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You are the Blood in My Veins

Chapter Text

You're in the Impala, high tailing it through the city, night-lit seats with Sam bleeding out on your jeans.

Hunt gone wrong, your fault and you can't even fix the damage; trying to patch Sam up with fabric torn from his stained, wet shirt. Dean's swearing, blazing through every red light to get back and sort out the mess you made.

It was all your stupid idea, you wanted to prove yourself so they let you plan this one. Act as vampire bait, lure out the nest. Never mind how many times Sam told you someone would get hurt or Dean scoffing that it would never work, you knew better. Much fucking better then two experienced hunters.

Seeing what happened and thinking about why it did causes stinging tears, fiercely blinking at the roof of the Impala does nothing so when you get to The Heavenly Motel with Sam swigging whiskey and biting his words with Dean's stitch work you slip away from the devastating yet familiar scene.

As the bathroom door closes you reach for your phone, pulling the blade out from behind the black phone case. When the harsh unforgiving artificial light hits the metal it reflects onto the mirror and into your eyes. You stare at your reflection, hating everything you see.

Another breath of pain from Sam in the adjoining room and you're dragging it across your skin, seeing the jagged red line before you feel it. Along your upper arm are similar lines, paling with time yet ugly red with recentness.

Sam, screaming in agony as he fell, the vampire laughing and leering at the blood and the pain from tearing open his shirt and ripping through his skin. You're tied up, still with the plan and paying for the inability to move. Dean, snarling at the creatures and fighting his way through an army to reach salvation. Miles away, yelling for vengeance and hellfire and you in the middle of it all, frozen.

Before you're fully conscious of it, there's a steady trickle of blood on your arm but it's nowhere near the ocean that came from Sam. It gathers on the inside of your arm and runs down in a straight line, you're twirling it back and forth in a sick dance, the blood acting as your performers. Another numb sting of pain and more dancers to follow your lead.

The pressure is starting to make your head feel light, you stop and press tissue on the wounds to stop the bleeding before you bleed out everywhere. Blood, falling onto the floor surrounding you with it's romanticised essence, you surrounded in the river of red slipping into unconsciousness. Complete. Silence at last.

Cleaning to stop infection and applying a bandage makes your ritual complete. If they notice the safety precaution you can say you got hit on the hunt. Happens all the time. Suddenly you're paranoid you've been in there too long so you surrender getting clean and leave the room with your arm safely under your long sleeved sweatshirt.

Making sure everything is spotless you open the door and walk straight into Dean who pulls you one armed into a hug. He doesn't notice when you wince at the contact on your arm and presses his lips to your forehead, smiling that reassuring smile that he seems to give a lot lately. It seems like fragile is written above your head in neon lights.

"Sam's okay, only a graze considering what could have happened." He smiles again, warm and fake and you want to scream at him to see you, see the real you that doesn't want to be treated like a new born puppy.

You see Sam lying in bed, Dean's dirt encrusted clothes in the forefront of your sight. He's playing with the frays at the end of shirt when you look back, eyes down.

"You going to bed?" You ask him, sensing the discomfort as pure tiredness.

"Screw consciousness, that's what I say." He murmurs, blinking slowly.

"Lethargy is in the job description" You're aiming for a joke but it comes off on edge. Like he might sense what you'd been doing before walking into him. Just by being in the same room, he might know.

"Yeah. I'm gonna hit the hay in a minute, you with me. Capiche?" You nod and fake a smile that seems so foreign in concept but familiar in context. He seems satisfied, closes the door and you hear the water run.

Almost a year ago the brothers saved your life. Seeing Dean for the first time made you crave human connection and want it with him.

In the beginning it was torturous, working with him and wanting him at the same time. Worrying yourself sick that he might get hurt and watching over him in fights. Turns out the feeling was mutual and after all the innocent flirting, you got your shit together.

In the beginning, it was incredible. High voltage every time you touched, electricity running through your veins when he looked at you. Just being around him gave you a high like he was your own form of heroin.

But now you just think about all the time he could have saved by going out with people better then you. You're expendable, he needs someone extraordinary. Considering all he's suffered, he needs someone who will cure the sadness instead of expand it.

Climbing into bed you stare at Sam's back, picturing a world where Dean had never wanted you back. A utopia compared to reality.

Sam's breathing is even, a sign he's in a deep sleep. It seems impossible when he was in so much pain.

"I'm sorry Sammy" You whisper and pull the covers over your head, the bandage on your arm itching because it wasn't deep enough, doesn't take away what happened.

When you hear the door open and the light floods in from the make shift square, you turn to watch Dean, watch the light illuminate the outline of his figure and the soft gold of his hair. It flicks off and he slides in to face you, pulls you toward him and plays with your hair.

"Everything's okay" He whispers, his perfect voice filling your tarnished ears. His perfect eyes watching your unworthy mouth and his perfect scent, all you can breath.

"C'mon" He whispers again, moves you so you're facing Sam again. "He's fine. Sleep" It should freak you out that he always knows exactly what you're thinking but you're so fucking transparent it's a surprise he doesn't know about your dirty little secret.

But, Sam's not fine. If fine means what it means to you then he's rapidly dying on the inside and his hope is fading. It means death and destruction.

Dean pulls you against him, kisses your throat slowly a few times. He settles into the process of slow breathing against the back of your neck, you feel the warmth but it doesn't relax you like it used to. When you'd get back from hunts and this position, his breathing, calmed you.

Until it turns even and you're the only one awake.

Chapter Text

Bobby's house looks dilapidated as ever when you pull up in the Impala. Behind the gate is the auto repair site that Dean is itching to get his hands on but he promises tomorrow. Not today.

It's been a few days after the incident where you nearly killed Sam- a fitting nickname created by the monster in your head. Sam wanted to read some new lore books that came in, still recovering. Dean wanted to get working on the fresh scratches on baby that come with the territory and you just wanted to feel.

Thinking maybe being a Bobby's will fix you. Change your perspective or something. You're getting desperate.

Dean takes your hand and carries the duffel in the other, climbing the stairs to the door Sam pushes open. Bobby greets you with a grunt and then returns to flicking through the book on his desk in front of him.

Sam wastes no time by dropping into a chair, book already between his hands looking like the 'poster boy for nerds everywhere'. Or so Dean says.

Bobby hands him a slightly warm beer and the silence grows thick with the hum of words being taken in and explored.

Dean smirks and takes off upstairs, pulling your hand along with him. It'd be rude if any of you had social manners. It's just expected.

When you get into the room that is unofficially yours and Deans, he throws the bags in the corner and grins.

"I almost forgot what a real bed looked like" He sighs, looking at the made for comfort not cheapness bed with envy. "And no Sam" It was rare, a twisted sort of special celebration.

Dean saunters over to you, heat in his eyes that blow his pupils wide. He reaches around you and gropes your ass. You giggle, pushing his firm chest so you fall onto the bed and suddenly he's hovering over you. But he's not laughing, he growls and attacks your lips and you open up to him. Running your tongue against his and moaning because it feels good but you need more. Maybe this can cure you.

His hands find the bottom of your shirt and he pulls upwards, revealing a lacy bra made for this occasion. As he slides off your jeans he stops, eyes dark as he notices your underwear is a matching set.

"Fuck, you drive me crazy" Dean groans, looks down at you, you with lips bruised and hair wild looking back at him. Angular and perfect and yours. Undeserving and unworthing but yours.

"Fuck me already" You smirk and pull him down by his amulet, holding him an inch away from your mouth panting with desperation. You feel his breath on you and it drives you insane.

Green eyes search yours and finding no objection, he kisses you softly. Slower then before to drag out the minutes into hours. Usually you feel like you could kiss him for hours, longing to taste him. But you just want to feel the pain, want to feel him want you even if it's just to use you.

Dean's hands find your wrists and he moves them above your head, back lowering as he strokes the thinner skin and deepens the kiss. The same bandage is still covering your arm and his hands slide over it tenderly and they move back to your face. All that matters is he thinks it's from the hunt.

You use the freedom to remove his shirt and jeans until you're both in your underwear, the friction of skin contact not yet enough.

Dean has a gunshot scar on his shoulder and a knife wound on his ankle. Sam has scars from your ignorance and from trying to show Dean he can do this. You all have scars.

You bruise his neck with volatile kisses and he bruises your hips with violent touches. He swallows your moans and craves your begging. You mark his shoulder with passionate biting and he marks your every inch of skin with his mouth.

Possession taking over.

Nothing matters when you finally get your release, feel the house fall down around you and Dean grinning like a maniac at his territorial imprinting.

He's more attractive when signs of destruction cover his body. More captivating and appealing because his outside represents your inside. That you're in love with the mess.

You don't bother leaving the room, you sleep together and ache together from the days spent missing each other even though you were together.

Daybreak filters through the curtains, hits your eyes, and you turn to him; the boyish charm and fluffy hair. When he's sleeping every worry and line of agitation disappears, innocence and naivety remain.

You wonder if the blood pouring from the tears in your skin would make him flinch. Desperately you wish he would notice, he would remove the bandage and see that you aren't fine. That he would demand you talk to him and you would and suddenly everything would be back to normal.

If only it were that easy.

Carefully, you kiss his jaw and remove the covers so he's exposed to the cold air. You move to straddle his waist and watch as his eyes begrudgingly open and flicker to look you up and down before a smile escapes. You try to catch it but it slips through your fingers like silk.

From yesterday the bruises littering your bodies have darkened and you trace each one of his with your hand. But does it feel real or are you looking through someone else's eyes? Is this the present or are you a memory.

You shower together, Dean pressed against your back mouthing promises and obscenities into your neck.

He throws on old clothes, torn jeans, and heads outside to work on the Impala. Sitting in the middle of the unmade bed, the room thick with the smell of sex, you look around with muted emotion. His clothes surrounding you, his old ones becoming yours.

On the floor is the black shirt he wore yesterday and you lift it to your nose. Musk. Old smoke and wood and car oil. Faintly, under it all, you smell sweat. It smells real.

Instead of keeping the towel wrapped around you, you discard it and pull the shirt on. If you try your hardest you could become him.

Somehow you're tired. Exhausted. You curl up on his side of the bed and breathe him in deeply, trying to feel him. Even when he's under your fingers it's like he isn't there. Or you aren't.

Your wet hair soaks through his clothes and the pillow but you refuse to move, lying in a ball.

When you wake up, 4 hours have passed. Dean is shaking your shoulder, stroking your hair and smirking when you open your eyes.

"What?" You ask, pushing your nose further into his pillow.

"Lunchtime sleepyhead. Yesterday really did a number on you.." You groan, reaching for his shoulders and pull him into a hug. He's warm. You feel his warmth, his life, soak into your emptiness. Compared to you he seems so alive.

Dean pulls your legs so they wrap around his waist and stands up, letting you go so you're standing without support. Seeing your lack of underwear makes him roll his lips into his mouth and he finds some clothes for you to wear.

"Are you okay?" He queries as you get dressed slowly like a lagging computer.

"Never been better" You sarcastically smile, begging him to see you're different. Part of you blames him for not knowing what's wrong with you but how is he supposed to when you won't let anyone in?

Later you're researching with Bobby and Sam on one of Bobby's 'clients' cases. Dean's out getting dinner, high cholesterol and grease on the menu. Taking off in baby with a smirk and a wink and with tired eyes you'd responded, wondering when you can go back to bed. Feel the comfort in darkness swallow you whole.

It didn't take long before your mind started wondering. On the pages, the words stopped making sense and you reread the same line repetitively until you gave up and stared at floor in the corner of the room.

It crept up on you like this. Sometimes your usual nothingness gets filled with these morbid silences that to you, seem to influence everyone in the room. And they'd be so much better without you. Sam makes a stupid joke and you feel tears spring to your eyes because you can't laugh at it so you pretend you're too into the book.

They would be so much happier without you. Free to laugh and smile and sing and dance.

Bobby glances at you from beneath his trucker cap and you sense his eyes on you, warming your face and turning you on edge. If you look up, you'll have to smile and that's like climbing Everest so you force yourself not to.

