Phantom Traveler | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)
Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, namecalling, typical Dean and reader
Word Count: 8289
A/N: Hi guys. I've been overwhelmed with love these past few weeks. Just wanted to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. You guys are fucking awesome; I'm so grateful. I hope y'all enjoy this week's episode! Asks/requests/taglists are open!!!
Series Rewrite Masterlist
You were sound asleep, curled up into yourself when a knock on the door brought you out of your slumber.
“(Y/N)?”
‘Sam.’
“I got coffee, thought you could use some,” he called through the door.
You pushed yourself up out of the bed as you yawned, and walked over to the door of your motel room to open it for Sam.
“Dude, you realize it’s six in the morning, right?” You scratched your head as you let Sam into the room.
“You sound like my brother.”
You playfully glared at him. “Don’t compare me to him.”
“Here.” He handed you a coffee and a bag of what you assumed was a pastry.
“Thanks,” you replied, sitting on your bed with your stuff in hand.
Sam sat on the chair across from you. “Still haven’t warmed up to Dean, huh?”
“Well, he hasn’t exactly warmed up to me,” you reminded him, thinking of the fight you got into yesterday over his reckless driving.
“Guess that’s true,” he conceded. “It’s weird, though, you guys are so much more alike than you let on.”
“Tell that to him. He started it.” You took a big bite of your pastry.
“Seriously?” Sam laughed, “ ‘He started it’?”
You shrugged, smirking.
He seemed to remember his original intention behind disturbing your slumber. “Hey, he found a case, though.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s up?” You licked the pastry cream off your thumb.
“We don’t know. The guy on the phone didn’t say.” Sam raised his coffee cup to his lips.
“Guy on the phone?” You took a sip of your coffee as you let Sam answer.
“Yeah. Some guy my dad and Dean worked a case for a while back’s got another one for us. He called Dean.”
“Ah—” you nodded, “—gotcha. So, where’s he live?”
“Pennsylvania,” Sam responded.
“Okay, not too far,” you noted. “I’ll be ready in fifteen.”
***
“Thanks for making the trip so quick,” a short older man named Jerry told you and the boys. “I ought to be doing you guys a favor, not the other way around. Dean and your dad really helped me out.”
You were walking beside Sam as you followed behind the man who was having you do this job. You were being led through a warehouse past planes as well as their parts and people hard at work.
“Yeah, he told me. It was a poltergeist?” Sam asked the older man.
Someone walking in front of your group was eavesdropping on you. “Poltergeist? Man, I loved that movie.”
“Hey, nobody's talking to you. Keep walking,” Jerry stated authoritatively to the man. He turned his attention back to the conversation. “Damn right it was a poltergeist, practically tore our house apart.” He addressed Dean. “Tell you something, if it wasn't for you and your dad, I probably wouldn't be alive. Your dad said you were off at college. Is that right?” He’d turned to Sam.
“Yeah, I was. I'm— taking some time off,” Sam explained.
“Well, he was real proud of you. I could tell. He talked about you all the time.”
“He did?” Knowing what you knew about Sam’s relationship with his dad, you found this surprising, too.
“Yeah, you bet he did,” Jerry nodded. “Oh, hey, you know I tried to get a hold of him, but I couldn't. How's he doing, anyway?”
“He's, um, wrapped up in a job right now,” Dean lied.
“Well, we're missing the old man, but we get Sam and— what’s your name again?” he asked you.
“(Y/N).”
“(Y/N). Even trade, huh?”
“Eh, I wouldn’t say that,” you laughed.
“Say, (Y/N), how’d you get wrapped up with these two?” Jerry asked.
“Oh, uh—” you began, searching for an abridged version of the truth, “—I met them on a hunt in California. They decided to drag me along with them.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. The guys are gonna need backup with this one,” Jerry said.
“Why?”
He did not give a direct answer to your question. “I got something I want you guys to hear.”
He led you to his office where you and Sam took the two chairs and Dean stood behind his brother.
”I listened to this. And, well, it sounded like it was up your alley,” Jerry stated, putting a CD into a drive. “Normally I wouldn't have access to this. It's the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight 2485. It was one of ours.”
A frantic voice immediately rang out from the speaker as soon as the recording started. “Mayday! Mayday! Repeat! This is United Britannia 2485—” the recording cut out with a static sound, “—immediate instruction help! United Britannia 2485, I copy your message—” and cut out again, “—May be experiencing some mechanical failure—” and then cut out one last time. The man’s voice was completely drowned out by static, whooshing, and growling sounds.
“Took off from here, crashed about two hundred miles south,” Jerry continued. “Now, they're saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurized somehow. Nobody knows why. Over a hundred people on board. Only seven got out alive. Pilot was one. His name is Chuck Lambert. He's a good friend of mine. Chuck is, uh… well, he's pretty broken up about it. Like it was his fault.”
“You don't think it was?” Sam questioned him.
“No, I don't.”
“Jerry, we're gonna need passenger manifests, um, a list of survivors,” Sam listed.
“Alright,” the man replied.
“And, uh, any way we can take a look at the wreckage?” Dean inquired.
“The other stuff is no problem. But the wreckage… guys— and gal— the NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I've got that kind of clearance.” Jerry shook his head.
You frowned.
“No problem,” Dean declared.
