Sweet Blood
***GIF IS NOT MINE***
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: After being grabbed by vampires on a hunt and being nearly killed. Dean Winchester, your best friend and secret crush comes to save you.
Warnings: Violence, Blood, Torture, Angst, Fluff, Contains vampire violence, blood loss, near-death experiences, emotional confessions, and Dean Winchester being a protective mess.
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 cold gravel bit into your cheek. That was your first coherent thought after the spinning chaos. One moment, you’d been gulping down the cool night air outside the rowdy bar, trying to clear the whiskey haze and the vague frustration of Dean flirting with the bartender again. The next… hands. So many hands. Grabbing, yanking, a fist connecting with your temple so hard you saw constellations. You’d fought, landed a satisfying crunch of someone’s nose, gotten your knife out for a messy slash across a throat that only seemed to piss them off more. There were too many. Five? Six? Powerful, inhumanly fast. They’d overwhelmed you, a blur of snarling faces and tearing clothes, dragging you into the darkened alley and then… darkness.
Now, blinking gritty eyes open, you registered the rough stone floor beneath you, the dank, wet-earth smell of a cellar or crypt. Rusted chains bit into your wrists, suspended above your head, forcing you onto your knees. Your body was a symphony of agony: throbbing head, ribs screaming with every shallow breath, a deep, fiery ache in your shoulder where teeth had ripped through flesh repeatedly. The metallic tang of your own blood was thick in your mouth and nostrils.
A shadow detached itself from the gloom – the leader, you guessed. Tall, lean, with eyes that glinted like polished obsidian in the flickering light of a single, grimy bulb overhead. He crouched before you, a predator examining its prey. His pale finger traced a sticky trail of blood down your neck, making you flinch violently.
"Mmm," he purred, a sound like gravel rubbing together. "Sweetblood. Truly exceptional. Most humans… they taste like rust and desperation. But you?" He brought his blood-smeared finger to his lips, sucking it clean with deliberate slowness. "You taste like… defiance seasoned with life. A rare vintage."
You spat. It landed weakly on the dusty floor near his knee. "Flattered," you rasped, your voice raw and weak. Every word scraped your throat like sandpaper. "But I’m kinda spoken for. Buddy drives a classic car. Gets jealous easy."
The vampire leader chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Your ‘buddy’ won't find you here. Not in time." He leaned closer, his cold breath ghosting over the raw puncture wounds on your neck. "We’ve enjoyed you slowly, Sweetblood. Savored every drop. But the feast is nearing its end. Tonight… I claim the last sip myself."
He lunged, fangs bared, aiming for your jugular – a killing blow.
THWACK!
The sound was wet, final. The vampire’s head snapped to the side, a look of eternal surprise frozen on its face, before it tumbled from its shoulders. Behind him stood Dean Winchester, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a fury that eclipsed the sun, his silver machete dripping black ichor. Behind him, Sam was tearing into another vampire with his own machete, the air filled with snarls, the clash of steel, and dying shrieks.
"Y/N!" Dean roared, kicking the headless corpse aside. He was on his knees beside you in an instant, his rough hands frantically searching your neck, your pulse point. His face was pale beneath the grime and blood spatter, etched with a terror you’d never seen before. Your vision swam, the edges darkening. Dean’s face was the only clear thing left, a beacon in the encroaching void. You felt terrifyingly light, disconnected.
"Dean..." you whispered, the sound barely audible.
"No! No, no, no!" Dean’s voice cracked. He ripped his flannel shirt off, wadding it up and pressing it hard against the worst bite on your neck. His other hand cradled your face, his thumb smearing blood and dirt across your cheekbone. "Look at me! Stay with me, dammit! You hear me? You can't die! Not like this! Not after everything!"
You tried to focus, tried to find the strength to respond, to offer some feeble reassurance. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide open oceans of raw panic and something else… something desperate and profound.
"Dean..." you breathed again, your lips barely moving.
"I love you!" The words burst from him, raw and ragged, tearing through the lingering sounds of Sam finishing the fight. "You stupid, reckless, amazing woman! I love you! So you stay with me! Stay with me!"
