"God dammit, Winch!" you shout as soon as you walk in the door.

The big German shepherd has a guilty look on his face, so you know he did it, but the thump of his tail tugs at your heart. So instead of yelling, you just groan and scratch behind his ears as you walk around the mess. Presumably, the mess started life as a roll of paper towels, but you can't be sure, because it's mush right now. Just mush.

"Dude, you gotta get a better hobby," you say absentmindedly as you toss your keys into the bowl on the hall table and kick your shoes off. You reach behind you and untie the apron around your waist, pulling out your book and laying it on the kitchen table. You walk to the bathroom and toss the apron in the laundry basket, then walk back to the kitchen to get stuff to clean the mess.

The big dog follows you, his ears still laid back. You roll your eyes and wet a rag, turning to grab the broom on the way out. "Can the sad dog act, Winch," you say mildly, "we both know you're not in trouble."

A happy bark booms down the hallway and you laugh. You can't stay mad at Winch, you never can.

After cleaning up the hallway and explaining in excruciating detail why it's a bad thing to chew up paper towels to Winch, you start to cook dinner. Normally you're more of a pizza rolls and wine kind of girl, but the day has you feeling more like doing actual cooking.

You start the process to make homemade chicken Alfredo, whisking the sauce and humming. Winch lays right behind you, partially in case you drop something, but mostly because he loves you.

Halfway through cooking, you realize that you've made entirely too much food. You laugh. "Well, Winch, you're eating well tonight, buddy," you say down to him. His ears flick back to you, but he doesn't turn. The big dog is used to you talking to him, you do it all the time. You're pretty much constantly chattering from the moment you come home to the moment you hit the pillow, and it's always to Winch.

You live a pretty solitary life. You have a couple of acquaintances who you catch dinner with a couple of times a year, and your parents are too busy taking cruises and enjoying retirement to worry much about their only daughter. And the last time you had a boyfriend, there were still Harry Potter movies being released once a year.

It's never bothered you, you enjoy your own company more often than not. The only constant companion you want is Winch. It makes it easier to move frequently, since you can't really find a place that fits you very well, anyway. Month-to-month leases are life.

After dinner and clean up, you stash the leftovers in the fridge and grab your pack and lighter. "Come on, bub, last call for going out," you say, motioning out the back door.

Winch jumps up and trots out the sliding glass door, and you follow closely behind. Lighting up, you inhale deeply and examine the pack. Your favorite brand had come out with a new flavor, and it was rather lovely. "Terrible habit," you mutter, echoing the words your mother says every time she sees you light up. To spite her, or the idea of her, you take a deep drag.

Winch is sniffing around the yard, and you watch him affectionately. He's big for a shepherd, but that's why you picked him out. He'd been at the shelter, an unruly one year old, too big for small children or timid owners. Luckily, you don't have children or a timid nature.

Soon after he'd come home, you'd fallen into a comfortable routine, and you had both been in love before you knew it. He's a great dog, hugely protective, and smart as a whip. As a rule, the leash you walk him on is only a formality, he would walk beside you no matter where you went.

Case in point, he comes and curls around your feet when he's done. You reach down and run a hand through his rough fur. "You're a good boy, you know that, Winch?" An agreeing groan leaves his throat as he settles down to snooze while you smoke. "Only man I'll ever need," you say tritely, chuckling at your own wit. Fuck it, I'm hilarious.

The two of you walk back inside, locking the door behind you, then checking the windows and the front door before you head to bed. You dress quickly in a tank top and sweats, then curl into the bed with the big dog next to you.

The bed is really the only place you've spent good money. A huge iron headboard and footboard are at the ends, curved into intricate designs. An equally huge, extravagantly fluffy comforter graces the bed, done in lovely hues of green and blue. An exorbitant amount of pillows are at the top, and you push half of them off to make room for Winch and yourself.

Once the two of you are settled, you grab the remote and flick the TV on, clicking on to Netflix almost by memory. Supernatural queues up, and you pick up where you left off, sometime in the middle of season three. Dean's going to hell, that poor, beautiful man, you think sleepily as you watch and doze.

Before the first episode, which you've watched dozens of times, is done, you're fast asleep.

xxxxx

You come awake slowly, already running your hands through Winch's thick fur. You crack an eye open and wince at the sunlight pouring through the bedroom. "Ugh, morning."

You sit up carefully and stretch hard, relishing the feel of the muscles in your back flexing and relaxing. You swing your feet to the side of the bed and hop up. You turn and grin at the dog staring at you adoringly on the bed. "Come on, Winch, let's go outside."

An agreeable bark greets the statement and he jumps off of the bed. You frown a little, noticing the pep in his step. Winch isn't getting any younger, he's already six years old, and this is about the time he'll start slowing down. You not ready for that, you're not ready to accept that he's not eternal.

