Supernatural one shots

Fallen Grace (JACK KLINE X READER)

Jack Kline sat at the edge of the motel bed, elbows resting on his knees, golden eyes flickering like embers as he stared at his hands. Even after months of traveling with Sam and Dean, he could still feel the weight of the unknown inside him, like a restless beast pacing beneath his skin. His powers—a gift from Lucifer, a curse inherited without choice—weren't as overwhelming now, but they were always there, humming under the surface, waiting for his emotions to call them forward.

The room smelled faintly of pine-scented air freshener, masking something older, like mildew clinging to the walls. A dim lamp buzzed in the corner, its yellowish light pooling across a stained carpet and casting long shadows. Outside, the night pressed against the windows, thick and heavy. Sam had gone to get food. Dean was nursing a bottle of whiskey in the Impala, giving Jack some space. The hunt was over, but tension lingered like static in the air, crackling with unsaid words and unresolved fears.

Jack couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't belong here. Not just in this room, but in the world. Being half-human was supposed to mean he had a place among them, yet every conversation with strangers was a reminder of how different he was. Too powerful. Too dangerous. People smiled at him without realizing that, with a flick of his wrist, he could turn them to ash. It wasn't fear that held him back—it was the hope that maybe, just maybe, he could be more than what everyone expected.

A shiver crawled down his spine, and Jack straightened, glancing toward the window. The night wasn't right. Something was out there—something sharp, cold, and ancient. His breath hitched as a shadow flickered across the parking lot, moving unnaturally fast, blurring in and out of sight like static on an old television. It wasn't a demon, nor an angel. Whatever it was, it didn't belong here either.

The door creaked open before Jack could process the threat. Dean stepped in, holding a shotgun loosely at his side, his eyes flickering from Jack to the window. "You feel that too?" Dean asked, his voice low, dangerous. Jack nodded, standing slowly, the air in the room suddenly thick and oppressive.

Dean tossed him a silver blade without hesitation. "Stay close," he ordered, and they slipped out into the night, boots crunching on the gravel parking lot. The cold bit at their faces, unnatural for mid-October, like winter had arrived early just for them. A sharp wind whistled through the trees lining the motel, bending the branches unnaturally low, as if something heavy was crawling through them.

They moved toward the Impala, Dean's eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Jack followed closely, his senses on high alert, heart thudding in his chest. A whisper threaded through the night, not in words but in feeling—something old, lonely, and furious. It tugged at Jack's mind like claws scraping across stone.

Then it stepped into view. A figure, pale and gaunt, draped in tattered black robes that moved with a life of their own, as if they were caught in an underwater current. Its eyes were hollow, empty sockets that bled shadows, and its presence made the world around it seem less real, less solid. Jack recognized it instinctively: a Reaper, but not the kind that collected souls for the Empty. This one was rogue, forgotten by time, hunting the living instead of the dead.

Dean fired first—rock salt—forcing the creature back. It hissed, the sound like nails on glass, and lunged toward them with terrifying speed. Jack raised his hand without thinking, power crackling at his fingertips, and sent the Reaper flying backward, slamming it into the side of the motel with a dull *thud*. But the force of his own power made him stumble, momentarily dazed.

"Jack!" Dean shouted, reloading the shotgun. The Reaper was already recovering, its movements jerky and inhuman. It darted toward Jack again, its black robes swirling like a vortex, but this time Jack was ready. He threw the knife Dean had given him, the silver blade slicing through the creature's form. It screamed—a sound that was more than just noise, as if it was tearing at the fabric of the world itself.

For a moment, everything stilled. Jack and Dean stood in silence, breath visible in the frigid air, watching as the Reaper's form disintegrated, leaving nothing but a smear of shadow on the ground. The night seemed to exhale, the unnatural cold fading, and the motel lights flickered back to life.

Jack lowered his hand, chest heaving, trying to steady himself. He felt drained, not just from using his powers but from the weight of what it all meant. Every time he fought, every time he saved someone, he inched closer to understanding his place in the world—but it never felt like enough.

Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "You did good, kid," Dean said, his voice rough but sincere. It was the closest thing to approval Jack had ever gotten from him. It wasn't much, but it was enough to quiet the doubts gnawing at him, at least for tonight.

They stood there for a moment longer, listening to the night return to normal—crickets chirping, the wind shifting through the trees without malice. Jack glanced up at the stars, wondering how something so vast and endless could seem so indifferent to everything they went through.

Sam's voice broke the silence as he returned, a bag of greasy burgers in hand. "Did I miss something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he noticed the tension in their faces. Dean just smirked, shaking his head. "Nah," he said. "Same old."

Jack smiled faintly, tucking the blade back into his jacket. Maybe he didn't belong in this world. But for now, with Dean and Sam at his side, it was close enough.