pink headboard

Spend a night at the Kings Inn Motel and win $25,000.00

The Craigslist ad didn’t say much else.

Just a local area telephone number and address.

Call To Make Your Reservation Today!

I scoured the ad three more times for some catch—some hidden fine print—before picking up the phone to dial.




“Front desk.” The man on the other end of the line sounded bored and put upon.

I sat up straight in my chair. “Yeah, I uh, I saw your ad.”

“Yes, sir. The room is still available.”

“This prize money—twenty-five grand—that legit?”

The man on the other end sighed. “Yes, sir. Would you like me to make you a reservation?”

“What’s that about?” I asked. “I mean, what do I have to do?”

“Look, dude, it’s a promotional thing I think. I don’t know—I just man the front desk. Stay the night; win the prize. Simple.”

“Yeah, ok, but what’s the—“

“It’s a double bed room. Sixty-nine dollars a night. Non-smoking. Looks like it’ll be available Wednesday after 4:00. You want the reservation, or no?”

Twenty-five thousand dollars for one night in some flea bit motel?

I gave him my name and particulars and listened as he punched them into a computer.

“Alright, Sir,” he’d found his way back on script, “your reservation is confirmed and we look forward to seeing you Wednesday. Please have your ID and a major credit card at check in. Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?”

I cleared my throat. “This isn’t some sort of scam, is it?”

“Nope. We’re authorized to issue you a certified bank draft come check out time. Assuming you stay the full night.”

“One more thing,” I said quickly. “How many other people have won?”

But the line had already disconnected.


The Kings Inn Motel is one of those places.

You know the type.

Seedy, low-slung red brick buildings set back off the side of some lonely Interstate. A humming sign casting neon shades of red and blue over a mostly empty parking lot filled with broken bottles and cigarette butts.




An electronic bell buzzed jarringly somewhere in the back as I stepped through the door into the lobby.

Inside, the air was hot; heavy with the stink of bleach and disinfectant. Like the smell of a pool shed or a nursing home.


The young guy behind the Formica topped front desk barely looked up from his phone as I approached with my overnight bag.

“I’m on break,” he said flatly.

“Uh, I have a reservation.”

He dropped his phone to the counter. “Oh. So, you’re the guy? Well, welcome to the Kings Inn–where we treat you like royalty. They make me say that, sorry.”

His teeth, when he smiled were brown and yellow—leaning drunkenly against one another.

“License and credit card, please,” he said.

I slid them across the counter.

“Alright,” he said at length. “Everything looks good. You’ll be in room 205. Housekeeping just finished up in there, so should be nice and clean for ya. End of the row—past the ice machine.”

I took my cards back and said, “About this contest. What’s the gimmick?”


“Yeah,” I said. “You know. What’s the catch?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you. Management handles all that.”

“Can I speak to them?”

He shook his head. “Against the rules.”

“There are rules?”

He leaned in conspiratorially. His breath was hot and smelt like garlic bread. “If it was me? I’d lock the door, pop a couple Xanax, crawl into bed and sleep straight through till check out time. But that’s just me.”

I nodded as if I understood and took the proffered plastic keycard.

“Checkout’s at nine. Enjoy your stay.”


Room 205 was indeed past the ice machine—at the far end of the long L shaped arm of the building where it backed up to a dense copse of trees.

I parked my car beneath a streetlight and walked the half a dozen yards—past an endless row of barred windows and cheap plastic patio chairs—to the door of room 205.

The door was nothing special. A dented and drab olive green with peeling white stick-on letters above the peephole. Not dissimilar to a million other such doors lining countless motel corridors from here to Angola.

My room key fit with a tiny thunk in the lock and I pushed the door inward.

Maybe, in the moments before I flicked on that overhead light, I expected something different. An axe murderer crouched in the corner. A message daubed in blood above the mirror. Something fantastic or dark. Something worthy of the telling.

Instead, the too yellow light shone on a scene that was all too familiar.