Later still and you're resting against the double you and Dean share. Blade playing between your fingers, flicking it across the bone and turning it to test the light.
Since earlier you haven't been able to shake the feeling that you need to do this to become normal. It's breathable this way.

You drag the razor across your skin, smiling at the slight sting. Relief in the form of pain. You create another cut and another and now one section of your arm is torn to shreds with faint lines. Can't have them so deep they scar.

Faintly you hear Sam coming up the stairs, stilted pounding on the stairs one of reading and walking. Panic erupts through your spine and you hesitate, crawl into the corner and wait, hoping he will go away. This is what it's reduced you to. Pathetic, a scared animal afraid to be discovered.

Blood dries quickly when you add pressure of your hand but now you're soaking wet, red and sticky. Sam thuds back down and you have to get to the sink to get rid of the evidence. You're Lady Macbeth with the blood of your enemies staining your hands red. But you are your enemy.

Without being fully conscious, you go through the motions. Wash, disinfect, bandage, new clothes. Don't look in the mirror, don't face what you've become.

Outside you breathe in the fresh air, fill your lungs with natures purity. Visualise flowers wrapping around your heart, your insides blossoming with fresh life.

Dust has created a layer over the window you watch Dean through, dried spray paint and spots of dirt behind the cobwebs. Dean stands there, back to you and head bowed looking through different tapes. When he finally turns around you see the peace on his face that fixing baby gives him, the dusk has created a haze that surrounds him and the Impala.

"Hey" He's wearing navy overalls, hair standing on ends with sweat and frustration. His eyebrows are flecked with paint and his mouth is moist with the coating of beer.

Your smile comes naturally, you can appreciate his beauty and his passion and his life so you sit on the stool by the trunk as he walks around baby. He's watching you and searching your eyes but whatever he's looking for he finds and a grin spreads across his face. Bending down, he gives you a kiss and the smell of motor oil and metal reminds you of his shirt which makes you heady.

Sitting in the early twilight feeling content you think maybe the last time you hurt yourself will be the last time.

Chapter Text

Another job, a simple salt and burn with you resting against a tree holding an iron crowbar waiting. It should be easy. Done it a million times.

The boys are cracking the grave open, crowbars thrown onto the grass as they jump out to torch it. As soon as Sam starts pouring the liquid down, the spirit appears. Running forward you slam the bar into it, satisfied when it disappears in a whirl of smoke.

Dean reaches for the matches with dirt in his hair and determination on his face. It appears again, next to Dean and you try to hit it but you miss and it's too late. He's on the floor across the graveyard with the spirits knife carving its soul into his arm.

You wince at his curse, reaching for your own lighter and throwing it in, hoping with every fibre of your being that Sam threw in enough for the flames to catch on.

Slowly and then all at once the bones turn to charcoal and it's all over. But it's not over because you weren't fast enough to stop the rest of his arm being torn open and a line of blood trickles down from his neck and out of the cuff of his green cargo jacket. Stained.

Hastily you rip your shirt to shreds, tying a knot around the open neck wound and trying to add pressure to stop it bleeding but it doesn't stop bleeding and you're unsure as to whether it will. If you'll be able to fix the damage you've done this time.

Sam carries his weight on his shoulder while the three of you stumbling to the car, suppressing tears that threaten to expose themselves. Dean rests his head on your lap, the rest of him sprawled across the back of the Impala. It's too small to contain the two of you, the explosive force of reality.

You don't remember the car being this small when he was fucking you into oblivion. You hate yourself for not being able to control your thoughts.

All the while you keep a firm hold on his arm, whispering into his ear that you're sorry, you're so, so sorry and you blame yourself. This is on you, you need to make it better because he needs to have it better.

Finally you make it to the base, using dirty rags wet with tap water and cheap alcohol to numb the pain. Sam forces you out of the room, tells you he can do it and you need to calm down. Because you don't need to see this. See what you've done to him.

You pace the front of the motel, back and forth six times before you punish yourself, under the glow of the closed curtains. This time it's different. Every line of red reminds you of the line on Dean's throat and how there's no way he can survive. You can't get the monsters out of your head, unable to do anything to relief the pain so you sit there with chicken scratches on your arm hating any concept of God that would let an innocent man suffer.

Soon you're curled up around Dean, shielding him and protecting him from the destruction. Holding him while trying to hold yourself together, whispering to him again while he's unconscious, it's your fault, it's all your fault and will he ever forgive you.

In the morning your eyes burn red from lack of sleep and you wake Dean by tenderly pressing your fingertips to his gauze, wincing from how it must hurt. You see how you could have been in his position and you wish you had been.

Sam's out for his morning jog, so sure that Dean is fit enough to be left alone with you-the walking grenade. Only a matter of time before you blow up and take everyone down with you. You're left alone with him and that's when the guilt starts to pour in.

"I'm so sorry Dean. I tried to stop it but I couldn't, I failed and I let you down. You're hurt because of me and it's so bad oh god it's bad I'm sorry" You press your face into his bare skin and try to calm yourself with his warmth. He can't see you like this, you need to pull yourself together for his sake. He deserves sympathy, not you.

"Hey" He croaks, tries to shift his hand to brush down your arm. "I'm okay babe, it's just a little sting. Another piece to add to the museum of battle scars" He tilts his head to kiss you softly, then rests against you.

"Didn't realise you knew what a museum was Winchester" You smirk, going with the humour defence mechanism again. As always.

"Watch it. I'm not so bedridden I can't kick your ass"

Sam wants Dean to rest up for a full day; make sure he's fully healed and to make sure he hasn't got blood poisoning. No one knows the anti bacterial protocol for spirits knives.

So he's searching for another hunt while you clean the weapons. Dean's lying down, restless.

After turning the television off and tossing the remote aside, he looks at you with a glint of mischief that's typical in boredom. You pause from wiping down the gun to glare at him, waiting.

"Wanna stroke my barrel after?" Dean winks at you and he's officially back to his uninjured self.

You raise your eyebrows and fight a smile, not answering for the sake of Sam. Who is shifting uncomfortably from behind the screen, trying not to look up but curious at his brothers boundaries. Or lack of.

"Afraid you won't be able to handle the heat I'm packing?" Dean says cockily, looking smug as all hell that he can make gun innuendos. You drop the Smith and Wesson onto the table with the rest of the weapons.

"Maybe it'll be too hard for you" His voice drops an octave, eyes going dark and he smiles seductively. The room suddenly feels hotter, you feel a thrill go through you. Dean knows dirty talk gets to you like this, even if it is cheesy.

"I so don't need to be here for this" Sam sighs, leaving with his laptop in hand probably for the free Wi-Fi café a block away. There's no time to feel bad for kicking him out of his own room because Dean's approaching you and the laugh dies on your lips.

When his hands connect with yours you feel that familiar spark. Not electric or explosive. Dangerous because it's full of compassion and power, it has the ability to send you to your knees.

Still holding his hand, you stand and tilt your head towards his for a slow lazy kiss. He pulls back to smile and you feel the ghost of his breath against your mouth which he hovers over, leans towards and pulls away teasingly. Which causes you to groan in frustration.

"Patience" Lustful eyes and breathing hard, saving this moment of peace and passion before euphoria.

He kisses you again and you can feel yourself get hotter, you can feel him against your thigh. Knowing he wants you like this almost makes hurting him worth it.

His hand trails down your back and you're reaching for his hair but you brush past his neck and you can feel his strain to control the wince that goes through him.

You're on the opposite side of the room, against the wall panting hard. Making an excuse about needing to discuss something urgent with Sam and you pretend you don't see the hurt in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Another state, another town. It's the same as before, you're worried that the only thing you're valuable for is wasting away because you can't see him in pain. For you it's like a reflection. But it doesn't get easier. They lied, it doesn't get easier at all.

Yet another week passes and the three of you are at a bar, needing to relieve stress, to take a break. All you've done is work because you need to make up for the hunts you've missed. Dean turned to the hard stuff a while ago and so you sit there awkwardly wanting so much but so afraid to ask for it. Or take it.

Sam's talking to a college graduate next to the snooker table when a girl saunters over. She's skinnier then you by at least two sizes and she's wearing a red lace push up bra underneath a see through shirt. She's fucking perfect.

He is too.

Red lipstick curves around the beer bottle and she takes a long drag, eyeing Dean up. You can almost feel the examiners watching you, as if this is a test and you haven't studied. Like Dean is trying to feed you the answers but you can't understand them because this girl seems to be it.

He's interested. Obviously. It's unnatural how unsurprised you are. Maybe it's the track record of one night hook ups or maybe it's the crippling insecurity because who were you kidding? You were never enough. You never will be.

There's the look on his face you naively thought was only for you. Staying celibate just wasn't in his DNA, you remind yourself like a mantra. It's not realistic. He needs this and not you. So you leave.

As soon as the cold air hits you, you're on the curb dry heaving, head between your legs. Sam appears, rubs your back and brushes your hair away.
For some reason it angers you that he's here. He isn't supposed to care, no one is.

It's over fast, you're staring at the floor embarrassed and ashamed.

"I'm sorry. I'm fine, go back inside" Sam shifts pulls his knees up to match your stance.

"You don't need to lie to me"

"I'm not. I'm fine, believe me" Believe me and maybe I will.

Sam shakes his head, looks at the same pavement that you're focused on.

"He won't do it"

You pretend you don't hear him, pretend you don't know what he's talking about and continue to stare. If you look at that one area hard enough this might suddenly be over and you'll be alone. But isn't that what you hate?

"Look at me" Sam says, louder. Slowly you turn to face him.

"He loves you. He just can't show it as easily" he's the one to look away now. "I think it's because I've taken a lot of it" Shakes his head again, looks at you and away at the trees surrounding the path to the road.

"You are all he needs. I've never been right for anyone and I need to just move on. He's too perfect for me to ruin" Fighting to keep the tears inside must be your talent.

"You can't leave, I can't be enough because he deserves happiness. We all do. He'd be empty without you, even if he won't admit it" Sam audibly exhales and kicks the pavement.

"You need to stop putting yourself down"

Right. Because it's as easy as that.

"Sam. Sometimes I just don't want to do this. It's not worth it"

"Hunting? Because we all get that" So stupid of you to think he'd understand.

"Nothing. Doesn't matter"

"See, you go and say things like that when it does matter. What is it?"

"It's not worth other peoples pain, thinking someone's going to come along and save me. They aren't. And I need him to not waste anything on me"

Before Sam can say anything you hear a scoff behind you and Dean's barging past, scowling. Neither of you heard him leave the bar unless it was immediately after Sam did which means he heard the entire conversation. It makes you want to die.

This pain erupts in your chest and you have to remind yourself to breathe. Sam sighs and stands, you follow him to the car and the ride back is filled with tension you're struggling to hold yourself together.

You can't even picture yourself sleeping, slipping out of the room to walk. More then anything you want to rip your arm to shreds, pull up instead of across because this solidifies everything you've been telling yourself. They would be so much better without you.

How will you ever fix yourself from this?

In the morning Sam leaves the room, finds you outside sleeping, your head using the sidewalk like a pillow. He wakes you, tells you Dean's in the shower and everything will sort itself out, don't worry, it's not serious, much worse has happened.

In your head you're laughing. It's all so fake and temporary.

He leaves, jogging off in the distance, looking back at you once before turning the corner. Wiping the dried tears, eyeliner and dirt from under your eyes you breath in and out quickly twice and enter the room, sniffing and trying desperately to compose yourself.

You're concentrating on falling apart; not anything more. Dean shuts the water off and opens the door, water sliding down his bare chest and onto the towel wrapped around his hips. You're staring at his beauty, his hair spiked up and his muscles tense in frustration. The quirk of his mouth and the growth in his pupils. How all of it should be enough and should be yours but it's not.

"We're leaving as soon as Sam gets back" His voice is wrecked, lifeless and empty. This is what you've done to him, sliced him open and taking everything he ever had. Dean pulls his boxers on, unashamed, and reaches for a damp shirt that's days overdue cleaning.

"I..." You trail off, searching for the right words to make everything right. You're so goddamn tired. "I understand. You guys will be better off without me" You nod repetitively to yourself, finally letting the tear slide down your face and start shoving clothes into your bag. You lived alone before, you can do it again.

