Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Death-flavoured birthday cake.
The Impala purred—a low, rhythmic rumble that felt like a heartbeat under Dean’s palm—as he pulled up to the curb. He killed the engine, but stayed there for a second, just listening to the quiet.
Ten years. Ten years of flour on his aprons instead of rock salt, and the smell of cinnamon replacing the stinging scent of ozone and sulfur. At twenty-six—nearly twenty-seven—Dean Winchester was a man who knew the secret to a flaky crust and the exact temperature for a perfect cherry filling. He wasn't hunting monsters; he was hunting for the best organic butter in the tri-state area.
He climbed out, giving "Baby" a lingering pat on the hood. "Stay gorgeous," he muttered, clicking the locks.
Sam’s house was… well, it was a lot. It was a "we have a successful law firm and matching silk pajamas" kind of house. Large, modern, and currently surrounded by a fleet of cars that made Dean’s heart swell. Benny’s rugged truck, Jo’s beat-up sedan, and that clunky, beige monstrosity that Castiel insisted on driving.
He didn’t even make it to the doorbell.
The door flew open with a violence that could only be attributed to one redhead. "Target acquired!" Charlie Bradbury yelled, lunging forward. She didn’t wait for a greeting, grabbing Dean by the sleeve of his flannel and hauling him inside with surprising strength.
"Whoa, easy, Princess Peach! I got pie knees, I can't move that fast," Dean chuckled, stumbling into the foyer.
"Zip it, Winchester! You’re late to your own party!"
As soon as they hit the living room, the world exploded.
"SURPRISE!"
Dean flinched—an old reflex he couldn't quite shake—but it was immediately replaced by a massive, goofy grin. Sam, Jess, Benny, Jo, and Cas all emerged from behind the oversized leather couches. Even Adam was there, looking slightly overwhelmed but grinning as he balanced a literal masterpiece: a three-tier "pie-cake." Each layer looked like a different crusty, sugary dream.
Suddenly, the speakers embedded in Sam’s fancy ceiling began to thud. Birthday by Katy Perry started blasting at a volume that Dean was sure the neighbors would complain about in approximately five minutes.
"Is this... is this pop music, Sammy?" Dean shouted over the beat, his eyes twinkling. "I taught you better than this!"
"Jess picked the playlist!" Sam yelled back, though he was already moving in. He wrapped Dean in a hug that could have cracked a rib—a classic Winchester "I love you so much it hurts" squeeze.
"Happy birthday, Dean," Sam whispered near his ear, his voice thick with a warmth that made Dean’s chest ache. "You actually made it. You're happy. You deserve this."
Dean swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, shoving Sam back gently. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get all hallmark on me, Sasquatch. I'm just here for the beer and the fact that Adam is holding three pies stacked on top of each other."
Across the room, his eyes met Cas’s. The man was standing near the drinks, wearing a sweater that was definitely too big for him and an expression of pure, quiet adoration. Cas didn't say anything, but he gave a small, tilted-head nod that said everything.
"HELL YEAH!" Dean roared, pumping his fists into the air as confetti drifted down like colorful snow, sticking to his hair.
𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆
The night had wound down into that hazy, post-celebration glow where the air still smelled like expensive champagne and sugary frosting. One by one, the heavy hitters had cleared out. Benny had given Dean a bone-crushing bear hug and a clap on the shoulder that nearly dislocated something, and Cas—bless his awkward heart—had lingered by the door just a second too long, his blue eyes searching Dean’s face with a quiet intensity before finally disappearing into the night.
Now, it was just the brothers.
"You sure you don't want to crash on the guest bed, Dean? It’s got those high-thread-count sheets Jess obsessed over. It's like sleeping on a cloud," Sam said, leaning against the mahogany kitchen island, looking every bit the polished lawyer—except for the stray piece of blue confetti stuck in his messy brown hair.
Dean snorted, grabbing his leather jacket. "And risk getting trapped in your 'wellness' vortex? No thanks, Sammy. I need my own bed. And my own shower, where the soap doesn't smell like a damn lavender field."
Sam chuckled, a soft, genuine sound. He stepped forward and pulled Dean into one last, lingering hug. "Happy birthday, big brother. Seriously. I'm glad you're... I'm glad we’re both here. Just being normal."
"Yeah," Dean muttered into Sam’s shoulder, a rare moment of vulnerability cracking through his tough exterior. "Normal is good. It’s real good, kiddo."