You gave him a questioning look to which he shrugged off.
***
“How fucking long does it take to make a fake ID?” you groaned, falling back across the backseat of the Impala. You and Sam had found a way to isolate the EVP on Sam’s computer, having gotten a copy of the tape from Jerry.
“I don’t know,” Sam responded. “But I’m gonna lose it if it’s much longer.”
“Same here.” At that moment, Dean walked out of the Copy Jack the Impala was sitting in front of as a pretty woman walked into the store. They greeted each other before Dean walked over to you and his brother.
“Dude,” you started, “You’ve been in there forever.”
“Wah-wah,” he whined, mocking you. “You can’t rush perfection.” He held up three IDs.
“Homeland Security?” Sam questioned as he took one of the IDs. “That's pretty illegal, even for us.”
“Yeah, well, it's something new. You know? People haven't seen it a thousand times,” Dean pointed out as he got into the car.
“Alright, so, what do you got?” Dean asked his brother as he flicked your ID back at you. It hit you square in the side of the head.
“Dude, really?” you hissed, aggravation clear in your tone.
“Shh,” the older Winchester hushed you as he waited for Sam to answer.
“Well, there's definitely EVP on the cockpit voice recorder,” Sam explained.
“Yeah?”
“Listen.”
The isolated voice of what you were dealing with came through the recording scratchy and backed by demonic growling sounds. “No survivors!”
“ ’No survivors’?” Dean asked. “What's that supposed to mean? There were seven survivors.”
You shrugged.
Dean let out a sigh. “So, what are we thinking? A haunted flight?”
“There's a long history of spirits and death omens on planes and ships, like phantom travelers,” Sam began.
Dean hummed in affirmation. “Or remember flight 401?”
“Right. The one that crashed, the airline salvaged some of its parts, put it in other planes, then the spirit of the pilot and copilot haunted those flights.”
“I don’t know, guys,” you stated skeptically. “Ghost just doesn’t feel right.”
“Well, thanks for your optimism, sunshine,” Dean quipped.
“It’s not about optimism, you asshole, it’s about being right and dealing with whatever we’re up against properly,” you pushed back.
“Know-it-all,” the older Winchester replied.
“Fuck off, Winchester.”
He let out a breath and turned his attention back to the case.“Alright, so, survivors, which one do you want to talk to first?”
"Third on the list: Max Jaffey,” you said.
“I wasn’t talking to you, but why him?”
You glared at Dean. “Because if anybody saw something weird, he did. I talked to his mom while you were spending forever in the store. She said some pretty weird shit and told me where to find him. He was so screwed up, he checked himself into the hospital.”
***
You and the Winchesters walked beside Max Jaffey, who hobbled on a cane, through the Riverfront Psychiatric Hospital’s garden.
“I don't understand. I already spoke with Homeland Security,” Max told your trio.
“Right. Some new information has come up,” Dean lied. “So if you could just answer a couple questions...”
“Just before the plane went down, did you notice anything… unusual?” Sam questioned.
Max looked confused. “Like what?”
“Strange lights, weird noises, maybe. Voices,” Dean offered.
“No, nothing.”
Seeing as no one was getting anywhere with this investigation, you tried your hand at it. “Mr. Jaffey, you checked yourself in here, right?”
He nodded at you.
“Why?”
“Uh, I was a little stressed,” he said sarcastically. “I survived a plane crash.”
“Uh-huh,” you nodded. “And that’s what scared you? That’s what screwed you up so badly?”
You could tell you were close to the answers you were after as he swallowed uncomfortably. “I— I don't want to talk about this anymore.”
“I know, but I also know you saw something up there,” you continued. “We need to know what.”
“No.” Max shook his head. “No, I was… delusional. Seeing things.”
“He was seeing things,” Dean half-mocked him.
You shot a warning glance at Dean, hoping to get him to shut up.
“It's okay,” you coaxed. “Just tell us what you thought you saw, please.”
“There was… this—man. And, uh, he had these… eyes—these, uh, black eyes. And I saw him—or I thought I saw him...” he trailed off, stopping as he recounted the events.
“What?” Dean asked.
“He opened the emergency exit,” Max explained. “But that's— that's impossible, right? I mean, I looked it up. There's something like two tons of pressure on that door.”
“Yeah,” Dean confirmed, clearly confused.
“This man, uh, did he seem to appear and disappear rapidly? It would look something like a mirage?” Sam asked.
Max quirked his head at the younger Winchester. “What are you, nuts? He was a passenger. He was sitting right in front of me.”
***
“I think we can rule out phantom traveler,” you noted as you got out of the car in front of the Phelps’s house. You were going to visit the wife of George Phelps, the man who opened the emergency exit.
“Why?” Dean asked.
“You heard Jaffey. He said the dude had black eyes. Opened a fucking emergency exit on his own. ‘Black eyes’ points me to demon.”
Dean’s eyes widened. “Demons?”
“I mean, it makes sense,” Sam shrugged. “He could be a demon. He might be some kind of a creature, too, in human form.”
“Does that look like a creature's lair to you?” Dean questioned as he gestured toward the house that was representative of the essence of suburban houses. From its beautiful garden to the cobblestone steps to the beige paint coating the outside of the two-story building.
Sam shrugged and began leading your trio up the steps of the house.
