#Hurt Dean WInchester | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sweet-lost-husbands · 2 years ago

Text

To Save You

Dean Winchester x Castiel | Whump | Injured Dean Winchester

Hurt/Comfort Word count: 3.2k Summary: Dean and Cas are on a hunt when things go sidewards. Dean gets hurt and Cas's powers are to weak to heal him so he has to improvise. Warnings: Serious injury, blood, gore, cauterization. Italics are the character's thoughts REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Dean opened his eyes as a big bold head with dark skin came into view from the side. In that moment he propelled himself from the tree and started into a sprint.

“Oh, not so fast little hairless monkey.”

Dean didn’t turn around as the guy swiped his hand, sending him onto a tree with a thud. Dean let out a shriek of pain as the wind got knocked out of him. He tried to fight it, the energy that was pinning him, crushing him against the trunk but the more he fought the more violent the ripples of pain were sent through his body. Dean watched helplessly as the angel neared.

A shiny blade fell from his sleeve and into his hand. “I’m going to gut you, and I'm going to enjoy it.” A feral smile twisted in his lips.

Each beat of Dean’s heart thundered through his entire body. As the angel held the blade up. “The last image you will see is your own intestines outside of your body.”

Quick, he just wanted a quick death but hell maybe he deserved a slow one. At least, there was one fact that wouldn’t change, no matter how much pain he would or wouldn’t be put through, at the end, he’d be set free of this world. Free of his father and his trauma and everything that haunted his dreams.

In a swift and accurate movement, the angel swiped at his abdomen but at the same time was jolted backwards. Dean shuddered as his flesh tore and blood poured out.

He sank to the floor half resting on the base of the tree. He watched as Castiel threw the angel against the ground, kicking him then taking out his own angel blade, swinging his arm with force and jabbing it through his heart. Even dead, the angel’s eyes and mouth opened, glowing a bright white light before fading.

Cas rushed over to Dean squatting at his side. Worry and concern relishing in his features. Cas placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. Dean squirmed, trying to inch away from his grasp, he was to scared, to fucking scared. Dean was starting to become confused and disoriented. White spotted in his vision and a sharp pain blasted at his stomach.

“It's okay, I'm not here to hurt you. It's me, Dean. Your angel. Cas.” Cas’ voice was soft, but his eyes were laced with apprehension for what damage had been caused. He whispered little soothing nothings into Dean’s ear in hope they would coax Dean to let him help.

“Let me see your wound.” Cas slid a hand to the hem of Dean’s shirt readying to gently reveal the wound, but Dean pulled away, fighting off Cas’ hands. Cas withdrew trying to assess the wound from where he was. But all that he could see was red and a shit lot of it too.

“’m fine!” Dean shouted but his was voice hoarse with pain. There it was, his favourite phrase ‘’m fine,’ but the sad part was; he used it most of the time when he knew he wasn’t. It hurt like nothing he ever felt before. Everything was shaking and he gritted his teeth begging for the pain to stop. He didn’t want Cas to see it. He didn’t even want to see it himself. Right now, he could just pretend he’d gone through worse and just hope that it was okay. Even though he could feel the warmth of his own blood while his mind drifted and red stained his clothes and deep down, he knew it was bad.

“No, you're not, let me help.” Cas stared intensely at him, his beaming blue eyes grounding Dean but not yet conquering his acceptance. Dean tightened clutching his middle.

“Go away! I refuse to be a burden. I can patch myself up.”

Without warning Cas made the decision for Dean and drew closer once again. Dean swatted Cas’ hands away.

“Dean! Stop fighting me. I swear to god if you die, and I had an opportunity to help you-….. I can’t let that happen.”

Dean’s stomach radiated with pain and his eye lids felt heavy. Deep down he knew that he couldn’t afford to fight Castiel any longer.

Cas made eye contact with Dean giving him a serious look as a warning before he returned his gaze back to the wound and grabbed the bottom of Dean’s shirt. He half expected Dean to wriggle and object. When Dean didn’t do either of those things, Cas carefully lifted his shirt and started to analyse to damage, Dean winced as the fabric separated but too quietly for Cas to stop what he was doing.

Cas’ stomach turned at the sight of Dean’s torn flesh and the blood that pooled in the wound. It sickened him that this had happened to Dean and how much pain he was in. He’d do anything to take it away, to go back to before he was struck. If only Cas had reacted faster, killed the angel sooner, stayed at Dean’s side, this never would have ended like this.

It was deep and thin, running in a straight line from side to side on an angle but it didn’t seem to have hit anything vital. Cas knew how painful it would be, but Dean was doing his best to hide it. Bless him.

Cas would have to act quickly to stop the bleeding and prevent infection. Out here, infection killed far more than anything. The process was so tediously slow, losing each bit of themselves as it spread. He couldn’t let Dean have that kind of death, not if he was the only one who had enough decency to stay by his side so he wouldn’t die alone. Not when he’d have to watch every bit of his prolonged suffering. Cas’ mind sharped, he knew what he needed to do.

In a rapid action, Cas removed his trench coat, unbuttoned the clean shirt beneath and pressed it into the wound. Not caring that he was now shirtless and exposed.

“SON OF A BITCH.” Dean cried out, arching forward as Castiel elevated the pressure slightly. Right beneath Cas’ hands, he could feel Dean’s whole-body tense up. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but everything caused Dean agony despite his briskly fading ‘tough guy act’.

“Breathe.”

“What do you think I'm doing!?”

Castiel froze, unsure of what to do next. He glimpsed over his shoulder for anything that might come in use.

Must save Dean. Anything to save Dean.

“Keep pressure to stop the bleeding and try to be as still as possible.” Cas’ eyes met Dean’s for heartbeat. He took one of Dean’s hands by the wrist and pushed it on top. Dean groaned but didn’t take his hand away, following Cas’ words.

Cas left, bolting towards Dean’s bag a few trees away. He grabbed it and rushed back, opening it at Dean’s side. Cas tipped it upside down, all it’s contents spewing out before him. Cas turned back to Dean.

“This will be painful.”

Dean watched as Cas took out another clean shirt, this one smaller and scrunched up to fit in his hand. Not so long later, it was dabbed with a bit of cool water. Dean tried to ready himself in his mind as Cas lifted his now soaked shirt and started to work. Dean still hadn’t managed to look, purely based on what terrifying gory site he might see.

Try not to hurt him.

Cas put a hand on either side, stretching the skin in different ways to get a better view and to determine how deep it was. Dean let out a small shudder, eyes scrunched up, bearing it. Cas kept muttering apologises to Dean. It looked like the blade had narrowly missed any internal damage and only the skin was torn. There were, however, little bits of dirt that must have been flicked in there when Dean fell. Cas would have to remove them and thoroughly clean the wound.

Have to stop infection.

“The wound is too deep; there is too much blood, it needs to be sealed.” Cas tried not to let on the urgency of the matter. He was losing blood pretty quickly and Cas was too weak to heal him.

Cas grabbed the nearby shirt he had just splashed with cool water and used it to gently clean the wound and stem the flow of blood. Dean flinched with every touch. That made it a lot harder for Cas to do what needed to be done. By now, Dean had pulled both hands up, twisting his fingers around Cas strong arms trying to pry him away. He was gripping so tightly that Cas was sure it would bruise but also sure that somewhere in his pain struck mind, he couldn’t help it.

I’m so sorry Dean. I’m so fucking sorry.

“You got to relax; you’ll bleed out faster if you don’t.” Cas mentioned.

“Well, you try... AH.”

Dean felt as Cas pushed the material further into the wound causing a streak of pain that slowly expanded to every fibre in his being. He began to turn, trying to curl up into a ball but Cas managed to keep him on his back.

“You have to stay still.” He reminded Dean again.

Stop hurting him.

As Cas worked, he could feel his hands shaking with adrenaline and fear, but he pushed those feelings aside and focused on the task at hand. A sigh escaped Cas’ lips. He would have to put quite a lot of pressure on, in order to clean it properly, but Dean was in so much pain with even the slightest touch. Cas didn’t want to do it. Why was he the one to have to do this? Cas tapped a finger on Dean’s chest, trying to think. It only took an instant for the idea to come to his head but another for him to decide to go through with it. Cauterisation. It would be extremely painful but the only way to save Dean’s life.

Don’t do this, please don’t do this.

He hated himself for considering causing Dean that much pain. But he had to. Without a second more to dwell on the possibility's, Cas trusted his own judgement and reached for a lighter amid the other contents. He slid his angel blade from his sleeve, created a small fire and placed it in there. Dean, relaxed for a moment with the pressure suddenly gone, but there was also a doubt in his mind.

“Hey, hey, hey, Cas what ya doin?” Dean’s face was growing pale. It could have been a mix of fear and blood loss, but he didn’t know. The forest started to spin, his mind confused and panicked. His head lay on its side, eye’s running over the fire and the angel blade inside it. Cas turned to him and shifted obstructing his view.

Must save him.

“I’m so sorry.” Cas spoke, he didn’t answer Dean’s question, but he knew he would have too soon.

While Cas waited for it to heat up, he went back cleaning Dean’s wound. This time Dean didn’t try to pull his hands off, but he did whimper. Cas watched him blink away the wetness in his eyes. This, Cas hated but he knew he’d hate the bit that followed even more.

“I know it's scary, but I promise I won't hurt you. We need to clean the wound, stop the bleeding and prevent infection.” His voice was like an automatised message, at least this way Dean couldn’t sense all the feelings that swirled in Cas’ mind. The ones of worry and dread and most of all horror. He tried to just go for it and get it over with, but Dean let out a low sharp sound as Cas grazed the shirt over the opening. Cas couldn’t stop his hand from pulling away. He despised hurting Dean.

Find something to take his pain away.

“How's your days been?”

Dean croaked confused, “W'at?”

“I’m trying to distract you from the pain. So, how's your day been?” Cas was ready with the shirt, waiting for Dean to be slightly distracted before he did it.

“Peachy.” Cas smiled slightly, even in a vulnerable state, Dean was still Dean, witty comments and all. “Look oka’, I can handle the pain, I don’t need you to hold m’ hand. Just get it over w’th.”

“Alright, as you wish.”

Cas didn’t hold back; he found the will to do what was necessary. He pushed it deep into the flesh to clean it properly, trying to ignore Dean’s grunts that came deep from within his throat.

