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masksandtruths · 7 years ago

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Periscope

Characters: MOC!Dean X Reader, OC Ronnie, Papa Roach (sort of)

Warnings: A little angsty, a little fluffy, some violence, language, and mention of characters getting a little handsy

Word Count: 9500-ish

Summary: Dean doesn’t want to be a monster. Since the moment Sam cleared the darkness from his eyes, he’s fought tooth and nail to avoid becoming that black-eyed version of himself again, but it is getting harder and harder to resist. And after one particularly brutal slipup, he realizes this is one fight he might not win—and that he can’t keep dragging the people he cares about along on this downward spiral, especially not Y/N. It’s selfish to hold her close just so he doesn’t fall apart, but can he actually force himself to let her go?

A/N: I’ve been MIA for a few weeks thanks to work, some hellacious family drama and dadgummed Hurricane Harvey. During that time, I found myself listening to Periscope by Papa Roach over and over again. It had this dark, moody vibe to it, and even though it was so different from their usual stuff, I thought it was beautiful. When I listened to the words, I couldn’t help but imagine Dean in one of his down and out phases and haven’t been able to focus on writing anything else since. Hope you like it. Constructive feedback is always welcome. If you want to listen to the song, here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrEVYQ4zQAA

“Hey, man, you with me?” The grey headed, burly bartender rapped his knuckles on the bar in front of the still untouched shot of whiskey. “How many of these have you had? Do I need to cut you off?”

With a deep, shaky breath and some serious effort, Dean finally lifted his head to reply. He had planned on firing off some smartass comment about how he had served him so he should know, but stopped when he realized the bartenders must have switched out at some point. The old man standing before him now might have looked and sounded a little rough, but there was only kindness and concern in his eyes. Hell, he kind of reminded him of Bobby, honestly.

Dean lifted his left hand to rub the back of his neck as he wearily answered, “Uhhh, maybe four. Whatever it is, it’s not nearly enough.” He focused his bloodshot eyes on the big man’s name tag and added with a shrug, “Seriously, Ronnie, I’m fine. Go take care of one of these other sad sonsabitches.”

The older man clearly didn’t buy Dean’s bull shit answer, because he made no attempt to move on down the bar to the next person in line. Instead, he threw a clean bar towel over his shoulder, crossed his arms, and raised one eyebrow sarcastically in Dean’s direction. “Kid, I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I know what ‘fine’ is and you ain’t it.”

Dean sighed, dropped his hand from his neck, grabbed the shot of whiskey and threw it back. He dropped the shot glass back on the bar with a hiss before finally continuing. “Look old timer, I’m not a cry in your beer, bare your soul kinda guy so I can’t give you much. Let’s just say today was a total cluster fuck. Started out shitty and only got worse from there. Decided to take the edge off before I crash and try again tomorrow. That good enough for you?”

Ronnie paused before answering, taking a moment to contemplate whether or not to push the issue. “Alright then,” the bartender nodded decisively, choosing to accept the younger man’s vague explanation. “Next one is on the house.” He grabbed the bottle of Makers Mark off the shelf behind him and filled the shot glass to the brim.

A look of relief flashed across the Dean’s tired features and one corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile. “Might as well leave the bottle. My sorry ass ain’t leaving this barstool any time soon.”

“It’s all yours.” Ronnie returned Dean’s smile and pulled the towel from his shoulder when he noticed a waitress walking his direction with a tray full of freshly washed bar glasses. As he set about drying each of the tumblers stacked in front of him, he caught himself studying the forlorn man sitting across the bar.

Every single day, he saw people waltz in here and try to drink their pain away. Most of the time they were just being a tit about some little trivial thing or another, but every now and then, someone really did need the feel of liquor burning down his or her throat and the numbness that came afterwards. The ones that had seen death—or caused it. The poor bastards that watched the woman they love give up on them and finally walk away for good. The middle-aged woman who pulled at her sleeves and tried to hide the cuts on her wrist, hating herself for wanting to end it all but hating herself even more because she didn’t have the courage to go through with it. The sick. The abused. The totally, utterly defeated. He’d seen it all, and still, something about this man stood out among the countless others.

There was a haunted look in his green eyes—one that said he’d probably seen more shit in his short lifetime than people three times his age. He sat with his head down, forearms braced on the bar on either side of his shot glass, shoulders drooped in exhaustion like he’d carried the weight of the world on them for far too long. He stared dejectedly into the amber liquid as though it might offer some suggestion on how to fix whatever it was that had broken him so completely. Ronnie could see him warring internally with a darkness of some kind, and judging by the half empty bottle of Makers and the sadness and self-loathing rolling off him in waves, he could only assume it wasn’t exactly playing out in the kid’s favor.

The old barkeep picked up another glass and silently wondered what the hell had knocked this guy’s life so far off track. He wouldn’t dare ask though. Their extremely limited interaction only moments ago told him this man, although inherently good hearted, was not a one you could force into doing something he didn’t want to do—and talking about his feelings with a total stranger was right at the top of that list. No, he was the type that kept those kinds of things close to his chest, and any attempt on Ronnie’s part to get him to do otherwise would not end well for him—that much he knew.

Maybe it was the icy edge in his voice. Or the way he was continuously monitoring his surroundings even with his head down, eyes quickly flitting back and forth as people walked through the door or bellied up to the bar. Or it could have been how Ronnie could practically see the man effortlessly committing every detail of his face and all of his mannerisms to memory while they spoke. Whatever it was, the old man’s instinct told him that this young man was not a person he, or any man with half a brain, wanted to piss off.

