#dark!dean

Teaser

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Rustling from the woods around him was drowned out by the plastic tarp sliding across the ground, catching sticks and leaves. He wasn’t bothered by the sound cancelling effect; he was scarier than anything he’d find in the woods tonight.

It took too much time to get to the sinkhole; Dean was half the size of the guy he’d taken down, and still winded from the fight, but eventually he saw the abandoned cabin half-swallowed by the earth.

Except there was someone standing by the cabin. He was Dean’s height, similarly built, and in the bright moonlight he looked pale under his dark hair.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Dean groaned. His ribs hurt, his face was hot and swollen where he’d caught a right hook on his cheekbone, he was sweating too much for a cool night…

This was the absolute last thing he needed.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” he groused.

The man shrugged easily, tilting his head so his blue eyes caught the moonlight.

“Your car is conspicuous,” came the reply, deep voice rippling with amusement.

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry about helping, just stand there, that’s great.”

He continued his slow progression, the body clearing a path through the pine needles. Once or twice it caught on a rock or a stick, but a sharp tug was enough to keep it moving.

Dean could feel Castiel’s eyes on him as he rearranged his grip as he got to the edge of the sink hole. He got down onto his knees for better leverage, braced himself, and pushed. It rolled, plastic crinkling, and then it was gone.

The moonlight was blocked suddenly, and he looked up; Castiel was standing next to him one second, then dropped to a crouch. His bright eyes burned as his bit his lower lip. Dean swallowed.

“You were in my territory tonight,” said Castiel quietly, then raised his hand to touch the swelling on Dean’s cheek.

Dean leaned into the touch despite himself, even as Castiel pressed down, shivers of pain sparking across his face.

“Not on purpose,” he muttered, looking down. “I was just enjoying my night until him.”

Castiel clucked his tongue, fingers trailing up Dean’s face to push into his hair. His grip tightened, tilting Dean’s face towards him. Dean swallowed.

“You’re the prettiest serial killer I know, Dean Winchester.”

“Back atchya, Cas,” he managed before Castiel crashed into him, bruising kisses down his throat and collarbone.

Right as Dean gasped out a moan, pushing back, the attention stopped and Cas was pulling away and standing up.

“I’ll see you on your next run, Dean. Stay out of my hunting grounds.”

Then he was gone, and Dean was left to drag himself back to his feet and walk back to his car alone, kicking pine needles and twigs back onto the disturbed earth.

There’s a fleeting smirk on John’s face as he looks you over; no doubt the brothers had already given him every sordid detail. The smirk quickly turns into a look of concern when Mrs. Harvelle notes your unusual injuries, and suggests that they call for the doctor and possibly a midwife, so that you can receive proper care. John frowns at her suggestion, you’re sure he wants to keep your interactions with anyone outside of the manor to a minimum, but as she lifts your nightgown to show him the extent of Sam and Dean’s assault, he reluctantly agrees.

The doctor is a young man, he doesn’t look to be much older than you. You don't quite catch his name; you're too focused on the pain radiating throughout your body. He almost resembles Dean; dark blonde hair and chiseled features, but in place of Dean’s green eyes, blue ones shine back at you. Mrs. Harvelle holds your hand as he speaks to you warmly, examining your injuries gingerly, before declaring you have a broken wrist, cracked ribs, and a fractured cheekbone. He raises an eyebrow when Sam feeds him the stranger story, but you know he wouldn’t dare question a husband about what may or may not have happened in his marital bed. No one would be able to do anything even if they believed you. You were Sam’s wife, his property for all intents and purposes, and he could do with you whatever he pleased.

The doctor sets your wrist, and wraps a bandage around your chest, ordering that you stay on bed rest for the next two weeks. He not-so-subtly suggests to Sam that you keep ‘nighttime activities’ to a minimum. The idea of Sam sharing your bed at all sends you into near-hysterics, and you hope that the midwife will also give him the same order. the doctor gives Sam a little brown bottle full of a clear liquid, and you can make out the word morphine written in large block letters. For a moment you think you might have a way to help yourself and Claire. If the doctor comes to the manor every day, then maybe he'll see what's happening to you both. But your hopes are shattered when he begins to instruct Mrs. Harvelle on how to administer the dosage, at John and Sam's insistence, providing her with a needle and taking her through the steps. Once Mrs. Harvelle feels comfortable enough the doctor makes sure that she is watching your intake very closely.

As the doctor leaves your chambers, you hear hushed words between him and John. You want to speak up, to thank him for being so kind, but it hurts to open your mouth. the doctor nods and offers a warm smile when his eyes land on you, seeming to know what you wanted to say. John’s eyes narrow, and he grabs the doctor roughly by the arm and escorts him out of the room.

