Archive of Our Own

You walk back into the motel room, one of those carton trays with three cups of coffee in it - black, no sugar for Dean, a little bit of creamer for you, a shot of vanilla syrup for Sam - and despite the fact that Dean is only just waking up and it’s before nine in the morning, tension is already thick between the brothers.

It’s been that way for a while now and you’d think you’d get used to it, but it’s been frustrating. Sam’s sitting on his bed, fully dressed, while Dean is lying in his. You walk up, pass Dean his coffee, which he accepts with a nod, and then sit down next to Sam, sides close against each other, as you pass him his cup.

“Found a job,” Sam says after taking a sip from his drink, giving you a small smile at the added taste, the one he always makes you swear on your life not to tell Dean about. Typical brother things. Except the way they’ve been fighting hasn’t been typical.

“Bedford, Iowa,” Sam continues. “Guy beat his wife’s brains out with a meat tenderizer.” 

“Yikes,” Dean comments, raising his eyebrows at you.

“And get this,” Sam continues, “third local inside two months to gank his wife. No priors on any of them, all happily married.” You pull down the corners of your mouth.

“A psycho husband murdering his wife isn’t exactly our thing,” you note, “they do that all the time.” Dean snorts in reply.

“You’re a romantic,” he says. You give him a sarcastic smile.

“Guess they must get sick of all that tension in the air all day,” you reply. “Early in the morning. Before coffee.” You take a sip from your cup to underline you’re not talking about husbands in Iowa, but Sam and Dean elect to ignore it.

Sam and Dean pose as lawyers and talk to the most recent hubby-gone-Jack Torrance while you run over to the morgue, do your own research. When you come back to the police station, Sam and Dean are just walking out of the interrogation room, both looking spiffy in their suits.

“So,” you ask, turning to walk alongside them, “he all rueful? Misunderstood? She cook his dinner every night but then she chewed too loudly once?”

“He was involved with a stripper named Jasmine,” Sam explains. “He said she was perfect , everything he ever wanted.” You snort.

“Oh, of course,” you reply as Dean pushes the door to the parking lot open, lets you walk through first, “so it’s another woman’s fault?”

“What is with you, Gloria?” Dean asks, voice annoyed. “No, he actually says it was all him. He seemed very clear about it.” Before you can snap back anything, Sam interrupts the bickering between you and Dean.

“Did you find anything?” he asks. You turn, stopping them both in their tracks.

“Yes,” you say, “very interesting actually. All the husbands had tests run on them when they were arrested, regular stuff, blood work, you know?” Sam and Dean nod, both listening.

“And there were anomalies in the blood work, all three of them,” you say, make a short pause for dramatic effect. “Oxytocin. Stupid high levels.” 

“Oxytocin?” Sam asks with a slight frown. You pull out the small note you wrote your findings on from the inside of your jacket, read off it.

“It’s a hormone that’s produced during childbirth, lactation,” you read, then look up, “and sex. People call it the love hormone.” You fold the note and push it back into your pocket just as Dean grins.

“You know what they say about hormones,” he says, “if you can’t even make a–” 

“Oxytocin?” Sam interrupts his brother who shoots him an annoyed look. “You were saying?” You can’t help but smile. This kind of stuff feels like it used to.

“You know how it feels when you first fall in love?” you ask, looking up at both brothers in turn. “The whole weak-in-the-knees, tattoo-your-name-on-my-ass thing?” Dean pulls his head back and his eyebrows up, giving you a surprised look, while Sam inclines his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, tries not to let his eyes flick to the part of your body you just mentioned.

“Sure,” he says, the word almost sounding like a challenge for some reason. You shrug.

“That’s oxytocin,” you conclude, then sigh.”Of course then it eventually fades and you’re just stuck with some guy named Steve. That and the painful and degrading process of tattoo removal.” 

Sam chuckles, while Dean starts walking towards the car again.

“I thought the guy’s name was Nick,” he says, giving you a cocky glance when you and Sam follow. “The one you made all the bad decisions for?” You laugh.

“Oh,” you reply, “who said there was only one?”