Dean picked up the shot and tossed it back, swallowing it all in one gulp, and immediately reached for the bottle of whiskey to refill his glass again. Then he slammed that one too.

How the younger man wasn’t completely obliterated at this point, Ronnie would never know. He watched as Dean picked up the shot glass once again, resting the rim against his lips for a moment before opening his mouth, tilting it upwards and dumping its contents down the back of his throat. The next time Dean refilled the glass, Ronnie found himself hoping it would be the one that finally granted the kid some relief from the storm raging inside him—but it wasn’t, and neither was the next one. So Ronnie stood by helplessly, feeling sorry for the young man whose only companions were a bottle of whiskey, a few untamed demons, and an old bartender that sensed he deserved so much better than the hand he’d been dealt.

***

Dean felt the old man studying him, pitying him even, and without thinking, he tightened his fingers around the neck of the heavy, glass liquor bottle. It would be so easy to reach across the bar, crack the bottle across Ronnie’s skull and tell him exactly where he could stick his fucking pity. He wanted to. The darkness churning inside of him practically begged him to make that move—and if he gave himself over to that rage and that power, he could do it without hesitation or mercy while wearing a smile on his face. But this time, he was able to picture her face, and so he turned up the bottle and poured himself another shot instead.

He fidgeted with the full shot glass on the bar, slowly rolling it between his thumb and middle finger, and thought about what a fucking miracle it was every single time he managed to resist the urge to snap. He could practically feel the mark on his right arm burning—as though it was angry at him for resisting its temptation, like it hadn’t caused enough bloodshed today already.

Dean closed his eyes and pressed his left hand over that cursed spot on his arm, but he couldn’t get the images to stop flashing through his mind.

The blood. The screams. The feel of bone breaking beneath fist. The power. And the joy he felt because of it all.

And it wasn’t just the incident this morning—he remembered it all. He remembered every little detail of every single damned time he gave into the Mark and let its power burn through him, and he hated himself for it…didn’t he?

***

He woke up on edge, exhausted and nerves shot all to hell. He must have screamed his way through a constant stream of nightmares last night, because when he swallowed, it felt like there was sandpaper in his throat. He rolled out of bed, got dressed, stepped outside the hotel room and hopped in Baby, hoping a drive would help him get his head on straight.

In hindsight, he realized he should have just talked to Y/N, instead of running out when the fear and fury he felt in those dreams still hadn’t quite released his mind or emotions from their clutches. But she had been sleeping so deeply and peacefully, he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to wake her. Hell, she’d probably been up most the night because of his bullshit, so guilt won out, and he had left her snuggled comfortably under the covers.

Coffee. He needed coffee, he thought as he drove through the sleepy town, drumming his thumb against the steering wheel to an old Metallica song. Baby could use a little gas anyway, so Dean flipped on his blinker, pulled into a small gas station and parked in front of an empty pump.

It was still early enough that there were only a couple other people by the pumps, which was a good thing considering he still didn’t exactly trust his self-control. It should only take a minute, though. In and out. Coffee, cash, done. Easy peasy, he told himself. Surely to high heaven, he could manage that simple task without assaulting someone, and he wasn’t going to get his caffeine or his gasoline if he just stood out here with a thumb up his ass worrying about all the ways this could go wrong. He blew out a breath, straightened his jacket and started towards the store’s entrance.

The young woman working behind the register looked up when Dean walked through the door and greeted him with a chipper “good morning” and a kind smile. He nodded back in response as his eyes searched the small store for any other early morning patrons. As luck would have it, it appeared the store’s lone employee was the only other person inside, and Dean offered up a silent thank you to the universe for that small favor.

Okay, maybe this wasn’t so bad after all and he’d been worried for no reason. Feeling a little more confident, he made his way to the back where the coffee was set up. He grabbed the largest cup they had and picked up the almost full pot of wonderfully hot and caffeinated deliciousness. As he started pouring, he heard a bell ding, signaling to him that more people just entered the store.

This time, the cashier greeted the new customers by asking, “How are you fellas doing this morning?”, and when he heard one man reply, “Not bad. How about yourself?,” he froze mid-action. So much for the universe granting favors this morning. He would never forget that voice for as long as he lived, and right now, it was about the last one in the world he wanted to hear.

The two men that had just waltzed in were none other than Walt and Roy, a.k.a. the two fuck nuggets that murdered him and Sam a few years back.

“You have got to be shitting me,” he groaned under his breath.

This wasn’t good. Just thinking about their last encounter already had that murderous darkness calling to him, and he was about ninety seven percent certain he wasn’t going to be able to resist it, not without Y/N here.

Slowly, he turned, cup of steaming coffee in one hand, half empty pot gripped in the other, and watched as they walked towards him. The second he saw their faces, a spark of rage ignited in his gut, and he knew he was totally and completely fucked. That tiny waver in his willpower was all the opportunity the curse needed to seize control. The mark’s power roared into his veins, its qualities of wrath, strength and total indifference wholly familiar to Dean at this point. All the anxiety he felt earlier—all the fear—all the guilt—was completely gone, replaced by an unending and almost peaceful darkness that Dean welcomed as he allowed it to swallow him whole.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Dean asked as he leaned back against the counter and casually crossed his feet at the ankles.

