ᴀsʜ 8†2

DEAN WINCHESTER !! +18

WARNING: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

This is an extremely dark, fictional story that deals with severe and graphic themes. It is written purely for creative " exploration and entertainment purposes. The author does not condone, romanticize, or normalize any of the behaviors depicted below.

READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. Reader discretion is heavily advised. 18+ only.

Detailed Trigger Warnings (TW) & Content Warnings (CW):

!Cannibalism / Autophagy: Depiction of a character being forced to consume their own flesh.

!Grave Graphic Violence & Gore: Explicit descriptions of amputation, blood, and physical trauma.

!Severe Domestic Abuse & Intimate Partner Violence

(IPV): Physical assault, domestic battery, and psychological torture within a relationship.

!Non-Consensual / Forced Actions: Non-con feeding, extreme coercion, and loss of bodily autonomy.

!Stockholm Syndrome / Trauma Bonding: Psychological breakdown where the victim feels completely dependent on and powerless against their abuser.

!Dark Romance / Toxic Dynamics: A highly disturbing, manipulative, and abusive relationship.

!Dark AU & OOC (Out of Character): Extreme dark alternate universe featuring a heavily altered, villainous portrayal of Dean Winchester.

``

“How do you like it, baby?” Warm voice cutting through the quietness of the dim kitchen. The only — barely working — light source is flickering above the two of you. Dean sits across from you at the table, assessing you like a hawk watching its prey slowly die. And there you are — the prey. Small and pathetic. You’re nothing without him. You know that, and he knows it even better because he was the one who made you like that — the one who broke you completely and utterly. They say, “It always shows when a person is shitty” — fucking idiots. Because Dean? Dean was the sweetest and nicest person you’ve ever met. A pure gentleman through and through. So, how did it end with you sitting at the kitchen table with your own leg meat on a plate?

It all started with just brief touches to your thighs and some sweet comments during intimacy about how soft your skin was. Then it grew into kisses — light at first, then more and more intense. Bites came next. Of course, you found it funny at first, cute even, because no one had given your thighs so much attention before Winchester. And him? It was pure worship, God forgive — praying over those unfairly long legs of yours. But things changed when knives got involved. That shit is scary, right? And still, somehow, you trusted him enough when he asked if he could cut. And you just let him. Well, he was crossing a line, but you were so damn terrified he'd dump you if you even thought about saying no.

Next, memories just blasted through your mind like flashlight flashes. An operating room. Local anesthesia. Blood. Blood on his hands. On his clothes. His stupidly smug, crooked smile. His empty, yet glistening eyes. And you dared to look down to check on your legs. Or rather, the lack of them now?

“I can’t eat it, Dean,” you whisper under your breath, staring down at the plate. The blood is still soaking through the meat, and you can almost feel it pulsing. Like this flesh is still alive, like it's still a part of you somehow — but it isn't.

“Yes, you can.” His voice is colder now, distant and authoritative as always. Fucking psycho. Dean rises slowly from his chair, taking a few steps — just enough to stop behind you.

“You still have your hands; there’s no need to act like you don’t,” he muses flatly, reaching for the knife and fork. The blade cuts the meat just right. But then he shifts. His hand grips your jaw abruptly, forcing your mouth to open wide for him as he grabs a piece of flesh with his other hand. His fingers push into your throat, making the meat slide down into your stomach. Your hands catch his wrist instantly, slender fingers wrapping around it as you choke.

“Stupid bitch,” Dean growls quietly, taking his fingers out of your mouth. His hands quickly find your hair, gripping a fistful. And then — a slam. Your forehead meets the ceramic plate once, then again. Tears stream down your hollow cheeks. Are you choking on air, or still on the meat? Who knows. Crimson streams flow down your temples, your vision blurring instantly. And then? Everything goes dark, the pain evaporating as your body melts — soft and pliant. He stops slamming your head only when he realizes that you are unconscious.

His fingers slide out of your hair slowly, leaving you right there. He doesn’t try to bring you back to your senses or clean the mess he has caused. Because, honestly, what’s the point of all this? It’s all going to repeat tomorrow, and the day after that, and over again. An unbreakable circle of your suffering, of him losing his temper, and beating you half to death. So, the only thing you can do is try to get used to it — if that’s even possible.

``

DEAN WINCHESTER X CASTIEL NOVAK !! +16

Content Warnings (TW/CW)

!Dark Themes & Violence: Features graphic depictions of physical violence, injuries, and canon-typical angst.

!Breathplay / Choking / Asphyxiation: Contains non-sexualized/highly emotional choking (strangulation) as a manifestation of trauma, anger, and self-destructive behavior.

!Self-Destructive Behavior: Depicts a character seeking self-harm or punishment due to guilt and feelings of worthlessness.

!Toxic Dynamics & Codependency: Explores the dark, intense, and heavily blurred lines of an emotionally overwhelming bond under extreme psychological distress.

!Substances (Blood): Visual descriptions of blood and physical trauma.

Characterization Note

!Dark!Castiel / Out of Character (OOC) Elements: Characters are pushed to their absolute psychological limits. Castiel's actions and Dean's compliance are driven by severe grief, anger, and feelings of betrayal, differing from their usual canon dynamics.

``

“Strangle me,” Dean whispers in a hoarse voice, his breath heavy from all the punches he has already taken from Cas’s hard hands. Blood is streaming from both nostrils, his gaze hazy and unfocused. Lips curl up in that usual lazy smirk, showing the crimson on his sharp canines.

That was the last thing the angel expected to hear from the other man, not after everything he’d done. The hunter had fucking decided to give in to Michael and let him possess his body. Castiel watches him for a long moment, his hands gripping the collar of that damn leather jacket with more force than necessary. Every breath mingles with Dean’s. A dangerous closeness. One wrong move and their noses would brush against each other. Not that either of them is going to pull away, though. That bond between them has crossed every logical line, leaving a pure, animalistic need to take.

Castiel doesn’t hesitate as his hands slide up to Dean's neck. Long fingers curl around warm skin, thumbs pressing right below the Adam's apple mercilessly. That’s what he asked for, right? No need to restrain himself at this moment. And Dean feels it—the force, all the poured-out anger and disappointment in that touch. His eyelashes flutter, eyes roll back as he struggles to breathe. Fucking perfect. That’s what he deserves, isn’t it? So he’s going to savor every single second of it. His own fingers wrap around the angel’s wrists, lips parting in a choked noise—something close to an attempt to laugh, a pathetic attempt, actually.

Weeks passed, and nothing changed between you two. Dean tried to ignore you as much as he could after that night; no more walking the grounds together, no more horse riding, and no more answering your questions. He simply shut you out, completely and utterly. Where you saw no problem, he saw a massive mess. Self-disgust was eating him alive. Slowly and quietly, he evaporated from your sight before you even noticed he was gone. Not that you should have noticed, right? You were nothing to each other, and that “almost kiss” was just a drunken mistake that hadn’t even truly happened.

It was a typical evening on the ranch after a long day. You were in your room; your father had left for another week, but you didn’t mind. You could handle yourself just fine. As you were reading, listening to the gentle patter of rain outside, a loud knocking at the front door cut through the scene you were imagining in your mind. Dad? You doubted it; he wasn’t due back for a few more days.

Your steps were quiet as you made your way downstairs. You hesitated for a long moment—who wouldn’t? Finally, your fingers curled loosely around the handle, cracking the door open just slightly.

