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The overhead incandescents buzzed obnoxiously, reflecting off dots of glitter on the interrogation table. To top it off, Dean couldn’t believe he was saying this, but across from him, in those same dreary lights of the police station, was the country’s hottest pop star.
He’d already lost his cool and asked for an autograph, but your saddened participation in the act, and a quick “dude” from Sam, had him straight back to his professional masquerade.
“And then he just looked at me with this smile,” you winced. Your eyes fell on the images of a man you used to work with, a bottle opener half gone in his eye socket, blood in a grotesque splatter on the couch behind him. You were oddly grateful that they weren’t showing you the security camera footage of the whole incident, again. You were shaking ever so slightly but put on a calm mask, dramatic stage makeup helping disguise the glistening of your eyes, “I feel bad saying this but it was really creepy.”
“Creepier than what he did next?” Dean asked, raising a brow.
“Well no, but I thought you wanted all of the details.” He gestured with his hands as if to say, continue. “His smile was not normal; that’s what I mean by creepy. I’d seen him smile before but it was almost like this wasn’t him. Then he–” you struggled to get the words out.
A breath and then all at once, “Popped open the bottle, poured me a glass, asked some weird questions. Grabbed the bottle opener and…” You vaguely raised a hand to your eye a few times to demonstrate without having to show exactly what he had chosen to do with the bottle opener.
“Weird questions?” Dean asked, “What kind of weird questions?”
You thought for a moment. “Well before he… you know. He was acting really paranoid.”
“Paranoid how?” Sam prodded.
“Like he was really jumpy, honestly hallucinating I think. He started seeing a new therapist and I’m not sure she was licensed.” Dean scoffed, and you shrugged as though you were dead serious. “So, yeah, he was asking me if I noticed the stuff he was noticing. Don’t worry, you don’t have to call the loony bin, I didn’t.” Dean wrote that down.
He looked at Sam; Sam looked at him. “Any weird smells?”
“Like weed?” You asked. The brothers didn’t answer. “No, I honestly didn’t smell anything.” Your eyes fixed, then, on the glass behind him. Whatever he was asking you faded into a shrill hum behind your ears, the reflection in the glass taking a new shape. Still you, but this time with that same creepy, crooked grin.
The sound in the room had been sucked into a claustrophobic vacuum and you felt yourself trembling with how your muscles tightened at the sight. Your eyes, had they always looked like that? Is this why everyone stares? You couldn’t look away.
Then, the version of yourself you saw in the reflection started to look familiar again. You blinked. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“Everything alright?” Sam asked you from where he stood in the corner. He and Dean both noticed the brief absence and Sam was confused that his angle revealed you just looking at yourself. You shook your head to clear any lingering worries about what you saw.
“I watched one of my former costars kill himself yesterday,” you answered for him as much as yourself, and then corrected, “Actually, one of my former costars made me watch him kill himself yesterday. So. Everything? Certainly not.” Sam gave you a knowing, tight smile and a nod. “I have a show to prepare for…?”
“Of course; thank you for your time,” Sam said, picking up the folders on the table and shaking your manicured hand before opening the door.
“If there’s anything else you remember, this is my number.” Dean handed you a card: Dean Buckingham, FBI Special Agent. “And this right here is Agent Lindsey’s.” Your eyes narrowed.
“Thanks, Agents Lindsey..” You nodded in Sam’s direction before turning to Dean, “Buckingham.” A smile graced your features before you joked, “You’re lucky I wouldn’t consider Stevie a friend.” There was a look of shock that crossed Dean’s face as a popstar caught the subtle reference in their pseudonyms. An edge of surprise that you may have personally known the face of Fleetwood Mac.
“We get that all the time,” he tried to flirt smoothly. “It’s a funny coincidence–you’re right.” He pointed with a snap at the card in your hand. “Don’t lose that.” A wink. “Break a leg.”
You frowned, “Don’t know how quirky that is, given the circumstances.”
Dean tersely apologized, following Sam out of the room. You could barely hear Sam mockingly repeat, we get that all the time as they exited the room.
