Meet Carlos Winchester (me), the younger brother of Sam and Dean (and also Adam).
I am a hunter just like my brothers and have been a fair bit of trouble when it comes to demons since they seem to think I'm an easy target, plus our Dad; John, Sam and Dean are like the big three so Adam and I aren't well known about the the demons don't really know what they're getting into.
I'm close with Cas and I helped take care of Jack, actually siding with Cas and Kelly when we found out what happened to her.
My anti posession tattoo is on the back of my neck because I didn't want the demons to be able
List of Injuries
Neck: strangulation with nails scars
Shoulder to back: werewolf claw scars
Bicep: Burn mark from demon magic
Back/Spine: Angel experiment scars
In another universe I am Sam's significant other. That is my boy...I love him, cursed and all
In another another universe I am Dean and Cas's significant other. Polycules my beloved!
Friends, I'm beyond excited to finally share my very first @deancasreversebang entry with you!
The lovely @phoenixmichie claimed my silly prompt back in January and made a funny, fluffy, sexy, and overall fantastic story out of it which was exactly what I needed. My silly little art prompt from the beginning is now our banner! And to really taste the challenge spirit, I finally got my procrastinator ass up this week to stress-speed-draw two additional artworks xD I can't feel my hands right now, but I'm super thankful that these Bangs exist to challenge and inspire us creators and to give us opportunities to make new friends within the fandom :)
Speaking of: Silvi, I love our DCRBaby with all my heart! Thanks for sharing your talent with me and giving me wayyy more words to read than you would've had to deliver. I'm happy if I could return the favor a bit with some last minute art :D I can't wait to meet you in May - and to simp over reallife Misha with you :x
A very special thanks goes out to my dear friend @lastoryx who helped us a lot with his wit and beta/plotting/brainstorm abilities! Love you Aaron! <3 :)
You can (and should :P) read “Invaded by You” here :)
@taleswritten semi-plotted starter for Dean Winchester
"Oh my gods! I love your costume! Can we take a picture with you?"
It took a lot of effort for the Imp to not wiggle her ears in delight of that admiring question. She looked up from the map in her hands to see three young human adults standing excitedly next to one another. Her starlit eyes glimmered in joy at their enthusiastic approach, a toothy grin spread across her lips in reply.
"But of course you may!" She folded up the map, flourishing her movements with a humbled bow as she stood up straight. "It would be my honest pleasure to become part of your living tapestry, noble lords and lady!"
The manner of speech akin to that of earlier ages came easy to the woman. After all, she was immortal to a degree. Cyra had lived during the very same ages that the modern peoples had tried so hard to replicate for entertainment such as this. Which is why the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire had taken her interest in the first place. Between the many events that peppered the waking hours of the faire's working time, and the scores of unique merchants that had managed to replicate and improve the methods of their ancestors had always been such a treat to witness and observe. While the magic that some of these 'metaphysical' traders claimed to possess had been nothing more than a room full of sneezed pixie dust, it was the marvel of the patrons that warmed her little fae heart.
The supernatural being tucked the map into her belt, holding her arms out beside her for the two who wanted her photograph to join her in the image. She rested those clawed fingers on their respective shoulders, held her pose and smile while the third grinned and tapped at their device. A few shared laughs and compliments, and the group had stepped away to continue their weekend adventure into the rest of the faire.
Every time she had showed up to these events, there were always a handful of curious humans who asked about her costume, how she was able to make the horns look so realistic, how her ears moved and felt like they were real, and a few other inquiries made in awe of her authenticity. Cyra was no stranger to the marvels of modern technology. While she didn't have these objects of electric convenience for herself, she did make a point to learn what they were used for, and to understand the basics in the event that she had been required to use a 'cell phone'.
Of course, it would be foolish for her to tell any of those passersby that everything she wore had either been an authentic relic of the past, or something she had been able to barter for from the various vendors at previous faires she'd visited. Of course, leather could be enchanted and made to last far longer without decay than if it had survived through the ages without her interference, but cloth would not be so lucky. It was to her great fortune that the choice to do pop-up vendors on occasion made her enough of that modern currency to keep her wardrobe well stocked for the next century. She had no doubt in her mind that this revelry of the past would continue well beyond its' amused relevance in current years.