Once inside, you three sat across from Mrs. Phelps on the couch while she sat in an armchair.
Sam picked a picture of Mrs. Phelps and an older man up off of the side table. “This is your late husband?” he asked.
“Yes, that was my George.”
“And you said he was a dentist?” Dean questioned.
She hummed in affirmation. “He was headed to a convention in Denver. Do you know that he was petrified to fly? For him to go like that...”
Sam asked another question. “How long were you married?”
“Thirteen years.”
You could tell Sam was contemplating how to ask his next question. “In all that time, did you ever notice anything… strange about him; anything out of the ordinary?”
She paused for a moment. “Well, uh, he had acid reflux, if that's what you mean.”
You nodded, clicking your tongue. “I think that’s all we have for you, Mrs. Phelps. Thank you for your time.”
She showed all of you out, and you piped up as you walked down the stairs outside of the house.
“Demon’s sounding more and more correct all the time,” you smiled, trying to joke around.
“Jesus, you’re annoying,” Dean groaned.
“And you’re a misogynistic dick that can’t handle women with brains,” you responded.
“What, are we gonna duke this out now?” Dean stopped by the door of the car, facing you.
You stood by the backseat’s door. “You started it,” you taunted childishly, crossing your arms over your chest as you stared back at him.
“Really?” he leered. “You’re gonna pull that card? Mature.”
“You act like you’re any better.”
“Guys—” Sam tried to cut in, but Dean continued to fight with you.
“You’re such a bitch.”
“Wow, haven’t heard that one before,” you drawled.
“Guys! You can fight later. Wrong place, wrong time to sort this out,” Sam chastised you and Dean like you were children.
You got in the car and slammed the door behind you.
“Don’t hurt my baby ‘cause you’re pissed,” Dean scolded you as he started to pull the car away.
“Just drive, asshole,” you grumbled in frustration as you slumped down in your seat. The rest of the car ride to the local outlet mall was silent.
***
You had never felt more confident. Despite the fact that you could have worn the one dress you already had to pose as homeland security, you decided to treat yourself to a new outfit to distract from your aggravation with Dean.
The boys had gone to a suit shop called “Mort’s for Style,” and you went into a dress shop called “Betsy’s.” It was a cute little shop with a lot of great dress and pantsuit options.
You had picked out a navy blue pantsuit. You wore a white button-up underneath the blazer with the top two buttons undone to accentuate your breasts. The blazer was unbuttoned, and the high-waisted, straight-legged pants you wore matched the black color of your blazer. With the white button-up tucked into your pants and the small amount of makeup you threw on to draw attention to your eyes and lips, you felt good.
Once you had paid for your clothing, you walked out of the shop and back to the Impala. Surprisingly, the boys were not there waiting for you.
You leaned your back against the car, picking out the grit from under your nails.
You looked up when you heard Dean’s voice. “Man, I look like one of the Blues Brothers.”
Both of the boys were dressed in sharp, black suits. You almost lost your breath at the sight of Dean, but fought yourself to keep your composure. You would not give him the satisfaction of knowing you found him attractive.
“No, you don't,” Sam told him. “You look more like a seventh-grader at his first dance.”
You laughed at the younger brother’s jeer. “What took you girls so long?” you asked once you got in the Impala. “I thought you two would’ve beat me out the store by a long shot.”
“Dean wouldn’t leave the dressing room,” Sam said dryly.
“Seriously?” you droned.
You and Sam both looked to Dean, who did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, he complained, “I hate this thing.”
“Hey,” Sam stared. “You want into that warehouse or not?”
Dean rolled his eyes as he continued to drive along.
You steeled your nerves as your black, pointed-toe pumps clicked across the warehouse floor. Your trio was headed to the security guard that would allow you in to see the wreckage.
You held the clipboard you had stowed in your bag close to your chest, acting as some sort of a recorder for the boys. The three of you flashed your badges at the security guard, who nodded and allowed you into the hangar where the wreckage was being kept.
There was a large map of what the plane should look like painted onto the floor, and the parts that corresponded to the different portions of the map were laid in their proper spots. There were wires hung on fences and broken interior parts of the plane laid on tables. The most heartbreaking things for you to look at were the torn passengers’ seats because most of the people who had been in them were now dead.
You looked over at Dean, who had earbuds in and was moving a small box over the tops of the wreckage.
“What’s that?” you asked him.
“It's an EMF meter. Reads electromagnetic frequencies.”
You got closer to him, noticing what the object appeared to be. “I know what an EMF meter is; I’m not stupid. But why does that one look like a busted-up walkman?”
“ 'Cause that's what I made it out of. It's homemade,” he grinned.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you quipped.
His grin disappeared. “Bitch.”
“Dick.”
You once again fought the pain in your chest when he called you a bitch. In all honesty, you thought his homemade EMF meter was cute. However, you were too far gone in your war with him to surrender now.
Dean ran the Walkman over a piece of the wreckage with black spores and yellow dust on it. You could hear the faint sound of a spike on the meter through Dean’s headphones.
“Check out the emergency door handle,” Dean called to Sam.
Sam came over to where you and Dean stood as the older brother scratched at the dust to get some on his hand.
“What is this stuff?” Dean asked.
One way to find out.” You saw the younger of the two brothers start scraping some of the dust into a small bag.