Coral pink walls that clashed with the jade green of the carpet. A sickening tableau of stale cigarettes, floral patterned bedspreads and faux wood grains. I could almost smell the sex—the half remembered and unfinished acts—that lingered hot and filthy on every surface like a film.

Pedantic, yet comforting in its simulacrum of home.

I dropped my bag on the small round table to the left of the door and flopped bodily onto the nearest bed.

How many unborn babies had seeped into the fabric of these blankets? How many un-recepticled loads of cum had sprayed across those pink tufted headboards? Enough to make it a living sentient thing?

I checked my watch—it was a little after six. Fifteen hours lay between me and that twenty-five thousand dollars.

What had the guy at the front desk said? Stay the night; win the prize.

I grabbed my car keys and headed toward the door.

I’d need pizza or beer if I was to make it.


The air felt different on my return.

Used is the best way I know how to describe it.


That dry staleness of long disuse shot through with traces of something I couldn’t identify. Like the final ghostly fingers of someone’s cologne lingering.

The TV was on–the usual bevy of infomercials and pay-per-view porn ads—and from where I stood I could see contents of my overnight bag; strewn across the floor.

I dropped my pizza and froze—straining for the sound of some hidden intruder.



I checked the small dirty bathroom.


I looked under the bed.

No one.

I gathered my things—just a change of clothes and some toiletries—into a pile and called the front desk.

The guy seemed unconcerned and brushed aside my indignation.

There were no other active keycards available for my room, he assured me. And no one had been into the office since my arrival.

“Were any maids in here while I was gone?” I wanted to know.

“Housekeeping leaves at 5:30. Your bag probably just fell over.”

“Can I switch rooms, then?”

“We’re all full up.”

“So, you’re not gonna do anything about the fact that someone’s been in my room rifling through my shit? What kind of place is this?”

A sigh. “I’ll log your complaint and you can take it up with management in the morning. I can offer you a free continental breakfast, in the meantime.”

I hung up.

I’ll admit, I thought about leaving right then. Just grabbing my bag and the remnants of my cold pizza and booking it. Home sounded good. Home sounded safe. But the thought of the money stayed my hand.

It was past nine now. What would a few more hours hurt?

I bolted and chained the door behind me before climbing into the bed.

The sheets were thin and rough. Hospital quality. They scratched at my legs and the tops of my feet and audibly crinkled when I moved. The pillows little more than lumpy plates behind my head.

I bathed in the fuzzy blue glow of late night TV and fell into a fitful sleep, already counting my winnings….



I fumbled in the dark for the jangling cordless phone on the bedside table.

“Mh? Hello?” I said, only half awake.

Through bleary eyes I could just discern the digital alarm clocks glowing yellow timestamp.

2:11 AM.

“Sir,” the voice on the other end was familiar. Bored. “I have to ask you to please keep it down.”

“Whasat? Do what?” I was finding surer footing in the land of consciousness. “Who’s this?”

“We’ve had several noise complaints from guests. Please keep your voices down. It’s very late.”


“You and your visitor. Just keep it quiet, ok buddy?”

I sat up like a bolt and felt blindly for the lamp switch—casting the room in a sickly orange glow.


Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I rubbed my eyes with thumb and forefinger. The room was freezing cold. The drone of the old AC unit under the window rustled those hideous curtains in erratic patterns across the green carpet.

What had he been on about? Something about a guest?

I shook my head to try and clear some of the cobwebs. The roof of my mouth felt dry—my tongue bloated and unwieldy. When I stood to go to the bathroom for a piss and a glass of water the room seemed to wobble beneath me and I had to steady myself against the TV.

I felt sick. Or slightly tipsy. Like I did when I was six and had a fever of 102 and the world looked elastic and shiny.

The bathroom was small and grimy. The tub yellowed. I splashed some tap water over my face as I tried to catch my breath. My cheeks felt hot; my stomach roiled. Had the pizza gone bad?



I stepped back into the main room as the phone continued to ring.

There was that feeling again—that imperceptible otherness—like the twice diluted stuff you breathe on airplanes.



It was a little after 2:30, now. Who was calling?

“Hello?” I picked up the phone.

