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imabee-oralizard · 3 days ago

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forgiven

PAIRING — ex!dean winchester x fem!reader

SUMMARY — two years after you broke up, dean convinces you to let him help you with a hunt.

WARNINGS — angst, hurt/no comfort, major character death, torture, reader and dean ‘hate’ each other

WORD COUNT — 6,610

SONG — my tears ricochet - taylor swift

NOTES — writing this fic almost killed me. why does dean winchester turn me into an anguished poet.

masterlist | taglist

Regret.

Dean was a man with a long list of them, but as he stood in a field, watching the pyre burn alongside his brother and Bobby, he found himself placing you at the very top. You were the biggest regret of his life, and he hasn’t even made it to his thirties. He regretted shutting you out. He regretted letting you walk away. He regretted not looking for you when he finally came to his senses. He regretted not being fast enough.

He regretted letting you die.

Sam and Bobby had told him one too many times that it wasn’t his fault, but wasn’t it always? Wasn’t it always him making the hard choices, only for them to be wrong, in the end? Wasn’t it always him who had the blood of innocent people staining his hands? Wasn’t it always him that isn’t fast enough, isn’t strong enough, isn’t good enough?

Wasn’t it him that got you killed?

He’d heard things from other hunters after you broke things off with him. How bloodthirsty you’d become, always working alone, working efficiently, working ruthlessly. He’d hated it, deep down. How you dug yourself deeper into the hunting world when all either of you ever wanted was to get out. It killed him inside, knowing you were still in the business, even if a larger part of him carried hatred for you, albeit misplaced. Dean would never admit it aloud to anyone, though. Sam was often on the receiving end of his outward projections and rants at how much he hated you, and so was Bobby, on the rare occasion he saw the Winchesters. But the inward reflection of his soul was full of hurt; pain and grief and regret buried deep, dug up when Sam was asleep in the Impala and Dean waited for you to start some kind of weird conversation — only to remember you weren’t there anymore.

It came back to him every once in a while, the memories Dean never wanted to relive. They were too domestic (at least, as domestic as they could get in their line of work), too happy. But they were always hidden, waiting for Dean to be at his weakest. In an old mixtape, in a certain Zeppelin song that would play on the radio, in the crappy diner meals he would eat late into the night, in the glint of light off the silver ring you gifted him on his last birthday with you.

He wanted to hate you. He wanted nothing more than to hate you. But all you wanted to do was help him. His dad just died, of course all you wanted to do was help him. Dean was just too busy spiralling and drowning in his own grief to see it. That’s what he liked to tell himself. It was the grief that pushed you away. Just another thing his father wouldn’t let him keep to himself, to enjoy and cherish. He put the blame on his father, because why wouldn’t he? John Winchester was responsible for just about every other bad thing in his life thus far, why wouldn’t he be responsible for pushing you away, too?

So, like you, Dean hardened himself, diving headfirst into the very next case Sam was able to find. He ignored the pain, closed himself off, and got back to doing what he did best — hunting.

It was easy enough most days. In fact, it made him just that much better at what he did. It should’ve been concerning, at the very least, but Sam knew better than to step in Dean’s path. So, he watched silently as his brother, slowly but surely, crumbled beneath the weight of his own steeled emotions. But it didn’t show; not really, not beyond the occasional breakdown or bender, not until Sam and Dean arrived in Chicago.

The case itself was mostly cut and dry, they could see that before they even reached the city. Bobby had offered it over to them, a suspected shapeshifter that enjoyed preying upon people by taking on the faces of their ex-boyfriends and torturing them to death. It was gruesome, to say the least, but it wasn’t anything the Winchesters hadn’t seen before. In fact, it practically solved itself, save for the fact that the locations didn’t quite line up with the sewer system, and therefore, they had to take their time in locating the shapeshifter’s lair.

Their first clue that something was wrong was when they interviewed the first victim’s best friend.

“And you’re sure Katie was fine when you left?” Sam asked.

