- understanding, maybe. Or just the same damn wieght pressing down on both of us.

"Bri," he said, and my name came out soft. Worn. "I don't see you the same."

My stomach dropped. "Oh."

"Not like that," Sam said quickly, shaking his head. "When I pulled the same crap in Tennessee, you let me go. Gave me the space I said I needed- even when it wasn't what you wanted."

He let out a breath- half a laugh, half regret.

"But everything that happened at the Ball... it made me see what walking away really looked like. What it costs. And I- I don't want that life anymore."

I didn't speak right away.

My fingers eased their grip on the railing, but I didn't let go completely. The cold wood beneath my hands had anchored me- something to hold while everything else kept shifting. Now, I just felt untethered.

"I don't know if I can trust that," I admitted quietly. "Not because I think you're lying. Just... because every time I let myself believe in something, it gets ripped away."

Sam's hand stayed at my waist, steady and warm.

"I know," he said, voice low. "And I can't promise it won't happen again. We live in a world where everything gets tested. But I'm not going anywhere- not unless you tell me to."

I closed my eyes. "You say that... But I told you I wished you had stayed dead. But you're still here."

He didn't flinch. Not visibly.

But the silence that followed felt like a slow, sharp inhale- the kind that stings in your chest but never quite makes it to your lungs.

"I know what you said," he murmured finally. "And I know you didn't mean it."

"I did." My voice wavered, brittle and raw. "In that moment, I did. Because then it wouldn't hurt as much."

Silence stretched again, heavy and brittle like ice too think to walk on.

"I wanted to hate you," I went on, barely a whisper. "Because if I hated you, then I wouldn't miss you. Wouldn't still be standing here, trying to figure out how to let someone in, who already broke my heart just by leaving."

Sam bowed his head, just barely brushing the back of my head.

"I did leave you," he said. "Even when I didn't mean to. And I'm sorry for every second of that."

I didn't say anything. Couldn't.

The cold was biting now, curling under my skin. But I didn't move away from him.

"I came back," he added, softer. "Not because I had to."

"No, because Dean dragged your ass back with that fucking deal." I snorted morbidly.

Sam gave a small huff of breath- almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. His hand slipped from my waist to the middle of my back, grounding me like he knew I was starting to drift.

"You're right," he said. "Dean did. And I hate him for it. Because coming back meant facing everything I'd tried to bury. You. What I left behind. What I ruined."

His voice caught on that last word- not choked, not dramatic. Just true. Honest in a way that twisted something in my chest. He took a breath like he was steadying himself. Like saying it out loud was harder than facing down a demon.

"After everything at the Ball... That dress... the way you looked at me, like you didn't know if you should kiss me or kill me." His breath fogged in the cold between us. "It hit me. How close I came to losing this- you- for good. And the worst part? I would've deserved it."

My throat tightened, and I looked down at my hands, still wrapped around the railing like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

"You looked right past me that night," I whispered. "I was standing right next to you, and you looked right past me. You looked at her. Sarah."

Sam flinched like I'd hit him, but didn't deny it. "I did. I looked at her... because she was safe. Because she reminded me of a version of myself that didn't screw everything up."

He reached for my hand on the railing, not pulling, just covering it, palm to knuckles, warm and steady against the cold.

"You aren't safe. You never have been. You challenge me. You see through me. You hold up a mirror, and sometimes I hate what I see in it- but I never stop needing it. Needing you."

My breath stuttered in my throat. I should've said something, pushed him away, made a joke sharp enough to would- but I didn't.

I just looked at him.

At the lines time had carved into his face, the shadows he carried under his eyes. The way his touch didn't shake, even when everything else had.

"I love you, Brianna," he said, his voice thick but steady. "And I'm done trying to bury that truth just because it scares me."

"Don't," Tears stung my eyes, hot and unwanted. "Don't say it unless you mean it."

Sam didn't flinch. Didn't look away. His hand stayed exactly where it was, solid and warm over mine.

"I do mean it," he said, quiet but unwavering. "God, Bri... I've meant it for longer than I've had the guts to say it."

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I hated it. Hated how easily he could undo me, unravel everything I'd wound tight just to survive. But I didn't pull away.

"I don't know how to do this," I admitted, voice ragged. "Not with this shit with Big Eve- and the Tricksters shit. It's too much, Sam. It's all to much."

"You don't have to know." Sam took a step closer, shifting just enough to see my face without forcing me to meet his eyes. His hand left mine on the railing, coming up slowly to hover beside my cheek, not quite touching- just offering, like a silent promise he wouldn't push unless I let him.