The two unfortunate hunters halted abruptly when they recognized the man standing in front of them. Their eyes widened and their chatter stopped short, but their instincts from years of hunting the big bads of the world took control of their bodies. Walt’s stance widened and his fingers twitched as though he was actually considering reaching for the pistol he must have tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Roy on the other hand smoothly took a step away from his partner, now standing slightly to Dean’s left. His eyes quickly scanned the area looking for anything he could use to his advantage if this situation got out of control.

Walt raised his hands in a show of submission and spoke in a calm, quiet, steady voice, but Dean could see the fear in his eyes. “Hey man, we don’t want no trouble. Just came here to gank that ghost, same as you I reckon.”

“But we didn’t know you and Sammy was already working the case; I swear it,” Roy added, nervously glancing between Dean and his partner.

Dean shook his head and let out a low, menacing chuckle. Good God, did Roy’s little twitchy ass actually flinch at the sound? “Aw calm down Roy before you piss yourself. I know you and Walt didn’t know we were on the case or your sorry asses wouldn’t be here. Your partner is a total dipshit, but somehow he’s been smart enough to keep y’all off my radar for…what? …four…five years now?” Dean uncrossed his legs, pushed off the counter and took a predatory step towards Walt.

Walt instinctively slid backwards, wisely putting some space between himself and the older Winchester. Dean was lethal on a normal day, but if the rumors making their way around the hunter community were true, he was a whole new level a bad ass ever since he accepted the Mark of Cain.

“It wasn’t personal, Winchester. Just business.” Walt noticed Roy take another small step, slowly circling to position himself behind Dean. Good, at least if this came to blows, they could hit him from both sides. “Your brother started the freaking Apocalypse, man. What did you expect?”

Dean tilted his head, pretending to consider Walt’s question, and let out an amused snort. “Well I certainly didn’t expect you two fuck sticks to empty a couple barrels of buckshot into our guts, that’s for damn sure.” He lifted the steaming cup of coffee he still held in his left hand to his lips and took a tiny sip to test its temperature. He could feel it burning on his tongue, but he didn’t flinch. “But hey, whatever…water under the bridge and all that crap, right? Coffee?” Dean extended his other arm, offering the pot to Walt.

Walt looked down at the half empty coffee pot and blinked in surprise. “Uhhh, sure, water under the bridge,” he answered warily, still frozen to his spot.

“So you gonna take this pot from me or leave me standing here like a total jackass?”

“Oh…um…uhh…no thanks, I’m a decaf man myself.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “You gotta be freaking kidding me. Figured someone willing to off a couple kids in their sleep would prefer the real thing.”

Walt didn’t really know how to react that, so he opted for a nervous chuckle and shook his head. “Nope, not me.”

He looked at Roy again, who was shifting anxiously from foot to foot, confused by the direction the conversation had taken and unsure of his next move. When Walt looked back at Dean, the famous hunter was still staring at him, a wicked smile slowly raising the corner of his mouth. Walt was out of time and he knew it. The tension had reached its breaking point, and hell was about to be unleashed on his and Roy’s asses. And as the final thread on Dean’s restraint snapped, Walt could have sworn he saw the Winchester’s green eyes flash to black.

“Well here, how about you try it again,” Dean growled menacingly, and before Walt could protect himself, Dean’s left arm shot forward, launching the boiling hot contents of his cup directly at Walt’s face. The man’s hands shot to his face as he screamed in pain and dropped to his knees.

Roy charged forward, but Dean, fully aware of the other man’s position, easily spun out of reach and landed his own well-aimed blow against the side of Roy’s head with the heavy glass coffee pot. It shattered on contact, slicing Roy’s face and dumping its contents down his face and neck. Dean watched as the unconscious hunter collapsed flat on his face, a bone crunching on impact—probably his nose. Well, Dean thought darkly, he didn’t get to hear this one scream, but at least he got to see him bleed.

The cashier sped around the corner in a panic to see what all the commotion was about, but jerked to a stop when she saw the mess all over the floor and the condition of the three men she had greeted earlier—two of them were now seriously injured. “Holy shit,” she gasped and but she couldn’t make herself move or tear her eyes from the scene before her.

Dean turned to face Walt who had managed to stagger upright, blisters already forming across his face. “You are a sick son of a bitch, Winchester.”

“Ah now Walt,” Dean scolded mockingly. “You know that’s not nice.”

“Fuck you, Dean. You can go straight to hell.”

Faster than should have been humanly possible, Dean closed the distance between them and snatched up Walt by the front of his shirt. “Already been there asshole, and even the devil didn’t want me,” he snarled before throwing him backwards into a shelf of junk food. The crash finally snapped the cashier out of her shocked state, and she squealed and dropped down behind the nearest free-standing cooler.

As she peeked around the corner of it, she saw Dean draw his leg back and place a well-aimed kick in the middle of the other guy’s rib cage. She’d bet her whole paycheck he’d have a few broken ribs to tend to after all this was over. She pulled back out of sight and tried to collect herself by taking several shaky gulps of air. What the fuck was happening here? She wasn’t equipped to deal with this sort of situation.

Walt was groaning and writhing on the floor in pain, but Dean wasn’t finished with him yet. “You see Walt, when someone breaks into my hotel room and shoots me and my baby brother with a shot gun, I take that a wee bit personally,” he explained as he squatted next to the whimpering man.

“I-I-I get it Dean, I swear. Never again. We are even,” Walt finally managed to groan out through gritted teeth.

“Oh no, Walt, we are so far from even.” Dean hauled Walt up to his feet and pushed him towards the cooler where the terrified cashier was hiding. The battered man stumbled but caught himself on the ledge of the cooler only to have Dean catch him by the hair on the back of his head and slam his face straight down into it. Walt’s lip split wide open and a few teeth dislodged from his gums with the impact. He crumpled, but somehow remained conscious. Before he was even fully on the ground, Dean was on top of him, hand twisted in his shirt.