The same midwife who had given you a clean bill of health not two months ago is examining you again. She asks Mrs. Harvelle about the damage between your legs, and Mrs. Harvelle repeats Sam’s story about a stranger assaulting you. You wince as she looks you over, and when Sam asks if it could affect you becoming pregnant again, she answers with a sigh. She advises, just as the doctor did, that he refrain from lying with you until you are fully healed, and tells you both that you should have no problem conceiving again.

Mrs. Harvelle and Joanna seem to be splitting their time between you and Claire, but you’ve yet to learn what kind of state she is in. The brother’s may not have beaten her as badly as they did you, but the way they used her body will be seared into your memory forever. As it was before, the only men you can even tolerate being around are Bobby and John, and only then when you were in a morphine-filled haze.

“No man is stupid ‘nuff to come on this property,” you can barely make out Bobby’s voice through your still fogged brain. He didn’t seem to fear the Winchesters, unlike some of the other servants, but you weren’t sure with whom his loyalty truly lay. “Those girls barely do anything without the boys. Why would they sneak out in the middle of the night?”

“They’re young, not much older than Joanna,” John excuses.

“Yeah, but–”

“What exactly are you gettin’ at Bobby? You think Sam or Dean hurt them?”

“All’s I’m sayin’ is… I love those boys as if they were my own, John, you know that,” you’d never heard any of the servants at Winchester Manor call John by his first name, and to hear Bobby say it was almost unnerving. “But you know as well as me that there’s something off about them. Ellen and me have turned the other way for a long time now, we don’t say nothin’ ‘cause they weren’t hurtin’ nobody. But I saw Dean bring Claire back to their room–”

“What my sons do with their wives is none of your business, Robert, and I’ll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself. Don’t forget your place, you and Ellen.”

You drift off to John and Bobby still talking, both making what seemed to be thinly-veiled threats and accusations. Thanks to the morphine, you spend a majority of every day sleeping, only waking for short bursts to be fed or bathed.

You wake one morning to see Sam sitting in a chair next to your bed. His focus isn’t on you, but a book in his hand, Frankenstein. Your body still aches but nothing like it did before. How long had it been– a few days, a week, more? Your wrist was still wrapped, and the bruises that you could see were no longer a deep purple but a light yellow-green.

You whimper as you move onto your side, unintentionally gathering Sam’s attention.

“Hey there, princess,” he smiles warmly, closing the book and putting it onto the table next to your bed. “How ya feelin’?”

You don’t know if you can speak, so you shrug your shoulders, and your hair falls in front of your face. Sam reaches out and you recoil, unsure of what he wants.

“S’okay, baby girl, I just wanna see those pretty eyes,” he soothes as he pushes your hair behind your ears. “There we go, now I can see my beautiful wife.” An uncontrollable warmth fills your body at Sam’s praise. “I’m gonna have Mrs. Harvelle draw us a bath, how does that sound, hmm? Let you soak up, s'been a while since you had a proper one,” Sam laughs slightly.

“‘Kay,” you mumble, fighting the soreness in your throat.

“Good,” he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead, “how ‘bout some tea as well? Warm you right up.”

You nod, sitting up slightly as Sam leaves your room. It’s late in the day, supper time at least, oranges and reds coloring the sky outside your window. The leaves of an oak tree are an orangish-brown, at least the ones still attached to the branches, and you realize that all your memories since the loss of your baby are hazy at best.

Ten minutes later Sam is gathering you out of your bed, and carrying you into the bathroom. Mrs. Harvelle is there, offering to help you undress but Sam politely shoos her away, saying that he will do it himself. There is a moment between them that you don’t quite understand, and her eyes briefly flicker to you, as if she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to stay.

Part of you wants to ask her to, but you dare not go against Sam’s wishes; he’s being unusually kind, and you don’t want to sour his mood. The large, clawfoot tub is filled with steaming water, and you can’t deny that it looks very appealing. Sam sets you down on a small chair, and reaches for the hem of your nightgown. Your breath hitches, and Sam stops before looking back up to you. You take a moment before nodding your head, answering his unasked question, and he removes the dress, gently caressing up your body as he does so.

“I’d like to get in with you,” Sam asks, almost innocently, like a naive young boy, not the brute you know him to be. “If that’s okay?” you nod meekly and he slowly strips himself of his own clothes.

Sam picks you up gingerly, carrying you as you had always imagined a husband would carry his wife. He sinks down slowly, and you gasp as he places you in the water. It’s almost uncomfortably hot, but after a moment or two your body adjusts and you let yourself be overtaken by its warmth. Sam climbs in behind you, wrapping his arms around your stomach, and encourages you to lean back against him and settle between his legs.

Sam hums as you relax into him, and you find a source of comfort in the steady beat of his heart. There’s silence between you, for once, and you don’t feel the need or pressure to do anything but be with your husband. Water ripples as Sam’s usual rough touches are replaced by soft and meaningful caresses over your healing body.