Yet she had been drawn specifically to this venue in particular. Being born of one of the oldest Gods in human history, Cyra felt particularly connected to these events that held reverence for the slumbering deities that awaited their reawakening with the renewed human worship. While her service to Cernunnos had no longer held any sort of obligatory action on her part, it warmed her heart to know that there were some who still believed in the swarming mass of monotheistic believers. Gods only had power if they had prayers from the devoted. The only thing keeping them alive in their stasis was the natural human need to preserve their history. Of the many traits mankind had, this one was her favorite.
Cyra pulled the map back out from her belt, unfolding it and flipping it over to observe the list of events for that weekend in particular. It was interesting to see it mentioned that there would be a welcoming ceremony for the season of Fall, which- in itself wasn't peculiar as every faire had their own way to celebrate the change of seasons, but it was the rites mentioned that caught her attention. Born of the will of the Horned God, it would have been remiss of her to not to observe. After all, it wasn't often that humans even elected to offer worship freely to a God of Eld, much less one that represented mankind's harmony with nature. Yet it was the name of the ritual welcoming that had been incorrect in accordance with her own knowledge. Had this meant to be true to the annual traditions of their respective time, then there would not have been Latin in the summary of the event.
Without direct access to one of those portable world wide web devices, there was little she could find of the individuals responsible for organizing the event. Her role in this was merely meant to correct and educate the hosts on their level of authenticity. She could easily approach as an expert on the matter, albeit costumed. Perhaps she could get away with appearing as an interested party enthusiastic in playing her "role" appropriately as any good Imp would.
Where to start...now that is a good question!
The thought made her smile.
She turned the unfolded sheet over in her hands, returning to the enormous map of the faire grounds to see if she might arrive at the stage early and find it's organizers present. It was her hope that they would be open to receiving expert criticism of their rather lackluster choice to include Latin phrases in their chant. It was with a gentle nod, a silent approval for her resolve, that she folded the pamphlet back up and returned it to be tucked into her belt. Grabbing the staff that had been leaned up against the tree, she set off away from the food stalls that lined the dusted walkway towards the more wooded paths of the faire. Her tail flicked and swayed behind her for just a few seconds before she schooled it back into submission.
If she was going to appear as just an enthusiastic LARP-er, then her very real appendages needed to at least feel the part, too.
@gloireceleste asked: it's a fucking nightmare world , and the worst thing is it's real and we're living in it ( Balthazar with a drink in hand to Jack or Cael or even someone else if someone else wants it )
↪ 𝑩𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑵𝑨𝑻𝑪𝑯 | Accepting
Cael chews on his own bottom lip. "I'm not drunk enough to have this conversation." He mumbles before blowing out a breath. "What happened now, Balthy? Who screwed up?"
“You can do this, Meg. I believe in you.” // Sadie @marvariants
Meg was in the hospital bed, pushing as hard as she could. “Where the hell is your uncle?” The demon was furious that the baby daddy wasn’t here. She didn’t want to have this baby without Bucky but the baby had other plans.
This haunting series follows the thrilling yet terrifying journeys of Kaydel and Rey Skywalker, two sisters who face an increasingly sinister landscape as they hunt monsters. After losing their father to a supernatural force, the brothers were raised by their mother as soldiers who track mysterious and demonic creatures. When their mother goes missing on a “hunting” trip they take up the family business. Violent memories and relationship-threatening secrets add additional burdens on Kaydel and Rey as they investigate all things that go bump in the night. As old tricks and tools are rendered useless and friends betray them, the sisters must rely on each other as they encounter new enemies.
Along the way they find help from their Uncle Luke ( their encyclopedia that is always a phone call away ) , an ( fallen? ) angel named Finn, and some weird indie folk singer named Poe who claims to be a prophet and seems to be making songs about their life...
12 for the kisses promt. The Inquisitor and the Demon, please.
12. Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss.
(so I like that I have these characters in two contexts because it’s like getting two prompts for the ask of one, woohoo! I am still woefully behind on SPN, so this definitely takes place in a happier, simpler time)
I love you, @thewordsmithofhell
Wordsmith’s eyes shot up though she was careful not to make a move. If she hadn’t just had her hearing checked, she would have assumed she’d imagined it, that faintest woosh of air and the whisper-ruffle of feathers. She waited a moment, listening intently as she sat, carefully poised behind her tiny desk, her quiet little corner of Hell. These days it could have been any number of things–good angel, bad angel, fallen… it was impossible to tell which way the dice would roll.