“Yes! Katie doesn’t— didn’t drink. She hated the stuff. We thought Matt was already gone, I mean, he said it himself. He was about to move to Boston.” The girl — Ashley, Dean thought her name might’ve been — reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “Why are you asking all this again?”

“Again?” Dean stiffened.

“Yeah, again.” She scoffed. “Another agent was here yesterday. A woman, I can’t remember her name. Mick? Something like that?”

Sam’s face dropped. “Agent Nicks?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Look, she already asked me all this stuff before, can’t you guys just leave me alone?”

Dean and Sam shared a quick glance before the latter closed his notebook. “Of course, we’ll get out of your hair.”

Neither of the brothers spoke until they were in the Impala, Sam reaching for his phone while peeling away from the curb, dialling Bobby’s number and putting him on speaker.

Bobby didn’t have the chance to breathe on the other line before Sam was speaking. “She’s here.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise we were playing a game of Guess Who.” Bobby snipped. “Who the hell are you talking about, boy?”

“Y/n. She’s in Chicago. We just talked to the first vic’s friend, she said another agent already talked to her. Agent Nicks.”

Bobby cursed under his breath. “She ain’t gonna like you two bein’ there.”

“Well that’s just too bad,” Dean piped up, practically white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We’re already here. And I’m not leaving a case behind just because little miss wants to pitch a fit about it. We’re finishing this hunt whether she likes it or not.”

“On your head,” Bobby conceded. “Just be careful, boys. She ain’t the same girl she was two years ago.”

“We will. Talk to you later, Bobby.” Sam huffed as he ended the call, eyeing his oddly silent older brother as they headed back to their motel room.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your voice was sharp, laced with anger directed at a pair of haunting green eyes.

“Working the case, sweetheart,” Dean smiled condescendingly, leaning against the bar. “You know, you should try to be a little less conspicuous next time, Agent Nicks.”

Damnit.

“And which conspicuous name are you using this time?” You tilted your head, chest already filled to the brim with barely contained rage. “Johnson? Perry? Oh, maybe it’s Plant! You always did have a hard-on for Zeppelin.”

“Would you—” Dean cut himself off with a heavy sigh. “God, you’re so— You know, I don’t know how the hell I put up with you for so long.”

“I guess I was just really good in bed,” you shrugged, a coy smirk playing on your lips. If this had been some post-hunt pub night years ago, Dean would’ve kissed that smirk right off your face. But it wasn’t. It was now, in Chicago, in a hotspot for shapeshifter activity and you hadn’t seen Dean’s face in so long that the presence of it now only made your blood boil.

“Whatever. We’re both in this now, whether you like it or not.”

“Like hell,” you nearly spat, finishing off your beer. “I work alone, Winchester. Or haven’t you heard?”

“It’s funny that you think I still think about you.” Dean scoffed a laugh. “We might as well do this together. Shapeshifters, they’re tricky business.”

“For you, maybe. Besides, taking on a shapeshifter in a group practically spells trouble. Ever since I left you guys, I’ve had no trouble taking them out on my own.” You shrugged, like it was no big deal.

Dean huffed, suddenly frustrated at your vehement refusal to work together. “Look, if we don’t work together, we’re only gonna get in each other’s way. And you and I both know neither of us are just gonna give up the job. That’s not how we work.”

“Why are you so insistent that I be anywhere near you, Dean?” You asked, dropping your angry mask and giving into the slight heartache behind it. “Because if I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted me gone.”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his mind fumbling for any response that he could save face with. His green eyes flashed with hurt, only to be swept away by his tired, nearly pleading puppy dog eyes — nowhere near as convincing as Sam’s, but you were the only person he was ever able to charm with them, anyway. “Because it’s safer, and you of all people should know that I’d never hang a hunter out to dry like that. Especially—”

Dean cut himself off, his heart aching as he seemed, just for a moment, to forget what you two really were. Bitter exes with a taste for violence; proximal bombs so close to going off. If only you weren’t just that, then Dean would’ve said what was on his mind. Especially people I care about. Especially you.

