Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ringtone shrieks through the apartment like a blade, shrill and unwanted. You don’t even have to check who it is. You’ve been dreading this call all week. Still, you swipe the screen and press it to your ear.

“Yeah?”

Your boss’s voice comes through, cool and flat, like he’s already moved on to his next problem. “Hey, Y/N. I wanted to talk about what happened with the Johnson account.”

You sink deeper into the couch, one hand gripping your mug of cold coffee. “What about it? I already told you she couldn’t make the payment. I just…"

“You covered it,” he interrupts, his voice harsh. “Out of your own pocket.”

You stare at the wall. The sound of the refrigerator humming faintly in the background. “Yeah, I did. She’s a single mom, the company was about to shut her utilities off. It was fifty bucks.”

“Company policy doesn’t care if it’s five or fifty,” he says. “You can’t do that, Y/N. You made the company liable, and accounting flagged it.”

A bitter laugh catches in your throat. “So what, I get punished for helping someone?”

There is a pause. The kind of silence that means you already know the answer. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “You’ve been a good employee, but we have to let you go. Effective immediately.”

You feel your pulse drum behind your eyes. “You’re firing me for helping someone?”

“Rules are rules,” he replies too calmly. “HR will email you the paperwork.”

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Of course they will.”

The line goes dead. Just like that. No warning, no thank you, no nothing. Your life has been stripped down to the sound of a dial tone. You let the phone slip from your hand and land somewhere between the couch cushions. The apartment suddenly feels cold and quiet.

For a moment, you sit there, staring at the reflection of the city lights reflecting on your black TV screen. Then the weight of it hits. The years of work, the exhaustion, the blind loyalty. All of it for nothing. You laugh, sharp and bitter, until it cracks into something closer to a sob. “Guess I really outdid myself this time,” you mutter. The laugh echoes off the walls.

You spend the next hour doing nothing but existing. Scrolling aimlessly, staring into space, your mind spinning with every possible version of what now? Rent. Bills. Groceries. You don’t have savings. You don’t even have a backup plan.

Eventually, you drag yourself into the kitchen, pour a splash of whiskey into the same mug that had once held coffee, and stare down at the amber liquid. At least now you can train again. Compete. You’ve told yourself that a thousand times — once the job calms down, I’ll go back. Now you don't have an excuse. Just… no income either.

You take a long swallow. It burns going down your throat. “Maybe this is the universe telling me to start over,” you say to no one. Or maybe, you think, it is just another cruel joke.

When the sky outside begins to dim, you reach for the remote. Your thumb hover for a second before muscle memory takes over. The familiar logo flashes across the screen - Supernatural. The one thing that still can make you feel something other than dread.

You’ve seen every season, every hunt, every heartbreak more than once. You know the Winchesters better than you know most real people - their dark humor, their stupid bravery, their endless cycle of saving everyone but themselves.

Tonight, it feels like coming home.

You stretch out on the couch, curling up under a blanket, eyes tracing the flicker of the TV. Dean’s voice fills the room - that gravelly, teasing drawl that somehow makes the world a little less miserable. You smile faintly. “At least you guys get to fight your problems.”

The whiskey is starting to make you sleepy. Somewhere between episodes, your thoughts blur. The hum of the TV softens, your eyelids sink, and your breathing falls into rhythm with the low rumble of Baby’s engine.

For a fleeting second before sleep swallows you, you whisper a half-joke, half-plea into the dark. “If there’s anything out there listening… just, I don’t know. Take me somewhere else. Anywhere but here.” 

And maybe something is. Because as the screen flickers with static and the Impala’s headlights cut through the dark Kansas night, the world around you begins to hum - a low, vibrating sound, like power lines on the verge of bursting.

You don’t see the screen flicker, register the sound or hear the last lines of dialogue. You don’t notice the air shift, the room tilt, the light bend. You’re already gone, fast asleep.

