Possession's Price
***GIF IS NOT MINE***
Rating: normal cannon violence
Trigger warning: Abuse!
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Female Hunter!Reader
Summary: After a demon hunt goes sideways, Dean starts acting strangely. When he lashes out violently at you during the next case, the horrifying truth is revealed: he’s possessed. The aftermath forces Dean to confront the demon's actions while wearing his skin, and seek forgiveness for the unforgivable.
Warnings: Physical violence (slapping, choking), demonic possession, non-consensual touching, descriptions of injury, emotional trauma, guilt, angst, eventual comfort.
Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :)
If you love it, please comment and/or reblog. Let me know your thoughts! :)
**IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT DON’T READ IT**
The silence in the Impala on the way back from the graveyard was thicker than the fog we’d just fought through.
Dean hadn’t said a word since he’d plunged rubys dagger into the demon, that didn’t get away. His movements jerky, his usual post-hunt quips absent. Sam shot me a concerned look from the passenger seat, mirroring my own unease.
"Rough one, huh?" Sam ventured, breaking the tense quiet.
Dean just grunted, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Just tired. Shut up, Sam."
Sam met my eyes again in the rearview mirror, a silent ‘See?’ passing between us. We chalked it up to stress, the close call they’d had cornering the one demon, as one escaped before I’d arrived with the blade. Dean carried the weight of the world; sometimes it made him surly. We’d give him space.
The next case, a suspected haunting in a dilapidated motel on Route 66, felt like a bad idea from the start. The air hummed with wrongness, and Dean’s mood had curdled further. He barked orders, dismissed Sam’s research, and glared at my suggestions. He wasn't just stressed; he was a live wire.
It happened in the motel's dank basement. We were chasing the poltergeist's latest manifestation – flickering lights, crashing furniture. I saw movement in a dark corner, a flicker that could have been the spirit coalescing. Instinct took over. I raised my sawed-off, finger tightening on the trigger.
"NO!" Sam roared, lunging. But it was too late. The blast echoed like thunder in the confined space, obliterating an old boiler… and revealing a terrified teenager huddled behind it, unharmed only by sheer, dumb luck. He scrambled away, sobbing.
The world stopped. Sam stared at me, wide-eyed with horror. And then Dean turned.
His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury I’d never seen directed at me. It wasn’t just anger; it was volcanic, consuming rage.
"You STUPID bitch!" he roared, spittle flying. "What the hell were you thinking? You almost blew an innocent kid's head off! Are you completely useless?"
His words were like physical blows, each one landing harder than the last. I flinched, stammering an apology.
"Dean, I swear, I thought it was the manifestation! It was dark, it moved–"
"Excuses!" he bellowed, taking a menacing step closer. "You're a liability! A goddamn–"
He moved faster than I could react.
The crack of his palm against my cheekbone was deafening. Pain exploded across my face, snapping my head to the side. Stars danced in my vision, my ear ringing. I stumbled back, hand flying to my stinging cheek, utterly bewildered, the taste of copper blooming in my mouth.
For a fraction of a second, the rage vanished from Dean’s eyes. They widened in pure, unadulterated horror. He looked at his own hand as if it were a foreign, venomous creature. A choked sound escaped his throat. "Y/N... I..."
Then, like a switch flipping, the fury slammed back down, harder, darker. His face contorted into something inhumanly cruel. "Should've hit you harder," he snarled, arm drawing back again.
"DEAN! NO!" Sam’s roar filled the basement as he launched himself between us, catching Dean's wrist mid-swing. They crashed together like bulls, a tangle of limbs and desperate grunts. Dean fought with unnatural strength, shoving Sam back with terrifying force. My hunter instincts finally punched through the shock.
Something's wrong. That flicker... the eyes...
My hand dipped into my jacket pocket. Holy water. I uncapped the flask as Sam grappled with his brother, shouting his name, trying to reason with the unreasoning fury.
"Dean, stop! It's me! It's Sam!"
Dean threw Sam off with a snarl, sending him crashing into a stack of moldering boxes. He turned back to me, that predatory gleam in his eyes fixed solely on me.
I didn't hesitate. I flung the entire contents of the flask into his face.
The reaction was instantaneous and horrifying. A guttural, inhuman hiss tore from Dean's throat. Smoke sizzled faintly where the water struck his skin. And his eyes… his beautiful green eyes… flickered and then flooded with pitch-black oil.
