Summary: Reader joins Sam and Dean on a hunt. It was supposed to be a milk run, easy as Sunday morning, but things quickly take a turn for the worst. The trio fight to survive.
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x Reader (unrequited)
Characters: Dean, Sam, Reader (Chuck, Rowena, Cas, and Jack are mentioned)
Warning: Blood, character death(s), grief, angst, physical injury, (If I missed any, let me know!)
Word Count: 1853
A/N: I’ve had some writers block, recently, but I figured writing something a little different than my usual would help, and it worked! Booya! Hopefully, you all enjoy!
A single drop of blood landed on my cheek, and for a moment, I thought it was a tear spilling from the corner of my eye, but it was too thick, too dark, too warm to be anything but blood. Trembling fingers smeared the blood that fell from my temple. They looked like blurs, barely recognizable as my own, but from the ache from the bruises and the cuts, there was no doubt that they were my hands.
I let out a painful moan as I shifted my body, seeking something sturdy to lean myself against. I clung to something beside me that was cold to the touch and solid enough to hold my weight. My muscles ached as I pulled myself to a standing position, giving myself a view of the mess laid out in front of me.
The cloud in my mind began to lift when I saw the broken slabs of wood, the caskets cracked and thrown against the wall, the petals floating around the room like snow. I brushed a hand through my blood-soaked hair struggling to piece things together. Memories flashed in my mind of the case I was working with the boys, but I couldn’t pinpoint how I ended up here and covered in blood.
Stumbling forward, I searched through the debris for the boys. I knew they were with me, searching for the ghoul by my side, but I couldn't find them. I yanked broken furniture and splintered wood out of piles, hoping one of the boys was tucked nicely under them and still breathing, but the room was empty except for me.
“Sam? Dean?” I called. My stomach dropped into my shoes when my calls were met with silence. What the fuck happened to them? They were right there! They were right beside me. Where could they have gone? And how could they leave me?
Fear crawled up my throat with sharp hooks, making it difficult to speak. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions at bay, and quickly realized I was too frail to succeed. They wouldn't leave me. They wouldn't leave me a bleeding mess like this. I knew it.
I shuffled through the room, kicking broken furniture out of my path as I made it to the door of the room.
Overwhelming fragrances from flowers and perfumes assaulted my senses as I passed into the next room. Caskets were set up on stands for display and soft instruments played through speakers in the background. Everything about funeral homes always made me feel itchy, but I never could figure out why. I had no qualms about death or about what the dead left behind, and now that certainly wasn't the case, but there was something odd about places like this.
Without warning, the room started to spin. Blood fell into my lashes. My vision blurred. “Sam! Dean!” I croaked. My legs collapsed beneath me, sending me into the ground. Carpet fibers gathered under my nails as I clawed my way forward. I had to find them. I had to make sure they were safe.
“Sam! Dean!”
Commotion in the room ahead of me earned my attention. Double doors swung open, and my heart raced. My gaze drifted up from his boots to his black jeans, and the Henley he had under his olive flannel and blue jacket. A smile erupted on my lips as my eyes made contact with him.
There were gashes on his forehead, bruises on his cheeks, but he was okay. He was safe. “Dean!”
Light flashed on the silver blade in his hand as he made a rush toward me. “Hey! Hey! Don't move! Are you hurt?”
I nodded as relief swam through my chest. “Yes. W-what happened?”
“I don't know. I just—”
His words caught in his throat as a look of absolute horror crossed his face. A shrill scream ripped through my lungs as Dean's mouth fell open and his eyes bulged wide in his skull. The blade in his hand slipped from his fingers, falling to the ground in silence against the carpet.
Moving on instinct alone, I crawled toward him, desperate to reach him before he fell to the ground. His knees hit first. Then I saw the blood spilling out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, showing nothing but the whites as I dragged my body behind me.
I should have been looking around, searching for the thing that got him, but all I could hear were my own screams, and all I could focus my mind on was him. Everything around me began to fade as tears burned my eyes.
Dean's face bounced like Jell-O into the floor and his entire body fell limp. There wasn't a flutter of his eyes or the soft twitch of his fingers. The only movement was blood pooling around his cheeks.
“No!” I screamed until I had no voice left. My body was exhausted, pain ripping through every inch of me, but I was only a hair away from him.
