The End (One-Shots)

Preview (A Headcanon)

The bunker was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dean sat in his chair -- the one closest to the stairs -- reading a book, though little and less made sense the longer he stared at the pages. And the gnawing, stinging itch between his shoulders, as if he were being watched, ground his last nerve to nothing.

Where was everyone? Sam and Natalie should have come back by now, there was food within walking distance. And last he'd checked, Elizabeth was in her room, avoiding him again. He needed to have a talk with her, and soon, lest she get the idea to kill them in their sleep. Or leave. Or whatever it was crazy people tend to do when they lose it.

Not that he thought she was crazy.

He shoved his chair back and stood, the scrape of wood on cement echoing through the bunker. Within a second, it returned to deafening silence, and Dean growled as he stomped down the hallway for Elizabeth's room.

"Liz, can we--"

He rounded the corner to her room, thought trailing off as he entered. Her bed lay empty and her desk unoccupied. When he attempted a drawer, it wouldn't budge. Of course.

"Where the hell is everyone?" he growled.

As if in response to his question, Dean caught the faintest shout, a yell so distant, he wasn't sure he'd actually heard anything at all. Back in the hall, he stood still as stone, waiting, patient.

There, again, but louder that time, and he was sure he'd heard it. Someone yelling, a short burst of air. Down the hall he continued, relying on his honed senses.

Every few seconds, the shout repeated, louder and louder. Emboldened, he picked up to a trot, recognizing Elizabeth's voice, recognizing the sounds of fighting. Fists met flesh, thumps and thwacks reverberating down the hall leading to the garage. Drawing his Taurus from the small of his back, Dean sprinted the last fifty yards to the open door.

He leaped across the threshold, gun pointed straight ahead and swiveling to find Elizabeth in the center of the garage -- standing in the empty space left behind by the Impala -- with a water-stand heavy bag in front of her.

With her back to him, she'd not seen him. But how had she not heard him bolting down the hallway? He had his answer when she began to sing, breathless, moving in time with a song only she could hear. Then Dean spotted her earbuds, snug as bug.

Blonde hair tied back in a high pony tail and hands wrapped with white tape, she connected with the bag in a flurry of fists, combinations she seemed to know well. Jab, jab, cross. Cross, hook, cross. Jab, cross, hook, cross. Sweat ran down her back, covered only by a black sports bra. Muscles rippled with each combination, and every other set finished with a knee strike, or a furious round kick. And with each kick came her shout, backside flexing beneath grey runner's leggings.

Dean shook his head and his teeth clicked shut, irritated to find himself gaping. She was a colleague, a hunter, just like him, and there was no room for whatever it was that his brain wanted.

What his heart wanted.

With a growl, Dean turned on his heel and stomped from the garage, holstering the Taurus at the small of his back. Whiskey. He needed whiskey. Whiskey made everything better. He'd have a drink, finish that boring-ass book, and then hit the sack. Yeah, that would--

"Dean?"

He froze, mid-stride in the doorway. Run, dammit! What's wrong with you?!

"Dean, what's going on? Is something wrong?"

Son of a bitch. Just keep your eyes up, Winchester.

Turning to face her had been a terrible idea. "No," he said as he searched the ceiling for something to say. "I ... was wondering where everyone was."

Elizabeth eyed him with a suspicious squint. "I was working out. Sorry, thought you heard me earlier. I told you I'd be in the garage."

Idiot. "Yeah, I ... no, I didn't hear you," he stuttered, eyes snapping to the floor. "I was up to my neck in that book."

Nobody had the god damned right giggle like Elizabeth did. With nowhere else to look, his eyes snapped to her face, dripping with sweat and hair matted to her forehead. It was worse than looking at her chest. He would have been better off just staring at her tits instead of her sweaty, panting, face, tousled hair, pink cheeks, crooked smile, and green eyes wide with the rush of exertion.

"Dean."

"Yeah, staring, got it, leaving now."

Her giggle followed him down the hall, the stuff of nightmares.

Or dreams.