“We need to go,” you told the boys. You weren’t sure what told you that, but you just suddenly felt unsettled. The hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention, and every muscle in your body tensed. You started off toward the exit in the back of the warehouse.
“Wait, (Y/N), what if we’re missin’ something?” Dean questioned, clearly aggravated you were ready to ditch already.
“Too bad, we gotta go.” You kept walking toward the exit, making it out of the door and around the backside of the building.
At that moment, an alarm started blaring through the area surrounding the warehouse.
You turned around to look at the boys as you gloated, “I’m not gonna say, ‘I told you so’!“ Not bothering to rip your shoes off of your feet, you took off running to the gated exit.
Sam and Dean were quick to follow you and soon passed you up. The older brother took off his suit jacket and threw it over the barbed wire at the top of the fence. You did the same with your blazer. After quickly taking off your pumps to avoid hurting yourself when you jumped from the top of the gate, you threw yourself over the fence. The other two did the same.
Sam grabbed your blazer that you were too small to reach from the top of the fence as Dean found it within himself to remark, “Well, these monkey suits do come in handy.”
You ran after the two boys, heels and blazer in hand as the jagged rocks in the cement cut into your feet. As soon as you shut the door to the car, Dean slammed on the gas pedal.
He tore out of the warehouse’s parking lot, speeding down the road to head toward Jerry’s workplace.
"(Y/N),” Sam started, turning in his seat to face you with a curious expression on his face, “how did you know that?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. My intuition’s just always been pretty sharp.” You were being honest; there had been a few times on hunts previously when you’d known it was time to get the hell out of dodge.
“Hm.” You could tell Dean still didn’t trust you.
“Dude, I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s the truth,” you countered. “I’ve been helping you guys with your dad for almost two months now, and you still don’t trust me. I don’t know what more to do for you.”
“Maybe because I don’t know you,” he responded, never taking his eyes off the road.
“Maybe if you tried to know me, you’d find it a little easier to trust me,” you answered.
“Not interested,” came Dean’s grumbled response.
You tried your best to ignore the pang that went through your chest once more. “Of course not.”
***
You refused to speak to or even look at Dean; your frustration with the fact that he had no desire to know you and his general existence boiling to the surface. You could feel his stare burning into the side of your head as you focused on Jerry, who sat in front of you. He was looking through a microscope on his desk at the yellow dust Sam had collected.
“Huh,” Jerry remarked. “This stuff is covered in sulfur.”
“You're sure?” Sam asked.
“Take a look for yourself,” Jerry offered, getting up from behind the desk so Sam could take his place.
Banging sounds along with a string of curse words caught your ear as Jerry sighed.
“If you guys will excuse me, I have an idiot to fire,” he dryly stated, walking out of the office.
You got up from the chair you were sitting in next to Dean. “See?” you started excitedly, gesturing toward the sulfur, “Demons.”
“That would explain how one guy had the strength to open up the emergency exit,” Sam added.
“This goes way beyond floating over a bed or barfing pea soup. I mean it's one thing to possess a person, but to use them to take down an entire airplane?” Dean put his hands on his hips as he stood. “You ever heard of something like this before?”
Sam looked over at his brother, who responded, “Never.”
“Well, I have,” you said simply.
They both looked to you to continue.
“In NYC a couple years back. Some cabbies had gotten possessed and were takin’ girls left and right.”
“Those were demons?” Sam asked, standing up from behind Jerry’s desk. “That was a huge deal on the news while I was at Stanford. Police thought it was a serial killer. You took ‘em on all by yourself?”
“I’m a big girl, Sam,” you chuckled. “I can handle a few demons. But, yeah, that was me. That was probably the toughest case I’ve ever been on. Finding where those demons had taken those girls after they drugged them in the cabs... where they were raped and murdered...” You shook your head, your cheery expression gone.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Sam told you gently.
Your eyes were glued to the floor, hands on your hips with not a bit of life in your voice as you muttered, “All in a day’s work.”
Sam had asked you to tell him and Dean everything you knew about demons once you got back to the Winchesters’ motel room. Sam sat at the table close to the window while Dean sat on the bed closest to his brother. You stood in front of the two as you spoke.
“Demons exist in every religion in every world culture. With the ones that I was dealing with up in New York, they were most similar to Incubi from early Christian religion. Incubi raped sleeping girls. These demons drugged the girls to put them to sleep, then they raped them, and then they murdered them. What I’m thinking for these demons is that they’re most similar to certain Japanese demons. I had to look into these when I was trying to figure out how to kill the NYC demons. The Japanese believe demons cause certain disasters, whether it be natural or man-made. Some cause earthquakes, others cause disease—”
“And this one causes plane crashes?” Dean deadpanned, cutting you off.
You ignored him. “Demons are having to find new ways to ratchet up the body count. Like with me in New York, Incubi can’t go about their old methods anymore. This demon probably evolved with the times like the Incubi did, and so it figured plane crashes were the best way to get its job done.”
Dean snorted, getting up from. the bed and turning away from you and his brother.
“What?” Sam asked.
He turned around, scratching the back of his neck. “I don't know, man. This isn't our normal gig. I mean, demons, they don't want anything, just death, and destruction for its own sake. This is big. And I wish Dad was here.”