You eyed the elder Winchester wearily, his words scratching at the crumbling walls around your heart. You hated to admit it, but maybe, just this once, Dean Winchester was right. These past few years had been wearing you down, stripping your resolve down to nothing more than a single, solitary wall protecting the worst thing you could think of from reaching your heart. You were tired. More so than you were when Dean first suggested getting the hell out of hunting. Back when he suggested it for the both of you, and ideas of an apartment and a dog and a normal fucking job were included in hushed conversations before bed in a crappy motel.

And then John Winchester sacrificed himself to save his son, and everything slipped out from underneath you. Because you knew the truth, long before Dean ever figured it out. John had told you himself — his final act, the only selfless thing he’d done for his boys. He begged you to get them out, told you that killing yellow eyes didn’t matter anymore. He just wanted his sons safe. And you couldn’t even do that.

With a final sigh, a too-long look into Dean’s eyes, and the echo of John Winchester’s final words to you ringing in your ears, you conceded. “Fine. But if anything happens, Winchester, so help me—”

“I know, you’ll kick my ass.”

“Actually, I’ll key your car, but that works too.”

Once you finally put all three of your heads together, it wasn’t difficult to find the shapeshifter’s central hiding spot. All of the locations it’d attacked at were no more than a 15-minute walk from an abandoned factory, which seemed to be the perfect spot. It irked you that you still didn’t know exactly how the shifter was picking and choosing its victims, but as long as it was dead before dawn broke, you would be content.

So, loaded up with silver — a knife tucked up your sleeve and some handy silver bullets loaded into your pistol, you joined the Winchesters in hunting a monster for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

Your reunion with Sam was much more pleasant than your encounter with Dean, as the younger of the brothers had always had a soft spot for you. He considered you family well before Dean had even had the guts to ask you out, and he was just glad that you’d been staying safe during the years you spent apart.

“So, what exactly are we doing?” You’d asked, leaning over the Impala’s front seat, eyeing both Winchesters like it was any other hunt. The ride up until then had been eerily quiet, no one speaking a word and no music playing, which was unusual for Dean. But that was only because the last cassette mix you’d made him was still in the player, and he refused to show any kind of weakness. To show you that he still kept some parts of you around.

“Factory’s pretty big, so we might have to split up for a bit, see what we can see.” Dean reminded you, sending you a cursory glance in the rearview mirror.

You grimaced. “I don’t like the sound of that. A shifter could do anything with that kind of vulnerability between us.”

“And it’ll take hours for us to find the damn thing and gank it if we all stick together,” Dean argued, gripping the wheel a little tighter. A sliver of moonlight glinted off a ring on his right ring finger, and you noticed absently that it was the one you’d gifted him for his birthday just before you’d broken up.

“And we won’t be able to gank it at all if it looks like one of us and then we all die, Dean!” You shot back, voice rising in volume. “I’ve done this enough to know that if we stick together, our chances are better.”

“We’re splitting up and that’s final. I don’t like it either, but it’s our best shot at finding this thing. From what I know, it’s quicker than most shifters, and that means it’s more dangerous.” Dean reasoned, and you knew better than to keep fighting him on it.

“Look,” Sam stepped in, turning to catch your gaze as you slumped back against the backseat. “It’ll be a lot quicker, but just in case something goes wrong, you shout. If you come across one of us and think it’s the shifter, pull your knife. It’s not the best, but Dean’s right, and it’s all we’ve got.”

You merely huffed, silently conceding to the brothers’ plan and ignoring the twist in your gut. Your mind was practically screaming at you, begging you to get away from the Winchester brothers and complete this hunt on your own. You would’ve made an exception for them in any other case, if it has just been any other monster. But shapeshifters relied on groups. They relied on the connection between mimic and victim. And your connection to Dean alone was too big of a risk to take just to kill one stupid monster.