Dean gasped as Cas pulled away. Cas threw the shirt aside and lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder, comforting him, giving him a few breaths to recover. Then he turned around and took the angel blade out of the embers, its tip glowing bright red.

Don’t hurt him.

“Dean I need you to stay very still for this.”

“Wha’ r ya doin’ w’th that?” Dean slurred. There was a certain hollowness in his voice like he already knew the answer but needed someone to say it aloud. A hollowness like he was giving up fighting.

“Cas!”

Cas caved. “I need to cauterize it, it’s the only way I can stop the blood loss and prevent infection.”

“Don’t do th’s.” Dean started to wiggle, begging his tired and fatigued limbs to sprint into action even though he knew they wouldn’t. Dean’s back was already pressed up slightly against the tree trunk there was nowhere else to go. Cas held him down with his other hand, his knees digging into Dean’s thighs, immobilising them. The burning blade approaching. There was a moment amidst the struggle, where both of their eyes locked on each other. Dean’s expression so broken it shattered a piece of Cas’ heart right then and there.

Don’t hurt him. Must save him.

“Please, 'm begg’ng you, I don’t w’nt th’s.” The same hollowness surrounded his words but this time they sounded so much thicker. But Cas couldn’t let himself let go, Dean meant more then he realised, he loved him. He couldn’t let him die, not without existing every possible solution.

“This will hurt me more than it hurts you.” Cas placed a stick in Dean’s mouth, shutting out his words. Dean’s eyes gleamed up at him, now he was begging. Begging not to suffer, begging for there to be literally any other option. But Cas didn’t see, he didn’t want to.

You have to do this, it’s the only way.

“I’m sorry. Look at the sky, anywhere but here. If you have a happy place in your mind, then go there. Brace yourself. I’m so so sorry.” Dean was shaking his head, still trying to free himself. A wet sound escaped Dean’s throat, one that Cas would never forget.

Cas let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He was almost in disbelief at what he was about to do. A moment later, he carefully placed the blade against the wound, and there was a sizzling sound as the wound began to seal shut. Dean screamed in agony, tears streaming down his face. His body trembling with pain and the veins of his neck popped out. He thrashed against Cas’ hold. Every cry seemed to echo through the forest, bouncing off the trees and landscape.

You're hurting him. Stop, dammit! Cas begged himself internally.

Cas could barely bring himself to watch. It took all of Cas’s willpower to keep his hand there. All of his instincts were shouting at him to stop, that he was hurting his human, but he knew that he had to keep going. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, a sickening smell.

As he worked, his mind raced with worry and concern. What if he made a mistake?

“Stop. Please.” Dean cried between gasps; his voice was muffled through the stick. Cas pulled away for a second, the skin beneath red and tender. In those horrible minutes, whatever bond had sprung up between him and Cas hadn’t broken. Cas had switched loyalties – he'd chosen to stand for Dean, fight for him. At any cost.

Save him. Save your human.

“Honeybee, I know it hurts but it’s imperative that I do this.” And the blade touched his skin once more. Cas could almost feel Dean's pain vibrating though his body, and it broke his heart to see him in such a state. The pet name just slipped out of his mouth, but he hoped it was comforting nonetheless.

“Please… stop ‘t… please…”

“Just breath. You're doing great. Just a little bit longer.” Cas soothed. Even in pain, Dean was breath-taking. His eyes were the colour of the leaves, and his hair shimmered like gold in the fading light. Cas felt his heart racing as he realized how close they were, and how much he meant.

“All done!” Dean lay still, slowly recovering from the pain, his face still contorted in agony. Even though Dean had stopped screaming, it all that Cas could hear.

You made him scream like that.

Cas immediately began to apply a homemade salve of pine sap, aloe vera and other natural ingredients to the wound, rubbing it as deep as he could while Dean strained and fought to get away from the hands that were hurting him. Afterwards Cas wrapped it up lightly with clean cloth.

Even though Cas knew that his intentions were good, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d betrayed Dean. He wanted to apologize, to make things right, but he didn't even know where to begin. How could he make up for the pain and fear he caused? How could he make Dean feel safe around him again? His thoughts dissolved the second he forced his eyes down to meet Dean’s. He expected Dean to look at him like he was a monster but instead, Dean’s face teemed with gratitude.

Don’t be fooled by his eyes, there's no way that he could trust you after that.

Then Dean, the solider he was, was trying to raise but Cas quickly pushed a firm hand down on his chest to keep him still.

“You have to rest, let your body heal. It will be a slow process but hopefully I can speed it up when my powers get stronger.”

#dean winchester x castiel #dean winchester #castiel #dean Winchester whump #hurt dean Winchester #supernatural #destiel #whump #caretaker x whumpee #whump fic #cauterization #injury #blood loss #cw: gore #hurt to heal #accidental torture #caretaker castiel

17 notes · View notes

i-whump-dat · 2 years ago

Text

I just realized I have a very specific whumperflies trigger!

Take this gorgeous example from Supernatural S1E22 - Dean is so hurt and weak, the camera is just behind him as he struggles just to breathe through the pain~~~

There's gotta be a word for it - sideways breathing? Idk, if you got more examples list them in the comments and I shall hunt down the clips 😉

#whumperflies #whump #supernatural whump #blood loss #weak #barely holding on #hurt dean winchester #barely breathing

40 notes · View notes

saiacross · 1 year ago

Text

Bonds Unveiled

Supernatural FanFic: 7,258: Words: Series: Reader-Insert

Chapter 10: Young Sam

This Work is part of an overarching story that can be read as a one-shot with little overlapping information from other chapters.

⬅ Chapter 9 Hallucinations💜 Chapter 11 Together Again ⚠️ Dean ➡ Master List

Chapter 10: Young Sam Our trio has caught onto a case that, even after it was dealt with, continues to tear a riff among the brothers and Y/N. Sam is affected by a spell that brings back painful memories for Dean that cause him to speak his true feelings to Y/N about how he sees her. But that won't stop her from being there for Sam, as long as he needs her. Hurt Dean.

Dean had his hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel as the Impala raced down the highway, the wind rushing through the open windows. Sam, sitting shotgun, was focused on his laptop, scanning through various reports and news articles. Y/N, in the backseat, watched the scenery pass by, her thoughts wandering.

As they crossed the state line into Iowa, Sam's eyes widened as he stumbled upon an intriguing article. He turned to face Dean and Y/N, his expression a mix of excitement and concern.

"Guys, so get this," Sam interrupted the quiet rumble of the engine, turning his head to face Dean and Y/N. "I think we're dealing with a witch here. The reports mention incidents happening around town; an herbal shop was robbed in the middle of the night but no money was taken, dead ravens are being found all over town picked clean of their feathers, a lady got into a fight with someone over Black Salt, and……. a flower shop was held at gunpoint for it vervain and moonflowers ."

Dean nodded, his focus shifting from the road to Sam. "A witch, huh? Well, we've tangled with those before. What's the deal with these ingredients, that’s definitely not your typical grocery list."

Y/N couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Some witches are so stuck up, their ingredients always have to be as fresh as possible, what's wrong with just hitting up the grocery store? It’s the same shit ." Her annoyance seeped into her voice, and she crossed her arms in frustration.

Dean chuckled at Y/N's comment, finding her straightforward approach amusing. "Yeah, those witches with their gourmet spells, right?" he joked.

Sam shot a smile at Y/N, trying to lighten the mood. "Hey, I get it. It can be annoying, but some spells require specific ingredients for their potency. We just need to figure out what this witch is up to and stop them before it's too late."

With curiosity and determination in her eyes, Y/N pulled out her phone and dialed Angelique's number. As the phone rang, Sam and Dean watched her with interest, curious to see what her plan was.

“What better way to figure out what a Witch is doing than to ask a Witch?” Y/N had said to Dean and Sam when she noticed them watching her. Angelique, being an experienced and knowledgeable witch, could possibly shed light on the mysterious ingredients and the purpose of the spell.

"Hello?" Angelique's voice came through the phone. Y/N wasted no time and launched into an explanation.

"Hey, Angelique! It's Y/N, you’re on speaker and the guys are here. We're in Seymour, Iowa, and there's some weird witch activity going on here. We suspect someone is collecting ingredients for a powerful spell or ritual."

Intrigued, Angelique listened carefully, "Go on."

Y/N proceeded to read off the list of ingredients they had gathered so far—mandrake root, vervain, raven feathers, black salt, and moonflower petals. Each word she uttered carried a sense of wonder and puzzlement, hoping Angelique might recognize the combination.

After a moment of silence, Angelique responded, her voice serious and contemplative, "Hmm, that's quite an interesting mix of ingredients. Mandrake root and vervain are often used in protection spells, while raven feathers symbolize transformation. Black salt is for warding off negative energies, and moonflower petals can enhance psychic abilities. It's not a common combination, and without further information, it's hard to pinpoint the exact spell."

As Angelique pondered further over the list of ingredients Y/N had provided, her expression shifted from curiosity to concern. She read off the initial purposes for each component—the protection spells, transformation, warding, and enhancement of psychic abilities. But then, as her keen witch's intuition kicked in, she noticed a dark undertone associated with the vervain.

Her mind raced, connecting the dots between the ingredients and the history of the area. There were whispers of witches who had once practiced dark arts and rituals that involved raising the dead. As this understanding settled in, Angelique's voice became more urgent as she continued her explanation to Y/N.

"Y/N, listen carefully. The combination of ingredients you mentioned, particularly the vervain, hints at something far darker than we initially thought. Considering the history of Seymour and the potential intentions behind the spell, I'm almost certain the witch is trying to raise someone from the dead."

Y/N's eyes widened with a mix of shock and concern. The gravity of the situation was sinking in, and she knew they had to act quickly. "Raising the dead?”

“Listen, Resurrection spells are incredibly powerful and can disturb the natural balance. The witch must have a black candle on their altar, a symbol of the void that connects the realms of life and death. If they succeed in this ritual, the consequences could be disastrous."

Y/N's focus was sharp as she listened intently to Angelique's warning about the black candle. The gravity of the situation settled in her mind as she processed the potential consequences of such a dark spell. With determination in her voice, Y/N asked the important question, "Alright, so the candle is probably at their altar at their house?"

Y/N turned her attention to Sam, knowing that his research skills were invaluable in situations like this. With a look of hopefulness in her eyes, she asked, "Sam, do any of the articles mention the person who has been causing trouble?"