The next morning, Dean was glued to his phone. Sam could hear the thrumming of the concert clips from across the motel room, stifling a laugh. “It’s research, Sammy.”
“Research, yes.” He nodded sarcastically.
“That’s strange,” Dean murmured as he scrolled to another one. The text at the top of the video read: what did she see? It seemed to be a normal fan video of the performance, cries of your name echoing as you played the piano and sang a ballad so sorrowfully it could make a mourning dove cry. You stopped midnote, however, and your eyes widened. They had that same look you had at the police station, like the stars had gone out.
The camera clearly captured you covering your mic and mouthing the words, What the fuck is that? You dropped between the stage and the barricade before your security guards stopped you from going any further. You looked out to the crowd with a narrow gaze and froze. Then, smiled, “It’s fine. They got him out.”
You climbed back on stage in seconds, and asked if they thought you should start again or let that asshole ruin their night, and the crowd roared. People in the comments were quick to assume someone was getting too comfortable in the crowd, but Dean recognized that look in your eyes. It was the same expression you held when you were regarding your own reflection.
“Sam, I think we should reach out again,” he said, his tone laced with concern. “Maybe she’s on edge but what if she’s being haunted?” He showed Sam the video, watching as his brother’s brow wrinkled in concern.
Sam reached out to the local precinct to request your contact information and Dean typed it into the motel phone. He paused, turning around. “This is a very valuable piece of information. Lotta boys would pay good money for this phone number.”
“Dean.”
The phone rang three times before they heard your voice on the other end.
“It’s Agent Buckingham,” Dean cleared his throat, “Reaching out in regard to the incident at your show last night, just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”
He heard your sigh. “There you go again. Obviously not everything is alright. I just think…” You sighed.
“Think what?” There was an edge to his words that was the first inkling you got that he was a legitimate man in uniform. Demanding compliance like that, you could get used to him.
“I haven’t been sleeping well. I think I’m a little traumatized,” you admitted.
“A little?” It was Dean’s turn to argue semantics, charading the conversation to his brother sitting on the other twin bed opposite him.
“I keep seeing it,” you clarified plainly. It? Sam and Dean locked eyes.
“What, like the corkscrew?” He asked, unaware of another it present during the incident.
“No like–” he could have sworn you shuddered, “the smile.” Dean froze. Something about your harking on that particular image read as creepy to him and he clicked the phone on speaker to share. “Listen, I went through something traumatic. I don’t know that this is a normal reaction but I don’t know that it isn’t.”
“You seein’ his face or just the same smile?” Dean asked gruffly, seeking any information that could help him understand if you were actually in trouble. He was unwilling to accept your explanation.
“Different people just… smiling at me like that. The same way,” your breathing hitched, then added, softly, “sometimes it’s me in my reflection.”
Dean’s chest squeezed, “Where are you, now?”
You paused, “Paycor Stadium, it’s night two.”
“You have a show tonight?” Sam looked at Dean with an expression of duh. “Is that a good idea? 65,000 pairs of eyes on ya’ tonight and you can’t even trust your own. Best case scenario, you were hallucinating during your performance.”
“I can’t just cancel a show,” you muttered. “First of all I can’t do that to my fans. Many of them travel, and they all mean a lot to me.” Sentiment like this may have seemed trite to Dean before he met you the first time, but you convinced him you meant it. “Then there’s my crew and the venue staff who have been hard at work all morning so I can put on a lil’ bodysuit, sing pop music and take all the credit.”
“This you taking the credit?” Dean asked, wondering when you stopped to consider yourself.
“Whatever–I mean I can’t just cancel the show, okay? And anyways, I probably just need some sleep.”
“And you’ll get some before tonight?”
“Who are you, my physio?” You dropped phrases like my physio in such a casual manner that sealed the idea that you lived in a different world from them. He might have even thought it was douchey if he wasn’t so into you. “I’ll be fine. If anything else comes up, I’ll let you know.” They weren’t convinced before you hung up.
Dean looked to his brother, brow raised, “You think this badge could get us into a pop concert?”
It couldn’t.
You had three security guards by the back door and Dean wasn’t even convinced it was a real entrance. “Listen dude, I get that you’re the FBI or whatever. You still need to give us a reason why you need to be back there right now,” one of them asserted.