But that monster had killed three people in the span of two weeks alone, and you would be damned if you let it kill anyone else.

So, you tamped down the anxiety brewing in your gut and let the lull of the Impala bring you a comfort you’d been sorely missing over the past few years. Despite what you led others to believe, hunting by yourself was lonely. There was never any backup, and you could die at any given moment, but it was all you had left. You, your weapons, and the faith that you’d get lucky enough to live another day.

You were living on luck, really. Luck and grit and hustling drunk guys at pool or poker. Always on the road, never sticking around, and never letting anyone get close. You’d tried it once with Dean, and all it got you was heartache. Hunting was the only thing left, and after all, violence was your preferred method of distraction. You remembered one of your first hunts after you and Dean had broken up — a particularly rowdy vamp nest in southern Oregon, hell bent on wreaking havoc on an entire town just to quell their bloodlust. You’d been too blinded by the idea of releasing your anger on them that you failed to see how big their nest truly was. All of them younger, more energised vampires than you were used to. They were quick, but you were far more skilled, and you’d almost had them all when one of them sideswiped you with a knife of its own, jamming between your ribs and leaving you nearly too weak to finish the rest off. But you’d done it anyway, before collapsing in the dirt outside. You thought you were going to die that night, bleeding out under a beautiful canopy of bright, white stars and a silver moon. And you would’ve gone willingly, with Dean as your last thought. Your last, heart wrenching, regretful thought. And then, with all the anger and willpower you could muster, you got back up. Because if there was one thing you would not do, it was die so young. So young and so unaccomplished and so unloved. And you would not let your last thoughts be of the man who so willingly pushed you out of his life to succumb to his grief, when all you had wanted to do was help him through it.

The cut of the engine turning off pulled you from the depths of your mind, darkness enveloping you as the headlights ceased. Turning to the window, you glanced at the distant, towering factory. It was decrepit; all shattered windows and crumbling brick. Graffiti covered almost every surface, and you could see how it was the perfect space for a shapeshifter to lay low.

Stepping outside, you re-checked all your weapons. The silver knife, still tucked in your sleeve. The gun, its magazine still loaded with silver bullets. Another knife, made of regular steel, tucked into your boot. It was an old switchblade, and had seen its fair share of kills over the years. One of the few things from Dean that you refused to part with, mostly due to how well it had served you in tight spots.

The walk into the factory, armed to the teeth with knives and flashlights, was silent. You all knew the plan, what was to be done. Nothing else needed to be said. With a few nods and nudges, Dean directed you all to different areas of the sprawling, decrepit building. The top floors were mostly gone, and you could see right through the holes in the concrete above. It was mostly a maze of heavy machinery and different rooms, and before you knew it, you were walking carefully, all on your own, toward the backend of the building. You could no longer hear either of the Winchester brothers’ footfalls, and the lack of noise within the building put you on edge. You kept your eyes and ears sharp, ignoring the chill in the room and the way your heart hammered behind your ribcage. The last thing you needed was to slip up. To let the shifter get the jump on you in some way.

Your movements were precise as you swept through each room, gun in hand and flashlight sweeping across the dark factory, searching for any clue that could lead you closer to the shifter. It felt like hours had passed until you stumbled upon a mound of flesh and liquid, gagging as your light glinted off it. It seemed fresh, too, and you briefly wondered if the shifter was off torturing someone else in the city and this plan was now a bust.

Then something scraped behind you, and you turned quickly, only to meet Dean’s squinting eyes. He was in different clothes, lacking a flashlight.

“What happened to your clothes?” You asked, tone tight.

“Covered in shifter juices. I had to change.” He huffed, already fed up.

“Your flashlight?” You asked again. “Where is it?”

“Battery died. I went looking for you when I got back inside. You were right, we should stick together.” Dean relented, and wearily, you nodded and lowered your gun, your grip on it still tight. You didn’t want to trust him, but it was Dean.