Before Sam could respond verbally, his fingers were already dancing across his keyboard, searching for any relevant information. The atmosphere in the Impala was filled with a mix of anticipation and urgency as they awaited Sam's findings.

"Got something," he said, his voice filled with determination. “Rebecca Thomson was caught on camera fleeing the salt incident. She's lived there for years, but hardly anyone ever sees her in town. She keeps to herself and avoids contact with others."

“Has she lost anyone close to her recently?” Y/N asked Sam.

“Her husband passed about 3 months ago, he was buried in the town cemetery.” Sam would explain to the others.

“Sound’s like our witch!” Dean would nod as he spoke.

Y/N's heart sank as she realized the pain that the witch must have endured after losing her husband just three months ago. The grief could have been the catalyst for Agnes seeking to resurrect him through dark magic. Y/N would sigh heavily.

Sam glanced back at Y/N, reading her unspoken thoughts written on her face.

Sam nodded in agreement. "It's understandable, but we can't let her go down this dark path. It could have severe consequences for everyone."

Y/N took a deep breath, preparing herself mentally for what was to come. "So, the graveyard where her husband is buried... That's where we'll find her?"

Sam nodded. "It's likely. She might be visiting his grave so to be there when he raises."

Dean's sudden change in demeanor caught both Sam and Y/N off guard. Sam glanced out the windshield, taking note of the rapidly approaching storm. The air grew heavy with tension as lightning continued to illuminate the darkening sky.

"Alright then, Sam and I will head to the graveyard, Y/N head to her house and see if you can’t find this candle. We’ll put an end to this before it gets worse."

Sam watched the unnatural storm overhead as they pulled into town, concern etched on his face. "Y/N, be careful. We don't know what we're dealing with here. If things get too dangerous, don't hesitate to call for backup."

"I've got this, Sam. Just focus on stopping the witch at the graveyard. We'll regroup afterward." Y/N was also intrigued but the magically enhanced clouds overhead.

"Alright, let's move. Time is running out." Dean parked the car with a jolt. With a sense of urgency, they all exited the Impala, each heading toward their assigned tasks. Dean and Sam rushed toward the direction of the graveyard, leaving Y/N to tackle the mission at the witch's house.

As Y/N made her way towards the house, she could feel the energy in the air intensify. The wind howled, leaves rustled, and the scent of rain permeated the atmosphere. It was as if the elements themselves were stirred by the impending clash between light and darkness.

Approaching the witch's house, Y/N steeled herself, knowing that she had to act swiftly. She took a deep breath, mentally preparing for what she might encounter inside.

Entering the house, the air felt heavy, as if it held the remnants of the witch's dark magic. Y/N's heart raced, but she pushed forward, determined to locate the black candle and disrupt the witch's plans.

Room by room, Y/N searched diligently, her senses on high alert. Every creak of the floorboards and flicker of shadow intensified her focus. Finally, in a dimly lit room at the back of the house, she discovered the altar adorned with various items, including the ominous black candle.

Y/N approached the altar cautiously, mindful of the power it contained. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and carefully extinguished the flame. As the black candle's dark magic dissipated, Y/N felt a surge of relief and a renewed sense of purpose.

But just as she turned to leave, a chilling voice echoed through the room. "You shouldn't have interfered."

Y/N's heart raced as she spun around, only to find the witch standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with anger and determination. It was a showdown between light and dark, and Y/N knew she had to stand her ground.

"I won't let you raise the dead," Y/N said, her voice steady despite the fear that coursed through her veins. "There's always another way to find closure."

The witch's laughter filled the room, sending shivers down Y/N's spine. But she held her ground, ready to protect the innocent and ensure that the dark magic was thwarted.

As the storm raged outside, the battle of wills unfolded inside the witch's house. Y/N's determination, paired with her newfound understanding of the witch's grief, became her strength in the face of darkness.

Meanwhile, Dean and Sam faced their own witch in the graveyard. But with their skills, they fought valiantly, determined to put an end to the witch's dangerous intentions.

The battles raged on in separate confrontations, each group unaware of the other's encounter with the witches. Y/N stood her ground against the daughter, desperately attempting to reach her humanity.

"Please, you have to stop this," Y/N pleaded, her voice laced with urgency. "The spell won't bring him back. It will only bring more pain and darkness."

The daughter's eyes burned with a mixture of grief and anger as she raised her hands, channeling her dark powers. "You don't understand my pain! I won't let him go!"

Y/N's heart sank as she realized that reasoning with the daughter was futile. With a heavy heart and a determined spirit, she reluctantly took action, engaging in a fierce battle to defeat the young witch. The clash of magic and physical blows echoed through the house, each strike carrying the weight of the daughter's desperation and Y/N's determination to protect the innocent.

Meanwhile, Dean and Sam faced off against the formidable mother witch, their own fight testing their skills and resilience. They fought with relentless determination, countering the mother with their own arsenal of weapons. The air crackled with energy as the hunters and the witch clashed, the room vibrating with their struggle.

As Y/N's battle reached its climax, her final strike broke through the daughter's defenses, bringing an end to the young witch's life. In that instant, a surge of energy pulsed through the house, severing the bond between mother and daughter.

The dark storm that had engulfed the area suddenly dissipated, replaced by calm and tranquility. The oppressive atmosphere lifted, and the house returned to its normal state, free from the taint of dark magic.

However, the mother witch, sensing the loss of her daughter and the crumbling of her spell, took advantage of the chaos and managed to escape, vanishing into the night but not before one final spell.

Breathing heavily, Y/N took a moment to collect herself, her eyes filled with a mix of relief and sorrow. She had done what was necessary, but the weight of the consequences settled upon her shoulders.

Y/N took a moment to compose herself, her eyes lingering on the family photos adorning the walls. The reminders of happier times only emphasized the tragedy that had unfolded. Just as she was about to leave the room, her phone suddenly rang, its sound cutting through the silence.

Startled, Y/N quickly retrieved her phone from her pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Dean's name flashed on the screen, and she wasted no time in answering the call.

"Dean," Y/N greeted, her voice filled with a mix of relief and concern. "The witch was here. I believe she was the daughter."

Dean's voice came through the phone, filled with urgency. "Yeah, the mother got away. Listen, you know that shady motel we passed on the way in, meet me there. We've got a situation."

Y/N's heart raced, her worry intensifying at Dean's words. She knew that if Dean deemed it necessary something serious must have occurred.

"Understood," Y/N replied, her voice steady despite the underlying anxiety. "I'm on my way.”

The call ended, and Y/N wasted no time in rushing out of the house. Her mind raced with possibilities, her concern for the safety of Dean and Sam consuming her thoughts. She hurriedly made her way to the Impala, her footsteps echoing with a mix of determination and trepidation.

As she approached the iconic black car, her eyes scanned the area, searching for any signs of trouble. She couldn't help but worry about what awaited her, praying that the situation hadn't taken a turn for the worse. Just as she was about to call out their names, the door of the nearby motel swung open, revealing Dean standing at the entrance. He waved her over, gesturing for her to come inside.

Curiosity piqued, Y/N approached the motel room, her steps cautious yet eager. Dean closed the door behind her, creating a sense of privacy. Inside Y/N was greeted by a small boy, no older than seven years old. His innocent eyes sparkled with curiosity as he looked up at her.

"Hello," the boy greeted, his voice filled with warmth and friendliness.

Caught off guard by the unexpected encounter, Y/N stumbled over her words for a moment. She crouched down to the boy's level, a mix of surprise and curiosity etched on her face.

"Well, hello there," Y/N finally managed to respond, a gentle smile forming on her lips. "What's your name?"

The boy's smile grew wider as he proudly announced, "I'm Samuel, but my dad and brother call me Sammy."

Y/N's eyes widened in astonishment, her heart skipping a beat. The significance of the name and the boy's familiarity hit her like a wave. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

"Sammy," Y/N repeated, her voice filled with a mix of disbelief and wonder. "What's your last name, Sammy?"

The boy's smile remained, and he proudly declared, "Winchester."

Y/N slowly straightened herself up, her mind swirling with a whirlwind of emotions. She turned to face Dean, her eyes filled with disbelief and confusion. The words she wanted to shout at him came out as a barely audible whisper.

"Dean!"

Dean, standing just behind Y/N, nodded his head in acknowledgment.

“I know.” his expression mirroring the weight of the situation.

Y/N struggled to find her voice, her mind racing with a multitude of questions.

“How?” She managed to utter a few fragmented words.

“I don’t know.” Dean sighed heavily, his frustration evident. He shook his head, his brows furrowed in uncertainty.

“Does he?” Y/N's voice was still a hushed whisper.

“No, he does not.” Dean's response was filled with resignation.

Suddenly, the small child, Sammy, chimed in with a curious question. "Are you Dean's girlfriend?"

Y/N's eyes widened in surprise, her gaze shifting back and forth between the innocent face of the child and Dean's frustrated expression. She stumbled over her words, caught off guard by the unexpected question.

"What!?" Y/N exclaimed, her voice a mix of shock and confusion.

Dean, growing increasingly frustrated, grabbed Y/N's arm and pulled her towards the door. He glanced back at the child, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

"Hey, just wait here for a moment, okay? I need to talk to her in private," Dean instructed the young boy.

As Dean and Y/N stepped out of the motel room, Dean closed the door behind them, ensuring their conversation remained confidential.

"I can't believe this," Y/N finally managed to find her voice though still filled with a mixture of astonishment and disbelief.

Dean's voice dripped with anger as he looked directly at Y/N, his frustration palpable. "Look, I need you to just watch after Sam, alright?" he demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Something like this happened to me once, and I already got the ingredients from Angelique for the reversal."

Y/N felt a whirlwind of emotions swirling within her as she tried to process the rapid progression of events. Confusion etched across her face as she struggled to comprehend Dean's intentions. "But why don't we all go together? It would make performing the reversal spell quicker," she suggested.

Dean's eyes hardened, and he swiftly dismissed Y/N's idea. "No!" he snapped, his voice laced with frustration. "You and Sam need to head back to the bunker while I go get what we need. It's not up for discussion."

Y/N's laughter bubbled up nervously, discomfort creeping into her voice. "Dean, I can't… This… Sam and I, we..." She trailed off, unable to find the right words to express how uncomfortable the situation made her.

