Nobody knows why they come back. Why anybody ever comes back, tormented, lost.
Deanna takes a sniff of the muggy, dusty Kansas air, fanning out her plaid button-up, hiking up her boot onto greyed-out, dirtied cemetery stone.
"Spot her yet, Cas?" she hollers.
The flapping of wings disappears. Castielle briskly walks over, shaking her head. A deeply troubled glint in those bluer-than-tho eyes.
Her jaw grits, as Deanna holds up her rifle, fiercely snapping it open to examine the ammo.
"It's possible she was only taken recently…"
Instead of the hours ago Sam has been missing.
Castielle wisely does not voice this, not to an already worried-sick and infuriated Deanna. They both spin around, as a distant, muted shuffling and the noise of crunching leaves, approaches.
A tall woman, covered in pale, sticky globs of spiderwebs and holding an antique oil lantern in front of her, peers out from the fog.
Sam's voice rises, lulled and tired. Disorientated.
"Fuck," Deanna curses, leaping over a grave and running to her younger sister, catching her fainting as Sam's lantern crashes into the ground.
The bottoms of Sam's feet are cake with soil and blood. Deanna maneuvers her into a sit on the hotel bed, while Castielle patiently questions her and strokes her cheek, inspecting what she can.
Not Sam's blood. Thank god for small miracles.
Despite her vanishing, Sam only remembers waking up in the crypt amongst the other missing girls, fighting off a ghoul, burning and decapitating it alive, while trying to revive the limp, pale victims.
"They're all dead," Sam whispers stiffly, her plump, bottom lip scabbing over, turning greenish-yellow.
It's not fair, but Deanna wisely does not voice her reassurance, to have Sam back at the very least. "You did what you could, baby girl," she rumbles out, wiping under one of Sam's moistened eyes. "You did. We can give them a proper burial in the morning—right now, it's best you get some rest—"
"Deanna's right, Sam," Castielle speaks up, interrupting the other woman about to protest, her expression remaining unmoved. Sam huffs, leaning into Castielle's one-armed embrace.
"I'm always right," Deanna says, ignoring their eerily mirroring look of 'uh no' and touching over Sam's golden, muscular thighs, winking.
There's fleck of gore-warm ghoul and soil on Sam's clothes — and by that, Deanna means Sam's faded, old nightshirt and her bikini panties.
She fought in her underwear, with no bra… as if Deanna couldn't love her any more than this.
No protest forms on her lips, when Deanna's fingers peel off the cottony, plain material, and Sam eyes the little, wicked grin, flushing and grinning too, snatching Castielle's hand to place between her legs, tossing her head backwards.
Nobody comes back, not from a love like this.
Supernatural isn't mine. I haven't done any Wincestiel in so long omgggg and I haven't attempted a fem!version before either so woop woop. Any thoughts/comments are deeply welcome especially if you are all caught up and you still love them too! :D