I was thinking to myself I need deep and Homelander to go at it crazy style but two bottoms do NOT make a top so I must step in and give them what they CLEARLY need(my dih)
Demon Dean & little sister!reader, Sam Winchester & little sister!reader
Requested by Anonymous
Synopsis: Dean comes after you when he’s a demon. Can Sam get to you in time?
A/N: hey guys, I’m not dead! Here’s a fic, hope you like.
Warnings: violence, blood, angst with a happy ending
Sam didn’t want to leave you alone.
He was either halfway to saving Dean, or halfway to killing him, but either way you shouldn’t be alone with the demon that used to be your brother. But Sam didn’t have a choice.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
He told himself that he needed to get more blood, even though he wasn’t quite out. He told himself he needed to check the warding again, even though he’d checked it half a dozen times.
The truth was, he needed to get away from Dean. That roiling mass of dark energy and evil intentions that wore his brother’s face. After weeks of obsessive searching to save his brother, Sammy needed one moment of selfishness, one moment of weakness where he didn’t need to think about saving anyone.
So he left.
And he would regret it.
…
Sam shouldn’t have left you alone.
Dean watched as Sam muttered something to you about needing more blood, before the both of you left the room. However, while Sam’s heavy footsteps slowly faded out of Dean’s demonically impressive earshot, yours didn’t go farther than the other side of the door.
You were alone in the bunker with him.
It really was a perfect opportunity. Not that Dean didn’t think he could take Sam, but he was weaker with all that human blood in him, and he’d prefer to take you out one at a time.
Dean yanked at his chains in one sharp tug, and they came loose easily. Dean grinned as he tossed the metal aside. Being a demon really did have its perks. But it also had its downsides—such as the paint under him that supposedly kept him from leaving. But if Dean’s theory was correct, with all the human blood in him he just might be able to cross.
Dean took a cautionary step forward. His foot hovered over the paint, then crossed it, then came to rest on un-vandalized concrete. A low chuckle escaped from the back of Dean’s throat as he crossed the room. Ever since he’d died, he felt like he barely touched the ground anymore. The crushing weight of guilt that the lesser part of him constantly struggled under was gone, and now he could float around the world and do whatever he wanted.
At least, he had been able to until you and Sam appeared. He’d make you pay for that.
Dean paused when he reached the door out of his little dungeon. He could hear your staggered breathing just on the other side, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His poor, stupid little sister, always hovering around him as if he were her personal guard. For a while, he had been.
But things had changed.
Dean slammed his fist against the door, and listened with a satisfied smirk as your breath caught and your footsteps started echoing away from him. This wouldn’t be any fun unless it was a bit of a chase. Not that he’d have to work hard to get you—you weren’t Sam. It was almost sad how quickly Dean knew he’d catch you. How quickly he’d kill you.
Once the sound of your footsteps died away, Dean opened the door. He’d heard you go left, but he headed right, in the direction of the weapons cache. Once he reached it, he took his time selecting a weapon. He was in no rush. His hand hovered over a hammer—brutal, bloody, and slow—before he changed his mind and grabbed a gun. It wasn’t mercy. It was Dean’s way of proving a point. Dean wanted Sam to know exactly how he saw you. As an inconvenience to be thrown away. He would let you—the extra, the tagalong—die like collateral damage. Like he couldn’t care less about you. But Sam…
Dean would make Sam die slowly.
He would save the hammer for Sam.
Dean let the gun hang limply in his hand as he strode across the bunker in your direction. Besides the gun and the heavy echo of his boots ominously clashing around the concrete bunker, Dean could’ve been going through a stroll in the park. Killing you wasn’t even a question in his mind. You’d barely even helped Sam—mostly just stayed in the car while your big brother did the hard work—which Dean knew was Sam’s choice. The boys had always been very careful about keeping you out of danger. But that didn’t matter to Dean. You may not have personally tied him to that chair, and you represented no threat to Dean’s freedom, but that wasn’t going to stop him from killing you. Beside the fact that it would send a message to Sam, it was also a pleasant inconvenience to Dean. Like going out of your way to pick up a treat from the gas station. He wanted you dead.