Dean was standing there, soaked to the bone. Droplets of water streamed down his forehead, his hair clinging to his face. Was he drunk? He certainly looked it.

“Are you… okay?” Your voice was soft as you looked him up and down. The man didn’t answer right away. His gaze focused solely on your face, his eyebrows furrowed, and his chest heaved heavily.

“Dean?”

He greeted you with more silence. For a long moment, you simply stared at each other—or rather, you looked at him while he burned a hole through you with his gaze. Then, he moved. His hands cradled your face with more force than he intended, his lips finding yours in a firm, skin-on-skin press that pulled you closer. Your brain didn’t even have time to register what was happening before your eyes instinctively fluttered shut. It took exactly three seconds for your own hands to find his cheeks, your lips moving against his in slow, lingering strokes. Your mind went blank as his fingers tangled in your hair—not gripping, but holding you. A soft sigh escaped your lips, drawing a shuddering breath from him in return.

He still thought this was wrong, despite being the one who had reached out. Но all you could think about was how incredibly well this man kissed. The door shut with a slam as he stepped into the house, backing you down onto the couch. You willingly let him take control. His warm hands slid down from your face as he leaned over your lying form, finding the curve of your waist. His fingers dug into your skin, coaxing a quiet moan out of you. You arched your back toward him as his lips moved down to your jawline, then to the softness of your neck. He didn't leave any marks, though every instinct screamed at him to do just that.

Moments later, clothes fell to the floor, completely forgotten. He paused, propped on his knees between your legs, his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wanted you. You looked up at him with a half-lidded gaze, your breath coming in heavy gasps.

“Beautiful,” he rumbled, the only word escaping his throat before he leaned down again.

Despite his initial eagerness, everything else was gentle. Each thrust was slow and deliberate; each touch was accompanied by sweet nothings whispered into the hollow of your collarbone. Your quiet moans filled the living room, mingling with the sound of the rain outside. He prioritized your pleasure above his own, driving himself deeper only when you asked with a faint whine against his shoulder.

It didn’t take long for you to reach the edge. You wrapped your trembling arms around his neck, peaking while he continued his rhythm before finally pulling back. A hoarse groan of your name escaped him as he collapsed against you.

Later, you lay tucked against his side, the cool night air of the room kept at bay by his lingering warmth. His hand was draped heavily over your shoulder, fingers playing with the strands of your hair in a lazy, rhythmic motion. You found yourself rambling about everything and nothing—small thoughts that popped into your head just to fill the comfortable silence.

Dean stayed quiet, but it was a different kind of silence than before. It wasn't the cold wall he’d built over the past weeks; it was grounded and attentive. He hummed in response to your stories, the vibration of his chest against your back anchored you to the moment. When you grumbled, accusing him of not listening, you felt the low huff of a chuckle against your skin.

"I'm listening," he murmured, his voice still scratchy and deep from the shared heat of before. He shifted, pulling you just a fraction closer, his chin resting atop your head.

The first time you felt something change in you was a few months ago, when lying late at night you let your mind wander to the forbidden territory for girls like you. You kept thinking about relations between man and woman, about something beyond simple friendship and more intimate. Then you started to think about how his hands would feel wrapped around you. Filthy thoughts for someone who had kneeled in front of icons every single day since childhood, who knew every prayer like their own name. But even that doesn’t stop you from wanting to be held by him. Naoya Zenin. The priest of the church you were a young nun in. The man who had a reputation in that small town no one dared to doubt. In your thoughts, he’d already taken you in every one of the poses you’ve seen in the books that were not for your saintly, young eyes.

Of course, there was a growing feeling of guilt too; you’re not supposed to be like that, to think like that. Your mind should’ve stayed in the holy area. That’s what guided you to pray more when no one was looking. When the Mass ended and everyone left, you always stayed, praying for forgiveness, whispering into your hands that you won’t ever do that again. Everyone noticed the changes in you, asking why you would suddenly stay in the church longer, or mumble the “Act of Contrition” one more time before going to bed.

Your eyes on Naoya started to linger longer too, but they darted away the moment he looked back. It was impossible to maintain eye contact knowing what you really wanted from him. You started to feel dirty, unholy; drowning in your impurity the more time passed. Heavy breaths filled your small room almost every night as you pressed your face into the pillow, trying to muffle soft moans, as your fingers were buried deep inside you, imagining his instead. It was like you couldn’t get enough of what you discovered, like every attempt to forget was just dragging you closer to lustfulness and further away from God.

That night wasn’t an exception. Warm, dim light from the church candle was filling your room in the convent as your hand was between your trembling legs again. Slow strokes of your fingers were coaxing soft sighs from your lips, as your other hand gripped the cool sheets tightly. You were committing a sin yet another time, with his name falling from your mouth like a prayer to a saint. He became your personal God in your thoughts, your savior, despite every bit of pureness left in you screaming to stop. But if you asked yourself if you sincerely wanted to forget it, the answer would be “No.”

Your steps are quiet on the old wooden floor of the church as you walk there barefoot, falling on your knees almost immediately against the small altar. Your hands — still slightly trembling from what you were doing — clasp together as you press your forehead to them. An almost inaudible whispering of prayer leaves your mouth on repeat, trying to make up for your sinning in front of God.

Naoya was there too, on his usual patrol of the church area before going to bed. That’s when he sees you for the first time with his own eyes. Yes, he’d heard the rumors about you, but still preferred to ignore them despite everyone telling him to throw you out of the church and never let you step on this holy yard again. He stops mid-step, freezing in his wake, observing you silently. You, on your knees late at night, looking all pure and guilty; but he knew better, you stopped being that saintly girl months ago. The sight in front of him was almost messing with his head, but he shuts those thoughts down.

The man watches you for another long minute before softly clearing his throat to catch your attention. And the moment you turn your head and see him in the dim light, your mind goes blank completely. He shouldn’t be here; he never was there before at a time like this. But the sight of him, when he steps closer, makes something in the pit of your stomach get tight again. The way he towers over you, looking down while you stay on your knees in front of him.

You were imagining exactly that scene countless times before, and now this is your reality.

“What is a young lady doing here at a time like this?”

His slow, but somehow still warm voice cuts through the quietness of the church. You don’t answer right away. Can’t. Just looking up at him with those wide eyes of yours, as if you’d seen God himself.

“Atoning for your sins, I assume?”

Another question. That’s when you finally let your lips part slowly in an attempt to get the answer out of your mouth.

“I am sorry, Father, I was just...” The mumbling is hesitant, uncertain in this quietness, as your fingers fumble with the small silver cross on your neck.

“You should go back to bed, or,” he makes a small pause, watching your nervousness, “you can talk about it with me.”

“I feel something I should not, Father.”

That’s when you start talking, and that’s when he listens without interruption, without a hint of judgment in his eyes or disgust on his face. He just lets you confess to him in that soft whispering. Naoya’s expression stays unreadable even when you finish, looking at him with expectation, waiting for some reaction, but he gives you none, not even a hint of anger. His gaze wanders all over your gentle features, down your body in that white sleeping dress, and then up to your face again. Honestly, his own holiness was gone a long time ago; he just learned how to mask it properly. And maybe, he can let himself be just a man for this night, instead of the priest at whom everyone looked with respect.

“Do you want to be forgiven in God’s eyes, child?”