The walk to the Impala was crisp, the night air nipping at his nose. Dean slid into the driver's seat, the familiar groan of the leather acting like a soothing balm to his tired soul. He turned the key, and Baby purred to life—a low, rhythmic rumble that vibrated through his chest.
As he pulled out of the driveway, he glanced at the darkened windows of the massive house. He felt a swell of pride so thick it was almost painful. He’d done it. He’d worked his ass off at the Backroad Bakery since he was twenty-three, burning his fingers on pie tins and waking up at 4:00 AM just to make sure the dough rose right.
All those long hours had paid off. The bakery wasn't just a shop; it was a landmark. People traveled from across the border, from the rainy streets of Vancouver to the sunny coasts of Cali, just to get a taste of his cherry pie. And more importantly, that flour-covered life had put Sam through law school and was currently keeping Adam afloat in his freshman year.
"Not bad for a high school dropout," Dean hummed to the dashboard, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of a classic rock station playing softly in the background.
By the time he reached his apartment complex, the city was quiet. He parked in his reserved spot—perks of owning the most famous bakery in the state—and gathered the mountain of gifts and leftover treats. He managed to balance a box of Jess’s homemade cookies, a vintage record from Charlie, and a suspiciously heavy gift from Cas all in one arm.
"Night, Mrs. Higgins," he chirped to the sleepy-eyed night concierge as he shuffled toward the elevator.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Winchester," she chirped back with a tired smile.
The elevator dinked at the eleventh floor. Dean’s apartment was his sanctuary. It was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the twinkling city lights, filled with the kind of furniture that screamed 'I finally have money and I'm not afraid to use it.' He kicked the door shut with his heel, the 'thud' echoing in the silent hallway. He dumped the gifts on the granite countertop with a messy clatter, his keys hitting the bowl with a sharp clink.
God, he was beat. His joints ached with a pleasant fatigue, the kind you only get after a day filled with laughter and too much sugar. He wandered into his bedroom, the shadows stretching long and thin across the hardwood floor. He kicked off his boots, sighed as his socks hit the floor, and stripped down until he was just in his boxers.
He slid into his favorite pair of fuzzy slippers—don't tell Sam, he had a reputation to uphold—and waddled back into the living room. He didn't want the silence yet. He wasn't ready to let the day go.
He flopped onto the oversized leather sofa, grabbed the remote, and clicked on the TV. The familiar, dramatic theme music of Dr. Sexy, MD filled the room.
"Oh, come on, Doc," Dean mumbled, his voice thick with sleep as he watched the lead surgeon gaze longingly at a nurse. "Just tell her you love her and get to the surgery already."
His head leaned back against the cushion, his eyes growing heavy. The flickering blue light of the television danced over his face, casting soft shadows. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
As his breathing slowed and his eyes finally drifted shut, Dean Winchester fell asleep with a small, contented smile on his lips, tucked safely away from the world in his high-rise heaven.
—-
The soft, flickering glow of Dr. Sexy, MD was still dancing across the walls when the silence of the apartment was shattered.
It wasn’t the dramatic hospital alarms from the TV that did it. It was the sharp, jagged trill of his phone on the granite counter. Dean jolted upright, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs—a leftover instinct from a life he thought he’d left behind.
He rubbed his eyes, squinting at the bright screen. Sammy.
"Son of a..." Dean muttered, his voice gravelly and thick with sleep. He fumbled for the phone, checking the digital clock. It was the middle of the night—the kind of hour where nothing good ever happens. "Sammy, you better be calling to tell me you won the lottery or that you’ve finally realized that kale tastes like sadness. Do you have any idea what time it is, you giant?"
Silence.
Dean’s thumb hovered over the end-call button, a joke about beauty sleep on the tip of his tongue, but then he heard it. It wasn't a reply. It was a wet, hitching sound. A jagged gasp for air that sounded like someone was being suffocated by their own lungs.
"Sammy?" Dean’s voice dropped, the humor draining out of him instantly. He stood up, his slippers forgotten on the rug. "Sam? Talk to me, man. You’re scaring me."
On the other end of the line, there was a choked-off sob—the kind of sound that breaks a person’s heart just by hearing it. "Dean..."
"I’m here. I’m right here," Dean said, his own breath hitching. He was already moving, his hands shaking as he grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor. "What’s going on? Is it a break-in? Are you hurt?"
"Dean... Jess. She’s..." Sam’s voice cracked, dissolving into a broken, high-pitched whimper that made Dean’s blood turn to ice.