The glaring hum of the dial tone was the only response I got.

I set the phone back in its cradle.



“What the…”

“Don’t answer that! It’s probably Tony, wondering who stole those last five Lortabs.”

I jumped as if struck, biting back a scream as I whirled in the direction of the bathroom.

A young woman in a loose-fitting sundress was visible through the bathroom doorway—her back to me. Her pelvis was pressed hard against the sink as she applied lipstick to her loamy reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Don’t tell Tony I’m in here, ok? He’ll try and take my jacket.” She smiled conspiratorially before climbing into the tub.

“Hey!” I crossed the room in three quick strides and grabbed the cheap plastic lining of the shower curtain. “Who the fuck are you?”

I pulled the curtain back with a sharp whisk.

The tub was empty.

I turned the light on with a flick of the wrist and stared numbly at the piss colored grout and linoleum. There was nowhere else to hide. My chest felt tight and my bowels felt twisted. I struggled to catch my breath. Using the wall as a guide rail, I navigated my way back to the bed and sat down amid the tangled sheets.

I was going to throw up.

I just needed to lie down. Just rest my eyes—just for a second. Yeah, that was it. I was sure. I was just tired. Ill. Nothing rest wouldn’t put right.

The pillows felt blissfully soft this time; the sheets satiny. How had I misjudged them? And the air! The air didn’t smell like mold. It was sweet—like fresh laundry.

I inhaled deeply through my nose.

“There you go!” tub girl sing-songed from bathrooms dark maw. “Go to sleep, baby. Rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, rolling onto my side.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up.” I could almost feel her lips on my earlobe that time. Could almost smell her earthy perfume.

I nodded. Yes. Sleep.


I cracked my eyes.


The digital alarm clock now said 3:04.

Surely it had only been a moment since I closed my eyes.


I found the phone. “Yeah?” My voice sounded funny. Muffled.

A wave of static rolled over me. Buzzes and pops and whistles. Like a fax line trying to connect.

“Hello?” I tried again.


I closed my eyes—they felt so heavy—and prepared to press END on the phones dial pad when I heard it.


Just a whisper—barely even there. Almost lost among the screeching and buzzing of an unused line.

“Yeah?” I perked up at the sound of my name. Peeled my eyelids apart again.

“Jimmy, its Mom. Listen to me, Jimmy. I need you to wake up.”

“Mom?” The word sounded unfamiliar. That couldn’t be right.

“Listen, Jimmy. You have to wake up.”

“It’s three in the morning,” I whined.

“Get up. Hurry. Management doesn’t want me talking to you. You need to get UP.”

I struggled into a sitting position, still cradling the phone. “Mom?

How is this you? You can’t be calling. You’re de—“

The voice through the static cut me off. “You need to get up. Get your keys and get outside. Now. You can’t fall asleep. Okay?”

“What about the money?”

“Hurry, Jimmy. I love you.”

The call ended abruptly.

I looked at the phone and thought of my mom. Remembered the last time I’d seen her. She’d looked so small in that coffin—barely filling out her favorite pink Sunday dress.

A nascent migraine had begun to settle in behind my eyes.

“Whatever Tony said, he’s lying.”

If I turned my head I could almost see her—my gal Friday—daubing on uneven finger-fulls of mascara.

Get your keys

“Just go back to sleep, baby.”

Get outside

When I stood up too fast the room spun and I almost fell.

Careful. Careful. I shuffled barefoot across the verdant carpet jungle to the table by the door.

My keys felt heavy.

“Baby, where are you going? Get back in bed. We can split this Roxicodone I found.” She sounded forceful.

I need you to wake up

I grappled with the door lock and chain. My fingers felt stupid. Unresponsive. “I’m sorry,” was all I managed. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

Hurry Jimmy

“Hey! Hey, come back!”

I pulled too hard and the door swung inward banging off the drywall with a muffled crunch.

Outside it was early—or late—and wonderfully cool and still. Rocks and asphalt stung the bottoms of my feet as I stepped off the curb and into the parking lot. The invisible vise around my chest—the one I hadn’t noticed till then—began to loosen.