After everything Sam had done, Dean was no longer content with letting anything from his old life live. Dean was dead, and his so-called loved ones would die with him.
Long live Demon Dean.
Dean froze halfway through his stride. The echo of footsteps was gone, but your faint gasps now reached his ears. Dean grinned. He could all but hear your racing heart. He was glad he hadn’t killed you immediately—getting you scared was much more fun, even if it was easy.
“Ohh N/N!” Dean taunted, turning his strut in the direction of your heavy breathing. “Come out, come out to play!”
The patter of your footsteps echoed again, and Dean turned left down a hallway. He caught sight of a flash of your blue shirt sleeve at the end of the hall, before you disappeared around the corner.
Dean chuckled lowly, enjoying how the sound echoed against the wall and the way your gasping became louder after you heard it. You had just turned down a dead end. This chase was almost over, and it was about to end in the perfect place. The hallway you’d turned down ended with a single bedroom.
Dean’s.
Dean heard his own door slam shut, and listened to your ragged breaths as you surely searched for a hiding place. Dean slowed his steps. He would let you hide.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Dean reached his door. He twisted the handle slowly, deliberately, and let the door creak open with just a small push.
“I know you’re in here, sweetheart,” Dean cooed. He could hear exactly where you were, but he took a moment to revel in the way your breath caught at the nickname. The one he once used to comfort you. It felt right to use now. It felt like letting go of the nurturing side that had been forced upon him since childhood.
A floorboard creaked. The room grew eerily silent. Dean could tell you were holding your breath. He let the moment linger like the pause before a rollercoaster drop. Then he took a purposefully silent step toward his prey, and knelt down.
You were under the bed. Regular-old Dean would’ve been pained to see you so vulnerable, acting like a child in a cheesy horror flick. Demon Dean just laughed and wrapped his hand around your ankle. You screamed the second his hand closed around you, but Dean ignored your cries as he yanked you into the light.
Your hands automatically lifted to cover your face, and Dean rewarded your cowering with a swift jab to your ribs. You let out a pitiful sound between a yelp and a whimper as your hands flew to your rapidly-bruising side. As soon as your hands were out of the way, Dean raised his pistol to the side of your head, grinning as your body stiffened and froze.
“That’s it.” Dean’s voice was tauntingly gentle, like he was soothing a crying baby. “Stay still, or this will hurt so much more.”
“Please De—“
You started to shift, testing your boundaries. Dean wasn’t in the mood to be tested. He moved his gun an inch to the right and fired into the concrete. Your body convulsed in a dramatic flinch, and Dean watched as a trickle of blood dripped down from your ear that was closest to the gun.
Tears tracked down the sides of your face, mingling with the blood coming out of your ear.
“I said stay still,” Dean growled, and he could tell from the way you squinted your eyes at him that you were reading his lips—your ears must’ve been ringing from the blast that Dean’s superhuman abilities protected him from.
Despite your damaged ears, you got the message and obeyed it. You shook like a leaf, but you didn’t try to squirm or move your hands again.
“De,” you whimpered. “Please don’t—please don’t hurt me Dean.”
The tears were coming faster now, and your breathing was becoming shallower.
Dean lingered in the moment, relishing every second he got to explore the newfound freedom in his soul. He knew that the human version of himself would be wracked with guilt looking at your terrified face. The mark of Cain version of himself would’ve been angry at your obnoxious cries—he was always angry, in a way that only made the guilt feel worse.
But here, now, this black-eyed, better version of Dean didn’t have to feel any of it. He could finally let go of the family that had been weighing him down for too long, and he didn’t have to feel bad about it for a single second.
Dean slowly lifted his thumb to the hammer of his gun and pulled it back, grinning as you flinched at the crack of the gun cocking.
“Dean?” Your sob came out as a question, as if you were looking for your big brother and didn’t see him in front of you. Good. You were learning.
Just to let the moment play out a little longer, Dean moved his gun away from your face. Relief lighted your features. Dean was excited to see it wash away. But first—
Dean’s free hand came up to the side of your face while his gun traveled lower, finding its spot right above your lung.
