Characters: middle sister!Reader, Dean, Sam, a medical examiner, a waitress
Word Count: 3602
Summary: Requested by anonymous on Tumblr: Can you please do a oneshot where You and brother dean are constantly at each other's throats till he/or you get caught by a djin and get saved by the others and like you and Dean hug for the first time in over a year?
Warnings: estranged sibling angst, Lawrence house fire angst, reader likes girls (which isn't really a warning), cliffhanger
A/N: This is part one of two for this request.
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You were always scared of the dark.
It's why the why the soft flickering glow from the crack under your door, for the last few peaceful moments of your life, comforted you. There, in your bedroom – the one up the stairs, the first door on the left, right next to Sam's, right across the hall from Dean's – your small, two-year-old hands inched your blanket down so you could peek out from behind it.
When you caught a whiff of smoke, though, a tingle of fear settled into the pit of your stomach.
"Mommy!" you yell.
Laying still, sweat forming on your forehead, you waited for her to burst through the door, as she had so many times before when you'd had a nightmare or heard a strange noise. But she didn't come.
Instead, you heard a scream. You heard crashing, bounding footfalls. Then, the roaring and crackling of a fire. Your dad shouting.
You didn't move, didn't even breathe, until your door creaked open. Your eyes, trained on where your mom should be, instead darted down to where your big brother, Dean, waited with the baby Sam in his arms.
"Dad says we have to go, (Y/N)," he shouted over the fire. "Come on. We have to go."
You slid out from under your covers and toddled over to where he stood. You left your room, standing back to memorize its place up the stairs, first door on the left, before following him down the steps and out the front door, but not before catching a terrifying glimpse of the fire swallowing Sam's room.
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Your thirty-three-year-old self stands in a blazer and a button-down, surrounded by chatter and indistinct police radio, when you spot the tall man in a suit across the wall of metal slabs, flashing a badge to the medical examiner. And, for some reason, that night – the night of the fire – consumes your mind.
His eyes flicker over your head, then snap back to you, questioning.
It can't be him, you think. He's too tall, too grown-up, his eyes have seen too much.
His lips form your name, though, as he crosses the buzzing room separating you. It's not until you've pulled him down into your arms (you have to pull him down this time), not until the chatter, the corpses, everything has disappeared, that you allow yourself to believe it's him.