Sam couldn’t wipe the I told you so off of his face.
Then, a familiar, sing-songy voice. “Marcus, it’s because they’re Lindsay fucking Buckingham!” You giggled, “Did you see the names? C’mon they’re VIPs,” you teased before the smile dropped to a sincere expression. “These guys had some questions the other day and you know me. I make fast friends.” Marcus wasn’t quite buying it but he let the suits through.
Your smile dropped, “I told you guys it was fine.” Dean hadn’t heard this tone from you before. “If you two were actually government agents I don’t know that Uncle Sam’d have you playing redundant security detail at a concert in Cincinnati." You were pretty, had a voice like an angel, and you were smart. Shit. “I don’t know what you’re up to but if it puts my fans or my crew in danger, my lawyers will destroy you. And with those costumes?” You gestured to their whole getup. “I don’t think I mean fiscally.”
“Easy, starshine.” Dean held his hands up. “Seems like you’ve got the whole thing figured out.” Your wary gaze flicked behind him for just a moment before you could look away.
“Not quite,” you murmured. “I wanna show you something.” Sam and Dean glanced at each other, anticipating another clue. You pulled out your phone and opened Instagram, tapping on your own profile. “Isn’t this weird?”
You swiped quickly up and down on the grid of photos of you. “I mean, I’ve never personally understood social media,” Sam pondered aloud, “but this seems pretty typical.”
“You don’t see it?” Your face fell. “That’s the smile that I’m talking about,” you said, pointing to a photo where you were barely grinning. The brothers shared concerned glances.
“You can’t cancel the show?” Dean asked even though he knew what your answer would be.
As expected, you shook your head. “Under no personal circumstances.”
“For a celebrity you’re bad at caring about yourself.”
You threw him a lazy wink, “I get that all the time.” Sam would have scoffed if he thought it was the time for jokes at his brother’s expense. He’d have to pat you on the back another time. The volume of the crowd out in the stadium heightened dramatically as the opener began their set. You sighed. “That’s my cue to get ready. Let me show you two where you can hang out.” You guided them to a few crates on the side stage and pointed to the monitor where they were playing visuals of the stage. A look of sincere love crossed your face briefly as you gestured to the group of guys whooping and jumping on the screen, “I found these guys on Instagram. They were like a classic high school garage band and now they do this cool stuff with mixing. Give ‘em a shot.” You turned on your heel and confidently gaited to your dressing room.
When you emerged, your usual precise stage makeup was ever so slightly smudged underneath. Dean frowned. “Everything alright?” Your reply was a very unamused stare. “Right. Just… have fun. Be careful. We’re keeping an eye out for any freaks lookin’ too happy.”
Having fun was off the table at that point. Over the course of the show they caught you losing your grip on multiple occasions. Your bassist at one point accidentally brushed your arm and you flinched as though he was on fire. One song you performed with your eyes closed the whole time. During one choreography you nearly fell, clearly frightened by more than gravity.
Between the set and your encore you found them on the side stage. “Tell me you saw them.” Their expression suggested they had not. “What is happening to me?” You dropped your head in your hands, harshly pressing fists into your eye sockets. Your smudged makeup.
“Hey, don’t hurt yourself.” Dean gently pulled your hands away. “You’re going to be alright.”
“You say that now but when you watch me open myself like a bottle of wine?” you hissed. “Every single person in this room is looking at me. This is true every night, so why is this so overwhelming?” You gave your eyes one last aggressive rub as one of the stage producers cued you to reenter the stage. “How do I look?”
Dean was almost flabbergasted that you cared, but his lecture minutes were up. “You always look incredible.” He felt his neck flush at how naturally the compliment fell from his lips. You took three long strides and were bathed in stagelights.
They could hear it in your voice, the cold terror that was tightening its grip on you. Your fans could probably tell something was wrong at that point, the microphone shaking in your hand. You thanked them all and wished them safe travels home with watery eyes.
You didn’t say anything to Sam and Dean as you passed them to go to the dressing room. Your fingers hanging loosely off the handle, you turned and looked at them. “What, now you’re going to leave me alone?”