Possessed.
Sam groaned, struggling up from the debris, but his own eyes locked on Dean’s face. "Oh god," he breathed.
The demon wearing Dean smirked, a grotesque parody of his usual grin. He advanced on me, ignoring Sam for the moment. "Feisty," it purred in Dean’s voice, but layered with something ancient and vile. "He’s yelling up a storm in here, sweetheart. Screaming himself hoarse about me hurting his precious (Y/N)." It chuckled, the sound scraping down my spine. "Hell, he even managed to surface… for a second." It stopped inches from me, the heat of Dean’s body radiating, but tainted by the demonic chill. "Don’t worry. I have him locked down tight now."
Its hand – Dean’s hand – shot out, fingers wrapping like iron bands around my throat. It slammed me back against the cold concrete wall, knocking the breath from my lungs. Stars exploded again as my head cracked against the hard surface. I clawed at its wrist, panic surging.
"Gonna have some real fun with you," the demon leered, its black eyes drinking in my fear. Its free hand came up, a rough finger tracing my jawline. Then, slowly, deliberately, its tongue – Dean’s tongue – rasped wetly up my cheek, from jaw to temple. The violation was profound, nauseating. "Mmm. Tastes like fear. And… devotion. Delicious."
Dean was screaming inside. I could almost feel it.
While it was distracted, savoring its cruelty, Sam moved. He didn't shout a warning. He just raised the modified salt-rock shotgun he'd been carrying and fired point-blank into Dean’s back.
The demon roared, a sound of pure agony and fury. It released me, stumbling forward as the salt pellets burned like molten lead beneath Dean’s skin. It dropped to its knees, smoke curling from its jacket.
"Now!" Sam yelled, already moving. He tackled the demon-Dean from behind, wrestling him down onto the dusty floor. I scrambled, ignoring the throbbing in my face and head, grabbing a can of spray paint from my bag. My hands shook, but I forced them steady, spraying the thick, white lines onto the concrete around the struggling figures.
Sam grunted, finally managing to wrench Dean’s arms behind his back and slap Enochian-cuffed wrists into place just as I finished the final curve of the trap. The demon snarled and thrashed, but the symbols flared with a faint light, containing it within the circle.
We stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the furious creature trapped within the body of the man we loved.
The interrogation was brutal. The demon spat curses and threats, revelling in our anguish. But eventually, cornered by holy fire and Sam’s relentless questioning, it broke.
"Sent for her," it hissed, black eyes fixed on me with hatred. "Easy target. Weak link. But him?" It jerked its chin towards Dean’s trapped form. "He let his guard down. So angry… so deliciously vulnerable after my colleague tried to grab her. I her coming… saw him worried… saw my opening." A cruel smile twisted Dean’s lips. "Seemed like more fun to hop a ride in the righteous one. Wreck his life from the inside. Starting with her."
The Latin of the exorcism ripped through the basement air moments later, Sam’s voice strong and steady, mine trembling but determined. The demon screamed, a sound that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality, as it was violently expelled from Dean’s body in a rush of foul-smelling black smoke that dissipated into nothingness.
Dean collapsed forward onto his hands and knees within the devil’s trap, coughing violently, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. He retched, nothing coming up but bile.
Sam rushed forward, uncuffing him. "Dean? Dean, man, you okay?"
Dean didn’t answer Sam. His bloodshot, terrified eyes found mine. He saw the livid red handprint blazing across my cheekbone, the tear tracks through the grime on my face, the raw terror still lingering in my eyes – terror he had put there.
His face crumpled. A broken sob escaped him. He scrambled back out of the trap on his hands and knees, not towards me, but away, as if he were contaminated. He pressed himself against the far wall, hugging his knees to his chest, his whole body wracked with tremors.
"Oh god," he choked out, his voice raw and shattered. "(Y/N)... I... I hit you." He stared at his right hand as if it were drenched in blood. "I hit you. I choked you... That thing... used me... and I hit you." Tears streamed down his face, cutting paths through the dirt and demonic residue. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't... I couldn't stop it... but I felt it... I felt my hand..." He gagged again, dry heaving. "God, please... please tell me you're okay. Please." The look in his eyes was pure devastation, a bottomless pit of guilt and self-loathing.