“Let’s go find Sammy and sweep back around. I think this thing’s bedroom might be nearby. If these things even have bedrooms.”

Beside you, Dean scoffed a laugh. “Doubt it.”

You eyed him again, wondering what the hell had gotten into him. “Since when are you so chipper, Winchester? I thought you hated the sight of me.”

“I don’t,” Dean shrugged simply, eyeing you quizzically when he caught your gaze. “What? I may not like you, but you’re right. Shifters ain’t fun going after alone, especially in a group.”

“I know.” You said, your voice tight. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. But you kept yourself level. “That’s why I didn’t want either of you coming with me. But you just had to be persistent, didn’t you?”

“Well, you know me,” Dean shrugged casually, turning down a hallway.

“Yeah, I do know you.” You said, walking a bit faster to stop Dean in his tracks. Your eyeline lined up perfectly with his chest, and you did your best to remain calm as you gripped your gun tighter. “And I know damn well you wouldn’t go anywhere without your necklace. Not even if you changed your clothes during a hunt.”

Dean looked down at you as though you were crazy, a hand coming up to grasp gently at your bicep. “What are you talking about? I left it in the car, I swear.”

“Yeah, right.” You snipped, glancing down and finding the ring you gave him to be missing as well. “And your ring? The one you promised me you’d never take off? Where’s that?”

Not-Dean’s grip tightened on your arm, almost unbearably strong. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Now why would I keep wearing my ex-girlfriend’s ring after not seeing her for two years, hmm? Did you really think you meant that much to me, sweetheart?”

This wasn’t Dean. You knew it wasn’t. But the look in his eye was eerily similar to the one he gave you the day he forced you out of his life, and the words he spewed twisted the knife you didn’t know was still lodged in your beating, bleeding heart.

In an instant, you raised the gun and attempted to step back, trying to aim and shoot as quickly as you could. But it got the jump on you, first, gripping the pistol’s barrel and striking your forearm, wrenching the gun from your grip and tossing it down the hall behind it. Immediately, you slid the knife out of your sleeve and into your palm, raising it to strike. The shifter blocked that movement, too, grabbing at your wrist as it began to arc downard, squeezing so hard that the knife clattered to the ground. You tried to fight back, but with its grasp on your raised arm and now the hand twisting painfully into your hair — a familiar feeling, now tainted with fear and pain and panic — made you practically useless.

“Oh, sweet thing, I am just gonna love tearing you to pieces.” Not-Dean snarled, its sadistic smile churning your gut. You inhaled sharply, about to cry out, when it tugged on the roots of your hair, forcing a whimper from you, instead. “Not so fast, darling. We’re gonna have a little fun, just ourselves, before either of your boys can join in.”

His voice was what you couldn’t comprehend. Sure, that last fight before you broke up was brutal; shouting and cursing each other out and saying things you weren’t sure either of you had meant to say, but this? Hearing him so easily speak about hurting you, like it was nothing, that was what you couldn’t bear. Even if it was the shifter.

You looked around, finding quickly that you were in a rather secluded part of the building. The far right corner, judging by the window placements. There were beams and trolleys and pieces of equipment laying everywhere, coated in rust and god knows what else. Not-Dean guided you easily to an oddly clean chair in the room, and you sat down willingly, hoping and praying that one of the brothers would stumble upon you sooner rather than later.

“Tsk, you’re such an obedient girl, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Not-Dean smirked.

“Don’t call me that,” you growled, watching him lean down beside you and grab a long rope.

“Right, because Dean was the only one you let use that nickname,” he nodded sarcastically. “Does it bother you? That I’m in his head, that I know what he thinks. That I have his face.”

You shook your head as he wrapped the rope tightly around your wrists, pinning them behind the chair. “No. You’re just as big of an ass as he was. But you probably know that already, don’t you?”

