TW Supernatural Imagine

          "Stand back,” orders Dean as he comes up behind you with a large stake in hand. You don’t move from your position and instead focus your strength on holding the flailing vampire down.

          Dean rolls his eyes at your refusal to move and instead takes the second stake and uses it as a hammer to jam your stake in deeper. The vampire leader gives one last sputtering cough, sending flecks of dark red blood on your face which makes you want to heave.

          “Good job, Y/N!” Sam calls as he rushes up to meet you and Dean. You can’t help but blush at his praise. Despite having a knife in one hand and stake with dried blood covering the point in the other, you feel your heart flutter as he smiles at you.

          “Good work boys,” you say.

          “Good work yourself,” replies Dean.

          You follow the two out of the forest you’d chased the coven leader into. At the edges of the woods you see the small cabin where the coven leader and his followers had been bunking. Sam and Dean are quick to work grabbing gasoline from Baby and setting the little cabin ablaze.

          “Just in case,” says Dean when he catches the confused look on your face, “Maybe one of the fuckers is asleep in the walls, who knows? Better to just burn it all to be safe.”

          “Sounds like something a serial arsonist would say,” you tease. He laughs.

          Once the cabin had burned to ashes and the boys had checked that there wasn’t a chance of a flame sprouting out and igniting the forest, the three of you pile into Baby and argue over where to go for post-hunt celebration dinner.

          You and Sam win out with McDonalds much to Dean’s dismay (he’d wanted Chinese), and with Sam at the wheel, you in the passenger seat, and Dean spread out in the back, you drive down the long country roads in search of a motel and a pair of golden arches.

          Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take you long to find a McDonalds. You can’t help but feel somewhat comforted by the familiar glow of the neon in the windows as you enter. No matter what state lines you crossed or what part of the country you were in, there was always a McDonalds somewhere that made you feel at home.

          “Oh Sammy, look!” Dean snorts as he motions towards a large cardboard cutout of Ronald McDonald. You almost cough up a lung when you feel Sam stiffen beside you.

          “He’s coming for you, Sammy.”

          You shoot Dean a look of absolute joy as the two of you watch Sam hustle past the cardboard cutout and into the store.

          “Y/N?” Sam asks an hour later with his hand poised over the two large fries the three of you’d ordered. The three of you are squeezed into a booth. You’re squished beside Dean, facing Sam who looks at you expectantly.

          “Mmm?” you reply around a large chunk of hamburger. Dean snorts.

          “Today’s the fifth,” he continues, the expression on his face suggesting that there’s something important about this information.

          You cock your head, unsure and unwilling to risk a guess, “Okay?”

          Sam sighs and shakes his head with a smile, “You joined up with us on this day one year ago!”

          Dean perks up beside you, “Hey! That’s right!” He outstretches his arms and leans towards you, “Can’t believe it’s been that long, can you Y/N?” Instinctively you lean back, but Dean doesn’t seem to get the message. The closer he gets, the farther you lean until you can feel yourself tumble out of the booth.

          You hit the ground with a thump and a “Shit!” The few other customers turn to look at the commotion and an old man in a wrinkled polo gives you a disgruntled look in response to your language. You fight the urge to flip him off.

          “Oh! Y/N!” You hear Sam move out of the booth and feel his warm, calloused hands grip your small, cold ones.

          “Fuck Y/N, you alright?” Dean asks. You wonder what kind of look the old man’s giving now.

          You let Sam pull you to your feet. You sway a bit and put a hand to your head. Despite the pain, there’s no blood.

          “You hit your head pretty hard there,” Sam remarks.

          “Shit, did I startle you?” Dean asks, his tone worried, “I thought we were past that.”

          You shake your head (which just makes the developing headache even worse but you ignore it) and put up hands in surrender. “No! No, I’m sorry. It’s my fault.” You bite your lip as you watch a look of confusion pass over their faces. Sam opens his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it.

          "I’m sorry I- I just have a thing with touch. I was caught off guard that’s all.”