It turns out the two other murdering husbands have exactly the same story - they loved their wives and then out of nowhere had the overwhelming urge to murder them. They both also went to the same strip club husband number one did - The Honey Wagon. Only their stripper girlfriends weren’t called Jasmine and it seems to be three different women. And all were described by the men the same way: perfect, and everything that they ever wanted. 

“At least until they convinced them to murder their wives,” you say with a sigh. “Love spell?” Sam nods.

“Let’s hit the motel, get changed,” he says. You agree. You can’t wait to go to your room, take a shower. Have ten minutes of alone time in which you’re not worried about Sam and Dean, getting annoyed at each other in the next room over. Dean seems to be somewhat unbothered by the gruesome murders.

“Strippers, guys,” he says, grinning like a fool. “We’re on an actual case involving strippers. Finally.”

You and Sam look at each other, long suffering victims of Dean’s sexual wiles. Which is why you miss the look Dean throws you, checking your reaction, hoping for some indication that you care.

“Wow,” you say, looking up at a beautiful tan brunette in a suggestion of a red outfit wrapping a stiletto’d leg around the pole. “Bendy. ” 

Dean makes a face, then moves you along by the arm.

“Don’t make it weird,” he says, but you refuse to tear your eyes away.

“No, no, no,” you say, taking two unwilling steps, “I think I get it now. I’ve been converted.”

“Okay,” Dean says, letting go of you, pushing his fists into his sides, looking like a disappointed mom, which finally makes you look away from the dancer and at him. “You can’t be into this.” You frown at him, your amusement at making him uncomfortable palpable.

“And why not?” you ask.

“Because,” Dean starts, then shuts his mouth, looking away, thinking, before he shrugs. “Because that would make you the perfect woman.” You wink at him, click your tongue.

“Exactly, ” you reply. Just then, Sam walks up to you both. He went to talk to the club’s owner, but by the look on his face you can tell it was a bust.

“Anything?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head.

“I think I might actually have a theory,” Sam continues. “I'm thinking sirens?”

Sam fills you and Dean in on the basics - Greek mythology, beautiful creatures that prey on men, luring them to their downfall. Just like the men that murdered their wives.

“So whatever floats the guy’s boat, that’s what they look like?” Dean asks and Sam nods.

“Yeah, you see, sirens can read minds,” Sam explains. “They see what you want most and then they can cloak themselves.”

“So it could all be the same chick?” Dean asks. “Morphing to look like different girls?” You shrug.

“Could be,” you say.

“So how do we kill it?” Dean asks, voice frustrated.

“Not sure yet,” Sam says, “but even if we figure it out…”

“We first have to figure out who it is,” Dean ends the sentence for him. You nod, letting your eyes graze over Sam and Dean before looking around the club again.

“It could be anybody,” you conclude.

“He killed his mom?” you ask with an uncomfortable expression, sitting in the motel the next day. Sam presses his lips together, nods.

“He brought a stripper called Belle home,” he says as you pull up your legs, feet on the chair and cross your arms over your knees. “Couple hours later, he beat his mother to death. Belle is MIA, of course.” You sigh.

“Jesus,” you mutter, “that’s horrible.” Sam nods, then walks up to the table you’re sitting at, looking over the books you have opened.

“Find anything else?” he asks, looking down. You stand, picking up the book you were reading, holding it with one hand while pointing at something on the page with the other. You have your back slightly turned to Sam so that he can look over your shoulder at what you’re trying to show him.

“So it looks like sirens just look like hot women because that’s what the sailors wanted,” you say, running your finger along the page to show Sam what you’re referring to. There’s no point though. Sam tensed the moment you came so close to him, your shoulder blade only inches from his chest, the smell of your shampoo and perfume filling his senses. He has to fight the urge to close his eyes, inhale your scent and then drag your body back against his.

“But,” you say, and Sam snaps out of his daydream, focuses on what you’re saying, "that doesn’t mean that they can’t look like someone else if they needed to.”

You turn around, seemingly just a little surprised at how close Sam is standing behind you. You take a quick breath, blinking up at him while he swallows, before you collect yourself.

“Uhm,” you say, look down at the book to focus again. “Well, I’m thinking if she looks like a hot stripper to get to those men, maybe, you know, in her off time, she looks like the exact opposite.” Sam narrows his eyes and you raise your eyebrows.