Dean’s palm brushed your face just as the muzzle of his gun brushed your ribs. Your face twitched, ever-so-slightly, toward Dean’s hand, as if you actually believed it was there to comfort you.
Then your brain seemed to register the gun that was pressing against your skin, and the horror returned to your eyes.
“Dean, don’t do this,” you pleaded. “You’re my—“
Dean pulled the trigger.
He felt your blood splatter across his face, staining his cheeks, his hair, his toothy grin. But he didn’t care.
Dean waited to feel something negative—remorse, guilt, grief—but no such feelings came. His demon soul was truly, profoundly free.
A single tear tracked down your face, remnants of the begging that had done you no good.
Your chest convulsed up and down in a crude attempt to find air, and a horrible gargling sound escaped your mouth as proof that no air would come. You were drowning in the blood that was quickly filling your lungs, just as Dean aimed for.
The light was slowly draining from your eyes, but still you kept them trained on Dean.
“De—“ a whine that sounded like a twisted attempt at Dean’s name tore from your throat as Dean got to his feet. You coughed, and blood tainted your lips scarlet. You would be dead within seconds, but Dean couldn’t be bothered to sit around and wait. He wasn’t going to offer you the comfort of dying in his arms.
Your hands twitched up at him as he rose out of reach. Even now, even after he’d murdered you, you were still looking for your brother behind the black eyes. Dean wasn’t about to let you find him. He wanted the last thing you ever saw to be him, doing what he should’ve done the second John placed you in his arms.
Walking away from you.
…
Sam would never forgive himself for leaving you alone.
As soon as he’d returned to find the dungeon door open and Dean’s chains on the floor, a horrible pit had opened in his stomach.
He’d left you alone with a monster. And now the monster was out.
The bunker was eerily silent except for the pounding in Sam’s ears as he began the search for his siblings.
He didn’t know which one of you he was looking for. He didn’t know if he even wanted to find either of you. He didn’t know if he was ready for what he would find.
He wasn’t.
The sound that tore from his throat the moment he laid eyes on you wasn’t human. It wasn’t animalistic, either. It was raw. It was grief in echoed form.
He wasn’t sure when his legs gave out, he only knew that he was now closer to your deadened eyes, and his pants were now soaked with your blood.
Every part of him knew that you were already long gone, but he cradled your body anyway, as if he could turn back the clock and at least give you the slightest comfort of dying in his arms.
He couldn’t.
You’d faded away on the unforgiving cold concrete, with no one to hold your hand and no one to wipe your tears. It wasn’t just that Sam hadn’t protected you—he’d let you die alone.
The three of you had been through almost every pain it was possible to go through. But none of you had ever been allowed to die alone.
The presence hit Sam before he even saw his brother. The room suddenly felt shrouded in darkness and stiff with cold. The air felt sucked out by the presence of an evil Sam didn’t want to face.
For a moment, neither brother spoke. It took every ounce of Sam’s courage to lift his chin a few inches to face his big brother.
Your blood was smeared across Dean’s cheek. A grin split his face, wide in an almost unnatural way. But the worst part—the part that hit Sam in the gut and made him want to throw up—was that Dean’s eyes weren’t black. Dean was still a demon, but he’d chosen to face Sam with a green stare that only stood to remind Sam of the brother he’d lost.
The brother that had killed his sister.
“Why—“ Sam voice came out in a broken sob. “Why would you do this? She only ever wanted to help you! She only—we only wanted to save you!”
Dean’s smiling composure didn’t waver.
“I told you I didn’t want to be saved. I warned you—“ Sam flinched when Dean raised his hand. He was clutching a hammer in his fist, pointing it at Sam. “And I warned her. And now I’m gonna give you the same chance I gave her. Five.”
Five?
“What?” Sam breathed.
“Four.”
…
Sam was out of the room before Dean got to three. Dean watched as his little brother spared an agonized glance at your body before disappearing around the corner.
Sam’s footsteps echoed in Dean’s ears as he finished his count. He listened for the footsteps to stop as he stepped over your body, but they kept going.
Sam had run right past the armory. Interesting.
“Zero!” Dean called out as he followed his brother’s path. “I’m coming for you, Sammy!”