“Yes.”

That’s how you ended up with the tip of his dick brushing against the warmth of your mouth, and you were taking it in without a hint of hesitation. Unexperienced? Yes, but with a desperation you never felt even when you prayed.

“Keep going... just like that...”

He rasped hoarsely between heavy breaths. His dick deep down in your throat, the way his flesh filled you was almost choking, burning you from the inside. But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? That was the desire buried in the quiet corners of your being. The sin you were more than just willing to commit. His long fingers tangled in your silky hair as he guided your head onto him in a slow pace. Your own hands settled on his thighs to steady yourself because you weren’t trusting your body in that very moment. Your eyes fluttered shut on their own as he took control over you. The moans leave your mouth, casting a vibrating sensation on him, making him tighten his grip on your strands just slightly, just enough to let you know that this is affecting him more than he lets be shown.

But the more the moment lingers, the more he finds himself feeling weak in his knees. Hips stuttering for a second, he spills into your throat, making you choke at the sensation of the warmth in your mouth. His warmth. That should be humiliating for a girl like you, but it feels more like a blessing instead when he finally lets go of your hair, pulling back. You swallow everything without a second thought, looking up at him with a hazy gaze. But he doesn’t look back, his eyes glued down as he zips his suit pants back.

Naoya gives you brief eye contact, whispering a rough “Read ‘Act of Contrition’, and go back to bed,” before leaving you alone again. No warm touches after, no soft words about how good he felt. Did he even feel good in that moment, or was it just you who gave him your everything? That’s when the realization truly hits you; that’s the moment you understand that he’s not some kind of God who will stretch his hand out for you and accept your soul. He’s just a man who used your faith for his own pleasure.

It had been only a few weeks since your last confession, and here you were again, drowning in the thoughts of what you did. You had always been unlike the others. Too hidden in yourself; emotions buried deep down in the darkest corners of your soul. Your own parents turned their heads from you; they were scared. Everyone in this small, godforsaken village was. No one ever looked you in the eyes; when they saw you, no one really spoke to you, because they knew your nature. The nature of a rotten, sinful soul. You would be suffering in the depths of Hell, you knew that.

From a very young age, there were things you were doing. Every little pet you had never lasted long; every kid you tried to become friends with ran away choking in tears the moment you started to talk about your little hobby. Torturing the innocent. You never really understood the point of affection for someone or something. For you, that was a forbidden feeling. All you knew was how to cut a throat properly, how to chop off the paws of the poor puppies your parents got you for your birthdays. There was a twisted feeling of pleasure as you watched the suffering of those small, harmless creatures. But as you got older, killing animals wasn’t enough. It didn’t give you the same kind of satisfaction as in the past. And then there was your first murder of a human. A true act of so-called justice, as you thought. You didn’t kill your father for no reason. The old man was a monster himself, beating you to the point of whiteness in your eyes, to the point of blood streaming down your chin. He said you should experience what your pets felt when you abused them. But the terrifying truth was that you didn’t feel anything; yes, you felt physical pain, but that was not the point of your father’s methods of trying to show you what’s bad and what’s good.

So, what were you even doing in the church, since you were on the completely different side of the coin? An old habit from childhood. Your mother thought you were possessed by something sinful—demon blood, a curse; whatever she wanted to call it. Every Sunday started with you on your knees in front of the icons of saints, with the filthy hands of the Father on your shoulders—hands you hated more than anything. The prayers were almost engraved on your ribcage at this point; all words left your still-young lips in a quiet mumble, but the miracle didn’t come. You stayed the same.

Time passed, and the Fathers in the church changed as you grew. But the Sunday prayers were still there, still with you on your knees in the quietness of the old wooden walls, surrounded by the saints, like a black sheep.

“May the Lord be in your heart..”

A low voice cut through the silence that stretched between you two, followed by a heavy sigh from his lips. Castiel was the only person who didn’t judge, or at least, who had just got used to you. The Seal of the Confessional was your salvation from getting caught. Whatever you said—all the horrific details—always stayed there. Just you, him, and the God watching above you.

“I took a life, Father. Again.”

Silence. You could feel through the partition how he took another deep breath before relaxing. His head tilted back to lean against the wall, eyes closing as he processed your quiet words. The way you said it, as unaffected as always, like you were talking about usual things like going for a walk—that was what was unsettling to him. How could someone like you always go back to him, and God? Did you believe that you deserved absolution? Did you think that your sins would be truly forgiven if you had faith? He doubted that you believed either.

“Do you feel genuine contrition, child?”

“No, Father.”

The words left your mouth with a trembling sigh; one hand reached up, slender fingers threading through the lattice, covering the wooden partition in the blood of the innocent. As if you were trying to touch something sacred, something that didn't belong to you, and never would. Castiel watched your movements quietly, restraining himself from grimacing as the drops of blood thumped to the floor in a soft, repetitive sound.

“I cannot grant you absolution while your heart is still hardened.”

‘

“And then… then he made me bury his body. He made me… made me touch it. With my bare hands.” The words stumbled from your throat like a messy, tangled knot.

The psychiatrist sat across from you, scribbling frantically into his notebook. He looked up, his eyes scanning your frame as you trembled from drug withdrawal and pure panic. You looked better now—way better than the day the police dragged you out of that hellhole you called a home. The track marks on your arms from injecting whatever cheap shit you could find were hidden under fresh bandages, and the raw, chemical burns around your nostrils from snorting lines of mephedrone were finally starting to fade. You’d been in the psych ward for a week, and today was the day you finally decided to tell him everything—every horrific detail of your short relationships with Satoru.

“Breathe. Tell me how it all started,” the psychiatrist said, his voice predictably calm. “Don’t hide any details; they might be used against you during the trial.”

You steadied your breath, your fingers nervously picking at the hem of your hospital robe. Your wrists were raw, scratched red from the constant friction of the handcuffs. “Alright… alright. I’ll tell you everything.”

It started when Gojo sold you your first gram of cocaine. “Angel, this white stuff is gonna give you wings, trust me,” he’d promised, leaning in close.

Sniff. The first line disappeared up your nose under his expectant gaze. “So?” Satoru asked impatiently. You looked at him, your brain already beginning to fuzz over. “Damn straight it gives me wings,” you slurred, shoving crumpled banknotes toward him.

“First gram is a gift for my prettiest client,” he chuckled, pushing your hand back and refusing the money.

That high gave you a feeling nothing else could give. With that shit in your blood, you felt like a god. You were on top of the world. But as soon as the coke faded, you crashed back down into your pathetic reality. That was how the intervals between doses started to shrink. You began meeting Satoru daily, handing over your last cent for the white powder you could no longer exist without.

Eventually, your wallet stayed empty. “Ugh, my penniless angel,” he cooed, pulling you close. “Don’t worry. I have something cheaper for you.” He held out a ziplock bag of mephedrone. “Same effect, different price. Try it.”

By then, you didn’t care what you were putting up your nose. You snorted it without a second thought. “Fuck, man. You’re my saviour.”

Gojo chuckled, a dark, playful sound. “I am. Can’t let my favorite client suffer.”

You laid out two lines instead of one. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question in his eyes. “Can’t a girl treat her favorite dealer?” you asked. The confusion on his face vanished, replaced by a smug smirk. He didn’t hesitate for a second before leaning down to take his share.