The smell hits first - dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic, like dried blood under the floorboards. Your throat burns when you swallow. You open one eye. Then the other. Light filters through cracks in the walls, thin and sickly, spilling over warped planks and a half-collapsed chair. The place looks abandoned. No electricity, no sound but the wind wheezing through the boards.

You blink up at a sagging ceiling. It takes a few seconds before the rest of it sinks in. You’re lying on a narrow cot. An itchy blanket clings to your skin. The edges are speckled with mold. And..

You freeze.

You’re naked.

“Why the fuck am I naked!?” The words tear out before you can stop them, your voice hoarse and shaking. You clap a hand over your mouth immediately, heart hammering. You listen. Nothing. Just the whisper of wind and a distant creak, like the cabin itself is breathing.

You sit up slowly, clutching the blanket to your chest, scanning the room. It’s empty, except for a sagging table in one corner and a green, old shoulder bag slumped against the wall. Your legs shake when you stand, the floorboards cold and gritty beneath your bare feet.

The bag’s exterior feels stiff with age. You pull it open, desperate for anything and almost sob with relief when your fingers close around fabric. Clothes. Dark blue jeans, a black T-shirt, socks and an old red flannel shirt that smells faintly of smoke and gasoline. You dress fast, wincing as the cold air licks your skin.

Inside the bag, you also find a wallet. It’s worn, the leather cracked, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a thrift store bin. But inside… Several IDs. Your face. Different names.

One says Rebecca Moore — FBI.
Another: Kate Dawson — Coroner.
A third: Lisa Graham — Press.

All of them have the same photo, your photo, but none of the names are yours. “What the hell…” you whisper, turning them over, hoping for some rational explanation. There isn’t one.

A chill crawls up your spine. You look around the room again, at the dust, the ancient stove, the warped windowpane. For a wild moment, you almost laugh. “This has to be a dream,” you tell yourself. “A really vivid, fucked-up dream.”

You close your eyes and slowly inhale. The air tastes like mildew and old wood. Lucid dream, you decide. That’s it. My brain just decided to go full horror movie.

You slap your cheek, hard. The sting is painful and sharp, but the world doesn’t blur or bend or flicker back to your apartment. Your pulse kicks faster as you slap your cheek again. Nothing. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake the hell up!” You hiss under your breath.

You draw in a ragged breath, then ball your hand into a fist. One last try. You punch yourself squarely in the jaw, a wild, desperate move. The jolt snaps your head sideways, sending a metallic taste blooming across your tongue. You blink down at the smear of blood where you’ve bitten your lip. “Great. Real classy.”

Your heart hammers like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. This isn’t a dream. This is happening. “Okay. Calm down. Just… calm down.” Your voice shakes as you talk to yourself, like you’re coaching a stranger out of a panic attack. “One thing at a time. Breathe. Think.” Your hands tremble as you shove the IDs back into the wallet, placing it back down into the green shoulder bag. The snap of the clasp sounds too loud in the dead cabin.

You glance at the kitchen — or what passes for one. An old fridge, a crooked stove and some shelves. Dust everywhere. But thirst burns in your throat, so you cross the room, feet silent on the splintered floor.

The fridge door creaks when you open it, and a stench of rot hits you full in the face. You gag, slamming it shut again. There’s a small pantry beside it, its door hanging crooked. Inside, glass jars furred with something that used to be food.

You spot one clear bottle in the corner. Water. Sealed. Your hand shoots out like a starving animal’s. The plastic crackles under your grip. You twist the cap open, sniff it. Nothing. Clean. You take a cautious sip, and water hits your throat like salvation.

You almost laugh. “That’s not food anymore,” you mutter, eyeing the decayed jars. “That’s Darwinism.” The sound of your own Supernatural reference is weirdly comforting, like a reminder you’re still here, still you.

You sling the bag over your shoulder, fingers brushing the frayed strap. One last glance around the cabin — the warped planks, the empty cot, the moldy blanket that still smells like someone else’s nightmare.