I staggered to my car and leaned my forehead against the driver’s side window. It felt good to just breathe normally.

I climbed behind the wheel and started the car. Let off the break and began to reverse.


A loud male voice. A dark bulky silhouette in my taillights.

Someone beating fists on the trunk of my car. Grabbing for the door handle.

I screamed, threw the car into drive and stomped on the gas. I shot through the motel parking lot like a bolt scraping sickeningly over speed bumps. I didn’t care. I gunned it past the front office. Past the neon sign. Away from that place and onto the narrow road toward the interstate.

I guess I was sleepier than I thought, though.

See, I don’t remember nodding off behind the wheel and I don’t remember the car veering off the road. Nor the tree speeding toward me.

If I strain, I can vaguely recall the car rolling. The crunch and shriek of metal and glass.

A well of darkness finally pulling me in.


Carbon dioxide poisoning.

I heard those words a lot in the coming days.

They were whispered by doctors and nurses, scribbled on charts and forms I was asked to sign.

It was almost a week before a police officer—Mitchell, I think his name badge said—filled in the gaps in my memory.

Officers responding to calls from motorists on the Interstate about an accident near the Kings Inn. I’d fainted at the wheel and wrapped my car around an oak tree doing 60. Or maybe it was a maple?

Anyway, first responders pulled me out delirious and screaming about people trying to get me.

They thought I was high or concussed.

I still had the keycard to room 205 on me so police made a sweep of the premises.

The lights were off in the front office and the doors both locked.

In my room they found my scattered belongings and an unmade bed.

In room 204 they found a gas-powered generator thrumming away– pumping high levels of CO2 through the air vent that connected the two rooms.

“Twelve percent concentration, doctors say,” he told me. “Levels that high can cause any number of symptoms. Nausea, headaches, confusion, auditory or visual hallucinations. You name it.”

“I thought I was seeing ghosts,” I said.

He nodded. “Nobody was registered in room 204 and the generators gonna be hard to trace. It’s old. Could buy one just like it at any Lowes or Home Depot. But we’re looking into it.”

“What about the kid at the front desk?”

“MIA. It looks like a random thing. Some sicko trying to lure people in. Gas ‘em up and do God knows what. You’re lucky you had the good sense to run for the door. If you’d fallen asleep, doc says you might have slipped into a coma or worse.”

I looked up from the IV in my arm. “Did you find anything else?”

Officer Mitchell frowned slightly and shifted in his seat by my bed.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “like I said, there wasn’t nothing in room 204. No prints, no personal effects—except for this.” He extended a large clear plastic evidence bag toward me.

“It was left on the bed in 204. Can’t let you keep it, of course. It’s evidence.”

I squinted at the bags contents.

A cashier’s check made out to me.

For $25,000.

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Warren Worthington III hcs

Tagging: @emmcfrxst @rax-writes @shayara

- Cuddles are mandatory 

  • It was a rainy day, you and warren were snuggled up in bed just sitting in each others arms listening to the rain hit the windows, his fingers worked through your hair as yours played with his soft white feathers.

- Warren LOVES when you wear his clothes

• Warren had walked in his room to see you curled up asleep in his bed, wearing on of his old Metallica tshirts, he practically died on the spot.

- He is often self conscious of his scars from the cage :(

  • He was staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his emerald eyes glossy with tears. “How can you love me?.” he asked, you just kissed every single one of his scars, telling him how beautiful he was.

- You two spent most your time in his room just lounging around listening to his old records

  • You were laying on his bed as he sat at the desk, as the music softly played in the background. He eventually got up and danced with you after you begged forever

- Warren loves when you massage his back and wings after a long flight

  • He was laying on his stomach as you straddled his waist slowly massaging his shoulders, then moving to the base of his wings and running your fingers through his feathers, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder blades.

                                              nsfw under the cut

Keep reading



Just as you pulled on your Captain America pajama bottoms, Seb text you.

S: I’m here.

A: Let yourself in. I’m in my room.

As you went to the huge master bathroom to take your makeup off, you heard Sebastian walking around downstairs.