“I do,” not-Dean chuckled, tugging on the rope with the final knot to secure it before heading to your ankles. “In fact, I know everything he’s ever thought about you, sweetheart. And boy, you should hear some of the things he used to think about you.”

“I’m good, actually. Thanks.” You grimaced, meeting not-Dean’s eyes as he smirked. He placed both hands on your knees, the warmth spreading through your jeans as he pushed himself up and dragged a trolley over to you.

“Are you sure?” He asked, skimming over the items on the table. “He’s had some very naughty thoughts about you, Y/n. And recently, too. The things he wants to do to you…” Not-Dean tsked and shook his head, finally picking up a knife.

“Gonna cut me up with that little thing?” You smirked, watching the shifter consider it for a moment before putting the knife back down.

He smirked and walked the short distance to come and stand before you, crouching to meet your eye level as he said, “I had something a bit more… tantalizing in mind.” Reaching into your boot, the shifter pulled your switchblade from where it hid. “Now this seems like a much better weapon, don’t you think?”

You stared at the folded switchblade, your heart thumping rapidly in your chest. Even after you and Dean broke up, that knife made you feel safe, tucked away in your boot. It had seen a lot of action since then as well, effectively protecting you from both monsters and drunkards on more than one occasion.

The shifter opened the blade slowly, sliding it into its final position with an echoing click. He ran his finger across it first, examining its sharpness before turning his — Dean’s — emerald eyes to meet yours. Something sinister brewed among those sharp irises, teeming with hatred and some sick, twisted kind of pleasure.

“Dear old Dean gave you this, didn’t he?” The thing smirked. “I’m sure you know why, right?”

“To protect me.” You growled, shifting helplessly beneath the ropes. “From things like you.”

“This?” He scoffed a laugh. “No, this won’t hurt me. But I can’t wait to see what it does to you.”

Not-Dean dug the tip of the knife into the space above your collarbone, hard enough to draw blood and drag it down your chest. You struggled to bite back a scream as he worked the metal down your skin, leaving behind a stinging gash when he finally pulled it back, his eyes shining with some sick sense of pride as he stared at it, at the blood dripping down into the valley of your chest.

“I know you wanna scream, sweetheart,” Not-Dean taunted, his voice syrupy sweet and dripping with sadistic joy. He dipped his head closer, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke. “From what I’ve seen up here in this pretty little head, you’re quite the screamer, aren’t you?”

“Go fuck yourself,” you spat, face hardening as the shifter pulled back and stood to his full height.

He wore the same, simmering rage that Dean often had before he ended things with you. The face he wore when you confronted him about his behavior, the one he wore before he punched Sam for bringing John up in the first place. It sent a strike of fear through your chest, barely concealed behind your hardened features.

You watched it turn into a smirk as he twirled the blade expertly between his fingers, lips pursing and eyes squinting as they raked over your form, as though deciding what to do with you next. Like he had all the time in the world to figure out how to hurt you the most.

“You wanna know something?” Not-Dean asked suddenly, throwing you off. “Something… secret?”

“Why do I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me no matter what I say?” You glared.

Not-Dean laughed. “Smart girl! Right on the money.” He smiled, resting his palms on his knees as he bent slightly to reach your eye level. “See, I know something you don’t,”

You remained quiet, hard eyes watching his every move.

“Remember all those naughty little thoughts I said Dean has about you?” He didn’t wait for a response as he sighed and straightened up. “Well… he has them all the time. In fact, he pretty much thinks about you 24/7. It’s… well, it’s pathetic.”

Not-Dean spat, his face turning hard and angry again as he sighed. “It’s like you’re on a loop in his head. Everywhere poor Dean looks, there’s something to make him think of you. Such a shame he was the one to push you away, isn’t it? I mean, you are quite the looker.”

You growled as he whistled lowly, his grip tightening on the knife as he stalked closer to you. He brought it to your cheekbone this time, smirking to himself as it dug into the flesh and sliced quickly. You hissed at the sting, feeling the blood trickle down to the corner of your mouth, the cool air of the factory soothing the cut slightly.