Before she could finish her thought, Dean interrupted her, his anger intensifying. "Yeah, I know what happened between you and Sam," he spat, his words told Y/N that he knew more than he should know.

Y/N's feelings quickly shifted from discomfort to confusion as she confronted Dean with her realization. "Wait, Is... Is that why you hate me so much?" Her voice quivered as she posed the question.

Dean rolled his eyes, his anger mounting as he struggled to find the right words. "I don't hate you, Y/N," he snapped, his voice tinged with frustration. "It's just... how I am, alright?"

Determined, Y/N stepped forward, her eyes locked with Dean's as she spoke with conviction. "No, Dean. No, this isn't just how you are," she asserted. "This is how you feel about me. Because this isn't how you are with Angelique, or Charlie, or Jody, or anyone else. You avoid eye contact, you hate being alone together, and you're always pushing me away."

Dean's frustration mingled with a pang of guilt as he struggled to respond. "You don't understand, Y/N," he muttered, his voice tinged with regret. "It's complicated."

Y/N's voice gained strength as she held her ground, refusing to back down. "No, it’s not. You hate me because I accepted Sam's offer for help, you just don’t want to admit it.” Y/N took a deep breath before practically growling at Dean. “I didn't just use him as a meal, I’m not a monster, Dean!"

Dean snapped in that instance, took hold of Y/N by the front of her shirt, and slammed her against the motel door that led to their room.

“YOU don't get to tell me what you are after you fed off my brother's SOUL!” Dean yelled in Y/N’s face. Both Dean and Y/N stared directly into each other's eyes searching for some kind of answer to an unknown question. After several uninterrupted moments of silence, Dean's breathing began to calm.

Dean's jaw remained clenched, his inner turmoil evident as he fought to control his emotions. Slowly he loosened his grip on Y/N knowing he needed to tread carefully, especially for Sam's sake. After a long, tense pause, Dean finally spoke his gaze on the ground now.

"I can't do this right now, alright? I can't have... HIM around me right now." Dean’s voice strained.

Y/N's eyes widened with confusion, searching Dean's face for answers. Her voice trembled slightly as she asked, "What do you mean?"

Dean took a deep breath, his words forced through gritted teeth as he made an effort to convey the depth of his feelings.

"Right now, Sam is about 7 years old," he explained. "He doesn't know ANYTHING about what we do or the world we actually live in. He recognizes me as his brother, but still thinks Dad is in town somewhere, selling things for work."

The weight of Dean's revelation hit Y/N like a heavy blow, her heart sinking lower than she thought possible. The magnitude of the situation began to sink in, and Y/N's voice trembled with a mixture of sadness and disbelief, she leaned his head back against the door as she asked, "So... you mean that... that Sam is still 100% pure?"

Dean nodded solemnly, his eyes filled with a mixture of protectiveness and sorrow. It was a heavy burden to bear, knowing the harsh realities of their lives while Sam remained innocent and unaware.

"Yeah," he confirmed quietly, his voice tinged with sadness. "Sam, right now, is untouched by the craps we’ve been through."

The realization hung heavily in the air, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Y/N felt a surge of both empathy and sadness, understanding the tremendous weight that Dean carried as he tried to shield Sam from their harsh reality.

“Dean, what if… what if we don’t reverse the spell? Then Sam can grow up normal right?” Y/N's voice trembled with uncertainty as she voiced her question, her eyes avoiding direct contact with Dean's gaze. But Y/N knew that he had already considered the possibilities and weighed the options. The silence hung heavy between them, as both of them understood the unspoken answer.

With a heavy sigh, Y/N gathered her resolve. "Alright, Dean. It's about 6 or 7 hours until Kansas from here. I'll make arrangements to get us on the next bus and meet you at the Bunker. Just... don't take too long, okay? And, keep in touch."

Dean took a deep breath, trying to compose himself after the intense confrontation with Y/N. He ran a hand through his hair, a mix of frustration and concern etched on his face as he glanced down at the list of items in his hand.

As Y/N slowly picked herself up from the impact against the door, a small voice broke the tension in the room. The door to their motel room creaked open, revealing the young child version of Sam standing in the doorway, innocence radiating from his eyes.

The child, unaware of the previous altercation, innocently asked, "Are you guys done fighting?" His voice was filled with genuine curiosity and a desire for peace.

Dean's gaze softened as he approached the young Sam, crouching down to be at eye level with him. He placed a hand on the child's shoulder, a mix of affection and protectiveness evident in his touch.

Dean replied with a gentle smile, "Yeah, sorry about that, Sammy. But hey, Y/N here is going to take you home while I go... wrangle in Dad, alright? You can trust her, so do as she says, okay?"

Sam's eyes widened with curiosity as he looked up at Y/N, he moved closer to Dean. "But I want to stay with you, Dean." Sam protested softly, his childlike innocence longing for the comfort and familiarity of his older brother.

Dean's expression softened further, a mixture of love and sadness in his eyes. He spoke with a tender reassurance, "I know ya do Sammy. But right now, it's important that you go with Y/N. She'll keep you safe, just like I would. We'll be together again soon, I promise."

Sam hesitated for a moment, processing Dean's words. With a small nod, he reluctantly took a step towards Y/N, offering her a smile just like when he first met her moments ago.

Dean stood up, watching the interaction between Y/N and young Sam, a mix of emotions playing across his face. He knew the weight of the decision he had made, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of both relief and worry for what lay ahead.

With a final reassuring smile, Dean said, "Take care of him, Y/N. I'll see you both soon." As he headed to the Impala and drove off, watching the two in the rearview.

Y/N and young Sam managed to make it to the local bus station just in time to catch the last ride for the night. As they settled into their seats, the bus engine roared to life, and the vehicle began to move, taking them on their journey.

Young Sam, full of energy and curiosity, looked out the window as he was taking in the changing scenery as they passed by. His eyes widened with wonder, and he couldn't help but ask Y/N a question that had been on his mind.

"Y/N, are you sure you aren't dating my brother?"

Y/N chuckled at the unexpected question, finding the innocence and honesty of young Sam endearing. She turned to face him with a soft smile and replied.

"Oh, I'm very sure, Sammy. Actually, I'm pretty sure your brother hates me." Y/N couldn't help but find humor in the situation, her smile growing wider at the absurdity of it all.

Young Sam looked puzzled for a moment, trying to process Y/N's response.

"Why would Dean hate you?" he asked with genuine confusion, not understanding the complexities of the situation.

Y/N sat next to young Sammy, her heart warming at his innocent curiosity. She did her best to answer his questions honestly while treading carefully with her words.

"Well, Sammy, I did something a while back that your brother doesn't agree with, and it makes him mad," she explained with a knowing smile.

"Yeah, that sounds like Dean," young Sammy chuckled in response.

Curiosity burning in his eyes, young Sammy continued to inquire.

"How long have you known my brother?"

Y/N paused for a moment, considering her response before replying, "I think it's been about five or six months, give or take a little.”

“How did you two meet?”

“At work.” Y/N was beginning to wonder how long this would last. but before he could ask another, Y/N playfully beat him to the punch.

"What's with the twenty-question game here, huh?" she teased with a playful grin. "I'm sure Dean will tell you everything you want to know when he gets back."

Sammy let out an exasperated groan, his frustration evident.

"Dean doesn't tell me anything," he confessed with a hint of annoyance. "They treat me like a child."

Y/N's expression softened as she saw the genuine disappointment in young Sammy's eyes. She placed a comforting hand on top of his head, ruffling his hair.

"I'm sure Dean doesn't mean to keep things from you, Sammy. Sometimes, big brothers can be a bit overprotective, but it's only because they care about you so much."

Sammy looked up at her, his eyes seeking reassurance.

"Really?" he asked with a touch of hope.

"Absolutely," Y/N replied with a warm smile. "Your brother loves you more than anything in the world, and sometimes, he just wants to keep you safe and shield you from some of the harsher things out there."

Sammy seemed to ponder her words for a moment, and then he nodded, accepting her explanation.

"I guess that makes sense," he said, a small smile forming on his face. Y/N pulled the small boy under her arm and against her side while rubbing his arm.

As the bus journey continued, Y/N and young Sammy continued to chat.

The journey home had been long and exhausting, taking Y/N and young Sam a total of 6 hours to reach the town and an additional hour to finally arrive at the bunker. The sun had set, and darkness enveloped the surroundings. Y/N stepped out of the pickup truck they had hired for the final stretch of their journey. She paid the driver and thanked him again, ensuring that he understood she wanted to be left at this spot. Y/N gently pulled a sleeping young Sam out of the vehicle as well and watched the truck drive off.

Carrying the sleepy young boy in her arms, Y/N made her way down the stairs leading to the bunker's entrance hall. As they reached the bottom, young Sam stirred and groaned sleepily. Y/N gently set him down on the couch in the living area of the bunker.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, concern evident in her voice. "I can make some food real quick."

Young Sam rubbed his eyes and nodded drowsily.

"Yeah, I'm kinda hungry," he mumbled.

"Alright, just give me a few minutes, and I'll whip up something for you," she reassured him with a warm smile and patted his head. Y/N headed towards the kitchen area of the bunker, the dim lights casting a comforting glow.

As she prepared a simple meal, Y/N's mind couldn't help but wander back to her conversation with Dean. She knew he was dealing with his own inner turmoil and struggling with the situation at hand. Y/N understood that Dean's anger and protectiveness were driven by his love for his brother, but she also worried about what this meant for her..

Deep in thought, Y/N focused on cooking spaghetti with sausage meat sauce for young Sam. The aroma of food filled the bunker as she finished preparing the meal. Placing a plate in front of young Sam, Y/N smiled at him.

"Here you go, something warm to fill your belly," she said gently.

Young Sam looked up at her, a hint of a smile forming on his lips.

"Thanks, Y/N," he said, the trust in his eyes evident.

Y/N ruffled his hair affectionately.

"You're welcome, Sammy. Now eat up," she encouraged him.

As young Sam enjoyed his meal, Y/N couldn't help but feel a sense of responsibility as they sat at the table talking, laughing, and eating together. Sam would even comment on how Y/N’s cooking was better than his brothers, a secret they promised to keep between each other.

The heavy metal door of the bunker swung open, and the sound reverberated through the halls. Dean's voice echoed as he called out to Y/N and Sam while descending the stairs.