Slipping her hand to the blade tucked into the small of her back, she held her breath–not that she needed to breathe, it was just a habit–and listened, ears perking up at the faintest sound, and then she heard it. The faint squeak that she almost didn’t place before she heard that woosh again, and this time, was greeted with the almost-there brush of feathers against her cheek, making her squeak as she sat bolt upright in her chair, whirling around to face the angel.
Well, she first came face-to-face with a plain brown paper sack that was held out, along with the manila envelope. Ah, the weekly deliveries to his Highness, she remembered, shoulders relaxing slowly as she looked up into blue-grey eyes that smiled right back. “Hell’s teeth, angel,” she said, letting out the breath she’d been holding as she took the pastries and envelope, setting them down as she stood. “Keep doing that and you’ll end up with a blade in your belly at some point.”
“Mmm,” the angel said, grinning, “can’t help it… already have to sneak in the back door…”
Wordsmith sighed, shoulders slumping a little as she looked up at the divine vessel of the Inquisitor of Heaven. Did she technically still have that title? She didn’t know enough to argue the semantics of titles among the Heavenly Host, but it did make her wonder…
“Do we have enough time to grab a bite to eat, or…?” the angel asked, looking a little hopeful, retracting her wings as she glanced about as if His Majesty would appear simply because she wanted time with the love of her life.
Wordsmith grimaced at that, sighing deeply as she remembered the next four meetings that were lined up almost back to back. “Not really,” she said, starting to slowly escort the angel out, hand resting on the small of her back to give some comfort as a warm arm slipped over her own shoulders. “Barely have a moment to myself for the next month…”
“Awww,” the angel said, frowning a little. “Bummer…”
“Yeah,” she said, sighing as her shoulders slumped. “I know it’s a bit over-stated but Hell really is other people…”
Glancing about for a moment, the angel made sure no one was directly coming before she turned, tugging Wordsmith close by her orange and black and purple tie with the stylized eye pattern as she stepped into an alcove. With a whisper of a sigh, she pressed her lips to the demon’s, and once again the demon could taste starlight and cinnamon, almost melting when her other hand slid up into her hair, toying with the arm of her sunglasses, nails teasing along her scalp and making her shiver into the kiss. Before she could pull her more fully down and enjoy the kiss more fully , the angel pulled away, murmuring, “I love you,” against her lips.
Before Wordsmith could answer, someone came down the hall, making them both jump before the Angel pressed a hasty kiss to her forehead and, with a whoosh of incorporeal wings, she was gone again.
Not gone, Wordsmith reminded herself. Just sitting at home, waiting.
A/N: this is for the spn angst bingo challenge hosted by @spnangstbingo . I've finally begun this journey, and am really excited about it <3
Square filled: Free Space
Pairing : Dean x Reader
Warnings : Loads of Angst, canon typical violence, torture and tears.
word count : almost 5k.
Inspiration : Scientist by Coldplay. also shoutout to @effie-w coz its that vintage clock of hers that got me in love with this song <3
Betaed by @wingedcatninja who offered to help my rusty head. thank you so much<3 your support and guidance refined the fic a great deal. she’s also named the fic, so thank you<3
feedback is much appreciated :)
It had started out as a pretty decent morning – Sam just back from his morning run, Dean sifting through the newspaper pile looking for a case. He had been grouchy lately – ever since he had been stupid enough to drunk dial his ex at one in the morning. He had woken up the next day instantly regretting his actions. She had left him; it was not his fault.
No matter how many times he thought of it, he couldn’t help but blame himself for the end of that relationship. But that call, she had specifically told him that it wasn’t him, she had taken the blame; he should probably accept it.
But she sounded so broken ... was she hurting too, just like he was?
His head whirled around the same thoughts over and over as his eyes raked through the most recent paper, finding an article about a gruesome animal attack two towns over – nowhere close to the wild. An uneasy feeling crept into his gut, his mind repeating her last words; her voice sounding pained and forlorn – “Goodbye, Dean, take care.”
Then his phone rang out, your name flashing on the display as the guitar riff blared out.
“It’s Y/N,” he told Sam with a scowl of pure hatred, masking the tiny seed of hope that had blossomed in his chest.
Sam watched his brother answer the call with a gruff ‘hello’, his expression rapidly changing into one of shock and fear. His face got paler by the second as the person on the other side spoke.