It quickly became a ritual. He’d sell you the drugs, and then you’d both get high. When the chemicals hit, the neediness took over. That desperation quickly morphed into physical intimacy. Nothing compared to what he did to you. The drugs sharpened your senses, making your body hyper-responsive to every kiss and every bruise-like touch.

His lips, sucking marks into the sensitive skin of your throat, sent you straight to heaven. Satoru’s fingers left burning trails across your skin, making you shiver and arch helplessly against him. The compliments he whispered into your ear stimulated your fried brain even more, leaving you feeling absolutely boneless beneath him. The feeling of him inside you dragged ragged moans and overstimulated whimpers from your lungs. You wanted it to be endless. You wanted to feel him every second of your life. Satoru was the only person that could give you that kind of pleasure—and you were willing to pay any price for it.

The psychiatrist cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to cut through your narration. “And how did you feel after that?”

You paused for a second, trying to scrape together the memory of that feeling. “Dirty. I wanted to please him so badly that I was ready to do anything he told me. Sometimes, I felt like I was nothing more than a filthy whore sucking dick for a fix. But… he was the only person I’d been close to in months. Those thoughts always vanished the second I took another hit of mephedrone, though. So, does it really matter?”

The psychiatrist noted your words, adjusted his glasses, and asked: “So, when did everything change?”

One night, after another round of desperate intimacy, you were lying curled up against his side, tracing absentminded patterns on his bare chest. There were thoughts you couldn't shake, and you decided to voice the question that had been flickering through your mind like lightning.

“Do you like hurting people?”

He chuckled, looking down at you. “Kind of an interesting question to ask after sex, huh?”

You shook your head. “I mean… would you kill for me, bae?”

He pulled you even closer, his grip tightening. “Of course, angel. Just point a finger at whatever bastard offended you, and I’ll end his existence.”

You went quiet for a few long minutes before muttering: “Yeah. I actually have a name.”

The man you named was Geto. He’d ruined your senior year of high school. He destroyed your already battered reputation by spreading rumors about your addiction.

Everyone turned their backs on you the second his filthy mouth spilled that gossip. It wasn’t like they were oblivious to what you were doing in the school bathrooms, but Geto’s words turned whispers into a death sentence. He made you an outcast, a scapegoat. The hatred you felt for him had been festering in your heart for years.

“So, you told him to… eliminate your high school offender, right?”

You nodded. “I thought it was just high-talk, nothing serious. Who would’ve thought Satoru was actually serious about killing the bastard?”

The psychiatrist hung on every word, noting how you twisted the sleeves of your robe at the mention of Geto and how you desperately avoided eye contact.

“And,” he asked, “did the thought of him killing someone for you please you?”

“It made me ecstatic, doc.”

“You’re gonna kill someone for me, aren’t you, bae?” The question was on repeat in his mind, in that sweet, slurred voice of yours. “Of course I will,” he responded in his head, as his feet carried him down the quiet Tokyo street with slow, smooth steps. He had to prove to you that he’d do anything for his little angel, because that’s exactly what love is, right? At least for him, it sure was.

His hand slid down into his jeans pocket, drawing out a cheap music player with headphones. Gojo’s music taste was more than just good; the little screen cast a bright light in the darkness as he scrolled through the playlist. ‘Smooth Criminal’ — Michael Jackson. That’s exactly what he needed right now. Feet moving to the rhythm, head tilting lazily from side to side, he clearly enjoyed himself in that very moment. The player in his hand was more like a microphone now, his lips parting to the lyrics.

“He left the bloodstains on the carpet,” the words left his mouth like second nature. The corners of his lips tugged up into a full-blown smile as he looked at his reflection in the window of a closed shop. His legs kept stepping in the practiced moves of the choreography, fingers snapping to the beat.

It didn’t take much time to find the exact apartment where Geto lived; Gojo had been there countless times before. Fucking bastard abandoned him the moment the blonde got carried away with all the substances he was selling you now. Well, not that he needed him after all—just another passerby in his life. Satoru’s hands moved with practiced ease as he opened the door. The darkness of the apartment enveloped him momentarily while the music kept blasting in his headphones. “For a good mood,” Gojo mumbled, moving to the kitchen, humming under his breath. He quickly found the right knife. Good thing Geto always kept his blades sharp; Satoru didn’t even have to do extra work.

“Just to tell you once again, who’s bad?.. Me.”

The quiet whispering filled the soundless room as he stood there, over Geto’s bed. The moonlight cast long shadows on the sleeping man. Gojo’s mouth curved into another smile. Too sweet for the situation, but that’s just how he was. That’s exactly how he’d been for the past seven years of his life, since the moment he first killed an innocent person. He was The Strongest, after all; maybe that’s what caused him to go a little insane with his own power. The feeling of being a step higher than others and the lack of punishment after each kill fed his young ego even more. And the addiction only pushed it further.

There was no need to hide that he enjoyed his little acts of God, with his victims begging him to let them go, promising they wouldn’t tell anyone if he kept them alive. But even that didn’t stop him from mercilessly pushing a knife through their throats. It was funny for him to listen to the hoarse attempts to say something in their last moments, funny to watch blood streaming down their bodies and his own hands, soaking into their clothes. The way he dealt with the breathless figures was the most enjoyable part. Chopping their limbs like little Lego pieces, carefully putting each one into a ziplock bag, and slotting them into the fridge like Tetris until he decided what to do with them next.

He stayed there motionless for another minute, all the moments he’d spent with the dark-haired man flashing in his mind, causing his face to grimace in disgust. No, that shouldn’t ruin his mood now; no one had the right to do that, especially not Geto. This act of revenge was not only for you—it was deeper, more personal; not that he’d let you know, but still. He didn’t hesitate as his hand quickly pushed the blade into Suguru’s neck. The smell of blood filled his lungs, and his eyes fluttered shut for a short moment, listening to the choked sound that left the dying body. Maybe that’s how the soul sounds when it leaves the physical vessel before going to a better—or, Gojo hoped, worse—world somewhere underneath, to suffer forever.

Moments later, Satoru sat on the edge of the bed with blood all over his hands.

A joint was between his fingers, his phone in the other palm, as he texted you a short “Come over” with the coordinates included. It didn’t take you much time to get there. Your steps were cautious as you went up the stairs of the old apartment building. You stood there in the dim hallway, peeking through the crack of the door Satoru had left open for you. Gentleman, isn’t he?

“You weren’t surprised that he sent you Geto’s home coordinates?” the doctor asked, looking up from his notebook, pen between his fingers, his eyebrow raising slightly.

“I... didn’t know that it was Geto’s apartment,” your voice was quiet as you answered, fidgeting with the cuffs on your wrists.

“Can we not talk about that, please?”

“You should. Tell me what you saw next.”

“Right... so...”

The moment you stepped into the apartment, Gojo greeted you with a bright smile, abruptly pulling you to his side, his hand holding your waist firmly. You knew something was off. The air was stiff, the rooms too quiet, and Satoru was too proud of himself.

“Satoru, why are we here?” you asked hesitantly, glancing briefly at him, but he quickly shut you up with a rough kiss, coaxing a muffled moan from you. Then he pulled away just as fast, letting out a relaxed breath.

“Ah, angel, I’ve just got a little surprise for you,” the blonde drawled as he guided you further into the apartment.

