Brothers Keep Her

“What the hell was that, [Y/N]?” Dean shouts. He’s uneasy on his feet; the small puddle of vomit that just barely missed his boots is splattered on the gravelly sand. He curls his arm around his middle and sees Sam sitting with his head between his knees. The second trip was too much for the big moose.

“You’re safe here,” you say, swallowing the emotions that are threatening to erupt. “Your stomach will settle soon.” You aren’t prepared for the steely look he gives you and it sends an electric rod of ice to your heart; you never aimed to be on the brothers’ shit list. But here you are - at least, on Dean’s.

“Sam?” He crouches beside his brother and clasps his shoulder.

Sam’s brown mop bobs just once, but even that is still too much and his back arches in another dry heave. Dean glares at you out of the corner of his eye, then plants his rear on the damp beach. The boys need a little time to recuperate before they can go anywhere.

You turn and face the setting sun; Dean grunts in frustration. You feel his anger pushing you away, sharp and edgy, throbbing with life, emanating from his center. Foaming waves roll toward the beach, crashing over the rocks and fizzing along the smooth, pebbly shore. You shield your eyes to get a better look at the rocks jutting above the swells about fifteen yards from where you stand. Sprawled out with not a care in the world are a couple of harbor seals, snoozing in the evening breeze. They’ll plunk into the water soon as the tide returns for the evening to rob them of their nice, dry daybeds. An otter paddles by on his back, crunching on whatever is in his paws with a hungry seagull following closely behind.

This isn’t the first time you’ve re-visited this place since the night Crowley brought you to the diner. In the beginning, when everything was overwhelming and you hadn’t yet learned to put your heart away, it had become your sanctuary. You’d come whenever you were afraid - afraid of failure, afraid of running into Amara, afraid of forgetting who you used to be... and afraid of never getting over Dean Winchester.

You glance back at the boys. Dean lies on his back with his legs outstretched, his stomach heaving with his heavy breaths, and Sam is finally able to lift his weary head. A little peckish in his face, he stares off into the horizon where the blazing orange sun dips into the bay, setting the sky to orange and pink flame. They’re safe here, for now; but for how long? You can’t keep them here forever. You can’t shield them from Amara. You can’t just zap them out of trouble whenever they get into it because their mortal bodies can only take so much inter-dimensional travel before they’ll begin to shut down, and you’re not supposed to intervene. Sam’s gaze falls on you as a tear threatens your stoic facade, and you turn away.

You walk. The more distance you put between you right now, the better, but you won’t go far; hundreds of miles away from their car and their tools, you can’t just leave them alone here. Better to have Billie bring the Impala than put them through this again. Besides, the next trip might lay Sam out for a few days, or worse. But right now they need some space (okay, maybe Dean needs some space), and you need some time to pull yourself together while you regather your bubbling emotions and shove them back into that neat little box you keep. Because, as much as you try to convince yourself otherwise, there was something between you and Dean that night. Even though you left, it never did. Not really.

And as much as it hurts to hide that, what you see in Sam’s eyes isn’t any less painful.