Dean felt his eyes burn as he withheld the tears. The hand that held the newspaper trembled, the article now making sense. The officer at the other end of the call requested him to collect the body and ended the call.
The first tear rolled down his cheek and his world came crashing down as he looked back into Sam’s concerned eyes.
“It’s Y/N,” he whispered.
It took them a whole month to get done with your ‘funeral’ – to get your mangled remains and a handful of bloody photographs from the police, put you back together as best as they could and bury you; for Dean to begin coping with your death; for Sam to accept your absence; for them to start living like normal hunters again. Sam probably tried to get his closure, but neither one was over it yet. At least once every week, one of them would be at your grave, Dean wishing he could have prevented it all, wishing he could go back to where it all started.
The first week, he was a mess; it was supposed to be a short visit, but the nearer he got to your place of resting the more he shattered. The impala too had picked up his sombre mood; her purr sounded like mourning, her radio softly singing one of your favourite songs. He then clambered out and seated himself beside your grave, whispering apologies to you – for not being there, protecting you as he should have.
His mind flew back in time and stopped by the pool table at a dingy bar where he was hustling his daily quota from the other players. They were idiots, and he was taking complete advantage of that. Then you had sauntered in. You were a stranger looking for some fun time; at least that was what you said. Two rounds later, he had miserably lost his entire day’s income to you. While you gave him a victory smirk, he desperately tried convincing himself that it was not your skills but his distracted mind that got him losing. However, you split the money with him the moment the blokes left and the table was cleared. “For all the trouble we go through for these losers, I think we deserve the money”, you whispered showing him the anti-possession tattoo on your wrist. A few beers later, you had traded hunting stories and he had, to his own surprise, offered you a place at the bunker.
His entire frame shook as he sobbed over the death of his best friend, his love, who was unfairly snatched away from him.
Two weeks later, when he returned, he was exhausted – both physically and emotionally. The case they had just finished had been rather gory; but it wasn’t the gore that affected him – it was the victims. They all had something that eerily reminded him of you – the hair colour, the age, the physique. Every time they had a body in the morgue, the boys couldn’t help but remember your mangled form that lay six feet under. The third time, Dean refused to go, unable to stand the grief. That day, the reaper at the crime scene who had popped up to harvest the soul confirmed that your soul was somewhere deep in hell, in some maximum security cell, with the best torturers available. The exact location however was unknown.
Castiel had called in a few days later, only to let the boys know that he couldn’t get that deep in the pit. Crowley had been smart enough to stay away. Dean felt terribly helpless as he sat there by your grave, not knowing how to help you. The usual strings of self blame wove around his head as he thought of endless scenarios where it hadn’t ended this way, where he had managed to save you. What he wouldn’t give to make a deal and take your place... wait a moment.
He abruptly stood up, a plan formulating in his head. Hurrying to his car’s trunk he pulled out everything necessary. Half an hour later, he was ready. The traps and sigils were strategically placed, and the tiny box buried in the middle of the crossroads. The only thing missing now was the demon. Soon enough the putrid stench of sulphur filled the air and a young man in a dark suit popped up, his eyes blood red. At first, Dean bargained his own soul in exchange of yours. When that failed, he drew out the demon blade, threatening and torturing the dealer for information. However, his attempts were fruitless, and ended with the orange-red glow of a dying demon when Dean buried the knife into the monster’s chest in blind fury.
As the sun descended, the rays shone on his handsome face, making the splatter of demon blood glisten. The tips of his dirty blonde hair glowed like embers as he stormed towards his Baby, seething with rage.
When you had first joined their ranks, you had requested just one small thing. “Don’t ask me about my past,” you had said. Both boys had readily agreed; they respected your privacy, knowing firsthand that a hunter’s life never starts with a happy event.
As time passed any kind of discomfort or doubts you had about each other had evaporated into thin air. You had found a family you never thought you’d get again. The boys found you filling in the void they never knew they had in their lives.
To Dean you were like his saviour. He often watched you as you fooled around the bunker, loving how you patiently sat through research with Sam, despite being utterly bored. He loved your enthusiasm when he asked you to accompany him to the bar. He loved how the two of you had fun at the bar, even helping each other get someone for the night. It was all jokes and stupidity, for neither of you took anyone home. Ever since you’d waltzed into his life, his one night stands had diminished in number, and replaced by actual blissful sleep.