"Sam? What do you mean? What happened to Jess? Was there an accident?" Dean was moving in a blur now, his "normal" life falling away like a shed skin. He didn't care that he was half-dressed or that he was shivering; he just needed to get to his brother. He shoved his feet into his boots without lacing them, his mind racing through every possible medical emergency. Maybe she’d fainted? Maybe it was a stroke?
"Dean..." Sam’s voice came back, but it sounded hollow. Distant. Like he was speaking from the bottom of a well. "She’s dead. Someone... someone murdered her, Dean. She’s gone."
The world stopped. The humming of the refrigerator, the distant sound of city traffic, the ticking of the clock—it all went silent. Dean felt a coldness spread from the center of his chest out to his fingertips. It was a physical weight, a crushing pressure that made it hard to swallow.
"Sam," Dean breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "No. No, that's... that's not possible. We were just there. We were just laughing."
But Sam didn't answer with logic. He answered with a sound of pure, unadulterated agony—a scream that was muffled by a sob.
"Stay right there," Dean snapped, his older brother instincts slamming into high gear, overriding the shock. He grabbed his leather jacket and his keys, not even bothering with the elevator. He hit the stairwell door at a dead run, his boots echoing like gunshots against the concrete steps. "Sam, do you hear me? Don't move. Don't touch anything. I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there in ten minutes."
"Dean, there's so much blood," Sam whispered, and the sheer fragility in his voice made Dean want to roar at the sky.
"I'm coming, Sammy. Hang on."
Dean burst out of the apartment complex and practically dived into the Impala. He didn't warm her up. He didn't check his mirrors. He slammed the car into gear, the tires screaming against the asphalt as he tore out of the parking lot.
He didn't care about red lights. He didn't care about the police. The only thing that mattered was the shaking voice on the other end of the line and the golden life that had just been snuffed out in a house that was supposed to be safe.
As he sped through the empty streets, the city lights blurred into long, weeping streaks of color. The "Backroad Bakery" and the cherry pies felt like a dream from a thousand years ago. The nightmare had started, and Dean was driving straight into the heart of it.
—--
The drive was a blur of red lights and the smell of burning rubber. Dean didn't just drive Baby; he piloted her like a heat-seeking missile toward the one thing that mattered. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, thudding with a rhythm that screamed not again, not again, not again.
When he screeched into the driveway of the massive, once-beautiful house, he didn't even bother turning off the engine. He vaulted out of the car, the door swinging wide behind him, and took the porch steps in a single leap.
"Sammy! Sam! Where are you?" Dean roared, his voice cracking with a raw, jagged edge.
He followed the sound of a broken, wet sob coming from the kitchen. The air in the house had changed. It didn't smell like Jess’s expensive vanilla candles anymore. It smelled like copper. It smelled like the floor of a slaughterhouse.
Dean rounded the corner and his knees nearly gave out. He’d seen a lot of things in his life, but this... this was a nightmare he thought he’d buried twenty years ago.
Jess was draped across the pristine white tile. Her throat had been opened with a clinical, cruel precision, but it was her chest that made Dean’s stomach flip. A jagged symbol—a pitchfork, or maybe something older and darker—had been carved into her skin. It was a mirror image of the night their mother died, a ghost from the past that had finally caught up to them in their "normal" life.
And there was Sam.
The giant of a man was crumpled on the floor, his hands stained a deep, sticky crimson. He looked like he’d been trying to hold the pieces of her together, trying to scoop her life back into her body with his bare palms. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.
"Sammy," Dean breathed, his voice barely a ghost of a sound. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the blood soaking into his own jeans, and hauled his brother into his arms.
"D-Dean... she's... she's cold. She was just... we were just talking about the bakery," Sam choked out, his head falling onto Dean’s shoulder. He gripped the back of Dean’s leather jacket with a strength that would have bruised anyone else. "She’s dead, Dean. She’s really gone."
"I know, Sam. I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m right here," Dean cooed, his voice trembling as he tucked Sam’s head under his chin. He rubbed broad, heavy circles into Sam’s back, trying to anchor him to the earth.
"I-I—she was right there," Sam stammered, his words tumbling out between jagged, racking sobs. "She just wanted a glass of water. She kissed my cheek and said she'd be right back. And then... I heard it. That scream. I ran, Dean. I swear I ran as fast as I could! But by the time I got to the kitchen... he was gone. And she was just... she was just lying there. Dean, I was too late! I let her die!"
The guilt in Sam’s voice was a physical weight, pulling them both down into the dark. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears finally leaking out and disappearing into Sam’s messy hair.