“This is for me.” Dean raised his right fist and drove it into the left side of Walt’s already bloody face, snapping his head to the right. Walt noticed the lady crouched there then, shocked and scared by what she was seeing. Dean, still unaware of his spectator, reached down with his left hand, grabbed Walt’s chin and slowly turned his face back up to him.

“And this, this is for Sammy.” Dean’s fist slammed straight into the other hunter’s nose, crushing the bones within, blood instantly spewing from his nostrils. “Remember this next time you even think about crossing paths with us again, you son of a bitch,” Dean warned, as he pulled back to strike again. That’s when he heard a whimper come from somewhere to his left. His head whipped towards the sound, and what he saw knocked the wind from him. The pretty young cashier sat there shaking, knees pulled to her chest, trembling hands covering her mouth, eyes wide with terror and leaking silent tears.

Dean released Walt’s shirt and jumped off him as though he had been scalded, spinning frantically, looking around at the aftermath of his attack. He could feel the darkness slowly retreating inside his soul, content for now with the damage it had caused. He dropped his head and looked slowly between the two battered hunters on the ground and then at his hands covered in their blood. What had he done? He had spent his entire life fighting and killing things that scared people the way he had just scared that young girl.

“I—this isn’t—I didn’t—I just—I’m,” he stuttered before letting out a sad, defeated sigh. No words could ever make this right anyway. He sucked in a shaky breath and looked her in the eyes, tears still steadily streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, forcing all the sincerity he could into eyes, hoping she could see how badly he wanted her to believe him.

As he turned towards the exit and took a step in its direction, he heard a small, relieved sob escape her lips, finally allowing herself to realize it was all over and she was safe. She didn’t have to be scared anymore. The monster was leaving. A monster—that’s what he was to people now. And with that realization, his chin dropped to his chest, where the heart beating inside of it shattered into tiny pieces.

He didn’t glance back as he pushed out of the store’s doors and headed towards the Impala, but if he had—and if the young girl inside had looked really closely—she might have seen a single tear slide down his face. On an early morning, in the middle of nowhere, she might have seen a monster cry.

***

The juke box blared to life, snapping Dean from his memories of this morning with a jolt. Some modern rock singer was going on about how his weakness was caring too much and his scars reminded him of his past, and much to Dean’s surprise, it sounded vaguely familiar. As appropriate as it might be in this particular situation, it wasn’t the type of thing he normally listened to, so where the hell had he heard it?

He listened through another verse before it dawned on him. The night he’d first laid eyes on Y/N, it had been at one of this guy’s concerts.

Shit, what was the name of his band? His brain was finally feeling a little fuzzy from all the whiskey, and it wasn’t immediately coming to him. Y/N would have been so disappointed. Daddy something? Daddy Bug? Hell no, that couldn’t be it. Papa…yeah, that sounded better. Papa Roach…boom! That was the one. Dean smirked, slightly amused at his own internal dialogue and proud he was even able to recall the ridiculous name. He tossed back the shot he had poured himself earlier in celebration of that small victory. Stupid name or not, Y/N loved them, and these days, that was really the only thing mattered in his book.

***

Dean shouldered through the crowd of head banging, horn throwing concert goers in the pit level of the venue hoping he could make it to the stairs up ahead before he decked someone. Thank God he was a relatively large guy or the hunt might have ended before it really even got started. How in the hell anyone under six foot and weighing less than a buck eighty survived these damn concerts without being trampled was one of life’s greatest mysteries. He finally managed to force his way through the last few people standing between him and the stairs to the upper level just as the opening band was wrapping up their set.

Just in time, he thought as he leapt up the steps and found a spot along the railing where he could look out over the bulk of the crowd. The venue looked like a long rectangle; the stage, entrance doors and two raised seating levels on either side making up its border. In the middle of all that, on a slightly lower level, was the pit Dean had just escaped from. His green eyes scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of the vamps that had recently taken to using this club as their own personal hunting ground. So far tonight there hadn’t been a single sign of them, and Dean just hoped he hadn’t missed something. He’d walked around the place more than once, but it wouldn’t be hard to overlook them in a crowd like this.

Pretty much everyone was in black and damn near all of them had been screaming along to the unbelievably loud music, jumping up and down, moshing, and basically going bat shit crazy. He had to give it to these vamps; they weren’t dumb. Oh well, maybe Sam would have better luck at the other joint they’d decided to stake out. He huffed out an impatient breath and decided it was time for a beer.

He pushed away from the rail and shoved his way to the bar behind him. The bartenders were running back and forth like crazy people trying to keep up with the orders the crowd was throwing at them. The two ladies were handling the insanity pretty well considering every person in the whole damn place must have decided to get a drink between the sets. He looked over his shoulder towards the bar on the other side of the room to see if it was any better. About that time, someone slammed into his right side, knocking him off balance.

He barked out a “son of a bitch” at the same time he heard a female voice snap, “Jesus H Christ! Would it kill you to say ‘excuse me’, asshole?!” Dean followed the woman’s gaze, tracing it to a middle-aged man a couple feet away who was so drunk it was a miracle he was still standing. Her anger was met with a few slow blinks and a drunken smile before he stumbled off into the crowd and disappeared. “Fucking prick,” she growled, brushing a hand down the front of her shirt in a sad attempt to wipe away some of the drink that was spilled all over it.