After a few minutes, you heard him talking to himself as he started climbing the stairs. A barefoot Seb knocked on the doorframe.

“You decent? I brought beer.”

“I’m clothed but no I’m never decent.” As you giggled, he walked over and handed you a beer with a smirk. You nodded in thanks and tipped your head back as you took a sip.

With a shocked look on his face Seb noticed your pajama bottoms. “Oh that’s hurtful.”

“Well they don’t make Bucky or Winter Solider ones.”

“I’m finding some. Like tomorrow. And you’re gonna throw those away.”

You gave a short laugh and came out of the bathroom. “Try me. I’ve had these forever. Before the movies even.”

“Yeah I remember you wearing them then too. Can’t believe they still fit even though your ass got bigger.”

“Now who’s being hurtful?” You promptly stuck your tongue out at him and leaned on the dresser.

Sebastian took a seat at the end of your girly bed on the pristine white bedding. “You still have this old thing too?”

“Well you know I couldn’t give up my Parisian bed. Aunt Joan would’ve haunted me.”

You indeed loved the old bed with its pink velvet on the headboard and the whitewashed wood. You’d spent countless hours daydreaming on it. Even through your Goth phase you’d still loved it.

“C'mon, mandra (tr. sweetheart)…let’s head downstairs and see what we can find to watch.”

Following Seb you noticed how the grey tshirt pulled at his shoulders when he moved and how the black sweatpants hugged his slim hips and his perfect ass. Something about tonight is different. Not bad but definitely different.

Heading to the the kitchen, you pulled out a bowl and the popcorn you handed the bag to him. As he set the microwave, you smiled at his back. Yes…most definitely different.

Heading into the living room you grabbed the dark teal blanket and settled comfortably on the couch. Grabbing the remote you turned on Netflix to find a movie.

“God I love this couch. Perfect for hanging out on.” Sebastian set the bowl of popcorn on one of the end tables. He stretched out beside you. His long legs crossed at the ankle.

You finally agreed on a movie and covered up.

Seb put an arm around your shoulders and grabbed at the end of the blanket by him. “Share, girl.”

As you snuggled into his side and your left hand on his stomach, the movie started. His right arm tightened around you.


Halfway through the movie you were really warm. Sebastian puts off the body heat for sure.

You had absentmindedly started drawing circles on his abs. You could feel the muscles respond beneath your fingers. His fingers started moving on your shoulder and upper back.

You sighed and closed your eyes. You’d been a long time without a touch. Heat pooled in your stomach again, and you arched your back. Your breasts pressing into his side.

Sebastian turned to look at you. You couldn’t see him but you felt his hot gaze on you. Studying your face. Your hand fisted his tshirt tightly. Seb slid his warm open palm up your back to your neck to your hair. Gently grabbing your hair he pulled your face to his.

Your hands went to his chest as your lips met. You felt the scruff on his face as the hungry kiss deepened. Then Sebastian wrapped both of his thick arms around you tightly and pulled you on his lap to straddle him. Lips never pulling apart.

Your hands quickly went to the back of his head and gripped his hair. His hands moved to your hips and rubbed up to your shoulders and then back down to your ass. You pulled away from the kiss and threw your head back moaning.

He groaned from deep in his chest and stared at you while biting his lower lip. His hands returned to your hips and started moving you on him. You felt him through his pants. Seb was hard. And huge…oh wow…

You looked straight in his eyes. They were the darkest blue. Tugging slightly on his hair, you gave him a small smile.

“This feels so good, mandra, but if you want to stop now is the time to speak up.”

“No stopping.” You tugged his hair again…a little harder this time.

“If you don’t stop that you’ll get fucked for sure, Anna.”

“Pretty sure I said no stopping.” Tugging even harder this time you smirked at him.

“Don’t forget…you asked for this.” His fingers gripped your hips even harder, and he started rising up to meet you.

Sebastian felt so good, and no you definitely didn’t want to stop.

Copyright © 2015 Lady.Di.Fanfic. All rights reserved. Intellectual property of Lady.Di.Fanfic.