"Listen to me, Sam. Look at me!" Dean pulled back just enough to cup Sam’s face, his thumbs wiping away a mix of tears and Jess’s blood from Sam’s cheeks. "This is not your fault. You hear me? You didn't do this. Some monster did this, but it wasn't you."
Sam’s eyes were blown wide, glassy and haunted. He looked like the little boy Dean used to carry out of burning buildings, lost and terrified of the dark.
"We have to call it in, Sammy," Dean whispered, his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces. He reached out, grabbing a dish towel from the counter to wipe the worst of the red from Sam’s shaking fingers. "Come on. Get up. You need to wash your hands before the cops get here. I don't want them looking at you sideways. Can you do that for me? Can you stand up?"
Sam nodded slowly, his movements robotic and stiff. He tried to push himself up, but his legs were like jelly. Dean grabbed him under the armpits, hauling him up and keeping a firm grip on his waist as they wobbled toward the sink.
As the sound of running water filled the kitchen, Dean looked back at Jess’s body one last time. The "normal" life, the bakery, the safety—it was all dripping away into the floorboards.
𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆
The neon humming of the police station lights felt like a physical weight on Dean’s skull. Every few seconds, the heavy double doors would swing open, letting in the muffled sound of scanners and the distant, cold ringing of telephones. It was a sterile, unforgiving world, and it felt a million miles away from the warm, flour-dusted kitchen of the Backroad Bakery.
Dean leaned against the sickly beige wall of the hallway, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked like the Dean of ten years ago—shoulders hunched, jaw set, eyes darting toward every shadow. He’d spent the last hour biting his thumbnail to the quick, staring at the door to the interrogation room where Sam was being put through the wringer.
Finally, the handle turned.
Sam stumbled out, looking smaller than a man that size should ever look. His face was a map of grief—puffy, tear-streaked, and so pale he looked translucent under the fluorescent bulbs. His flannel shirt, the one Jess had bought him for Christmas, was still stained with the ghost of a copper-smelling nightmare.
"Hey," Dean breathed, pushing off the wall. He didn't care who was watching; he stepped into Sam’s space and slung a heavy, protective arm around his little brother’s shoulders. "Talk to me, Sammy. They give you a hard time?"
Sam didn't look at him. He just stared at the scuffed linoleum floor, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. "They... they asked if we were fighting. They asked if I had a 'history' of outbursts. Dean, she’s still in there. They won’t let me see her again."
"I know, kid. I know," Dean whispered, his voice cracking with a rare softness. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to let Sam know he was grounded. "But we’re leaving. Right now. You’re coming to my place. I’ve got the guest room, and I’ve got... well, I’ve got a lot of pie, and enough whiskey to make us forget what year it is."
They walked through the station in a haunting silence, the click of their boots echoing like a countdown. The night air hit them like a physical blow as they stepped into the parking lot. The Impala was waiting under a flickering streetlight, her black paint gleaming like an oil slick.
Just as Dean reached for the driver's side door, he heard a sharp, panicked intake of breath.
"Dean," Sam said, his voice trembling as he fumbled with his phone. The screen cast a ghoulish blue light over his features. "Dean, something’s wrong."
Dean paused, his hand hovering over the chrome handle. "What? What is it?"
"It’s Adam," Sam choked out. He started pacing a small, frantic circle next to the passenger door. "I’ve tried calling him. Four times. I texted him, I called the dorm... he’s not answering. Dean, why isn’t he answering?"
Dean felt a cold prickle of sweat down his spine, but he forced his face into a mask of "Big Brother" calm. He reached across the roof of the car and grabbed Sam’s wrist, stilling his frantic movements.
"Sammy, breathe. Just breathe for a second," Dean said, his voice steady even though his heart was screaming. "Look at the time. It’s three in the morning on a Tuesday. The kid probably pulled an all-nighter studying and passed out with his face in a textbook. You know how Adam is—when he hits the hay, you could set off a grenade in the room and he’d just grumble about the noise."
Sam looked at him, his eyes wide and searching, desperate to believe the lie. "You think? You really think he’s just... sleeping?"
"I’d bet the bakery on it," Dean lied, giving him a small, encouraging shove toward the door. "He’s a Winchester. We’re over-thinkers and heavy sleepers. Now, get in the car before I leave you here to walk."
Sam let out a tiny, broken huff—not quite a laugh, but the closest thing to it Dean had heard since the world ended three hours ago. It was a fragile, pathetic sound, the kind that made Dean want to hunt down whatever had caused this and tear it apart with his bare hands.