This time there will be no consequence to your actions. Maybe you'll even be able to end things quietly, make it as if you never walked this horror filled Earth.

Dean grabs your arm to stop you.

"What the hell?" He says indignantly. Even his ugly face expressions are sculpted by artists.

"I've really fucked up Dean. I don't want to keep hurting you so I'm leaving. That's what you want. Right?" You pull your arm away and take a step back, you can feel yourself crying and it hurts more that he's seeing you so broken. Your true face, not the mask.

"No. Fuck, what happened yesterday is nothing" He sighs, completely defeated. Suddenly your anger returns, the Great Dean Winchester forever playing the martyr and pretending nothing matters when it's cutting him up inside. Sometimes you get so overwhelmed with your own narcissism that you forget he's hurting. Self sacrificing.

"It was. I can't pretend you didn't want to fuck her and I can't pretend I didn't want you to so I could leave this all behind. So I'd know I'm just dragging you down"

"Dragging me down? Jesus, the only person who does that is me. I just can't believe you think I'd do something to hurt you" Dean yells, throws his t-shirt aside forgotten.

You have to force yourself not to look at him.

"You don't know what I think"

"No, you're right, I don't. You don't talk to me anymore. About anything" He takes a step towards you, lowering his voice to this self depreciating mess.

"It's ridiculous. You don't want me. My own girl doesn't want me, what the hell am I suppose to do? You shut down and I can't reach you, every time I touch you... " He takes another small step, twisting his mouth in frustration.

"Every time, you recoil. I want you so bad but it's like I'm no good for you anymore" Dean sinks into the bed and it looks like giving up. Looks right through you when he says so fragilely "How much I wish I could do right by you"

You're so self absorbed and the need to feel pain is getting higher. How could you hurt him again, knowing his track record to take things so personally. It wasn't meant to go like this, you never wanted to do this to him.

"It's not... you"

"Isn't it?" He murmurs, eyes darting to the side like he can't bear letting you look into his eyes, look into his soul.

"It's me. It's my fault. I'm so ashamed of what I did to you, I let you get hurt and I'm hurting you again and again and I can't stand it. You don't need me to do that to you. I just need you so much it scares me to think I could ever hurt you more" Part of the truth. Finally. "And you don't need someone to do this for you when you already do it to yourself"

Defeated. The memory of happier times, smiling with Dean, has been destroyed. Funny how arguments can bring up insecurities and be used against who they belong to when you're the one person they trusted to tell.

"How could you ever think that" Dean stands, "I wouldn't want to be with you? What Sam said yesterday was the truth, I would be empty without you. When you aren't there when I wake up I have to tell myself that I have you and us and its real. I have to convince myself that I'm wanted. It messes me up inside to think you don't know how I feel" This time he's looking right at you, talking to you and you can understand him. But he doesn't address his self hatred that was a low blow from you.

"I'm not good at this talking about your feelings crap" He frowns and you want to smooth out the crease.

"I'm not good at being with someone who isn't Sammy" He laughs, once. "But I want to be with you"

"I just don't want to hurt you" You're a stuck record, needle stuck in the groove replaying itself into forever.

"It's worth the pain"

And you don't know if that's what you needed to hear or if his face, his body, being there was the cause but in that moment you want him even with the consequences. You don't want to run away and you don't want to stop existing. You just want him.

Like maybe you came from the same star and reunited you're as powerful.

Instead of telling him how you feel, you show him. Grasping the back of his neck with your hand you pull him down for a kiss.

Same as before you can sense withdrawal, a tension in his nervous system to not appear anything less then fine. It's really starting to piss you off. You pull his hands around your waist and grip his hair as you deepen the kiss. He responds, slides his hand down and you moan, feeling his chest against yours.

"God, I want you" You groan, rubbing your thumb against his stubble, the rest of your hand buried in his hair.

He smiles warmly but the damage has still been done. So you bury your face into his neck and cry silently, he carries you to the bed and you wrap your legs around him. It's all very dramatic and emotional and it's exactly when Sam walks in clearly not seeing you outside on the floor as a good sign to enter.

"So get this-" He starts and you hide your face away from him. It's bad enough he saw you upset yesterday. And this morning. You really are a mess.

"Jesus Sammy, ever heard of knocking?" Dean exclaims at his brother.

"Didn't realise you'd turned into a teenage girl" Sam bites back and slams the door shut but when he walks past the window you can see he's smiling.

"Are you okay?" He asks, brushes the tears from your eyes and kisses your temple.

"I think I will be" You reply. So naïve.

Chapter Text

It goes back to normal after that, how you define normal when you're supernaturally inclined. Not the same as before because you still feel insecure around Dean. Inadequate. Or just more self conscious.

There are still moments when your mind goes haywire and you can't think like a normal person but you're getting better at controlling it and hiding it.

Dean and Sam are away on a stakeout, watching the husband commit adultery with what they suspect is a siren. What you're supposed to be doing is holding down the fort. Sitting next to the phone line with books haphazard in front of you is a great way to start thinking about things you shouldn't.

It's hours before they should be back. Dean's old jeans have a flip knife outlined in the back pocket and you slide it out carefully. It's been a while since you did this. Previous scars have healed, the scabs have disappeared and you thought you were over this. But there's something so magnetic about visible pain when it's on the inside.

In the light the knife flicks out and you're drawn to it. Without thought or hesitation you slice through your skin.

Ugly, worthless, fat, desperate, useless. Unloved and unwanted.

Everything you are, what you'll always be. You rest against the headboard of yours and Deans bed, covered in blood and biting down your tears but there's a smile on your face because this is your worth laid out before you in shining red. Pain and blood are your friends.

It's getting to the point where you really need to stop and clean but it's also getting numb and you don't know which side will win. And it's so difficult now you've started, one more cut and you're thinking about ending it all.

Let yourself face the facts, the only thing you contribute is mistakes and you are to blame every time something goes wrong. Dean does not love you, you're just convenience and not enough to keep him happy. Sam deserves his brother to himself.

It would be so easy to cut vertically rather then horizontal. To pull your skin open and watch the life drain out of you drop by drop.

When the brothers saved you a year ago you thought you'd be over this. Bleeding out in an abandoned warehouse after being captured by a Djinn, Dean busted in like a fucking knight in flannel armour.

 

-1 year ago-

"We're too late" Dean punched the wall in anger at himself. Can't save them all Dean, his dads words running through his head like failure.

He can't bear the sight of you, strung up like meat and reflecting every time he's ever gone wrong. Next to you is the corpse of a heroin druggie who had been using the warehouse as a hideout. Which you had visited because you wanted a new addiction, you were sick of living with no family who cared or friends who missed you.

"Dean wait" Sam touched your neck, frowned when he found a pulse. "We need to cut her down"

Dean reached for his knife, clenched his face as he sawed through the rope that tied your wrists together. Sam lowered your body onto the ground and Dean pumped your chest, breathed into your mouth to get you to cling to life.

You cough, awaken and cry out in pain and disappointment. In this other life you were happy, loved and wanted.

"Sammy get the car started, we're patching her up" Dean yelled, carried you outside like his bride in the slithers of sleep.

He held onto you while Sam floored it to safety, did not let go.

Not long before this Dean had been taken by a Djinn and that connection bonded you. So he convinced himself helping you had nothing to do with him and when he poured whiskey over your wounds and gently caressed your wrists you realised he was better then any illusion.

"I think she should stick around for a while" Dean said to Sam when you were asleep in his bed.

"You sure? We've had a hell of a lot of lives taken from us. You ready for another?" Sam looked concerned but he knew nothing could stand in the way of his brother.

"I'm sure Sammy"

-now-

What a fucking waste.

They should've left you there. You wanted to die then and you do now. Nothing will change that, the same feelings come back regardless and this self destructive nature of yours will never let go of you.

Some people are too sensitive for this world, they aren't cut out for life and you are one of those people. Or you're just lost so far inside your head you can't value the people who are there for you.

Would Dean say he needs you if he doesn't? Maybe you just remind him of who he was. A memory that's reflected onto you. And maybe Sam's just going along with Dean's delusion.

Ever since you laid your eyes on him you wanted him. More then life itself. But you're slipping back into old habits, how much more of this can you take?

Perhaps this is just a habit. One you can kick. You've tried before. Even hard-core drug addicts relapse on their route to recovery and this is nothing as severe as that.

Except you're staring down at yourself, empty from crying and numb from the pain. You see the fat around your stomach and the bruises on your legs. Sitting in shorts you can see every scar, stretch mark and imperfection.

To say you aren't in your thirties, to say you haven't had children, you're a disappointment to those who have. There is no reason or excuse for this.

Dean does not love you.

Dean cannot love this.

By your side is a weeping tissue and the knife is sticking to your hand with thick matted blood. Your finest fucking hour.

Too consumed with yourself to hear the car pull in. Too distracted to hear Dean sign off on the phone to Sam and too preoccupied with your mess to hear the door begin to turn open.

In the doorway is your angel, your saviour.

Wrong.

He's nothing but a man and you're nothing but his mess to clean up.

He stands there alone, frozen as his eyes were drawn to you as soon as the light landed on your hunched figure.

"No, no, no, no" Dean dashes to your side, takes your arms in his hands and reached for the bottle under the bed. Kneeling on the ground, you above him completely dissociated from the scene unfolding in front of you.

"What happened? Did someone break in? Fuck" He pops the lid with his mouth, stops moving when you don't answer. It is exactly what it looks like Dean, you want to scream but you're choking on shame.

"No. You didn't do this to yourself" His eyes narrow, jaw clenches and he falls backwards bewildered.

"Tell me you didn't" The perfect face he wears with pride has gone, he's shattered. You didn't think he cared this much. At all.

"It's fine baby" You reach out to touch his perfect skin but he recoils, swears.

"Why would you do this to yourself? Jesus, this is bad" He runs his fingers over the blood which has tainted your existence. His mouth twitches when you automatically flinch so you shut yourself off completely, look at the black in front of you.

"Fuck" Dean hits the wall with his fist, leaving a hole in the wall and forces you to look at him. You open your eyes and see the hurt and disbelief and confusion and anger in his perfect green eyes.

"Just. Tell me why you did this" He calms down, sees that you're shaking and he changes to a soothing tone.

"I'm sorry. Please don't hurt yourself. Please don't do this, you deserve the universe and I'm sorry I can't give it to you. Please babe, please. I love you" Dean's crying and you want to lean over and lick the salt from his tears so he's pure.

It's the first time either of you has said those three words. It was always a feeling, never had to be said because you both knew it was there and saying it would only cheapen your relationship. But hearing him say it, his broken voice and the desperation for you to feel loved, makes you feel loved.

"I'm sorry" You say but it's empty.

"Don't give me that. Tell me why"

"Because I deserve it. Because I'm not good enough for you, I'm disgusting, fat, ugly, pathetic and vile" So ashamed that he discovered your secret. All those times thinking someone finding out how you really feel would actually help. Closure or reassurance. But this is so much worse then when it was a secret because you hate yourself more but you don't want to for the sake of loving him.

Dean shakes his head, looks right into you and speaks "You're wrong" Looks at the blood. There's so much blood.

He gets the medical box and kneels on the floor, cleaning the wounds in silence except for the sniffing of your crying. Doesn't say anything but you know he can tell the difference between the cuts you just did, the ones healing and the already healed.

In the lamp lit room you watch his silhouette move, body hunched over in the golden glow concentrating on the task in front of him ever resembling perfection. But what happens when that's over? When there's nothing on the outside to clean.

It would be so much easier if he didn't care. Why does he care? Why is it getting to him? Why isn't this the last straw that forces you onto the street with a bag of clothes and sore feet.

Blood seeps through the bandage almost immediately and you stare at the faint red dots that expand and connect with a line. If you focus on that you won't have to focus on him. He really is good at fixing people's injuries. All the times he's patched Sam up, all the near death cases.

He throws the box away and sits on the bed across from you, holding your wrists palm up. His fingers hover over your wounds. His fingers slipping between yours. The skin contact calms you.

"You don't know how wrong you are" He doesn't let go and it reminds you of that night when he saved you, how he never let go in the car. Nobody can know what hasn't happened but you're questioning whether this is the second time he's saved you from ending your own life.