          “Oh, Y/N, I didn’t know…”

          “How could you?” you ask, “Don’t apologize, Dean. I’ve never mentioned it before. There’s no way you could’ve known.”

          The three of you are quiet for a moment. The customers seem to have gotten past your spectacle and their background chatter is a comforting distraction from the awkward silence that passes between the three of you.

          “I-Is it because your father?” Sam asks, his tone apprehensive.

          “I’d rather not go into this right now,” you reply, your hands clasped together against your chest, eyes focused on your worn out shoes on the checkered tile.

          “Alright.”

          Wordlessly, Sam and Dean gather your garbage and toss the remaining scraps. You follow the two of them back out to Baby and crawl into the backseat. You don’t want to talk, just want to lay your head down.

          “Wait!” Sam says suddenly and he darts from the passenger seat back inside. He returns quickly with a bottled water and two Advil tablets which, upon re-entering Baby, he hands back to you. You gratefully take the pills as Sam settles back into the passenger seat and Dean starts the engine.

          You watch the scenery go by as Baby exits the McDonalds and heads out back onto the country roads.

          “We should find a place for the night,” Dean remarks and you and Sam nod in agreement. It’s gotten dark since you’d entered the McDonalds. Before there’d been a little later afternoon/early evening, but now there was nothing but the glow of the road lights and the moon.

          “Dean?” you ask. It’s been two hours since you departed from the McDonalds and the three of you had yet to find any place to crash for the night. The roads were empty. You couldn’t even find any stops for gas in the last couple of miles. You were beginning to wonder if you’d end up spending the night in the Impala.

          “Hm,” Dean replies, as he glances at you reflection in the rear view mirror.

          “Sam.“

          “Yeah.”

          You take a deep breath, “I’m sorry.”

          “Y/N,” the two chorus, both sounding very tired. “Don’t be.”

          “I just…” you start, “I’m sorry, we were having such a good night and I ruined it bein’ all weird with my sensory stuff.”

          “You didn’t ruin it,” says Dean.

          “I just wish we’d known sooner,” Sam adds, “I just keep thinking of all the situations we’d put you in where you must’ve felt weird…” He trails off and the three of you fall into silence.

          “You’re right you know,” you say after a few exit signs have passed, “It’s because of my dad.”

          A year ago the Winchester boys had come into your life and changed it for the better. You’d been a college dropout, nineteen years old with nowhere to go but home. Your father was wealthy in assets, poor in affection. He was bad to you. Treated you like an object he’d have dressed up for occasions or appearances, but ignored and starved for attention anytime else. Whenever he touched you it was because he wanted something. A hug meant he needed you to pay off his debts, a goodnight kiss on the cheek a promise that’d he’d use you as collateral in the coming weeks.

          Despite his money, his favorite thing to bet was you. Whether it be your body, your mind, or your companionship. He gladly offered it anyone who’d take you. You were an object to him. Something that he owned. His affection meant he wanted something in return.

          College had been a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty and regret. Finally you were free from his clutches and there was nothing he could do or say save hoping you’d flunk out. But scholarships can only take you so far and it was hard to handle the workload. Three months in and you were done. Depression. Anxiety. Fear of failure. Why try?

          Instead of returning to your father with your tail between your legs, you decided to take your own life. There was a bridge near campus that led across the water to a small island owned by some wealthy folks in the area. The bridge was high, the weather cool and the water freezing. You thought it’d be a quick and relatively painless way to die and you almost had too…

          Apparently the “wealthy folks in the area” were making their money off some kind of strange paranormal game complete with spirits and the occult and you never got the whole story from the boys but apparently it was a clusterfuck. Anyway, one of these wealthy folks had been possessed that night and running across the bridge followed closely by a very tried, very worn out Sam who just happened to see you standing on the ledge deliberating your choices.

          It was dark out and thinking you were the person he was after, he tackled you to the ground. You remember fighting him, throwing punches and kicks (a few of which had landed but not done much), but finally stopping when he grabbed your fists and got a good look at you in the moonlight.