"You know she still has her eye on you, right?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "Big Eve. Whatever the hell she is now. She said I couldn't keep you. The Trickster too."

Sam didn't look away. "She's wrong. They both are."

"But what if they're not?" My voice cracked, and I hated how small it sounded. "What if I lose you all over again, Sam? What if this- this moment, right now- is the closest we ever get?"

His fingers brushed along my jaw, just a whisper of a touch, his thumb catching the edge of another tear I hadn't realized was falling.

"Then I'll make this moment count," Sam said quietly. "I'll make every moment count, for as long as I have them with you."

The words landed heavy, steady, threading into the cracks I didn't know were still bleeding. I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But belief was a muscle I hadn't used in too long- it shook under the weight.

"I'm still mad at you," I whispered, trying to hold on to some anchor, some edge. "I'm still hurting."

"I know," he said, giving my waist a gentle tug. I followed the tug, turning to face him.

The distance between us disappeared- not all at once, but in inches. My chest brushed his coat. His breath mingled with mine in the cold, and his hand stayed on my waist, like he knew if he let go too fast, I'd bolt.

"I don't need you to be okay yet," he murmured, voice low and close, like a confession meant only for me.

I studied his face, every line and shadow, every flicker of remorse that didn't ask for pity. He wasn't making promises he couldn't keep. He wasn't sugarcoating... us... what we were- what we'd been through. He was just here. Raw, and real, and mine, if I could let him.

"I don't know if I can survive losing you again," I whispered.

"You won't have to," he promised, his hand tightening ever so slightly at my waist, like he could anchor the promise with touch alone. "Not if I can help it."

A fragile sound broke in my chest, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "That's the thing, Sam. We both know sometimes we can't help it. Not when the gods get involved. Not when Hell calls your name louder than I can."

His forehead dropped to mine, the simple contact setting every nerve in my body alight. "I know," he said quieter, his breath ghosting across my face. "And I hate that you're right."

Tears burned again, but I didn't wipe them away this time. I let them fall. Let him see the full mess of me.

He leaned in, slow and reverent, like he was giving me every chance to stop him.

I didn't.

When his lips met mine, it wasn't fireworks—it was a slow-burning ember, something deep and old, reigniting in the ash. It was aching and soft and full of everything we hadn't said, everything we'd buried.

The kiss deepened just slightly, no urgency, just weight of everything we were holding onto. My hands curled into the front of his coat, grounding myself in him, in this. For one second, the world felt still.

Then-

"Ahem."

The cough was unmistakable. Smug. Purposeful.

I twisted, still half tucked into Sam, only to find Eve standing in the doorway, a steaming mug in her hands, and her expression the picture of mock innocence.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything life-altering," she said, taking a sip. "But Dean's going to eat everything if someone doesn't stop him.

I blinked at Eve, cheeks flushed, caught somewhere between mortified and unrepentant. "Define life-altering."

Eve grinned over her mug. "Oh, you know. Emotional revelations. Apocalptic declarations. Tongue."

I groaned and dropped my head against Sam's shoulder with a muttered, "She's not going to let this go."

"And the Ring's flaring again," she added, more somber. "Just a flicker. Could be nothing, could be something. You know how it goes."

Sam exhaled, and I felt the shift in him. Not frustration, not even surprise. Just the familiar, resigned tension of a hunter. "Alright, lets go see what we're dealing with."

We followed Eve back into the house, where she crossed to the small table where the Chronos Ring sat inside a mesh of sigils and runes. It glowed faintly now, a low, pulsating light like a heartbeat underwater.

"It flared for maybe ten seconds," she said, setting her mug down and brushing her fingers over the protective circle without breaking it. "Enough to knock out half the ambient wards and singe the windowsill."

I crouched beside the table, eyes narrowing as I studied the ring's faint pulse. "I wish we had brought that book Bobby found on this thing."

Sam nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, the one with the ancient counter-warding rituals. Could help us figure out if this flare is a warning or a trap."

I bit the inside of my lip for a second. "You're going to hate this idea..."

Sam's eyes flicked to mine, already bracing. "That's a hell of a way to start a sentence."

"Look, we need the book. Eve can't go to Bobby's right now because of John. Why don't I go?"

Eve straightened at that, brows knitting as she looked from me to Sam. "You want to go alone? To Bobby's? While John Winchester's still lurking around like a bad prequel?"