"Fine," Sam muttered, sliding into the leather seat.
Dean got in behind the wheel, the familiar scent of old leather and oil wrapping around them like a tattered blanket. He started the engine, the rumble of the V8 acting as the only heartbeat in the silent parking lot. He reached over and gave Sam’s knee a firm, grounding pat.
"We’re gonna be okay, Sammy," Dean whispered, though as he pulled Baby out into the dark, empty street, he had never felt more like a liar.
—-
The drive to Dean’s apartment was the longest ten miles of his life. The hum of the Impala’s engine, usually the most comforting sound in the world, felt like a low-frequency scream in the suffocating silence of the cabin. Sam was pressed against the passenger door, his forehead leaning against the cool glass, staring out at the blurred streetlights like a man who had forgotten how to blink.
When Dean finally pulled into his parking spot, he didn't say a word. He just reached over, unbuckled Sam’s seatbelt for him—because Sam’s hands were still shaking too hard to catch the latch—and guided him toward the elevator.
The moment the heavy door of Dean’s apartment clicked shut, the silence changed. It went from hollow to heavy.
Dean dropped his keys on the counter. He went to turn on a lamp, but before his finger could hit the switch, a sound tore through the dark. It was a sharp, jagged gasp, like Sam had suddenly realized he had forgotten how to breathe.
"Sammy?" Dean turned, his heart climbing into his throat.
Sam was standing in the middle of the living room, still wearing his jacket, his arms hanging limp at his sides. He looked at Dean, but his eyes weren't seeing the room. They were seeing the kitchen floor. They were seeing the blood.
"She’s not coming back, is she?" Sam’s voice was small—thin and reedy like a child's. "I keep thinking... I’m gonna wake up and she’s gonna be complaining that I kept the party going too late. She’s gonna be... she’s gonna be there, Dean."
"Sam..."
"I can still feel it," Sam whispered, his voice rising, becoming frantic. He held up his hands, staring at them in the moonlight. They were clean—scrubbed raw at the station—but he began rubbing them together, harder and harder. "I can still feel it on my skin. It wouldn't come off. No matter how much soap I used, I can still smell it. It’s everywhere, Dean! Everything smells like her, but she’s not there!"
Then, the dam didn't just leak—it burst.
Sam’s knees gave out. He hit the hardwood floor with a sickening thud, his large frame curling into a ball as the first real sob ripped out of his chest. It was a guttural, animalistic sound of pure agony. It wasn't just crying; it was a soul being torn in half.
"Whoa, hey, hey—I gotcha," Dean scrambled across the floor, sliding on his knees to catch Sam before he could slump over. He pulled Sam’s heavy head into his lap, wrapping his arms around his brother’s broad shoulders, trying to hold him together by sheer force of will.
Sam buried his face in Dean’s stomach, his fingers clutching at Dean’s shirt so hard the fabric groaned. He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving with jagged, wet breaths that sounded like they were cutting his throat on the way out.
"I loved her!" Sam wailed, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of the fancy apartment, making the space feel cold and empty. "I was gonna ask her, Dean! I had the ring! It’s in the nightstand... it’s just sitting there in the dark and she’s... she’s never gonna see it!"
"I know, Sammy. I know," Dean choked out, his own tears finally falling hot and fast, dripping onto Sam’s neck. He rocked them back and forth, the way he used to in the back of the Impala when they were kids and the world was too big and too mean. "I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, man."
Sam’s grief was a physical thing. He sobbed until his voice went hoarse, until his body was limp and heavy against Dean. Every time he tried to take a breath, it caught in a hitching, stuttering rhythm. He sounded like he was drowning in the middle of the room. He kept repeating her name—Jessica, Jess, please, Jess—over and over like a prayer that was never going to be answered.
Dean didn't try to stop him. He didn't tell him to man up. He just sat there on the floor, holding the only person he had left in the world, listening to the sound of a heart breaking into a million jagged pieces. He felt the cold fear for Adam still simmering in the back of his mind, but right now, there was only Sam. There was only the dark, the blood, and the ruins of the life they had tried so hard to build.
"I've got you, Sammy," Dean whispered into the quiet that followed a particularly long bout of weeping. "I'm not letting go. You hear me? I'm right here."
Sam didn't answer. He just let out a long, shuddering breath and squeezed Dean’s hand so tight it hurt, clinging to his brother like a lifeline in a storm that had only just begun.