#he is somehow dean winchester and sam winchester wrapped up with the voice of chris pine

[liopleurodean]

15 minutes into the MacGyver reboot and I already know more about his sex life than I ever wanted to

[pinknerdpanda]

Once Upon a Time

Word Count: 2,500

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam (mentioned), Chris (OC - mentioned)

Warnings: Angst, death, depression other warnings in the tags

A/N: This is the first thing I’ve written in weeks for various reasons - it feels good to be back in the game a bit! This was written for @because-imma-lady-assface’s Ashley reached 300 Will & Grace comeback-31st birthday-celebration. My prompt is bolded below.

Beta: @hannahindie and @wheresthekillswitch - you are both saints and I adore you. Thanks for all your support and wisdom.

As always, tags are at the bottom. If you would like to be added (or removed) please send me an ASK.

x

Once Upon a Time

Four days.

As I look at the smiling faces in the photograph - their eyes full of life and their steadfast hope of a future full of possibility and joy - that’s the only thing I can think; four days. In some ways four days can feel like eternity; like I used to feel on a Monday afternoon, as I answered another email and picked up another phone call, the hopelessness that Friday may never come would begin to engulf me. In other ways it can feel like an instant - a blink of an eye - the way it felt when it came time to say goodbye to my summer camp fling on the last day, the realization that we may never see each other again sobering as we wondered where the last week had gone. There are times, however, when four days passes exactly the way it’s meant to, and I suppose, looking back now - though the memories have begun to dull and blur around the edges - that’s what it must have felt like at that time.

There was nothing special about the four days that followed the photograph now illuminating my screen, and I suspect that those same smiling faces - now staring unblinkingly back at me from their pixelated home - remained smiling; blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. They seem to be now laughably oblivious to the fact that just four days stood between the people they were and the people they would be forced to become.

The caption under the photograph is a simple one - not exactly high on the creativity scale for that particular day. “Starting the New Year off with a bang - I’m in love with this year already!”

A tear trails down my cheek as I read those words over and over again in my head. “I’m in love with this year already.” I can hardly contain the bitter laughter. It seems so foolish - naive and almost a bit reckless. It’s like marrying a complete stranger after knowing them for an hour or accepting a ride from a masked man in an unmarked black van. Falling in love with a year before you’d even had an idea what horrors it planned on throwing at you, or how much of your life it planned to rip away from you. How could they - I - have been so stupid?

The sound of footsteps in the corridor seems to zap me from my daze and I snap my laptop closed and hastily rub at the wetness on my face before reaching for the glass and bottle of Jack and pouring a generous drink.

“Y/n!” Dean bellows as he rounds the corner. He sighs when our eyes meet as though relieved, though I spot the subtle twitch in his jaw as I tip back my glass and refill it again.

“Polo,” I mumble before downing glass number two.

“What? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you all day.” Dean’s eyebrows draw together as he crosses his large, plaid encased forearms over his chest.

“Oh, what a coincidence,” I reach for a second glass and divide the remnants of the liquor between them, before pushing one in Dean’s direction. “I’ve been trying to ignore you all day.”

Dean doesn’t move, but instead gives me this studying glare that makes me want to reach across the table and take back the drink I just gave him. After a moment he uncrosses his arms and takes the seat opposite me, though the look on his face has not changed.

It’s probably my voice that did it. I’ve always prided myself on my stoic poker face and lately, my eyes have been stranded in a perpetual state of bloodshottedness; but my voice - low and sounding vaguely of tires on an unpaved road - had betrayed me. I add it to my mental list of shit that has let me down this year.

“Wanna talk about it?” Dean closes his palm around the tumbler, absently tracing the rim in lieu of bringing it to his now pursed lips.