“The club owner?” you ask and Sam raises his chin. "Think about it. She can scope her next victim and no one's paying attention to her in a place like that."

“Of course,how did I miss that?” he says, and you smile up at him, brilliant, proud.

Sam nearly does it then. Leans down, presses his lips against yours. He imagines it for a second, can almost feel it. The way you’re looking at him… is he crazy or does it look like you want him to?

“Sam?” you say and he’s surprised to find you looking up at him with a curious, open face. He steps a little closer to you.

Just then, the door behind him opens, and Sam turns, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dean walks in, brown bags of food in his arms.

“Hey!” Sam says by way of greeting, overly casual.

With a sigh, you turn to the table, put the book down. Stare at the illustration of the siren, beautiful and terrifying.

Almost as if Sam is avoiding you, you end up on stakeout duty with Dean. While the fact that Sam is being weirdly distant is upsetting, you don’t mind hanging out with Dean. Not at all.

He’s sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, looking out into the darkness and you do the same. He turned up the heating earlier for a little bit when you shivered, so it’s toasty in the interior of the car.

You shift, making Dean look over at you. You turn to him, smile softly. He swallows, looks outside again.

“Looks like our guy is staying in tonight,” you point out, and Dean nods.

“I guess running a strip club and turning a bunch of people into murderers is gonna tire you out at some point,” he says and you chuckle, making him look at you again. This time you don’t look back, so Dean’s eyes stay on you for a second.

“So what is going on between you and Sam?” you finally say, slowly turn to him. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” he says and you give him a challenging look.

“I get that you and him have a buttload of history, of course,” you explain, “but I feel like I'm flying blind.” Dean shakes his head.

“We’re fine,” he answers, “everything’s good.”

“Yeah, right,” you reply. “Look. I don't know what will set either of you off anymore. And then you fight or, which is way worse, both go completely quiet and I just live in this valley of tension all day every day.” You turn fully to him, look at him in a way that makes it impossible for Dean to disappear behind his wall of reflection the way he usually does.  

“Am I a part of this team or not?” you ask and Dean shifts, uncomfortable.

“It's complicated,” he finally settles on. You look down at your lap.

“I guess it is,” you say, voice sad. And Dean can’t stand that, can’t stand that you’re upset because of him, because of his goddamn family drama.

“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning in a little. “It’s… I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.” You look up, at his face, study him for a second.

“You used to tell me things,” you say. “All the time, before… But now you don’t.” Dean takes a slow breath through his nose.

“Yeah,” he says, not sure what else to tell you. It’s been hard, ever since he’s come back. He doesn’t want to scare you away with some of the horrors he’s witnessed. You don’t deserve that.

“I see you keeping everything to yourself,” you say, voice impossibly soft and Dean’s eyes shoot to you, your beautiful face, softly illuminated by the street lamp outside. “And I just wish I could do something. So you wouldn’t have to carry all this on your own.” 

Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth, your lips. They’re perfect. It’s not the first time he notices. He realizes you must have leaned in closer.

“You take care of everyone,” you continue, and then your hand lands on Dean’s, there on the bench between you. “But who takes care of you, Dean?”

You are looking deep into his eyes, then down at his lips too. Dean leans in, almost unwillingly, but it’s too tempting to be close to you. He can feel your breath on his face at some point, sweet and warm, all of you impossibly close as he moves in, does what he has sworn to himself never to do.

Your lips meet, and your hand goes up to run over his ear, down his neck, pulling him in. It’s better than he’s ever imagined. Soft and intense and you’re sort of taking the lead, so he feels like he doesn’t have to. At the same time, a high, quiet sigh leaves you, and Dean knows he did that, pulled that from you. He feels almost dizzy with it all, but then it’s over and you’re pulling back.

You don’t go far, though. You stay close, look deep into Dean’s eyes. Your fingers are still warm against his neck.

“We shouldn't,” he says, voice quiet so no one else in the world can hear because he actually thinks you absolutely should. “I want to, I just...” You nod slowly.

“I know,” you say. A sad smile comes over your face.

“It’s just too bad that I can never have,” you continue. “That I can never totally be yours.” Dean feels himself frown, even though he knows exactly what you mean. As if you’re reading his thoughts, you continue.