“Yeah. Me too,” the younger Winchester admitted.
Dean’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Hello?... Oh, hey, Jerry… Wha— Jerry, I'm sorry. What happened?... Where'd this happen?... I'll try to ignore the irony in that… Nothing. Jerry, hang in there, all right? We'll catch up with you soon.”
He hung up the phone.
“Another crash?” Sam questioned, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah. Let's go.”
“Where?”
“Nazareth.”
‘Ah, there’s the irony.’
***
After leaving the horrendous scene of Chuck’s plane crash, you and the boys went back to Jerry’s office. Once again, Jerry confirmed that the dust you had taken from the steering wheel of Chuck’s plane was, in fact, sulfur.
“Well, that's great,” Dean sassed. “Alright, that's two plane crashes involving Chuck Lambert. This demon sounds like it was after him.”
“If that's the case, that would be the good news,” you chimed in. You looked up to the sky, addressing the pilot. “No offense, Chuck.”
“What's the bad news?” Jerry asked you.
“Chuck's plane went down exactly forty minutes into the flight, just like 2485,” you informed the older man.
“Forty minutes?” Chuck inquired. “What does that mean?”
“It's biblical numerology. You know Noah's ark, it rained for forty days. The number means death,” Dean said.
“I went back, and there have been six plane crashes over the last decade that all went down exactly forty minutes in,” Sam explained.
"Any survivors?” the older Winchester questioned his brother.
“No. Or not until now, at least, not until flight 2485, for some reason.” Sam turned to you after thinking for a moment. “On the cockpit voice recorder, remember what the EVP said?”
“ ‘No survivors,’ “ you realized. “It's going after all the survivors. It's trying to finish the job.”
Dean drove the Impala down an empty highway.
Sam was on the phone with one of the survivors from the plane crash, the conversation almost over. “Really? Well, thank you for taking our survey, And if you do plan to fly, please don't forget your friends at United Britannia Airlines. Thanks.” He hung up the phone. “All right. That takes care of Blaine Sanderson and Dennis Holloway. They're not flying anytime soon.”
“That leaves the flight attendant, Amanda Walker,” you commented.
“Right. Her sister Karen said her flight leaves Indianapolis at eight P.M. It's her first night back on the job,” Sam told you and his brother.
“That sounds like just our luck,” Dean grumbled.
“Dean, this is a five-hour drive, man, even with you behind the wheel,” Sam said worriedly.
“Call Amanda's cellphone again, see if we can't head her off at the pass,” Dean tried.
“I already left her three voice messages. She must have turned her cellphone off.”
“God, we're never gonna make it,” you shook your head, leaning back in the seat as you scrubbed a hand through your hair.
“We'll make it,” the older brother countered, slamming his foot on the gas.
Somehow, someway, Dean had managed to get to the airport at ten minutes to seven.
You jumped up out of the car, taking your gun out of your pants and stashing it under the backseat.
“What are you doing?”
You still did not feel like talking to Dean but answered him shortly nonetheless. “We’re going into an airport.”
Dean finally caught onto what you meant and took all of his weapons off of him, too. “I feel naked.”
You fought the smile threatening to creep up your face.
You rushed into the airport just behind the boys, squeezing your way through the crowd of people to get to the departure board.
“Right there,” Sam pointed out. “They're boarding in thirty minutes.”
“Okay. We still have some cards to play,” Dean paused, thinking for a moment. “We need to find a phone.”
He found a courtesy phonw on the wall, picking it up. “Hi. Gate thirteen… I'm trying to contact an Amanda Walker. She's a flight attendant on flight, um… flight 4-2-4.”
He waited impatiently for Amanda to pick up the phone. When she finally did, he began speaking again.
“Miss Walker. Hi, this is Dr. James Hetfield from St. Francis Memorial Hospital. We have a Karen Walker here… Nothing serious, just a minor car accident, but she was injured, so—” His face fell, his eyes widening a touch. “You what?... Uh, well… there must be some mistake—”
Sam went around his brother to try to get a closer listen.
After a longer pause, Dean let out a sigh of relief and smiled. “...Guilty as charged… He's really sorry… Yeah, but… he really needs to see you tonight, so—... Don't be like that. Come on. The guy's a mess. Really. It's pathetic… Oh, yeah… No, no. Wait, Amanda. Amanda!” Dean slammed the phone back onto the receiver. “Damn it! So close.”
"Alright, time for plan B. We're getting on that plane,” you stated firmly.
“Whoa, whoa, now just hold on a second.” For the first time since you met him, Dean looked scared.
“Dean, that plane is leaving with over a hundred passengers on board, and if we're right, that plane is gonna crash,” Sam argued.
“I know.” He looked conflicted.
“Okay. So we're getting on the plane, we need to find that demon and exorcise it. I'll get the tickets. You and (Y/N) get whatever you can out of the trunk. Whatever that will make it through security. Meet me back here in five minutes.”
Dean looked at Sam blankly, evidently a little anxious.
“Are you okay?” the younger Winchester asked.
Dean hesitated. “No, not really.”
“What? What's wrong?”
“Well, I kind of have this problem with, uh...”
“Flying?” you cut in.
“It's never really been an issue until now,” he told you.
“You're joking, right?” Sam huffed.
“Do I look like I'm joking? Why do you think I drive everywhere, Sam?” he spat.