"When I found you a year ago I didn't expect this to be easy. Hell, I didn't even expect you to make it let alone stay with us. And I can get behind the wanting to end things because what we've been through... How it was when we were trapped in our heads was so easy and effortless but that ain't right and I know you know that. What I'm tryna say is I understand you. This" He's showing you that he can deal with it but he already has so much to deal with already.

A love like this is destructive and demanding and too co-dependent if he's really offering you what you want. But if he doesn't yell at you for something so unlovable then maybe there is a chance. Maybe he can help you fix yourself.

"I've never been good with words, always Sammy's forte" he's crying, trying so hard to be strong for you.

"Dean. No one could ever love me. How can you sit there and be okay with this? I hate everything about myself and I'm suffocating under the guilt of hurting you. Not being enough"

"Stop saying you're hurting me. This, this is what's hurting me" He gestures to your arm and look away, looks back at you and sees the regret on your face.

"I know how you look in the mirror and you hate what you see. But distracting yourself from the pain only makes it worse when you finally feel it, trust me. I love you so fucking much. I don't want you to ever think I don't." That's all it comes down to. Trust.

He moves the palm of your hand to rest against his chest, his heart pulsing through you.

"This is real. It's yours. Sometimes I think you and Sam are the only reason I'm still here. But you need to realise we're here for you" Inside you're screaming at yourself that this isn't real. But it is, you can feel him and you can hear his voice and the wonderful words he says.

"I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore" He takes the knife from the bed and places it in your hand. "Cut me when you want to hurt yourself, if anyone deserves it I do"

"I can't do that"

"Why not?"

"Because. I'm not hurting you Dean, it would hurt me too much to do that, I can't do that to you don't make me do that" You feel hysteria rise up but he's touching you again and you try to breathe.

"Now do you see how I feel? Do you understand how it is for me to know you've been doing this? And for so long..." Dean lowers his head "It's my fault, I wanted you to stay with us I was too selfish, we should've left you in that fucking town"

"I never wanted to leave you. I'm just so scared. I want to understand, I do, but I don't know how else to cope. I don't know how to trust you or how to stop hurting you or how to stop hurting myself"

"Just come to me. Be with me, I need you to do that to be with me when you feel like this" He's so hurt because of you. Why can't you just deal like a normal person?

"It's all the time"

Dean smirks and looks at you, the change in persona makes your head fuzzy.

"And how's that a problem? Love me some one on one shower action. But seriously baby, I fucking need you around so don't you dare go dying on me" Dean softly kisses you, it's slow and light and it's what you need. He takes his left hand away to thread his fingers in your hair, pressing your forehead to his and you get high on his scent.

"I love you" There's a sincerity in his eyes and it's overwhelming, you know he must love you to stay even though he's seen your worst side. Him saying it is as fresh as the wounds on your arm.

"I love you" You kiss the corner of his mouth and pull him over to you.

He strips to his boxers and a worn t-shirt and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. Curling up on his side, you rest your head against his chest and naturally your breathing adjusts to the sound of his heart beat.

"We're gonna be okay" He strokes your hair and you fall asleep to the rhythm.

Chapter Text

Morning and you aren't talking. Watching him sleep, telling yourself you have him. Out of all the people he's slept with it's you he wants. Or needs as he said yesterday. It makes you smile, makes you heady and excited.

You watch as he groan into the pillow his face is smashed into, opens his eyes and his mouth twitches when he sees you staring at him.

"Never took you for a watcher" He mumbles, turns to face you with sleep still gripping his soul.

"You don't know all my kinks" You wink, do a once over on his body for effect.

"I'll be damned"

Dean's cut from the spirit incident has turned into a scar and you're sucking bruise around it like flowers. He's breathing hard, groans 'oh fuck' and holds you against him.

It's funny because this is exactly what you thought he meant by one on one shower action and it's not bad. Massaging his hair as you wash it seems to be his one true weakness, he looks adorable with shampoo sticking his hair up in tufts and grinning lazily.

He takes care washing your arm, entirely focused on making sure you know that he's okay with what you've done and who you are. Then you're wrapped in a towel on his lap in the room, body heat drying you.

Dean discards the towel, turning you around and lays you down under him. Gently he kisses down your body, biting in places and you laugh, thread your fingers through his hair and stop him. He looks up at you, mouth open and confused.

"Sam?"

"Never say his name when I'm about to violate you" Dean groans in annoyance.

"When's he back?" You prompt.

"Soon. You're right"

You grab a bra, shirt and jeans. It's only when you're clothed you realise the shirt is too baggy and look down to see Dean's led zeppelin t-shirt that he was wearing last night. When you told the truth. Your scars are red and bold against the black fabric; ugly.

Dean groans again from across the room and you cover your arm, assuming he doesn't want to see your illness. He can't accept everything you remind yourself.
"Fuck. You should wear my clothes more often" He saunters over and slides his hand down the arm you're covering, thumbing the scars before kissing you.

You take in the definition of his chest and the naked skin leading suggestively to his boxers.

"You're killing me Winchester" Hands reach out to touch his neck, the bruises, the scar at his waist and the curve of his back.

"Don't objectify me" He pouts, fluffy hair and boxer shorts making him look adorable.

"You love it" You laugh, kissing him.

Since then a night hasn't passed where you and Dean weren't tangled together, every body part touching, wrapped underneath the covers. It's different, not easier by a long shot but better. You hate looking weak in front of him, crying or breaking down over nothing and not knowing how to explain it or how to stop.

In those situations you both aren't great conversationalists so you learn it's clear that silence says a thousand words. Especially when you hate talking about feelings. With the occasional chick flick exception.

In the nights you can't sleep he stays up with you, watching black and white films on the tv or by going out.

Other then the money, the reason you get one room with two queens is for safety. Deep down you know it's a childhood thing, Dean needing to make sure Sam is next to him in case of any emergency. Drilled into him since Sam was 2, never leave him alone Dean, never.

So when Sam complains that he needs sleep you know it isn't an option to get two adjoining rooms. Dean never betrays your trust by telling him but you know you needs to soon because it isn't fair.

Now: it's midnight, you're against the bathroom wall legs drawn up to your chest. He's sitting on the toilet seat facing you, hands clasped between his and you're holding out against the waves of heaving emotion. Instead of feeling yourself sink under each tidal wave, you feel his skin and his being and you can make it.

Dean passes you the knife and rolls up his sleeve, holding your hand so the blade is against his skin. His eyes are filled with trust, you'd never hurt him and he knows that but he needs you to know that he's there. Because something in you still tells you he isn't.

Both of you sit there in silence, you throw the knife away and surge upwards into his open arms. Tangle yourself in him, breathe him in and force yourself to let the tears run free. He holds you tightly against him, whispers words of love and encouragement and you know he starts to cry when his voice breaks.

You're long past the stage of apologising for messing his shirt up so you see the eyeliner as a small part of your darkness leaving you.

"We're okay" He says into your neck, kisses your hair and you feel so goddamn guilty that you're putting this on the great self-hating Winchester because he'll probably blame himself but it feels so good to be held so you hold him tighter and feel everything leave you. Feel yourself start to be normal.

Gripping his grey threadbare t-shirt you heave into his chest, his legs are lost in yours and his hands are holding you so tightly and then it's over and you sit in shocked silence.

It amazes you that he hasn't left, that he's still here for you all the time. But it concerns you that you aren't the only one with bruised sunken eyes, red rimmed from sleep deprivation. You've passed it on to him like an infection or a disease.

It makes you question whether the help is worth the pain.

Chapter Text

It's been a month since that night. Sam finally decided it's the right time to go on bigger hunts, you lost track of when he became the overprotective one.

Eventually you decided to tell Sam about the undiagnosed but pretty likely depression but it was like he already knew. And in his true Sam way he was understanding. You're stronger then it, I will help you, we can get through this.

What he doesn't realise, what none of you realised, was your destructive personality was capable of fighting with Deans.

He downs a shot, you down a bottle. He gets scratched on a hunt, you're in ruins. Soon you're in bars to beat each other at getting drunk, beating each other at drowning the misery in liquor. It's as if you're getting better and helping him get worse at the same time.

Dean's resting against baby's trunk waiting for the gas to fill the tank, having a heated conversation with Sam. You can't hear what they're saying through the thick gas station glass windows but you can see the tension as he moves to cross his arms in a defensive stance.

"Whiskey" You say, pointing to the bottles behind the acne riddled teens head and return to watching them.

"That all?" Her tired voice asks and you nod, pay, pick up the snacks, alcohol and razors. Pocketing the last one because they don't need to see it. It's whirring through your mind that you're letting the boys down but you need to feel this, need to see if the feeling is still there because it's been so long. Months.

Dean shoves past you to pay with the completely illegal credit card when you leave for outside. He swears lightly under his breath but doesn't stop walking.

After throwing everything into the car, you face Sam.

"What the hell was that?" You ask, resting in the same position as Dean had been moments before.
"I suggested he stop drinking so much" Sam huffs, fixes his worn out eyes on the roads horizon.

"Oh" It's a fragile topic that you're aware of. "Maybe it's just a way to cope" With all the guilt over people he couldn't save.

"It's not good for him. Watching the two of you trying to help each other is like two addicts trying to get sober. It isn't bulletproof" The words sting, even though you know Sam's just angry there's truth to it.

Dean storms out of the building and glares at the two of you.

"What is this? Organising fucking AA meetings behind my back?" he jokes, malice and anger lacing his words.

"Go wait in the car" Sam says to you.

"No"

He turns his head to the right and looks at you again. Pleading with his eyes.

"Fine" You slam the door behind you and immediately feel bad. It isn't the cars fault. Winchesters and their chivalry, not wanting to get you involved with something they need to sort out. Like arguing in front of you is a crime.

Through the metal you hear muffled shouts.

"Trying to take care of me? Me?" Dean laughs, "What show have you been watching?"

"You don't get to do this Dean. You don't get to pretend that nothings wrong and that we can't help you"

"I don't need your help or your pity, the fucking way you look at me... I can deal with this myself"

"You don't deserve what you're putting yourself through!"

"I deserve way worse" Dean's voice breaks and you risk a look out the back window. He's breaking, letting his charade fall apart. Sam nods like he understands, reaches out but Dean flinches away. Walks to the car and starts the engine.

"You don't" You say before Sam gets in, Dean pretends he didn't hear you but you know he did, hands tightening on the steering wheel act as confirmation.

It's obvious why this is happening. It's you, if you hadn't put the pressure on him. If you had just listened to Sam; his limit was reached. Since you weren't the best judge of sanity, you didn't want to judge him for drinking. But, hunters could still get normal-people illnesses like liver failure. Or walk into a fight with a fist full of vodka and no awareness to save a life.

Dean drives like a maniac, radio off as he navigates the winding roads to the closest motel in a different town. In the backseat you clutch the pack of razors in your pocket and ignore the unsettling thoughts that come from the bottle next to you.

The Impala swings to a halt in a motels carpark, Dean grabs the bags from the trunk and gets keys from the front desk. Sam runs after him, desperate to make him see sense. To help.

Meanwhile you sit alone in the car, frozen in confusion. Do you side with Sam or Dean? Why do you have to be involved at all? In the past you've proven useless in social confrontations, you can barely keep yourself together when you're alone, worse with an audience.

Dean throws the duffles outside Room 4, turns to Sam, whose back is to you, practically radiating fury. You take this as your cue to move, abandon the car and run to the brothers who are stuck in an eye contact showdown, heaving. Against the black his amulet glistens as a reminder of their brotherhood love but it seems irrelevant now.

"Please stop" You say, pathetically quiet and without threat, standing facing the door.

Neither of them register your presence, consumed with unforgivable hatred. Sam raises his eyebrows, Dean lowers his. Instead of the usual tandem they're working against each other. Over something so mundane and ordinary.

"Please! You need to look after each other, out of all people you should realise how much you need one another" Gradually they turn to you. "Just stop okay? Sort it out inside, without this macho bullshit"

Snatching the keys from Dean's clenched fist, you open the door and shove the two inside, locking it behind them. The last action is more to show how pissed you are, in a second Sam could pick the lock and leave.