The second you saw the dead body on the bed—Geto’s fucking dead body—all thoughts left your dizzy head, and pure panic washed over you. Hands trembling, you moved closer, eyes darting over Suguru’s form. This couldn’t be real, right? That wasn’t Geto for sure. Gojo wouldn’t really kill someone. But the more you looked at the sight in front of you, the more you realized this wasn’t a bad dream.

“What the fuck did you do, Satoru?” your voice broke mid-sentence as tears filled your eyes, streaming down your cheeks. Your hands moved up to cover your mouth, muffling your sobs.

“I mean, you told me to kill him, didn’t you? I thought that’s what you wanted. Why are you crying right now, sweetheart?” His voice was relaxed as he stepped behind you. Hands found the curve of your waist once again, resting there, his face pressing into your neck. Lips left slow, sloppy kisses on your warm skin, making you flinch now instead of wanting more. How could he stay calm? How could he kiss you like that after what he just did?

“You fucking killed him,” you snapped, turning to face him. Shaky hands tried to push him away, but failed miserably as his grip turned almost painful. He hated it when you acted like a hysterical bitch. Satoru preferred it when you were soft and pliant under the influence of the stuff he gave you.

“Shut up and calm down. I’ve done this countless times before. There’s nothing to worry about. Just help me bury the body.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘nothing to worry about’? You’re a fucking psycho. I’m not helping you.”

“Yes, you are, doll. Because I said so.”

Everything else felt like a fog. The moments he chopped the body, how he dragged it down the stairs. You didn’t even know how his car just appeared at the entrance. The thoughts of what he did and what you would do were on repeat like a broken record in your head. Some song on the radio felt like an attempt to mock you. You really thought you knew him; you’d spent so much time together, tangled under cool sheets, and now he was driving you to the forest to help him get rid of Geto. What a fucking mess you’d put yourself in.

“So he forced you to help him?” the low voice of the therapist snapped you out of your thoughts, making you flinch in your chair.

“Mmh... Because he killed him for me. But, Doctor, I didn't think he would actually do it.”

“I believe you, don’t worry. So, what happened after you arrived at the forest?”

“I just... helped him.”

Right as you finished the sentence, the voice of the policeman cut through the speaker. Your session with the therapist was over. Time to go back to the isolated room of the mental hospital where they kept you.

The last time you saw Gojo was during the trial. Unlike you, he sat there completely unfazed by the situation he’d dragged you both into. Deep down, he knew that one day he was going to get caught. He answered the judge’s questions with simple "yes" or "no" responses, but when it came to the number of his victims, he went quiet for a few torturously long minutes.

“Dozens, if not hundreds,” Satoru finally said, devoid of emotion.

You felt something inside you shatter. Yes, he’d mentioned before that he was experienced, but the indifference with which he said it—as if he were talking about what he had for breakfast—nearly killed you. The rest of the trial was a blur. His cold, indifferent face stuck in your mind like a broken record. “What if I was next on his list?” you thought. “I saw what he’d done... and Satoru is definitely not dumb enough to leave a witness alive.”

The judge’s words pulled you out of your trance. “Satoru Gojo is sentenced to death. The decision is indisputable.” Your sentence wasn’t much better: ten years in a psychiatric ward without parole.

‘

`` Summer in Wyoming ``

Chapter 2

“It’s okay,” you answer him softly, getting up from your chair, feeling slightly awkward now as your gaze roams over his face before turning to your father again.

“I’ll go unpack my things.”

With those final words, you leave. Dean watches as you walk past him, his gaze falling to the gentle curve of your shoulders and the way the locks of that honey-brown hair fall down your back. The sight was almost fascinating, but your father’s gruff voice snaps him back to reality.

“Don’t look at my daughter like that, Winchester.”

“Didn’t,” the man answers shortly, letting out a soft huff. They exchange a few more sentences, purely about work, but Dean’s thoughts keep drifting back to you. There was something that piqued his interest—not that he’ll admit that, of course. How can he? You were his friend’s daughter, after all; that would be against all the morality and respect for your father that was left in him.

The first few weeks on the ranch pass quickly; you enjoyed being there. All those horses—oh, how you loved these big, graceful animals. The fresh air in the mornings, the soft chirping of birds in sweet melodies. The smell of the woods around you—it’s like your soul was healing from all the weeks in college and living under one roof with your mom.

And Dean was there too, like some kind of guard dog, as your father didn’t have much time to look over you. Winchester’s presence was quiet: watching over you when you were around the horses so they wouldn't cause you any harm, answering your maybe-a-little-stupid questions about the ranch, and walking with you around the woods, showing you all the natural surroundings. Slowly, you got used to having him around, and he didn’t mind it either.

With each passing day, there grew a soft spot inside him the more time he spent with you. But still, that was just platonic, right? Or that’s what he was repeating to himself every morning before facing you again, watching your bright smiles when you patted the horses or listening to your laugh when yet another butterfly was settling its little body on your hand, showing its colorful wings to you.

One day, you even successfully persuaded him to teach you how to ride a horse. His hands, despite their roughness from years of hard physical work, were gentle as he slowly guided you on top of the horse, talking about how you should always stay calm around those powerful creatures, even if you feel nervous. But if we’re being honest, around Dean you always felt calm and, most importantly, safe.

So when you two were riding around the forest, with him sitting behind you on the horse's back, it was on pure instinct as you leaned more against him, with your back pressed to the warmth of his chest. And the moment he felt you relax against him, his heart felt like it was ready to jump right out of his ribcage. The sensation of you so close made his mind wander to forbidden territory; one of his hands found the curve of your waist, just resting there, giving you the room to pull away while the other stayed on the reins.

You stay with him for the rest of the day, talking about everything that pops into your mind: about college, your mom, and about your favorite romance books you’re reading all the time, fascinated by how purely people can describe love with words. And he listens to everything, asking more, mentally noting to himself what kind of men you like. “Nothing like me,” he thinks, before asking himself why he even cares that he’s not the kind of man you want to be with. Why is it bothering him so much that even after that day, lying late at night, he can’t find the strength to let those thoughts go away?

If anything, he starts to think about it even more, watching how he acts around you, trying to be better. You even ask him about his weird behavior, but in return, you get just a brief response, as if he were brushing you off. You didn’t push, but in your mind, you don't let go of it either.

One of the days when your dad had to leave the ranch for a week, you find yourself sitting with Dean in his house, drinking some cheap beer because that’s all he has in the fridge. Not that you mind, because you enjoyed spending time with him. The alcohol quickly makes you relax; your head feels slightly light as you let yourself snuggle closer to his side while you both sit there on the couch watching some old western movie.

His arm slides loosely over your shoulders, pulling you slightly closer, as his chin brushes briefly against the top of your head, settling there. The moment feels surreal to him; he shouldn’t be enjoying it this much, but it's not like he really cares in that very moment, with your warmth and your soft body against his, like a lost kitten seeking attention.

`` Summer in Wyoming ``

Chapter 1

The warmth of the sun slowly creeps through the curtains of your room, making your nose scrunch slightly. You roll to the other side of the bed, burying yourself under the cool sheets. The first week of summer is already behind you, which means today you’re heading to Wyoming for three months to stay at your dad’s ranch. Honestly, you’re more than happy about it; spending the holidays with your mom and her current boyfriend wasn't exactly an appealing prospect. The moment you hear your mom’s voice calling from downstairs, your eyes finally flutter open as a quiet yawn escapes your lips.