Oh, Baby.

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, death of OC

Word Count: 2,607




“Ready?” Dean asks as he clicks the safety off his gun. 

You had been tracking a succubus for a few days now, and it had led you to a rundown farm out in the boondocks. 

It had been drawing in men from all over town, draining them of their life and moving along to the next one she seduced. 

Dean and Sam had tried to play bait at a local bar, but, to Dean’s somewhat strange disappointment, she didn’t go for them. You did manage to catch a young woman, with fiery red hair who looked like she was from a runway rather than a podunk, mid-western town, leading a man in dirty jeans and oil-stained tee out the door.  

You figured that had to be her, so you grabbed the boys and tailed them, leading you to the small barn you currently sat outside of.

You tried to give them a few minutes, still unsure if this was definitely the demon you were searching for, hoping that you could catch her in the act so that you didn’t take out some poor girl just looking to have a good time. 

“Ready.” You nod, cocking your gun and double checking to make sure your angel blade was within reach for when you needed it. 

You and Dean quietly exit the Impala. Sam was on the other side of town keeping an eye on another girl that could be your monster, but you were pretty sure that you had found her and were ready to drive a blade through her heart. 

You and Dean creep up to the porch, him silently motioning to you that he’s going to open the door, and when he does, you go left, and he’ll go right. You nod and he pushes open the door, his gun leading the way as you enter the quiet house.

You make your way through the living room, and into the kitchen, finding no one. You make your way down the front hallway towards the stairs where Dean is already halfway up. 

That’s when you hear it, a deep, throaty scream from somewhere upstairs. Dean jumps up the steps two at a time, you sprinting behind him as the two of you race down the hallway towards the shrieks.

Dean kicks the door open, the wood splintering as he bursts through.

The man you were following is laying on the bed, the red-headed woman pinning him down with supernatural strength as her lips attach to his, pulling the energy from him as he begins to shrink away before your very eyes. 

Dean is across the room in seconds, and before the demon even has time to react, he’s plunges his blade into her stomach, her eyes glowing orange and a shrill cry as she falls to the floor. 

You rush over to the man, who looks more like a skeleton than a human being. Your fingers run along his arm, desperately trying to find a pulse. Your head falls.

You waited too long. 

You look up at Dean and shake your head. His lips purse as he grabs the lamp from the end-table next to the bed and chucks it at the wall. Glass shattering in a million directions onto the floor.

“Damnit!” Dean roars. “We were right here!” 

Your head falls, knowing he’s right. If you had come in just a minute earlier, you could have saved him, and that was something the two of you were going to have to deal with until the next case took over and served as a distraction.

You open your mouth, ready to tell him, “let’s just get out of here,” when a cry interrupts you.

You and Dean look at each other, confusion both etched on your faces. 

Dean raises his gun and leads the two of you out, carefully approaching the only other room up here.

Dean steps into the room first, his gun poised and ready for whatever you find.

“Shit.” He mutters, lowering his gun and stowing it away in his waist band. You step pass him into the room, trying to see what is it he’s found. 

The room is painted a soft pink, butterflies and flowers of vibrant colors adoring the walls. All of the furniture is white, and right under the window is a matching crib, the name “Rosalie” painted in pink cursive on the headboard. 

Inside of the crib is a baby, maybe about six months old, dressed in a yellow onesie that has a smiling sun and the words “You Are My Sunshine” sewed under it. 

Dean stays on the outskirts of the room, looking at pictures of the man you hadn’t saved with a young woman with a swollen belly, the two of them smiling at the camera. There are a few of them before the woman was pregnant, but none, Dean notices, of the woman with the baby after she was born. Just pictures of the man with Rosalie.

You approach the crib, looking in at the screaming baby as she throws her fists around and kicks out her tiny legs. 

“Shhhhhs.” You coo, reaching down to pick her up. You gently place her head on your shoulder, bouncing her up and down as you try to get her to quiet down.

“Why would he bring a woman home if he’s married?” You ask Dean, turning to look at him as he stares at the knickknacks around the room.