You find a pair of boots that’s a size too big, but fits ok, then you head for the door. The handle is rusted, the wood swollen from years of damp. It groans when you pull it. The outside light slashes across your face, too bright, making your eyes water. You step out into air that tastes like pine and cold earth.

The cabin squats behind you like a forgotten grave marker, crooked and dark against the trees. Ahead, a gravel road cuts through the forest, a pale vein of stone and dirt leading away from the cabin.

You stand there for a second, bag slung over your shoulder, blood drying on your lip, shoes nervously shifting in the gravel. The trees creak faintly in the wind, their branches like claws against the sky. “Alright,” you whisper to yourself. “Follow the creepy road. Why not? It’s not like this day could get any weirder.” And you start walking, each step crunching softly, carrying you away from the cabin and into a world you don’t recognize.

Chapter Text

The gravel road seems endless. It stretches ahead in a pale, uneven line that ripples in the heat. You don’t have your phone. No watch. Not even a clue what direction you’re walking in. Judging by the sun, it could be midday or maybe morning. Time feels elastic, like it’s mocking you.

“Okay…” you say to yourself, your voice small in the vast silence. “There is no such thing as teleportation. That’s… that’s insane.” You swallow hard, trying to piece it together. “You woke up naked. In an abandoned cabin. That’s weird, but… maybe you got drugged? Someone broke in? Took you somewhere? Yeah. That makes sense. That’s - reasonable.” You let out a humorless laugh, rubbing at the back of your neck. “Sure. Abducted, stripped, dumped in a cabin, and left fake IDs like a prop department exploded. Completely reasonable.”

The fake IDs flash in your mind again—your face, different names, impossible details. And the cabin… it really did look like something straight out of Supernatural. Down to the creaky floorboards and mildew aesthetic. You shake your head, almost dizzy from how quickly the thoughts start to spiral. “No, that’s a TV show. That’s fiction. You’re officially about to lose it.”

The forest smells like pine and dirt. There’s something grounding in that, something almost pure. You stop long enough to take a few gulps from your bottle. The water’s warm, but it steadies your breath. “Okay. One thing at a time,” you mutter, more gently now. “Find people. Find help. Figure out where the hell you are.”

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you keep walking. The road bends and twists, always just enough to make you think there’s something around the next corner, but there never is. Time drags. The trees thin. Your legs ache. And then, you see it up ahead.

A crossroad.

You stop and tilt your head back, swallowing the last of your water. The bottle crackles empty in your hand. You’re still thirsty, worse, your stomach twists with hunger. You’ve walked for what feels like hours, and the sun hasn’t moved much. No signs. No houses. No power lines. Just gravel roads stretching in four directions, identical veins of dust and stone that seem to lead nowhere.

“Fantastic,” you mutter, voice cracking. “An all-you-can-walk buffet of absolutely nothing.” You turn slowly, scanning the crossroad. The air is still, heavy. That’s when you see it. Small, pale blooms pushing through the weeds at the edge of the road. You blink, then crouch down. “What the fuck…” you whisper. The flowers are unmistakable. Clusters of white petals, feathery leaves. Yarrow flowers. 

Your heart skips. That shouldn’t mean anything. But of course, your brain goes there anyway, to Supernatural. To the episodes where yarrow meant summonings, rituals, and everything that shouldn’t be real. You shake your head hard, biting back a laugh. “Yeah, sure. Next thing you know, Crowley’s gonna show up asking for my soul.” Still, you stay crouched there longer than you should, staring at the flowers like they’re going to blink first.

You’re too hungry to think straight. Too tired to keep pretending this all makes sense. You sit down right there at the crossroads, dust puffing around you, trying to reason with yourself. Food. Water. Shelter. Pick a road. Any road. But your brain won’t stop spinning. Every logical explanation collapses under its own weight. None of this adds up. And then the idea hits. A stupid, insane idea.