“Because you’ve seen the way Sam looks at me,” you say. “And you know he’ll never let us be together.”

Dean pulls his face back a little, stunned. He knows there’s something wrong with this, with what you’re saying, but it’s hard to grasp at it.

“You would sacrifice everything for him,” you say, slightly tilting your head, “and he won’t even let you be with the woman you love.” Dean blinks. He feels confused, like he’s missing out on something. But slowly it’s all coming back to him as you lean in, still looking into his eyes while you give him another slow kiss.

“Are we really not gonna be together just because of him?” you ask, almost a whisper, blinking at Dean. “The one thing you want for yourself, and you’re gonna give up on it? Let him have that, too?” You pause, look down, now almost looking scared.

“Let him have me?” you ask, blinking up at Dean again. “I know he’d never treat me as well as you would.”

“I–” Dean starts, but you move even closer and he can’t talk, can’t think, can’t anything.

“I think you should kill him,” you whisper, your lips moving against Dean’s. “I think you should kill Sam so you and I can be together. Forever.”

And it makes perfect sense. Dean nods, and then he’s reaching forward, one hand going to the steering wheel, the other to the key in the ignition while you lean back with a satisfied smile. 

“Sam?” you say, and Sam looks up. He’s just taking off his jacket. You look around the room. “Where’s Dean?” He frowns.

“He was… with you,” he says as you take another step into the room, shaking your head.

“I went to get us some coffee, for the stakeout,” you say, now starting to look worried that Dean’s not where you expected him to be. Sam tosses his jacket on the bed. “When I came back the Impala was gone. I assumed you had called him about something.” Sam shakes his head and then reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone. He throws you another look after selecting his brother’s number and raising the phone to his ear.

“Dean?” he says into the speaker, then turns to you, shakes his head. “Voice mail.” You cross your arms over your chest as Sam hangs up, thinks.

“Think maybe the siren got to him?” he asks, raising his eyes back to you, but in response you scoff.

“Dean?” you ask, shaking your head. “Dean, who sleeps with a gun under his pillow and doesn’t let anyone get closer than arm’s length to him? I doubt it.” Sam presses his lips together.

“Yeah, but…” he says and you raise your eyebrows at him.

“But?” you ask, voice challenging. “He barely lets you in close anymore, so I don’t think anyone else stands a chance.” You lower your gaze and Sam looks back at his phone, stares at the screen.

He dials the number again, but there’s no response. He’s worried about Dean, but you’re right - he’s not the type to have anyone get the jump on him. When he lowers his phone, you are just looking up at him again. Sam fidgets with the phone in his hands before he pushes it back into his pocket.

“What did you mean by that?” he asks, voice careful. “About no one standing a chance?” You uncross your arms, lay your hands on your hips instead and Sam has to swallow down the urge to stare at them, at the soft shape of you.

“I mean that no one can hold a candle to you in his eyes,” you say, shrug. “Must be tough to be the focus of all his attention all the time.” Sam shakes his head.

“No, it’s…” he says, not sure where he’s going with this. “It’s good, fine, I mean.”

“I’m just saying,” you more mumble than say, “if Dean ran into that siren, it’d probably look like you.” Sam raises his head, grimacing.

“That’s…” he says, “disturbing.” You roll your eyes.

“Not like that,” you reply with a chuckle. “It shows you what you want the most, right? It doesn’t have to be sexual. It just happened to be for those guys. I think for Dean’s it’s… yeah, well, you. Maybe a little less secretive. Maybe with a better haircut.”

Sam shoots you a suspicious glance, and you press your lips together to hide your grin. He huffs, shakes his head.

“Where on the co-dependency scale does that fall?” he mutters, not looking at you. But you only shrug again.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “I mean sometimes it has to be nice, right? To be loved that much.” 

Sam looks up, expression telling you he thinks you’re joking. But then he sees your face, the slight dreaminess in it and he quickly bites back the comment he was preparing. Instead, he shifts around.

“What about Steve the tattoo guy?” he asks. “Or was that Nick?” You smile wistfully.

“That was just… I don’t know,” you say, voice quieter. “Distractions. I’m talking about love.” You take a step towards him.