"Hey, I'm back," he announced, his tone serious. Dean entered the kitchen area. “Where is Sam?”

Y/N turned her attention away from the dishes she was washing and looked at Dean with a hint of annoyance.

"Hi, welcome home, dear. How was your day?" she replied sarcastically.

Dean's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"What?" he asked, not fully understanding Y/N's response.

With a tired sigh, Y/N explained, "I just put Sam to bed. He's passed out. Did you find everything you needed?"

Dean's expression softened as he realized what she meant.

"Yeah, it took longer than I thought, but I finally got it all," he replied.

Y/N nodded and said, "Good. Well, let me know if you need any help. Otherwise, I left a plate out for you." She motioned to the table where a plate of spaghetti covered with cling wrap sat, waiting for Dean.

Dean paused for a moment feeling conflicted "Right, um.. thanks. I'm.. I’m going to go get this prepped and give it to Sam while he sleeps. Hopefully, this whole thing will just seem like a bad dream when he wakes up," Dean said, determination in his voice.

As Y/N stood in the kitchen, her mind was flooded with conflicting emotions. Watching Dean walk off to take care of young Sam, she couldn't help but feel a sense of heartache at the thought of Sam having to return to a world filled with darkness and danger. His innocent eyes turning dark once more weighed heavily on her heart.

At the same time, a part of Y/N couldn't deny the feeling of normalcy she experienced while spending time with the young boy. The laughter, the curiosity, the innocence—it was a refreshing break from the constant battles they faced as hunters. For a moment, she allowed herself to smile, cherishing the simplicity of that evening.

But amidst her mixed emotions, Y/N felt a growing sense of uncertainty and fear. She knew that with the reversal of the spell, things would change between her and the Winchester brothers. The truths they had buried, the unspoken feelings, the unresolved conflicts—they would all resurface, and the road ahead seemed daunting.

Y/N's smile faded as she contemplated the challenges ahead. It wasn't that she didn't want Sam to regain his true identity as the caring man she knew, but she feared what it would mean for their already complicated relationship. The thought of facing hurt, anger, and the potential for more fights weighed heavily on her mind.

At that moment, the idea of leaving crossed her mind. It felt like an escape, a way to avoid the pain and uncertainty that lay ahead.

The next morning, as the sun began to rise, Dean slowly woke from his slumber and sluggishly made his way into the kitchen. As he stood in the doorway, he was met with a surprising sight. The table before him was filled with a feast of delicious food—eggs, bacon, pancakes, toast, hash browns, fruit, and a fresh pot of coffee. It was a spread that would have put a smile on anyone's face.

Dean's eyes scanned the kitchen, half-expecting to see his brother Sam cooking up a storm. However, he was met with the sight of Y/N instead. She stood near the stove, working on placing a few more pancakes on the table. Dean walked over to the table, still feeling a bit groggy, and couldn't help but ask, "What's all this?"

Y/N turned towards him, a hint of forced cheerfulness in her voice.

"Well, I didn't know if we would have young Sam or adult Sam this morning, so I figured what the hell—we will either celebrate or eat our stress away." She half-heartedly joked, attempting to force a laugh, but it was clear that there was more going on beneath the surface.

Dean studied her for a moment, not easily fooled by her act. He could sense that something was off.

"You never went to bed last night, did you?"

Y/N paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on the stove as she turned it off. She finally turned to face Dean, the facade of strength slipping away, and quietly admitted, "No." Her eyes reflected the exhaustion she felt, both physically and emotionally.

Silence lingered in the kitchen until Sam's voice suddenly broke the stillness.

"Morning," he said quietly, stepping further into the room. Dean turned to look at his brother, a mix of relief evident in his expression. Without hesitation, Dean walked over to Sam and pulled him into a tight hug, patting him a few times on the back. Sam returned the hug, but he didn't say anything, his emotions still a whirlwind after his recent ordeal.

Y/N watched the brothers reunite, a bittersweet feeling settling within her. She was glad that Sam was back to his normal self, but the weight of the past night's events still bore down on her. As she turned away, about to leave the room.

“Y/N, wait.” Sam's voice called to her.

She turned around just in time to find herself enveloped in Sam's arms, his embrace pulling her close against his chest. The warmth of his hug was comforting, and Y/N couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling within her. With a deep breath, Sam said, "Thank you.”

“Sam, I didn’t….” Y/N began to explain it was Dean who did all the work for the reversal spell.

“I remember everything.” Sam cut her off. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise at his words. She hadn't expected him to remember, and her heart skipped a beat. It was a lot to process, and she found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Sam continued to hold her, his gratitude evident in his embrace.

Finally finding her voice, Y/N whispered, "You remember... everything?"

Sam nodded, his eyes meeting hers with newfound clarity. "Yeah," he confirmed, a hint of wonder in his tone as he pulled away from her.

Dean, who had been quietly observing the exchange, approached them both. "That's good, Sammy," he said, smiling warmly at his brother trying to play off the hurt he felt watching his brother thank Y/N. "We were worried about you."

Dean noticed the hurt in Sam's eyes, and his confusion grew. He knew his brother was still processing the rush of memories that had returned, but he didn't expect this reaction.

"What, Sam?" Dean asked, genuinely concerned.

Sam hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts and find the right words to express himself. His emotions were evident on his face, and his jaw tightened, his nose flared. Finally, Sam managed to say, "Dean, can I see you in the other room for a moment? Now?"

Dean's brows furrowed further, but he nodded, understanding the need for privacy. He glanced at Y/N, who had been quietly observing the scene. With a concerned look, Dean followed Sam to a more secluded area of the bunker.

Once they were alone, Dean closed the door behind them and turned to face his brother.

"Alright, Sam, what's going on?" he asked, giving his brother his full attention.

The air in the bunker felt tense as Sam confronted Dean about his actions with Y/N. Sam's eyes were filled with disappointment and hurt as he recounted what he had witnessed through the motel window.

"Dean, I saw you and Y/N through the window at the motel," Sam began, his voice serious. "I heard what you said to her."

But Sam wasn't willing to let him off the hook so easily.

"You pinned her to the wall, Dean!" Sam exclaimed, his voice rising with frustration.

Dean's shoulders slumped as he realized there was no defense for what he had done. He knew he had crossed a line, but in that moment of anger, he couldn't control himself.

"I appreciate you getting the spell for me, I really do, man," Sam began, his voice softening. "But this has to stop. Even after everything you did and said, she STILL took care of me when you asked her to…. More than you know."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" he asked, genuinely curious about what his brother was trying to say.

Sam took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to express himself.

"It was like... it felt like... what I imagine having mom around would have been like," he finally said, his voice tinged with emotion.

“Dude…” Dean’s face twisted as he became grossed out by the thought.

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s reaction.

“She was warm, loving, caring. She talked to me like I was an actual person not just some kid, let me lean against her to sleep, cooked dinner for me. A real dinner Dean. We laughed and she even made sure I got to bed. All the things that I didn't get to experience with Mom.”

Dean still shook his head, trying to not let the weird thoughts in. “Dude come on you've slept with her."

“Dean you are missing the point! Yes, we slept in the same bed, but nothing happened. We didn't... You know, not really." Sam sighed again.

“The point is that you need to get over yourself because whether you believe it or not we are better with her around and you are going to be the reason she leaves.” Sam paused. “And I don’t know if I can forgive you for that.”

Silence fell among the two brothers just before Sam turned to leave Dean with that thought.

Sam sighed as he walked into the kitchen, his mind still preoccupied with the conversation he just had with his brother. He had left Dean in the other room to give them both some space to process everything that had happened. As he looked around the kitchen, he couldn't help but feel a sense of emptiness.

"Y/N?" Sam called out, half-hoping she would magically appear, but there was no response. His eyes then caught a piece of paper on the table, and he picked it up with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Sam's heart sank as he read Y/N's note.

"No, no, no," Sam muttered to himself, crumpling the note in his hands with frustration. He had grown attached to Y/N during their time together, and the thought of her leaving hurt more than he anticipated. Sam sank into one of the kitchen chairs, his head in his hands, trying to process the sudden turn of events. A wave of sadness washed over him.

Dean emerged from the other room to find Sam sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Concern etched on his face, he approached his brother.

"Sam, what's wrong?" Dean asked, worried.

Sam didn’t look up, frustration and disappointment clear in his eyes. He held out the crumpled note to Dean.

"She's gone, Dean. Y/N left," he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

Dean unfolded the note and read its contents.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I can't stay and be the reason for your fights. I'll always care about you and Sam, but it's just too much. Take care." Dean's jaw tightened as he read the words.

He looked back at Sam, feeling a mixture of emotions. "Dammit," he muttered. "I'll go find her," he said firmly, wanting to make things right.

Dean headed up the stairs, determined to find Y/N and talk things through with her. As he reached the bunker's main door, he threw it open without hesitation and charged ahead.

Meanwhile, Sam remained at the table, his mind filled with worry and uncertainty. He stared at the feast Y/N had prepared for them, the food now feeling bittersweet in light of her sudden departure. He couldn't help but replay the moments they had spent together in his mind, the warmth and care Y/N had shown him. It was clear that she had touched his heart in a way he hadn't expected.

Sam found himself lost in thought, unsure of what the future held. All he could do was hope that they would find a way to mend things with Y/N and that she would be willing to give them another chance.

End Chapter

#supernatural #fanfic #supernatural fanfic #Dean x OFC x Sam #dean winchester #Fluff #Sam Winchester #Hurt/Comfort #Reader-Insert #Illness #Self-Insert #Angst #Kitsune #injuries #Dean x Reader X Sam #Emotional Hurt/Comfort #Trauma #Young Sam Winchester #Hurt Dean Winchester

6 notes · View notes

masoena · 4 months ago

Photo

A canon Dean whump mini collection- season 6. Thanks Robo Sam

Dean Winchester + Monsters in Season 6

6.01 Exile on Main St, written by Sera Gamble 6.05 Live Free or Twihard, written by Brett Matthews 6.10 Caged Heat, written by Brett Matthews and Jenny Klein 6.19 Mommy Dearest, written by Adam Glass 6.21 Let It Bleed, written by Sera Gamble

#gifs #supernatural season 6 #hurt dean winchester #dean winchester in peril #dean winchester

2K notes · View notes

highfunctioningflailgirl · 4 months ago

Text

Damage Control - 3x12 Jus In Bello

“Hnnngh!”

