Falling for a Hunter (Female Reader x Dean Winchester)

Chapter 10: The Four Months After.

Trigger warning: this chapter contains ideas such as thoughts of suicide, ED, self-harm, and depression. Reader's discretion is advised.
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Sam has been trying to convince Bobby that burning Dean's body is a bad idea, despite Bobby believing Dean deserves a hunter's funeral. They've been locked in a heated argument for what feels like an eternity, both stubbornly repeating the same arguments and rebuttals. "Bobby, he is going to need a body to return to when I get him out," Sam argues yet again, and with each repetition, his tears seem to subside, and the raw ache in his heart appears to lessen.

In the other room, you sit with Dean's lifeless body. His skin has grown pale, and his body stiff, but to you, it's still Dean. Unlike Sam, you aren't convinced that Dean can be brought back. As tears continue to fall, the only thing that matters is cleaning the blood off of his body. Although you can hear the heated exchange in the room nearby, your focus remains solely on the task at hand—meticulously cleaning Dean's wounds.

"Did you not hear what he said before he..." Bobby begins to argue, his voice heavy with grief, but he can't bring himself to utter the words. Meanwhile, you carefully maneuver a rag around the large gashes that mar Dean's chest.

As they exchange pained glances, Sam's face contortes with anger. "I am getting him out, Bobby," Sam asserts, and Bobby, finally relenting, accepts Sam's wishes.

Their footsteps echo behind you as you move on to cleaning Dean's arms. "Y/N..." Bobby calls out to you, but his voice sounds distant as your body continues its mechanical task. Unbeknownst to you, they walk around you, discussing matters that seem to blur into the background as your focus remains on the need to rid Dean's body of blood.

"Y/N?" Sam's gentle voice sounds muffled, but it manages to penetrate the fog surrounding your thoughts as he steps closer to you.

"I'm not finished..." The words hang in the air like a mournful dirge, a frail echo of the vibrant spirit now dimming within you. Each syllable is a weighted confession, an admission of the unending sorrow threatening to drown your very essence. The task at hand becomes a cruel diversion, a futile attempt to shield yourself from the abyss of grief that has opened up beneath your feet. Your body moves with mechanical precision, a puppet dancing to a tune composed by despair, and your facade crumbles like ancient ruins as tears stream down your face in silent surrender.

Sam and Bobby share a somber exchange, their gaze heavy with the shared burden of witnessing your descent into heartbreak. The room, once filled with life, now carries the weight of a collective sorrow, an oppressive atmosphere where the air itself seems to ache with grief.

"We need to move him..." Bobby's voice breaks, a rare display of vulnerability. His tearful plea directs your attention away from the task at hand. With a heavy heart, you push past the two men, rounding the table to Dean's right arm. Your gaze falls upon his hand, adorned with the familiar silver ring that once symbolized warmth and security, now serving as a painful reminder of what hangs in the balance.

"I can't..." you start, but the words catch in your constricted throat. The feeble barrier your consciousness erected to shield you from the reality of the situation crumbles, leaving you exposed to the rawness of your emotions.

Clutching your broken ribs, you bend over Dean's lifeless form, the uncontrollable sobs wracking your body matching the haunting rhythm of your heartbreak. His once-welcoming warmth has become a cruel illusion, intensifying the fractures in your already shattered heart. Each breath is a struggle as if the air itself has turned heavy with grief.

Bobby intervenes, his strong arms pulling you away from the heartbreaking scene, just as he did back in the house when Lilith wreaked havoc. His embrace offers a temporary refuge, shielding your eyes from the gruesome reality of Dean's mangled body. The room seems to spin as you're engulfed in your father's protective hold. The urge to scream is suppressed by the weight of your broken heart, and your father holds you tightly, attempting to save you from the irreversible pain that has already unfolded.