“Wasn’t considering it for a second,” Dean replied smoothly, hopping up from the crate.
“Help yourself to anything,” you gestured to the table of goods you had on your rider, “I feel bad; I don’t have much of an appetite.”
Dean gasped at the spread, his eyes locked on the tray of sliders. He housed one in practically a single bite. Sam’s elbow found a place just between his ribs, digging, and Dean cleared his throat. “You should eat something,” he grumbled out between crumbs. “None of that looked exactly easy.”
You didn’t answer. You were sat on the lounge by the mirrors, eyes lingering on your reflection for a second too long. “You good?” Sam asked, standing to put a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t answer, unblinking. He tried to make eye contact with you in the mirror but you were looking at something else entirely.
“Yeah that’s not such a good idea,” you said numbly. Dean dropped the chip in his hand, dusting off crumbs.
“You with us?” Sam tried to put himself between you and the mirror but you wouldn’t move. In fact, you hadn’t inhaled since you spoke. “Dean, she stopped breathing.”
“What do you mean, she stopped breathing?” Then, your hand came up and in one quick flash struck the mirror. Cracks and smears of blood consumed your reflection.
Sam jumped up, “Whoa!” Sam forced you to lean back in the chair, away from the mirror, and Dean reached for a stack of napkins on the table, hurriedly bringing them to your aid.
“Come back to us, starshine,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the small wounds on your palm. He plucked a tweezer from the vanity, getting to work removing the shards that had migrated. Your eyes stayed fixed on the mirror, chest rigid and unmoving. “Breathe for me. Sam? Did you see anything?” Nerves dripped from his words as he looked from your hand to your eyes to the spot from which your eyes refused to stray. Cautiously, he raised a hand, gently tapping your cheek.
You gasped, scrambling away from him as your expression crumbled into one of pure horror. “It’s me,” you cried. “It got me!” Someone banged on the door to the dressing room, Sam looking to his brother with panic.
“Is everything alright?” one of your security guards queried from the other side of the locked door.
“No everything is not fucking alright!” you screamed, yanking the giant clip from your hair and throwing your heels to the clothing rack.
“Please, I need you to relax, sweetheart.” Dean reached for you, words gentle but firm, “Gonna get other people wrapped up in this. You don’t want that, right?” It was a cheap blow, but it worked, as you finally looked at him. You took a shaky breath in, holding and letting it out before frowning. Dean locked eyes with his brother and jerked his head to the door: handle it.
“What happened to my hand?” you asked quietly. Dean looked behind you to the shattered mirror and you followed his gaze, gasping. “I did that? Did I hurt you guys?”
He raised a hand and slowly lowered it toward the floor, relax. “You only hurt yourself. Will you just let me patch you up?” Instead of fighting, you nodded and placed your hand back in his. “Look, my brother and I deal with weird shit like this all the time. You’re going to be okay; we’ll make sure of it.”
“Weird shit like this,” you repeated, “What is this? And how am I going to be okay if the last person I saw smile how I’m smiling wound up killing himself?” Dean didn’t divulge that he wasn’t sure, silently tending to your wound.
“I’ve gotta be honest,” he spoke softly, “I understand why you’re nervous, but we’re going to do everything we can to keep those pretty little eyes intact, okay?” You winced, maybe from your injury or your trauma. Maybe both.
Sam returned and nodded toward Dean, who was unrolling some medical tape to finish wrapping you up. “Impala’s out back,” Sam assured, and Dean looked to the star beside him.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, reaching for your other delicate wrist and helping you stand up.
Walking down the hall to the door, you froze on four separate occasions. The first: a polished shiny glass door where you were looking at the twisted version of yourself all over again. The second and third: open doors to dark rooms. The last wasn’t entirely obvious to Sam and Dean until your head whipped over your shoulder and you yelled, “what did you just say?” your face falling when you saw there was nobody there. The brothers looked to each other, a heaviness to both of their expressions as they tallied the incidents.