About fifteen minutes later, soft footsteps on the stairs indicate your descent. The moment mom sees you, she plants a brief kiss on your forehead, making you squirm. She is already rambling about how you should behave in Wyoming, but her words melt into background noise, like the hum of a broken TV. All that fake concern was exhausting; the poor facade of trying to be a “good mom” felt like a knot around your neck, strangling you more with each passing day.

“Are you even listening to me, Miss?” she asks, watching as you silently sit at the table, picking at the breakfast on the plate in front of you.

“Mhm...” is all you manage to force out, pushing the food slightly away.

Another few hours pass, and you finally flop onto the backseat of the old Mustang your dad left for mom after the divorce. Soft music blasts from a radio station as the pine trees melt into a blurred mess of dark green behind the window. Despite the lack of visible emotion on your face, you are excited deep down; an almost childish feeling of happiness flows through your body. The mere thought of spending time on the ranch — with nothing but the woods and mountains around — brings a sensation of pure peace. No mom and that arrogant man of hers — whom you couldn’t stand from the very beginning of their relationships — to buzz into your ears like an annoying mosquitoes at quiet summer nights you can’t manage to get rid of.

The ride to Wyoming is long, so it’s no surprise you drift off. You arrive by morning, the sunrise breaking through the window in a warm sensation against your face. Your eyelids reluctantly flutter open as you bring a palm to your forehead, shielding your eyes from the blinding light. Mom is already arguing about something with ‘him’, but you don’t pay attention. You turn to the window, admiring the forest surrounding you and the mountain ranges peaking in the background.

The last thirty minutes of the ride pass in a blur. Soon, you are standing in front of your father’s door, knocking softly without a hint of hesitation. A second later, the wood creaks, and before you can react, your father wraps his strong arms around you, pressing you to his chest in a tight, affectionate hug. The bags you were holding thud to the floor as you return the gesture, inhaling the familiar scent of firewood and smoke. You instantly relax. This is definitely what people call “coming home.”

`

“Fuck you, and your fucking horses, Joe! Next time I’m not changing those damn animals' subcalves!”

The irritated shouting from outside cuts through the peaceful reunion. The moment Dean storms into the cabin, he freezes mid-step. His intense gaze falls on you, focusing on your confused expression; he barely restrains himself from letting his eyes wander. You sit there looking soft and innocent, like an angel that accidentally fell from Heaven into this godforsaken place. He doesn’t understand why, but the sight makes him feel a flicker of shame.

“My apologies, didn’t mean to swear in front of the young lady.”

ᵎᵎ Gojo Satoru

" The moment he started working for you, you two almost immediately caught the same mood. Same jokes, same behavior, same taste in many things. The line between work and friendship blurred faster than you thought. You could call him at 3 in the morning with some new idea for a song or just random things that pop into your head, and he would answer with a 100% chance. Grumbling, of course, but Gojo would still be listening to the stream of words leaving your mouth, telling you what a genius you are, coaxing embarrassed chuckles and drawling “Stooop” from you.

But of course, when it came to guarding you from some crazy fans, he took it seriously. Not only because he was your employee, but personally. His gaze always stays tense in moments like these, more cautious when you are heading to some big events. His hand lingers on the curve of your waist unnecessarily long, pulling your back just slightly closer to his chest, but it’s enough for you to feel safe even when there are dozens of cameras blasting flashes in your face and freaks crowding around, reaching their hands out, trying to catch even a little touch of your forearm or shoulder.

And after hours of work, he will surely be mumbling under his breath about how he can’t stand the lack of respect for you and your personal space from the onlookers while he drives you back home. He hugs you just a little too tight, rubbing his thumbs slowly against your lower back before reluctantly letting go until the next day. "

ᵎᵎ Toji Fushiguro

" Well, talking about this man — he was a complete and utter bastard. Even though you literally pulled him out of a broke life and cleaned him up, making him look more like a man instead of some stray dog. First off, because you like good-looking men with a hell of a broad back and some scars, especially on the face; second, because you just felt pity and couldn’t leave this king of indifference to rot at some shitty job.

For a long time, you were literally forcing Toji to drag his lazy ass with you. There was no effort from this man at all; just a simple click of his tongue and a brief gaze at the fans, not even paying attention to the fact that someone was bothering you. And oh, how many times you argued with him about it, threatening that you’ll fire him, but did he give a fuck? Well, not in the slightest. And God knows why you didn't really just kick him out back onto the street.

But the more he stuck to you, the more this icy armor of his was melting away. And suddenly, he was just a few inches closer behind you, just a little more focused in crowded places, even allowing himself to rest his warm hand on your lower back, carefully pulling you away from the railings that were separating you from the screaming and whining people. And when the weather was unpleasant, he would silently pull his suit jacket off and throw it casually over the curve of your delicate shoulders, grumbling that you should put more clothes on. "

ᵎᵎ Naoya Zenin

" At the start, Naoya acted like you were the one who should guard him. Even his first question during the job interview was, “Why should I work for you?” All this body-guarding was some kind of show to him, nothing serious, nothing he should care about. Of course, you knew he wasn’t, well, good with women in general, and that had nothing to do with you personally, but still, shouldn’t he have at least a little respect for you?

He doesn’t even let himself touch you without his gloves on, and if he did, the grimace on his face and the rolling of his eyes would be there the next second, making you cringe and tense momentarily, taking a step back. Naoya was never near, preferring to stay somewhere in the corner of the place you were at, leaving you to deal with problems yourself. But this foxy gaze of his was always checking, always assessing the crowd for potential threats to you, eventually throwing out a brief “You good?” when you both were heading back to the car after another rough day.

Even though being an asshole was his nature, when he saw you clearly struggling with something, when your eyes were darting to find his in the crowd in a silent request for help, he was there. He would pull away not you, but the annoying men who were bothering you with their presence, telling them to back off before he forced them to do so. "

ᵎᵎ Sukuna Ryomen

" The first time you met him, you felt scared; there’s no point in denying it. All these face tattoos, collected posture, and piercing gaze made you uncomfortable. You started to hesitate — was he the right person to trust? Because he simply looked like a damn gangster. But his behavior was surprisingly different from the way he looked.

He never talked much, never allowed himself anything inappropriate. Sukuna’s presence near you felt heavy, and at least for the first few months, you literally flinched when he talked to you with that slow and hoarse voice of his, making him let out a slow exhale, apologizing for startling you yet again. Even your manager commented from time to time that this man was a literal guard dog, a freaking Cerberus towering behind your back, deciding whose head he would bite off today. His eyes were always on you, almost in a controlling way, despite the fact that his hands stayed behind his back most of the time, touching your forearm briefly only when it was necessary.

You didn’t know how you’d ended up in bed with this man, nor what exactly he was. All that crap about angels, demons, and the apocalypse couldn’t be real, right? He was just too drunk to think straight—or that’s what you told yourself to stay calm. Not that you really cared, because the way he was pumping into you left you breathless and thoughtless.

One of his hands—so incredibly strong—held both of yours tightly above your head, while the other gripped the curve of your waist as if his life depended on it. Your face was pressed into the pillow, muffling the soft moans and whimpers escaping your lips. His ragged breathing filled your ears as his head rested heavily against the nape of your neck. The wet, rhythmic sound of skin hitting skin bounced off the walls. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes back when he hit just the right spot, making your back arch even more, silently begging for more.