The anguish of my sobs broke when I heard a familiar voice call my name. I jerked my head up, relieved to see Sam standing across from me. His hair was disheveled, strands flying and flopping every which way. Unlike Dean and I, he seemed completely unscathed. No scratches or cuts or bruises, and for that, I was thankful.
“Sam!” I screamed at him. Seeing him gave me the final burst of energy I needed to reach to Dean. I pushed myself up just enough to cradle Dean's head in my lap. “Sam, I-I think...”
“Is he okay?” Sam's voice was steady. I was focused on his brother and didn't look up, but the sound of his footsteps was slow and deliberate, the complete opposite of what I would expect.
I held Dean's face against my chest, and rocked back and forth, pressing my fingertips onto his neck. My heart broke into two pieces as the realization hit. There was no pulse. There was no breath seeping out of his lips. There was no life left in him.
I dropped forward, feeling the grip of grief and sorrow tear through me. Fistfuls of his hair poked out through my fingers as I sobbed. This was supposed to be an easy hunt. It was supposed to be a fucking milk run, and now...
Dean was gone. The love of my life, the person that gave me strength when I had none left, the man that sacrificed everything for me and for his brother and for the world, and he was gone.
Sam's hand pressed against my back and I raised my head, peering through my tear-soaked lashes to find him knelt down in front of me. “Sam, I’m so sorry. I don't know what happened! I’m so sorry.”
He let out a heavy sigh, but the same sadness I was feeling was nowhere to be found in Sam. Initially, I brushed it off; it wasn't unusual for the boys to suppress their pain to deal with the issue at hand. There was still a ghoul on the loose, but this...Dean was dead, and Sam seemed so stoic.
“It's okay,” he said. “It had to be this way. It always had to be this way.”
My breath caught in my chest as I met the coldness in Sam's eyes. A savage grin twisted his mouth and he blinked, his eyes becoming pitch black.
“Sam?” My voice shook with desperation. A demon couldn't possess him. We all had the anti-possession tattoos that kept us safe from demonic possession. And with Rowena at the helm, all demons and Hell’s residents were stuck behind the gates. They weren't scouring the earth like they once had, much less coming for the Winchesters.
“Nope,” Sam said, tilting his head to the side. “Not a demon. All me.”
Incredulous, I shook my head. “No, Sam! No! It can't—“ Sam found the case. Sam suggested we work it together. Sam was the only one that saw the ghoul. Sam said he saw it coming into the funeral home. Sam said...
Sam stood, smug laughter booming from his chest. He turned his back to me, pacing across the floor, completely unfazed by the dead body of his brother. “You wanted Chuck gone, right? We tried to put it on Jack's shoulder, but he failed. And then we tried Amara, and well, she just plain old refused. This was the only way. This was always the only way.”
I shook my head as if that would turn everything into a dream. I'd wake up and Sam would be himself and Dean would be alive...
But this wasn't a dream.
“So what?” I asked, fingers clinging to the fabric of Dean's jacket. “Was it in you the whole time? All you needed was to flip a switch?”
Sam turned to me, making a sturgeon face. “This was always my destiny. Dean knew that. You knew that. We all knew.”
I opened my mouth to argue his point, but quickly realized it was pointless. None of us thought much of Sam’s psychic powers once Lucifer was locked away in the cage the first time, and to say that we knew was a reach, but to him, it wouldn't have mattered.
I calmed the quiver in my lips and sighed. “So what now, Boy King? Your brother’s dead, Cas is gone. What now?”
Sam squinted his eyes, studying me, and knelt down in front of me again. He reached out and pressed his palms into my cheek. His hands were too big for my face and didn't belong there in the way Dean's had. A shiver of disgust crawled up my spine.
“You could be by my side. Face all that Chuck has to throw at us together.”
I spat at him. Spit landed just under his eye, the gross glob sliding down his cheek. “I’m not doin’ shit with you! You killed Dean! You killed your brother!”
Sam withdrew his hand from my face and wiped his cheek. He moved slowly like he was calculating his next move. "Dean was weak. He's always been too weak. But you...you were never weak.”
Sam’s face softened and I thought that maybe my Sam was fighting his way to the surface. The Sam that was my best friend and treated people with compassion. The Sam that was just as protective as his big brother. The Sam that would look after me when I was sick and boost me up when I felt like shit.
I wanted my Sam to shine through the darkness and mourn his brother with me. But as soon as the thought passed my mind, I stashed it away with all the other fantasies I kept in my head.
