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You weren’t sure how many days had passed while you were locked in a cage in an abandoned warehouse, but you knew it was long enough that you should have lost hope that you’d make it out alive. And maybe you had lost hope at some point, but then the big man standing guard at the door went running, a loud commotion providing enough of a distraction for you to pick the heavy lock with a bobby pin tucked in your hair.
Sneaking out was easier said than done, you were covered in cuts and bruises, blood matting your hair and staining your clothes all over. Your ankle hurt to walk on, your fingers were swollen where someone had ripped a few nails out, you were in rough shape.
Your time in the warehouse was spent in a chair, being mentally probed by a psychic and physically tortured by her lackey, or unconscious on the floor in the big cage they’d throw you into after every session. It was easier to be unconscious, at least then they’d leave you alone for a few hours. The physical pain was something you could handle, they weren’t being as brutal as they could’ve been, but the psychic was a big problem.
She was thorough, sifting through your memories with a fine toothed comb, pressing her fingers into the wounds that had yet to heal. She dug up old feelings, past mistakes, made you relive the worst moments of your life. The pain you’d caused, the lives you’d watched end, the times you’d been so hopelessly out of control, stuck on the sidelines of the literal apocalypse.
The way out of the warehouse was suspiciously quiet, you slipped out into the night with no roadblocks, praying it was because your captors were currently being dispatched and not because they were letting you go. The air was cold when it hit your face, the thin fabric of your t-shirt doing nothing to shield you from the wind. A quick glance in both directions when you find a road doesn’t provide any information, so you pick a direction and start walking. Hobbling, really, but you try not to think about that right now.
You lose track of time again, breathing heavily as you beg your legs to keep moving, to carry you as far as they need to, to get you somewhere safe. A soft glow in the distance catches your attention, your heart racing when you get a little closer and recognize it as a gas station. Tears well in your eyes, relief threatening to bowl you over before you’re technically safe.
Your approach is careful, a bloody woman crawling off the road in the middle of the night would be scary for anyone to see, so you take the time to scan the area before deciding it’s safe. A payphone stands against the side of the building, you swipe a tab off a soda can in the trash and drop it in the coin slot. You dial Dean’s number and force back a cry when you hear the phone ring.
“Hello?” His voice is low, like he’s trying not to wake someone. Relief floods through you, tears falling before you can stop them. “Dean,” you whimper, muffling a cry, “I- I don’t know where I am.” You hear him yell for Sam, hear scrambling as they leap into action. He says your name, “what do you see? Any signs?”
You look around quickly, giving him the name of the gas station and feeling panic rise in your throat. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing else around me, it’s too dark,” you whisper down the line, hand grabbing the shell of the payphone to keep yourself upright. “It’s okay,” he says calmly, “hey, listen to me, it’s okay. You’re doing great, sweetheart.” You can’t hide the way you sniffle, how your breath shakes when he speaks.
“Are you hurt?” He asks, you can hear Sam typing in the background, the sound of Dean loading a weapon. “A little,” you murmur, wiping a tear and willing your voice to steady, “nothing that’ll kill me.” You can picture how he nods, imagine how his brows are furrowing while he paces. “Okay,” he sighs, voice staying that soft, calm tone, dripping in comfort and worry. You hear Sam in the background, “got her,” and the sound of keys and quick movements. “Sammy found you, we’re on our way. Just keep talking to me,” Dean reassures, the Impala roaring to life.
You can’t help the sob that falls from your lips, your hands shaking and legs finally giving out. You kneel in front of the phone, letting your head rest against the lip of the stand. Sam calls your name through the phone, they must have put your on speaker. “Hey, the call is going to drop soon, do you have another coin?” His voice is stable, concern weaving through the way he says your name.
“I’ve got a few more soda tabs,” you say softly, sucking in a deep breath. “Good, and your injuries? What are we dealing with?” He’s giving you things to do, grounding you by making you think. You hear the impala in the background, you know Dean’s flooring it. “Sprained ankle,” you groan a little when you shift your legs, “bumps and bruises, a couple of missing fingernails, I’ll be okay.” Your sniffle at the end of the sentence belies any confidence that might have made its way into your words. You can imagine the look they share at the last part, picture the anger flashing across Dean’s face at your nonchalance.
The call ends before they respond, you reach up and call again, heart racing in your ears when you feel too alone. They answer quickly, “how long has it been since you’ve had any food?” Dean, of course. You shrug before you realize they can’t see you, “what was the last meal we had?” He makes a noise, something you can’t translate by sound alone, and Sam jumps in, “the psychic had you, how’d you get out?”
The question makes you nervous, your head swiveling to check your surroundings for any danger creeping up. “Don’t know,” you whisper, “they just left, I picked the lock and snuck out.”