“It’s quite a shame that I want to ruin that pretty face of yours so much,” the shifter pouted mockingly, rearing back and landing a punch to your already injured cheek, throwing your head completely to the side. It took you entirely by surprise, a small grunt falling from your lips as you clenched your jaw and tried to hide the pain.

You swallowed hard when you hung your head and saw your blood staining his knuckles — Dean’s knuckles. And then he laughed, the way Dean used to when you’d make some corny joke that caught him off guard, and your throat went dry.

“Tired already, sweetheart?” Not-Dean chuckled, gripping tightly to the hair at the back of your scalp and pulling hard, forcing a yelp from you as he forced your gaze to meet his. “Better make this quick, then, shouldn’t we? After all, those Winchester boys can’t search this building and not find us. And I want you looking nice and broken when they do.”

You swallowed down as many of your cries as you could for the following beat down you received. Slashes with your own knife across most accessible expanses of skin, punches and hits everywhere else. Your lip was split open, tinging your spit with the never-ending taste of copper.

“If you’re gonna kill me,” you gasped, chest heaving as blood trailed down the side of your neck. “Just fucking get it over with.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Not-Dean pouted with a shrug. “Besides, it’s not just you I want to hurt.”

Hurt pulled at your chest as your eyes met his, the realization swimming behind your wide eyes. He didn’t just want to hurt you, to break you however else you could still be broken after everything else you’ve been through. The shifter wanted to hurt Dean. It wanted to break him.

“Hurting me won’t do anything to him.” I scowled despite my bruised and bloody face. “He’s the one that pushed me away, remember? You saw that, didn’t you? In his head?”

“Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said?” The shifter scowled back, his voice low and rough, the way Dean usually sounded during hunts. “Dean still loves you. Hell, he never stopped, sweetheart. He’s too headstrong to admit it, but he is. And seeing you like this, all broken and bloody because he didn’t listen to you, because he just couldn’t stay away… that’ll kill him from the inside.”

“You’re wrong,” you rasped, swallowing your tears with a pained gasp. “Dean Winchester doesn’t love me anymore. And killing me sure as shit won’t do anything to hurt him.”

The shifter growled, the sound low and deep in his chest as he gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him as he inched closer. For a moment, his attention was caught by something else, and then his lips upturned in that sadistic smirk. “Looks like we’re about to find out, sweetheart.”

With swift movements, the shifter cut your ties and hauled you from the chair by your forearm, his solid, familiar chest pressed to your back and his own forearm pressing you to him by the neck. Your hands came up to claw at his arm immediately, digging in but getting nowhere as you squirmed against his tight hold.

Almost instantly, Sam and Dean charged into the room from the door you stood parallel to, guns and knives drawn, pointed at you and the shifter.

Dean’s wide eyes looked from the shifter, the spitting image of himself, then to you. He hoped you could see how sorry he was. The plea to forgive him for not listening to you, for letting you get hurt because of his stubbornness filling his beautiful green eyes to the brim.

And you did. You forgave him the moment he first pushed you away, even if you didn’t want to admit it for a very long time. You made sure to tell him that with a single nod, just as the shifter adjusted his hold on you and smirked.

“Well, well, just in time, boys,” he said, pressing his arm a little further into your neck and forcing a choked sound from your throat. “So glad you could make it for the main event of the night.”

“Let her go.” Dean barked, adjusting the hold he had on his gun and aiming it right at the shifter.

Not-Dean scoffed. “Please, Dean, put that thing down. I know you’re not gonna shoot me when I have her in my way. She’s very useful, you know. Human shield, a fun little plaything… I can see why you kept her around for so long.”

When no one spoke, not-Dean hummed approvingly. “Exactly. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with.”

Your mind didn’t process what happened until it was already over.

