A Supernatural x Reader Story

Chapter Thirty-Four: I'm No Angel, Part Two

"So, your place or mine?"

The cute redhead, who took you home more than a few times over the past month, asks you as you pour her a refill from behind the bar.

"Oh, you wouldn't like my place," you say, hoping to brush off the question.

"That's okay," she shrugs. "I mean, mine ain't exactly Brandy Hall either."

You laugh at the reference through the sweat forming on your brow. You hoped to have moved somewhere nicer by the time you brought her home.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," you mutter, loud enough for her to hear.

Less than an hour later, you walk down the street, arm linked with Charlie's. Even in the sweltering summer air, you gravitate as close to her as possible, and she seems to do the same.

When she walks right past the neon motel sign, you have to take her by the shoulder and lead her down the walkway toward the dingy building.

She crinkles her brows at you in confusion. As you continue up the stairs to the single room you rent, her expression changes to one of surprise.

You jiggle the key in the lock before pushing the door open, now more than ever conscious of its the peeling paint and rusty hinges.

A lamp illuminates the small room, casting dim yellow light on the pile of clothes on the desk you didn't have time to fold, the outdated, yellowing floral printed comforter on the double bed, and the empty food containers and water bottles from the bar in the brimming wastebasket.

She steps further in and scans the room, wrapping her arms around her chest as if afraid to touch anything. "Why didn't you tell me you were living here?"

You train your eyes on your feet, not bothering to close the door when you know she will run through it any second. You can't blame her. She thought she brought home someone decent, someone good enough to have a home.

"I would have told you to come live with me sooner," she says.

You snap your head up, sure you must have misheard her.

Her eyes widen, already regretting her words. "Uh, I mean..." She scrambles for a way to undo the mistake. But the panic disappears from her eyes, and she nods. "Come live with me."

You shake your head. "You barely know me. It wouldn't feel right."

"I know enough," she says, a smile creeping across her face. "And I happen to be an excellent judge of character."

"Charlie, I– I couldn't."

She reaches for your hand, and you let her. "Well, I'm not asking," she declares. "But I am getting you out of here."

************

By the time you've wound lengths of rope around Danny's wrists and ankles, binding him to a dining chair, Olivia's sobs have settled, and she allows Charlie to press a cloth to the cut on her shoulder, though her eyes never leave her son.

"He's okay," Charlie assures her. "It was only silver nitrate. He'll be conscious again in a bit."

Olivia starts to rise from her seat on the couch. "No, no – he's allergic to–"

"It's not an allergy," you say, leading her back to sit down again. "It's a weakness. Of werewolves."

She stares at you, so intently you think something lingers behind you, before she draws back from the two of you, standing up. You don't try to lead her back this time. "You're insane," she mutters. "You're both crazy."