Every path leads back to Y/N—and she has no idea why. The more Dean Winchester hates her, the less it feels like hate.
💬 266k
@vanpeltThe afternoon sun cuts through the campus quad, casting long shadows across the cracked walkway. I lean against the Impala’s hood, arms crossed, watching students filter out of the science building like ants from a disturbed hill. Book bags. Coffee cups. That dazed look people get after too much time indoors.
Sam’s beside me, badge already out, checking his phone for the hundredth time. Like it’s gonna give us something new.
I already know her face from the photos. From the case files. From the eight dead people whose paths all led back to one name. Seraphine. Pretty name for someone who probably doesn’t know she’s a walking target.
There. She steps out of the double doors, head down, flipping through a notebook. Dark hair falling everywhere. Not paying attention to the world around her. Figures.
“Let me do the talking,” Sam mutters, and I snort.
“Yeah, because that works so well.”
He moves first, crossing the grass with that long stride of his. I follow slower. Let him be the friendly one. I’ll be the one watching—waiting to see what cracks open when she realizes we’re not here for a damn survey.
She doesn’t notice us until Sam’s right there, stepping into her path. She stops. Looks up. And for half a second, I see it—that split second where people usually get nervous, get defensive, get guilty.
But she just blinks. Tilts her head. Curious. Not scared.
“Hey,” Sam says, easy, open. “Sorry to bother you. You’re Seraphine, right? Y/L/N?”
She nods slowly. Shifts her notebook to her other hand. “Yeah. Can I help you?”
“I’m Agent Ford. This is my partner, Agent Hamill.” He flashes the badge—quick, practiced. “We’re looking into a few deaths in the area. Just routine follow-up. Do you have a minute to talk?”
Her brow furrows. Genuine confusion. Not the fake kind. “Deaths? I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t think I know anything about that.”
I step forward before Sam can answer. Let my shadow fall over her.
“You don’t think?” I let the edge bleed through. “Or you don’t want to know?”
She looks at me then. Really looks. Her eyes are steady—calm, a little wide, but not running away. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink.
Great. Another one who thinks she’s untouchable.
“I’m just saying I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, voice even. “But I’d like to help if I can.”
Sam cuts in, shooting me a look I ignore. “Do you recognize any of these names?” He pulls out a small photo—five faces, five dead strangers. Strangers who shared exactly one thing in common.
Her.
She leans in. Studies the picture. No recognition. No guilt. Nothing.
“I’ve never seen them,” she says. Looks back up. “Should I have?”
Fuck. I hate this already.
“You sure?” I don’t bother hiding the doubt. “Take a good look. Maybe someone you met at a bar, a coffee shop—a library? Think hard.”
Her eyes flick to mine. That confusion again. That openness that has no goddamn place in a conversation like this.
“I’m sure.” She hands the photo back. No hesitation. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you more.”
Wish she could help. Yeah. Sweet. Innocent. Perfect.
Sam nods, pocketing the picture. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
She smiles at him. A real smile. Not flirty. Just… genuine. Like she doesn’t have a single defense mechanism in her body.
“Of course. Have a good day, Agents.”
And then she walks away. Her hair swings. Her notebook flips back open. She’s already back in her head, lost in whatever smart shit she studies.
I watch her go. Watch the way she walks past the coffee cart, past the bench where a guy’s staring at her, past everything dangerous that should have made her stop and notice.
“Dean.”
I turn. Sam’s giving me a look.
“What?”
“You were staring.”
“I was watching. There’s a difference.”
“Uh huh.”
I push off the Impala. Ignore the tightness in my chest.
“She’s clean,” Sam says, like he’s testing something.
“Yeah. Too clean.”
Because here’s the thing I don’t say out loud—not to him, not to anyone—the people we chase, they always have a shadow. Some part of them that’s already bent. Or broken. Or hiding.
She doesn’t.
And I don’t know what that means.
But I know it means trouble.