…
Cas had arrived in time to save Sam, and Dean was back in the dungeon.
Sam stood just outside the door, his hands shaking. He was barely holding it together, and it had nothing to do with Dean chasing him around with a hammer.
He’d lost you. He hadn’t protected you when it mattered most.
Sam watched Castiel pace and knew that the angel was blaming himself, too. If he’d arrived earlier, he could’ve stopped Dean.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Sam could’ve stayed, Cas could’ve moved faster, heck, Dean could’ve fought the evil inside him just a little harder. The blame game never ending and impossible to win, with countless possibilities and different paths that it was too late to take.
You were dead. You were dead, and you’d died alone, and the three men in your life that had once loved you more than anything were responsible. No amount of blame games could fix that.
“It’s time to finish this,” Sam said at last. “It’s time to bring Dean back.”
…
For one, fleeting moment, Dean thought the agony that ripped into his soul might destroy him from the inside.
But this was not a pain that would do him the mercy of killing him.
Dean was on his knees with his head in his hands, though he wasn’t sure when he’d been freed of his restraints. Cas’s voice was hovering around him, but he couldn’t make out the words. When he finally managed to look up, Sam was there. Dean saw his own pain reflected in his brother’s eyes, and for a moment he wanted to scream, until he realized he already was.
The cry broke off when he ran out of air, and though he suddenly heard the sound of his own gasping, he couldn’t feel the lack of air. He couldn’t feel anything other than his newly-purified soul cracking under the weight of his guilt.
“I…I want to see her.” He didn’t even know when he’d decided to speak. The words just came. “Is she…”
“I…” Sam’s whole body twitched as he swallowed, as though every movement hurt. “I haven’t moved her yet.”
Walking the hallway to Dean’s bedroom felt more like walking to an execution chamber. Each step landed heavy, the echoing click pounding in Dean’s ears.
His door was still open, and Dean saw a trail of red blood before he saw you. The sight of your body washed over him in waves, each one impossibly more painful than the last as he took it all in.
The blood that had dripped from your ear after he fired that shot just for the sheer joy of scaring you.
The pool of red covering the floor around your chest, where he had shot you knowing that it would hurt so much more than a bullet between the eyes. He hadn’t wanted to give you the mercy of a swift death.
Your still-open eyes, from when you had looked for him as he turned his back on you.
Your barely-outstretched hand, from when you had reached for him as he walked away. Reached for him until your strength gave out.
Dean’s hand shook as he reached down and closed your eyes. He’d been around enough death to know that it didn’t look like sleeping, even with your eyes closed, but he did it anyway.
He didn’t kneel down. He didn’t cradle your body the way Sam had. It was too late for that. He had chosen to let you die alone on the floor, and trying to make up for it now by holding your cold body just felt like a pathetic cop-out.
Instead, Dean lifted you into his arms and set you gently down onto his bed. His fingers groped around for his blanket, and when he found it he pulled it up to your chin. Not over your face. Not yet. That was too final.
“She was cold.” Dean didn’t know who he was talking to, but the three words were the only way he could explain why he’d tucked you in as though you had just fallen asleep.
She was cold.
She was alone.
I did this.
Sam didn’t speak. That was worse. Dean wanted Sam to blame him, if only to know that Sam wasn’t blaming himself.
It wasn’t Sam’s fault. But Sammy always carried guilt, and Dean had never been able to take it from him, no matter how hard he tried. Guilt about Mom. Guilt about Jess.
And now you.
“We should—“ Sam’s voice stopped abruptly. Dean knew why. There was so many things they should do, but not yet.
They should burn your body.
They should tell their friends.
They should say goodbye.
It was too soon. Dean didn’t want it to be real yet, but the blood all over his hands made it all too real already.
Dean’s eyes moved from you to his little brother.
“You should get cleaned up,” he said finally. Sam’s clothes and hands were soaked in your blood.
“You too,” Sam echoed.
Dean nodded. He needed to do something, something that wasn’t looking at your pale face or mentally planning how to say goodbye.
He would take a shower. He did that every day. It had no sense of finality to it.