Outside you can hear them talking, a low buzz in your ear.

Next to the motel is a run down movie theatre advertising old films which keeps within the aesthetic of decrepit. In large red lettering is the title 'Godzilla vs Mothra' which reeks of nostalgia.

 

Everything you'd been waiting for had come down to this, the last year of rehabilitation all for this. Sitting in his Impala, excitement bubbling in your chest as he drives to the midnight showing of Godzilla vs Mothra, the 1964 edition.

It all seemed so natural. Going on a date, a first date, with a guy. Dean Winchester. Your life: the reason you breathe and the reason you're alive.

-----

2am on the roof of yet another motel, six pack of beer by your side watching the stars. Having a crush so intense, when you see him everyday and work beside him was slowly killing you. It was pathetic, wanting him so badly that you'd deliberately chosen to stay, months after recovering from the Djinn.

You want nothing more then for Dean to press his body against yours, feel his naked skin on yours.

You take another gulp from the bottle and look up. Pray to a God that you don't believe in to give you answers to what you can't ask. It's so very painful, to love someone who can never love you back.

"Can I sit here?" Dean. You hadn't heard him come up, didn't think he knew where you were.

Warmth floods your cheeks, embarrassed that only seconds ago you had been thinking about him. Still thinking about him. Always thinking about him.

"You can do what you like. Free country" you hate yourself for what you say. Why does it have to be wit, sarcasm or humour whenever you're around him instead of the truth. You can kiss me if you want. Fuck me. Dean Winchesters conquest is better than Dean Winchesters closet infatuation.

Dean smirks, "Amen to that" laced with sarcasm. Not free to those who see those they love die.

"What's up?" You ask, polish off the bottle and risk a look down the side of the building. Concrete, a good solution to this mess you've landed in.

"Do you know what date it is?" Dean looks nervous, not his usual cocky self and it throws you.

"Should I?"

"I guess not" He grabs a beer and is in the process of removing the cap when his hands wrap around the neck instead and he looks up, looks back at you.

"It was a year ago today" chews his lip with his teeth. It distracts you, you want to bite his lips, you want to taste him.

"What was?" You gulp, make yourself try to find imperfections in his being. That's the first step to getting over someone, convince yourself he is flawed beyond likeability.

"Never mind" Nervous. Why?

Then it hits you, right as he's standing to leave.

"The warehouse. You" You take his hand, try to ignore the electric shock to your chest and the pulsing increased heart rate at the physical contact. The day he saved you from the creature lurking in your head.

Dean sits back down, still holding your hand.

"Me... I need to tell you something" He confides, turns so only one leg is dangling off the edge of the roof, the other bent at the knee so he can talk directly to you. You copy his stance. In the dark, lit by the car park streetlights and the moon.

Not trusting your mouth not to betray you, you nod.

"I didn't expect this to happen" He rubs his thumb across your hand soothingly, you have to restrain yourself from speaking and ruining the moment. You're so in love with him, the way his green eyes are shaded by black lashes. His strong jaw, the curve of his mouth and the things you could do to him. He is all you want, the living, walking, definition of perfection.

"I want you to know that. This year with you has given me something I never thought I'd be capable of having" His green eyes are looking so intensely into yours. In the past he has flirted with you but you thought it was part of the Dean charm. Never imagined he would ever feel anything for you.

"I can't stop thinking about you and us together. I'm not sure when exactly it started but it's been torture, you drive me crazy. Seeing you every single damn day and not being able to touch you, tell you how amazing you are, tell you the truth" he pauses, lets the night fill the silence with distant cars and the wind blowing through the trees.

"What is the truth?" You barely manage to ask, a lump growing inside your throat and your palms sweaty because you need to hear it not read into what might not be there.

"I want you. I've wanted you for so long I can barely think straight and I need to know if you feel the same because if not then I don't know what to do. But the idea of not being with you is so unbearable. It's like imagining what it would be like to not walk or eat. You're so fucking special, beautiful, funny and so goddamn strong" You stop him with the press of your lips against his.

After all this time it's a heady relief. Dean groans under you and reaches for your hips, your hands find his arms and you sink your fingers into his muscular biceps. Simultaneously you open your mouth and your tongue darts out, tasting the beer and pie and the underlying taste of him. It fucks with your head, that this is happening and that he is yours. He tastes so fucking good, feels so good against you.

Regrettably you pull away, grin at his lust blown pupils and annoyed expression.

"How could I possibly not want you Dean Winchester" You say, mouth bursting with joy. Dean laughs, kisses you again but with more heat, more fire.

"I'm still taking you out on a date" He says, stroking your cheek.

"Always the gentleman" You roll your eyes but it's only a joke because you're dying with happiness and it shows.

--

After the screening he's leaning over to caress your cheek, breathe warm against you. It's the night after he told you the truth and you hadn't kissed since then for reasons unknown. Time stands still, his eyes are focussed on your mouth and your breathing and he looks so hungry for this. You.

On the radio Metallica's 'Nothing Else Matters' is playing. Instantly it becomes your song. About the truth and trusting each other.

Finally you feel his mouth against yours, you are enveloped in his scent and his touch.

 

The first date encapsulated in that movie theatre title. Sad to say it was your first date ever, no guy ever valued you that much to go on a proper date. But Dean had. Does still.

Walking over to the building, you search for a time schedule or an attendant but it's completely abandoned. It's the kind of place that is stuck in time, 1950's elegance worn away with age. There's a booth outside that you haven't seen a cinema have in real life, the double doors have round submarine-like windows that are framed in golden metal.

Not only the occasion that gives you nostalgia but the building itself.

Remembering the alcohol in the unlocked Impala you return to the car without looking at the closed curtained room, you swipe the whiskey and head for the back of the motel building, taking the route away from the office so you aren't seen. Grass and trees overflow onto the sidewalk and you scale the building, access the damage if you fall. None that you can't handle.

One tree by the last room has grown in a tilt towards the roof, it's large with a spacious trunk that you can wedge your foot in and boost yourself up. Whiskey gripped tightly in your marked hands, bruising on the bone, you pull yourself up and climb onto the next stable branch.

If you stretch out your arm enough you can grip the gutter running around the roof and you throw the bottle, amber liquid slamming against the glass as it lands safely.

Using all the muscle and strength you gained from hunting, you swing your leg round and roll onto the one storey roof, thanking whoever that it was only one storey.

In the distance the sun starts to settle, a long day of driving and a lifestyle of killing makes time a rare constraint. Especially when you have divisions within the family, you don't notice when its morning or evening. Eat when hungry, stop when tired. Orwell would be praising from his grave if he knew the rebellion that ignoring time could bring.

Mimicking the same position you sat in that perfect night, you wind the cap off and take a swig, throat burning as the liquid passes through you.

"Fuck" You cough, take another sip and reach for the box. Your lost connection. The anti-lifeline.

Prise the lid off with your chipped fingernails, drag the first blade out with disgust. How could you be so selfish and ignorant.

Half the bottle's gone and the razors are in a semi circle formation around your crossed legs, sharp edges pointing towards you.

It makes you sick. How you could ever think this was natural is beyond you. How you could deliberately cause yourself pain when the two most important people in your life suffer all the time. Arguing now over something so important and you're coward nature leaves you on top of a motel roof with two forms of addiction as your friends. Dean and you, alcoholic and self harmer.

They go hand in hand like dynamite and a match. Bullet and a gun. Noose and a neck.

You shudder.

Collect the torture weapons and throw them towards the skip to the side of the building that looks like it's been there for decades. Part of the furniture. Lands with an invisible impact, it's like the end to your unhealthy addiction. It's when you realise you need to help Dean with his.

Like a cue, he appears beside you and sits with his legs dangling over the edge.

"Sam's right" He says. Surprised by this, you turn and take one of his hands.

"I think I should help you" Need to help you. So we can get on with our sorry ass lives and stop making the same stupid mistakes, hurting Sam in our self obsessed process.
"Come again?" He queries, eyebrow raised.

"You've always been there for me. I need to be there for you" He doesn't talk for a while so you sit hand in hand watching the sunset in the distance. The theatre is basking in an orange glow and when you look over at Dean there's an outline of gold around his hunched form.

"We should go to the movies" He says, less like a question or a suggestion but a thought out loud.

"I'd like that"

Chapter Text

Worn fabric seats without cup holders, a large screen framed by maroon curtains that drape across the edges. Dean's sitting in the middle row of the only screen the small, old, art deco cinema has.

After everything had been sorted with Sam, complete with a plan to stop Dean's excess drinking with steps to recovery, Dean had led you across the parking lot to the theatre and he'd shimmied open the back door with a crowbar and little swearing. It amazes you that the building has been left untouched, apart from the cobwebs attached to the ceilings and the dust over everything.

You finish with the projection reel, watch him from out of the square box the film travels through to start the film. When you were younger you got a job in a cinema, mainly just checking tickets and refilling popcorn. But you have a thing for classic films and after watching Fight Club you wanted to know how the older stuff worked, hence why you can work the machine now like a true Tyler Durden.

Dean rests back in his seat, head tilted back onto the edge of the chair and waits for the initial beeps that signify the introduction. 5, 4, 3, the countdown begins and you exit the back booth, down the stairs to the lobby and push the grime covered doors open. On the screen the opening credits roll up and you take your seat next to Dean.

Earlier he'd made a stop at the grocery store and picked up a large bag of popcorn and licorice. Unlike Sam, you had nothing against the snack which always delighted Dean. Similarities in your character make you smile too. At the end of the isle is an ashtray stand, back when smoking in cinemas was legal.

With no electricity to power the lights, the black and white flickering images are the only thing providing light and it illuminates his face, the scenes playing out in the dark of his eyes.

"Sammy used to cry at this" Dean smirks and takes a long drag, smoke adding to the explosion effects on screen.

"Who wouldn't, that paper-mache mess is terrifying" You remark, staring up at Godzilla.

Somewhere around the first half hour you make up a drinking game, using the popcorn as a replacement. Every time a Japanese actor yells 'Godzilla!' You take a fist full of the stuff and have to cram it in your mouth.

When the final battle occurs you're clutching Dean's sticky hand, sugar sickening in your mouth and he leans across to share the taste.

Kissing him is like home. Comforting. And you never want to leave the too small seats and poor quality film, the creepy atmosphere in the lonesome space that's filled with tobacco smoke. You want to stay in the shitty cinema forever, watch all the horror films like The Last Man On Earth, Dracula and Nosferatu with Dean.

When it finally finishes you sit in the darkness, not wanting to switch the flashlight on or make a move to leave.

"Never gets old" Dean says, stands and holds his hand out like a request to dance.

You take it and he leads you outside through the back where you came in. Holding onto your waist he presses you against the discoloured brick wall and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, kiss him slowly and it's so much like the first time your gut aches.

The next morning you wake up to Dean's curious eye watching you where you lay on his chest in a room separate to Sam. He cards his fingers through your hair and softly sings Metallica, Nothing Else Matters, and it lulls you back to sleep. When he isn't screaming out lyrics in the car at the top of his lungs he has a really nice voice.

Sam bangs on the door, laptop in hand when you open it. Dean's in the shower, washing off sleep, Sam walks into the room and sets himself up at the table.

"Good morning to you too" You laugh, peer over his shoulder at the screen.

"Look at this" He points at the headline on the news page.

"Local girl drained, suspect disappears from security cameras, no blood found" He reads from the article and then brings up the other internet tab, another article with a black and white drawing of a creature with sharp teeth and long ears.

"Strigoi, troubled spirits who rise from the dead... Ability to turn invisible and drink blood as a life source"

"So vampire?"

"Apparently this is a Romanian blood line so separate from your average Dracula wannabe" He says, going back to the original article. Christian Serratos, 18 year old waitress who was found outside Paddy's Irish pub. Security cameras show nothing outside but-

"We should case the joint, ask around"

"Later. In the meantime I'm headed to the library to find any old incidents of the same nature, you and Dean pay a visit to the morgue" You nod, make a note in your notepad of the vics name, address, the time of death and place from the laptop before Sam leaves.