          “Huh,” he’d said, “You don’t look like someone whose been possessed by a thousand year old ghost.”

          And you were so stressed and so confused that you’d started laughing until you were crying. And Sam had stayed there holding your wrists while you sobbed into his neck well into the night and long after Dean had handled set the bones of the possessed old folk ablaze.

          You’d refused to leave Sam’s side and begged the boys to take you with them. When questioned why you’d want to go with complete strangers you told them your story (leaving out some details) and the two had relented figuring that taking you on one hunt would scare you off for good…but it’d hadn’t.

          “You guys know I’m thankful for you, right? And for everything you’ve done for me?”

          “Aw, Y/N, you’re making me blush,” says Dean. He doesn’t turn back to look at you when he says it and instead continues focusing forward but you can see the corner of lips lift up in a teasing smile.

          You snort, “Dean.”

          Sam reaches back and takes one of your hand in his and squeezes. You quickly recoil, “I’m sorry I made dinner weird.”

          “Y/N,” say Sam, stern brown eyes catching your attention, “Everything we do is weird.”

          “Hell,” adds Dean, “You’ve only been around for a year. Trust me. It’s gonna get weirder.”

          A small laugh escapes your throat which is scratchy and dry. You feel a small stream of tears roll down your cheek. A warm feeling sits in your belly. You want to jump the seat and wrap your arms around the boys, but you keep this want at bay.

          “Y/N?” asks Sam, his tone worried as he watches tear after tear roll down your face. Noticing Sam’s change in tone, Dean pulls Baby over to the shoulder and turns off the ignition. Baby shutters to a stop and you’re left in the Impala with both the Winchester’s eyes on you.

          “I have a thing with touch,” you start softly. “I-I think it’s because whenever I was shown affection it was because somebody wanted something so…I dunno…affection feels weird…fake?”

          Sam nods, “Like there’s no point. It doesn’t feel real, it feels like somebody is playing you?”

          “Basically.”

          “Sorry Y/N,” says Dean and you’re quick to put your free hand to his cheek.

          “Dean,” you say, “Don’t be. You didn’t know…” You trail off, choosing your next words carefully, “I know I’ve been kind of vague about what my father was like. I told you it was bad, but never really gave specifics…”

          The two nod in confirmation.

          You continue, “But he was never honest with me. Everything felt like a trick and I was scared…” You pull your hand away from Dean and remark, “I feel safest when I’m with you two. But even now…” The steady stream of tears has grown heavier now and you can feel snot building up in your nose. “…I’m still afraid of contact. And that’s unfair to you two because you trust me and I love you two and…”

          Sam turns away from you and steps out of Baby, moving the seat back. Then he’s next to you, his big, bulky shoulders digging into you as he squeezes in the back. He motions to your hands which now sit clasped in your lap.

          “Do you want to be touched?” he asks and you nod without thinking.

          “I’m tired of being afraid,” you say.

          Sam holds out a hand to you and you tentatively place your hand in his. He squeezes and you squeeze back.

          “That’s not so bad,” you say.

          Dean chuckles as he watches you two, “Well now I feel left out.” He exits the front seat and pulls open the backdoor on your other side.

          “Dean,” warns Sam as the elder Winchester gently shoves you toward Sam. “Touch. We’re starting slow.”

          “It’s alright,” you whisper softly, “It’s nice.”

          Dean squeezes in next to you, turning the backseat into a sandwich with you as the center. The boys are warm and comforting. There’s a feeling of rising anxiety in your belly but you force it back down.

          “We love you Y/N,” Sam says softly.

          “Really?”

          “Of course,” replies Dean. “And you know I don’t say that easily.” Sam chuckles at that.

          You nibble your lip and lean closer into Sam. Finally, you bite the bullet and wrap your arms around his neck. He gives a soft “oh!” as you bury you face into his neck, but he doesn’t push you away. You fee his strong, tanned arms wrap around your waist and you’re quick to wiggle away and turn on Dean instead. You repeat your hug, but quickly pull away before they can respond. You worry you’ve hurt their feelings but a swift glance at each of their faces reveals nothing of the sort.

          In fact, when you pull away from Dean, he’s beaming.

          “How do you feel?”

You huddled inside your grimy flannel shirt, grateful for the sliver of warmth it provided. You’d acquired it when a particularly righteous Christian mother had given it to you rather than sell it in a yard sale or give it to GoodWill. Of course she probably bought herself a brand new coat from Burlington to celebrate her good deed, leaving you thankful but freezing nonetheless. 

You’d been homeless for about three and a half years now, and were used to the looks people gave you when they handed you something. Their intentions were usually good but hidden by pity and disgust, their skin crawling for every moment they talked to you. So you were used to the second glances people gave you, or the way their eyes skipped over you completely.

You made your way out of the park and into the rush of the city, hoping to find somewhere to get at least a free bottle of water or some leftovers from some of the shops downtown. It was getting closer to winter and you were already freezing, having barely any body fat to keep you warm. You felt the judgmental, pity-filled glances thrown your way and bowed your head, your hair ruffled by the wind.

“Oh excuse me miss, I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” A man bumped into you, his trench coat flying about in the wind. “Are you okay?” He asked and you were shocked to see concern in his eyes.

Most people ignored you or yelled if you bumped into them but he was checking to make sure you were alright, and looking like he meant it. You nodded. “I’m fine,” you said and he nodded seriously.

“Well, take care.” He said in his gravelly voice and smiled at you, and kept walking. As you watched him go you noticed he’d dropped something when he’d run into you; his wallet. 

Now, you knew how to pickpocket, in fact you were pretty damn good at it. But in this rare instance you running into him was a complete accident. Had he dropped the wallet on purpose to see if you’d take it? Did he really not notice it was gone? You picked it up and peeked inside. No driver’s license, no credit card, only a few hundred dollars in twenties and a picture of him with a woman and young girl–presumably his wife and daughter. Why would he keep that in his wallet but no driver’s license? 

You hesitated. If he had really dropped it on accident then it would be a while before he realized it was gone, and you’d be long gone by then. Even if he gave your description to the cops there were so many places you could be and one stolen wallet would hardly turn a cops head. You could take it and finally eat, buy a coat or pair of shoes, rent a room for a night maybe. The possibilities were tantalizing.

But something stopped you. This man had been kind to you, had asked if you were alright, looked you in the eyes–which no one had done in God knows how long. This man had something so inherently good about him, and you hadn’t seen that in anyone before. It was like there was literally a light coming off of him, pulling you in. He hadn’t looked at you like a homeless girl or a tramp, but as a person; a human being. And that right there made your mind up for you.

“Hey!” You called, running to catch up with him. “Sir wait! You dropped something!” He turned as you got to him and you held out the wallet. “I think this is yours.” You said breathlessly and he crinkled his eyes, taking it from you.

“Oh yes,” he mused. “Why you all insist on carrying these around baffles me, but Dean assures me it’s normal.”

You didn’t understand what he was saying but nodded anyway. “Well uh, there you go anyway.“ 

As you made to turn around he grabbed your shoulder and spun you around. “Wait,” he said and you wondered if he knew his voice was that deep, and seemed to draw the attention of everyone within earshot. “Here,” he opened the wallet and handed you three twenty dollar bills. “For food. I understand humans need quite a lot of it and you look as though you’ve skipped a few meals.”

He was speaking in riddles again but you didn’t care. All you cared about was the money in your hand and the kindness of this stranger. 

“Um, thanks uh…” You paused and he said nothing. “Usually when someone pauses like that they’re waiting for you to say your name.”

He nodded seriously. “I am Castiel.”

“Well thanks, Castiel.” You said and after a moment of penetrating stare he nodded and turned, leaving you standing there in shock. 

With the money he’d given you you bought a man’s army coat from an army surplus shop, a used pair of chuck Taylor’s that at least didn’t have holes in the sole, and a sandwich and water bottle from the local deli. You put the rest of the cash in your pocket and walked around the park, trying to find somewhere to sleep that the cops wouldn’t kick you out of.

As you wandered around you felt someone following you and turned, seeing a man in his thirties dressed in a cheap suit and large coat, obviously having just gotten off work.

“Hey darlin,” he called and you rolled your eyes. “Going my way?”

“Nope,” you spat and continued on your way.

“Okay well how much would it take to make you say yes?” He asked, catching up with you and taking hold of your arm.

“Not anything you have, mate.” You hissed but he held tight.

“C'mon babe I know you could use the money. I’ll be in and out, no muss, no fuss.” He slurred and you shoved his arm.

“I don’t need it that bad.” You hissed, making to walk away but he grabbed you, whipping you around forcefully. 

“Hey!” He growled. “I don’t take no for an answer." 

"Learn to.” You hissed.

You saw the look in his eyes and knew you had seconds. So you kneed him in the stomach and took off running. Unfortunately you hadn’t eaten more than a sandwich in a few days so you were slow. He caught up with you quickly and grabbed the back of your jacket. He pulled you so your back was against his chest and you felt the blade of a knife press against your side.

“You can make this easy or hard,” he hissed. “But I’m not paying, not now."

"Hey!” You heard a gruff voice yell. “Let her go!” Your captor turned and you took your chance.

You stomped on his foot hard and he loosened his grip, making it easy for you to slip out of the jacket sleeves and take off running. His knife grazed your side as you took off but you kept running. You heard him chasing after you, but you knew this park well and slipped underneath a few bushes where the sewer lines ran. You were small enough–what with being malnourished–that you could fit between the grate easily. You heard him calling but eventually he seemed to realize the chase wasn’t worth it and he stomped off. 

You sat in the filth, catching your breath and waited. You heard another set of footsteps come and go but then it was silent. You huddled and reveled in the fact that not only had you lost your new jacket but also the rest of the money and the water bottle. Your side hurt and you felt the blood loss starting to affect you. After about ten minutes you crawled out and dusted yourself off, making your way towards the local dive, shivering without your jacket.

The bar wasn’t extravagant or well known but you knew the bartender and he always treated you kindly. He’d even offered to get you a job but the owner said under no circumstances would he allow someone like you to work in his establishment. Not that he was ever there but you didn’t want Colten to lose his job because of you.

The bell rang over the door as you entered and you noted the lack of patrons, which wasn’t unusual. There was old Flint Hurley who came in twice a week, a few tourists who were obviously in the wrong place, a heavily made up woman and her businessman “friend” and a pair of attractive men in cheap suits near the back.

Colten greeted you as you came in and slid a beer down your way. You thanked him and held your side, feeling the hot sticky blood seep through your clothes.

“I’m gonna need something stronger than this.” You whispered and his eyes got wide.

“Shit.” He hissed and called for the ______ to take over while he helped you into the back room.

As he got out a needle and dental floss–which he kept on hand when you’d come in with lacerations more than a few times–you opened a bottle of whiskey and took a hearty swig.

“Hey watch it,” he warned. “I’ve got patrons I need to serve that to.”

You huffed a laugh, ignoring the pain. “Oh I’m sorry is there another bar you’re running? Because far as I can see I’m the only one who actually gives a damn about this shithole."

He smiled and lifted up your shirt. "Well that might be true but without this shithole who would take you?”

He’d meant it as a joke but his words hit home and your grin fell. He noticed and immediately looked down.

“Sorry Y/N,” he said quietly. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrugged and motioned to your side. “How’s it look?”

“It’ll only need a few stitches, you should be fine. What happened this time?”

“Some asshole didn’t know the meaning of no.” You winced as he poured some whiskey over the wound and began sewing it up. 

“You’ve gotta be careful, Y/N.” He said seriously. “I mean what if something worse happens? I care about you but I’m not always gonna be here to patch you up.”

“I know, Colt.” You murmured and decided to change the subject. “How is Sylvia?”

A smile lit his face at the mention of his wife. “She’s good. Eight months along and still going strong.” He paused. “We started marriage counseling a few months ago." 

"Colt that’s great! Does that mean she knows–?”

He shook his head. “I told her nothing happened.”

“Good because nothing did. We got drunk, I told you my pathetic life story. You felt bad for me and kissed me, you stopped it. That’s it."

Colt shrugged, looking awkward. "I still feel guilty.”

“Don’t,” you assured him. “Sylvia is amazing, and you’ve got a baby on the way. Don’t let some tramp ruin that.”

He looked up at you, smiling sadly as he finished the stitches. “You’re not a tramp.”

“Tramp, whore, bum, addict. They’re all the same, take your pick. Long story short I’m a homeless mess." 

Colt patted you on the shoulder and looked like he wanted to say something else so you quickly pulled your shirt down and hopped off the table.

"Thanks for patching me up.” You told him. “I hope everything goes well with Sylvia." 

"I’ll keep you posted,” Colt said and gave you a hug, handing you a water bottle and some weird pasty thing that would at least keep you from starving. “Stay safe.”

You nodded and made your way out of the back room, waving to Colt before leaving the bar. The wind had picked up and now that the sun was down it had dropped almost ten degrees. You huddled in your flannel and walked around the park, trying to find a place to sleep. Just as you passed the bench you’d been kicked off of that morning you noticed a lump sitting on it. Upon closer inspection you recognized your old army coat. Hesitantly you approached, wondering if the pervert from before was playing some game with you, but there was no one in sight. Instead there was a piece of paper pinned to the coat and in very elegant handwriting was a note, with four twenties attached.

You went on a hunt with Sam and Dean. It was simple, a ghost in someone’s house. But when you got there, it turned out it wasn’t any old ghost, it was a nasty demon. Everything had gone wrong. So so wrong. And it was your fault. You got distracted, and someone innocent had died because of it. The brothers were hurt. Dean had nearly broken his shoulder and a couple ribs. Sam got shot in the leg and has a dislocated elbow.

You barely had a scratch.

The car ride home from the hospital was unbearable. You could barely hold in the sobs. Sam and Dean told you numerous times it wasn’t your fault, it’s all part of the life. But you wouldn’t listen, you couldn’t. If you were just a few seconds quicker, just a little more attentive, you could’ve saved that poor girl’s life. But she had to suffer, because you were too slow.

You should be dead. Not her.

When you got back to the bunker you immediately ran to your room, not bothering to hold in your cries. it didn’t matter if they heard you, you’d be done soon, and it would be over.

You got to your room and slammed the door, locking it behind you. You could hear the brothers calling your name. But you didn’t care. You sank to the floor, letting the tears flow. You couldn’t handle it. You heard Sam and Dean approaching your room, so you ran into your bathroom and locked he door. By this point, you had no more tears to shed, all that as left was the dry, choking sobs.

Taped behind the toilet was a small envelope, it was where you kept your razors. It was the best place you could hide them so the brothers couldn’t find out. You grabbed the envelope and took out the sharpest razor. Marveling at how shiny and cold it felt. You heard the brothers break into your room, calling your name. You were running out of the time.

You had already thrown on some shorts, so with one deep breath, you made one long horizontal cut on your thigh. That was just the beginning. You kept cutting, and the tears started again. Soon you were full on sobbing, not paying attention to were you were cutting. If it wasn’t red, you cut it. Soon you felt dizzy, and noticed you had stopped crying, stopped cutting, and you were laying on the floor. 

Then you heard a crash.

“NO!!”

[Dean’s P.O.V.]

No, no,no, no, no. 

You’re lying on the floor, in a pool of your own blood. You’re barely conscious.

He picked you up and felt for a heartbeat, anything. After a few seconds he could feel it barely working.

“Oh god, (Y/N), hold on. Sam, get the car ready.”

Why her. Why did it have to be her.

“Come on (Y/N), come back to me, hold on.”

He grabbed some towels, trying to stop the blood as much as he could. He could see all of the old cuts. The ones that had healed, leaving nothing but scars now, the ones that had mostly healed but were still red and scabbed. Then there were the ones from the night before--now reopened from the aggressive cuts made tonight.

“Shit, (Y/N),” Dean muttered.

He picked you up, trying his best not to disturb anything, and carried you as quickly and carefully as he could with his shoulder injured how it was.

“It’s OK (Y/N), it’s all gonna be OK. Please don’t leave me. Just hold on.”

When you finally arrived at the hospital, Dean almost couldn’t let go of you, screaming as they took you away on a table. He paced back and forth the while they were operating. They had taken you into surgery. Sam was almost silent. Dean didn’t know if he was trying to be strong, or if he was so broken he couldn’t do anything.

The doctor finally let them visit you. When they saw you, Sam finally started crying, Dean was sobbing. You looked so broken and frail. The heart monitor beeped slowly, barely steady.

Dean didn’t sleep that night, all he could think about was why you would do this. You must not have realized how much you meant to the brothers. He felt guilty, he should’ve been there to help you. 

“Please….(Y/N)….don’t go. I just want to take you home. Come back, I need you.” 

Out of no where, your body seized, and the heart monitor started beeping rapidly.

“NURSE!!”

There was nothing he could do. You were dying.

“NURSES!! HURRY!!”

Sam was awake now. He ran off to find someone.

When he came back moments later, a group of about a dozen doctors and nurses followed him. They had the boys stand by the door while the doctors tried anything to save you. 

“(Y/N)!” Dean choked out. He couldn’t bear to watch this, but he did anyway. Just in case you would miraculously wake up, and everything would be OK.

The heart monitor was going even faster now. 

Then it stopped.

A flat line.

Dean broke down. He fell to his knees. 

He  would never get to hear you laugh at one of Sam’s dumb nerd jokes. 

He would never get to hear you sing some old rock song while driving in the Impala. 

He would never walk into the kitchen and see you dancing and singing while making breakfast for everybody.

He would never see you freaking out at some dog on the street or some picture of a guinea pig Cas had shown you.

He would never get to see you again. 

He would never get to enjoy the things he loved about you.

He would never get to tell you how much he had loved you.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Dean looked up, amazed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You were alive. The doctors started yelling again, he and Sam stood up, jaws dropped, awe in there eyes.

You had decided to fight. 

“JUST GET OUT, WINCHESTER!” You yell at him, your breathing heavy. He wasn’t supposed to see. He wasn’t supposed to know. All he was supposed to know was the happy Y/N he fell in love with, but hey, now he’s found out that you’re a freak who cuts herself to cope with the weight of the world on her shoulders, fun!

You hear his footsteps receding, and you let out the sob that’s been aching your throat. He’s gone. He’s gone and it’s all your fault.

You squeeze the blade in your hand tighter, not caring about the blood dripping from your palm.

You attempt to quiet your sobs as you hear him coming back. He sits down beside you, placing a first aid kit on the ground and taking your wrist with his fingers gently, like you were a piece of glass and you would break if he even put the slightest bit of pressure on you.

“Y/N you gotta give me the knife baby, come on,” Dean kisses your forehead, moving some of your hair out of your face. “Please?”

Reluctantly, you let the sharpener blade fall to the ground. Dean pockets it almost immediately; he doesn’t need you grabbing it again out of the blue.

He’s careful while he cleans and dresses your wounds, before helping you out of your blood-stained clothes and leading you to bed. He’ll ask Sam to help him clean the bathroom later.

When you’re both laying down in bed, he keeps his hand around your waist loosely.

“You gotta try and stop doing that sweetheart. If you do something wrong then…” he clears his throat as he trails off. “I can’t lose you, alright? And I can’t have you cutting yourself up like that either. You think you can try and stop for me.”

You laugh dryly. “That’s easier said than done, Dean.”

He kisses your cheek. “I know. But it can’t hurt to try, right?”

“I love you.”