Sure, he still got nightmares and woke up in a cold sweat; but somehow every time that happened, you’d be at the door with a look of concern. Neither of you exchanged words – you just walked in and wrapped your arms around him, calming him down with your mere presence. He’d often apologize for it, but you’d always brush it off with a ‘doesn’t matter... wasn’t really sleeping anyways’. You would then soothingly coax the bad dream out of his mind; and he’d simply pour out all his secrets, answer all your questions and then spend hours reminiscing about the early days of hunting when things weren’t this painful. You’d listen earnestly, commenting at some points and by the end of it, Dean would be snoring softly yet again, a part of his burden having disappeared.
Sam loved how you took care of his brother; he saw the love you had for each other, the love that neither of you were even aware of yet. You had now become his best friend, and he often had hinted that Dean and you would make a good couple, but you were ignorant of it. He knew for sure though, that someday it would all click into place. He simply couldn’t wait for the day when his best friend would officially be family, be his sister-in-law.
Now, with you gone the world seemed to have lost colour. The research work was too tedious, the bar nights too lonely and the nightmares more gory and terrifying. The boys no longer had that caring hand comforting them, or that soothing voice loving them. The bunker was too quiet with no sound of high pitched laughter bouncing off the walls, or the steady hum of a song being sung.
Your death had ripped open a huge hole in their lives, and they had nothing to patch it back up with.
By now, it had become a very common sight to have a Winchester mourning at your grave; the mornings were filled with Sam’s tired yet ever hopeful voice, and the evenings reserved for Dean’s pain. They never came together; never even told each other about the frequent visits.
The fourth week thus passed with them wondering why you’d never told them that you were dying.
Dean had always considered you to be his rock; maybe it was your constant support, or your everlasting optimism... to him you were invincible, a constant. So, that one day when he saw you break down he panicked. He had never seen you so broken... and now the memory of your voice, you crying, fallen crumpled in the middle of the road, haunted his mind. It was obvious that hunting was affecting you too and he didn’t like that. So he did the only thing he thought was sensible – he benched you. He gave a different reason every time but it always ended with ‘you’re not going Y/N’. You didn’t like it one bit. You were a full fledged hunter who’d given up on everything other than hunting; to be forbidden from doing the one job you knew didn’t sit well with you... and thus the fights started. Misunderstandings and arguments escalated. Moreover the two of you had just begun being ‘more than friends’, and it didn’t work well.
Your fights left Dean restless and as a result, the hunts often got botched up. Both your minds were losing peace, your lifestyle got more reckless and your relationship got rockier. Sam tried his best to calm the two of you and make you see sense, but you were stubborn and you butted heads ever so often. It finally took one hunt to sever whatever was left. You were benched but you broke protocol and followed them. Time wasn’t on your side, and you almost ruined it for all of them. Cas had turned up last minute and saved you all.
By the time you reached home, Dean was seething with rage. The usual argument turned heated, both your voices loud and bellowing, a volley of angry accusations tossing back and forth until you broke. “You know what?! I quit! I FUCKING QUIT!! I’ve had enough, Dean! It’s clearly not working. We’re over.” Minutes later, you were at the front door, a duffel bag hitched up your shoulder.
Time froze for a millisecond before Dean exploded. “Y/N, DON’T YOU DARE! You walk out that door, don’t you ever think of coming back! IF YOU LEAVE, YOU ARE DEAD TO ME! YOU GET THAT?” for a split second he sounded so much like his father, even Sam flinched at the turn of events – like history repeating itself.
Maybe Dean would hate himself for doing it if only he was thinking straight. Maybe he’d have noticed your tortured face, his comment hitting much closer than he could have possibly imagined. Maybe he’d have apologized and things would be okay. But at that moment, it was a game of egos. “That would be just perfect, wouldn’t it?” you hissed, before storming out, the door clanging shut behind you. The silence that followed was deafening.
The silence seemed to have seeped into the bunker to this date.
In the stifled whimpers of the older Winchester, living his nightmares on repeat.
In the slumped frame of Sam Winchester, aching with suppressed emotions.
In the hushed flutter of the angel wings, as Cas popped by your grave, his eyes sunken with helplessness.
In the quiet of your absence, your grave remained still.
A dull grey evening.
A broken black car, grey with soot and dust.
A lonely grey headstone in the middle of nowhere.
A defeated young man with a pale grey face staring hopelessly at the grave, leaning against the car.
He doesn’t know how to bring you back; he doesn’t know how to move on. The world has stopped for him, it doesn’t even have a meaning.