For the first time since you met him, you didn’t feel like mocking him about his fear of planes.
“Okay, then (Y/N) and I’ll go,” Sam proposed.
Dean shook his head. “What?”
“We’ll handle this one.”
“What are you, nuts? You said it yourself, the plane's gonna crash.”
“Dean, we can do it together, or I can do this one with (Y/N). I'm not seeing a third option, here.”
Dean scratched his head. “Come on! Really? Man...”
Dean walked much faster than you did toward the car to get supplies, clearly trying to leave you in his dust.
“Would you slow down a bit, please?” you asked.
“Why should I?”
“Because even if you get to the car before me, you’re not gonna have a fucking clue what to use to deal with a demon,” you reminded him, your words a bit more venomous than need-be.
He stopped, turning to face you. “Are you calling me stupid?”
“No,” you told him. You truly weren’t.
“Definitely sounds like you are.”
You walked past him to the trunk of the Impala. “I wasn’t, I’m simply pointing out the fact that I’m the one who knows how to deal with demons, and you don’t.”
“There you go again. Acting like you know so much better than I do.” His attitude was truly exhausting.
Your voice rose as you defended yourself. “Because I do! In this case, at least!”
“But it’s not just this one time that you acted like you’re better than me,” he argued. “Do you realize how frustrating it is to deal with your smart ass?”
“Do you realize how frustrating it is to deal with yours?” you threw back. You sighed, putting aside your anger for now. “Look, we don’t have time to talk about this.” You shoved holy water, a rosary, and the EMF Walkman into Dean’s hands. “Now, let’s go.”
You shoved past Dean and headed back to the airport.
***
You sat between Sam and Dean, completely at ease. Dean, however, was losing his mind.
"Just try to relax,” Sam whispered from the window seat
Dean’s voice came back harder and slightly louder. “Just try to shut up.”
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you scolded playfully.
“Don’t be a bitch,” Dean clapped back using the same tone with you that he had with Sam. He took in a sharp breath when the plane began moving a second later.
You gathered your courage and grabbed his hand. He jerked away from you and looked at you in surprise. When the plane took off, though, his hand rejoined yours, squeezing tightly. You giggled to yourself.
“I’m so glad this is funny to you,” Dean hissed.
“It’s not,” you answered simply.
“Then why are you laughing?” His grip tightened once again.
“It’s just,” you considered your next words carefully. “It’s kind of cute, that’s all.”
Dean was caught off-guard by your response. He eyed you quizzically, unsure of what to say. You just shrugged, settling the back of your head against your seat with your hand still in Dean’s. It was much larger than yours, and you fought the urge to run your fingers along the calloused ridges.
Moments passed in a bit of an uncomfortable silence before Dean spoke again, not a trace of bite in his tone. “Why are you doing this?”
You rolled your head toward him. “Everybody’s scared of something,” you quietly replied. “It helps me to know I’m helping you. Even if you do hate my guts.”
“I don’t hate your guts.” He spoke so softly you almost couldn’t hear him.
“Pfft, could’ve fooled me,” you answered.
“You just…” he started, “...get on my nerves. ‘S all.”
You giggled.
A few minutes later when the plane had fully gotten up in the air, you heard the familiar sound of a song you had heard many times before in the Impala coming from the man next to you.
“You're humming Metallica?” Sam asked Dean monotonously.
“Calms me down,” the older brother replied.
“ ‘Some Kind of Monster’? Really?“ You raised a brow at him.
Dean did not respond to you.
“Look, man, I get you're nervous, all right? But you got to stay focused,” the younger Winchester reminded his brother.
“Yup,” you chimed in. “We only have thirty-two minutes to track the bitch down and full-on exorcise it.”
“Yeah, on a crowded plane,” Dean commented. “That's gonna be easy.”
“Just take it one step at a time, alright?” Sam said calmly. “Now, who is it possessing?”
“It's usually gonna be somebody with some sort of weakness, you know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through. Somebody with an addiction or some sort of emotional distress,” Dean stated.
“Well, this is Amanda's first flight after the crash. If I were her, I'd be pretty messed up,” Sam told Dean, who hummed in response.
Dean sat up stiffly, his body still tense as he turned to the blonde flight attendant walking past.
“Excuse me. Are you Amanda?” he asked her.
“No, I'm not,” she answered with a smile.
"Oh, my mistake.”
The flight attendant hummed in agreement.
He peered into the back of the plane, finding the other blonde flight attendant. “All right, well, that's got to be Amanda back there, so I'll go talk to her, and, uh, I'll get a read on her mental state.”
“What if she's already possessed, genius?” Sam asked.
“There's ways to test that,” Dean responded, pulling the holy water out of his jacket. “I brought holy water.”
“Correction, I brought holy water—” you leaned forward, gently taking the bottle, “—And that’s for when we try to exorcise the demon. She’ll flinch at the name of god if she’s possessed.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Dean replied, getting up from his chair. You could tell he had not. You already missed the feeling of his hand in yours.
He turned to go, but you stopped him.
“Dean!” you whispered.
“What?” The annoyance in Dean’s voice was back.
“Say it in Latin.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Then what is it?” you smirked, quirking a brow.
“ ‘Christo!’ I’m not an idiot!” he hissed back. Dean turned away from you and headed to the back of the plane.
