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ellen-reincarnated1967 · 6 days ago

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Not sure if I ever posted this fic

Prompt- Reader is a Junior in High School and has a vision of her parents’ brutal, yet supernatural deaths. She immediately calls her best friend, Dean Winchester, a Senior, who comforts her the only way he knows how. Fluff and some supernatural death.

For @fightingalongwinchesters

You were sitting in your AP English class, revising your paper on The Great Gatsby, as your teacher assisted others with their assignments. You daydreamed about the great love story inserting yourself into Daisy’s shoes. Oh to have someone look at you like he looked at Daisy! That wasn’t to say you didn’t have a few takers; but they didn’t do anything for you. They didn’t make your heart race, they didn’t make you forget to breathe, and they sure as heck didn’t make you want to doodle your first and their last names together with little hearts and swirls. Right on cue, you felt your cell buzz in your back pocket, and as you scanned the room, to make sure your teacher wasn’t looking, you pulled it out to see a text from your best friend, Dean Winchester. Now Dean, he made you laugh, he made you feel safe, and best of all, he wasn’t the player all the other girls in the Senior class made him out to be. In fact, you would never mutter this aloud, but he was just as big a nerd, as his little brother Sammy. He just kept his intellect to himself; using snark, bravado, and his good looks to mask it.

Bio is KILLING me, Smalls

You had to chuckle, Dean would never quote gangsta rapper, Notorious B.I.G. No, it was his nickname for you, because you were a whopping 5’4 to his 6’1. However, that didn’t stop you from replying back,

You’ve got nothin’ on Gatsby, Biggie

Dean sent you another text within seconds, geesh, his Biology class must really be kicking his ass today. You smiled a goofy grin as you read one of the lines from non other than The Great Gatsby. “Geek” you muttered under your breath.

“Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.”

You were about to shoot him another text, when you heard your teacher fast approaching from the back of the row you were sitting in, and quickly stashed your cell in the front pocket of your messenger bag.

“Y/N”, her squeaky voice made your jaw ache, “would you mind helping Jenna with her final draft, while I peruse your modifications on The Great Gatsby paper you so brilliantly have written?”

“Sure thing, Ms. Calloway,” you slid your foot toward the messenger bag, kicking it further under your desk, so she didn’t hear the buzzing, indicative of another text from Dean.

Another twenty minutes passed by as you assisted Jenna with her outline for her final draft and with each second ticking by on the large clock above the classroom door, you found yourself battling the onslaught of a migraine. The words were starting to jumble together as you attempted to proofread Jenna’s awful handwriting, orbs of light began to flash in front of your eyes, nausea began to creep it’s way up your throat, and that’s when it hit you; stabbing pain in your right temple. You grunted in pain as you white knuckled the desk, Jenna’s voice distant albeit she was inches from your face. You’ve experienced auras before with your migraines, but this time, with each jolt of pain, images began to flash in front of your eyes. You were only getting glimpses, but with each one, the more they became violent.

Blood splatters against the linoleum.

Another jolt of pain; another image.

A woman’s screams, the man in the kitchen grabbing at his throat as blood begins to seep through his graying fingers.

Jolt!

The man falls to his knees, gasping for air that won’t come. Arterial spray splatters across your vision as the woman’s abdomen is slashed and her throat too is sliced.

Jolt!

Claw marks on the refrigerator, bloody handprints, the woman’s final attempt to leave a message, her bloody fingers, slowly and haphazardly scribbling letters onto the floor near her dying body.

Jolt!

A photo. The three of you posing in front of your house. Your house. Your mother. Your father. Your freshman face.

“Oh my God, no!”

You wretched onto the floor of the classroom, screaming in between sobs, as you came to the harrowing conclusion that what you just saw, what you had just seen, was the murder of your parents. You didn’t know what to do; classmates were trying to assist you, but you swung your arms and kicked your legs out in frustration, fury, bitterness. You found your bag under your desk and somehow, without any recollection, found yourself locked inside the girls’ locker room. You maneuvered yourself so that your back was against the door, knowing you couldn’t run home, you turned to the only person you trusted. With shaking hands, you texted Dean.