Dean moved like a ghost through his own room, refusing to look at his bed. He retrieved clean clothes from his drawer, his hands trembling when his fingers brushed a gray hoodie—the one you always liked to steal.
He left it in the drawer.
Dean stood under the hot water until it turned cold. He watched your blood go down the drain, trying to pretend it was someone else’s.
A vampire, like the one you’d killed on your very first hunt.
A wendigo, like the one he’d saved you from.
His own, like that time a hunt went sideways and you’d had to drive him to a hospital.
Anyone’s but yours.
…
You woke up alone.
Your eyes snapped open, your chest heaving for breath that came easier than you thought it would. You sat up, the gentle weight of Dean’s blanket sliding off you. Your hand shot up to your side as images flashed in your head.
Dean chasing you.
Dean shooting you.
Dean walking away.
Your fingers couldn’t find the bullet wound. You lifted your shirt and looked down. You were still soaked in sticky red, but you couldn’t find a wound. Your ribs were bruised from where Dean had struck you, but there was no hole. No bullet.
Your confusion fled, to be replaced by panic, when Dean’s bathroom door opened to your left. Dean emerged, no longer covered in your blood, but that didn’t matter.
He had hunted you down.
He had killed you.
You threw yourself out of bed and ran out the door, not daring to spare a glance behind you.
You didn’t know how much time had passed—long enough for Dean to change clothes—and you didn’t know why you were alive. Those questions could wait. You weren’t going to let Dean kill you again.
“Sam!” You screamed, listening to the sound echo around you. You could only hope that he was back now, that he could save you.
“Y/N!”
It wasn’t Sam’s voice that answered, but Dean’s. He was close behind you.
“Sam!” You called again, hesitating when you reached the war room. The dungeon, or Sam’s room? You didn’t have time to ponder, but the wrong answer could mean death. Again.
You turned left, down the hallway that led to Sam’s room.
“Sam help!”
You couldn’t let Dean kill you again.
…
“Y/N!”
Dean had a thousand questions, but he didn’t dare stop to think about them yet. He’d stepped out of the shower, and before he could stop himself, his eyes drifted over to where he’d laid your body. Only now, you were sitting up. His foot hovered halfway through a step, and his breath froze in his throat.
Then you’d seen him. The sight of him used to bring relief to your eyes when you were feeling scared, but this time your face drained of what little color it had, and you were out the door before Dean could even think to wonder why you were alive.
And now he was doing the last thing he should be doing—chasing you. He knew you were scared, but he had to get to you. He had to tell you that he wasn’t going to hurt you. You needed to know he wasn’t a demon anymore. He had to know why you were ok.
So he ran.
…
Sam had been out of the shower for a while, but he didn’t leave his room. Instead, he sat cross-legged on his bed, trying to keep his mind from picturing how you died.
It wasn’t working.
His imagination became so vivid, that for a moment he thought he heard you calling for him.
Then his door burst open.
“Sam!” You were a sobbing mess in his arms before he could even begin to understand what he was seeing. Sam’s arms came around you subconsciously even as his mind worked overtime.
This wasn’t possible.
You couldn’t be here.
“N/N?” Sam pulled you back, his eyes trailing over your blood-soaked clothes. He reached down to where he knew your wound was, and lifted your shirt.
It wasn’t there.
“What—what—“
“Dean’s after me,” you sobbed. “Please don’t let him get me again Sam, please don’t let him—“
“Hey—hey—“ Sam tucked your trembling form in his arms. The hunter part of him wanted to question this—to question you, to test you in case you were a shifter, or a demon. The scholar part of him realized that the bunker was too warded for anything to get in, but also didn’t believe that you could be alive. But the big brother part of him just wanted to dry your tears and tell you everything was gonna be ok.
The big brother won.
“It’s ok,” he soothed. “Dean’s not a demon anymore. He’s never gonna hurt you again.”
“He killed me,” you whimpered. “Sammy, he—he killed me.”
His arms tightened around you. “I…I know.” Sam’s chest ached. “I’m sorry, I’m—“
“Y/N.”
You flinched in Sam’s arms at the sound of Dean’s voice. He was standing wide-eyed in Sam’s doorway, looking like he wasn’t sure whether he should run away from you or toward you.
