𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : jennifer!dean winchester x needy!fem!reader.
𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬 & 𝐜𝐰 : ❝ your best friend is different. bitter. voided. permanently changed. ❞ ⫶ mature content & language. mentions of dead people and how they died. implied usage of drugs against one's will. dean uses the nickname "needy" with reader in a demeaning way. reader has glasses.
It's been two days. Since the fire, the incident at Melody Lane. Almost twenty dead people. The whole place is a mountain of ashes now.
You've had the whole weekend to process everything that happened last Friday night. You've had the sound of people screaming, their bones being crushed under the weight of wooden beams falling apart from the sleazy bar's ceiling, carved into your brain like a weeping gash, and yet...
What kind of best friend lets her friend get pulled up from his knees and thrown into a van by a moron with eyeliner? Fragile and dizzy with that lost look in his eyes you hadn't seen since he told you years ago how his mom died and how his dad's been dealing with it ever since.
The dismissive way in which he told you to shut up when you begged him not to go with them, his voice adultered with numbness as he said your name. His eyes looking back at you for a last time, the trance breaking just for a second. Pleading for help. But it was already too late.
The acidic, putrid smell of whatever came out of Dean's body hasn't left your nose. There's a gross black sliver under each of your finger nails, physical proof of the hours you spent trying to scrub off the oil-like, foreign, spiky goo his mouth threw up all over your kitchen floor and your jeans.
He ravished that goddman rotisserie chicken like he had grown shark jaws overnight. You've never heard anything squeal like he did.
You're sick to your stomach in the middle of Biology class, waiting for the teacher to walk in.
Wondering if he'll show up this morning.
You can't sleep properly, remembering his torn, bloodied clothes after he sneaked into your house like a ghost, moving around living room like a caged animal trying to trace the scent of a wounded prey. Like he hadn't been snatched from your arms and shoved inside a bunch of strangers' vehicle in the midst of the chaos and the smell of burnt skin and wood the smoke of the fire brought to you.
The warmth of his breath as he slammed you up against the hall wall, a few pictures frames clattering when they found their way to the floor, like he was considering the option of biting your head right off.
Even then you called for him while he left your house, after he propelled you against the kitchen door threshold.
Feral. Unnerving. Empty. Everything Dean wasn't, at least not in a potentially harmful way.
Classmates around you whisper about it, about you and Dean making it out alive, making stuff up to invigorate the sad, mediocre truth. You didn't even stay long enough to stop hearing their screechy wailings of suffering cease.
"Can't believe you're makin' that long face too, dweeb."
Dean's voice makes your heart topple inside your chest, and you sit straight on your seat like you've been pulled from a leash, trained to move around him like a service dog.
He's in one piece. No sticky mess pouring out his mouth, no layer of blood coating his teeth, no creaturely growls coming out of his chest.
He stands there smirking down at you before he plops down on the stool besides yours with all the grace and listlessness only someone like him can manage to comprise.
And he's gorgeous, shockingly so. It's nothing new, but it never ceases to amaze you. Always has since you were two little kids rolling around in a sandbox, his hands tugging on your pigtails until you cried and he hugged you better.
Not because he's the most beautiful person you've ever encountered, but because there's no one else but him who can behave the way he does and get away with it.
He's careless with you in a way that leaves you a little dazed and resentful, but he's quick to ease it up with a kiss on your cheek and that mellow tone he uses only when he really wants something, chuckling cloyingly sweet and mean because he knows it riles you up.
Not that Dean Winchester has ever been told no, with the way his lucious eyelashes flutter pretty. He has everyone wrapped around one of his petty fingers.
But it's different with you, you swear it is.
His plumpy lips linger right beneath the corner of your mouth and he smiles against your skin like he finds enjoyment not only in molding you into the shape he wants you to endure the torment he puts you through in, but in touching your skin so closely and having you caged against the arm of the couch while some rerun plays on the TV. Every time.
You're not crazy, and you're not delusional, either.
You know Dean like no one else in the world does. You know he'll pick someone to toy with tomorrow, using the same tactics, the same velvety tone and the same cruel jokes that get girls wet and boys rock-hard.
Yet, that doesn't stop you from staring at him like this isn't him, but a creature of a much sharper nature that's borrowed his skin, and his beautiful eyes, and his charming grin.
He's okay, physically. There's not a single scratch on him.
"You're okay," You breathe out, low and thin like you've received a sign from God after having been naughty all your life.
"Uh... Yes, I'm pretty damn fine," His eyebrow raises mockingly, like he could never guess why you're looking at him the way you are. "I think you already can see that."