Girls locker room. I need u. NOW.

Dean stared at the screen on his cellphone, sensing your urgency, hefted his backpack over one shoulder and beelined to the door. Before his teacher could even get out his last name, Dean was out the door and sprinting to the girl’s locker room. He stood in front of the door and looked around the hallway to see if anyone was around and tried to push open the bulky wooden door. Something or someone was jamming it from the inside. He cursed under his breath, reached into his back pocket for his lock picking set, crouched down to see the keyhole, and began to wiggle the lock open.

Inside you felt the door being tampered with and your flight or fight instincts kicked in. You backed up, watching the lock go from horizontal to parallel, and stepped to the side. You caught your breath, swung your fist and connected knuckles to nose cartilage.

“Jesus, Y/N,” Dean held a hand to his now bloody nose, “what the hell?”

“Dean!” you jumped into his arms, your eyes swollen from crying, and wept into his shoulder.

“I didn’t know, I th-thought you were goin’ to k-kill me too,” you sniffled into his navy and green flannel.

“Kill you?” Dean held you at arm’s length and looked at you with such concern, “Y/N, why would you think that?”

“Dean, I need to tell you something, and you’re goin’ to think I’m crazy, hell,” you laughed to yourself, “I think I’m goin’ crazy.”

“Look at me,” Dean lifted your chin gently, “ain’t nothin’ you can tell me that is goin’ to make me think that.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

After Dean successfully lifted you towards him from the top of the lockers and out the locker room windows, you raced to the parking lot. You began to rattle off every detail of those images and the painful migraine, Dean never interrupting. He was so calm. You waited for him to tell you that what you saw was just a figment of your imagination. That what you saw, what you felt with each vision, never happened. Instead, Dean asked you if you had ever had one of these visions before, how long were you getting migraines, had you ever smelled rotten eggs in your house, did the lights flicker, and his list just kept getting longer and more exasperating. You never noticed that he had pulled out his cellphone and sent a quick text.

“Dean!” you snapped at him, “What would any of that have to do with what I saw?”

“We need to go see if they are alright, please, I just need to know my parents are okay.”

Dean sighed at the incoming text, fidgeted with his steering wheel, refusing to look you in the eyes. He finally looked up at you after you huffed more than five times, aggravated with his silence.

“You can’t go home, Y/N,” he whispered, “you can’t ever go home.”

“What are you sayin’, Dean,” you swallowed a lump of despair, “Dean, what do you mean I can’t go home?”

“They’re dead, Y/N,” Dean pulled you into his strong arms, his father’s leather jacket, wrapped around your shaking shoulders, “my dad’s there now with Sammy.”

“Why would they be at my house, Dean?”

“Because, Y/N, this is what we do, it’s what we know,” Dean couldn’t believe he was about to tell you about the “family business”.

______________________________________________________________________________

Dean’s cell phone began to ring after he told you everything; every detail of his life up until they moved to your hometown two years ago. It was the longest they stayed in one place, his father finally coming to terms with how his sons needed an education. “It’s my dad,” he raised the phone to his ear, “Yes’sir,” Dean nodded, “she’s safe, yes’sir, okay.”

“Dean? you looked up to him with wide, Y/E/C, eyes, shell shocked, “What now?”

“Now, Princess, you come home with us, and we’ll take care of everything,” Dean grabbed your hand and caressed small circles with the pad of his thumb across your skin, “Let me take care of you.”

“You’d do that,” you asked him, a small smile appearing on your lips, and you quickly let it drop, “why would you do that for me?”

“Because, Y/N, you’re my best friend, I love you, I’m in love with you,” Dean shrugged, “have been since you helped me with that book report on Cider House Rules.” You couldn’t believe what was happening; your world was falling apart and your best friend just admitted that he loved you.

And then he quoted The Great Gatsby again and your heart did what you could only in your highschool years of knowledge classify as a backflip, right there in your chest.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”

“Let me be your eyes, Y/N,” Dean kissed her, “let me help you feel again.”

#supernatural #dean x reader #young dean winchester

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