Her eyes snapped up to his, remembering suddenly that she’d knocked into someone too. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” she apologized hurriedly. “That jerk just bulldozed his way through. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. You didn’t rough me up too much, so I guess you are forgiven,” he answered playfully, a genuine smile lighting up his face. “Risk you run when you get around large crowds.”

“Yep, reason number one for why I prefer the hermit lifestyle.”

Good lord, she was cute. The simple thought slammed into him from out of nowhere. When was the last time he looked at a woman and thought of her as cute? As something more than a way to pass the time for an evening? He couldn’t remember exactly, but he’d bet money it was around the same time as he took on the damned mark.

“Well if this band brought a hermit out of hiding, it must be pretty damned good.”

“What can I say? I love me some Jacoby Shaddix.” She shrugged unapologetically, looking up at him through her ridiculously long eyelashes.

“Well great, now I have high hopes for this performance, and I’m going to be seriously disappointed when they don’t live up to them. Thanks for that��” Dean trailed off, hoping she’d catch the hint, and give him her name.

Her Y/E/C eyes lit up as she caught on, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks as she extended her hand towards him in greeting. “Y/N”

He wrapped his large calloused hand around hers and introduced himself in return. “Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

Before she could stop it, a quiet laugh bubbled up and escaped her lips. He pulled back in surprise, smile fading and immediately second guessing himself. “Oh god, what? Did I read that all wrong? Do I have something on my face? Have I met you before and don’t remember it?” He asked in a slightly panicked voice.

She snorted in amusement. “No, no, nothing like that. I just don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that introduced themselves last name first. My nerd brain went straight to a ‘Bond. James Bond.’ comparison,” she admitted.

“Pshh…James Bond wishes he was as cool as me.”

“Sure, okay. Let me know when you’ve basically saved the world and then can revisit this conversation, Mr. Big Shot.”

“And what makes you so sure I haven’t saved the world a time or three, sweetheart?”

She didn’t immediately respond this time. She took a step back and crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes as she studied him closely. “Well you do sort of have those super hero good looks, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now, Dean Winchester,” she said finally.

“Well thank God for that,” he breathed out dramatically, causing Y/N to throw back her head in laughter.

Okay, well scratch cute, that shit was out the window. This woman was flat out gorgeous. On one hand, she looked so innocent with her flushed cheeks, wide, trusting eyes, and easy smile. But on the other hand—he left his thought unfinished as he silently admired her, gently biting his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes travelling appreciatively down the length of her smaller frame—on the other hand, she was built for sin. He could just imagine pushing his hands in that long Y/H/C hair as he kissed her full lips before letting them drift lower to cup those perfect breasts or grip that amazing ass. Alright, he had to stop before he was pitching a tent in the middle of all these people.

“So how does a man who doesn’t even like Papa Roach wind up at one of his concerts?” Y/N asked, snapping him out of that little lust fueled daydream.

“Oh—umm, work actually. Got a tip that someone we’re hunting might make an appearance here tonight.” She looked a little confused by his answer, so he hurriedly tagged “FBI” to the end of his sentence as a means of explanation.

A shocked look briefly flitted across her features before she nodded. “Well, that explains why you introduced yourself the way you did. Maybe I should have taken the hero thing a little more seriously, Mr. Winchester,” she said, nudging him playfully.

“Nothing but a thing,” he shrugged dismissively, feeling a bit awkward at the praise. To this day, he still didn’t know how to respond when someone threw his name and the word ‘hero’ into the same sentence. Hell, even at his best, he hadn’t exactly been Captain America, all moral and righteous and honorable to a fault. And now after wearing the mark for months and going all ‘team dark side’ for a while, he woke up most mornings wondering if he could even be considered one of the good guys anymore.

The first sounds of an electric guitar filtered through the speakers and the house lights dimmed, sending the crowd around him into a full-blown frenzy. Y/N immediately joined in, quickly spinning around and throwing her ‘horns’ in the sky while screaming at the top of her lungs. She glanced over at him and laughed again—the happiness she felt at being here in this moment, flirting with him and listening to one of her favorite rock bands, was written all over her face. The intro music continued to play and she focused her eyes on the stage, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands excitedly as the first band member made his entrance.

He took a moment to simply take in the sight of her, completely enjoying herself, totally carefree, laughing loudly and without hesitation, whole body buzzing in anticipation of the show starting. In that moment, the rage—the darkness—the demons that haunted him day and night—even the mark itself—none of that shit mattered, and suddenly, he felt like he could breathe again. Before he could even begin to analyze what that was all about, she grabbed his hand and yanked him towards the railing so she could get a better view.

“Moment of truth—,”he said loudly as he stepped up behind her and rested his large hands on her hips. He bent forward slightly and tilted his head so that his lips were next to her ear when he jokingly continued, “Does the band with the ability to lure out the elusive hermit live up to the hype?”

He couldn’t help but notice the shiver that went down her body or how she leaned into the sound of his voice as the lower half of her body responded unconsciously, pressing backwards into his hands. Dear sweet baby Jesus, that little reaction of hers caused all sorts of X-rated images to flood his brain.

“And what happens if they don’t?” she asked breathily, turning her face towards his as she waited to hear his answer.

“Then I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me.” His lips turned up in a mischievous smile, and he felt a shocking amount of satisfaction rush through him when hers twitched upward too, mirroring his expression.

