Sam and Dean had already crossed paths with you in previous hunts. After the first time you almost stabbed him during a poltergeist case, the brothers called Bobby and asked if he knew anyone with your name.

Bobby’s voice had turned the most affectionate they had ever heard it as he told them about the time you came to him for help with a spell. He went on a little rant about you staying in his house after you got hurt and how he woke up to breakfast waiting for him on the dinner table and his fridge full of beer and fresh produce, before he realized he sounded way too fond of you and grumbled something about you being a good kid and to keep you safe if they ever crossed paths with you again.

And they did—over and over again. Sam bumped into you at a library in Nevada, and you joined them in a vampire hunt once in Massachusetts. Dean bought you a drink in upstate New York about three months after your first meeting, and he could never have guessed how it’d go

The bartender had ended up pulling some tarot cards from behind the counter, and you offered to give her a reading in exchange for a free drink. Dean had never seen anyone handle psychic bullshit the way you did—so effortless, so sharp. You joked your way through it, laughing as you laid the cards down, but your words still carried weight. Each sentence landed with the kind of quiet gravity that made people go still.

And then, you’d found your way back to the brothers, your cheeks flushed with tequila and your eyelids a little heavy. “I think I’ll call it a night, guys.”

“Let me drive you back to your motel.” Sam threw Dean a weirded-out look, and he could hear his little brother’s question in his head.

“You know, you really saved my ass back there,” you murmured when Dean stopped the Impala in front of your room, turning to stare at him under the dim streetlights.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean said with what was meant to be a bashful smile, but he couldn’t help the way his chest puffed out. He was of service. He did something good. “It’s what we do—we have each other’s backs.”

Your eyes were still on his, and this was when you’d lean in and kiss him, or invite him into your room. He got ready for it, almost desperate for the gratification it would bring—for those few minutes he would finally feel fulfilled. Feel loved.

But then you chuckled, shaking your head slightly before opening the car door.

“Stay safe Dean.” you whispered to him, then exited the car

He saw you more often after that. Something happened to you—something ugly and tragic—that you wouldn’t talk about with anyone but Bobby. It left you morose, a little broken, and with a whole new set of scars.

Bobby called Sam and Dean the day you tried to put scopolamine in his beer so you could go on a hunt.

“She’s goin’ stir-crazy, but I’ll be damned if I let that girl go on a hunt alone after—that.”

So a deal was made. You could work on cases, but you had to go along with Sam and Dean. You seemed to actually like the brothers, because you only rolled your eyes once before accepting.

Suddenly, he was trapped with you at every waking moment—during long drives in Baby, in every moldy motel room, in every library and morgue and graveyard.

And Dean could’ve dealt with it, if you weren’t so goddamned confusing. Because you patch him up sometimes, and your hands on his skin are delicate and soothing. You murmur reassuring words in the dark of night, brush his damp hair off his forehead, and ask him if he’s okay—and Dean actually believes that you care about the answer.

But, you still won’t let him touch you.

“He hurt you,” Dean spits your name, eyes frantic and his grip on the revolver desperate.

Turns out, the demon they’d been hunting in this town happened to be the same one you encountered months ago—the one that left you cracked and weak. Dean had never seen you that scared—face pale, lips trembling. He didn’t need to ask. He knew. He was the one responsible for the scar down your spine you still tried to hide. For the nightmares that left you gasping.