Supernatural Oneshots | ✓

"She Died Last Year" {Winchesters}

Prompt inspiration: n/a

Prompt: n/a

Summary/prompt change: You'd been dead for nearly a year, but the shapeshifter hadn't known that. She just knew that you were the only thing that was on the minds of the Winchester brothers.

Dean nearly–how had you always put it?–jumped out of his skin when he and Sam came back to the motel from a particularly brutal hunt late at night to find you lounging on one of the beds. They were pretty bloody and beaten, but they'd done most of the patching up in the Impala right after the hunt. Sam had admitted to missing when it was you that would tend to their wounds, smacking away their hands when they would try to help or check you for the source of the blood staining your skin.

Sam froze in the doorway, the only possible description for his expression being horrified. Dean thought he saw a tear slip down his younger brother's cheek, but it could have easily been a trick of the dim light.

You glanced up from the book in your hands. When you saw that it was them, your face broke into a grin. You set the book aside and stood fast, rushing over to them. "You're back!" You sounded relieved, like you'd been sitting there since they'd left and had been anxiously waiting their return. Dean knew that tone all too well–he'd heard it so often that not hearing it had felt wrong. You face quickly fell. "Oh, God. Dean." You started towards him and reached out, your fingers trailing over his forehead. He knew he'd been cut there, but he'd only had the chance to get the bleeding to stop. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Dean took a step back, but it was Sam that spoke. "This isn't possible." He said. "You're not her."

You looked between the brothers, confused. "Sammy, what are you talking about?"

"That's two." Dean said.

"Two?" You cocked your head to the side. "Two what?"

"Strikes." Dean explained. "You see, we've barely been here five minutes and you've already made two mistakes. First, you started to panic. Y/N never panicked over injuries, even when Sam was on the brink of death. Two, she never sat on a bed and read. Always at the table or on the couch, or the floor, if it came to that. She didn't read on the bed because she always ended up falling asleep."

"Technically three, then." Sam said. "She never would have called me Sammy. It was always either Sam or Winchester. She didn't like intimate things because it created attachments, and we all knew that any type of alliance or friendship in hunting can very easily be temporary."

"Let's not forget that she died last year." Dean added.

You laughed. "Guys, really? Come on. We all know that it takes a whole hell of a lot more than a little hellhound to kill me."

"Strike four." Dean said. "Y/N was killed by a daeva. Good try, though."

You shook your head. "You're remembering it all wrong, Dean." You smiled. "It was a hellhound."

"You're right." Sam said. Dean shot him a hard look. Sam knew just as well as Dean did that you were killed by a daeva–Sam had lit a flare to keep them at bay while you died slowly, choking on your own blood. Dean could picture it as clearly as if it had happened moments ago–your face, clearly outlined in the bright white like, a thin line of blood, black in the brightness, trailing down your cheek from your mouth as your head fell to the side. He'd never seen your eye color so clearly before then. "Y/N, do me a favor?"

"What?"

He held out his hand. "Can you take this chain off my wrist? It's really annoying me, and I can't get it off." He shrugged. "Twisted wrist."

Dean realized what he was doing. You'd come up with the clever idea after the first hunt you'd gone on with them. You had a bracelet that you always wore, made of both silver and iron, that you always used to test to make sure that someone wasn't anything other than human. It had saved you from an almost sure death at the hands of a wraith once, and it had saved Sam and Dean more times than they could count. After you'd been separated on hunts, you always made sure to check the others' with the bracelets.

You shrugged. "Sure." The usual gleam in your eye at the bracelets' mention was not there, and Dean noticed that no chain adorned your wrists. Strike five.

Dean watched as you carefully pushed back Sam's sleeve. Sam swallowed hard, his eyes flicking over to Dean, who was sliding a hand into his coat for his gun.

You gasped and recoiled, fingertips bright red. Your eyes were wide as you stared at Sam. "What the hell was that?"

Sam pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans. "Strike six." Sam said. He flicked off the safety and pointed the gun at you. Dean aimed at you as well, lining up a good shot.

"You skipped five, dumbass."

"No," Dean said. "Five was you not wearing your bracelet. Y/N never would've taken hers off."

"Six is that you failed the test." Sam told you. He was grinning. "Iron and silver are a real bitch, aren't they?"

Your eyes flashed. "You're so going to pay for that one."

"Don't bet on it." Dean said. "Can I shoot her now?"

"You can't shoot me." The shapeshifter cackled. "I look too much like your precious Y/N. You could never kill her."

"You want to bet?" Dean flicked off the safety and rested his finger on the trigger. "I've held a gun to her head for less. But you would know that, wouldn't you?"

"Her thoughts are getting clearer." Your head tilted to the side. "You know, I never would have guessed that she was dead. I thought you two were just obsessed with her. Not that I could blame you."

"And how would you know any of this?" Sam asked.

"Easy," you shrugged, tossing your hair back and smiling. "I shifted into you both to get an idea of what I should be doing. Funny how you both still sort of blame yourselves for what happened to her, but you never once had a thought of her death, isn't it? You'd think that'd be at the forefront of your thoughts."

"You think there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of her death?" Sam laughed humorlessly. "I think of it every damn day."

"You should." You said. "It was your fault. If she were alive, I bet she'd blame you. I bet–"

"I don't care." Dean said. "She isn't alive." He didn't realize that he'd pulled the trigger until you fell backwards onto the bed, blood leaking from a wound in your forehead.

Dean thought that maybe he should be hurting or upset, but he couldn't feel anything. He stuck his gun back into his jacket and started packing things up. "We're leaving."

"Yeah." Sam agreed. "Yeah, let's do that."

Dean paused, looking over at Sam. "Don't you think it's funny?"

"What?"

Dean grinned slowly. "Y/N always used to tell me that I was too much of a pansy to pull the trigger on her if I ever needed to." He gestured towards your dead body. "And look at where we are now."

Sam was fighting back a smile. He shook his head and shoved another shirt into a bag. "You're ridiculous, Dean."