Summary: Losing your father was like losing a limb, you didn’t know what to do now your world had been ripped apart. The Winchester boys were back but you wanted nothing to do with them after the history you had together. But when your family is all gone, maybe you’re only choice is to find yourself with the only people you can trust.
Author: Heather
Words: 1937
Warnings: Little bit of swearing, themes of grief
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four
Your eyes burned as the light of morning filtered through your bedroom window; your head felt like a rave party was being hosted within your skull and your stomach tossed and turned threating you with revolt if you move. What have I done? You asked yourself as you tried to filter through you brain what had happened. You had yelled at Dean, you had walked yourself home, cried out every tear in your body and you raided the liquor cabinet. Shit. That was the worst decision you could ever make and you hated yourself for it. You promised you would never drink a single drop but from the way your head was hurting you had more than a bottle. Looking around your room, you found yourself in your clothes from yesterday, your shoes laying haphazardly on the floor, ‘That’s not where I put them’ you thought out loud. You looked at your bedside table, you head tilting with confusion; your phone was sitting on charge, ‘That’s also not where I put you.’
The more you looked around your room your thoughts began to return, you had been in your fathers room before going for the booze, there was no way you would make it back to your room. How the hell were you in your bed? Slipping out from between the sheets you found yourself wobbly on your feet and still semi delirious from the night before; you didn’t know what was worse, the feeling in your stomach or the confusion in your head. Something wasn’t right and you weren’t alone. Almost on cue there was a sound of pots and pans clanging together in the kitchen, the disruption tearing you from your thought processes. The echo of footsteps downstairs sent ice down your spine as you tried to focus your brain enough to function, there was someone, no something in the house. Grabbing the colt 45 from the closet you crept towards the room above the kitchen, picking up a spray paint on the way before drawing a devils trap above the suspected creature. You held your breath hoping it would hold whatever it was, but the footsteps left the circle, their path clearly leading up the stairs, oh fuck. Your breath hitched in your lungs, you had been trained for a moment like this but never had you experienced it before. Your father was always there to protect you, now all you could do was fight or run.
You mind rushed through options of escape: shoot your way out, hide or get to the bunker. Mentally running yourself through the house you knew there was only one way to the bunker and it was down stairs past the thing in your house.
Moving from the room with your gun poised, you hoped with everything inside of you that the silver salted bullets would be enough. As you moved down the hall the creature got closer, a weird rattle accompanying it, just like the sounds of chains. Your heart doubled in pace and your brain started spitting out solutions between the flight and fight instincts. You clenched your teeth, your eyes closing out of fear as the creature reached the top of the stairs; your finger went to pull the trigger too scared to see what was in front of you. Before you could squeeze the sounds of smashing plates met your ears as hands quickly pulled the gun from your sweaty hands. “For the love of God, I thought I taught you to never close you eyes while shooting!” Your eyes opened in surprise finding a very shocked Dean Winchester standing in front of you, his hands dismantling the gun at lighting speed, his hands moving out of pure muscle memory.
“What are you doing here?!” You demanded.
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