“It’s ok,” Sam promised. “He’s not a demon anymore.”
Emboldened by Sam’s words, Dean stepped forward.
“Sweetheart—“
Sam felt you flinch again as you tucked your head against Sam’s shoulder.
“Not yet,” Sam told Dean. “Just—just give her a minute. Go get her some water.” This seemed the most subtle way to tell Dean to get out without actually needing to tell him to go.
Sam waited until Dean was gone to speak again. “I know you’re scared. But I promise, he won’t hurt you again, he’s—“
Sam’s phone rang in his back pocket. Frowning, he pulled it out to glance at it. Crowley. He answered it.
“What do you want?” He demanded.
“Moose. Lovely talking to you too, as always. Did you get the gift I sent you?”
Sam’s eyes flicked down to you.
“Did you bring her back?”
“I finally get rid of one Winchester only for you idiots to send another one down to me. I hear Dean’s human again. I just dumped him, I’m not looking to have him come track me down again demanding his little sister back, so I sent her before he could come pounding at my door.”
“I…you…” Sam didn’t know what to say.
“No need to thank me,” Crowley interrupted. “Just keep your family out of hell and away from me.”
The phone clicked.
You blinked up at Sam as he put the phone down, looking to all the world like a little girl who had been through too much.
“Crowley brought me back?” It wasn’t an observation, it was a question.
“That’s what he said. You don’t remember anything?”
You shook your head.
“Does—does that mean that somebody has to go to hell? Did one of you sell your soul?”
“We’re gonna be fine,” Sam promised. “Nobody is going to hell.”
Sam knew Dean would be back any minute. He took another look at you—you were still shaking, and there were still tears in your eyes. You weren’t ready.
“Why don’t you go clean up?” He suggested gently. “Use my shower—I’ll bring you some clothes.” He didn’t want to think about how panicked you’d be if you ran into Dean on the way to your room.
You nodded mutely and made your way across the room, but stopped just before you reached the bathroom.
“Are you sure he’s better?” Your voice came out strained and small.
“I promise,” Sam replied firmly. “He’s just regular-old Dean again.” Sam hesitated. “He’s never gonna forgive himself for what he did to you.”
You pondered this for a moment.
“I will,” you decided. “Just…I’m just not ready yet.”
“That’s ok. He can wait.”
You stood in the doorway a moment longer, before stepping through and shutting the door behind you.
…
The glass of water was shaking in Dean’s hands. The sound of you choking on your own blood kept replaying in his head, and he couldn’t make it stop.
Sam appeared to be waiting for him when he returned. You weren’t in sight, but the sound of the shower running in Sam’s bathroom explained why.
“Crowley brought her back,” Sam spoke softly, as if he was trying to preserve a fragile sense of peace. “No deals, no red tape. He just didn’t want you to come looking for her in hell.”
Dean’s voice came out thin and rough, like sandpaper, after a long pause.
“So we got lucky.”
“Yeah.” Sam breathed. “Yeah. We got really lucky.”
The door opened slowly, so slowly that Dean only noticed it because of the way it creaked. He hadn’t even heard the shower turn off, but now the quiet in the room felt suffocating.
You had a towel wrapped around your shoulders like a cape, and you were drowning in Sam’s old Stanford hoodie. Dean hadn’t realized how much your blood-soaked clothes had been affecting him until you were no longer wearing them. He no longer felt like he was staring at a walking corpse, but instead his living, breathing little sister.
The one that he had drained the life out of, and reveled in the act.
“I’m sorry.” The words were so pathetic, so inadequate, but Dean had nothing else to say.
“I know.” Your eyes flicked up to Dean’s before you looked back down. Your shoulders hunched in, like you were trying to make yourself smaller.
Dean took slow steps forward. When you didn’t step back or cower, he lifted a gentle hand to your cheek.
“I can’t make up for this. I just want you to know—“
You flinched suddenly away from Dean, almost tripping over your feet to back away from him.
Your hyperventilating triggered alarm bells in Dean’s head, and he realized just what he’d done.
The last time he’d touched your face like that, just hours ago, he’d had a gun pressed into your ribs.