“Hold still! I almost got it!”

Dean bites down so hard on the leather belt that he feels one of his molars starting to crack. The pain fans out white-hot from where Sam is digging around in his shoulder with a pair of surgical tweezers.

“S’m… Arrghhh!” Dean’s right hand desperately scrabbles at the old towel he’s lying on. He blinks. The motel room ceiling black-spots above him as metal scrapes against bone. The pain crescendos. He’s about to pass out.

“Almost, almost…! – There!” Triumphantly, Sam holds up the tweezers, a piece of fabric in them, black with clotted blood. Dean gasps and blinks at it through a veil of tears. His jaw unclenches. The belt slips from his mouth. Its leathery aftertaste and the copper smell of his blood are sickening. Fighting the urge to vomit, Dean takes a few deep breaths as the pain in his shoulder begins to ebb.

“Dude, you with me?” Sam taps his good arm, worry mixed into relief.

Gradually, Sam’s face swims back into focus above Dean. He blinks a couple more times and swallows against the nausea before he attempts words.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he announces shakily.

Sam’s eyes narrow. He drops the tweezers out of sight. “You look kinda green.”

Dean takes the agony in his shoulder and channels it into defiance. “Dude, what– ah – what did you expect, butchering me like that? Thought you’d come out the other side any second. Sonofa–” He swallows again, his stomach roiling, cold sweat trickling down his temple.

“Sorry, Dean, but that wound needed cleaning out. You had half your shirt stuck in there.” To his credit, Sam looks pretty unfazed as he generously splatters disinfectant onto a wad of gauze. The kid’s field medic skills have come a long way. “And it was you who refused to go to the hospital, remember?”

Well, yeah. Showing up in an ER after they’d just been pronounced dead on tv might’ve been a little confusing for the locals. So, after almost twenty-four hours of ignoring his injury,, after playing through the pain in a demon-infested showdown at the police station, Dean had barely been able to move his arm anymore, running a small fever, and Sam had been the next best thing to a surgeon.

Demonstratively, Sam lifts the dripping gauze, splits it into two wads and raises questioning eyebrows at Dean. "You ready?”

A tremor of trepidation runs through Dean, but he nods and rolls a little so Sam can reach both entry- and exit wound at the same time.

Swiftly, Sam presses the gauze against his front and back and holds it there. It takes all of Dean’s self-control not to scream. Fists balled, eyes squeezing shut, he squirms on the mattress until the inferno in his shoulder flickers down to a manageable burn.

“Mother of–” He releases a stuttering breath.

“Easy,” his little brother soothes. “Breathe through it.” He gives Dean a moment and, by God, he needs it, for this isn’t the end of today’s torture session. The damn bullet wound will need stitches - on both ends - and the suture kit is already open on the bed beside him.

Patiently, Sam keeps changing the gauze, applying gentle pressure, while they wait for the bleeding to slow down.

“At least it was worth it,” Sam comments as Dean rides out the pain. “We saved a whole lot of people today.”

Dean shivers a little, his naked chest puckering with goose flesh. “Yeah,” he says morosely, “a whole lot of people who wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place if it wasn’t for us.”

“Oh, come on, Dean!” Sam’s forehead wrinkles in annoyance. Deftly, he wipes the blood from both sides of his shoulder. “Not our fault that we got arrested! Or that Henriksen took forever to catch on. If he hadn’t pursued us so doggedly…” Dean hisses when a fresh trickle of disinfectant burrows into his open wound. Automatically, Sam places a calming hand on his arm. “Anyway,” he continues. “You should really give yourself some credit. You were playing wounded, and, man, you kicked ass!”

The compliment from his brother comes unexpected. Sudden warmth blooms in Dean’s chest, and he doesn’t think it’s from his injury. “You weren’t so bad yourself,” he immediately reciprocates. “Playing that exorcism through the speaker system - I never would’ve thought of that. Smart. That head of yours may be good for something else than just growing hair after all.” He reaches up with his good arm to ruffle his brother’s shaggy bangs. Grinning, Sam swats his hand away.

Surprised, Dean notices a feeling of contentment rising up in him. Things could be worse. They could have gotten dozens of people killed today, including an innocent young woman who’d never even experienced the joys of sex in her life. (Dean has a feeling that’s about to change, in a very carpe diem kind of way, and it makes him smile a little.) They could have gotten themselves killed, with Dean going to Hell ahead of schedule. Worst of all, he could’ve gotten Sam killed, but instead his little brother is alive and well and - apparently - a badass field surgeon.

The possessed townspeople had come to their senses at the police station, confused but mostly unharmed and walked away to continue their lives. In Henriksen, they’d made an ally who would keep them off the FBI’s radar from now on. Officially deceased, their faces were finally off the “Most Wanted” list, giving them free range. And Ruby had smoked off the map.

Sam was right: at the end of the day, they’d done more good than harm. Saving people, hunting things - they’d stayed true to that motto today, and that had been worth taking a bullet.

Suddenly, the pain in Dean’s shoulder doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

xxxx

They hadn’t saved anyone. Worse - they’d gotten them all killed.

Dean cradles his arm close against his stomach, the pain in his sewn-up shoulder flaring as if he’d been kicked. Ruby’s stormed out, but the catastrophic images of the burned-out police station still flickering on the tv screen feel like punches, badgering him with the fallout of their failure.

They’re all dead - Henriksen, Nancy, everyone in that police station.

“This was our fault,” Dean says flatly to Sam who’s pacing the room, hands in his hair. “We’re responsible for this.”

“Lilith did this! Not us!” Sam’s too loud, voice trembling with fury. “She’s– I’m gonna rip her apart when we find her, I swear it!”

“How are we supposed to find her? How?!” Despair and guilt likewise cut through Dean so sharp he can barely breathe. His shoulder throbs. He wants to get up, wants to smash something, but he doesn’t think his legs will take his weight. “We have no clues, we have no idea where she could be, and after tonight, after what she did, I don’t think we stand a chance against her even if we find her. It’s–” He wants to say ‘hopeless’, wants to break things and then drink himself to sleep, but he can’t do either while Sammy’s watching.

His little brother has stopped walking back and forth. Shoulders tight, jaw pushed forward, he stares at the carpet, then lifts his head to look at Dean.

“We could ask Ruby.”

That brings Dean to his feet. “Are you insane?!” He pushes two fingers against his temple to illustrate. “That crazy bitch was ready to kill Nancy! She wanted to sacrifice her and cut out her heart!”

“She also wanted to sacrifice herself for us,” Sam reminds him. Defiance glitters in his eyes. Once more, he’s ready to defend Ruby all too quickly, and Dean doesn’t like the influence the demon girl has on his brother. Doesn’t like it at all.

“Oh yeah? And you really think she would’ve done it? Died for us?” Dean clutches his arm and winces. He needs more painkillers. “Why would she, Sam? We can’t trust her! She’s a demon!”

Sam’s nostrils flare. “She saved your life! Saved you from those witches. And she’s helping us get you out of your deal.” He has a way of towering over Dean lately that’s become unsettling. “Maybe it’s time you get off your high horse and start believing her! She may be our only chance to save you!”

A note of desperation swings in that last line, and it takes some of the anger out of Dean. Time is running out for him, and even if he no longer holds out much hope he’s keeping up the pretense for Sam. Right now, with his shoulder all shot to hell and the death of at least a dozen people weighing on his conscience, he doesn’t have it in him to tell Sam the truth - that Ruby’s been lying; that there is no way out of his deal. That Dean is a dead man walking. It would pull the rug out from underneath Sam. Dean can’t do that to him.

Dean forces softness into his gaze when he looks at his upset brother. “Ruby’s in the wind,” he says, in a conciliatory tone. “Even if she could help us, even if she really wanted to - we don’t know where she is either! Lilith made her point, showed us who’s boss. ‘Sides, we’re in no shape to take her on today. Or tomorrow. Look at us!” He gestures at Sam’s swollen eye and cheek, wondering how many more bruises he’s hiding under his clothes, and Dean’s goddamn shoulder… They’re a mess, inside and out.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, Dean.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I’m not.” Dean rubs his arm. Underneath his shirt, the skin around his wound feels stretched and hot. “I need some shut-eye, and so do you. Let’s take the night and regroup tomorrow, okay?” On slightly unsteady legs, he steps closer to Sam and gives his upper arm a friendly slap. “We’ll figure it out, alright? Let’s get some rest first.”

Sam’s still coiled tight, but he gives Dean a reluctant look. Then he frowns, face softening. “Are you still running a fever?”

Judging by the flush he feels in his cheeks, Dean probably is. He hadn’t been paying attention.

“A little,” he admits. “‘S not high, don’t worry.”

As if a switch had been pulled, Sam’s anger evaporates. First he reaches to turn off the tv still running in the background, then he reaches for Dean, cupping his too-large palm around the side of Dean’s neck. “You’re really warm. Did you take the antibiotics?”

Along with a hefty dose of painkillers, Dean had swallowed a dose of cephalosporin they always kept on hand for gunshot wounds. Luckily, only three weeks ago they’d swiped a fresh batch from a walk-in clinic with lax security in a little hamlet outside of Des Moines when Dean had pretended to have a sinus infection.

“Yes. Just haven’t kicked in yet.”

Sam points at the bed closest to the door - Dean’s. Always Dean’s. “Lay down. I’m gonna get you some more Advil, and water. You need to hydrate.”

Dean sighs. While he’s grateful for Sam being distracted by his infirmity, getting mother-henned isn’t what he needs right now. What he needs is a bottle of Scotch and a mild overdose of codeine from their med kit to black out the images they saw in the news - none of which Sam will grant him, health nut that he is. Dean needs to not feel the way that he feels for a few hours - heavy with guilt and hopelessness, sore to his very bones from fighting a losing battle with too much collateral damage.

“C’m on,” Sam insists, gently pushing Dean by his good arm. “Like you said - we can figure it out tomorrow.”

Too worn out to protest, Dean lets his brother lead him to the bed, sits down and only pushes back when Sam wants to unlace his boots for him. “Not an invalid,” he grouses and does it himself, although the stitches in his shoulder pull angrily when he bends down. Boots toed off, he slips under the covers and accepts a glass of water and some pills from Sam before rolling onto his good side. Closing his eyes against the depressing view of the motel room and the reality of tonight’s failure, he feels Sam’s hand checking his forehead.