If this really is the Supernatural world. If you somehow got dumped inside it, then there’s one way to prove it. You whisper the thought aloud. “Summon a demon.” You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “God, now I have lost it!”

You argue with yourself for a good five minutes, pacing in the gravel, kicking at stones, trying to reason your way out of it. But the longer you think, the more it itches under your skin. Finally, you throw up your hands. “Fuck it!” If this is real, you’ll find out. If it’s not, you’ll just be the idiot digging up dirt at a crossroad. Either way, you’re about to find out which.

You glance around the empty stretch of road once more, then crouch at the center of the crossroad. Your fingers dig into the loose gravel and dry earth, scraping through layers of dust and packed dirt. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath, but you keep digging anyway. The deeper you go, the darker the soil gets. And then, thunk. Your nails catch on something solid. You freeze.

It’s a small metal box, rusted and half-eaten by time. You pull it free, brushing dirt away with trembling hands. The hinges creak when you pry it open. Inside sits a bottle of graveyard dirt, dark as ash, a small bone that looks suspiciously like a cat’s, and a few other things you only recognize from late-night forum threads you never should’ve read. Hoodoo charms. Summoning tools. “Holy shit,” you whisper. The words float out into the still air.

At the bottom of the box, half-stuck to the lining, is a photograph. It’s so old and faded you can barely make out the shape of a person. Just the ghost of a face, lost to time. A cold rush floods through you, a pulse of adrenaline that makes your hands tremble harder. You shouldn’t be excited. You should be terrified. But somehow, you’re both.

Your heart’s pounding as you reach for your bag, pulling out the wallet. You thumb through the stack of fake IDs until one catches under your finger. You rip your own picture out of it. The glossy square tearing clean from the plastic. For a moment, you just stare at it. Your photo sitting there in your hand. Your face. You look down into the open box again. The dirt, the bone, the old charms… and then without thinking, you drop the picture in. It lands softly among the other things.

You sit back on your heels, breathing hard. The world seems to hold its breath with you. The longer you stare, the more your pulse thrums in your ears. You can almost feel something watching. Finally, you shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. “Nope. Nope, we’re not thinking this can be real,” you mutter, voice sharp with nerves. “This isn’t real!” You slam the lid shut and shove the box back into the hole, scraping dirt over it as fast as your shaking hands will move. When it’s buried again, you sit there for a second, breathing hard, dirt under your fingernails, your skin buzzing with fear and something that feels a lot like awe.

Then you stand. “Congratulations,” you whisper bitterly to yourself. “You’ve officially lost your damn mind.” The crossroad is silent. Nothing stirs. Nothing answers. Just you, the empty roads, and the weight of what you just did pressing against the back of your neck.

You stay there for a while, staring at the patch of disturbed earth where the box lies buried again. Nothing happens. No flicker of smoke, no rumble in the ground, no demonic laughter echoing through the trees. Just silence.

You wait another minute. Two. Then sigh. “Right. Because that was going to work,” you mutter, brushing dirt from your hands. The adrenaline drains out of you, leaving only exhaustion. Your stomach aches. Your mouth feels like sandpaper. The excitement and nervousness that had carried you slowly ebb away, leaving you hollow and tired.

You kick at a pebble, cursing yourself under your breath. “Real smart, (Y/N). Try summoning a demon. That’s totally what sane people do.” You glance at the four empty roads stretching away into nowhere. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” you mumble, pointing half-heartedly. Your finger lands on the road to the right. “Guess we’re going that way.” You sling the bag back over your shoulder and start walking. Looking at the gravel crunching softly beneath your boots, the sound too loud in the dead quiet.

Then.

A rush of air.

The faint scent of sulfur.

You stop dead.

When you look up, there’s someone standing in the middle of the road.

Thin. Scrawny. Black-framed glasses, curly black hair. He’s not much taller than you, dressed in a suit that looks one size too small. You blink, once. He wasn’t there a second ago.