That Sam was gone. Dean was gone. Cas was gone. Jack was gone.
Chuck won. Chuck w—
Sam tilted his head and indescribable pain shot through my body. Before I realized what was happening, the world around me shrunk. The broken caskets, the flowers, the tables, the carpet all crumbled. The sensation of Dean's skin beneath my palms faded, and the sound of Sam’s cackle was a mere spark of static. My body slumped over Dean's and my eyes shut. My sorrow at losing everyone I ever loved evaporated into absolute nothingness.
Summary: You’ve known that you’ve been pregnant before the BMOL left Sam and Dean in the Bunker for dead. So, what happens when you’re ready to tell him the news.
A/N: Based on Season 13, Episode 3: Patience. Reader’s thoughts are in italics. This is for all the black girls who don’t get to see themselves on the show or in fanfic. There will be a Part 2!
A/N 2: Shoutout to @canumoveurseatup-no for inspiring me to start writing.
Today was the day. You were gonna tell Dean that you were pregnant. You knew he would be pissed you kept it a secret for so long, but something was always in the way. Between the boys getting trapped in the bunker, Dean breaking Mary out of being brainwashed by those British dickwads, bringing down the British Men of Letters, keeping Lucifer away from his child, Castiel’s and possibly Mary’s death, and now taking care of Jack and keeping him from Dean’s wrath, when did you have time to tell him earth-shattering news?
Looking at the mirror, you rolled your shoulder, cracked your neck, ran your hands through your box braids, and gave yourself a pep talk, “Ok Y/N you got this. You faced much scarier things than telling Dean you’re pregnant.” You started bouncing around to pump yourself up, “Listen, you fought the devil and won, you took down a whole nest of vamps, dealt with God’s bitch ass sister, and told Dean you messed up the paint job on Baby when you crashed her. Now go in there and tell your husband, y’all are having a baby!”
Feeling confident you headed to the war room to inform your husband of the news, but you stopped before Dean or Sam could see you, due to a familiar argument about your newest roommate, Jack. “Because we need stay here. We need to help Jack learn how to control his powers.” Sam said trying to convince Dean. “Jody can handle this.” You hoped Sam could convince Dean, but you knew Dean better than that and his grief made him reply, “Yeah, maybe she can. Or maybe she ends up dead because you wanted to skip out on her to babysit the Antichrist.”
I guess today won’t be the day then, you thought to yourself. Rolling your brown eyes, you stepped out of the shadows to stop the argument before it went too far. “Dean, babe, Sam’s right. Jack could help-” Before you could finish, Dean interrupted you, “No. Just no.” If you or he wants to stay and Mr. Miyagi this kid, knock yourselves out. I didn’t sign up for that so I’m gonna go to work.” Dean said storming off.
At the same time, you and Sam let out deep exasperated sighs. Seeing this hunt as opportunity to get Dean alone to convince him to lay off of Jack some and tell him you’re pregnant, you offered to join him on the hunt, “Sam, I’ll go with him. Just try to help Jack and I’ll handle Dean.” “Good luck with that.” Sam murmured as you headed to the nephilim’s room.
“Come in,” you heard Jack say, after knocking on his door. “Hey kid, how are ya doin’?” “Good, just trying to find something on Netflix. How are you?” He asked looking away from the laptop, looking up at you with a puppy like smile. Did Sam teach him that? I hope not, because I won’t be able to tell him no at all. Like seriously, how could Dean hate someone so sweet and adorable? Asshole! Making your way to Jack’s bed you said, “Not bad. I’m about to leave with Dean to go help an old friend and Sam’s gonna help you learn how to control your powers.” “Why can’t you stay, and Sam go instead? I like Sam, but you’re the one with powers?” Aw damn, Jack definitely learned the puppy eyes from Sam because he was laying it on thick, so thick that you forgot about your plans and was about to tell Sam to take your place instead. But you remained strong. “I can’t, Jack. One, I don’t even use my powers. I just learned enough to not use them. And two, remember I still need to tell Dean about the baby.” At the mention of the baby, Jack practically jumped you. “Oh! You’re gonna tell him! Go ahead, I’ll listen to Sam.” “Thanks kid.” Kissing Jack on the side of his forehead you told him goodbye and headed to the garage.