A small flash of steel below you, cutting into your tank top and piercing up through your ribs, digging deep into your flesh. The release of your body from the shifter’s hold, and the way your body immediately crumpled to the floor. One shout and three shots ringing out above you, the shifter falling in a heap no more than five feet from you.

You coughed, sputtering, as you lay there on the concrete. Something dug into your torso with every breath, filling your chest with pain and warmth and something you couldn’t breathe through.

Dean was at your side in an instant, one hand cupping the back of your head as he pulled you into his lap, shushing the pained groans and whimpers that fell from your lips with a shaking voice.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyes flicking to the knife — the knife he gave you — wedged under your ribcage, blood already pooling out of the wound. “Hey. You’re gonna be alright, okay? We’re gonna get you some help.”

“Dean,” you choked out, breaths rasping and wheezing and taking more effort than they ever have before. Something copper coated your lips, your teeth — it was everywhere. You knew what it meant, and from the look on Dean’s face, he did, too. “I’m s— I’m sorry,”

“Hey, hey, don’t,” Dean shook his head, his beautiful emerald eyes filling with tears. “Don’t say that. This isn’t your fault. You’re gonna make it out of this.” His head snapped up for a moment, eyes catching on something you couldn’t see. “Sammy! Help us!”

“D—” you cut yourself off with another cough, blood pooling in your mouth and splattering all over your lips. Glancing down at the knife, you reached with shaking fingers to grasp at it, to press your hand over whatever part of the wound you could reach, coating your palm with blood. “Dean,”

His eyes snapped to meet yours in an instant. “Yeah? Sweetheart, what is it?”

Grunting, you moved your hand to the handle of the switchblade, Dean protesting above you as you shakily removed it with a pained sound, the metal clattering to the floor beside you. Dean’s hand covered the wound as it poured blood, the liquid coating his hand almost immediately. It stained the hem of his jacket sleeve and spilled between his fingers as they clamped over the wound, tinging his silver ring red.

“‘M gonna be okay,” you wheezed, nodding slowly as you kept your gaze on Dean.

“I know,” he nodded back, his voice tight with emotion as he locked eyes with you. “I know, sweetheart.”

“I…” you gasped, finding words harder to speak, your body harder to move. Your mind swam, and you knew your time was limited. “I love you.”

Dean made a choked sound as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, tears sliding down his cheeks, and all you wanted to do was wipe them away.

With the little strength left in you, you reached your bloody palm up to his cheek and did exactly that. The featherlight touch forced Dean’s eyes open, his body shuddering as he breathed in and you forced your hand to stay on his warm cheek.

“This isn’t…” you choked, and Dean shushed you.

“Save your energy, sweetheart. Help’s coming any minute now,” he nodded softly.

You pushed, anyway. “This isn’t… not your fault,” you shook your head, the movement jerking and slow as you practically forced breath into your lungs. Each new breath was unsteady and wheezing, harder to take in than the last.

Dean choked out a sob, leaning over your body and pressing a kiss to your forehead as your hand fell from his face. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You can let go now. You’re safe.”

“I…” you rasped, the words dying on your tongue as the last of your fight dissipated, leaving Dean on the floor of the factory to cradle your limp body close to his as he finally broke, his sobs and cries echoing around the room.

Sam arrived moments later, his shoulders deflating and his heart aching at the sight of Dean. He’d never seen his older brother so broken, so willingly displaying his emotions as he held you, your body cold and pale in his arms as he rocked you.

The shifter had, in the end, succeeded. Part of Dean died with you that night, hatred and regret filling the gaping hole within him. He knew nothing else would ever try to fill it again, and a large part of him never wanted it to be filled. He wanted to sit with the hurt for the rest of his life, because it was what he believed he deserved.

You had gone willingly in his arms, a final admission of love dying on your tongue, leaving behind an ache Dean knew would never be soothed. Because, despite everything he’d done to you, somehow, you still loved him.

If there was one thing Dean Winchester was full of, after all, it was regret.

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#dean winchester #read later

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