“Real love,” you say, taking another step, your eyes not leaving Sam’s face. “The kind that burns you alive, makes you feel like you’re flying and falling at the same time, like you only exist for one reason.” 

You’ve made it all the way to Sam, standing close to him while you look up. His gaze runs over your features, features he knows so well but always needs to look away from so he doesn’t get lost in them.

“I don’t even know if Dean can feel something like that, though,” you say, lips slightly parting. “But you can, Sam. I know you can. If you only gave it a shot.” 

“I don’t–” Sam says, but his words get stuck in his throat. Your eyes are glistening, looking up at him with reverence. 

“I can feel it in you,” you continue, your intonation almost hypnotic as you lean your head back a little, basically offering your lips up on a silver platter. “I can feel it burning in you, Sam.”

Sam clenches his jaw. His heart’s beating fast, so fast it’s gonna burst him wide open. He thinks he wants you more in that moment than he’s ever wanted anything before in his life.

He’s about to kiss you, and it’s only because he clenches his fist that his attention is drawn to the phone in his hand. Phone, he thinks, and then: Dean. He clears his throat, just as you are closing your eyes.

“We should go and find him,” he says, his voice surprisingly croaky, and your eyes snap open. There he goes, he’s ruined it. Just like he ruins everything else.

To get away from the hurt and disappointed look on your face, he needs to move. He walks past you and then towards the open room door, grabs his jacket from where he dropped it before turning to you.

“You coming?” he asks, trying to make his voice sound neutral and absolutely failing. You turn to him.

“That’s a shame,” you say, and Sam frowns at you, not understanding. “I really didn’t want it this way, Sam.” 

Sam just manages to open his mouth to ask you what you mean, when someone grabs him from behind just as he hears the door fall shut. He just barely manages to get a look before he’s held fast in place by a grip he knows all too well.

“Dean?” he calls out as his brother drags him backwards, his back meeting the wall before Sam suddenly feels the sharp edge of a knife against his throat. “Dean, what are you doing!?”

His eyes snap to you. You’re still standing there, seemingly unbothered by Dean’s strange and violent behavior. You turn, take slow, languid steps towards Sam that make his blood boil when he understands.

“What did you do, you freak?” he presses out through gritted teeth. “Where is she!?” 

The siren smiles, using your mouth, your lips, the one Sam almost kissed just a minute ago. She lets her eyes roam over the two men.

“Watch the name calling, Sam,” she says in your voice, that voice Sam has heard a million times, the one he knows every inflection of. “That’s not how a nice boy like you should be talking.” 

Sam scoffs, his hands gripping Dean’s arm to keep the knife as far away from him as possible.

“I swear, if you hurt her–” he says but she interrupts him.

“I killed her,” she says, watching with amusement as Sam’s expression changes from self-satisfied to one of horror. “I don’t like getting my hands dirty, but I will if it’s necessary. And I couldn’t have her interrupting us, could I? Plus I got what I wanted. I wanted Dean.”

Sam is frozen for another moment, the realization of what the monster in front of him is saying washing over him, before he starts struggling against his brother again.

“You’re lying,” he almost whispers, his voice failing him. She shrugs.

“Am I?” she asks. Sam turns his head.

“Dean!” he begs. “Come on, man. This isn’t you. You can fight this.”

The siren walks closer to the two, a murderous smile on her, and your, lips. She stops when she’s next to Dean, raises her hand to run it along the back of his head.

“Dean, baby,” she says, “why don’t you cut Sammy a little bit, hmm? Right there, on his neck.” Sam doesn’t hear Dean say anything to confirm, but then the blade is pressing against his skin and a second later he can feel a thick drop of blood run down from where his brother is holding him. She steps back into Sam’s view. 

“Dean’s all mine,” she says, voice low.

“You poisoned him,” Sam shoots back immediately, but she shakes her head.

“No, I gave him what he wanted,” she answers, widening her arms, indicating her form. “Granted, a little more sexually forward. Plus, I’m pretty sure the boobs are bigger.” She indicates them with a grin.

“But underneath it all,” she replies, almost sounding dreamy, “the same girl.” Sam frowns.

“I thought–” he starts, but is yet again interrupted by the monster.

“You thought it would always be a stripper in a g-string?” she asks. “Some mindless, sex-crazed hottie?” She inclines her head. 