But it looks like that situation is going to be further off than you thought. You've noticed him landing a little awkwardly for a few weeks when he gets off the bed in the mornings, but he's bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. "Well would you look at that," you say mildly, following him. You're not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You open the door to let the dog out, and you take your time making coffee. When he trots back in through the open door, you examine the German shepherd's face, then smile. "Our day off, handsome, what shall we do with our stolen time?"

You make a cup of coffee and grab your pack, stepping outside for a morning cigarette. You don't usually smoke during the day, it's really just a nighttime routine for you, but something about today makes coffee and a cigarette sound absolutely divine.

You sit on the patio chair you have on your back porch and go to light up. You stop, frowning, looking at the pack. "What the fuck?" It's a different pack than you had last night, you're almost positive. It's your normal brand, and the flavor you usually smoke, but you were sure you had one of the new flavors they'd just released last night. Right?

Winch starts barking and you jump, a little spooked. When you realize he's barking at the neighbor's Yorkie, Princess, you laugh out loud. "Get back over here, wuss!" you shout, waving at the neighbor genially.

He waves back and smiles. "Come on over here, Gerty!"

You frown again, mouthing "Gerty?" Gerty two months ago, right after you'd moved in. They have Princess now, a rescue.

"Weird morning," you comment lightly, taking a drag off of your cigarette and snapping your fingers for Winch. He comes easily and sits next to you as you finish smoking, your hands absently rubbing behind his ears.

You go inside and grab your phone, a habit to check your emails before breakfast. But it won't connect for some reason, just flashing a stupid 'NO SIGNAL' when you try to use it. "Fuck." You don't want to spend your day off at the cell phone store, but it looks like the universe has different plans.

You look down at Winch. "But not before breakfast, right?"

A bark answers your question, and you head to the kitchen to make breakfast.

xxxxx

You're slipping the huge cinnamon rolls into the oven (why am I cooking so much lately?) when the doorbell rings. You jump, looking down at Winch. He usually raises holy hell when anyone even looks at the driveway, but he's just looking at the door expectantly.

"Going soft in your old age, bud," you say lightly as you make your way to the front door, wiping your hands on your apron.

You pull it open and feel your mind go completely and utterly blank.

Two of the tallest, most gorgeous men you've ever seen in your life are standing there, mouth-watering in suits, with expectant looks on their faces. Oh, dear, you think, your inner voice uncharacteristically mild.

"Ma'am?" the taller one asks, his voice sending awareness down your spine. "Ma'am, are you okay?"

"Are you Y/N?" the shorter one asks, and his voice is sending you straight into horny town.

"Um…" You stop as your brain starts firing again, and you realize exactly who is standing in front of you. Oh. My. Fuck.

You slam the door in their faces and turn to lean against it. You can feel the eyes bugging out of your head, and your heart is racing. What the hell are they doing here?

A knock at the door makes you squeak. "Ma'am?" The deeper voice. "Ma'am, everything okay?"

"What are you doing here?" You ask through the door, not willing to open it again.

"What?"

You groan, and turn to open the door a peek. "What are you doing here?"

Winch chooses that moment to push his way to the door and stick his nose out, sniffing the men standing on your front porch. A friendly whine comes from him, and he tries to push the door open further with his face. You glare down at him. "Winch, you traitorous fuck." He ignores you, which is about par for the course.

You look up at the men, who are both blatantly staring at you. "What are you doing here?" you ask again.

"We're from the FBI, and-"

"Cut the crap, Ackles," you snap, and you almost die of embarrassment. I did not just call Jensen fucking Ackles by his last name. "I know you're not FBI, so what the fuck are you doing here?"

Jared (Jared fucking Padalecki, oh my fuck) digs into his coat. "We have badges, ma'am-"

"I'm sure," you say dryly, finally giving in to Winch's struggles to get the door open. He steps out and starts sniffing the boys' hands, his big tail wagging crazily. "Winch, dude, chill," you say sharply. He comes back to sit in front of you, still eagerly staring at the men in front of him.

Jensen eyes the dog. "Good dog," he says gruffly.

"The best," you reply. Then you remember that you're about to die of embarrassment and irritation combined. "Listen," you say, looking down at Winch, avoiding looking at their ridiculously handsome faces. "I don't know who put you up to this, and maybe they even had good intentions, but you seriously can't be here."

"What are you talking about?" Jared asks. You close your eyes as anxiety starts to claw at you.

"Listen, I'm really not the kind of fan who goes to conventions and takes pictures and talks to you. I am perfectly happy never talking to you, and you're making that a real pain in the ass by being on my front porch."

"Listen, lady-" Jensen growls, stopping quickly when Winch starts to growl back at him.

You place a hand on the back of the dog's neck. "Come on, bud, it's all right, they're leaving," you say soothingly.