“You know I love you, Y/N,” Sam murmurs in your ear, breaking the silence. It's the first time he’s ever said that to you, and you feel your heart swell.

“You do?” You ask as you turn around to face him.

“Of course I do. That’s why I had to teach you a lesson, because I love you,” Sam caresses your face. “I know you want to be a good girl, a good wife for me, and you try so hard. The baby–” he stops as you retreat back. “–it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t?” You’d been blaming yourself for the better part of two months, but now knowing Sam doesn’t, you find relief from the guilt you’d been feeling.

“No, baby girl,” he pulls you towards him, letting your chest rest against his. “It'll happen when it's supposed to, ‘kay?” You nod, too overcome by his confession to do anything else. He loves you. “I need you to promise me one thing, Y/N,” you perk up, staring deep into his eyes. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.” You don’t need him to be specific, you know exactly what he’s referring to. “We took it easy on you, and you don’t want to see what happens when I get mad, do you sweetheart?”

“I pr-promise,” you nod your head.

“Good girl.”

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The moments before the hunt, when he was still looking for the monsters, were always tense. Even to his battle-hardened nerves. It just seemed too quiet. Like the bastards could jump out at him from the shadows at any moment. Steadying himself, he kept his eyes off of the Halloween decorations and focused on looking for the real monsters.

Somewhere, in the distant streetlights ahead of him. He saw something move, alone and unhurried down the street. Stalking the street, just like Dean was stalking it. The monster. And so, he stepped off of the sidewalk and into one of the lawns, keeping just out of sight from the streetlights as he slowly moved forward.

This was it.

This was the moment he lived for. The adrenaline coursing through his veins and his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, as every one of his senses went into overdrive. The hunt was on.

---

It was painfully slow. The hunt itself. He had to keep quiet and move carefully. Just like he’d been taught. But once he got close enough to fully see the monster, it would be too late for that thing to fight back. Its sharp talons and poisonous words would be no match for the hunting knife clenched in his whitening fist.

He’d let it pass him, and then he’d attack from behind, out of range from those claws. It was the best tactic, and safety always came first when hunting this particular type of monster. Those claws could do some serious damage.

Holding his breath, he waited behind yet another tacky Halloween decoration, careful to not make a sound as the monster walked under yet another streetlight. Its pale face contrasted painfully against blood red lips and the black fabric dripping off of its thin frame, making Dean shudder as he counted the seconds. Just a few steps more, and the monster would be out of the spotlight made by the streetlight. That’s when he’d strike… Quick and easy; like the soldier his father trained him to be.

As soon as the monster stepped into the darkness, just outside the safe reach of the streetlight, Dean moved into action. Taking a step forward, he half ran, half leapt at the dark figure, his knife impacting with the monster's back in less than a second, cutting off any sounds that could have awoken the suburban neighbourhood. Still, he was far from done; as he plunged the knife into the monster's back again and again; making sure it was truly dead before he stood back up and unceremoniously stuffed the bloodied knife back into his pocket.

He still had more work to do.

Looking down at the woman he sneered at her shapeless form before grabbing roughly at her thin wrists and dragging her back into the streetlight. Halloween always made a mockery of his hunts. This one had dressed up as a vampire, as if a costume was even necessary.

Humans were the real monsters. Just as he’d outlined in the carefully printed calling card he left behind. The same that had the papers nickname him the “Monster Hunter Serial Killer” without taking his words to heart and being better. The monsters in this world weren’t vampires, werewolves or whatever else people decided to dress up as for Halloween. It was the sleazy neighbour, the thief, the unfaithful spouse… It was humans.

They ruined the world with their cheating, stealing, lying… They blamed their troubles on a non-existing devil and hid from their problems. Pretending they weren’t the vile monsters that their children hid from. That it wasn’t their skeletons, hastily hidden in closets, that kept them up at night. Monsters were real, and it was Dean’s job to rid the world of them.

Just like his father had taught him.

Careful to avoid having the woman’s manicured nails scratch him, Dean arranged the woman’s body, like he’d done so many times before, and left the printed card; free of fingerprints, on her bloodied back.

Another monster dead. Millions to go.

In a week’s time he’d strike again. After all, every day was Halloween to Dean Winchester.

Every day could only be Halloween when surrounded by monsters.

---

Dean Winchester Tags: @ria132love @woodworthti666 @defenderrosetyler @akshi8278 @justanotherwinchester @lyarr24 @torn-and-frayed @all-will-be-well-love @wearesuchstuff1 @thefridgeismybestie @adoptdontshoppets @starsandmidnightblue @screechingartisancashbailiff @canyonnmoonn @swinchester27 @septixtrash @punof-agun