Sam sat behind the wheel while Dean took a seat next to you on the bench of the back seat. You were already staring at your reflection in the window behind him. “Hey. Look at me.” Carefully, he took your chin in his hand and turned your face. “Everyone was lookin’ at you all night, now I just need you to look at me.” His words fell on deaf ears, now hollowly staring at him, face morphing in terror as you let out a shrill scream. “Sam! It’s definitely getting worse!” he yelled as he reached out to grab you, shielding you in his chest. You went quiet, but Dean could feel your trembling. “Don’t open your eyes. Just keep ‘em closed.”
“Dean, we’re not going to be able to get past her security at the hotel.” Dean nodded.
“Looks like you’re slummin’ it tonight,” he spoke into your hair. “This okay?” he asked, content with your nod as Sam pulled into the lot of a cheesy motel.
Dean carried you into their room and laid you on the bed. Within an instant your fists were pressing on your eyes again as you groaned. “Na-uh-uh. I’m sorry but that won’t make it go away.” He reached out, pulling your hands away and rolling up one of his flannels and laying it over your eyes. The brothers got to work finding out how to break the curse.
“So her co-star was actually a witness to a murder last week,” Sam discovered, “A man just grabbed this lady on the sidewalk and stabbed her repeatedly. Before that, that man’s brother killed himself with a knife across from him at the dinner table.”
“So what?” Dean attempted to put the pieces together, “It just jumps from traumatized person to traumatized person until the PTSD is too much and they go insane?” Another groan from the woman on the bed. “You’re gonna be okay, star. Take some slow breaths for me.” He counted each of them.
“I don’t know, Dean. Check this out,” Sam pulled up court recordings from the man’s trial. “He look paranoid to you?” Dean looked to you and then to the ceiling, a deep sigh threatening to spill from his lungs.
“She can’t kill someone,” he scoffed, “Hell, we really shouldn’t kill someone!”
“What if I kill myself and nobody sees?” you whispered so cautiously Dean barely heard it.
“Nope,” he said firmly. You sat up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and looking at him. “You’ve gotta lay back down.”
“Dean, what if it’s too late for me?” you spoke sorrowfully. “What if I’m not strong enough and I do this to someone else?” They had closed all of the curtains and the door to the bathroom to prevent any reflections, but that didn’t prevent the mouth of the man on Sam’s laptop from cracking into that sickening grin. You tightly shut your eyes, feeling the fluttering of your heart through your fingertips.
“It would only be too late if it happened before we got here,” he assured. “I said we’ve got you.”
“I just don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“I know, star.” He cupped your shoulders, gently moving you back into a laying position. “Just let us figure this out, okay?” With the flannel laid back over your eyes, your heartbeat settled. Dean turned back to his phone helping Sam track the string of deaths.
“This is… I have a feeling this is it,” Sam murmured, not wanting to get anyone’s hopes up just yet. “This vintage store owner up in Mason was organizing stock at night when someone broke in and killed him. The next week, the thief killed himself in front of his lawyer. Take a look at this picture of the initial murder.” He turned his laptop to Dean who winced at the image. An older man laid sprawled on the cement floor, a spreading pool of blood around him. The sight was all reflected in a large ornate mirror behind him.
“You think it’s the mirror?” Dean put together.
“I think it’s worth a shot,” Sam said.
“How are we supposed to find the damn thing?”
“Already did.” Sam clicked to a different tab and showed a Google listing for a restaurant nearby, some fancy Italian place. “It’s in the city. We could get to it now.” The two turned back to the bed then, expecting to see you laying there and listening. All they found was wrinkled sheets and the discarded flannel. “Shit.”
Dean rose quickly, not even bothering to knock before slamming the bathroom door open. You were leaning heavily over the counter, red teary eyes locked on your own reflection. “Stop looking at me like that,” you growled. “Stop looking at me!”
“Alright, let’s get you away from this.” He wrapped his arms around your waist and dragged you back, fighting against your fingers that gripped the counter. “C’mon sweetheart, work with me.”
You let go with a gasp, suddenly looking around the room. “What happened?” Dean frowned and shook his head at you, laying you wordlessly and replacing the flannel.
“Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a hunch,” he told you, throwing you his only hoodie. “You like pasta?”
