Supernatural Preferences & Imagines

➸ Dear Dean ➸ Dean Winchester Part 2

Warning: Suicide. Graphic. Deans doesn't have the Mark of Cain in this Imagine.

➸ Your pov ➸

After writing your last letter to Dean you get off of your bed and walk over to your pearl colt over on your wooden table. Walking a couple feet now felt like centuries went by. Like this wasn't your fate, or your destiny. Your footsteps felt weighted down as the closer you got to your prized gun.

You made it to the table and reached out for the gun. With the gun in your hand you slowly crumbled to the ground. The gun was in your lap and your hands were shaky. You slowly, but shakily, brought your precise gun up to your head. You breathed in and out slowly as you toke off the safety.

Tears unknowingly ran down your face as you begin to have second thoughts. But, then your mother voices comes pooling into your mind, "Do it, y/n. Pull the trigger. It's as easy as 1, 2. . . 3." You choke out sobs and you screw your eyes shut. You grip onto the handle of your pearl colt and you do it without missing a beat. You pull the trigger.

➸ Dean's pov ➸

When I hear a gun shot my instincts kick into gear. Having the drill drilled into my head to always be on my toes has stuck me through and through.

I lift my head from my beer I am cradling in my hands. I look around the dully lightened bunker and stand. The gun shot is too close to hear from the shooting range. I turn my head towards Sam and he already has his gun out.

Thoughts swirl through my head as I take my gun out of my jean's waistband. I slowly walk down the hallways of the bunker till the idea slapped me in the face.

Y/n.

I start running down the halls towards her room, not caring about being quiet anymore. I burst through the door and I don't think twice or to turn back. There is blood sprayed everywhere. Blood up on the walls, the floor and the ceiling. It looks like a frenzy happened in here.

But, there you lay, all peaceful. You look like an angel all sprawled out on your bedroom floor. You are dressed in a big baggy dark gray sweatshirt with socks that almost reach the tip of your knees. Your dull lifeless y/e/c eyes are looking up to the ceiling. Your pearl colt is in your left hand hanging there by a thread.

I slowly got down on both knees beside you with my gun clattering on the floor next to me. I gradually reach my finger tips out toward your face to bring your beautiful y/h/c hair out of your eyes. The bullet wound on the side of your temple stuck out like a sore thumb. It feels unnatural. It has to be unreal.

"No, no, no." I whisper under my breath. I bring both of my hands to the sides of your face. I brush my worn thumb over your face that already seem to sullen in and pale. "Y/n, you told me you were fine."

I hear footsteps of boots running down the hallway. I hear the sharp intake of a breath and I know it is Sam.

"Y/n? Please- don't. " I call out to you as if you are just lost not starring lifelessly at the dull white ceiling. I pick you up and bring your head up gently to my shoulder. You don't move, but hang there on my shoulder motionless.

"Dean?" Sam says to me, but his voice is distant. It sounds like he is above water and I am sinking down to the bottom of the ocean.

I start rocking back and forth with y/n resting your head against my shoulder. You are just sleeping, I repeat to myself in my head. Just sleeping, Just sleeping.

"Dean-Dean what happened, did did- y/n?" Sammy tries to say a coherent sentence but he keeps slipping up trying not to say that word. Suicide.

"Yeah Sammy, yeah." I say barely above a whisper. My throat has a lump in it and with each breath it gets harder to breathe.