The sensation of fullness made your head spin, like you’d taken a dose of whatever the guys were selling back at college. You could’ve sworn to God you’d never felt better; this man knew exactly how to handle a woman. For the first time, you truly understood why your friends chose older men—this solid body looming over you felt incredible.

“You good down there?” His voice was hoarse, rasping between thrusts. You could only whine in response, trembling as you managed something close to a “yes.” He mumbled a quiet “Good” in return, his lips lingering softly on the top of your head. He pressed his face into your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo while his hips kept a steady rhythm against yours.

The first time he struck that spot deep inside you, a sharp sensation made you tense and clench around him. What the hell was that? You’d never felt anything like it before. But then he did it again, and again, until the discomfort melted into pure pleasure. Your body went pliant and soft, and his hands immediately slid to your hipbones to steady you. “Shh, I got you...” he whispered into your ear.

His pace grew chaotic. Your thighs trembled as he delivered a few more powerful thrusts before you felt the warmth spreading inside you. It took only a second for you to reach the edge right after him, weakly moaning his name.

Ten minutes later, his touch was much gentler. He slowly brushed the damp hair from your forehead as he sat on the edge of the bed. You were already cleaned up, resting under the cool sheets. It felt as if he were assessing you, checking if he’d done something wrong or hurt you. The intensity of his gaze made you hide further under the covers. His expression shifted to curiosity as he leaned closer, the tip of his nose almost brushing yours before he pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

" The night was quiet outside your window. A light breeze brushed the peaks of the pine trees, while cicadas performed another symphony for those like you — choking in feeling, desperately aching for someone they know they can't have. The cold light of the full moon breaks into the room as you lie in complete darkness, thinking about him. The finest and kindest boy in school, all bright smiles and playful behavior. Everyone loved him, and you weren't the exception.

Maybe that's why your hand is slowly sliding under the waistband of your sleeping shorts. Eyes shut the second fingertips brush against heated skin through underwear, as his face flashes behind your eyelids. The movements are slow at first, cautious, as if you were simply teasing yourself, yet they still draw a soft breath from your lips. Your mind brings up every memory. All the times he briefly talked to you in boring AP History classes, playfully stealing a pen, or leaning just an inch closer to peek at your notes.

The phantom smell of his cologne and leather jacket fills your lungs as your hand finally slips under the thin fabric of your panties. The moment you feel exactly how wet you already are, a wave of shame hits, but it doesn't stop you from carefully sliding a finger between your folds, right into yourself. The sensation draws out a muffled moan, teeth catching the inside of your cheek, as you move slowly, enveloped in the warmth of your ragged walls. The other palm curls into a loose fist against the cool sheets.

After a few more thrusts, a second finger slides in with ease. Your chest heaves in shuddered breaths, body feeling feverish as you please yourself faster, wishing it was his touch instead. Or better, his cock. Imagining how he would have leaned over you, talking you through it and kissing your temple. The thought of him fucking you makes you clench tightly, thighs trembling as you reach the peak of pleasure with a quiet moan of his name.

Every footstep on the metal stairs echoed in your skull like a march to the guillotine. Technically, it was a death sentence. Your addiction had left you neck-deep in debt, and the collectors were done with your excuses. The last time they’d visited, the badly hidden steel under their jackets made it clear: their patience was gone. So, here you were, betting your life to wipe the slate. To survive, and maybe sniff a victorious line over the wreckage later. The rules were primal—one shotgun, two players. One walks out with a suitcase of cash. The second meets a pathetic end with buckshot through the brain.

The thick bathroom walls muffled the bass into a dull, vibrating roar. Graffiti crawled over the tiles, sinks were choked with grime, and occasional moans drifted from the stalls. You stared into the mirror, swallowing another pill. "Fuck, is it bunk again?" you hissed. The high wasn't hitting. Desperate and terrified, you popped another. You needed this shit to work. There was no way in hell you were playing Russian roulette sober. You leaned over the sink, fingers drumming nervously on the porcelain. "C'mon, don't be empty..." you whispered. "That’s my last one."

Your pocket buzzed. A single message from an unknown sender: "Enter."

The pills still hadn't touched you, but there was no choice. It was the table or the collectors.

You kicked the steel door open. The dimly lit room smelled of stale smoke. In the center sat a round table, a shotgun, and a paper titled: ‘General Release of Liability’.

"Sit down and sign," a low, gravelly voice commanded. As you finished, you looked up at your opponent—a man with dark hair and a jagged scar cutting through his lip.

"Name's Toji Fushiguro," he said, casually dropping a tab of LSD onto his tongue. "You want some? You look like you're about to snap."

You hesitated for a heartbeat. The dealer must have sold you duds. "Screw it. Give it here," you snapped, reaching out. Toji smirked. "I’m a lucky bastard. Figure I’ll treat you to the good shit before I put a bullet in that pretty little skull."

You swallowed the tab, a sharp, metallic aftertaste hitting the back of your throat. But as you looked back at him, the world tilted. The first pills weren't duds—they were just late. The cotton of your shirt suddenly felt like silk against your skin; your palms turned slick, and your breath came in ragged, shallow pants. The MDMA was surging just as the acid began to prickle at your vision.

"One live round, six blanks."

You racked the shotgun, the heavy ‘clack-clack’ vibrating through your teeth. You leveled it at Toji, but your hands were shaking, fingers slipping against the cold steel of the trigger as the room started to pulse.

"Dollface, just do it," Fushiguro teased. His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic loop that made your head spin. You squeezed the trigger.

Click. Blank. Your heart thundered against your ribs.

Now, it was his turn.

"Lucky me," he muses lazily, already reaching for the shotgun. His calloused hands move with practiced ease, as if he’s done this a dozen times before. Toji adjusts his grip, leveling the weapon at you. There’s no hesitation, yet he waits a few seconds, watching your restless gaze and the slight trembling of your hands. Scared, or maybe just all the shit you've put into your mouth finally kicking in, he thinks, before pulling the trigger.

A soft click follows, and the blank cartridge falls onto the table with the repetitive clang of metal on wood.

"Have your shot. Maybe this time fortune will smile on you."

You take the shotgun from him, trying to keep your eyes open, lips parting in an awkward attempt at a laugh. Shit, you better not overdose or something. A loud swallow fills the small, dim room. Your vision blurs for a second; shaky hands almost drop the gun, but you catch it just in time. Deep inhale, ragged exhale, as you focus your eyes on his face. And damn—is he smirking? Is he mocking you for how pathetic you look?

Okay, pull yourself together. Collectors. You need the money. But the drop of sweat rolling down your forehead betrays your state. Your finger trembles on the trigger, eyes full of hesitation.

"Fuck, don't embarrass yourself. Just pull the damn trigger," the man groans, obvious annoyance creeping into his voice as a small frown cracks between his eyebrows.

"Yeah..." you slur. A second later—another blank. You already hate the trap you’ve put yourself in. Why is it so fucking hard to just catch the right bullet? Fortune be damned.

"Finally," Toji says, his voice sounding slightly more relaxed again. The LSD is probably starting to mess with his head, too.

He doesn't take long to pull the trigger. Blank.

Your turn. Blank.

His — blank again.

It’s as if you’re circling each other in a death dance. But the moment when only two rounds remain comes faster than you thought. One blank, one live. One will end a life tonight. And that 'someone' better not be you, right? Or does fate have other plans for your miserable existence? Who knows.