Breaking into the restaurant under the cover of darkness was a cake walk. It was moving you around that was the problem. You were afraid of everything now, an endless whisper in your ear telling you you were going to get them killed, reducing you to a fit of trembles. You stopped at your reflection in the fridge door, the pots hanging from the rack, the metal shelving of the pantry.
“You gotta keep that hood tight, starshine,” Dean murmured, taking a step in front of you and tugging the hood down over your eyes. “Hold on for me.” You nodded, your gaze falling to the floor. They took a few more steps and were in the dining room, the mirror commanding the space.
Instantly you fell to the ground, staring at yourself with that same horrified expression. “Oh it’s the mirror, alright.” His hands dug into your armpits, swiveling you around so you were looking at him.
“I didn’t have a plan for this part,” Sam said hollowly.
“Would you just break the damn thing?” Dean yelled, pulling you to his chest and covering your eyes. Sam grabbed a heavy ceramic mug from the waiter’s area and threw it straight to the center of the reflective glass, the mirror image of the room shattering to pieces. Dean felt you wriggling against his chest and firmly pulled you from him. His eyes scanned your face. “Talk to me. How we feelin’?”
You didn’t say anything, looking from him to the floor and staring at one of the shards. Before he could even blink, your hand shot out, wrapping around one of the larger jagged pieces, and went for your throat. Dean’s instincts took over, immobilizing you tight to his chest. “The glass, Sammy, take the glass.” You were still staring at the pieces scattered across the floor but Dean’s hold kept your arms at your sides. “Don’t even think about it, sweetheart.”
Sam reached forward, uncurling your fingers from the makeshift weapon. “What’s plan B?”
“You’re the plan guy!” Dean roared, crying out in frustration as you broke from his hold and ran to the far side of the room. “Don’t do that!”
“Maybe it’s not in the mirror anymore because it’s in her?” Sam wondered out loud.
“Okay, but what do we do with that?” Dean shouted, trying to move toward you without triggering any movements. He hated the calm that had settled over you. You bent down and selected a different piece, slowly looking up at him. “You don’t wanna do this. You don’t want to hurt us.” He expected it to creep in, the smile, but it didn’t. “You gotta put the glass down.”
At the mention of your biggest fear of bringing harm to others, Sam reached into his pocket. He had an idea. “Cameras are just a whole bunch of mirrors,” he said to himself. He pulled out his phone and the eerie silence in the room was interrupted by a beep as he began recording a video. “We’ll post it on your Instagram.” You didn’t move but Dean took another step toward you. “Your fans. They’ll all see it. It won’t just be us, but it will be all of them. All of their families. All of your crew. And you won’t even be there to support them.”
Dean had to admit, Sam made a clever plan B. There was no way of knowing if it would work, but instead of a smile growing, your lips crooked into a frown. The fog of the voices in your head parted slightly, thoughts creeping in its place. My fans. I can’t do that to my fans.
“I used to think celebrities were so fake, talking about ‘the fans.’” Dean spoke boldly, and you didn’t break your unwavering stare but your nose twitched. “Then I met you.”
I can’t do that to my fans. For once your voice in your head sounded like your own, and it was saying things that made sense. “I can’t do that to my fans,” you said numbly.
The brothers locked eyes again, both of them visibly a degree less tense, but neither was ready to take a breath. “That’s it, sweetheart. You can’t do that. So don’t.” Dean’s measured tone broke through what was left of the fog. You didn’t drop the glass; you lifted it in front of your face. Staring at yourself with the same horrified expression, you said the phrase one last time before lowering the shard. The redness in your eyes collected into fat tears flowing down your cheeks. “‘Atta girl. I’m comin’ over, okay?” He took careful steps toward you. When he was close enough he gently reached for your hand, uncurling your fingers and hissing at the angry marks that tore through your palm. You didn’t fight him, silently crying and feeling the adrenaline flee your blood.
“Did I do it?” you asked him quietly, looking up to meet his eyes.
“One way to find out.” He ushered you toward the bathroom, pushing open the door and turning the light on. Instantly you were face-to-face with your reflection once more, but it was just that: your reflection. There was no creepy smile, only you. A particularly rough looking version of you, but you. “Well? What’s the verdict?”
“It’s just me.” Your eyes flicked to Sam and Dean behind you. “You guys did it!” Your words cracked with tears you hadn’t let yourself shed before. You spun around and buried yourself in Dean’s shirt again. “I’m not gonna kill anyone,” you sobbed with relief.
The sound of sirens echoed down the road and he gave you a pat on the back, “Yeah and you’re gonna live. C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.” The popstar sat on the hood of the impala, nursing a beer for breakfast. “Something tells me I’m never going to be the same.”
“Probably not.” Dean shrugged. “You were stuck in a pretty jacked up situation. It’d be crazier if you could just bounce back. Was last night your final show of the tour, at least?”
“Not even close.” While your voice was once assertive when discussing your work, you couldn’t bring that same strength then. “Will you be around here?” You looked to him. “A-and Sam? I mean.”
“Na, starshine, we’re a bit nomadic like yourself,” Dean answered. “Home’s right here.” He smacked the hood by his leg and you frowned.
“Yeah,” you said quietly, “it’s lonely, isn’t it?”
“You lonely?” He raised a brow. Tens of thousands of people ran accounts about how much they loved you—how could you feel lonely?
“I don’t often get to talk to people like this.” You gestured to the space between them with the neck of the amber bottle. “I love my fans, but I love the fact that I am an outlet for them. It’s just hard for me to offload when I’m taking in so much. Whole lotta eyes on me but I don’t know if they see me, you know?”
“I get that.” He nodded, clearing his throat. “My brother and I kind of deal with things like this across the country.”
“There’s things like this across the country?”
“Things worse than this, even. All the bads you can think of, hell, I won’t lie to you, they’re all real. And then some.” He zoned out, thinking about the roster of evil he’s taken down. “It is lonely. But it’s fulfilling. Saving people, hunting things.”
“Oh, so I’m not your first damsel in distress?” He appreciated your small joke, hearing you come back into yourself.
“With a face like this?” He perched his head on his downturned hand, flashing a dazzling grin. “They throw themselves in harm’s way so I come blazing in. I’ve gotta say, starshine, you’re far and away my favorite.” You smiled back, and he was pretty sure it was the first time he’d seen you do so sincerely. “Where you off to next?”
“Live music capital of the world.” You let out a low whistle, then clarified, “Austin.”
“That sounds like a big deal,” his brow raised, apprehensive talking about something so out of his comfort zone. “Been there before?”
“A tour five years ago but I was opening for the opener.” That sounded significant to Dean. “It’s crazy how life lives.”
“Wanna know where I was five years ago?” He turned to you with a teasing glint in his eye. You raised a brow. “Hell.”
“You’re serious?” you said.
“Deadly.” You audibly gulped. “Don’t worry the big man didn’t send me there it was because of Sam. Long story. I thought you deserved an explanation for why I wasn’t your first fan.”
“I don’t need my number one fan to have been my first,” you teased, running a finger up and down his bicep. “Just promise you’ll come to a show? That’s kind of a requirement for you to hold your spot.”
He thought for a second. What was he doing? You had stadiums full of teenagers following you around. He couldn’t be caught anywhere near you again without a very creative explanation. But here you were, flirting with him and looking at him with those sparkling eyes and he couldn’t help himself.
He leaned forward, going for it. Your hand came up to cup the back of his hair and pull him closer, closing the hairline fracture between them. It was a simple, short kiss. A thank you.
You gave the strands at the nape of his neck a soft twirl and a tug before pulling back. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s an I’ll try,” he offered and you frowned. He reached down and squeezed your non-bandaged hand. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. His actual phone that he wasn’t planning on burning as soon as he hit the road. “Text yourself. I may have to make myself scarce for a minute but I’m gonna wanna hear that pretty voice sometimes.“
Conveniently at that moment, Sam opened the door of the dingy motel room, stepping into the brightening morning air. Looking from your pensive expression as you tapped the phone, he asked “everything alright?”
You paused at the familiar expression, handed Dean his phone and then took the last sip of your beer, “Actually. You know what? Sure.”