“Usually, yeah,” she admits. “So imagine my surprise when I looked into Dean’s noggin and all I could find was this real, flesh-and-blood girl.” She smiles, then chuckles to herself.

“I was just gonna get out of town when I realized I had hunters on my ass,” she says, crossing her arms. “But then I looked into your head, too, Sam.” 

Sam tenses even more, if such a thing is possible. Grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say.

“And it’s the same damn girl,” she says, face fascinated and happy the way yours looks when you say something that makes Sam and Dean groan but you find hilarious. “It was just too good to let it slide.”

“How nice for you,” Sam hisses. But she just grins wider.

“Can’t tell you what it does to a woman,” she says, eyes traveling over him. “Having two hunks like you fight over her.” Her eyes land on Sam’s face again.

“Delicious,” she adds. “That kind of devotion, plus three dead hunters? Come on, who would pass that up?”

“I’ll tell you,” Sam presses out, “I have fought some nasty sons of bitches but you are one needy, pathetic loser.” 

She almost looks hurt at that, but then she tilts her head the other way, in a move that is completely unnatural to you. It makes Sam’s skin crawl.

“You won’t feel that way in a minute,” she says. Sam just has time to frown, and then she is stepping closer again.

Her hands go up, cup his face from both sides. She needs to press up on her toes, just like you would, but Sam can’t move away, can’t go anywhere, Dean’s hold on him too tight, the knife keeping his head in place. 

Her lips meet his, eyes closed, and Sam presses his mouth shut, even though he knows it’s probably useless. She just keeps kissing him, and Sam tries not to think about how much this is probably what your lips really feel like, how different this would be if it was actually you.

That’s the last thing he thinks. After that, he just feels.

You drop back down, then reach for Dean’s arm, tug at it until he lets go. Sam takes a step forward, looking down at you. You’re just as beautiful as he always knows you to be.

You take a step back, then another, before you raise your hand and then beckon him toward you with your index finger. Sam steps forward as if he’s being pulled by an invisible rope. He hopes, prays, actually, that you’ll kiss him again. It’s all he wants. He’d do anything for it. He’d kill.

“I know you two have a lot you need to get off your chests,” you say, looking from Sam to Dean behind him. You stop moving, allow Sam to catch up with you, standing close to him and turn your head so you can look into his eyes.

“So why don’t you two discuss it,” you explain, “and whoever survives can be with me.” You turn your head, look past Sam at Dean. “Forever.”

It takes Sam everything to turn around, and he clenches his jaw when he sees Dean there. Dean. The only one who can take everything he ever wanted from him. He still feels the itch and burn of the cut on his throat. The cut his brother opened there.

“You really gonna do this, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice heavy like lead. “I’ve done everything for you. Took care of you, killed for you. Hell, I died for you. But you can’t let me have this one thing?” Sam shakes his head, snarls, the disdain for his brother thick in his voice.

“This isn’t about you, Dean,” he answers. “This is about her. Who she wants. Who she needs. You’re never gonna be able to give her what I can.” 

You slowly walk around them in a half-circle, watching them with a fascinated expression. Dean shakes his head, anger boiling right under his skin.

“I can protect her, no matter what it takes,” he says and the corners of your mouth twitch at his self-immolation. “You know I can. But you? You can’t even take care of yourself.” Your head moves so you can watch Sam when he replies.

“You just wanna lock her up,” he says, and your skin tingles with the love in his voice. “Keep her from everything that could harm her. What kind of life would that be?” 

“And you would do it differently?” Dean replies, his tone now becoming condescending. “The two of you against the world?” He scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as the idea of you making her happy,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Come on, Dean. You think you got it in you?” Dean narrows his eyes in response.

“Not like you have the best track record,” he points out and Sam’s upper lip curls.

“You think she’s not just gonna run the other way the minute she sees how broken you really are?” Sam asks.

This time, Dean doesn’t reply. Instead, he pulls his arm back, throws the knife.

Sam telegraphs the move, ducks, and when Dean comes running at him, he sinks his fist into his brother’s face. Dean roars back, delivers a hard right hook that sends Sam reeling, before he is thrown the other way by another punch.