“Summoning me, then trying to leave?” His voice is smooth and honeyed, almost amused. “That’s not how this goes, doll.” Your breath catches. Then his eyes turn black. Completely. Bottomless. Your body locks in place. You can’t move, can’t even think. He steps closer, closing the distance until he’s just a breath away. “So what do you want?” he asks softly. “You can have all your heart desires... only for a small fee that I’ll come back for in ten years.” He grins, head tilted, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. “Want a promotion at work? You’ve got it. Wanna win the lottery? That can be fixed.” You shake your head, sharp and instinctive. “No,” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible.

The demon’s smile falters when you shake your head. His expression sharpens - no longer amused. “No?” he repeats softly, tilting his head. The black in his eyes gleams wet in the sunlight. “No one says no, babydoll.” He starts circling you, slow and deliberate. Every instinct in your body screams to run, but your legs won’t move. “You buried the box. You summoned me, and now you wanna walk away?” His voice drops low, venom curling under every word. “That’s not how this works.”

Your pulse hammers so hard you feel it in your throat. As he talks, your mind races. Searching for any kind of plan, any memory, any shred of sense. That’s when the realization hits. You never drew a devil’s trap. Your stomach drops. You didn’t even think about it. You just buried the damn box like an amateur! “How could you be that stupid?” you whisper to yourself, panic rising.

The demon’s grin returns, catching your words. “Oh, I agree, doll. Pretty stupid. But I can make it all go away.” He leans close, his breath hot against your ear. “All you gotta do is make a deal.” You stumble back a step, words tumbling out faster than your brain can catch them. “I wasn’t… It wasn’t serious, okay? I just wanted to see if it worked. That’s all. I was just… curious!”

He laughs, a dark, grating sound that doesn’t belong in a human throat. “That’s cute. You think hell runs on curiosity!?” He moves fast. One second he’s a few feet away, the next his hand is around your throat, cold and unyielding. Your feet barely stay under you as he squeezes, cutting off air. “Here’s a little secret,” he whispers, his face inches from yours. “Hell loves stupid, curious people. Their screams of agony are like melodies."

You claw at his wrist, choking, panic flaring white-hot in your chest. And then, through the fog in your head, something desperate and reckless slips out. The only thing that might buy you a heartbeat of mercy. “I can…” You gasp, forcing the words through the pressure on your throat. “I can give the King of Hell Sam and Dean Winchester.”

The names hit the air like a rock. The demon freezes. His grip loosens just enough for you to drag in a rasping breath. For the first time since he appeared, he looks uncertain. The demon’s grip loosens. Not by much, but enough for you to drag in a shaky breath. The black fades from his eyes just slightly, showing a flash of brown before the abyss swallows it again. “How do you know Sam and Dean Winchester?” His voice is quieter now, low and sharp as a blade. “You’re no monster. And by the situation you’ve put yourself in…” He tilts his head, looking you over with clinical disdain. “No hunter either. So who are you?”

His eyes rake over you, unhurried, like he’s cataloguing every tremor, every breath. You swallow, your throat still raw. “Uhm… that’s a long story,” you manage to breathe out, the words tasting like metal. His hand hasn’t left you. He’s moved his grip from your throat down to a fistful of your T-shirt, knuckles pressing hard into your sternum, keeping you pinned in place. “I just…” you start, breath hitching. “I just know who they are, okay? Brothers. Hunting and killing monsters, demons like yourself.” You swallow again, eyes locked on his. “The family business.”

Even saying it out loud feels insane. Quoting a TV show while a demon holds you by the shirt. But his expression shifts. He’s thinking. You can see the calculations flicker behind his eyes. His grip still firm but no longer crushing. Without looking away, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a phone. The sight of it is almost comical. A cheap, scratched smartphone in the hand of a demon. His thumb moves quickly over the screen. A single message sent. No expression. Then he tucks the phone away and just stands there. Holding onto you. Silent.