You already feel like you're in another world. Your head is spinning; your chest heaves as if you’re struggling to breathe—and honestly, you are. This shit hits too hard. Vision blurred, you can't even make out the features of his face—just a hazy mess in front of your heavy-lidded eyes. Shaky hands try to grip the gun but fail disgracefully, drawing a laugh of pure joy from Toji. The bastard.

Your ears can't process what he’s saying; the music from the club below suddenly pumps in your skull too loud, making you grimace. You pull the trigger.

Blank.

That’s when reality hits you in the face. That’s the exact moment you see the lopsided grin creeping onto his lips. Shit. You can’t die like this—not in a nightclub full of addicts, not in a room smelling of dampness and mold. Is this what you deserve? Maybe you valued your life a little higher than it was actually worth. Either way, your grip on the shotgun becomes painful as you take a step back from the table.

"Hey, that's not how it works, dear." His gruff voice feels like it's everywhere—in your ears, your head, inside your entire body. He doesn’t take a step toward you. Yet.

"No... no, I can't die like that. I—" You stutter, the floor floating under your feet. Another step back, pressing yourself against the wall. Chicken. Well, who wouldn’t be?

That’s when Toji moves. Anger fills his eyes as he stalks toward you. His own legs are failing him, but his steps are still firm compared to yours. He looms over you, blocking out the little light left in the room with his broad shoulders. His grip on your jaw is painful; your lips part in a pathetic whine, like a scared puppy. His breath is hot and uneven against your face, almost burning. A low, displeased growl forms in his throat.

Slap.

The next second, you’re on the floor, desperately reaching for the shotgun as it slips from your unreliable grip. Tears fill your eyes from the heat blooming on your cheek. You feel his boot pressing into your ribcage. Trapped.

He bends over to snatch the gun from the floor. Memories of your life flash before your eyes—you regret everything, wishing you could go back, stay in college, get a job, live a damn good life. You grip his ankle, but he doesn't budge an inch. The shotgun is pointed at your face, and there’s no escape.

"Just fucking die," he slurs, more to himself than to you. He staggers for a brief moment, shaking his head, trying to clear the LSD from his mind.

The last thing you hear clearly is the sound of the shot.

Cas's palms slide under Dean's t-shirt, roaming over the thick muscles of his abs and bunching the fabric up. Meanwhile, Dean grips his thighs a little too tight, likely leaving red finger prints on Castiel's skin.

Their tongues brush against each other in slow, filthy strokes as the heat turns messy and sloppy. The sound of ragged breaths fills the quiet room while they lose themselves in the intensity of the moment.

Dean's fingers quickly find the button of Cas's jeans, making the other man break the kiss almost immediately. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and lips swollen from hours of making out.

"I've never done this before," he mumbles under his breath, suddenly looking uncertain.

"I'm not gonna fuck you, Cas," Dean rasps, his hands stilling at the fly. Well, he himself has never done this with a guy before either, not that he's going to admit it out loud. He’s keeping the facade up anyway.

Cas huffs out a quiet noise, something close to a laugh, before capturing Dean's lips in another heated exchange, not giving him time to say another word. His own hands move from under the shirt to help unbutton his pants. His fingers move with ease, and after a few moments, they both free aching flesh from the tightness of their clothes.

The movements are clumsy and inexperienced as they wrap their fingers around each other, slow at first, then with less hesitation, finding a perfect pace. Dean's head falls onto Cas's shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out hoarse, almost shy moans with every stroke. Castiel leans into him, eyes closing on autopilot as he loses himself in the pleasant feeling of his friend's touch.

"Faster, please," Dean hisses, almost whimpering into Cas's shoulder. And the other listens, picking up the tempo.

"Like that?"

"Yeah... keep going."

It doesn't take long for them to come together—just a few more strokes and a desperate grind of hips as they reach their peak. They stay still for a good two minutes afterward, trying to catch their breath and process what they've just done.

" He had always been a little insane when it came to you. His gaze was too intense, every touch so possessive it felt like being caged rather than protected. But that was just his way of showing love, right? And all you could do was close your eyes to the "red flags"—because apparently, those years in Hell and Purgatory had snapped something inside his head. So, when some random son of a bitch hit you with his car and you died, Dean completely lost it.

"You fucking bitch, how can you just die? Fucking pathetic," he growled, crouching beside your grave. "Sometimes I want to bring you back just to kill you myself. I hope you can hear me, because I don't remember giving you permission to leave like that."

His voice softened, his knuckles brushing against the cold stone. "But you’re still mine, kitten. And when my time comes, I promise you, I’ll drag you from Heaven down to Hell so you can suffer with me. Can’t have you enjoying a peaceful afterlife for too long, can I?"

The night was quiet as he stood before the bastard’s house. Too quiet for his liking, but the job had to be done. His fingers worked the lock with practiced skill; as the door creaked open, the darkness made him look like a killer from a cliché horror flick—and damn if he didn't love that. The thought of what came next was thrilling. Arousing, even. Maybe he was sick in the head for feeling a tightening in his pants at a time like this, but he didn't care.

He moved like a ghost through the first floor. Photos of the bastard’s wife and kids lined the walls. For a second, Dean considered slaughtering them all just to make the man suffer the way he had when you died. When that pig killed you. But let's get straight to the point—no need to delay the sweet moment of revenge.

The second floor of the house met him with the same quietness. Two children's bedrooms, one for the 'great hero' of the show. Maybe Dean wasn’t a total psycho yet, because he decided to let the woman and the runts live their miserable lives. He worked fast, pressing a damp, chemical-soaked cloth over their faces just long enough to ensure they wouldn't stir.

Professional, through and through.

Maybe that bitch will even find another man for herself, and honestly, he hopes the next one won't be a loser like this one.

He just stayed there for a few more minutes, looming over, silently watching that pig snort and turn in his sleep. How peaceful he looked, how unaware that these were the last moments of his existence. Dean didn't hesitate when he raised the axe, when he cut off his head.

Blood splattered across his face and clothes. That sharp, pleased smirk plastered on his face clearly showed that he enjoyed the moment a little more than he should, but it was so satisfying to watch the crimson pool spread across the sheets, dripping over the edge in a slow, rhythmic thump, thump, thump.

"Fuck..." he muttered, adjusting the bulge in his jeans with a crimson-stained hand. Disgusting? Maybe. But this was his nature now.

Dean watched the scene for a moment longer, a low groan escaping him as he unzipped his fly. His large, calloused hand gripped himself, moving in slow, steady strokes as he leaned his back against the wall. He’d never felt this hard—except maybe for those nights he’d spent buried inside you. He remembered your whimpers, the way you cried while he claimed you. He’d felt like a god then, holding all the power over you. He loved how you were suffocating, how you begged him to stop until you finally passed out, leaving him to pump into your unconscious body.

His breath hitched, his hand moving faster as he chanted your name like a mantra. Your damp cheeks and your eyes, red from tears, flashed in his memory while he worked himself faster. It wasn't too long before he finally came all over his hand with a hoarse growl from somewhere deep in his throat. A complete and utter mess.

"Fucking Hell," he panted, wiping his hand on his t-shirt before zipping back up. That was a new low, even for him.

"I'm on the highway to Hell

On the highway to Hell."