When you entered the garage, you were greeted with one of your favorite images. Dean was leaning against Baby, with his arms and legs crossed. “Ready Mrs. Winchester?” “Yup.” You started walking away when you encircled by thick strong arms around your waist. Dean turned you to face him and then those plump, pink lips descended onto your full ones. As Dean began the blissful assault on your lips, you thought to yourself, this is how I ended up pregnant in the first place. Regrettably you pulled away from his embrace, “What was that for?” “Just happy I can spend a bit of alone time with my favorite girl.” He opened your door and motioned for you to get inside the car. “Come on now, before I have to explain to Missouri and Jody how you made us late.” “You started kissing me! I’m the innocent one here!” The audacity of this nigga to blame you! “Hey, I can’t help that your ass looks so good in those jeans,” Dean replied with a smirk. The car ride was just like old times. Stolen kisses, Dean having one hand on the wheel and the other interlocking fingers with yours, sing-alongs, and peaceful silence. You decided to tell Dean about the pregnancy when you were on the way back to the bunker. If you told him before, he have no problem turning Baby around and dropping you back home, and never let you leave the bunker ever again.
You guys pulled up to the crime scene and saw Missouri and Jody talking.
“Dean and Y/N Winchester.” You heard Missouri greet the two of you.
You looked up to Dean, “How the hell does she know we’re married now? We haven’t seen her in over a decade?” Shaking your head, you answered your own question, “Of course she knows. She’s a psychic.”
“Missouri. Jody.” Dean went between them. “Not sure which one to hug first.” To make it easier you went to hug Jody first and she whispered in your ear, “Have you told him yet?” With a shake of your head no, Jody gave you a slightly disappointed look. To avoid that disappointed mom look you turned towards Missouri to give her a hug. As Dean pulled away from her, Missouri gave him a look of empathy and concern, “Oh honey. I’m sorry for your losses.” Heading towards Jody for her hug, Dean joked, “Well, leave it to a psychic to cut right through the small talk, huh?”
Not thinking that Missouri could sense the baby, you went right to her for your hug. “Aw baby! Congratulations on the baby! I won’t tell you the gender of the baby, I know you want to be surprised.” Missouri exclaimed as she held your face in both her hands.
“Baby!? What the hell is she talking about Y/N?” Dean pulled away from Jody menacingly making his way towards you.
Well, I guess TODAY is the day Dean finds out your pregnant.
Here is Part III of my Supernatural: BPD series. It’s funny because I had no intention of sharing or making it a series. I was just having a rough day and needed to work my way through some shit and was really affected by Cas’ explanation of Dean in Galaxy Brain. This series has been very helpful, so I hope it helps others suffering from BPD and other mental illness, or even people that may know someone who’s suffering and has no clue what they’re dealing with or how to hold them accountable for their behaviors. As always, be gentle. 💜
Background: This reader is based on an original character I’ve been working with for the better part of the last ten/eleven years. In the first two, there was a bit of her backstory, which is now becoming a part of the actual story as this series continues. She’s a witch that has been hunting with Sam and Dean since the end of season 2 and has been dating Dean off an on since the end of season 4/beginning of season 5. In season 11 she plots to work with Amara to take out Chuck because she hates Chuck and blames him for a lot of the things happening in her life, and also because her best friend, the witch mentioned in this section, was killed and she wanted her back.
If you missed the first two in this series you can read Cas’ chapter and Sam’s chapter to get all caught up. More soon to come!
Word Count: 4,169
CW: Mentions of mental illness, Suicidal ideations, discussions of self-harm, Discussions of cutting, Depression, COVID-19 Quarantine, Panic attacks, Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, Rage/Anger, Shame, Hopelessness, Mentions of Difficult Family Upbringing, Profanity, Alcoholism, Physical Struggle,
My mind was a bit fuzzy from the several glasses of whiskey I'd essentially inhaled over the last few hours. According to my watch, it was still the afternoon, which made sense considering I'd been drinking since I woke up. I had a couple beers with breakfast, which wasn't unusual in the bunker, but after the boys scattered to their corners of the world, I was left alone with my own devices. Apparently, my favorite device was whiskey.
I should have stopped myself after the third or fourth glass, considering how badly alcohol mixed with the meds I'd been taking, but something about the ball of lightning and tornadoes in my gut kept me reaching for more. Before I knew it, I was stumbling around the kitchen suddenly motivated to find a book of recipes my friend stashed around here. Somewhere.