Throwing the pad down, you open the bathroom door, eyes adjusting to see through the steam. You can see him body through the misted glass, tan skin with water trailing down his muscular chest. It turns your mouth dry and you sit on the closed toilet seat and watch him for a few minutes.

He runs water into his hair, washes the shampoo off and stands under the spray; breathing and relaxing, letting the warmth sooth his aching shoulders.

It's starting to get to you so you slide the shower door open. Dean turns to you, confused. You pull his head down for a kiss and laugh when he pulls your waist up and into the shower so you're soaked. He grins back at you and kisses you again, you can feel his erection against your hipbone.

"Hi" He murmurs, flicks his tongue inside your mouth.

You moan, tilt your head so he has better access.

"Hey. Sam came round" As soon as you mention his brothers name, Dean pulls away and his nose crinkles.

"Mood killer" He sulks and starts working on the shower gel, under his armpits and his neck. Reaching for the bottle you scrub down his chest, stopping under his belly button with raised eyebrows and a finger trailing down.

Dean almost buckles under the pressure and he groans, getting clean entirely forgotten.

In the room he throws his Black Sabbath shirt at you which is already big on him and completely swamps you. You wear it while your hair dries, pacing the room and explaining the FBI cover while he gets the suit out.

"You got an iron?" He asks, looking in distain at the offensive shirt with a slight crease at the back.

"Yes Dean. I carry one in my pocket at all times" You sigh and point out the fact that it's on his back, no one will see it and grow up, no you don't have OCD you're just an ass to test me.

You tie your hair back and throw on a disgusting grey pantsuit, straighten Dean's tie and you slide into the Impala to pay the dead a visit.

Three hours later, Dean's on the phone to Sam having an in depth conversation about who the best Dracula was, Christopher Lee or Bela Lugosi.

You snatch the phone from Dean who is supposed to be focussing on his driving and say into the receiver loud enough for both Sam and Dean to hear you "It's clearly Klaus Kinski, you guys are complete morons" Hang up and stare at Dean defiantly.

"Huh. Does he really count?" The car roars down the straight open road and he points his puzzled expression your way, thumb rubbing at the rubber of the steering wheel.

"Yes he counts, Nosferatu is a cinema classic, everything about his performance was flawless" You rest your arm on the window ledge and rub the space in between your eyebrows, a sure sign that a headache was coming.

"When are we there?" You whine, pulling your hair out from the stiff position it had been forced into while you questioned the morticians and then the police department.

"When we get there" It's said automatically like he's repeated the same conversation with Sam when they were younger. Riding across the open road with his younger brother at his side, too young to understand why this life was so important but wise enough to know he didn't want any of it.

"No shit" You grumble under your breathe and repeat the same facts you gathered earlier. Sombre people with limited answers, sheriff confused at how this could have happened. The same generic garbage that you swallow to get the job done.

Dean slides his hand down your thigh and squeezes it before dragging the wheel to the left and pulling in at the motel.

"Here" He announces.

You're just so bored with this. Which is ridiculous because it's a chaotic lifestyle. It just seems repetitive. Like the date you went on is as good as it's going to get and it's already gone.

Chapter Text

Finally you've caught the motherfucker. Middle of the hunt, dusk sliding over the deserted warehouse with shadows laughing in the smashed windows.

Strigoi are particularly volatile and your protective streak takes over when the figure in the shadows reveals itself. Inhumane and stronger then all of you, it howls and you pump bullets frantically sending it into a frenzy of search and destroy.

On the ride back you don't talk about the tell tale signs of a dislocated shoulder, the nice new scar healing onto your chest or the bruises covering Sam and Dean, apart from the stunted 'Need to sort that'. Dean glances at you in the mirror, equal parts worry and desperation because the hunt was brutal compared to what you'd been dealing with during recovery. The second time.

Part of the reason you got hurt more then the boys is because you were careless. Something demanded you run a little faster, hit a little harder and get hurt a little more. Maybe it was because you were tired of the routine or just bored. Or maybe it was the aftershocks of trying to be better.

Result being pulsing pain running through your upper body at the impact and a white hot pain shoulder.

It doesn't get much better after that.

Dean gets out of the Impala, cigarette between his lips and he lights it, cupping the flame to the end and sighing out a cloud in relief. He slams the door, smoothing baby's metal frame in apology and inhaling a long drag. When he breathes out he raises his thumb to his eyebrow and holds it there, breathing deeply.

Honestly, Dean doesn't smoke a lot. Really, he doesn't. Just when he's extremely stressed or extremely annoyed and trying to hold in the rage. So not a lot.

Sam tries to take your injured arm to lead you to the motel room but you shrug him off, not even wincing at the jolt of welcomed pain. Instead he dashes ahead, unlocking the room and getting the first aid kit. As soon as you collapse onto the bed he's there, holding the two points where your shoulder connects to socket and breathes out in three quick breaths.

"Ready?" He asks and before you can answer he slams the bone back into place.

You barely gasp from the feeling, smiling wanly at him.

"Thanks Sammy" You brush over his hand and look to your left. Through the dirtied glass you see his back to you, broad and chiselled with muscle. All hiding under several layers of hunter armour.

He looks tense, cigarette between his fingers wafting through the wind as the burning embers fall to the ground. He brings it up and you lose sight of it for a minute before he pulls it away and another stream of smoke exits his mouth.

Sam understands what's going through his brothers head, having seen the devastation after one of Dean's infamous smokes so often pointed at him. His mistakes, his fault. Not this time, it's all on you.

Knowing what's about to go down sickens you because you see it as a relief. Acting all forgiving and understanding every time you mess up when your light is too small to hold back all your dark.

Pointing a sorrowful look your way which you don't catch because you're mesmerised by Dean, Sam grabs his duffle and ducks out the door to book a different room for the night.

The plus side, Sam won't have to see how ugly it gets. It's growth for him, used to getting involved in arguments with his dad, countless screaming matches while Dean stands in the middle struggling to pick a side constantly afraid of disappointing.

So you aren't annoyed that he's extracted himself from the scene. Glad that he can walk away and not get hurt.

Finally Dean flicks the butt away and slams the motel door behind him, shedding his jacket and flannel and walking towards you, giving you that look.

The injury you gained wasn't too bad but this, this is a lot worse. It's wrong that he's starting to turn you on, the smoking always was a peculiar kink and angry Dean is pretty hot.

"You just don't realise do you?" His voice is deeper then usual, husky after smoking and it's getting to you. Danger flickers in his eyes and he's seething. Usually he'd reach for the bottle at this point but that's out of bounds so you're getting the full unadulterated angry Dean.

"After all this, you manage to keep hurting yourself and think that I'm too fucking dumb to realise. I see right through this" He looks you up and down and you fight the urge to look away from the heat in his eyes.

"I fucking care about you. When are you going to get that into your head? I fucking care!" He's almost shaking with anger and it's one step closer to the walls breaking down around you, the furniture exploding with fury.

Somehow, instead of reciprocating, you lean into his body heat and whisper "Why don't you show me" in the most suggestive voice you can manage.

There's a brief smirk and then he's biting your lips, pulling your hair and pressing you against the wall. Instinctively you wrap your legs around his waist revelling in the twinge of pain from your shoulder and push back, yanking his t-shirt off and licking down his neck.

"Fuck me Dean" You growl.

Harder. Fuck me harder. I can take it. Harder.

You're sore in the morning for the first time in a long time, your thighs aching and there are bruises all over the both of you.

Dean's back is covered with scratch marks, looks like your nails drew blood. You both lie there with bruised lips and bite marks on your necks, hair wild and you try to figure out why pain like that felt so good. You don't talk, the sight of your damage is thrilling, enticing.

Sam gives you the eyebrow when you meet him in the parking lot, your hair slightly tamer and wearing a baseball style jersey with your black doc martins. You smile and ask him how his night was.

"Crappy. How about you" Sam gives the look of concern but you shrug it off with "Fucking awesome"

Sam bites his lip in worry but doesn't say anything else, holding off because he doesn't want another argument. And he can't assess the damage with his mouth.

Dean walks up, pats Sam's hair and wears a childish grin. From here Sam can see the bite marks and bruises littering both your bodies but he says nothing, scowling at Dean and taking off for the car.

"Smile Sammy, we're going on an adventure" He shouts, squeezes your hip and kisses you hard. The danger is still in his eyes like something has changed and you've become the couple that fucks out their arguments. You shrug again at Sam and follow suit, you think it's alright now but one look from Dean in the car mirror tells you otherwise. And you thought you'd gotten better at telling when he was acting.

From then on fucking becomes predatory, lethal. It's another way to destroy yourself and you love every minute of it. You think maybe you fall for Dean a bit more but then maybe it's because he's so willing to help you out. He's changing.

It's strange that in public you and Dean are all over each other, touching and groping, kissing and holding hands. When you're just relaxing, in the many rooms you've seen with Sam in the corner lit up by his laptop screen, you're more conservative.

His possessive streak battles yours and it creates a wonderful war of passion.

"ohhh fuck yea-Dean we gotta get back" You pull away using a huge amount of self control. He's pressed against you, legs wrapped around his waist on the outside wall of a roadhouse in South Dakota. Sam's inside with a bottle, pumping his knee up and down in a shifty appearance.

"Sammy's fine" Sensing your thoughts.

"Thought you never wanted to hear his name before you violate me" You wink and run your hand down his chest, feeling the bulge in his jeans.

"Shuttup" Dean stutters, buckling under the pressure.

"Is that a threat?" You tilt your head to the side and flash a cocky grin. Somewhere a biker whistles and revs his bike but you don't hear, busy flicking your tongue across his ear.

"We're leaving. Now" Dean pulls your wrist to baby and you get into the car in a panic, desperate for some kind of friction. Dean gives you a longing look and hightails it down the street until you're parked in an abandoned area and he's running his hand up your thigh, lying under him on the backseats.

"Fuck me baby" You moan and pull his shirt off, raking your nails up his back.

He leaves the amulet on. Always leaves it on, it's a sign of the brothers bond and a reminder that family is thicker then any revenge.

Dean fucks every single thing he's kept quiet into you and you return it. Every time you've swallowed what you felt, taken it out on yourself. You take it out on Dean.

This is when you know it's all fucked to hell.

Dean's jamming to Black Sabbath, slamming his palms against the steering wheel and belting out I need someone to show me the things in life that I can't find and he ruffles Sam's hair, grinning at his scowl. In the next line Sam's joining in, I can't see the things that make true happiness, I must be blind and you're smiling with them, the irony of the situation clear to only you. Then you're yelling "Make a joke and I will sigh and you will laugh and I will cry" in Ozzy's twisted pitch and Dean's eye's crinkle at the corners in the rear-view mirror.

It's not every moment that it hurts but it's every moment that you feel empty. You can sing along and laugh and smile but deep down you don't feel it.

You know Dean doesn't either because aside from the Djinn incident, you're similar in so many ways. One look and you know what he's thinking, it scares you because the trust and co-dependency of your relationship is unnatural. At least you think it must be. Because he's just as empty as you are.

And this song only shows you that you're changing him and neither of you are helping each other. You aren't good for each other and you shouldn't be together.

Most of the time you manage to get by. Dean and Sam are a force that can't be reckoned with on hunts so you hang back, sometimes acting as back up with impromptu kidnappings. You stop welcoming the pain because you have that with Dean, you both stop saying I love you because it doesn't seem important anymore.

Chapter Text

It's like it was before they found out, quiet and simple and destructive. Except this time you stop questioning every word and interpreting it as negative. You just look for Dean.

It's coming up to October, cotton cobwebs lining every window and a singular perfectly carved pumpkin at every door of every town you race through.

Whenever you stretch out on the backseat of the Impala you're met with the sounds of candy wrappers and plastic bags, the only way the brothers will ever celebrate this holiday.

It's a week before Halloween, you're stuck in Cincinnati, Ohio as a favour to one of the hunters the boys encountered a while ago. The deed is done within the first day, Sam sending the information back via a phone call in tired monotone as he grips the paper coffee cup like it's responsible.

Dean hates big cities. It's like claustrophobia, constantly scanning the large crowds and keeping his hand near a weapon because he can't deal with the buzz. Sam is partly the same and the first time this happened you thought it was tension from the hunt bleeding into the daytime.