I now understand the look he’d been sporting only moments ago, as I feel my face twist into what I can only assume is a similar look while I silently appraise him. In the few months that I’d known Dean - God, has it really only been months? - I’ve come to appreciate several things about him. First on the list - he is one of the smartest and bravest people I have ever met, rivaled only by his younger but taller brother Sam. Where Dean is all guns-a-blazing, shoot first and ask questions last bravado; Sam is quiet and reserved. Outwardly, he’s a gentle giant, methodically formulating his own opinions and plans, every step carefully considered to the last breath. But underneath his careful nature, he's filled with silent pain, manifesting as an invisible rage that burns to his very core. In some ways, that makes him more dangerous than Dean. Not to say Dean doesn’t have his share of scars and inward struggle, but he wears his heart on his sleeve, though to some the view may seem backward.

“Nope,” I throw back number three and relish the burn as it slithers down my throat to join its already fallen comrades.

Dean nods, squinting as he drags his teeth over his bottom lip and the sight of it makes my belly squirm. Another thing about Dean that I’ve come to appreciate - though it’s only with the help of my good buddy Jack that I’m able to admit it to myself without the dreary side-effects of self loathing and guilt coming along for the ride - is that Dean is just fucking hot. I’ve nearly lost count of the number of drunken fantasies I’ve allowed myself to envision starring the mint-eyed man looking back at me. Though the mornings following such nights have been just as guilt ridden and bleak as if I’d cheated on my husband and woken up next to a stranger. My husband. Chris.

For a moment Chris’ face flashes through my mind and I feel the pressure in my chest mounting as the gaping hole there threatens to overtake me. Before I can process what’s happening I’m gasping for air and I’m struck with the realization that the broken sobs now filling the room are coming from me.

The weight of everything I’ve lost over the last nine months bears down on me, and I can almost feel my soul bowing under it’s unwelcome advance. Nine months ago I’d been living a life of gleeful ignorance where vampires sparkled and things that died stayed dead. That innocence was pillaged from me the night the demon possessed Chris and decimated everything that we’d ever worked for and dreamed about. With it went every single hope and dream I’d ever stowed away for a rainy day, every shred of normality and the very laughter from my lungs.

There are nights I can still see his face, unnaturally contorted as he’d tied up then tortured me; still feel his fingers twisting into my hair as he’d yanked my head back and dragged the tip of the knife along my neck, taunting me. That demon had taken the shape of the man that I’d loved and perverted every memory we’d ever shared as he’d mangled my flesh and laughed. I think that’s the worst part. There was no agenda for him, no grand plan - he’d made that very clear. He’d been bored. Plain and simple.

I don’t remember seeing Sam and Dean knocking down my door, or hearing Sam’s deep, even timbre as he’d calmly recited the Latin that had sent the demon kicking and screaming to the depths of hell. I couldn’t tell you the first words Dean had whispered into my ear as he’d cut the bonds that had held me down or how long I’d been there. The only memory that I have of those last few moments of my old life was the horror that flickered across Chris’ face as he took in my battered, bleeding body before his own breathing ceased and his eyes went slack. That is the mental movie that plays on a never ending loop inside my head and keeps the hole in my chest from healing. Those brief, final moments are what prompted me to accept Sam and Dean’s offer of a room at the bunker, and they continue to fuel my desire to rid the earth of as many evil assholes alongside them as I am physically able to.

I’m suddenly aware of three things - first of all, the tears have stopped - my breathing is still coming in raspy, labored inhales - but the tears are gone. Second, Dean’s strong arms are wrapped tightly around me, one hand pressed firmly against my back and the fingers of the other coming delicately through my gnarled hair, soothingly. Dean’s lips are close to my ear and he’s humming softly; I recognize the tune as a Beatles song. Third - and this is important - my own hands are clutching onto him as though he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic and my face is buried in the crook of his neck, the soft, worn flannel collar now damp from my tears.

When did this happen? Though my brief time with the Winchesters had presented itself with many similar scenarios - me, weepy and mournful, reliving the events of that night in some way and Dean, empathetic and kind, steadfast and unwavering as he watched me put the pieces of my broken self back together, his attempts at assistance all but thwarted by my pride - never had such an occasion ended this particular way.