Sam's jaw tightened. "No. Absolutely not. We don't even know if Dad knows we're here yet. You walk into South Dakota alone, it's like painting a target on your back. He's not just unpredictable—he's dangerous."

I stood, brushing my hands on my pajama pants, more out of nervous energy than anything. "I know he's dangerous—he pulled a gun on Eve in the damn bathroom. But we need that book, and we need it now, before this thing decides to jumpstart the apocalypse... or whatever kind of hell it's tied to. I'm the best shot we've got, Sam."

"That doesn't make you expendable," Sam shot back. "Did everything we just talk about mean nothing to you?"

I flinched, just slightly, and Eve caught it. Her voice gentled.

"Bri," she said, "we get it. You want to do something. But this wouldn't be just a milk run. If John catches wind you're there... he won't come at you sideways. He'll burn the place down."

"I'm not planning on getting caught," I said, quietly. "I'll be fast. In and out. I've slipped in and out of worse situations."

"Yeah, and you've almost died doing it," Eve replied. "Twice. Once with me, once without me. I'm not keen on rolling the dice again."

Sam's eyes narrowed, the weight of every near-miss hanging heavy between us. "Bri- you're not a one-woman army. You're part of this- for better or worse- and that means we make the call together. Not solo runs that end in bruises or worse."

"Don't bring that up," I glared half heartedly at Eve. "I'm not asking for a solo mission. I'm saying-"

The air changed.

No one said anything at first—just a flicker in the corner of my eye. A shimmer, like heat rising off pavement. Then—

The Ring flared. Not just a flicker this time. The stone went white-hot in an instant, and the table beneath it hissed as if something was being branded into the wood.

I staggered back.

"What the hell—" Dean muttered, stepping forward.

Sam grabbed my arm before I could do the same. "Don't."

The Ring screamed. Not out loud, but in the kind of way that drilled straight into your skull—like it didn't need your ears to hurt you. Like it knew how to speak a language you'd forgotten you knew.

Eve flinched hard, a hand snapping to her temple as she buckled sideways against the wall. I barely heard her curse through the high-pitched whine knifing through my head—like tinnitus dialed up to eleven. It wasn't sound. Not really. It was pressure and memory, static-slick voices I couldn't understand pressing into the hollow behind my eyes.

I dropped to one knee before I realized I was falling.

"Make it stop," I hissed, clutching the side of my head as the Ring's glow pulsed brighter—like a heartbeat out of sync with the room. My vision blurred. The hardwood under it had gone black, etched with something scorched and moving. Not just a burn mark—a sigil forming itself, curling and snapping like a brand being carved from the inside out.

"Sam!" Dean shouted. "Do something!"

Sam didn't move at first. His eyes were locked on the Ring—wide and dark, like something ancient was staring through them, not just out of them. His jaw was clenched, muscles tight like he was fighting to stay upright against a wind no one else could feel.

"Sam!" Dean barked again, more urgent this time. "Now!"

Sam blinked hard, like snapping out of a trance, and tore his eyes away from the Ring. He moved fast then—reaching into his coat, drawing a silver-lined pouch from the inner pocket. Latin spilled from his mouth, rough and raw. The words didn't echo—they vibrated, low and sharp, like trying to cauterize the air itself.

The Ring shrieked in response. Not the psychic wail this time—this was real. A splitting, bone-deep screech that shattered the nearest lamp and sent a spiderweb of cracks racing through the living room mirror.

Eve cried out and dropped again, both hands over her ears. Blood hit the floor from her nose in two hot drips.

I doubled over, clutching my head, my ribs, anything I could anchor to as the Ring's light surged into one final, blinding flare—

—and snapped out.

Just like that. Gone.

No glow. No sound.

The air smelled like sulfur and frost. The sigil on the table was burned in black as pitch, still smoking faintly at the edges. The Ring sat in the center of it, completely inert. Cold. Like nothing had ever happened.

But we knew better.

Dean's shotgun was already in his hands, aimed toward the door. Sam rose slowly, every muscle still on edge, gaze darting between the Ring and the threshold.

"Did we stop it?" I asked, my voice raw.

Sam didn't answer.

Because the front door was still open.

And the floorboards just beyond it creaked with the weight of something heavy.

Something walking in.

Not fast.

Not loud.

But sure. Measured.

Like it had been invited.

Dean cocked the shotgun.

"Whatever the hell you are," he said low, "you've got about five seconds to regret showing up."

The creaking stopped.

Then came a voice—smooth, amused, almost kind.

"Regret?" it echoed. "Darlin'... I haven't even started."