flinched as Jean’s fingers accidentally pressed too hard against her swollen
ankle, her foot reflexively kicking against his hold.
scolded lightly, grabbing onto the guilty foot as his fingers pulled away from
her ankle. “Stop kicking me and this will go a lot faster.” Mikasa narrowed her
eyes at him as she kicked his arm with her other foot. Jean gave her a hard
look. “Now that’s just immature.”
taking too long,” Mikasa said shortly, looking up at the sky. The clouds were
moving fast, ushering in an impending storm as the sun continued its descent in
the west. They were only a mile or two away from the training compound, close
enough to outrun the rain if Jean would just hurry up and bandage her ankle. It
was humiliating enough that she’s gotten hurt at all; she didn’t need to be
carried home in Jean’s arm when all she needed was a temporary bandage to give
her the support she needed to make it that last mile home. She also didn’t need
any rumors to start that something was going on between the two of them; they’d
kept it so well hidden the past two months, and a sprained ankle seemed like a
real lame way to give it away.
The first thing Sam noticed about you was your lean,
athletic legs sheathed in black skinny jeans and cinched black boots.
The first thing Dean noticed about you was your 1965 Mustang
Fastback and the way its black body gleamed in the dim sunlight.
“Agents,” you called to the boys as you crossed the dewy
grass toward their suddenly frozen forms. As you approached, you continued, “I
wasn’t aware the Bureau was sending the two of you.” You flashed a bright smile
toward the local cop who was watching your interaction, oblivious of the effect
it had on the brothers, who gulped nervously in unison. Sam shot Dean a
confused glance and Dean shook his head in response; neither of them recognized
Soon, you were only inches away from them, forming a tight
circle, not wanting to be heard by anyone else.
“Pack up, boys, I got this,” you whispered, cracking a small
smile. You were just starting to back away when Dean found his voice.
“H-hold on,” he said, unable to stop the slight stutter in
his voice. “What do—who the hell are you?”
You laughed, your chuckle further stunning the two men
before you. “Name’s Y/N. And you’re the Winchesters.” You chuckled again at
their open-mouthed gazes. “Now that we’re done with the pleasantries, I’ll
handle this case and you two can scurry on home. This is my jurisdiction.”
You began to walk away, toward the local LEO, intent on
“Your juris—” stammered Sam.
“Bye,” you cut him off with a smile and a wave, turning to
face the cop and listen to his story.
Sam and Dean watched you interact for a moment, Sam with
wide, incredulous eyes and Dean’s lips in a slight frowny pout.
“She’s…” Dean began, leaving the sentence hanging.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, eyes still on you as you bent to examine
“Dibs,” Sam and Dean said at the exact same time, turning to
stare at each other.
“She’s not your type, Dean,” Sam broke the silence, rolling
“Like hell she isn’t,” argued Dean, “Did you see her car? I’d
say it’s meant to be.”
“Please,” scoffed Sam, glancing back at you questioning the
witnesses. When he looked back at his brother, Dean had his right fist aloft in
his left hand, his face set in determination. “Oh, come on, Dean, quit being so
immature,” Sam continued.
“Fine, then I’m sure you won’t mind if I go over and ask her
out right now,” challenged Dean. Sam frowned at him and huffed, squaring his
“Fine,” he said, “On three.”
After three counts, Dean’s fingers formed scissors while Sam’s
remained in a fist. Dean cursed
violently, while Sam smiled triumphantly, grabbing Dean’s shoulders.
“Always the scissors, Dean,” Sam said, chuckling and shaking
his head, before turning on his heel and making his way toward you.