“I’m sorry.” Dean choked. “I—I didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry—“
Sam was between the two of you in an instant. He faced Dean, as if guarding you.
“Just give her some space.” Sam didn’t sound angry. He just sounded tired. He turned his back to Dean and wrapped you in his arms, muttering something in your ear.
Dean could do nothing but stagger out of the room, echoing apologies all the way.
…
Memories were slamming unbidden into your mind.
Dean’s gentle hand on your cheek.
The cold muzzle of a gun pressing into your ribs.
The bang.
The spurt of blood.
Drowning.
It was happening again. There was no gun, no bang, but it was happening again. Dean. His touch on your face. And now…
You couldn’t breathe.
Your ears were ringing, just as they had after Dean fired that shot next to your head. There was no blood, no bullet, but you were still drowning.
Then, a voice that hadn’t been there when you’d drowned the first time.
“N/N, listen to me. You’re safe, you’re safe now. I’ve got you, just breathe.”
Sam. He’d come at last to save you.
Too late. You had already drowned.
But no. Not this time. This time, your desperate gasps for air were successful, even if it was a struggle. Your vision wasn’t clouding, blood wasn’t clogging your airways and staining your lips.
“That’s it, that’s it.” You could track your breathing progress based on the relief in your big brother’s voice. “You’re doing great, just keep breathing.”
You weren’t drowning. You weren’t dying. Dean wasn’t going to come after you again.
Your mind was sure of these three things, but your body wasn’t ready to let go of the panic just yet.
You didn’t know if it would ever be ready.
…
Dean was sitting on the cold concrete floor of the bunker, his back against the wall, when Sam’s door open. You emerged slowly and took a seat on the floor next to Dean.
“I know it wasn’t you.” You didn’t look at Dean as you spoke.
“But you’re still scared of me.”
“I’m trying not to be.” You paused before turning to face Dean fully. “I forgive you.”
Dean could hardly meet your eye.
“I don’t.”
You let the words hang in the air for only a moment.
“You’re allowed to feel that way,” you decided. “But this time, I think how I feel is more important. Since you know, I’m the one who got murdered.” The smile you gave Dean didn’t reach your eyes, and Dean didn’t even try to return it. Instead, he gave you a single, steady nod. You were right. This was about your safety, not Dean’s self-loathing.
“I want you to forgive yourself,” you added. “But I know why you can’t yet. But I want you to try.”
Dean gave no promises. He didn’t think you expected any.
You sank back against the wall, facing away from Dean again.
“We’re pretty screwed up, huh.”
Dean hummed.
“But maybe—“ you reached out and grabbed Dean’s hand in yours. Not trust, not yet. But something like it. “Maybe we can fix it.”
My finger slipped and accidentally pushed the send button on my other ask, this is lowk embarrassing💔
But I was wondering if you could do a spencer reid with an emo bf?? I feel like they would literally be polar opposites clothing and maybe interests wise😭 i also kinda feel like he would get teased a lot by Morgan because of his bf being emo lol like he would say some shit like "love at first geek" LMFAO
If you do this req, I will literally give you my spencer reid cutout trust but if you dont that's also okay🥹
i got so confused about the other one lol. Totally! I really like this idea, and my self-insert oc for Criminal Minds is pretty alternative!! i present to you, EMO BOYFRIEND!! Thanks for the ask, -Asher
-> Spencer Reid and his Emo/alternative boyfriend!
Details: fluff, headcanon format, third person, male!reader, established relationship, 307 words!
Spencer Reid, who was spotted with a very... interesting-looking man at the movies on Friday night.
Spencer Reid, who when asked about it, just turned bright red and mumbled something no one could here.
Spencer Reid, who, when Derek Morgan found out about his boyfriend, was teased relentlessly.
Spencer Reid, who tried his best to listen to music his beloved liked, but MUCH preferred his classical music instead. But he wouldn't ever judge his boyfriend.
Spencer Reid, who started wearing slightly darker clothes, and had a small enamel pin of a skull on his shirt collar one time, courtesy of his boyfriend dressing him every morning.