Sam hovered uncertainly, looking between us, his own face etched with worry and sympathy.
The physical pain was fading, replaced by a deep ache in my chest. I saw Dean Winchester, my strong, brave, fiercely protective Dean, reduced to a trembling wreck of guilt because a demon had puppeted him into hurting me. The violation he felt was written in every tense line of his body, every tear that fell.
Slowly, ignoring the protests of my bruised muscles and the throbbing in my head, I pushed myself away from the wall. I walked towards him, each step deliberate. He flinched as I approached, curling tighter into himself, unable to meet my eyes.
I knelt in front of him on the cold concrete, ignoring the grime. He kept his head down, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"Dean," I said softly.
He shuddered but didn't look up.
"Dean, look at me."
It took him a few seconds, but slowly, agonizingly, he lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot oceans of misery.
"It wasn't you," I said firmly, holding his gaze. "That thing was in the driver's seat. You fought it. I saw you fight it. For a second... you came back."
"But I hurt you," he whispered, his voice cracking. His gaze flickered to my cheek, fresh anguish washing over his face. "I put my hands on you... like that..." He squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears escaping. "I don't deserve... you should walk away. Sam, get her out of here. Please."
Sam shifted uncomfortably but stayed silent, watching me.
I reached out slowly, telegraphing my movement. He tensed but didn't pull away. My fingers gently touched his cheek, wiping away a tear. Then, deliberately, I took his right hand – the hand that had struck me. He tried to pull it back, a whimper escaping him.
"No," I said softly, tightening my grip just enough. I brought his hand up. He trembled violently, his breath catching in ragged sobs. I turned his hand over and placed it gently against my uninjured cheek. He froze, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
"It wasn't your hand that did this," I murmured, holding his trapped gaze. "It was the demon's. This is your hand." I turned my head slightly, pressing a soft kiss into his palm.
"The hand that holds mine. The hand that fixes Baby. The hand that saves people." I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his. "You didn't hurt me, Dean. It did. Using you. And you fought it. You came back for me."
A choked sob tore from him. He leaned into my touch, his other hand coming up to cup my face with heartbreaking gentleness, his thumb brushing just below the forming bruise. "I'm so sorry," he breathed against my forehead, his voice thick. "I'm so damn sorry, sweetheart. I love you. I love you so much. I could never... never want to..."
"I know," I whispered back, my own tears finally falling freely. "I know, Dean. I love you too." I wrapped my arms carefully around him. He collapsed into me then, burying his face in my shoulder, his body shaking with the force of his silent weeping.
His arms tightened around me, clinging desperately, as if I were the only solid thing in a collapsing world.
Sam quietly moved away, busying himself with cleaning up the remnants of the devil's trap and the exorcism, giving us this fragile moment.
We sat there on the cold basement floor, Dean holding me like he was drowning, murmuring apologies into my hair between ragged breaths. The violence, the demon's taunts, the terror – it wasn't erased. It would leave marks, physical and emotional.
But beneath the guilt and the shock radiating from Dean, beneath my own lingering fear, there was something else. Something solid and unwavering. Trust. Understanding. Love.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me again. His eyes were still red-rimmed and devastated, but the utter despair had softened slightly, replaced by a desperate hope. He searched my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone beside the bruise with infinite tenderness, a silent question hanging in the air.
I answered it by leaning in and pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips. It was chaste, gentle, a promise.
"I've got you," he whispered hoarsely against my lips when we parted, pulling me close again, resting his forehead against mine. His voice was raw, but steadier now. "I've got you. And I swear... I'll spend every damn day making this right." The weight of his vow hung in the dusty air – heavy, painful, but forged in the fire of what they'd just survived.
Sam cleared his throat softly from near the stairs. "We should get out of this basement. Get (Y/N) some ice for that cheek. And Dean... you look like hell warmed over." His tone was light, but the concern in his eyes was deep.
Dean nodded, slowly helping me stand up, his arm staying firmly around my waist, supporting me even though he was the one who looked utterly drained. He kept glancing at me, his gaze flickering between my eyes and the mark on my face, the guilt still simmering beneath the surface, but held in check now by a fierce, protective determination. The road ahead wouldn't be smooth – nightmares, flinches, moments of doubt – but as we walked towards the stairs, leaning on each other, the unspoken promise hung between us: they would walk it together.