How can he just not care?
Does he not remember the way he crowded you with pure savagery, or how he puked something that looked straight out of hell? That he literally disappeared and came back looking straight out of a murder documentary?
Maybe he got roofied? Maybe he's coping? You wish he would cope with you instead of acting like it's just another Monday. That he would stop smirking like there aren't at least twenty dead people, like he didn't tilt the way you see him for the next decade.
"What is wrong with you? " The question leaves your mouth harsher than any of you both would've expected— harsher than he believes you capable of being. It makes his head snap in your direction.
"What is wrong with you?" He counters back, mean and bristled in that way that tells you that you're already getting on his last nerve. "God, you're gonna start slobberin' all over me again, Needy?"
Out of all the nicknames he's slapped on you over the years, this one takes the cake. But the cake is stale and it has worms swirling out and through the frosting and it makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you feel unbearable and unwanted.
So, you slowly turn away from him like a wounded animal backing away from the baleful hand that's clawed at it, and try to sit tightly through your teacher's anguished and mournful speech, who's just walked into the classroom with teary eyes and a visibly heavy heart.
All while Dean snickers away on the stool next to yours, doodling something on the notebook he just drew out of his bag, like he knows something you don't but it's dying to share with you.
It'd probably drag you down with him, since it's mainly a matter of feeding the void you usually fill. You can't really guess what's going on with him.
You rotate almost timidly to look at him again, trying not to let your jaw fall with horror. He would've called you dramatic and flick your forehead meanly, push your glasses harshly against the bridge of your nose, too. "People died, Dean."
Pouty lips and a petty shrug of his shoulders is all you get in exchange. "Anyone we know?"
You frown, outraged now. But you keep your voice low as your teacher, a man with a hook where his left hand should be, fishes a tissue out of the box to pass it over to a weeping jock sitting at the front row.
"We know everyone!" You retort indignantly. "This is a hellhole, there's no way to overlook anything or anyone."
Again, he shrugs like you guys are discussing the last episode of Desperate Housewives, and not the worst night you have ever had so far. "Oops."
Dean is cruel, in that teenage boy fashion that leaves adults hurt and girls mopping behind him every time he uses that viper tongue and the unfair flutter of his eyelashes against them, but this is different.
He chuckles lowly again, hiding the bottom half of his face away behind a loose fist, covering that gorgeous, evil smile when Mr. Wroblewski stretches his pitiful rant about your recently deceased classmates.
"Goddamn, that many fuckers ate shit?" There's nothing but derision in his voice, and you could swear something like enjoyment lays underneath as well.
Your stomach starts feeling upset again.
Classes are dismissed for the rest of the day in favour of respecting the memory of the victims and to mourn them, and Dean gets up from the stool like he's been announced to be the winner of a lottery ticket.
Not a single fuck in the world but how he's gonna enjoy himself for the rest of the day.
His stuff is wiped off the desk just as quickly and thrown inside his bag again before he's leaning down on the desk, one arm propped over the jagged wooden surface, the other raised to your face so he can pinch your cheek between his knuckles in that patronizing way.
"See ya later, pretty?" The kiss he leaves on your hairline has you swooning pathetically against your will. "And, please, tell your sloppy loser of a boyfriend to let go the fuck of you, hm? Don't wanna share you for the rest of the week."
Right. You have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who thinks your friendship with Dean has weirdly codependent connotations, and a boyfriend who would hate your guts for leaving him stranded for the hundredth time in favor of hanging out with "the Jezebel of Devil's Kettle", as he calls Dean.
Overdramatic, really. And stupid. Because Dean's eyes are so pretty against the natural lighting flowing inside the classroom, and he's giving you that look that lets you know he won't budge or accept a no for an answer.
Whiplash after whiplash with the way he shoves you away and yanks you back into his arms all the time.
You nod dumbly and watch him smile wide and ethereal and you almost feel like last weekend was just a nightmare. He's a fight you can't win, neither do you want to.
He leaves you sitting there. Reality cowers you into a corner again.
There's still very much something new and unsettlingly wrong about Dean Winchester.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : god only knows how much i love this movie, BODY AND SOUL, and how much i love the idea of dean winchester resembling jennifer check.
this came to me during an epiphany, believe me. i just wrote it because i needed to get it out of my chest, tho. i don't think i will be writing any more of this unless anyone else likes it and i'm asked to do more. or unless i have the motivation to write more of it.
also, i need to read more in english so we can pretend my analogies and whatever i write and post here make sense. until then we're just gonna nod and smile.
thread divider by lavendergalactic.
fantasy divider by oliveexedotcom.