You slumped down in your seat, closing your eyes as the copilot began speaking. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your first officer speaking...” you tuned out the rest of his message.
A few minutes went by before the older brother returned.
“Alright, well, she's got to be the most well-adjusted person on the planet,” he sighed as he flopped back into his seat.
“You said ‘Christo’?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“There's no demon in her. There's no demon getting in her.”
“So, if it's on the plane, it can be anyone. Anywhere,” Sam explained.
The plane shook, causing Dean to tense up. He grabbed your hand once more. “Come on!” he whined. “That can't be normal!”
“Hey, hey, it's just turbulence,” you coaxed.
“Sweetheart, this plane is going to crash, okay? So quit treating me like I'm fucking four.” He went to drop your hand, but you tightened your grip.
“Okay,” you started, changing tactics. Your tone became harsh. “You need to calm down.”
“Well, I'm sorry, I can't,” Dean sassed.
“You didn’t want to be treated like you’re four, so stop acting like it,” you commanded. “Be a man, Winchester. If you’re a basketcase, you’re wide open to possession. Get your shit together. Right now.”
Dean took a deep breath.
You smiled. “Great. Onto the Rituale Romanum.”
“The what?” Sam and Dean asked in unison.
“The exorcism ritual,” you elaborated. “It's two parts. The first part expels the demon from the victim's body. It makes it manifest, which actually makes it more powerful.”
“More powerful?” Dean questioned, his voice strained and eyes wide.
“Yup.”
“How?” He was starting to get panicky again.
“It’d just be able to wreak havoc on its own without a vessel,” you informed.
“Oh. And why is that a good thing?”
“ 'Cause the second part of that sends the bitch back to hell once and for all.”
“First things first, we got to find it.”
“There ya go,” you chuckled.
“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, getting up from his chair with the EMF Walkman.
You and Sam let him walk down the aisle by himself for a few minutes before the two of you got up to go talk to him.
You tapped his shoulder.
“Ah!” Dean jumped back, wheeling around to face you. “Don’t do that!”
“Anything?” Sam asked.
The older brother shook his head. “No, nothing. How much time we got?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Sam told you and his brother. “Maybe we missed somebody.”
“Maybe the thing's just not on the plane,” Dean shrugged.
“No way. Dean, it’s gonna be here,” you protested. Just as you spoke, the EMF meter spiked.
You looked up to see the copilot coming out of the bathroom.
“What?” Sam asked. “What is it?”
You stared at the copilot. “Christo.”
The man’s head slowly turned toward you and the boys, his eyes black.
You wheeled around to face Sam. “We gotta talk to Amanda.”
“She's not gonna believe this,” Sam contested.
“You’re probably right, but we only got twelve minutes,” you reminded the younger brother. You walked ahead of the boys into the concessions area where Amanda busied herself.
“Oh, hi. Flight's not too bumpy for you, I hope,” she smiled politely, clearly caught off-guard by your presence.
“Actually—” Dean began, “—that's kind of what we need to talk to you about.”
Sam closed the curtains behind you as Amanda answered Dean. “Um, okay. What can I do for you?”
“Alright, this is gonna sound nuts, but we just don't have time for the whole ‘the truth is out there’ speech right now,” Dean rushed out.
She looked confused but kept her smile painted on her face.
“Alright, look, we know you were on flight 2485,” Sam continued for Dean.
Her grin disappeared. “Who are you guys?”
Sam ignored her question. “Now, we've spoken to some of the other survivors. We know something brought down that plane and it wasn't a mechanical failure.”
“We need your help because we need to stop it from happening again. Here. Now,” the older brother told her.
“I'm sorry—” she started, attempting to move past you, “I— I'm very busy. I have to go back—”
“Chuck Lambert’s dead, Amanda,” you cut in, effectively stopping her from leaving. “The pilot from 2485.”
“Wait. What?” She turned to face you, her eyebrows furrowed. “Chuck is dead?”
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He died in a plane crash. That’s the second plane crash in two months. Doesn’t that strike you as weird?”
She shook her head in complete disbelief.
“Look, there was something wrong with 2485,” Sam added. “Now maybe you sensed it, maybe you didn't. But there's something wrong with this flight, too.”
Dean made a last attempt to drive the point home. “Amanda, you have to believe us.”
The blonde looked to the ground. “On… on 2485, there was this man. He… had these eyes.”
“Black eyes?” you asked.
She nodded.
“That’s exactly what we’re talking about,” Sam clarified.
“I don't understand, what are you asking me to do?”
Dean answered before you got the chance to. “Okay. The copilot, we need you to bring him back here.”
Amanda looked between the three of you, confused. “Why? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Don't have time to explain. We just need to talk to him. Okay?”
“How am I supposed to go in the cockpit and get the copilot—” You could practically see her mind running a mile a minute.
Even Sam was getting impatient. “Do whatever it takes. Tell him there's something broken back here, whatever will get him out of that cockpit.”
“Do you know that I could lose my job if you—”
“Babe, you're gonna lose a lot more if you don't go get him right now,” you remarked.
She looked at you and nodded, turning to leave for the cockpit.
As soon as Amanda made it out of the curtains, you fished the holy water out of your hoodie’s pocket, moving to press your back against the wall next to the closed blue curtains.