Which led me to the garage. My friend, she was a witch like me, and frequently made unannounced visits to the bunker. When she was here, she'd stash recipes, herbs, crystals, anything she could think of just in case she or the boys needed something. But the kicker was, she never knew exactly where the hell she'd stashed them. After searching through all the cupboards, cabinets, and drawers in the kitchen, I made my way down the hallway to the garage.
It was highly unlikely that I would find what I was looking for down here, but with her, there was no telling what I'd find and where. My fingers slid along the concrete walls of the bunker, while my other hand was tightly gripping the neck of the bottle I jacked. I giggled as my feet tripped over themselves, nearly sending me into a nosedive. Somehow, I caught myself and saved the bottle.
“Gosh, I’m a fucking train wreck,” I said to myself. I stumbled forward, unsure of where the hell she would have hidden that book in the fucking garage, but amused by my ability to even consider it at the same time.
The garage itself was massive and looked even more so when my balance was off. The space was wide and open, the ceiling was held up by columns. Each side of the garage was lined with vintage cars and motorcycles, likely left here before the Men of Letters were slaughtered by Abaddon in the fifties. Most of them just sat untouched, except for that one time Dean and I went joyriding on one of the motorcycles. I’d been drunk then too, too tipsy to lean as Dean took a curve in the road. Suffice it to say, it only happened that once.
The vintage beauties shared their space with my ‘68 Firebird and Dean's ‘67 Impala. Since I was usually hunting with the boys, I didn't get to drive my car too often, which meant it could have been an excellent place to hide stashes of secret magical items. Unfortunately for me, I didn't have my keys with me and there was no way I was going to make it back to my room without tipping over.
I stumbled over to my car, using the other cars and columns to keep propelling me forward. Everything in the garage seemed quiet until I got closer to the Impala. My ears rang as the sound of steel tools hit the floor. Startled, I jumped back, almost losing my grip on the bottle. “Fuck! Who's there?” I asked, lifting my hand in the air, prepared to release whatever magic I could conjure up in my intoxicated state.
I breathed a sigh of relief when Dean rolled out from under Baby. His face and hands were covered in grease and sweat, which made my heart palpitate for other reasons besides fear. It had been several days since we'd had more than a one word conversation and I wasn't sure what to expect when he stood up from his mechanics creeper and wiped oil and grease on a towel he had stuffed in his back pocket.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked, seemingly just as spooked as I was. There was a bit of surprise in his voice, along with something else I couldn't pinpoint. Reading him was usually easy for me, but now, I couldn't tell if he was still mad from before or amused by my drunkenness.
In an attempt to conjure up some nerves, I took a healthy swig from the bottle and felt it burn my chest when I swallowed. Each sip that I gulped down awakened something inside of me, something that made me realize what a bad idea coming down here had been. I hiccuped and burped. “I was just looking for something.”
His eyebrow raised, curiosity spiking, and he threw his towel on the red rolling tool cart next to him. “Looking for what?”
I shrugged and averted my shifty gaze from him. “I don't know, some witchy shit.”
“Mmhm.”
I scratched at my hairline and started to turn on my heels. This had been a terrible idea. “Never mind. I'll just...leave.”
My turn was abruptly halted when I felt Dean tugging on my bottle. He was much taller than my just over five-foot frame, and naturally, much stronger, so I lost my footing a bit as he forced me to face him. He pulled the bottle from my fingertips and eyed it judgingly. “I’m pretty sure this was full at breakfast.”
I shrugged again and pulled at the hem of my sweatshirt. I wasn't prepared to have another argument with him. It was exhausting enough just keeping my balance, adding on top of that the amalgamation of feelings gathering in me at just the sight of him was, well, sobering. “Probably.”
Dean licked his soft, pink, lips and wrapped them around the mouth of the bottle. His movement was quick and fluid as beads of liquor slipped down the corner of his mouth. He sighed, satisfied by the burn of the whiskey, and shook his head. “Good stuff.”
“I know,” I said, fighting the urge to lick the whiskey off his chin. What better way was there to say that I was sorry for the shitty things I said than to lick liquor off his face?
He set the bottle down on his cart. “But it's barely after two. Why are you over halfway down the bottle? I mean, honestly, that sounds more like me than it does you?”
“I was thirsty,” I answered dryly. I jerked my chin over to the Impala, making a brave attempt at changing the topic. “Why are you fixing a car that doesn't need fixing?”
He blew out an exasperated breath and rolled his eyes, turning his body away from me. Tension filled the air, making it difficult for me to breathe. I sucked in a hot, thick breath, stumbling backward as my head became dizzy. I hated this, being unsure of where we stood, though I could resign myself to accept that it was my fault.