As the two pummel each other, exchanging blows that are meant to hurt, meant to open skin, meant to kill, you stand there, watch them. Your front teeth have found your lip as you watch as these two men who have sworn undying loyalty to each other beat each other into ground meat. Heart beating faster, flushed. This is it. This is love. 

Dean manages to trap Sam’s arm, angles it up with a sick crunch before elbowing Sam in the face. But Sam recovers quicker than he expects, sinks a fist into his gut, and when that makes Dean let go of him, he goes for his face. One, two, three punches, all of the kind that would lay another man flat on his back. He finally does, when the next one sends Dean flying backwards, through the wooden, decorative partition. Sam immediately crosses the distance to him.

“You’re not gonna stand between us anymore,” he pants, as he grabs Dean by the collar of his jacket, pulls him to his feet. He hits him in the face again, pushes him up against the nearby door, but Dean just so manages to flip them, so that now Sam’s back is against the wood. Dean stumbles back, then leans in. You step forward, shuddering breath leaving you. Then Dean runs forward and tackles Sam.

They both go crashing through the door to the other side, groaning and panting. You step into the doorframe, watch them there, the two men fighting over you. Sam seems dazed, having taken the brunt of the impact, but Dean is already moving again, albeit slowly. He pushes himself up, first on two arms, then to stand, before he looks back at you. 

You smile at him, softly, suggestively. Not that you need to. Dean already knows you’re everything he’s ever needed. With you by his side, all the pain and the horror will have been worth it. He knows you can bring out the best in him. He just knows.

His eyes land on the fire axe on the nearby wall and he walks over to it. When he stands before it, he throws Sam another hate-filled look before shattering the glass with his elbow, then taking out the axe. The metal is light and smooth, fits perfectly into his hands. Just like you will.

Sam sees what his brother does, but he’s too hurt to get up. He looks your way when he sees you step towards him. He looks up at you, eyes pleading - surely, you wouldn’t let his brother do this? Surely, you must know that he loves you more?

Dean walks back towards him. He looks down at his little brother, the one who has been the center of his life, the motivation for all his actions for as long as he can remember. Looks down at him, ready to kill. But there is a moment. Just the tiniest one. Doubt. 

“Do it,” Dean hears your voice and he looks up at you. You’re looking at him, eyes pleading. You don’t want Sam, he realizes in that moment. You’ve always wanted him. This is what this has been about all along. Not about which brother could prove to love you more - you’ve secretly been betting on Dean the entire time, just waiting for him to prove himself.

“Do it for me, Dean,” you say, and it all opens up before him, all the possibilities. A life, outside of all this. No blood and guts and pain and nightly stakeouts. Just the two of you. Maybe a little house. Hell, maybe a couple of kids. If he has to get rid of Sam for that…

He looks down, not even registering the desperate way Sam is looking up at you. Because Sam thinks the same things as Dean. Only he wonders if this is a test, if you’re gonna allow Dean to get this close to killing him, to see that he would die for you. If that is the case, he can accept the axe about to sink into his head.

“Tell me again how broken I am, huh, Sam? How I can’t protect her?” Dean says, and then he raises the axe over his head.

You - the real you, not the hateful version of you the siren is portraying - burst into the hallway of the motel. You turn, see Dean there, axe raised above his head, Sam lying on the floor below him. There’s only one explanation for this, as far as you’re concerned.

You rush forward, the knife going into Dean’s arm. He yells and then you turn and you’re looking at yourself. Your eyes go wide and just in that moment, the siren starts running.

There’s a strange moment, something like an out of body experience, where you watch her, but then you catch yourself, raise your arm, and throw the knife after her as hard as you can. You can hear Sam expel a: “no!” but it’s too late.

The knife plunges in her back and she falls forward, hands briefly trying to reach for something before she lands on the floor, body convulsing before it stills.

You quickly turn, look back at Sam, still lying there but scrambling to sit up, and then Dean, who’s lowered the axe, is holding his hand over the wound where you cut him. Both of them look angry, and then they blink, seem confused. They both look at you and then each other, none of you saying a word.

“Look, I told you,” you say, as the three of you are walking outside to the car, duffels thrown over your shoulders. “She came to my room, knocked me over the head and then tied me up. I’m just lucky this asshole couldn’t tie a knot to save her life.” Dean unlocks the trunk, opens it and you put your bag inside, then step aside so the brothers can do the same.