Spencer Reid, who would let his boyfriend paint his nails black, no matter what questioning looks he got from the BAU.
Spencer Reid, who also let his boyfriend try eyeliner on him, and found himself really enjoying how close his boyfriend had to get to paint the eyeliner on.
Spencer Reid, who always enjoyed watching his boyfriend get ready in the morning, especially when he began putting on his 1000 accessories.
Spencer Reid, who would proudly hold his beloved's hand in public, not caring about odd looks they might get for being so different.
Spencer Reid, who would go thrifting with his boyfriend every other weekend, and enjoyed watching his boyfriend soft through clothes and accessories.
Spencer Reid, who wouldn't stop telling his boyfriend facts about gothic literature, hoping to god to impress him-- that was when his boyfriend had kissed him for the first time.
Spencer Reid, who proudly put a photo of him and his lover on his desk, in a black frame with little skulls and crow-heads decorated on it.
Spencer Reid, who would watch in amazement whenever his boyfriend DIYed his clothes, always easily impressed by his beloved's creativity.
Spencer Reid, who wouldn't trade his alternative lover for anything.
-> Constructive criticism is appreciated and encouraged!!
Fic where Spencer wants to kiss his bf but every time he does his partner smiles uncontrollably (and that prevents the kiss from going any further) and Spencer is mildly frustrated, but partner only smiles so much because they love when Spencer tries to kiss him
CUTE! i literally love this <3333 Happy Pride month, Asher
-> Spencer Reid tries desperately to get further than just a simple kiss, but his partner's smiling always spoils his plans 0~0
details: fluff, silly, gn!reader, established relationship, use of Y/N, making out/kissing, 489 words!
There they were, in Spencer's apartment on his couch. This was it. Spencer was finally gonna work up the guts to do it! To go further than just a quick kiss on the lips. He was aiming for something along the lines of making out, but it didn't matter too much. As long as the kiss lasted more than .2 seconds.
Spencer was nervous. He looked at his partner lovingly.. They looked angelic.. Even though they were just sitting on the couch with him, watching tv in their pyjamas, Spencer couldn't think of a better sight.
He worked up the courage to lean over and pucker his lips. Y/N noticed this and met his lips. Spencer was going to make a move to open his mouth, when Y/N smiled so gently and warmly.. Spencer couldn't do it. He pulled off.
Another time, they were getting ice cream. Spencer had finished his, and Y/N was finishing theirs as well. Spencer waited until they were done before leaning forward and puckering his lips again... and again, Y/N kissed him briefly, before smiling and melting Spencer's heart.
Eventually, Spencer had tried a total of 322 times over the course of 2 weeks. Each time being met with failure. Until one night, they were at Y/N's apartment, cuddling on their bed and watching a movie on their laptop.
"Spencer?" "Yeah?" "Why do you keep kissing me so much more than usual?" Spencer's cheeks heated up.. How was he supposed to answer that? Honestly? No, they'd think he was a freak... or would they? "I.. promise you won't judge?"
Y/N giggled, "I promise!" "I.. I keep trying to make out with you.. but every time I kiss you, you smile and I can't bring myself to ruin it... Your smile is so perfect.. I just can't bring myself to wipe it off." Y/N's heart warmed. "Aw, Spencer... I smile when you kiss me because you make me so happy. I love receiving your affection..."
Spencer's face only reddened deeper. "O-oh.." "If you wanted to make out with me.." Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind Spencer's ear. "You could've just asked." Spencer swallowed nervously. Was this it? Was he finally going to get what he had so desperately craved?
Y/N pressed his lips to Spencer's, only this time it was different. Instead of the usual smile-and-pull-away, they opened their mouth, running the tip of their tongue between Spencer's lips to part them.
Spencer groaned and happily obliged.
When Y/N had pulled off 6 minutes later, Spencer was on cloud 9... He had a goofy smile on his puffy lips. "Satisfied?" Y/N asked, holding in a laugh. "Y-yeah..." Spencer whispered.
"See, babe? All you have to do is use your words." Y/N teased. Spencer knew right then and there that he would BEG to be kissed like that again if he had to.
->constructive criticism is appreciated and encouraged!!