“Try to get some sleep.” Dean hears gentleness in his voice, but also dejection. “Holler if you need anything.”

Dean doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t open his eyes. He hears Sam stepping away, then the scrape of a chair and some rustling, followed by the hum of Sam’s laptop firing up. While he’s going to pretend to sleep, Sam’s going to dig into the lore again, trying to find a way to save him.

There’s no point, even if Dean loves him for trying.

The Damage Control Series Masterlist

Read the whole series on AO3 here:

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #fan fiction #3x13 jus in bello #missing scene #hurt/comfort #hurt dean winchester #whump #coda #dean winchester #sam winchester #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #blood cw #injury cw

7 notes · View notes

samanddean76 · 4 months ago

Text

Title: Guise Will Be Guise

Ship: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Word Count: 2,854 | Rating: Explicit

Major Warning: None Apply

Tags: Alternate Universe, Hurt Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Diminutive Dean Winchester, Massive Sam Winchester, Size Difference, Belly Bulge, Spells & Enchantments, Memory Loss, Dean Winchester Likes Being Manhandled, Sam Winchester Has A Large Penis, Um - Let Me Rephrase That..., Sam Winchester's Penis Needs Its Own Damn Zip Code, Bottom Dean Winchester, Top Sam Winchester, SPN Kinktober Prompt Fill: Size Difference

Summary: Dean returns to his recurring client's home. But something is very different today. Dean is left hoping that he survives the encounter.

Written for @spnkinkevents October 2nd Kinktober Prompt of Size Difference.

This is a follow up to the Kinky Dean Winchester Week story of Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been... (link below)

Story on AO3 | Part One of the Memory Verse on AO3

5 notes · View notes

masoena · 4 months ago

Photo

So much trauma that boy.

Mommy’s gone .

#👁️👁️#hurt dean winchester #dean winchester

1K notes · View notes

vampiredaisiesss · 3 months ago

Text

touch me — d.w. x reader

synopsis - you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. the lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter. you find him all the more beautiful like this.

trigger warning - older dean winchester (early 40s) with younger reader (early 20s)

He thinks about time, about how it marks you, about how each silver strand falling to the floor is another reminder of all the years between the two of you.

The harsh glare of the bathroom light is unforgiving, casting every line on his face into sharp focus. Dean watches your reflection in the mirror. The gentle snip-snip echoes off the tile walls as you work the scissor over his hair, your lip caught between your teeth.

Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror from your shower, making the edges of your reflection soft, dream-like. Your tank top's damp where his hair falls against it, and there's something so domestic about this moment it makes his chest ache.

You hum "Hey Jude" while you work, because of course you know that's what Mary sang when she cut his hair. Of course you know that's what he sometimes hummed in his sleep whenever he'd have a nightmare.

"You're thinking too loud, again," you murmur, running your fingers through the short hairs at his nape.

"I've got shirts older than you," he says finally, the words tasting bitter on tongue.

You laugh out loud, and it sounds like every good thing he probably doesn't deserve. "And they're all flannel, and they all smell like gunpowder and cheap liquor that you probably spilled on them two decades ago, but never got dry-cleaned, and I love them." Your smile turns soft at the edges. "Just like I love the man wearing them."

"Kid—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Don't 'kid' me, Dean Winchester. Not when you're balls deep inside me every night." You pause for just enough time to fix him a determined stare, and he offers you a small smile.

"You think I don't know who I'm choosing? You think I haven't counted every scar, every gray hair, every year you spent saving the world before I was old enough to know it needed saving?"

The scissor is forgotten on the countertop as you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. Your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. The lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter.

You find him all the more beautiful like this.

Dean's throat tightens. You're stripping him bare with your touch. "Exactly. You could have anyone. Someone who—"

He swallows hard, but he's smiling now. His chest feels heavier with something else. "When you say it like that, sounds like I should be in a museum, not your bed."

"Someone who what? Someone who hasn't survived forty years in hell? Someone who doesn't wake up reaching for a weapon? Someone who doesn't understand why I keep rock salt by the bed and devil's traps under the rugs?" You shake her head. "I don't want easy, Dean. I want you."

"There," you say finally, brushing loose hair from his neck. Your lips find that sensitive spot behind his ear, and he can feel you smile against his skin.

"Please," You chuckle. Your hands slide back into his hair, resuming cutting. "Museums are for looking, not touching. "And I'm very..." snip "...very..." snip "...fond of touching you."

"Touch me," he says, and it comes out like a prayer he never learned properly – rough and wanting and holy all at once. It curls around your heart in the shape of Dean's hand.

He reaches up, catches your hand before you can move away.

You touch him like you're reading braille, like every freckle on his body has a story to tell. Your lips trace constellations across the map of blue veins over his body. And when you finally put your lips on the scar along the side of his hip — the first ever souvenir he collected on his skin — you feel the smallest tremor in his breath. It’s so faint, but unmistakable, and for a moment, you could almost swear you made Dean Winchester mewl.

And you do.

#supernatural #deanwinchtser #supernatural imagine #supernatural x reader #older man younger woman #dean winchester #dean x reader #jensen ackles #spn fanfic #the boys #dean winchester hurt/comfort #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #hurt/comfort #fluff #spn #dean winchester x reader

1K notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 23 days ago

Text

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are.

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference.

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord.

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean.

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away.

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree.

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?”

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe.

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide.

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile.

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much.

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off.

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck.

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you.

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater.

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps.

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep.

And you just watch him.

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign.

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost.

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can.

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake.

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot.

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot.

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches.

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns.

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep.

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint.

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care.

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window.

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all.

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice.

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands.

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles.

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word.

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it.

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow.

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever.

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic.

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered.

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost.

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more.

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours.

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace.

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression.

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath.

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.”

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them.

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it.

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch.

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head.

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all.

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain.

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins.

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before. “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him.

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn

1K notes · View notes

unkindledangell · 9 months ago

Text

God, this is so beautiful, and painful at the same time. So beautiful artstyle, so georgeous

Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

Do I care if I despise this, nothing else matters, I know In a veil of great disguises, how do I live with your ghost? Should I tear my heart out now? Everything I feel returns to you somehow

#supernatural #supernatural fanart #dean and sam #hurt dean winchester #hurt sam winchester #whump spn

2K notes · View notes

sammyluvr · 2 months ago

Text

✶ . ၄၃ . easy, maybe — sam and dean w.

cw : gn!winchester!reader, hurt/comfort, reader’s the middle sibling, peacekeeper/selfless(?) reader, blood, injury & pain, stitches, nicknames (bud), poorly edited, no y/n, 3K words. requested !

summary : you try to hide a bad injury after a hunt. sam and dean patch you up, and spend the night worrying until you wake.

it’s not as hard being easy as some people might think. maybe that’s because it’s all you know how to be. the easy one, the quiet one, the peacekeeper, the blend into the background and don’t worry about me one. and it’s not that you’re weak-willed or unopinionated; there are times when you put your foot down, times when you argue, times when you’re petty or annoying or grumpy because you’re legitimately upset or possibly just a little too hungry.

one must note that easy does not mean perfect. it just means that you let sam ride shotgun despite being two years older. it means you take the couch most nights, you’re often impressively polite, and you patch up your own injuries in the bathroom before helping your brothers out. it means you let annoying little things slide, you pick up food when the other two are too tired to drive, you take care of the most tedious or boring tasks, and you tend not to get into any trouble with law enforcement or regular citizens. life is just easier for you all when sam and dean don’t have to worry about you too much.

naturally, you’ve developed quite a pain tolerance over the years of hunting and killing and nearly being killed; all three of you have. but you have become concerningly and particularly excellent at hiding wounds. it’s mostly about the breathing, you’ve decided. if you can hide the blood, move without any apparent stiffness, and keep your breathing even and normal, then sam and dean tend not to notice. they’ve got enough to worry about, you think.

but, unfortunately, there's certain things you can't quite hide, no matter how good of a little actor you can be. there's just far too much blood, more than you think you've ever bled from any one wound. it's not arterial, that much you know; you're familiar enough with basic anatomy to understand that a knife to your lower left side shouldn't be piercing any main veins or arteries. but it is soaking through your jacket and you're getting lightheaded. and you're almost to the impala, you remind yourself. you can make it that far, you're sure. if you just keep breathing, watching dean's trudging form as the distance between the two of you grows while your sluggish footsteps slow... if you just keep breathing, you're sure you can make it.

the leaves under your feet hush your footsteps, soft and soaked from this morning’s rain. dean doesn't question the fact that he can't hear you right behind him; you're quiet nearly all the time. the growing fog in your head makes you stumble. you slip, deprived of the bearings or stability you'd need to right yourself. the softened soil welcomes the crumple of your body, but your cheek scrapes on a ragged twig embedded in the ground. the dampness of the earth swallows any loudness to your fall, the little strangled noise that leaves your lips in surprise and hot white pain. the twig that draws a line of blood across your cheek doesn't even snap.

but you can't fall in complete silence; there's a rustle and a dull thud and dean's ears are attuned to listen for you and sam. he hears your grunt of pain, regardless of how quiet the sound is. he's immediately on high alert, spinning around and holding his gun at the ready. for split second, he thinks you've disappeared completely. he didn't know you'd been falling behind, twilight is ending, and your brown jacket melts into the color of the ground. but he's got keen eyes and spots you quickly.

"shit," he curses under his breath, all but sprinting back to you, long legs clearing logs and rocks without any fuss. before he's dropped to his knees by your side, he's already asking, "hey, hey, hey, talk to me, bud. what happened?"

you've managed to twist over onto your back by the time he gets there, though not without much effort. there's dirt clinging to the side of your face and wet leaves stuck to your clothes. it's become too dark for dean to see the spread of blood on your jacket.

"just a... just a cut," you breathe out. your voice doesn't sound quite right and it sets off blaring alarms in dean's head.

"where?" he demands, not harshly. his flashlight clicks on and you squint at the sudden brightness. he doesn't need you to answer. his free hand doesn't hesitate to move your bloodied jacket out of the way, and he sucks in a sharp breath before he even sees the full extent of the wound. his fingers gather up your soaked through shirt and gently peel the fabric away from your skin. "jesus, what the hell? when did this happen? just a cut?" he asks, bewildered and beyond concerned.