His confession, shouted against the backdrop of death and despair, was the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing you’d ever heard. A tiny flicker of warmth sparked somewhere deep inside your icy numbness. You tried to shape words, maybe a smile, anything to tell him you heard him, that you knew. But the darkness roared in, pulling you under like a riptide. The last thing you saw was Dean’s stricken face crumpling as your eyes fluttered closed, your body going terrifyingly limp in his arms.
"NO! Y/N!" Dean’s scream ripped through the crypt, primal and anguished. He gathered your limp form against his chest, rocking slightly, ignoring the tacky blood soaking through his t-shirt. He pressed two fingers frantically against your neck. Nothing. Or maybe… the faintest, slowest flutter? He couldn’t tell. Panic seized him, cold and absolute. "CAS! CASTIEL! I NEED YOU! NOW! SHE'S DYING! GODDAMMIT, CAS, HELP ME!"
The air crackled, charged with ozone. Castiel appeared in a rustle of unseen wings, his coat askew, his expression grave as he took in the scene: the carnage, Sam panting beside decapitated bodies, Dean cradling your lifeless form, covered in your blood, his own face a mask of utter devastation.
"Cas!" Dean choked out, tears finally spilling over, cutting tracks through the grime. "Heal her! Please! You gotta heal her!"
Castiel knelt swiftly, placing two fingers against your forehead. His brow furrowed in intense concentration. A faint, warm blue light emanated from his touch, bathing your face for a moment. You didn't stir. The light pulsed weakly, flickered, and faded. Castiel withdrew his hand, his expression grim and apologetic.
"I have healed the immediate mortal wounds, Dean," Castiel said, his voice low and strained. "She will not die. But my grace… it is diminished. I cannot restore all that was taken. The blood loss… the trauma… it remains. She needs human medical care now. Rest. Time."
Dean stared at him, then down at your frighteningly pale face. The rise and fall of your chest was shallow but visible. Alive. Breathing. Alive*. The crushing weight on his chest eased just enough to let him draw a ragged breath. "Okay… Okay. Sam! Keys! We've gotta move!"
Sam was already moving, kicking aside vampire limbs. "Got 'em! Back door's clear. Let's go!" Dean tossed Sam the Impala keys.
Dean moved instantly, scooping you up with surprising gentleness despite his frantic haste. You were a dead weight in his arms, your head lolling against his shoulder. He carried you like the most fragile, precious thing in the world, pushing past Cas and following Sam through the crypt's rear exit into the blessedly cool night air. The Impala gleamed under a sliver of moon, waiting like a loyal beast.
Sam yanked open the heavy back door. Dean slid in first, still holding you, maneuvering awkwardly in the confined space. He settled against the worn leather, pulling you onto his lap, cradling you against his chest. He positioned your head carefully against his shoulder, ensuring your airway was clear. One arm wrapped securely around your back, the other hand instinctively stroked your hair, fingers trembling.
"Easy, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice rough but infinitely softer than moments before. "You're safe now. Got you. Just hold on." He pressed a shaky kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your blood and sweat and beneath it, you. "Hold on for me."
Sam slammed the driver's door shut, firing up the engine. The Impala roared to life. "Hang on, Y/N!" Sam called over his shoulder, peeling away from the cursed building with a spray of gravel. "ETA to nearest hospital, twenty minutes!"
"Just drive, Sam!" Dean barked, but there was no real heat in it. His entire focus was on the fragile weight in his arms, the faint pulse he could now feel under his fingertips pressed to your wrist. Every labored breath you took was a prayer answered. His own breath hitched as he felt a tremor run through you. "That's it," he whispered, tightening his hold just a fraction. "Just breathe. Just stay with me. Cas said you're gonna be okay."
The miles blurred by outside the window, the Impala eating up the dark road. Dean didn't move, barely breathed himself unless it was to adjust his grip minutely. He kept his eyes fixed on your face, watching for any sign of consciousness, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your arm. The terror of believing he’d lost you, the echo of his own desperate confession hanging in the air between them… it was a storm still raging inside him. He rested his cheek against the top of your head, closing his eyes for a moment, whispering promises against your hair that he prayed you could somehow hear.