Now you realise it's partly because of John, never formally introduced to the change in lifestyle and so they treat it the same as their work; a case to be figured out.

"I think I need to go out, meet someone" Sam announces, closed laptop in front of him signifying the importance of his statement. The 'get laid' is unspoken but his meaning is clear.

"Need me to draw you a diagram?" Dean jokes, "Should be difficult remembering what to do, it's been so long"

"That sounds great Sam" You try for encouragement. He smiles and heads into the shower, you hear the motel hiss and then spurts of water as the shower starts up and you're looking at Dean. Everything he is.

He's so fucking incredible.

For that second, that small moment everything is calm. Peaceful.

But then like a bomb exploding-
Dean's pacing the midnight pavement on the phone to Bobby and you watch as he lights a cigarette and exhales, his eyebrows knitting together in anger. It's funny how you always end up in this position, watching from inside the glass house. One stone.

"Be back in a minute," You say to Sam, hair still wet from the shower and don't check to see if he heard as you walk outside. Welcoming the night you take the cigarette from Dean and take a slow drag while Dean curses and promptly apologises for his language. When you were younger you smoked to get the frustration out. That spiralled to heroin and that turned to self harm. Now it's back to smoking. Full circle.

Dean makes a face at you, half grimace and half desperate and reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. The packet he brings out is tattered, the plastic wrap creased and the corner is brown with old blood. Out of the given 14 only 3 are left. Even though they've been thrown around in thought, tossed to the back of the Impala to his pocket, crushed under his weight in hunts, the insides of the packet remains intact to how they were immediately after buying.

Dean flicks his lighter and pulls on the tobacco, breathing out the nicotine haze. Fingering the cigarette between his fingers, he rubs his eyebrow-another tell tale sign of frustration.

His freckles pop on his skin under the fluorescent night lights making him look 10 years younger. Most of the tobacco is on the pavement by the time he hangs up and the rest is hanging out of his mouth, limp at the end from the stress he's been inflicting on it.

You wait for him to finish his fix before he slides his hand around your waist and breaths out slowly.

"We have to go back to Topeka" Dean sighs, leans into you and you press down on his hip bone.

News drifted from other hunters and got caught on Bobby's phone line, warped stories about Djinn in Kansas and bloody tales about hunters who lost the fight. Knowing about your past, he called immediately to say he would check into it and get back to you.

The call Dean just hung up on solidified your worst nightmare.

"Said the Djinn's relatives are there, looking for the one me and Sammy ganked. Didn't even know Djinn's had relatives" Dean shakes his head and blinks with a grimace.

"It's fine. We can do this"

"We really don't need to. I can get Bobby to send someone"

"No. I kinda feel responsible y'know?" You kiss Dean, the taste of ash fills your brain and you hold onto that. Black skies like uncertainties and pinprick stars like hope.

"I know" He says.

"So what we're looking at is some painful nostalgia and potential relapse. I can deal with that, you?" It's a joke but you both know the threat behind it. Every time you turn the corner to another mountain you're afraid what you're asking for is too much. That he will realise what a fraud you are because the insecurity never left.

So you joke but underneath it means you want to fix this and you're going to deal with it normally without the addictions.

"I can fuck with hell for you" He growls.

As you sleep Spandau Ballet True plays on the radio and Dean is gazing at you in a way that tells you everything. This is the sound of my soul. You smile and he slides his fingers down and into yours, entwined. The Impala speeds down the road and there's a tunnel at the end, it's dark and it's black and it's everything you've been through. At the end is a bright light and you're staring deeply into his greens eyes when you crash through it.

You wake, startled and grasping for some sense of reality. Dean's hand lands on your thigh, palm hot and heavy. He squeezes lightly and takes quick glances to make sure you're alright while he drives.

"Nightmare?" He asks, a word that tires from overuse constantly sorting Sam's pain.

"The opposite" You reply, calming from his touch and you almost groan when he moves it back to the wheel. Almost.

"We were happy. Driving into the white light at the end of it all, entirely happy" You explain, arm resting against the car window, fingers toying with the end of your long sleeved shirt. Dean bites his lip, shoots you another concerned look and says

"Us dying is a good dream?" He chuckles, ejecting the cassette tape and flipping it over. Led Zepps Dazed and Confused filters through the speakers. It started automatically, you know he didn't choose it but Jesus does it apply.

Dean turns the volume low and returns his hand to your thigh. You can breathe again.

"We were together, it was peaceful" You say, mesmerised by the road that rolls away under the bright headlights. Usually Dean hits the back roads, the kind without traffic lights and stop signs that stretch for miles. But the Impala eases to a halt under a red light and you lean over, Dean places his other hand onto your waist and you moan into the kiss.

Both of you relax at the touch, Dean starts running his hand up and down your back and you play with his soft hair.

"It's gonna be okay. I'm here and we got a badass arsenal that they aren't counting on. It's gonna be quick and simple and we'll come out the other side looking better then before"

The light changes to amber and Dean reluctantly shifts gears and you're covering ground again. Getting closer.

You try to go back to sleep, offer to drive for a while but Dean dismisses your offer and says you need the time, need to prepare. Mentally. But all it does is leave you room to overthink what chaos is going to happen when you get there.

"We're here" Dean smacks the leather wheel with his palm a few times before jolting out of his reverie and out of the car. You peer up from the passenger seat at the building in front of you.

Sam stayed in the town to finish the case you'd been on when Bobby called. Originally, him being with you was a crucial part of the plan. He was worried about sending the two of you off, just in case. Both you and Dean had convinced him he could sit this one out.

Sam had promised to head over the second the supernatural was super natural and you'd promised to send him updates so you hit the keyboard and press send.

In Topeka

Through the glass you watch Dean pace on the curb. Behind him the warehouse towers high, much higher then you remember. The window on the second floor is still cracked glass and the red brick decay is more noticeable now.

"I wonder if everything bad happens in Kansas" You think out loud.

Since the big bad was already established and you expressed your desire to send the evil mother fucker to hell immediately, Dean had driven right over to the hellhole. No motels or breaks or sleep. You wanted this finished. Now.

"Let's get this over with" You murmur and Dean passes you the trunks latest killing supplies. He rubs your wrist with his thumb when he passes you the knife and you try to calm your breathing.

Inside you're expecting to find two human food bags that have recently gone missing and a couple Djinn. Really it's a simple kill as long as neither of you get caught. So simple that you shouldn't let your haggard past interfere.

Of course, you do.

You head in through the back, nostalgia creeping it and making it difficult to find air. You remember the last time you were here, strung up like meat waiting to be slaughtered. Needles covering the corner where the dealer had been camping out, you so desperate for that next fix.

Dean climbs through the window on the opposite side of the building, weapon in hand. He walks low, mouth pursed and tense because of the anticipation of the kill. He hadn't wanted to split up, leave you alone. It's quicker this way you told him, more efficient.

You clear your mind of the stress and focus on inhaling, exhaling, 3 seconds for each, on finding the creatures who did this and saving their victims.

Due to the particular case it had crossed your mind that this would be a trap. Old monsters demanding vengeance. But when Dean climbs the stairs to the open plan first floor it's completely empty. That is, aside from the large tarp in the corner and several plastic bags skirting the floor. It's one of those buildings that ran out of money before they could knock it down.

There is no sound. He scours the floor one last time and turns around, intent on finding you.

Your throat closes up when you see them. Below the grate in the floor, tied up to the ceiling of the basement. Her neck is tilted to the side with a stream of red leaving a vein there to a blood bag beside her.

Desperately you run across the warehouse, all pretences of careful, undetected hunting gone when you feel the memory pain.

Dean crashes into you near the doorway, hands automatically coming to your shoulders and his eyes flit across your face trying to read you. What he sees can't be good because he pulls you close and counts down from five under his breath, you know he must be checking the area behind you so you do the same to him.

The seconds melt away and too soon are you stepping down the staircase, creaking and wincing every step. Dean stays behind you the whole time, always got your back, holding his gun out and turning every second or so acting like a bodyguard.

You reach the bottom and begin running to the other end of the basement, knife in hand and gun secure in the space between your jeans and your skin.

When you get to the still, immobile bodies, your eyes widen.

Colour drained from their bodies, the blood isn't moving anymore it's dried to the inner tube and their faces... Eyes bulging, discoloured yellow skin and open mouths. The smell rises to your nostrils and you instinctively take a step back into Deans chest.

You gag, turning away from the dead bodies because you need to leave now. You need to get out of there because it's too much to take. Dean has to take control, you don't even have a minute to feel bad about leaving him alone in this because you're struggling, hearing the knife against rope as Dean cuts down the bodies.

You're trying to calm the pounding in your head. You could have saved them. You breathe in, 1,2, and out 3,4. It's your fault they're dead. The guilt comes in waves, you close your eyes and let it bury you.

Dean has concern etched on his face but you shake your head to get the thoughts out. You had no idea, how could you? 2 more dead.

"It wasn't because of you" Dean, supporting as always.

"Notice the track marks?" Deans hesitant because it brings up even more. Needle marks on their arms she hadn't seen? This is becoming more like you.

You shake your head.

You hadn't fully thought to compare it until you're walking to the adjoining room to get some space, air, something.

Until you see Jason, the dealer you were supposed to be meeting way back then. Messy black hair, dark brown eyes. From what you remember he had been thinner then. Maybe he was done dealing. Or at least done using.

"Y/n, isn't this inconvenient" Jason gives you an ugly smile, head cocked and he rolls back on the balls of his feet.

He's wearing a beaded necklace, long brown shirt. It's ridiculous, it's pointless. Your head is spinning, how this has happened you have no idea.

"You're telling me" Dean scoffs, coming up beside you. It's the batman, batgirl fighting duo again. You can feel the tension and anger rolling off Dean and crashing into you. He doesn't know who he is, can't, but he knows a villain when he sees one.

Inside you want to scream, yell and command the four elements to wrap Jason up and tear him to pieces.

"Let's do this nice and friendly. You leave me here in this sweet get up I got and we'll pretend this didn't happen" It hits you as hard as you want to hit him. He's been helping find warm, hopeless bodies with no home and no care in the world, to give to the monsters. It's clever, give one hit for free like he did with you, check you out to make sure no one would miss you and then suggest a meet at this creepy building.

Where the Djinn give you everything you'd wish for and you don't want to say no because it's better then reality.

Wishful thinking. That's all it comes down to. That one of you is going to just change and be okay with an obviously fucked situation. Clever, but fucked.

"Did you really think it was going to be that easy?" You reply hands resting on the gun down by your side. It would be so easy to shoot him but you need to take down the whole system.

"Did you?" He asks, that ugly smile again. You don't have a second to answer him because the light flashes in your eyes and you're gone.

Chapter Text

Here.

"Babe, you need to get up" someone whispers in your ear. A familiar voice?

"One more minute" you snuggle deeper into the soft sheets.

The guy starts kissing your neck and you laugh, push him off. It feels like you've experienced it before. A repeat, replay.

"Couldn't wait could you?" You pretend to be annoyed but you can't. Because this person has a hold over you. You need to remember what just happened, you were dreaming. Yesterday was his birthday and the family had come over to celebrate. Too many vodka and cokes.

"The office have been calling. They want their sexy advertiser back" he smiles, dimples on show. You kiss each one. The drinking really needs to stop when you have work the next day. But you'd decided to be one of those couples that never becomes normal, powers through outrageous hangovers with sunglasses and painkillers. Like a pro.

Wait. The office?

"I'll be quick" you promise and shower, when you get out there are towels waiting for you. Green; Deja vu. You've seen that green before, more intense. Just in the stupid dream. Whatever the hell it was about.

"Jason?" You call out. He rushes in.

"Yeah?" He has flour on his face and the coffee aroma floats over to you.

"You're awesome" why did saying that feel personified? Like someone you used to know. You push it out of your mind.

He kisses your cheek and his messy black hair flops down. You laugh and push it back, far enough that it looks slicked back. You used to tease him, that his hair would take over and one day you'd wake up next to him and he'd look like a girl. You used to tease someone else for their hair. But who?