If I had kept better control of my emotions, none of this would even be an issue. Even though I'd been taking my meds religiously like communion, being stuck in the bunker, day in and day out, not really getting to feel the breeze lift my hair off my neck or moonlight on my skin, was taking a toll on me. I tried to go outside yesterday, go for a run, but my anxiety flooded me as soon as the sun hit my face.
And all that anxiety and paranoia crystallized into irritation and rage. Which created this massive trench between us. It was like a festering wound, infected, and getting worse and worse by the day. Maybe I was too drunk for this.
He leaned over Baby’s hood, his muscles thick ropes of tension. “I need you to talk to me,” he said, almost growling.
“There's nothing to talk about, Dean,” I whispered.
He clenched his jaw, causing a ripple in his scruffy beard. All of us were on edge being stuck in the bunker together for so long, but I was grateful that he found other things more pertinent than shaving his beard. I liked it when he grew it out. “Oh, really? Because that bottle of Bulleit says otherwise.”
I scoffed and slid past him to take the bottle back, but his rough hands wrapped around my wrist. I looked up at him, tugging against his strength to get him to release my arm, but he wouldn't let me go. It wasn't hard and he wasn't hurting me, but the thought of being trapped down here with him when we were like this made me worry.
“Dean, let me go,” I said, my voice as steady and low as I could manage with him being so close to me.
“You wanna know why I’m out here?” he asked, his voice gruff and surly.
Of course, I wanted to know but deciding between a drunken stupor and the emotions choking in my throat... “I’d rather you let me drink in peace.”
He dropped my arm and reached over me to grab the bottle. I bit my lip, pushing down the frustration building in my blood. “Dean...”
Bottle in hand, he leaned against the hood of the Impala, took a sip, and sighed. Even under the harsh overhead lights, his green eyes shimmered like clear ocean waters. “There's something up with you, but you won't talk about it. And it's really hard for me to be around you and just not talk.”
“Well, you really had me fooled.”
“What are you hiding from me?” His lips twitched as he flashed me a half-smile. “Better yet, what were you hiding from yourself?”
My eyes dropped to the ground, but I turned my body around to face him. Wasn't this what I'd been talking to everyone about? For days, Cas and Sam all but begged me to talk to him, to deal with whatever it was that was broken between us. I chuckled, brushing my curls from my face. “What makes you think I’m hiding from something?”
His finger curled under my chin, and he lifted my face to meet his eyes. Even being angry and frustrated, there was an ethereal beauty about Dean. When I was pissed, I resembled a funky-haired troll, but he always looked like a fucking model in a very sexy, very angry photoshoot. “Because I know you. Because I can tell when things are bad. And, baby, they're really bad.”
I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of motor oil and grease. “I thought you were mad at me.”
He grinned, his teeth peeking out through his lips. “I was for all of a few hours. And then I figured out you were going through something. Something you’d want to deal with on your own.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes. I'd realized a long time ago, there was no doing anything on my own here in the bunker, even though I consistently tried. “Well, thanks for giving me my space,” I said brutishly. “Can I have my bottle back now, please?”
His finger dropped from my chin, brushed my neck, and slid down my arm to the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Irritated red skin drew our attention as soon as the black fabric of my sweatshirt was pushed away. I gasped, surprised that he knew, angry that he'd just reveal the cuts like he had. Dean’s greasy fingers traced what was left of my healing cuts. I tried to ignore the pain in his eyes, the disappointment, and the anger reddening his freckled cheeks and focused on the blistering rage in my blood.
Concentrating a pool of magic in my muscles, I yanked my arm away from him, holding it to my chest like I was cradling a tiny baby. “You're an ass, you know?”
“So I guess that makes you the idiot, huh?”
My cheeks warmed and my nostrils flared. How the fuck could I be the idiot in all of this? I was doing what I always did, deal with shit on my own. All he was doing was proving to me that I was right to do so. I didn't need to be called an idiot, and I didn't need the evidence of my weakness to be exposed like he had.
Fuming, I grunted, keeping my magic tempered in my bones as I stomped my foot into the concord floor. “Fuck you, Dean. Fuck you.” My hair whipped my cheeks, stinging my skin like an insect bite as I spun around, heading back toward the hallway.