As we stand there - still unsure when I’d even stood or how Dean came to be holding me, not to mention how long we’d been standing there.  His humming fades, though neither of us attempt to move away. A small voice somewhere in the back of my mind whispers that this is wrong, that this is somehow betraying Chris or his memory. Another voice, stronger and resembling that of my own, whispers back that this is just a hug; a comforting embrace from one friend to another in a time of deepest sorrow. A third voice laughs, a trill, high pitched sound as the second voice makes an annoyed, distinctly teenager sounding noise.

When we finally break apart, the look on Dean’s face is enough to swallow me whole. The green of his eyes is a fine outline around his deep, black pupils as they bore into mine. I am vaguely aware that his hands are still where they had been seconds before. A dozen things spring to mind that I want to say to him as we stand there willing the other to speak first. I want to thank him for saving my life, scream at him for not letting me die with Chris, and laugh at how unsure he looks in this moment, as though he was a 15 year old boy trying to muster the courage for his first kiss. My mouth is dry and none of the words I want to say seem to be forming complete thoughts so I stand there a second longer, allowing the moment to consume me.

“It’s been nine months to the day.” My voice cracks pathetically and had we been further apart, he may not have been able to hear me. Dean nods.

“I know. That’s why I was calling you. I didn’t want you to be alone.” His eyes search mine and though I am not sure what exactly he’s looking for, I can make an educated guess. “I’m so sorry, y/n.”

“Thank you.” Dean nods again and starts to step back, but my hands haven’t moved either and I clutch tighter at him. I pour every ounce of myself - every thought, every emotion, every fear - into my eyes as I look into his. There is the barest hint of hesitation from Dean as I stretch up and place my lips against his, but he recovers quickly from whatever conflict he’d just been experiencing and it’s like someone lit a match and threw it in a puddle of gasoline.

His hands are everywhere at once and his lips are working magic against my own. For the first time all night, I feel lighter. More than that, I feel something other than the pain and hopelessness I’ve gotten so used to. The feel of his tongue sweeping past my lips and his breath mingling with mine makes me lightheaded as I mold myself against his firm body. Soon my lungs are burning in desperation for fresh oxygen and we break apart, his forehead pressed against mine.

“Y/n,” his voice is softer than a whisper, almost like an exhale, but it speaks loud enough. In true Dean Winchester fashion he’s already erecting walls and fortifying his emotional defenses to put distance between us. He’s telling himself that it’s for my own good and the punishment for his momentary lapse in judgement has already begun.

I refuse.

I refuse to continue to let this year bleed me dry. I refuse to be a prisoner of my own despair. I refuse to let him shut me out like he’s already beginning to do. I. Refuse.

“No!”

Dean’s face is puzzled and truthfully, the forcefulness in my voice is unfamiliar to my own ears.

“Don’t shut me out, Dean. Please. Not now.”

Dean’s mouth forms a little “o” and he blinks down at me. I can tell he is surprised I read him so easily.

“I just...I’m not…” he licks his lips, stalling for time. “It’s not the right…”

“I swear to god if you say ‘it’s not the right time’ I just may throat punch you,” Dean almost chuckles and as he opens his mouth to retort, I cut him off. “This year has been the worst year of my life. Losing Chris...I will never be ‘over’ that. Ever. But you saved me Dean. You and Sam swooped into my life out of nowhere and you saved me. In more ways than one.” I grab Dean’s hand and place it over my heart. “This hole will never not hurt. But I am done allowing the pain to dictate who I am.”

“But the people I care about, y/n,” Dean’s anguish is palpable, “they always wind up hurt.”

“Well, the people I love wind up dead, apparently. You and I understand how fleeting this life is Dean, and I am through hiding from it. Are you?”

Dean’s lips are on mine before I can even blink. His strong arms lift me easily and as he kisses me senseless en route to his room - or my room; frankly I don’t know and I could honestly care less - it’s as though a tiny bit of the person I used to be is filtering back in. A glimmer of hope flashes, albeit briefly, before my eyes. Maybe - possibly - there is a little bit left of this year to love and perhaps with time and healing - and probably loads more Jack - the pain will become a distant memory.

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