A Supernatural x Reader Story

Chapter Sixteen: No Rest for The Wicked

It feels like a death kind of day.  A merciless, salvation-less day.  Deep down, in the very pit of your stomach, the very depths of your soul, you know.  Today is the last.

You can't bring yourself to feel anything but guilt.  Not sorrow, not fear.  Worry, maybe, for Sam and for Bobby, for Ellen and Jo.  Everyone you will leave behind in a matter of hours.

For a year, you've hidden it from them.  And now it's too late.

Vaguely, you hear Dean calling your name, followed by a snap from his fingers.  You jerk your head up to look at him across the table scattered with shotguns and holy water, over which your hands have been lying idle.

"Hey, your head in the game here?" he asks.

You don't answer, just continue to fill the salt rounds and avoid his eyes.

"You've still got time," he says.  "To tell them, I mean."

A sigh escapes your lips before you can stop it.  "Look, the more Sam thinks he has to lose, the more risks he's going to take," you point out.  "If he dies tonight, there was no point to any of this.  And I sure as hell wouldn't deserve to be alive anyway."

"(Y/N) –"

"Dean," you interrupt, turning your head back up to him.  "Look me in the eye and tell me you think we're all walking away from this."

It is now his eyes that dart away from yours, giving you your answer.

You take your foot off the gas pedal when you realize how much speed you have gained on the highway without noticing.  Thankfully, there are no other cars around to hit or police officers to pull you over, which is the last thing you need now.

Sam and Dean gave you an hour-long head start to New Harmony, Indiana, where you, Bobby, and the boys tracked down Lilith, so you could scope out the place and because you usually drove more slowly than Dean drove the Impala.  Now five and a half hours into what was supposed to be a six-hour drive, you take the cutoff into town.

In the cloak of darkness, in the part of town where you tracked her, you creep along the sides of the houses with your knife and a shotgun full of rock salt, avoiding the demons that wear everyone on the street – gardeners, a mail carrier, and all of the neighbors who you can see through the windows of their houses, their faces looking like they have been through the wringer, into the fire, and back again.

You have read about the final hours on Earth of people who have sold their souls.  The hallucinations, the nightmares, and this – seeing demons with their true faces.  Though you haven't slept in days, you have begun to feel the effects.

When you reach a house – ordinary, not unlike the surrounding ones in structure – the faces catch your eye.  Terrified human faces, and, in a blonde-haired, white-dressed little girl, one demon, but instead of the blackened, charred-looking faces of the other demons on the street, this one is paper white with eyes that compete with the black of night, and outlines red as blood, more horrifying, more awful than any of the others.  Lilith.

Any confidence you had leaves you so suddenly that you drop to your knees, one hand on the wall in front of you, providing what little balance it can offer as your head spins and you can't seem to get enough oxygen into your lungs and your heart pounds so hard that you think you should be able to hear it.

With trembling hands, you reach into your jacket pocket, speed dial Dean, and lift the phone to your ear, listening to the pattern of ringing.

"(Y/N), you get there?"