Fray [Sam & You & Dean]
Song: Realize - Trxy.
Kinktober? What's kinkier than making you cry?
Content Warnings: major character death, graphic depictions of violence, angst, trauma, psychological trauma, codependency, soul erosion, grief, non-graphic sexual acts, gothic horror, psychological horror, tragedy, second person pov.
Word Count: 1,214. Read it on AO3.
Dividers by @dollywons âĄ
There is something wrong with the Winchesters. Something very wrong.
You'd die for them. You'd live for them. You kill for them. But when you glance at them from the corner of your eye...
The edges are blurred. There's something missing. Something hollow. How many times can you die before it eats at you? At your being? Your soul?
They're fine. They really areâthey insist upon it. Why would you doubt them, don't you see they're fine? They do the same things they've always done. Hunt. Kill. Save. Dean drinks beer, watches old movies, takes care of Baby. Sam makes shitty smoothies, goes on runs every morning, reads books like he can't breathe without them. Like they'll save him. Tether him. Tether them.
You've stopped hunting alone. Stuck with them instead. You even have a room at the Bunkerânot that it ever stops you from slipping into bed with one of them.
The nightmares persist. They swallow it all. Maybe you will, too.
Still, when you lean in to give one of them a hug... it's like you're grasping at smoke. Even when you press yourself close enough, as if to become one.
Some days, the edges blur worse. Violently. When grief sits on their chests and begins to strangle them.
You reach for them. Their eyes glaze over. You step back, heart hammering. They're not whole. It terrifies you now.
You remember a time, months ago, when Dean laughed at something stupid on TVâa real, full-bodied laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes crinkle. The sound was so solid it filled the whole room. Now, when he laughs, itâs thin. A papery sound. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting for it to tear.
The guy at the bar likes you. Wants you. You think he's kind of cute. But as soon as he steps in, you flee. He doesn't blur. Not like home does.
There's something wrong with Mary.
Dean doesn't want to believe it. Sam doesn't know her. Both of them are too desperate for a smidge of affection to see what you do.
But you do.
Mary blurs worse, somehow. Maybe it's because of all the time that's passed between her death and resurrection. Maybe it's because of all the time she's spent as a ghost. You're certain she's not all there. But even that can't excuse her from working with her younger son's torturers.
You don't bring it up. Just make pie with shaky hands. Mary sucks at cooking, and Dean is fixated on her.
Sam shakes even worse than you do. He spends his spare time in hiding, or glued to your side. Mary seems to have forgotten him.
He seems frailer now. His diet more restrictive than ever. You adapt your cooking, but he eats like a baby bird. Bits and pieces. It scares you. You keep him close. Give him little tasks. Give him the lemons to squeeze for the lemonade. Your strength wanes, but his is consistent, and you need it. He needs you. Sometimes, when the bunker is too quiet, heâll find you and just rest his forehead against your shoulder. He doesn't speak. He just breathes, and you stand there, a pillar holding up a crumbling sky. You can feel the tremors running through him, a constant, low-grade earthquake. Youâre afraid that if you move, heâll shatter.
Dean pushes you away. He's got his mommy now. Mommy keeps betraying him. Mommy is selfish. Mommy didn't just choose the enemy, she slept with them. Mommy is lost. Dean needs something stronger than beer and milk.
Dean knocks on your bedroom door around the witching hour. He smells like a brewery. You take him in, trying not to fuss over him. His eyes are glazed over and desperation clings to him. You don't ask why. He doesn't tell you.
He strips and pulls you into bed. You can hardly process it in the darkness, but he's safe. He loves you. Both of the Winchester boys do, even if they don't say it.
But Sam isn't here tonight. Dean is. He's mouthing at your neck, working his way down your body. You try to pull him up, to kiss him properly. He pins your wrists, pushing your shirt up. His desperation grows thicker the longer he's latched onto your nipples.
Dean kisses his way down, wedging himself there, between your thighs, your legs hooked over his shoulders. He's mouthing at your clothed cunt and you can hardly breathe. You hardly spend any time in bliss before you realize he's crying, right there, while sucking on your clit. You try to tug him up, to comfort him. He lets out a pathetic whimper, staying right where he is. Your arousal isn't the only thing soaking your panties anymore. His shoulders shake with the force of his tears. This wasn't lovemaking. This was a drowning man trying to climb inside you, to use your body as a shelter from the storm in his head. You card your fingers through his hair, and he flinches like the tenderness was a brand. He couldn't accept comfort, only this frantic, animalistic attempt to feel real. Your heart aches.
He falls asleep between your legs like an overgrown cat. Your tears flow freely now.
Mary's faded completely. Gone from this world. The hole she left behind is a vacuum that sucks all the light from Dean's eyes.
And now, you're fading, too.
A bullet, gone astray. A simple, stupid mistake. The pain is a hot, bright shock, then a deep, cold throb. Your lifeblood leaks through the cracks, a dark stain spreading across your shirt, seeping into the dusty ground.
Sam drops to his knees so hard you hear the impact of bone on concrete. He pulls you into his lap, and his long fingers are ice cold as they press desperately against the wound. "No, no, no," he chants, a broken prayer. "Look at me. Just look at me."
Dean's already killed the thing that got you. The gunshot still rings in your ears. He spins, and the rage on his face melts into a terror so pure it looks like a little boy's. He drops beside you, his hands fluttering, unsure where to land. "Hey, no. C'mon, sweetheart. You're okay. You're okay, you hear me?" He's begging you, begging the universe.
You try to draw a breath to answer him, but it's a wet, gurgling sound. The world is starting to tunnel, the edges of your vision dimming.
Dean's got his fingers tangled in your hair, gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to his. "You can't do this. You can't abandon us, too. Please." His voice cracks on the word. "We can't do this without you."
Sam's hands are digging into your skin, pushing, as if he could physically return the blood to your veins. A tear falls from his face onto yours. It's warm. It's the warmest thing you can feel.
You take your last, painful breath. It tastes of copper and dust. The last of the light is gone from your eyes, but the last thing you see is themâtheir two beautiful, broken, blurred faces, the very center of your world.
And finally, you stop fighting it.
Surrendering into the blur.
how fucking dare you�
