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The guy who was harassing Knee got completely destroyed by multiple commentary youtubers because he didn't shower or brush his teeth, and threatened to die over a discord server.
Summary: Can the reader save the Winchesters in time?
Warnings: Canon level violence, death, angst
W/C: 584
A/N: Quick angsty drabble for @supernatural-jackles Bi-Weekly Writing Challenge.
Sam lays lifelessly in the corner with a face so bloodied I wouldn’t be able to recognize him if I hadn’t been the one who dealt the damage myself. Well, not really myself, but by my own hands. I’d watched in horror and absolute agony with each crunch of bone as my fists met their heads and torsos with strength beyond my own.
With Sam’s limp body wasted and tossed carelessly to the side in a heap of grief, my evil hands relentlessly beat into Dean. Swiftly, his features too become blurred and swollen, reducing him to a weeping pulp. How could you? They keep asking.
My tongue is not my own either. It hisses ugly, sinister lies with every hit, every sickening crunch. If at least my stomach were my own, it would’ve already released its contents in revulsion. But no—nothing in me responds. Every time I strain against the onyx demon within me, it squeezes my consciousness harder, threatening to devour me from the inside out.
Dean’s eyes begin to close, his iron grip faltering, and his hands slip from their former grip against my sleeve. With one final, desperate surge of my soul, the demon wavers just long enough for me to stop before dealing the final blow. I fall to my knees with Dean in my arms, his breath ragged and full of fluid.
A choking gasp from behind me lets me know that Sam still lives, but the threat remains. I feel the overwhelming pull of the demon within me, struggling to regain control. I scream from the effort of holding it at bay and retrieve the blade from just beyond Dean’s reach. I press the hilt into his palm, feeling the bones in my own hand twist and grind in ways not meant to be.
I grasp his hand around the blade between both of mine, clamp down and whisper, shaking against the bottled hurricane inside, “Dean… before I do this, I need you to know that I have always loved you.”
The broken hunter shakes his head ever so slightly as a tear rolls out of the only eye he can fully open through the trauma. I look up and close my eyes, not wanting to see the destruction written upon his precious face. If I look down now, I may hesitate and he and Sam may die by my hand.
There was never any contest. When I signed on with the Winchesters, I made a vow. It would always be them over me—the men who could save the world. At least now they’ll be safe. The knowledge comforts me, strengthens my resolve against the unholy disease raging within. I lift my shirt and line up the tip just below my ribs in the soft center. Dean chokes out a mourning groan as I force the blade through my diaphragm. A sour electricity reverberates through the air and light flees from my every pore.
It’s like being ripped apart by a thousand suns—an eternity that only lasts a moment. With the knife protruding from me, I collapse next to Dean and notice that Sam has crawled closer, despite his broken arm. Their crimson-drenched lips mouth words, but they fall uselessly upon my deaf ears.
Just there now, do you see it? My reaper has come. My eyes don’t close, but everything dims and blurs. The colors of the world fade to greyscale and narrow until nothing. Has it been years or only seconds? I no longer know, but with the fading of my pain, so do I.
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