His face was so close to hers; it would be so easy to close that short distance between them and just kiss her. Her eyes were focused directly on his, chest heaving, lips parted, ready for him to make his move. But his conscience chose that exact moment to rear its ugly head, and he pulled back slightly.

What in the shit was he thinking? He couldn’t just dive headfirst into this; it wouldn’t be fair to her. He wasn’t willing to suck an innocent girl into this messed up life of his and saddle her with all this extra bullshit when he was more than likely going to end up breaking her heart in the long run anyway. She wouldn’t want to live this curse—no one would—and he couldn’t fault her for that. He just needed to suck it up, do the right thing, and let her go before whatever this was went any further.

He dropped his eyes from hers so she couldn’t see the pain in them as he thought of what he had to do, but instead of turning away, she raised her hand and placed it gently on the side of his face. “Dean, I might have met you all of about ten minutes ago so, but I know exactly what you are doing, and you don’t have to. I’m pretty good at reading people, so believe me when I say, whatever shit you have going on in your life at the moment, I know you can beat it. Don’t be a martyr. Don’t shut out the people that care about you, and don’t you dare lose your hope. You are worthy of love, forgiveness and redemption. You, Dean Winchester, have a heart of gold, and don’t you ever forget it.”

Well fuck, how was he supposed to be all self-sacrificial when she said shit like that to him? Screw it. He was tired of mourning all the “what ifs” and “what could have beens" anyway, so he said damn the consequences, shoved his fingers into her hair and slanted his mouth passionately over hers. She let out a soft sigh and melted into the kiss. He deepened it then, stepping closer and pulling her tightly against him, silently asking her with his tongue to open up for him. She responded immediately, humming with pleasure as her tongue tangled with his. She reached behind his head, threading her small fingers into his short hair and tugging lightly, causing a deep moan to rumble from his throat. He let his hands wander lazily down her body, and he took his time tracing every line of her beautiful curves, stopping and squeezing tightly when he reached her ass.

“Okay…okay,” she mumbled, finally separating her lips from his. They were both breathing heavily, noses and foreheads still touching as they tried to regain their composure. “We have to stop now or I’m going to do some really inappropriate and possibly illegal things to you in front of all these people.”

“Was that supposed to make me want you less, sweetheart? If it was, I think you need to try again because that shit didn’t work at all,” he growled hungrily as he leaned forward and stole another kiss.

She giggled and pushed at his chest playfully. “Back off butter cup, you have an awesome concert to watch. And I may or may not have a lead singer to drool over.”

“What the hell? Now ‘lead singer’ trumps ‘sexy, world saving stranger’?” He looked appropriately offended as he glared at her in mock disbelief.

“Yep, pretty much,” she deadpanned, trying her damndest to keep a straight face.

“But what if the aforementioned stranger also happens to be a fabulous kisser and a god between the sheets?”

“Hmmmmm, tempting, but…I’m still leaning towards the singer.”

“I call bullshit!” He laughed as he lunged forward, throwing his arms around her and trapping her against his body. “Take it back.”

“Not a chance,” she squealed and tried her best to twist out of his grasp. When she froze abruptly, Dean looked up to see what had gotten her attention.

An extremely tatted, black haired man, who Dean could only assume was the lead singer, had finally made his appearance onstage. He released her from his arms just as the other man started jumping and screamed, “Are you ready? Are you fucking ready, y’all?! One, two, three…everybody jump! Come on, get up!”

Y/N completely lost her shit at the exact same time the rest of the fans did and the roar of the crowd rose to an earsplitting noise level. Shockingly, he still somehow managed to hear her when she looked back and yelled, “Now watch and be amazed!”

Dean did as he was told, grinning like a love-sick moron through the whole first song, getting a kick out watching her dance and hop around wildly while singing every word at the top of her lungs.

Papa Roach made it through three more songs before Dean realized he had never even gotten his beer. And after another two songs, he found himself bobbing his head to the music, feeding off the energy of the singer and the insane crowd. He hated to admit it, but the jumpy little fellas did put on one hell of a show, and he was actually enjoying himself.

Another few songs into the set, his phone buzzed with a text from his brother telling him that he had busted the fangers at that other bar and took care of them. Thank God for that, because he seriously doubted he would have been able to pull himself away from Y/N long enough to work the damn job that brought him there in the first place.

By the last song, he had resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to leave her standing there alone at the end of the night and started praying to every powerful being he’d ever encountered to help him at least do right by her. To ease the guilt gnawing at his insides for what he was about to do, he made a promise to himself that the second he was no longer able to be the kind of man she needed and deserved, he’d do the noble thing and walk away. For now though, he was going to allow himself this small chance at happiness.

For now, he was going to try—because for the first time in in a long time, the demon inside wasn’t threatening to pull him under, and he felt a little bit like his old self again.

Because when he looked at her, a tiny spark of hope flickered to life deep within his chest, and the darkness blanketing his soul no longer seemed so quite heavy and endless.

She made him want to fight. She made him hope—and for that—he’d try.

***

Dean finally reached a hand into his pocket and dragged out his cell phone, deciding it was about time to turn the damned thing back on. He’d shut it off after the blowup at the store, too ashamed of what he’d done to even voice it out loud to Sammy or Y/N at the time. He had just needed a minute to wallow in self-pity and get his head on straight before he started fielding questions or endured the hushed, unwavering declarations of understanding and support that he sure as shit didn’t deserve.

Get away from the scene first, have a few drinks second, and then make the calls and deal with all the emotional shit, he’d told himself as he pushed Baby’s gas pedal to the floor and peeled out of the parking lot. One state line, several hours, and a nearly finished fifth of whiskey later, he guessed he had no choice but to mark the first two items on his little checklist complete. Now it was time to stop procrastinating and face the music.

