Characters: Dean x Reader
Word Count: 1206
Summary: Dean sneaks into the reader's room.
Warnings: ANGST
A/N: Okay, yes, I know this nightmare → comfort thing has been done to death, but it's a classic for a reason.
************
Dean sprints down the street, unaware of his surroundings other than the racing sound of his own heartbeat, almost as fast as his footfalls on the concrete before him.
A gut-wrenching feeling overtakes his senses, telling him you are in danger. He lets the terror act as his sense of direction, lets the sheer force of will send him barreling through the brisk nighttime air to where he knows you are.
Not remembering to slow down, he collides with the door before he shoots through the lock to get it open.
He relaxes when he sees the faint outline of your sleeping figure. But he still can't shake the feeling something is wrong. Hunters aren't sound sleepers. You would have heard him burst through the door.
Dean flicks on the light and sees red.
It gushes out of your stomach, soaking through the sheets and coating your hands.
"(Y/N)!"
************
The soft rustling sound awakens you. You almost drift off again before the surface of the bed shifts, sending your eyes flying open.
As soon as your fingers brush the hilt of the knife under your pillow, you leap around, blade extended.
A dark silhouette stands at the side of your bed, holding its hands in the air. You blink to clear the sleepy blur from your eyes, though you already recognize the outline.
"Dean," you pant.
With a slow, tentative hand, he reaches for your blade, his other hand still in the air. You loosen your rigid grip on the hilt and slow your breaths, feeling the rush of adrenaline leave your body with a tingle. You prop yourself up on your arm.
"I thought we agreed –"
"I know," he says. "Tell me, why was that again?"
You sigh. "Because it's 'crazy,' 'risky business,' and my personal favorite, 'fifty shades of bad idea.'"
His eyes focus on a spot above your head, recalling the words he voiced all those weeks ago, before they land on you again. "Don't quote me to me."
You let out a laugh, letting it die quickly when you realize his own playful laugh doesn't join yours. He wipes at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Your eyes adjust to the darkness, and you wish they didn't. You wish you couldn't see the emptiness of his eyes. The kind of emptiness that says even nothing is better than whatever awful thing he saw.
"Nightmare?" you ask in a small voice.
A guilty look passes over his face, though you could never fault him for breaking the rules you both agreed to. From the beginning, you hated the idea of them with every cell in your body, with every thought in your mind. But you weren't about to push when you knew as well as he did carrying on the way you were would only end in heartbreak.
You didn't think he would be the first one to overstep.
"I just– I needed..." he trails off, avoiding your eyes.
Your heart pounds in your chest. The weight of him being here, of the horror he must have faced being enough to break his resolve, looms over you. Another thought follows, of the actions you take and how it can strengthen the fragile bond between you or send it crumbling at your feet, and what either would mean for both of you.
You slide over, leaving enough room for another body.
He meets your gaze with a question in his eyes, and you nod to the side. The bed droops as he slips under the covers. You can feel his shaky breaths through the bed. He lays on his back, arms at his sides, tense, like he doesn't know where the line should be drawn.
You pull a light hand across his chest, feeling his racing heart slow and his muscles soften under your palm. He relaxes against you, pulling you closer. You run your fingers through his damp hair, and he leans into your hand, letting his eyes flutter shut.
A burning pain tears through your stomach. You let out a yelp, and your hands fly to the injury, feeling the blade you pointed at him earlier, covered in thick, warm liquid, as it leaves your body.
You turn your gaze to Dean, about to comment on how him accidentally stabbing you with your knife is a sign from the universe if you've ever seen one, but he slides out of bed with an unreadable expression.
His eyes catch the reflection of the digital clock on your nightstand. As the time changes, his eyes flare with green.
************
Dean flicks on the light and sees red.
It gushes out of your stomach, soaking through the sheets and coating your hands.
"(Y/N)!"
He rushes over to you, but movement in the opposite corner of the room stops him in his tracks.
A figure – his figure – races to the open door. Dean shoots once, throwing the figure to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Dean fires again, and again, into his chest, emptying the clip of silver bullets long after the shifter lays dead on the ground.
By the time he has scrambled to the side of your bed, you squint at him, blinking, like something clouds your vision.
"It's me, sweetheart," he assures you, snaking an arm under your body. "We've got to get you to a hospital."
You throw your hand out to meet his arm. "Don't," you pant between raspy, shallow breaths.
Dean shakes his head. "Come on, (Y/N). You've gotten through worse than this. On three, okay?"
He feels you squeeze his wrist lightly. The action appears to take more effort than it should, though it brings him to a stop long enough to take in the sight before him.
He knows what you know.
The off-white sheets around you collect blood in its cavities, unable to absorb any more. It still pours out of you. He hadn't realized it has already soaked his hands.
The color disappears from your face, leaving behind a pale grey pallor he knows all too well. Your hand feels cold against his cheek. He doesn't notice the tears streaming down his face until you brush them away.
"I should've been here," he whispers into your hand, so softly he doubts you can hear him. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't," you breathe between shaky gasps and clenched teeth. "This one's on me. I should've known."
Dean takes your cold hand in his, squeezing it as if it could save you.
"Hey, uh, don't hate me for this," you croak, with a trace of a chuckle in your voice, "but I love you."
He studies you, regretting, more than ever, how long he waited to utter the words. If he had only admitted them to you, and to himself, you wouldn't be here, bleeding out in front of him.
Cursing himself for the crap timing, he lets out a light, almost bitter laugh. "I love you, too."
You manage a smile, but your eyes seem to be unfocusing, and you struggle to bring them back to him each time.
Dean presses his lips to yours, lightly. He feels your thready pulse slow in your wrist, watches your last breath as it leaves your lips.
"(Y/N)?" he murmurs.
You don't respond.
He kneels against the bed until your blood goes cold.