A few moments later, you heard the copilot say to Amanda, “Yeah, what's the problem?” Just outside the curtains. As soon as the demon ducked into the small room, Dean punched him in the face. He then shoved the demon to the ground and slapped duct tape over his mouth.
“Wait,” Amanda protested as you got down on the ground beside Dean, “What are you doing? You said you were just gonna talk to him.”
“We are gonna talk to him,” Dean replied simply as you splashed the copilot with holy water.
The demon groaned under the duct tape, his skin sizzling and burning holes through his shirt.
“Oh, my god. What's wrong with him?” Amanda cried.
“Look,” Sam started calmly, “We need you calm. We need you outside the curtain.”
Amanda’s breath quickened. “Well, I don't underst— I don't know—”
“Don't let anybody in, okay? Can you do that? Can you do that? Amanda?”
She gave herself a pep talk before heading outside of the curtains.
“Hurry up, Sam,” Dean groaned. “I don't know how much longer I can hold him.”
The demon went to kick the older Winchester in the back, but you dove to grab his legs.
Sam began reciting the Latin ritual written in his father’s journal. “Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino—”
The demon kneed you in the forehead, causing you to fall back and got a few good swings at the boys in as well. You clambered on top of the copilot, sitting on his stomach with his arms pinned by his sides under your legs.
Sam continued with the ritual before the demon threw you off of him. He ripped the tape off of his mouth and turned to Sam. “I know what happened to your girlfriend! She must have died screaming! Even now, she's burning!”
You attempted to recover from getting slammed into the wall while Dean focused on attacking the demon.
Sam sat there in shock, so you grabbed the journal and tried to finish the ritual.
The demon hit Dean again, effectively getting the young man off of him and knocking Dean into you. The book fell from your hand, and the demon kicked it out into the passenger’s cabin.
A cloud of black smoke flew out from the copilot’s body and into a vent while Sam went out into the aisle to find the journal.
Suddenly, the plane shook violently and took a nosedive. The lights in the plane flickered and you and Dean were thrown to the back wall of the concession’s area.
You and Dean screamed as the plane went down. Dean held onto the emergency exit door for dear life as you pressed yourself into the corner opposite from the older Winchester.
Your yelps were cut off when the plane leveled out following a surge of electricity coursing through the aircraft. You assumed Sam was able to finish the ritual and the pilot was able to regain control of the plane.
You shakily stood up from the ground and dusted yourself off, tugging on the sleeves of your large hoodie.
You stepped out into the passenger’s cabin, heading to Sam as people began asking their neighbors if they were okay.
You wrapped Sam in a short, tight hug as you thanked him for keeping his head level enough to finish the ritual and trying to comfort him after what the demon had said. When you had made your way back to your seats, a slight rumble went through the aircraft. Dean grabbed your hand once again, and kept it there for the rest of the flight. A small smile tugged at your lips.
After landing back at your original airport, you stood beside Sam and Dean as you watched the swarms of EMTs, FBI agents, and FAA agents go from person to person. They questioned or looked over each one, and your focus bounced between them.
You found Amanda in the crowd talking to an FBI agent, and she turned to the side to mouth “thank you” to you and the Winchesters.
“Let's get out of here,” Dean said firmly.
You began to head to the exit when Dean asked Sam, “You okay?”
You turned back to Sam, who reminded you and his brother, “Dean, it knew about Jessica.”
“Sam, these things, they, they read minds. They lie. Alright? That's all it was.” The older brother attempted to brush Sam’s concerns off.
“Yeah.” The brunet didn’t sound convinced.
“Come on.”
***
The next day, you and the Winchesters visited Jerry at his workplace to give him the final mission report. Jerry showed you and the boys out and escorted you to the Impala parked outside of the warehouse.
“Nobody knows what you guys did, but I do. A lot of people could have been killed,” he acknowledged. He shook your hand before turning to the boys. “Your dad's gonna be real proud.”
Sam gave him an awkward, tight-lipped smile. “We'll see you around, Jerry.”
You turned to the car, as did Dean before he turned back to the older man.
“You know, Jerry—" he began.
“Yeah.”
“I meant to ask you, how did you get my cellphone number, anyway?” the young man continued. “I've only had it for like six months.”
“Your dad gave it to me,” Jerry explained simply.
“What?” Sam exclaimed in shock.
“When did you talk to him?” Dean questioned.
“I mean, I didn't exactly talk to him, but I called his number. His voice message said to give you a call.” He took a pause. “Thanks again, guys— and gal,” he grinned.
“Bye, Jerry!” you called after him as he headed off.
“This doesn't make any sense, man. I've called Dad's number like fifty times. It's been out of service,” Sam told his brother.
Dean dials what you assumed was his father’s number. However, instead of the out-of-service message Sam had described, a voicemail began to play.
The two boys leaned into the phone so they could hear it better.
You leaned over Sam’s shoulder, the voice hard to hear, but you were still able to make out the words. “This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. 785-555-0179. He can help.”
Sam fumed, shaking his head in frustration as he got in the car. He slammed the door behind him. You looked over to Dean, who did not meet your gaze. He got in the car following his brother. You took one last look at the setting sun as a plane flew over your head.
“I fuckin’ hate flying,” you muttered.
Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel
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