He sighed and stared at his phone, finger hovering over the power button, finding it difficult to muster the courage to actually press it.

“Trouble with the ole lady, son?” Ronnie asked while he stacked the cups in their proper place behind the bar. Dean’s eyes flashed up to meet the other man’s questioning gaze. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes narrowed, silently wondering how the old man had known exactly what was going on. “Only time I’ve ever seen a man look that scared of a phone is when his woman is pissed, and he’s about to have his ass handed to him,” he elaborated with a shrug.

“Ha, well you ain’t wrong, old man,” Dean snorted amusedly, pushing in the power button and wincing playfully as he did so. His heart pounded wildly as he watched the screen load, and then it damn near stopped when the messages started rolling in.

“Uh yeah, Ronnie, I’m thinking she’s long past pissed,” Dean held up his phone to the bartender, shaking it a little as it continued to ding. The old man chuckled and nodded in agreement as one message notification after the other lit Dean’s screen. He finally listened to a couple of the voicemails his brother left him, figuring those would be the easier ones to deal with.

“Dude, Dean, where the fuck are you man? Y/N is blowing up my phone. Worried sick and madder than a wet hornet. Call me back, asswipe.”

“Dean seriously, answer the damn phone. I’m getting my ass chewed on over here. Quit being a moody, good for nothing douchebag and call me. Better yet, man up and call your woman, you jerk.”

Dean blew out a breath as he deleted that second one, and looked up at Ronnie before tossing back another shot. “Well as bad as it’s going to suck to get an ass chewing over the phone, it’s still a hell of a lot better than getting an ass whooping in person,” he said with a weak smile and dialed Y/N’s number.

He listened to the line ring in his ear a couple times, another person’s ring tone going off behind him at the exact same instant. Something about that one sounded familiar—ah, fuck, Dean thought, back stiffening and eyes widening as he looked at the bartender and slowly lowered his phone. “Y/N,” he breathed out quietly.

“Ding! Ding! Ding! And they call Sammy the smart brother.”

Dean remained seated, but slowly twisted his barstool to face her. She was standing there in front of him, arms crossed, cheeks red, Y/E/C eyes blazing, and even royally pissed, she was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen.

He heard Ronnie fumbling with something at the bar before hurriedly mumbling, “Alright then, I’ll leave y’all to it.”

Dean chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. “What the hell man? We bonded.”

“Maybe we did, son. But my mama taught me to choose my battles wisely, and I don’t like my odds with this one.” He nodded in Y/N’s direction, a smirk on his face and a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Yeah, I don’t like mine either,” Dean grumbled and let out a sigh. “Alright, let me have it.”

“Dean Winchester, I don’t ask for much. I’m pretty freaking low maintenance, but when I call you, I’d like you to call me back before I turn into a crazy person, harass the shit out of your brother, track one of the extra cell phones stashed in the Impala, hot wire a car, and chase your sorry ass to a bar across the state line.”

“Well Y/N, I had a bit of an episode this morning and beat the ever-living shit out of a couple of guys and decided it was better to get the heck out of dodge.”

“And if your dumb ass would have answered the phone a few hours ago I could have told you I handled that situation and that there was no reason to run,” she spat back pointing a finger at his chest.

Dean jerked back in surprise at that little revelation. “What? How?”

“I woke up when you cranked up Baby this morning. Figured you were driving to clear your head, so I let you have some time to yourself, but then you never came back. I got worried so I stole a car and went to look for you. I thought you might have stopped to get your daily dose of caffeine, so I pulled in the first gas station I saw and asked the little cashier if she’d seen you.”

Dean interrupted her. “How was she?” he asked quietly, lowering his eyes and hanging his head in shame.

“She was fine. Dean, look at me.” Y/N put a hand under his chin, and reluctantly, he lifted his eyes to hers. “She was fine,” she repeatedly gently, the sadness and regret she saw on his face causing her voice to break.

“I’m a monster, Y/N. You didn’t see how scared she was.”

“Maybe not, but after I apologized for my ‘brother’s’ behavior and explained that you really were a sweet guy, but just a little different—a little more special than the rest of us—and that certain things could trigger one of your episodes, she was more than understanding.”

“You did not!”

“Oh I did. And I may or may not have told her you ran off after you jacked the car keys from my purse while I was visiting you at your mental health facility, but as soon as I found you, you were headed straight back, and I’d be visiting with your doctor about your meds,” she added with a chuckle.

“Well thanks a lot for that, sweetheart. I don’t know if I should be proud or offended.”

She laughed and stepped in between his legs, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Well she isn’t calling the cops so I’d go with proud, if I were you.”

“Okay, proud it is.” He lifted his face, searching hers for any sign of disappointment or pity and came up empty. She leaned down and pressed her lips softly to his, calming his nerves more effectively in one instant than the whole bottle of whiskey had over the course of the last several hours.

Dean ended the kiss, pushing a strand of her out of her face as he did so. She leaned into the touch, closed her eyes and sighed a deep contented sigh. God, he hated himself for what he was about to do, but he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he ruined her life simply because he was too weak to keep that promise he’d made himself months ago. “I heard a Papa Roach song playing in here earlier.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?” she asked, instantly perking up at the mention of her favorite band.

“Come on now, darling. You know better than to ask me that,” he answered jokingly. “If it isn’t something by Zepplin or Metallica, I’m pretty much clueless.”