Jared's hands have gone up. "Ma'am, please, if we can just talk to you for a second-"

Anxiety is still clawing at your belly, an endless voice saying, you're going to humiliate yourself, they'll laugh at you when you leave, or worse, they'll forget you as soon as they leave, and now you're about to make a complete ass of yourself. You do your best to ignore it and look up hesitantly to Jared's eyes. He's the one you're less intimidated by, Jensen's good looks scare the crap out of you.

His eyes are kind. "Ma'am, my name is Agent Young, and this is my partner, Agent Angus-"

"Angus Young. AC/DC lead guitarist," you say slowly. "What are you guys doing? The jig is up. I know who you are."

"And who, exactly, do you think we are?" Jensen asks again. His voice sends more awareness down your spine, and your anxiety starts making you a little nauseous.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask softly, getting upset. Winch starts growling at the men again, responding to your dress, and you let him. Maybe it will make them go away.

"Doing what?" He asks again, irritated. Winch stands, his hackles up and his growl getting deeper. You place a hand on the big dog's head, but don't say anything. He'll never attack someone if they're not harming you, but he looks big and scary, and for now, it's good enough for you.

"Okay, have it your way," You snap, finally meeting those insanely green eyes. "You're Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki. You have, for some reason, chosen an anxiety-ridden Supernatural fan to torment. Which is kind of a fucking bummer for me, because I really thought you guys were a little nicer than that, but whatever." You sigh and push the hair that's fallen down from your pony tail out of your face, tilting your head up to look at the sky. "Did I miss anything?"

The silence draws out long enough that you slowly lower your eyes to meet Jared's. The confusion there only makes you more confused.

You turn to Jensen, and the anger there nearly kills you. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he snarls.

You frown, confusion drowning out your anxiety. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"What the hell is a Padalecki?"

You blink, and really study them. There are scars on Jared's face that aren't there in the show. His nose shows evidence of being broken, and he looks kind of… Skinny, honestly. Still muscular, but leaner and wirier than you'd think he'd be.

You turn to Jensen. He has less scars on his face, but they're still there. He looks precisely like you'd think he'd look, strong and tall and a delight to look at.

But there are those scars…

You step forward, crossing your arms around your middle to calm your nerves. An absolutely ridiculous idea is taking root in your mind, and you can't let it go. "Do you have tattoos?"

Jared blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Right here." You point to the spot just under your collarbone, the place where the characters have the anti-possession symbol inked into their skin. "Do you have it? Let me see."

Jensen stares at you. "Is this a come on?"

You roll your eyes hard. "Oh, for fuck's sake, just let me see your damn chest!"

"Listen, you-" Jensen snaps, taking a threatening step forward.

He's stopped by Winch forcing himself in front of you and snarling in earnest now. You blink in surprise. He's never done anything like that before. "Winch, come on, bud, it's okay," you say softly, bending at your knees to place a soothing hand between his shoulder blades.

The dog ignores you and keeps growling at the man. "Winchester!" You snap. "Heel, Winchester, right this second."

His ears lay back against his head and he backs up until he's standing next to you again, then sits down. There's still a growl deep in his chest, and his eyes aren't moving away from 'Jensen,' but he's sitting, so you'll take it.

You look up at 'Jensen,' who's staring at you again. You feel heat on your cheeks, and hate yourself for a second for blushing. "What?" You snap.

"What did you say that mutt's name is?" He asks softly.

You blink, then feel the blood drain from your face. "Show me your chest and I'll tell you," you whisper, your heart beating fast.

It starts beating faster when he slowly undoes his tie, then the first few buttons of his white dress shirt. Your eyes widen when he pulls it down to show the anti-possession tattoo there.

"The actors never got the tattoo permanently," you whisper. "They don't have it." You turn to 'Jared.' "Do you have it? The tattoo?"

He nods slowly.

You look between them, feeling your knees start to tremble. You swallow hard. "I, um… Oh, God, I got his name from the show Supernatural. It's the last name of the main characters… Sam and Dean." You look between their shocked and confused faces again. "Sam and Dean Winchester."

Winch looks up and whines at you, his nose starting to bump your hip. "You're Sam and Dean Winchester," you say softly, reeling.

Sam looks at you, concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Absolutely. Fucking. Not." You snarl as your knees give out and you give in to the darkness threatening your vision.

xxxxx

Hi everyone! Here's my notes:
I don't own Supernatural or the characters. (heartbroken)
Reviews and comments give me the warm fuzzies and keep me going.
If there are any mistakes in continuity, canon, or geography, blame me.
**Okay, we're going to try this out. This idea has been swimming around in my head for a while, but I'm really nervous about it. I don't know why. But I am, lol. So comments, reviews, constructive criticism, they're all so VERY welcome. And, as always, thank you so much for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.