"Breakfast is served" He picks you up, feet kicking out wildly. You need coffee and food and then you have to get into work. Can't afford to take anymore sick days that involve you and him curled up in each other watching classic movies and throwing popcorn. But it sounds so nice.

You're outside, starting up the car wearing a slim skirt and waistcoat. It growls into life and you turn on the radio, Metallica's in mid throttle and you pause, wince and change the channel. Who the hell likes metal anymore. Except...

You're driving to work, radio safely switched off. When you stop at a red light, by the curb of the street stands a man, golden hair, battered clothes and he looks like he's yelling at something. At you? You turn your head to see if anyone else has noticed and when you turn back he's gone.

Finally, the parking lot. You check your appearance in the mirror, eyeliner-perfect, hair-stunning. Then you notice it. The same guy in the corner. Now he's closer you can see what he really looks like, how beautiful he is. The crease of his frown, the strong jawline and slight stubble. You can see the desperation on his face and the layers of flannel that show signs of a struggle, of tears in the fabric and blood falling. Falling down.

Fuck.

You stumble out of the car, head whipping round to search for this mysterious person. Not one thought crosses your mind of how peculiar this is, you just need to find him. But he's gone.

Your phone rings and you pull it out of your bag, sighing as you read Jason's name.

"I have had the weirdest morning," You breath, ready to vent. Except he interrupts.

"Y/N you need to get home now. You aren't safe, you need to come home right now, I can't talk, I'll see you soon," He hangs up and you're left there, standing in the middle of the car park wondering what the hell is going on and why the handsome stranger won't leave your mind.

Part of you wants to ignore Jason's frantic call, getting your work bag out the car and walking to the lift. But a cold chill drifts across the indoor car park and your breath turns to smoke and some kind of instinct kicks in because you're hightailing it out of there.

You're bursting at the seams as you sit in the early morning traffic. Texting Jason proves ineffective so you turn the radio on. Classic rock again. You reach for the controls, sick of the sound when a hand brushes against yours, cold and ethereal.

Gasping, you turn to look him in the eyes and get mesmerised by what looks back at you. Eyes emerald green, striking features and the blood. So much blood coming from his neck.

"Wake up" His eyes widen, he breathes out in a hitched gasp and then he's gone.

"Dean? How? Shit, shit, shit" You run out of the car and across the street, cars yelling their abuse through horns. You make it to the pavement and whirl around, searching for him.

Dean. Your boyfriend, your saviour, hunting partner, everything.

Where are you?

How do you wake up?

What the fuck is going on?

Suddenly you're with Jason, he's sitting across from you in your office, walls hanging in advertising art and promos of your work. You don't have the patience to ask him what's going on, jolting out of your chair and trying to get to Jason to attack him, punch him, hurt him. Beg him to return you to Dean. Sweet, perfect Dean.

In an instant you're in the chair, unable to move. You can tell this isn't what he wants or what you want but you have to hear him out. That much is clear.

"This was everything you wanted the last time," Jason seems genuinely confused and it bothers the hell out of you.

"People change. I want what I have. I want what's real. Dean" You reply, as if it's so simple and you're an idiot for not figuring it out before. Because Dean's love for you, that's real. And it's a lot better then living this lie.

"I want to wake up, let me wake up" You insist, pressing forward. Jason doesn't reply and you feel this disconnection to the scene like you aren't really there. You start shouting, wake me up, wake me up and you're drafting further away until you're a spectator to your own yelling show.

Then everything turns black and you feel an intense throbbing in your head.

Slowly you feel yourself regain consciousness. Hearing comes first. You hear Jason talking to something, you feel drowsy and you can't force your eyes open. Jason moves to stand nearer to you, he's protesting.

"This has never happened before, self awareness isn't something I signed up for!! She can't do this, how can this happen?"

On your wrist is a hair tie with a bobby pin shoved on the string. Which you always keep there for emergencies, never seen because you wear long sleeves. You push the pin up slowly and get working on the locks, trying not to move too much so they don't see you. Jason shouts something and the uneven footfalls suggest fear?

"This is not my fault, no please, I can get you fresh meat please just don't"

Your heart is pounding in your chest and you don't dare open your eyes in case something looks back.

As you near opening the lock, the drowsiness hit's you again and you have to stop. Breath. The blood on your neck is hurting, aching.

It's been a few minutes since you heard any noise so you open your eyes as you bust open the lock and relax, rocking back on the balls of your feet to gain balance.

"Dean!" You whisper as you notice him tied up next to you. On the rotting wooden bench against the wall is the weapons you brought to kill the fuckers. You look from Dean's worn out face, pale and drained and back to the weapons. You need them to make sure you stay alive.

Carefully, you tiptoe over to the bench and pick up what you need. Looking around you assess the area and figure out Jason and the Djinn must be upstairs still.

You hurry back to Dean and pull out the blood bag's wire. Then untie him.

His eyes flutter open as you're pulling him into the shadow and he licks his dry lips, on the verge of coughing but you stop him with a hand to the mouth.

"We don't have much time. Dean we have to get out of here" He's still half unconscious and there's barely a hope that you're actually going to get out of this hellhole.

"Not before we kill these motherfuckers. They don't mess with us" Dean says, grabbing his gun and rising to his full height.

You grin, take his hand for stability and head up, guns pointed in front. The group is standing around the table, Jason lies on it. His head is lax looking at the ceiling and his arms aren't moving. Dead.

Dean looks to you and nods, time.

There are only two Djinn to get rid of and you don't stop to add a Buffy quip, shooting and trying to slaughter the bastards who stole so much from the both of you and countless others.

They fall to the ground in two heaps. Naturally you make sure they're really dead before getting the hell out of there and to the motel to put the day behind you. Except your phone says it's been 2 days and you have phone calls from Sam to reply to.

Chapter Text

So you explain to Sam on the phone, Dean pacing outside with the last cigarette as he tries to come to terms with what just happened. Baby is in the background, shining in the sun.

An hour later, you're inside.

He's standing in front of you, he is perfection. Everything you ever wanted and he's yours. You are his. You want something to solidify that ownership, tattoos or scars because you want everyone to know you belong to each other and no one else comes close.

The brief stunt in an alternative reality has made you realise one thing. Your life is good enough. You are good enough, no one can take that away from you let alone yourself.

"What did you dream" You ask him, hands resting anxiously on your thighs. You're cross legged on the end of the bed, wearing next to nothing because you're exhausted but you need to have this talk. No more secrets.

"I was with Lisa" He says and walks backwards, when his back hits the wall he breathes out slowly and meets your eyes. You can't pretend that doesn't sting, she's the best he's ever fucking had according to this. His every fantasy, someone he told you about with hazy eyes and a small smile.

But he chose you.

"I was with Jason" You want this to hurt him but at the same time you're terrified it will. He blinks away, looks at the door. A safety precaution. To get the nerves out you start picking at the bedspread, pulling it out from the space in front of your legs. You need to not let this get to you because you chose each other. The other universe was not a pleasant fantasy.

"Stings huh?" You say, risking a glance in his direction. Slowly your hands move so you're digging your nail into the joint of your thumb, focusing on the pain just in case he says something you don't want to hear and he never wants to see you again. Will you ever feel secure with any relationship? You need to with this one, it's the only one that matters.

"Like a bitch" He replies, finally looking away from the door. Walking forward, going down and resting on his knees.

"Stop it" He takes your hand away and rubs over the inflamed sore area.

"We should get tattoos" You blurt out, wanting to distract yourself from Lisa and Dean together and how much it kills. Distract yourself and change the record that's stuck in a groove and playing on repeat. Is this effort called trying? Are you getting better?

"We already have tattoos" He's referring to the pentagram on his chest. On your shoulder.

"Real tattoos" Because you need to shove this relationship in peoples face and have a permanent possessive mark. Bruises and imprints fade; art doesn't.

"If I was Sam I'd tell you to stop deflecting"

"And if you were Dean?" You flip your hands over and trace the vein on his wrist. He chuckles and you feel the vibration, the warmth. You can't help but compare to Jason, who you were with only a short time ago. His voice wasn't as deep, his skin wasn't as rough. As battle hardened.

"I'd say tattoos were fucking hot and just thinking about you covered in art makes me wanna do bad things to you" He smirks, catches your eye and surges up to kiss you, groaning under the pressure. Unfolding your legs, you wrap them around his waist and lean backward. He follows, kissing you harder and deeper, pressing you into the bed.

"It was awful without you. Without seeing you and hearing your voice" You tell him, hand going to unbuckle his belt, jeans sliding off.

"I want you to tell me how turned on you are, what you want to do to me because I'm yours. Fuck me so hard I can't see, bite me and bruise me and tell me I'm perfect. Make me yours and take any innocence I had left. Take everything I have, my whole life too. Fuck me Dean" You whisper into his ear, you're naked and then he's inside and it hurts so good.

You feel his back move under your fingers, you scratch the skin so it's imperfect and bleeding and it's animalistic how you just give in to the desire.

When you climax it's hard and simultaneous and you have to hold onto the sheets to hold yourself together.

He doesn't let go of you after, your legs are mixed in confusion and your hands are gripping his hair. Slowing your breathing and kissing his neck that has the bitter tang of sweat.

"We should get inked" He murmurs into your shoulder, bites the tattoo you already have.

"And for the record, sex with Lisa was never as life threateningly volatile as it is with you. Compared to us, it was fucking lame. And you're just so..." He smiles into your shoulder, you smile back. Seeing him this exposed, carefree and... blushing. It's a light that warms you from the inside out.

"Jason was never a thing. When I was in the first time he was my boyfriend and we had this gross apartment with clean towels and clothes. I was back in that hell. As if I'd need any of that" You confess, feeling the raised skin on his back. Dean hums under the contact and you grin, you're really truly happy. Being in that place again has only made you realise how much you need this and how much you will fight to get it.

"You always prefer it dirtier anyway" He smirks and kisses the edge of your smile, kisses your nose and pulls you closer.

"Vanilla is for losers"

He chuckles, "You should get that on a t-shirt" It's adorable how proud he is of that, grinning like he knows this secret no one else does because the shirt would be genius.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck, unable to stop smiling.

 

///

 

Outside the sun is rising, the start of a new day.

Dean is holding your hand, fingers in yours. You're watching the flames lick up and above the miniature funeral pyre the both of you had created with dry twigs and ripped fabric. It's an hour away from Sam who was forced to steal a car, too impatient to wait for the Impala to roll up on a dirt track next to him.

"Ready?" Dean asks, refusing to look away from the fire until this was done.

"Yeah" You toss the razors in first. Despite constantly throwing them away, you had secretly kept this one safe in the back of your phone.

Dean's next, torn pack of Marlboro's thrown into the fire, a satisfying burst of yellow light as the packaging catches. There was only one left after the hunt had hurled it's fair share of stress his way.

Lastly the bottle. Unopened Southern Comfort.

Dean turns the lid and sprinkles the whiskey onto the flames, squeezing your hand as they rise higher and then fall altogether as the bottle lands empty.

It's a farewell to old habits, goodbye to addictions. It's so you and Dean can start again, reborn after the Djinn incident because it's reminded you how important this life is and how lucky you are to be where you are with who you're there with.

The throbbing in your neck has been there all day, ever since this morning when the tattoo gun pressed fresh ink into your skin. It was a weird position, granted, but it was where the Djinn tried to take away your life and it seemed the perfect place to celebrate it.

"Don't scratch it" Dean says, sensing your discomfort because he feels it too.

"Think Sam will be surprised?" You ask, picturing his reaction to seeing the words on your skin. It's a lyric, a song that you and Dean feel in the aching depths of your soul and could listen to until your ears start bleeding.

Broken into two lines so you have four words and he has three.

"He has no idea what he's driving back to" Dean replies, never letting go of your hand and his eyes remain unflinching on the fire that slowly dies just like the need to destroy with your overwrought addictions. You know in an hour when Sam's here he'll be cracking jokes, pasting the macho act on and denying he was ever this emotional.

So you rest your head against his shoulder and your eyes brush past the small, inch wide sentence that is almost hidden under his hairline, only visible up close because they're supposed to be personal. And honest.

 

Yours

You Are The Blood

 

And his

In My Veins