The world seems to narrow to that one point of contact. His fist in your shirt, your breath coming in shallow gasps, his black eyes unblinking. Your mind spirals. If this turns out to be real… You’ve just dug yourself a way bigger hole than a crossroads deal. You don’t even know who the King of Hell is right now. Crowley. Abaddon. Lucifer… All the names blur together in your head as time itself seems to stretch and stall, the gravel road silent, the air thick with something that isn’t quite wind.

You don’t see him at first. You hear him. “Hello, darling.” The voice slides down your spine like ice and your knees threaten to give out beneath you. You’d know it anywhere. That rich, British accent, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. You turn slowly. There he is. Crowley. He’s shorter than you imagined. Expensive black suit, hands tucked neatly into his pockets, a smirk that could start wars… or end them.

The demon still gripping your shirt lets go and steps back immediately, head bowed. Crowley barely glances at him. His attention is all on you. “Well, well” he says, drawing out the words. “Aren’t you a curious little thing?” You hold your tongue, letting the silence stretch. Crowley’s smirk deepens. “Cat got your tongue, love? Or did Gerald here cut it out already?” He shoots a pointed look at the demon behind you, whose name, apparently, is Gerald. Gerald flinches. “My Lord, she…”

“Oh, do shut up,” Crowley sighs, rolling his eyes. “I can feel your excuses from here.” He steps closer to you, close enough that you can smell the faintest trace of whiskey and blood. His eyes drag over you, deliberate, assessing. “Now, my dear, I hear you’ve been throwing the name Winchester around. And summoning Gerald here. Care to tell why?”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know this was real. I just said…”

Crowley looks down at his phone, “I can give the King of Hell, Sam and Dean Winchester,” he interrupts smoothly, quoting you word for word. “Oh, yes. I got the transcript. Intriguing choice of words, considering you don’t seem capable of even tying your own shoes without trembling.”

You glare despite yourself. “I just wanted to see if any of this was real.” He raises a brow, amused. “Oh, it’s real, darling. Painfully so.” Crowley circles you once, like he’s appraising a piece of art he can’t decide whether to buy or burn. “You’re not a witch. Not a hunter. No monster, no smell of holy oil or sulfur.” He stops in front of you again, tilting his head. “So how, pray tell, do you know the Winchesters?”

You can feel your pulse thudding against your skin. “I just do. I know them. I know what they do. I know what you do.” That earns you a slow grin. “Do you now?” You force yourself to nod. “You’re Crowley. King of Hell. You want Sam and Dean gone? I can help you.” He studies you in silence for a long, heavy moment. The amusement fades from his eyes, replaced by something colder. More dangerous.

“Help me?” He echoes. “Well, that’s certainly not something I hear every day.” Gerald shifts behind you, uncertain. “My Lord, she could be lying…” Crowley holds up a hand. “If she’s lying, I’ll skin her later.” His gaze snaps back to you. “Now then. Here’s how this is going to work, pet. You’re going to show my boys where to find those Winchesters. Lead them right to them. And in exchange…” He pauses, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “You get to keep breathing. For now.”

You nod, quick and shaky. “Fine. Deal.”

“Good girl.” He smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. Just the gleam of a predator who’s already decided you’re his favorite new toy. Crowley turns to Gerald. “You and the rest of my little cherubs keep an eye on her. If she as much as twitches funny, rip her spine out.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Gerald mutters.

Crowley faces you again, smile back in place, wicked and charming. “Cheer up, darling. You’re about to make history.” Before you can respond, he snaps his fingers. The world jerks. Like being yanked out of your own skin. And then, just as suddenly, you’re standing in front of a Gas-N-Sip convenience store. The smell of gasoline and fried food slaps you in the face. No Crowley. No Gerald. Just you, alone on the cracked pavement, your heart pounding and your mind trying to process the impossible.