He looks up at you, glancing at the baby on your shoulder as you cradle her head with one hand and pat her rear with the other.

“I don’t think he is.” Your brow furrows. 

“Well he didn’t have this baby, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes and cocks his head to the side, motioning to the pictures on the dressers. 

You walk over, taking them in.

“I think the mom died. There’s no pictures with her after the baby’s born.”

You groan, your shoulders slumping. 

Not only did you not save the guy, you just orphaned his daughter. 

“Shit.” You whisper, trying not to let your tone get to high and set the baby off further.

“So what the hell do we do with her?” Dean asks as she starts to quiet down. “And why are you hitting her butt?” His nose scrunches.

“I’m not hitting it.” You scoff. “I’m patting it. My mom use to do it whenever me and my brother got fussy and it would calm us down.” You nod to Rosalie. “Obviously it’s working.” 

Rosalie now has two of her fingers in her mouth and she’s staring off at who knows what. But she’s quiet. 

“So what do we do with her?” He asks again. 

You huff, trying to think.

“If we take her to a police station, they’ll just put her in foster care until they can find family members. Maybe we just hold onto her until we can find her family.” You suggest, completely unsurprised as Dean’s eyes go wide.

“You want to keep the baby?” He asks incredulity.

“Not keep her. Just take care of her until we find the right people to take her.” You smile.

“Do you even know how to take care of a baby?” Dean asks with doubt. “When’s the last time you’ve taken care of anything?” He crosses his arms.

“I take care of you all the time, so I should be fine.” You shoot back, and Dean’s face scrunches up.

“You’re real hilarious, Y/N.”  He huffs.

“Look, I use to babysit all the time when I was younger. I know exactly what to do. Grab that diaper bag over there and put in some formula, a bottle, diapers, wipes, and rash cream. And some extra clothes. Then meet me in the car.”


Once the diaper bag is packed and tossed into the back seat, you and Dean head back to the motel.

Dean calls Sam to let him know what happened and to meet you back at the room while you cradle a now-sleeping Rosalie in your arms. 

The car ride back is silent, you looking out the window and Dean stealing glances at the baby, still unsure if this is a good idea or not. 

When you get back to the motel, Dean heads to the manager’s office to see if they have a crib you can use for the night and you bring Rosalie into the room as she begins fussing in your arms.

You notice her diaper feels heavy, so you figure she must need a change. You grab the diaper bag and place Rosalie on the bed, keeping your fingers on her stomach so she doesn’t roll as you grab what you need to change her.

“Shhhhss.” You coo as she starts to cry again. “It’s okay. I’m gonna get you a nice, dry diaper and all will be okay.” Rosalie just blinks at you with her tear-filled brown eyes and puts her hand in her mouth as you take off her onesie. You pull at the tabs of the diaper until it comes undone, and you are not surprised to find it wet. You begin to clean her up, Rosalie quieting down in the process. 

Once the new diaper is done, you look up at her, a beautiful little girl who has no idea that the worst night of her life has just happened to her.  

You smile, sad at what you’ve caused her, and hoping you can make it right by finding someone who will love her like her parents would.

“It will be, okay, Rosalie.” You tell her and she smiles at her name. “Ohhh, you know your name?” You coo, and she laughs at the lightness in your tone. “You’re such a smart girl, aren’t you?” Rosalie giggles as your voice keeps getting higher. 

Her hands ball into fists as she shakes them excitedly. You lean over a blow a raspberry on her bare stomach, causing her to explode in laughters.

“Does that tickle?” You laugh at her giddiness. Your lips touch her warm skin again as you blow another raspberry, causing another fit of giggles from you and the little girl. 

You’re so caught up in her happiness, you don’t even notice the door open as Sam and Dean enter with the crib. 

“Are we interrupting something?” Dean announces their presence, and you look up at him, a smile spread wide across your face.

“Just raspberries.” You smile down at Rosalie, her hands grabbing on to your fingers.

