Dean x Reader One Shots

When a Soul Breaks (Angst) (Imagine dealing with Demon!Dean)

Summary: Imagine that Dean has been distant for a while and you never understood why until you came face to face with Demon!Dean

Word Count: 4,934 

It looked more like a burn to you, and you always told him that. He was tense whenever you talked about it, acted like the damned birthmark was some foreign object that had lodged itself into his life and caused some sort of big disturbance; he took it so seriously, would flinch whenever you touched it, a small muscle in his temple would twitch whenever you talked about it. It was mysterious at first and was one of the things that drew you to him when you first met, but now that it had been some time and Dean seemed to be keeping even more secrets from you, you were starting to doubt.

He used to be honest, but now? Now you were rushing to the bar with Sam because he'd gotten a call from Dean that requested each of you meet him there as soon as possible. That was all Sam had told you when he got off the phone and grabbed his jacket, a gun, a knife, but while you sat in the crummy truck with him you couldn't help but feel that something was very, incredibly wrong.

"We need to pick up Dean," Sam had told you before rushing you to get your jacket on, some boots, put a holster on to hold a gun and a silver knife. "Just in case we run into trouble, bring some supplies."

But alas, regardless of how much you questioned him he had nothing to tell you. "What is going on?" You would ask, to which he would only shake his head and say "I don't know what you mean, we're only picking him up from the bar."

"You've been hiding something from me," you would say. The response? "Seriously, we're just picking him up from the bar."

They were hiding something. Had been for months.

When Sam pulled the truck into the lot of the bar, you could tell something was off. It was quiet, not in the sense that there was no music (you could hear some fairly loud Zeppelin seeping out of the structure) but that there wasn't much movement within. It was still, there weren't many sounds of laughter or shouts or any of the sounds that were normally affiliated with establishments that sold alcohol until the wee hours of the morning. When your foot hit the gravel and you walked toward the building, only a few strides behind Sam the entire time, you felt the shudder of gooseflesh wash through your entire body; your arms, your legs, even your stomach felt the presence of evil grow stronger as you came closer and closer to the bar and your stomach dropped.

"Sam," you whispered, speeding up your steps a bit until you were just beside him, "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know." His tone was flat but honest. He only sped up his steps and reached out, pulling the bar door open and holding for you a moment before you, too, were standing inside the bar.

Bloodshed. Everywhere.

Your stomach lurched and you brought your hand to your mouth, your nose, in an attempt to keep the raw, coppery smell of blood from making you vomit.

The bartender was sprawled across the bar, a shattered beer bottle still in his hand, which had been detached from his body and sat on the ground. Several biker men were sprawled around a pool table with sticks through their chests, cuts on their necks, some of their eyes still opened and fixed with an expression of sheer horror as if they were still alive and purposely holding them. The walls were covered in blood and you could see spatters where you were sure some of the bodies had met their final demise, where heads were cut off, where people had sharp objects stabbed into them, sliced through them.

But that was hardly what caught your attention because, instead, your eyes fixed on the piano that sat in the corner of the establishment, at which sat a man with perfectly kempt hair—hair that you had seen and commented on only hours before—a t-shirt covered with a blood spattered button-down shirt, jeans that were now more red than they were blue. Plunk, plunk, his fingers played one note after another on the piano while his other and brought a beer bottle to his lips and took a drink, his eyes only leaving the piano after he picked up on your obviously audible gasp.