"b-before," you answer unhelpfully. "it's fine. help me up." you don't feel fine at all. your head pounds and your limbs are heavy and your voice is tight with pain.

dean scoffs, pulling off his jacket with an almost panicked urgency. "you were stabbed, are you crazy?" he accuses, sounding much more worried than actually angry. he messily folds up his jacket, not hesitating to push it against your wound, not so gentle in an effort to slow the bleeding. you grunt and he frowns deeper.

"more like a… a slash… less- less stabby. 's not that bad," you mumble, completely unconvincing.

dean's jaw clenches like he disagreed. "sammy'll fix you up," is all he says. "c'mon, let's get you up. you'll be just fine." dean knows that you prefer patching yourself up. he knows that you don't like letting them see you injured. but this is bad, he thinks, and his blood boils and his heart lurches at the thought that you tried to hide it.

sam, stuck in the motel with his healing broken arm, doesn’t expect much but a “we’re on the way back” sort of phone call from dean when he answers the ringing tone. dean himself is barely paying any attention to the phone. he should be paying attention to the road, but his eyes flick over to you often, and linger for too long. the first thing that sam hears over the phone is the muffled honk of a car horn.

then comes a quiet, “shit. i’m sorry, bud. you’re alright,” from dean. he doesn’t hear the little sound of pain you made when dean had to swerve the car.

“dean?” sam says, voice plainly worried. dean sounds off. “what’s going on?”

“sammy,” dean breathes, uncharacteristically afraid, “they’re bleeding bad. need you to be ready to stitch ‘em up when we get there. five minutes.”

“where? how bad?” sam asks in a rush, already standing and searching for a medical kit. there’s one on the coffee table.

“lower left side,” dean answers, voice a bit more sure when he can actually give a solid, factual answer. then it falters. “just– bad. real bad. they’re barely awake.”

“dammit,” sam mutters. he wants to ask what happened, but dean sounds like he’s driving recklessly through the panic of your injury. he doesn’t want to add anything else for him to think about. “you sure you shouldn’t be headed to the hospital?”

dean shakes his head, then glances at you and your heavy lidded eyes. “nearest one’s too far. you’re closer.”

“okay. alright. just– just drive safe and keep them talking,” sam says at the risk of angering dean in his precarious mental state. asking him to drive safe is a bit silly, and he already knows to keep you talking.

but dean doesn’t retort, he just spares you another glance. “keep those eyes open for me,” he urges, leaving it up to sam to hang up the phone. he only does so in order to focus on gathering the right supplies for you. and when the impala pulls up into the parking space right in front of tonight’s motel room, sam’s waiting outside by the pale yellow door with a janky metal ‘17’ on the front. he’s at the passenger’s side before dean’s even turned the car off.

you’re leaning against the car door, so he’s precise and careful when he opens it, reaching in with one hand first and cupping the side of your neck to keep you steady while he slips in closer to you.

“hey,” he says gently, hiding his fear. he’s not sure he can deal with all this shit without you. you’ve always been such a steadying presence. dean’s jacket that you keep clutched to your wound with shaky hands is all bloodied, and the only thing sam knows is that dean said it’s real bad.

dean’s there, opening the door the rest of the way so that sam can bend down and pull you into his arms. first goes your head to his chest, then his arms wrapping around your shoulders and tucking under your knees.

“there we go,” sam murmurs, wincing softly when the movement pulls a groan of pain from your lips. “can you talk to me?” he’s swift and gentle in his movements, getting you through the door and to the bed with the least amount of discomfort for you that he can.

“it’s okay, sammy,” you mumble in response to his request. of course that’s what you’d say. dean frowns, barely able to hear your words despite how close behind sam he hovers.

“yeah,” sam agrees, laying you out on the bed, pulling the ruined jacket away from your wound and gently moving your own clothing out of the way. it’s not a pretty sight, but the bleeding’s slowed enough for him to see that maybe it’s not as bad as they thought. stitches should do the trick, you’re just all messed up from the blood loss. “it is okay,” he confirms, “you’ll be okay.”

as he soaks a clean rag with alcohol, sam wonders when the last time he’s stitched you up was. it must’ve been a while ago. he even can’t easily think of the last time he helped you deal with any injury. right now, it’s his job to stay calm and patch you up, but the way you said it’s okay, sammy, made him want to act a bit like the baby of the family. he wants to hug you. it doesn’t make him feel small, though, just extra responsible for making sure you’ll be alright. you’re always taking care of him and dean, even if it’s just in the smaller ways, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t fix this for you.

dean’s hands are far more tender than usual as he holds yours. sam cleans your wound, and you don’t react much. it worries them both, but sam assures that it’s not as bad as it seemed before.

the cast over sam’s wrist and forearm doesn’t make giving you stitches all that easy, but he manages. his big hands are somehow always much nimbler than dean’s, the stitches he produces less crude. but no matter how used to the feeling of a few stitches you are, once he gets to the sixth, you’re not sure you can stay awake any longer. you hate the feeling of the needle and thread going through your skin.

you give dean’s hand a weak squeeze. “’m gonna pass out,” you slur in warning. his eyes widen in worry. sam tries to stay focused, but his frown deepens. he’d much rather you didn’t, but he thinks you’ll be alright.

“hey, hey, hey, no. stay with us,” dean urges, brushing his fingers over your forehead. “you’re fine now, just stay awake, bud. look at me.” you meet his gaze with drooping eyelids and a weak frown. you feel bad for making him worry like this.

“’m sorry,” you mumble, “so tired.” you close your eyes against his wishes, and your hand goes limp in his.

“dammit,” sam whispers, noticing the way your muscles all go slack. dean’s not so quiet when he curses, standing up angrily. as sam finishes the stitches, dean paces, hands in fists.

“it’s my damn fault, sammy,” he growls. if sam looked up, the tears in dean’s otherwise angry eyes would betray his blatant concern for you. “i wasn’t paying attention.” sam worries now that dean’ll start throwing things. he doesn’t deal well with his little siblings getting hurt.

“they’re okay. seriously,” sam insists. really though, he’s worried out of his mind. freaking out won’t help him give you effective stitches, so he just focuses on the silent promise he’s made to take care of you. “they’ll heal. the stitches will be enough,” he says, instead of asking what happened to avoid upsetting dean further. dean returns to your side just as sam finishes the last stitch. he dresses the wound with a bit of help from dean, but mostly, the oldest just combs through loose strands of your hair, picking out dried leaves and twigs. dean cleans the little cut on your face too, wiping away the dirt from when you fell.

he holds you gently upright as sam trades your bloodstained jacket and top for a simple long sleeve crewneck shirt to keep you comfortable and warm as you rest. he monitors your pulse and constantly checks your breathing, and his nervous behavior doesn’t go unnoticed by dean. but your heartbeat remains steady and the soft sound of your breathing is the only thing that can be heard at times. it’s comforting to them both, taking turns by your side, though they’re most certainly overly concerned now that your body is set to start mending.

you sleep a long while, long enough that dean starts pacing again when he tires of sitting on the edge of the other bed with his head in his hands. sam sits in a chair by your side. he dozes lightly for a bit, until the sun rises and brightens the room through half opened curtains. dean’s asleep on the couch when sam comes back around, despite the completely free bed. when he wakes, dean makes coffee for him and sam, brooding the whole while. he still looks like he’s holding back the urge to throw a rickety motel chair into the wall, but he’s a bit more blatantly anxious than angry by now. he holds your hand for a little while before you wake up.

you start to stir at 9:37 in the morning, which means you’ve been sleeping for almost ten hours. sam had checked the time when you passed out, in the midst of all his worry as he stitched you up. but no one catches the time. you, of course, are not checking the time. you’re barely awake. dean doesn’t think to check the time, he’s much more concerned about the light rustle of the bed sheets that he hears coming from your direction. and sam is drying his hands in the bathroom. he probably wouldn’t care to check the time either even if he were standing right by the clock. he hears dean say your name through the thin bathroom door, quiet and nervous. the hand towel slips off the rack in his rush to get to you.

dean’s sitting by your side, both of his hands wrapping around yours. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and glad to see your eyelids fluttering. you see the water stained ceiling of the motel room and feel the end of the bed dipping by your feet, then a big, soft hand on your shin. that’s sam. dean’s the one holding your hand.

you try to say hey back, but it comes out as a hoarse groan. your throat is very dry. so you just squeeze dean’s hand back as best as you can. one of his hands leaves yours to rest on your tired head. you look over and offer him a little smile. he feels a rush of affection as you meet his gaze like that, and a little bit of guilt for always letting you be the best of them. the quietest and the easiest. he doesn’t know what to do with those feelings, so he asks a sweet, almost teary looking sam to go grab you some water. he does so without a qualm, tries to help you take a sip, and relents with a subtle pout when you refuse the help. you’re insistent about holding that cup for yourself.

“let me help you,” he murmurs, voice all soft. he sounds extra young right now, as his hands try to hold the cup and your head up for you. you grab the cup, shaking your head despite being plagued by a pounding ache at your temples.

“mm-mm,” you hum a no, as if it bothers you that he’s trying to use his hand in a cast to help. you’re truly just that stubborn that it makes you strong enough to hold the cup with your own shaky hands. sam’s hand hovers nearby anyway. when you’ve taken a good drink, and the water starts to slosh a bit because you’re having a hard time holding it steady, dean takes it from you and sets it on the bedside table.

“you gave us a good little scare there,” he murmurs, voice gentler than usual. he doesn’t even pretend to sound annoyed. sam thinks his demeanor is a bit funny now, considering how much of a mess dean was last night and before you woke. but he easily lets it slide for right now. without a doubt, you’re his main concern.

“sorry,” you mumble, still sort of smiling.

“don’t,” sam scolds softly. “don’t be sorry.” it seems to him like you’re always willing to take the fall, fix the problem, ease the tension. right now, he’d rather you just let him and dean take care of everything for you. you look like you want to protest, keep apologizing for making them worry, but he grabs your free hand as a means to stop you. dean gives your hand a little squeeze to punctuate the same sentiment.

you have nothing to be sorry for. and they are very grateful for you. losing you scares them more than anything, and for a moment, they will both be a bit vulnerable and ask for you to do the same by holding your hands tight for just a little while.

“okay,” you murmur. you won’t be sorry. i love you, too, you’re saying.

472 notes · View notes