“You don't have to run from me!” he called. I could hear his footsteps following mine, but I couldn't concentrate on that. I had to fight the dizziness fogging my mind so that I could make it to the hallway. My grand exit would mean nothing if I fell face-first onto the floor and broke my nose or my wrist.
With me being so short and him being so tall, it didn't take long for him to catch up to me, to yank me back around to face him. “Let me go, Dean! Let me go!” I screamed, fighting through his rough hands on my wrists. “This isn't going to help me, you know! Dean, I’m broken! You can fix the Impala but you can't fix me! You can't fix me!”
His voice boomed through the room, rumbling through gritted teeth. “You aren't broken! Don't you see?”
His grip around my wrists tightened, and for a moment, I became scared of what he might do. Dean had never put his hands on me before, and I knew he wouldn't hurt me now, but that irrational part of my brain seemed to control most of my muscles, so I fought harder against his hold, the breath in my lungs becoming thin. “You are my moonlight, remember?” he said, much softer this time.
I froze. Hearing the nickname he'd given me years ago, struck a chord that sent shivers through my bones. His fondness for me was something I never understood. I asked him, once, to explain it to me, and he said that I was the one thing that made sense. I changed, I ran, like the moon, but I always returned to him, full and beautiful.
Too much time had passed since I'd heard him call me that. Too much time had passed since we had time to be us. With the current pandemic, Chuck going postal, Jack losing his soul, the zombies, my madness...There always seemed to be so much else going on.
“Stop running from me,” he whispered, green eyes turning glassy as tears gathered on his waterline. “Why do you keep running from me?”
I said nothing. No words could be spoken that would have brought justice to all the emotions bubbling inside of me. All the anger and rage, the shame and fear, the desire simmering in my blood. I loved him. There was no doubt that I did, which was why I had to keep this side of me from him. He'd been through enough already without my rapid mood shifts, the depression, the anxiety, the forever fluctuating concepts of self.
I stepped back, creating enough space for Dean's hands to fall from me. The imprints he left on my skin ached to feel him again, but there was no time for that. Not now.
He licked his lips and raked his hands through his short, brown hair. His mouth opened, though no words came out at first. His fists clenched, flexing open and closed again like he was grasping at something, words, feelings, me. “What do I have to do to get you to talk to me? Let me be there for you?”
He loved me. This giant, freckle-faced idiot loved me so much that it routinely hurt him. I never wanted it to be like this, except, this was me. I was irrational and sometimes erratic. Everything about me from my temper to my self-destructive behaviors seemed too dangerous, but I didn't mean for them to be. I loved him so much that it hurt me too. It hurt because I knew I knew I could never be the person he saw me as.
My fucked up brain made me react to things in ways that I hated, and no matter how hard I tried, I struggled to control the impulse to push away the people I loved the most. He didn't deserve this, and neither did I. I knew, deep down, I deserved to be loved like everyone else, but if this is how it went...
I chuckled softly, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “It's funny, you know? You, Sam, and Cas try so damn hard to protect people, but you don't even notice it when someone's trying to protect you.”
He squinted his eyes and tilted his head ever so slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to protect you from this. From me.” I waved my hands, gesturing to my body. I was a fucking sickness, one that brought ruin to everything I touched.
“You're my moonlight. I don't need protecting from you.”
“Dean, I can't be your moonlight. I can't be the thing that outshines your darkness. I’m the fucking darkness! With all my dysregulated moods, the panic attacks, and the fucking cutting!” I paused, taking in a sharp breath. “I swallow everything around me in my darkness! But I’ve been trying so fucking hard to protect you and Cas and Sam and Jack from all of it, but—but you just won't let me! Why won't you just let me protect you?”
The last words came out more like a whimper than anything else, and yet they carried farther through the garage than my screams ever could. Catching my breath, I waited for his reaction. I waited for more than the clenching of his jaw or the twitch of his lips. I waited for more than the ragged breath that raised his chest.
“Say something. Please,” I begged.
Dean shifted his weight from one leg to the other and rubbed at his chin with his thumb. “What is there for me to say? You think of yourself like a fucking plague, and at the same time I think of you like you're the whole world.” He stepped closer to me, just stopping himself from moving any further. “You're not the only one in this bunker with a mind that's survived a fucking grinder.”
I nodded. “Difference is, all of this didn't come from hunting. Part of its genetic, the rest is from my fucked up family shit.”
“And my family isn't fucked up?”
“Dean.”