Regrets. A billion regrets; it’s the same thing haunting him.
Realization... of how the two of you had wasted your time fighting; all the time that you could’ve spent together; if only...
Memories... flooding in – cheesy lines and flirting; hugs of comfort, of love; stolen kisses, fearing the risk; giving in to your feelings; the nights together, loving each other.
“Hey Dean?” you mumbled, your head resting against his shoulder as the two of you sat, leaning against a tree in a tiny meadow Dean had discovered. It was hidden in the woods, a tiny paradise for the two of you. “Yea?” he whispered, not wanting the moment to end.
“Tag. You’re it,” you squeaked, before dashing into the wilderness. It took him a second to process, before he got up and sprinted in your direction. Peals of laughter echoed through the trees as you ran, Dean right at your tail. You knew he'd easily catch you, despite the headstart. “Gotcha,” he growled as he tackled you, holding you close as the two of you came crashing down onto the forest floor. You squirmed under him, giggling the whole while as he watched you in awe.
And suddenly, you looked him in the eye, and he saw pure fear in yours. “Dean!” you gasped out. Startled, Dean pulled back slightly. “Dean!!” you cried out.
A blink of his eyes; you were gone.
“Dean!!!” your voice called out... but you weren’t there.
Sheer panic filled in Dean’s heart as he looked around in vain. Where did you go?
“DEAN!!!!” your voice was right there... where was it coming from? Under the ground?
That just didn’t make any sense.... yet there it was. Right from the depths of the earth.
A voice of pain; a voice of fear.
“DEAN!!!”
A sharp pain burnt his cheek as Cas slapped him out of his stupor; eyes focusing as he came back to the real world, his gaze meeting the concerned looks of Sam and Castiel. No one uttered a word. They simply helped him into the car and drove home.
The skies turned dark; the grave, once again, lonely.
Another case was done and dusted; and here he was yet again. His legs folded beneath him, his shoulders hunched carrying immense grief. A single tear rolling off his cheek and many unshed ones held within. His hands trembled, as he clutched a scrapbook – your scrapbook – tightly.
You had called it a journal; an art journal. And you wrote nothing about monsters in there. Dean hadn’t got it then; now that he had gone through it, he understood it all; hell, now he knew every little thing that was in it. It started out from when you’d joined the boys and contained every happy event that had followed. There were a million photos, drawings and cute cut-out crafts woven into a beautiful tale of a lonely huntress who found the best family. Faces – his, Sammy’s, Castiel’s – were delicately drawn around the day’s events. He didn’t even know how you’d gotten so many photos and it made him smile as he went through over and over. Those tiny flip-book motion pictures of the boys peeked out here and there. His smile only widened when he reached the timeline where the two of you had gotten together. There weren’t many photos – “I can’t even think straight around him, much less take photos”, you’d written. There were drawings though, where you had tried to recreate the time spent together as best as you could... and it was magical; like a fairy tale dream where you’d made him the prince. His heartstrings tugged in grief at the few missing photos, because he knew they were the best ones. They weren’t lost; as a matter of fact they were right there in his hand – slightly frayed and caked with grime and the remnants of your blood from when you had held them while you got torn into ribbons. Why had you made that deal anyway?
His vision blurred as the tears took over, his body casting a long shadow of a broken man, as the sun slipped below the horizon.
Almost the end of week ten; yet Dean hadn’t come to you. Sam however did.
He knew that you were gone, and probably wouldn’t hear what he had to say; but if you could – then you had to know.
The young man knelt by the headstone, a bunch of fresh flowers in his hand – your favourite ones. “He wanted to come... Dean I mean; he wanted to see you, even put up a fight... but I... I just couldn’t let him out; he isn’t well, you know. Mentally – he...he’s crumbling, Y/N/N. He’s hallucinating; he sees you everywhere, and he...he just keeps saying that it’s his fault. He’s drinking himself to sleep, he’s hurting himself... it’s like your break-up all over again; a million times worse this time.” His eyes clouded with unshed tears as he remembered your heated arguments; the way you two butted heads. It seemed all so trivial then; all couples tended to fight – he could see the intense love you had for each other despite all the bicker.
But over the days, your fights simply intensified; almost as if you were doing it all on purpose. And finally one day, it erupted with a final,’it’s over’ and you had walked out, never to return.