The sterile smell of antiseptic was the first thing that registered. Then, the scratchy feel of cheap motel sheets. And warmth. A solid, comforting warmth pressed against your side and radiating against your skin. You pried your eyes open, blinking against the harsh light filtering through the thin curtains. Sunlight. Morning? You were lying on your back in a narrow bed.
And Dean… Dean was sitting on the edge of the mattress. His back was mostly to you, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. He looked exhausted, shoulders slumped, but tension radiated off him like heat waves. His fingers were locked together so tightly his knuckles were white.
A wave of dizziness washed over you as fragmented memories flooded back: the alley, the crypt, the chains, the pain, the blood… the vampires… cold terror… and then Dean. Dean screaming. Dean begging. Dean saying…
A tiny, involuntary sound escaped your lips. A soft gasp.
Dean’s head snapped around so fast it was a blur. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, locked onto yours. The sheer, overwhelming relief that flooded his face was staggering. The haunted fear that had been etched there moments before dissolved, replaced by a brightness that made your own eyes sting.
"Hey," he breathed, the word catching in his throat. He shifted instantly, turning fully towards you, one hand coming up to gently brush hair away from your forehead. His touch was achingly tender. "Hey, sweetheart. Welcome back. Don't try to move too much yet, okay?"
His voice was rough, gravelly with exhaustion and suppressed emotion, but so incredibly gentle. You tried to speak, but your mouth was desert-dry. You managed a weak little swallow.
"Easy," Dean murmured. He reached behind him to the nightstand, grabbing a plastic cup with a straw. He carefully guided the straw to your lips. "Small sips."
The cool water was bliss. You took a few careful sips, the liquid soothing your parched throat. He pulled the cup back, watching you intently. His gaze swept over your face, lingering on the bandage taped high on your neck, then down to where another bandage peeked out from the collar of the borrowed t-shirt you wore – Dean’s, judging by the faded Metallica logo.
"How ya feelin'?" he asked, his voice low. "Pain? Dizzy?"
You focused on him, the intensity in his green eyes, the worry lines etched deep around them that hadn't been there yesterday. Memories crystallized: the crypt, his desperate shout, the raw confession ripped from his soul as he thought you were slipping away.
"I love you! You stupid, reckless, amazing woman! I love you!"
A slow, weak, but unmistakable smile curved your cracked lips. You found your voice, hoarse but clear enough.
"So... you love me, huh?"
Dean froze. His eyes widened slightly, then crinkled at the corners. A puff of air escaped him, half a laugh, half a choked sob. He shook his head, a disbelieving grin spreading across his face, chasing away the last shadows of fear. He reached down, his rough, calloused fingers gently capturing your hand where it lay on the blanket. He lifted it, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your bruised knuckles. His eyes never left yours.
"Yeah," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion but filled with a warmth that seeped into your bones. "Yeah, I love you. Way too damn much. Scared the ever-lovin' crap outta me, sweetheart."
He leaned down then, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You didn't. You tilted your chin up. His lips met yours – a gentle, tentative press at first, tasting of whiskey and exhaustion and pure, unadulterated Dean. It was soft, lingering, a promise and an apology and a testament all in one. You kissed him back, the motion small and weak but filled with everything you felt.
The kiss deepened slightly, a silent communion of relief and love in the quiet morning light. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek.
The motel room door clicked open. Sam stood silhouetted in the doorway, holding two steaming paper cups of coffee and a paper bag that smelled like greasy diner food. He took in the scene – Dean leaning over you, your lips still faintly touching, the palpable tenderness in the air. He let out a long, slow sigh, leaning against the doorframe.
"Only took her almost dying to get you to admit it," Sam drawled, a wry, knowing smile playing on his lips. "About damn time, Dean."
Dean pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours for a second, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. He didn't look away from you, his eyes bright with affection and lingering worry. Without turning, he raised his free hand dismissively in Sammy's direction. "Shut up, Sam," he said, but there was no bite in it, only a profound, bone-deep contentment. His thumb traced your cheekbone again. "Just… shut up."
His attention was solely yours, the world outside the circle of his arms fading away. "How are you feeling? Really?" he murmured, his gaze searching yours intently.