“Baby, all of us are fucked in the head, and there ain't one of us that's more fucked up than the other. All of us have died and come back, died, and come back. Hell, we're plotting to kill God for fuck’s sake. But the only way we're gonna do that is together. Because all of us are stronger together. We're stronger with you.”
His voice softened as he spoke, his body leaning forward like he wanted to come to me. He knew I would back away, try to run again like I always did. He would have been right. Seeing him like this, hurting because of my insanity, made me want to retch up bile.
This was why I suffered in silence. This was why I ran when the meds weren't enough, or when the nightmares and rage started up. This was why I had to leave before they left me. Every. Single. Time. Because this was how it always began. People saying that I wasn't too much, that they loved me regardless. They'd tell me they would always be there, that they would never leave me. And as soon as I began to believe them, they left.
Over time, I learned to be the one that left first. Except this was different. Because every time I tried to leave him, I always found my way back. Intentionally or not, I always ended up right back in his arms.
I sighed, remembering what Cas told me last week. You know, Dean, he...he feels things more acutely than any human I've ever known. So it's possible he could work through this. One day, he may explode and let it all out and breathe deeply and move on.
I kept coming back because he understood it too. Because he knew what it was like to feel like everyone around you was cursed because of you. He knew what it was like to feel these intense emotions, sharp and seemingly never-ending. He knew what it was like to be completely ravaged by grief and rage, and pick himself back up to keep fighting for what he believed in.
If I was his moonlight, then he was the ocean reflecting my light back to me. I looked up at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. He was staring at me, brows low and scrunched, lips slightly parted. “Did you hear me?”
Sheepishly, I shook my head, feeling guilty that he would think his words weren't important enough for me to hear.
He took another step, closing the distance between us, and cradled my cheek in his hand. I leaned into his calloused palm, comforted by his strength. “I said, there're times when we all want to go at this shit alone, but then we come together and we pull each other out of our heads. That's what family does. That's what real family does.”
His eyes shifted from left to right and back again, searching me, reading my face. I was sure to have surprised him when I stood on the tips of my toes and pressed my lips into his. They were soft and tasted like the liquor we'd both been drinking, mixed with sweat and tears. He was my home. “I’m sorry,” I whispered into his mouth.
His lips curled up in a grin as he kissed me back. When my feet dropped back down to the ground, he wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight against his chest. His hand secured the back of my head as he kissed my crown. “I’m sorry too. I just—please don't leave again.”
Before, I would have made a vague quip about not wanting to lie. About how I couldn't change who I was. And being honest, with Chuck raising zombies as distractions, destroying entire worlds, where could I run? Surely the wolves would take me back, let me run witchy errands and hunt their foes. But was that what I wanted?
I inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and smiled into Dean's tear-soaked t-shirt. “I won't. I’ll never run from you again.” For that moment, my truth would be enough, but even I knew it wouldn't be the truth for long.
His gaze lingered on me for a while once I pulled away, lowering myself back down to my heels. “What?” I asked.
“I'm scared, baby. I’m scared that if I let you go, you'll disappear like you were never here in the first place.”
I smiled, planting a quick peck on his chin. “I’m a witch, Dean, not a demon or something. I can't just disappear into thin air. I mean, I could. It would take some incantations and a potion of some soft, I guess—”
He kissed my lips again, hard and hungry, and growled regretfully as he pulled away from me. Sheepishly, I grinned, lowering my eyes back down to his chest as I shook off the massive fears attempting to attach to my thoughts. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry for what I said, for how I've been acting.”
“Did I say something or do something that hurt you?”
I shook my head. “You didn't do anything or say anything wrong, okay? It's just me. I've got a lot of shit to work through.”
His rough finger stroked my cheek, and I wasn't entirely sure if it was more for me or for him. “Thank you for apologizing. You know you don't have to work through this on your own. I’m here.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, that's what everyone keeps saying.” But no one knew what they were saying. No one knew the madness I faced every day. It was painful, and exhausting, and confusing. Dean meant it when he said he wanted to help me through this, but I had a feeling that was a recipe for disaster, not that acting like this was a good thing. I sighed, pressing my cheek to his chest, feeling his heartbeat into my ear. “Somethings, I just have to deal with my own, okay?”
He grunted, disagreeing with me, but don't say anything else. Instead, he just pulled me closer into his chest, squeezing me until I could barely breathe, and rested his chin on the top of my head.