“Atta girl,” Dean’s smiling, it’s obvious in his voice. “I don’t think I was useful to them, every time she dug through my brain she’d leave more frustrated than before,” you add quietly, shivering suddenly, though if it was from the memory or the cold you weren’t sure. “Did she say what she wanted?” Sam’s paging through a book, you hear the pen in his hand when he clicks it.
“No,” you sigh, “she wouldn’t give me anything.” They spend the rest of the drive just talking to you, keeping you calm, letting you know how far they were. Eventually, though, you run out of soda tabs. The final call drops and you’re left on your own, sitting silently under the payphone with your arms wrapped around your knees. The wind picks up, a deep chill settling into your bones and making you shiver. A sadness that you’ve been pushing down finally crawls to the surface, the adrenaline slowing down and leaving you with nothing but the memories still so fresh in your mind. The psychic had pulled up some dark shit, enjoyed toying with you when she realized that you didn’t have what she was looking for. You know she intended to kill you, remember hearing her tell the guards that she wanted to be the one to do it.
Right when you feel like crying again, you hear the unmistakable sound of the impala ripping down the road. You pull yourself to stand just as the headlights round the building and land on you.
You’re sure you look a mess, covered in blood and dirt, hair matted on the back of your head, one leg supporting your weight. Dean doesn’t seem to care, though, because as soon as the car stops he’s running to you, big arms wrapping around you tightly. Your tears start again, a broken whimper muffled by his shirt. “I got you,” he whispers above you, “come on, let’s get out of here, yeah?” And he helps you to the car where Sam’s waiting with the back door open. He shrugs off his jacket, passing it to you before jogging around to the driver seat.
The drive to a new motel is long and quiet, your willingness to answer questions tapering off quickly. The guys let you rest, give you space to process whatever you weren’t telling them. Sam assesses your ankle in silence, leaning over the seat to make sure it’s not broken, whispering his apology when he presses a little too hard and you wince. He shares a look with Dean when he turns back around, you see him nod just slightly, like he’s reassuring Dean that you’re okay.
It takes you a while to stop shaking, your hands holding Dean’s jacket tightly, cursing the stains you know you’re leaving on the leather. “Thanks, guys,” you whisper, energy all but gone as the adrenaline finally fades away. Dean makes eye contact with you in the mirror, nodding, while Sam turns to you with a small smile. “We’re just glad you’re okay,” He says lowly, letting you see his concern for the first time.
The motel room is clean enough, Dean helps you to the chair in the corner, quietly threatening to pick you up when you stumble. It pulls a laugh from you, nothing more than a heavy breath, but he shoots you a small smile and supports a little bit more of your weight.
Sam lays out a first aid kit on the bed, staring at your legs, looking for injuries. Dean kneels to help you get your shoes off, tugging the laces open carefully. The attention is too much, overwhelming you suddenly. A sniffle draws Dean’s eyes to yours, he sits back on his haunches with a soft look. He doesn’t touch you, just watches as you wipe your eyes and try to collect yourself. A stifled sob breaks the quiet, your shoulders bowing forward and your hands coming up to cover your face.
Dean sighs your name, hands hovering over your legs until one finally lands gently, thumb stroking your knee. He glances over to Sam, watching from the bed with a pained look on his face. “Go get some food, I got her,” Dean whispers over his shoulder, shifting so he’s right in front of you. The door opens and you hear Sam drive away, the room feels a little less suffocating with him gone.
You drop your hands, meeting Dean’s eyes. He doesn’t look at you like he pities you, it’s something sadder, like he understands what you’re going through, like he would share the weight if you’ll let him. He leans up on his knees, pushing your legs apart and wrapping you in a tight hug. “Let me help,” he murmurs into your hair, “just let me help.” You cling to him, crying into his shoulder, feeling how he runs his hands up and down your back.
He doesn’t rush you, he’s never made you feel like a burden and you’ve never been more grateful for that than now. He holds you for as long as you let him, only pulling back when you lift your head and loosen your arms. You let him observe you, don’t try to hide any of the emotions flying through you. Whatever he sees makes him sigh again, big hands pulling his jacket off of you finally and setting it aside.
“You want to try for a shower?” He asks quietly, fingers of one hand coming up to play with yours until he sees how bloody they are. Of course you want a shower, you want nothing more than to be clean again, but the idea of being alone makes your breathing pick up again, panic flashing through your eyes. He sees it, watches as your gaze darts around the room, landing on the bathroom door.
“I can stay with you,” he whispers, giving you an encouraging smile. You nod at that, it’s small and slow but he decides it’s good enough and helps you stand. The shuffle to the backroom is short, he turns on the shower and looks at you in the mirror, “what’s the plan?” You meet his stare, mouth twisting to the side as you think. “Just close your eyes,” you ask softly, grateful when he does so immediately, leaning against the counter with his head down to give you privacy.
