Summary: Dean’s a demon — but you just want to bring him home. Will you play his game well enough to convince him to? Loosely based on 10x2.
Pairings: Demon!Dean x Reader
Warnings: NSFW-ish, Demon!Dean (that’s definitely a warning within itself), Arguing, Mentions of Drinking, Slight Angst, Smut-ish (towards the end)
Dean acknowledges you without peering away from the silver keys of the grand piano. His jaw is set — tight and sharp — as if he’s swiftly calculating his every movement and contemplating his every option.
You knew he was a different man. The green of his eyes no longer carried the memories of loss, love, and regret that he had shared with you after all of these years. He was a different man, with a different heart. He was no longer your Dean — but you weren’t willing to accept that.
He places the first blade on top of the ebony, his emerald eyes scanning over it’s jagged beauty — admiring it, lusting after it.
Lifting his head, he looks at you standing across the bar, your hair disheveled and your eyes bloodshot red.
"Hey, Harv,” He spoke to the man cleaning the bar top. “Why don’t you go grab a smoke?"
Your gaze was fixed on him, the tension between the two of you seemingly suffocating the surrounding space. You were observing every crevice of his features, almost as though you were forcing yourself to fall for him for the second time. You wanted to see his good, his love, his kindness.
You wanted to see Dean again.
"Who winged you?” He motions lazily to your bandaged hand sneaking out from under your jacket. The door of the bar abruptly slams shut as Harv leaves you and Dean alone.
“Does it matter?” You deadpan, pressing your tongue against the top of your mouth.
He runs his hands over his unshaven jaw, thinking for a moment. “I mean, not really,” he laughs, reaching out for his whiskey perched upon the piano. “I told you to let me go. I told you to fuck off and forget about me.”
"You know I can’t just do that, Dean.” You took several strides towards him, his familiar scent of pine and whiskey threatening to ignite a spark deep inside you. “I hope you know that, your uh, ‘pal’ Crowley sold you out.“
He reaches out for the blade again, it’s beauty captivating his attention more than yours seemingly ever could. He drags the edge of it across the piano’s black surface, grasping it hard and steady between his palm.
With the blade in one hand and his whiskey glass in the other, he stands and made his way towards the open bar, striding right past you.
“Dean,” You grit your teeth together, attempting to keep your cool. “You don’t gotta’ to do this shit. Just come home with me. Fuck, are you even listening?”
stormborns
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