DeanxSister!Reader, SamxSister!Reader
Synopsis: You couldn’t save the girl. It hits you pretty hard.
Dean’s the one to grab your arm when you get inside the bunker. You stop cold at the top of the stairs, keeping your eyes fixed straight ahead. You don’t try to pull away, experience had taught you that Dean won’t let go until he’s got what he wants.
“C’mon kiddo, it wasn’t your fault,” he rumbles, as if the words are going to erase the loop in your head, playing the same scene. You, the werewolf, the young girl who still had a life to live. “Y/N.”
You don’t move. “Let me go, Dean.”
His grip, if anything, tightens. “Y/N, you can’t let it get to you. There was nothing you couldn’t done-“
“You aren’t John,” you spit, and you want it to hurt him because you’re angry and guilty and you’re so goddamn stupid. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I could’ve saved her, I should’ve been able to save her, Dean, and I let her die instead. That’s on me.”
“It’s not,” he tries to insist, but his grip slackens and he lets you walk down the stairs.
You refuse to acknowledge the reason he does so. It’s because he knows you’ll seek him out later, once it’s hit you fully just what happened. You’ll seek him out, because you’re weak and pathetic and you can’t even save one girl.
You walk all the way to your room without registering a single step.
You think at one point, Sam calls your name.
You ignore him, just like you ignored Dean’s shout of your name when you’d knocked his bag off the table when he’d tried to stop you from isolating yourself one more time.
Your room is hollow, like you, and you stand in the middle do the floor for a while, just breathing the silence and the stillness. You want to be as plain as your walls, as unfeeling as the greyscale paint job.
You’re so sick of not saving people.
You don’t want to dwell on it yet, and there’s blood on your skin, so you move to the bathroom in a daze, your feet barely making a sound. Your boots are covered in mud, so they leave stains on the floor. You can’t bring yourself to care.
It takes too much energy to strip down, but you do it anyway, just for the sake of being clean. You stand under the water and watch the red disappear down the drain. You wish blame could wash away that easily.
You spend a long time under the warm jets of water, finding solace in the pressure on your skin. You feel like it cleanses you, makes this all a little more bearable. You stand there until you can’t bear to be there anymore, then you turn the water off and simply stand for a moment longer.
For a second, just a second, you hear the girl’s dying screams in your ears.
Then it’s nothing but a heavy, pressing quiet again and you hurry into fresh undergarments, loose sweats and a plain shirt.
You walk back into our room and lie on the bed, your dripping hair causing damp spots on your back and the bed sheets. It makes your head cold, but it also soothes your headache, so it’s a sacrifice you can make.
There’s a knock on your door, and you know in a heartbeat that it’s Dean.
“I brought food,” he says quietly, opening the door. He has a tray in his hands. There’s a plate with plain fries and a cup of apple juice. It’s your comfort food. “I thought it might help.”
You nod and let him place the tray in front of you. “Thank,” You rasp, and say no more.
Dean tuts softly. “Your hair is still dripping wet. You’ll catch cold.” You shirt and start picking at your fries, so Dean huffs slightly and shuffles away, reappearing moments later with a dry towel and your hairbrush. “Move over, you big lug.”
Mindlessly, you shift forward and he clambers onto the bed behind you. He drapes the towel over your head childishly, cackling like it’s actually funny. You don’t say anything and he gives up, just starts towelling your darker locks to get rid of the excess moisture. “When I started hunting with Dad for the first time,” he says, starting to run your brush through your hair very gently. “I missed a shot. Because of that, a little boy got badly injured. He died because of his injuries a few days later. Dad ripped me a new one. Told me I’d never be a hunter if I couldn’t shoot straight.”
You hum noncommittally, and Dean tugs on your hair playfully.
“For weeks, the only thing he’d let me do was shoot cans on a fence,” he continues. “I hit every one. Dead center. He still didn’t let me stop. He said, ‘Dean, you’re going to live with that boys death for the rest of your life. You’re going to feel it in every shot. Make them all count.’ He was right.”
Dean starts braiding your hair, and you start properly eating your fries instead of just picking.
“What was his name?” You ask in a whisper. “The boy?”
Dean finishes the braid. “Kyle. His name was Kyle.”
You chew on your lip in thought before saying, “The girl I failed today. Her name was Alex.”
Dean stands up and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “I know,” he answers, and that’s that. “Now,” he says, gathering your tray. You’ve eaten most of the fries and drained the juice. “I’ll take this out, and bring back Sam, yeah? We can watch a movie.”
Dean gives a half smile, and bends forward and presses another kiss to your forehead. “Good girl,” he breathes.
“Dean,” you say as he walks out the door. He pops his head back in. “Thanks.”
He smiles warmly. “What are big brother for?”
janainaart
theartofmadeline
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
2087