Dean eyes linger on you, watching as you lower your head and place a kiss on Rosalie’s stomach, the little girl cooing at your touch as her hand tries to grab for a piece of your hair that’s fallen into your face.

“Gonna help me here, Dean?” Sam’s exasperated voice calls out, drawing Dean’s attention away from you.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”


Once the crib is set up, the three of you are sitting around the small table, Sam with his laptop open finding as much info as he can about your victim and trying to locate the nearest family members, you with Rosalie in your arms again, this time with a bottle as Rosalie drinks with wide eyes staring at the ceiling, and Dean sitting with a beer in hand, just watching the two of you. 

“You’re not half bad with her.” He comments as she finishes up her bottle.

“I told you.” You snark while keeping your eyes on Rosalie as you place her on your shoulder to burp her. 

Dean was so surprised at how natural this seemed to be for you. Dean always saw you cutting off vamp heads and taking down demons, usually covered in blood and bruises while you did so. Gentle was never a word he would have used to describe you, but now, watching you cradle Rosalie, humming her to sleep and lowering her into the crib with a kiss on the cheek, he was seeing an entirely new side of you, and it made him smile. 

“There’s a grandmother about twenty minutes from here. I think she might be Rosalie’s best shot.” Sam breaks the silence after you finally get Rosalie asleep.

You sigh, looking into the crib at the oblivious little girl, guilt of what you’ve done to her weighing heavy on your heart. 

“Hey,” Dean’s hand lands on your knee. “She’s going to be okay. And you’re making sure of that.” Dean smiles at you, knowing the guilt you’re feeling.

You don’t say anything, just nod and get ready for bed.


Once the lights are off, Sam in his bed, already taking up the entire mattress, and you and Dean in the other, the small space between you nothing new. 

Both of you are awake and staring at the ceiling. 

You messed up this time, bad, but what was really going to haunt you was the fate of Rosalie. Sure, you never knew if she would of had a good life with her father, but you had stolen that chance for her to get to know the only parent she had left, and it made you ache in ways you never had before. 

“She’ll be okay.” Dean whispers, seemingly reading your mind. You smile in the dark, small and sad.

“I hope so.” 

A hand reaches out and grabs onto yours, rough and warm as he wraps your fingers in his. He doesn’t say anything else, knowing you won’t listen right now anyways, and you let your eyes close, hoping that you can make everything right tomorrow.


You ring the doorbell of a white, ranch house, with a wrap around porch and a swing. The house looks just like the one from last night, just kept in much better shape with fresh paint and bright flowers.

The screen door opens, and a woman in her late sixties and thin glasses appears at the door.

“Can I help you?” She asks suspiciously at the two men in nice suits, not noticing you behind them.

Dean and Sam pull out their FBI badges.

“We’re with the FBI, ma’am. I’m Agent Fuller, and this is Agent Barkley.” Dean motions to Sam. “Are you Abigail Tyler?” He asks as he pockets his badge.

“Yes, may I ask what this is about?” She stays behind the door.

“Is your son-in-law a Mr. Joseph Miler, of 678 Pinewood Drive?” The woman’s eyes go wide.

“Oh my, yes. He was married to my daughter before she passed.” Her voice shakes a bit.

Sam and Dean share a look, not wanting to share the news, but knowing they have to.

“We’re very sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am,” Sam takes over, his voice soft. “But Mr. Miller passed last night after an accident.”

The woman’s eyes go wide and tears fill her eyes. 

“Oh my gosh.” Her hand goes over her heart. “Wait! What about Rosalie, what about my granddaughter? Is she okay?”

You step in-between the boys, the woman sighing in relief as she takes in a napping Rosalie.

“She’s perfectly fine.” You assure her. She reaches out, and you sigh as you hand her over, already missing the weight of the little girl in your arms.

“Thank you so much.” She cries, clinging onto Rosalie.

You nod, and the three of you finish up as quickly as you can, ready to put this case behind you and get back to the bunker. 

Once you’re back in the Impala, driving away, you smile, happy to know that Rosalie will be alright.

“You did good.” Dean smiles at you from the rearview mirror, and you nod, needing those words as you head home.