Peeling off your dirty clothes takes a little more effort than you were expecting, your jeans especially needing extra care to get off without hurting your ankle. You feel exposed, even with his eyes closed, and you curse when you realize that you need help getting into the tub. “What do you need?” He speaks up when you stop moving, your skin prickling at how close he is even when he hasn’t moved. “Just an arm,” you answer awkwardly, “to get in.” He extends his arm, shuffling where you lead him until you can step under the steaming water.
A sigh leaves your lips as soon as the heat hits your back, the water running pink and brown around your feet. It stings your fingers, a stark reminder that you’re missing nails. You groan at the feeling, tensing when Dean speaks from the other side of the curtain, worry thick in his voice “you okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, “just - um, it’s going to hurt when I wash my hair, don’t freak out if I make noise.” You mean for it to be humorous, like you’re laughing off your pain, but all it does is scare him. “Your nails,” he says, realization dawning, “that’s gonna sting like hell, sweetheart.”
“I’ve had worse,” you sigh, steeling yourself. It’ll be worth it to be clean, just a few more minutes of pain. He’s quiet for a moment - you work a soapy washcloth over your skin, assessing the cuts and bruises you’ve accumulated through this experience. Finally, Dean’s voice floats over the curtain again, “can I help? With your hair?”
You hear how unsure he is, like he doesn’t know if he’s crossing a line. You think about it, consider how much you want him to see of you, especially in this state. But you desperately want to feel clean without the added pain you’ve been preparing for. You nod, more for yourself than him, and speak just loud enough for him to hear, “will you grab a bra and some underwear from my bag? Just something to cover me?”
“‘Course, sweets,” he still sounds so serious, padding away to retrieve the garments. He passes them to you through the curtain, you hear him shedding his shirt and pants while you dress quickly under the water. “Bring a brush, please,” you add before he approaches, your back turned to him when he steps into the small shower in nothing but his boxer briefs. His size doesn’t help, crowding you under the hot water.
He brushes through your hair gently, letting each pass work out the tension you’re still holding. Slow hands reach for the shampoo, massaging it into your scalp, scratching lightly at the base of your skull. Your eyes flutter shut, a quiet moan slipping out when he applies a little more pressure. “Relax for me,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”
The gentleness of the moment has you fighting back tears again, your hand coming up to cover your mouth in an attempt to muffle your cries. He doesn’t try to stop you, just lets you cry while he rinses the suds from your hair, his hands working through knots carefully. When he’s content with the state of your hair, he rubs gentle hands down your arms, voice low when he says your name, “look at me, please.”
You swipe away the tears that have fallen, knowing that he sees you do it. You turn around slowly, meeting his gaze with a sigh. He watches a tear fall, wipes it away with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I know it’s not enough but I’m so sorry.” You shake your head, brows furrowing in question. “For what?”
He looks away guiltily, “I should have found you faster,” he drops his head. “It shouldn’t have taken us so long,” he meets your eyes again, “I’m so sorry.” Tears pool in his own eyes, his hands cup your cheeks with trembling fingers. “Dean,” you whisper, grabbing his wrists, “this isn’t on you.”
His breath hitches, he clenches his jaw, “I can’t lose you,” he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pressing his lips to your forehead. Your eyes close, tears streaming down your face. You hold him, hug his body to yours, let him bury his face in your neck.
You don’t rush him, don’t ask anything of him, just let him be near, let him squeeze you to his chest until you’ve pieced each other back together.
The water runs cold, you shiver into him and he shuts it off, placing a soft kiss to your jaw before he finally pulls away. He wraps a towel around you and helps you step out, leaving you next to the counter with your pjs waiting. He takes a towel out to the bedroom, closing the bathroom door a few inches on his way out, offering privacy but asking for none.
You don’t close it, taking time to assess your wounds in the mirror, dressing slowly to make sure you weren’t covering anything that needed attention. He’s sitting back against the headboard when you limp in, “let me wrap your ankle,” he pats the bed next to him.
He drops a bag of food in front of you when you sit, the smell hits you and your stomach growls. A little laugh falls from his lips, “Sammy got the good stuff.” He’s gentle when he lifts your leg, careful not to pull the bandage too tight, eyes glancing up at you to check in if you make a sound.
You make him wait to bandage your fingers until you’ve eaten, finally giving him your hands when he grumbles about getting grease in fresh wounds. There’s not much he can do, but he cleans them and wraps them with a frown on his face. He presses a sweet kiss to each fingertip as he finishes, clearing off the bed and settling in next to you, reaching for his food.
You crawl under the covers, turning on the tv with a sigh. He clicks the lamp off and stretches out on top of the blankets, close but not touching. “We’re gonna stay here for a few days, give Bobby time to look into it,” he tilts his head toward your leg, “give you a few days to heal.”
When all you do is nod and close your eyes, Dean shoots off a text. Sam slides back into the room a few minutes later, just as Dean is crawling under the covers to hold you.