This time when the sun set, it cast its final rays on the longer locks of your best friend. “He’s losing it, Y/N; the pain, its killing him. He couldn’t even stand straight today, but he was so persistent about meeting you,” he chuckled sadly, “I had to add a few sleep meds into his drink to knock him out... I know that he’ll hate me when he wakes up, but you do understand my intentions right?”
Sighing softly, he rose. “Y/N, if you can hear me, come back to us. We miss you... Dean needs you back; hell, I need you back. I miss my best friend,” his voice broke towards the end.
The darkness settled in as he drove away.
Week eleven and yet you were still dead; they hadn’t found anything that could get you back. It was a Thursday and would have been your birthday if you were still alive. Sam had visited in the morning, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in his hand. He had sat there for quite a long while talking to you. He was suffering – it was even worse for him because he hadn’t just lost you but also his brother; no matter what show Dean put up every day, he knew that the older one was no more the same.
That evening as the sun set, loud screeching of tires burned away the thick silence around your grave. A car – sleek, black, classic from the 60’s – swerved violently before shuddering to a stop right where the dirt trail to get to your grave started. A man stumbled out; a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was drunk beyond measure, struggling to stand upright.
How many could he have possibly downed just so he could get to this stage?
He fell on his knees with a thud. “I’m so sorry, baby. I was going to celebrate your birthday you know? But you weren’t there,” his broad frame violently shook as the pent up grief and sorrow flowed out of him.
“Why’d you leave? We could have worked it out, why’d you just give up like that?”
The ‘angry young man out for revenge’ facade that he held all day had crumbled, leaving behind a broken shell.
The worst part of it was that you were helplessly seeing everything. Hell apparently had wonderful reception to watch the outside world. Ever since the traditional chop-chop techniques of torture had ceased to affect you, the demons had improvised their torture methods – mind games.
They started out with a regular dose – your family dying, all your best memories with them changing into horror flicks while you watched helplessly. Surprisingly it didn’t affect you; years of recurring nightmares, Dean’s reassuring arms telling you that it wasn’t real, Sam’s wise counselling and all the love you got from them, had finally let you find the closure you sought. You now had a new family.
Then the visions of your family were replaced by the boys – you betraying the two, them suffering, dying, asking you over and over “why, Y/N/N?”... But you survived those too, convincing yourself that it was just trickery and that the boys were safe; they were Winchesters.
And finally one day they just let you see what the world upstairs was up to. That was where you crumbled – at their mourning faces; at Dean’s reckless attempts to bring you back, at Sam’s silence and their frequent visits to your grave. That week was the worst, both for you and Dean. He visited everyday and you watched helplessly as he blamed himself for your death. The boys hadn’t taken a case that week, yet Dean seemed to have injured himself – bruised knuckles, multiple cuts and burns on his arms; never anything serious enough to kill him, but immensely painful. You screamed and bled freely as they carved into your skin, knowing that you were slowly giving up.
The last day of that week or maybe it was the next (or so you assumed for time ran differently out there), the torture seemed way more intense, and though you put up your best fight, you felt your body collapse and black spots dancing around your eyes. The last thing you remember before blacking out being a blinding light encompassed in gigantic golden wings followed by a searing pain in your shoulder.
Four months since your death, three since your funeral and yet he was there every week, reminiscing the time you spent, wishing he could go back to where it had all started.
Thirteen weeks since your funeral; yet he wasn’t over your death. He still found himself pining, wishing, praying, hell even begging for you to come back. This week too, when they returned from the hunt, his hand automatically sought Baby’s keys. Despite the exhaustion, and the desperate need for some booze, he had yet again driven straight to your burial site. Like every week, ever since the funeral, he flopped down on his knees with a soft thud, right beside your grave. His eyes all teary, his voice all hoarse, he repeated the same three words he always said.
“I’m so sorry.”
The sun crawled down towards the horizon, casting its glow on the grief stricken man who sat by the grave. Silent tears rolled down his cheek as they did every time. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, as always, before recounting the week’s events. Soft noises of the underground rodents scraping through and scampering filled the silence as the darkness crept in. The noises – they seemed louder today; not that it mattered to Dean.
Then, just as he rose to leave, the soil that marked your grave started caving inwards, forming a shallow ditch. A hand shot out, feebly pushing off the dirt. A head followed, coughing and spitting out mud. The man’s tired green eyes widened, a gasp escaping his lips.