“And you talked to Bobby before that?” Dean clarifies, and you nod.

“Yes,” you reply, as he throws the trunk shut. “I’d just hung up after he told me how to kill the thing when she knocked. Knife dipped in the blood of one of her victims. Like s snake's venom destroying its host.” 

“Why didn’t she just kill you?” Dean asks, frowning. You make a face.

“Because she wanted to come back with one of you to finish the job,” you explain. “She really didn’t like getting her hands dirty, I guess.” The idea that one of them could have been led to not only kill his brother, but the real you as well, in the end, sends a shudder through both Dean and Sam.

The latter sighs. The cut on his neck has been cleaned and you iced the bruise below your eye where you got hit by the siren. Dean’s face is bruised too and you can only guess that he got that from Sam, but you haven’t asked. It seems like a sore topic. Almost as sore as the one you’re about to bring up.

“So,” you say, pushing your hands into the pockets of your jacket. “Do we need to talk about what she looked like at all, or…?”

Sam clears his throat while Dean shifts around.

“It’s…” Sam starts, then grimaces, changes his approach. “We know what that must have looked like, and—”

“I know exactly what it looked like,” you say, then look up, first at one brother then the other. “And I get it.” Sam and Dean throw each other a quick look.

“You do?” Dean asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah,” you reply, “I was the best way to get to you.” You gesticulate, first to yourself then at them. 

“I’m the person you trust. Once she knew we were hunters, she must have known she wasn’t gonna get close to you by, I don’t know, being a Jenna Jameson-lookalike?” You say that part towards Dean, who just has time to raise his eyebrows. 

“Or, or, some hot, confident, studious lady?” you continue, looking at Sam, sort of guessing. “It was just the easiest way to get to you both.” 

Sam and Dean look at each other again. It doesn’t really work as an excuse, but if it means they don’t have to talk about the topic and explain to you what was actually going on, they’ll take it.

“That’s exactly what it was,” Dean says, then moves towards the driver’s side, you and Sam getting in as well.

You pull the door shut behind yourself, get comfortable in your seat.

“All that’s important,” you say from the backseat while Sam and Dean get in, “is that I saved your asses, and I think that means I get to pick the music from now on.” Dean chuckles, nods.

“Keep dreaming,” he says and you pout at him in the rearview mirror. But something is bugging Sam.

“One thing I don’t get,” he says, shifting in his seat so he can look at both you and his brother, but addresses you. “You said the siren knocked.” You raise your eyebrows.

“Are we shocked the monster had manners?” you ask and Sam smiles, but shakes his head.

“What did it look like for you to let it in?” he asks. You pull your shoulders up, blink.

“Brad Pitt,” you say. Dean narrows his eyes at you in the rearview mirror. “In–in Troy, where he wears that skirt and has the hair. But like, mixed with Will Smith in Independence Day. ” Now Dean turns too, not believing his ears.

“What?” you ask, hoping you’re not giving anything away as you look at the brothers in turn. “What? ”

“And you let this strange crossbreed into your room?” he asks, voice unbelieving. “Just like that?” You open your mouth, then close it.

“I–” you begin, stuttering a little.

“You’re way too paranoid for that,” Sam points out. 

“I’m not paranoid,” you correct him, but it doesn’t make the brothers turn back around. They are still obviously waiting for another - truthful - answer. You press your lips together, unwilling to give so much as an inch. So instead, you go on the attack.

“Why were my siren-double’s boobs bigger than mine?” you ask, eyebrows raised, challenging looks thrown at Dean, then Sam. 

They look away from you, at each other, then turn towards the front. Dean reaches forward, starts the car, the last tape you listened to suddenly beginning to blare out of the speakers. Without another word, Dean maneuvers the car off the lot. It’s a surprise he doesn’t drive straight into oncoming traffic with the nervousness and terror at being found out warring in his chest.

But then he looks up, into the rearview mirror. You’re sitting there, nail of your thumb pressed between your teeth, eyes looking outside like you’ve been caught at something. Dean swallows, looks at Sam, who seems to be about as doom-struck as he is. 

At least the three of you have that in common.