“Sad, but true. Figured I would have taught you a few things by now, Winchester.”

“You’ve taught me lots, Y/N, more than you know.” She’d given him months of happiness, when he thought he’d never feel that emotion again. She’d shown him how to forgive others, and more importantly, how to forgive himself. She had helped him become a person that he was proud of again—one that put others’ needs before his own and gave everything without a thought of what he’d get in return, which is why he had to do this.

“Do you remember the night we met?” he asked sadly.

“Yeah,” she responded suspiciously, noticing the change in his tone of voice. “Why? Dean, what’s wrong?” Her eyes searched his face for some clue about what was running through his head.

“Because, Y/N, I made myself a promise that night. I’d try to fight this curse, but the instant I realized it was a losing battle, I’d let you go—before I made it worse.” His voice shook as he spoke those words, bracing himself for pain he’d feel when she walked out of his life.

“No,” she said resolutely, taking a step back. “Absolutely not, Dean Winchester. You don’t get to make this decision for me. You don’t get to love me through a damned periscope.”

“What does that even mean?

“It means you don’t get to force me out of your life and pretend like loving me from a distance is what’s best for me.”

“Well, I don’t know where the hell you came up with that little metaphor, but…”

Y/N interrupted him, “Jacoby Shaddix. It’s in a Papa Roach song.” She raised her chin defiantly and tightened her jaw, daring him to make some smart-assed comment.

“Imagine that,” Dean snorted, unable to keep the smirk off his face despite the seriousness of the conversation they were having. He paused a second to refocus before continuing his argument. “You don’t understand, Y/N. You don’t get how I feel every fucking day. You told me I could beat this, but I can’t. I wanted to, but after this morning…,” his voice broke as he recalled what he had done to Walt and Roy. “I just can’t, and I don’t want to risk you being collateral damage. I’ve got a plan, and it’s what’s best, trust me.”

“No, I don’t trust people that act like idiots. You think I don’t know what you’ve been planning—of course, I know. And you know how I know? Because you are beautiful and good and selfless, and sometimes that makes you act like a total moron. You’d rather see all that erased than risk hurting one more person, even when they are jerkoffs that totally deserve it.” She paced in front of him angrily, throwing her hands up in frustration as she spoke.

Dean blinked at her in surprise. Somehow, she always managed to catch him off guard. He watched her take a calming breath and pinch the bridge of her nose between two fingers before continuing, “Look, I get that I don’t really know jack shit about all this—that I’m new to this world—but I’m also smart enough to know you always hope for the best but prepare for the worst. I knew the risks when I got into this. I knew one day I might have to watch you surrender in this fight—that I might have to let you go. I knew it, but I still chose you anyway, because I felt like you were worth it—and I wasn’t wrong. So, if you’d quit trying to be a martyr for like three seconds, you might could see that I’m strong enough to handle the consequences of that decision and understand that, to me, any version of life that has you in it is a thousand times better than one that doesn’t. I love you, Dean—plain and simple—and I will every day, until your last one, but damn it, that isn’t today.” She stomped her foot down to emphasize the point she was trying to force through his thick skull.

He looked at her in awe—this beautiful, hard headed woman he stumbled upon while working a random case at a random concert—and wondered how he got so lucky. Maybe there really was someone upstairs looking out for him. He was never all that good with words, at least not with the sappy kind she deserved to hear, so instead, he stood up, closed the distance between them and crashed his lips to hers. He poured everything he had into that kiss, and when they finally broke apart just enough to gulp in a breath of air, he smiled against her lips and quietly promised, “Not today.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, relief flooding her veins.

“By the way,” he continued as he pressed a soft kiss to her temple, “I love you, too, Y/N.”

“Well, about damned time, you idjit. I thought you were going to leave her hanging there for a minute,” a gruff, teasing voice called from behind the bar. Dean raised his hand and shot Ronnie the bird without ever looking behind him, causing the old man to chuckle and Y/N to throw her head back in laughter.

“So, how about now?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, humor still dancing in her eyes.

“Lead singer or sexy, world saving stranger?” He repeated the question he’d asked her at the concert months ago.

Her eyes narrowed and she put a finger to her lips as she pretended to seriously consider the options. Dean threw up his hands in disbelief. “Oh come on. Seriously? Still? I tell you I love you, and you still have to think about who you’d choose?” he asked incredulously.

“I choose—you. I have since the first night we met.” She shrugged as though it was the easiest choice in the world. “But I do seem to recall something being said about fantastic kissing and impressive bedroom skills. I might need you to prove it.”

“Gladly, sweetheart.” A wicked grin lit up Dean’s face. “Just need to take care of my tab first.” He turned around to pay Ronnie for the bottle of Maker’s Mark, he’d downed earlier.

The old bartender held up his hand. “Don’t worry about it, kid. You’ve got more important things to tend to.” He nodded towards the petite young woman waiting patiently at the door.

“Well I won’t argue with that.” Dean glanced at Y/N, excitement dancing in his green eyes as he did so, and then looked back at the older man. “Thank you, Ronnie.”

“Any time. Take care of yourself, Dean.”

The younger man nodded, then spun towards the exit, his long legs carrying him back to the woman he loved. “But if you can’t, at least I know she will,” he muttered, shaking his head in amusement. That woman was going to give him hell, that was for sure, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, she would also be the one to lead him through it. The thought brought a smile to the old man’s face, and for some reason as he bent to wipe down the bar, he found himself quietly singing the words of an old Papa Roach song.

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