Broken Apart (Dean Winchester x Reader)

Worse than a Nightmare

After Sam had left, you and Dean stood staring at each other awkwardly, neither one ready to make the first move.

Dean spoke first. "So, how do you feel?" 

You shrugged, not feeling too horrible, minus the headache and dizziness that were currently reeling around in your brain. "Well, you're still you. And the good you."

He shook his head. "I'm not good. I'm just me." And you knew he believed what he said.

"Dean, listen to me. I know that you've done things you're not proud of, we all have. But you have done a hell of a lot more good than most people." You told him, knowing it would take multiple attempts before he would believe this about himself.

He just nodded, ending the conversation without any further comments. You watched as he sat down on the bed, stretching his legs out in front of him. Standing in the same spot, you fiddled with your fingers, not sure what to do. Maybe you should follow Sam's advice, locking yourself into the bathroom before things became worse. But you didn't really want to be alone, because it seemed like when you were alone the worst things happened. 

"Are you just going to stand there?" Dean asked, patting the spot on the bed next to him, and you smiled at him, before sinking into the spot. He held his arm up as you got comfortable, before wrapping it around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his chest. Once the two of you were situated, he raised the remote and turned the TV on, settling on an episode of Dr. Sexy, MD. 

"Really Dean?" You asked, amused, tilting your head to glance into his eyes.

He looked down at you, his  green eyes twinkling with mischief. "You know you love this show as much as I do." He teased you.

You shrugged, before settling back against his chest, watching the cheesy show. Before you knew it the show was over, and nothing freaky had happened to you.

"Sammy should be almost done by now, I would think." Dean said, as you stood up stretching.

"I sure hope so." You answered, heading for the bathroom. But as the door grew closer, it turned fuzzy. Shaking your head to clear your vision, you gasped in shock when it was no longer the motel bathroom, instead the mustard yellow walls of your room at the club were in front of you.

No!" You sobbed, turning around to see you were once again fully in your old room. Glancing down, you noticed you were once again in the revealing uniform the club had made you wear. Your heart beating so fast you thought it would pop out of your chest, you backed up as far as you could before you were pressed against the wall. 

It was then you noticed you weren't alone, a figure stood in the shadowy corner of the room across from you, and you could just make out the way his arms were crossed against his chest, and the dangerous glint of his eyes.

"No, your not real. This is because of the Wraith." You kept repeating over and over, but nothing changed. 

"Sweetheart, this is no dream. And I am most assuredly real. I can show you." The man in the corner said, his voice deep and sinister. He stepped out of the shadows and made his way towards you, and you felt your breath catch.

He was tall, almost as tall as Sam. But where Sam was long and lean, this man was built, every inch of him covered in muscle. You remembered him from your time at the club. He was a Demon, who had borrowed a biker's skin, and had a thing for you. There had been many times he had paid extra, just to have some alone time with you in your room, and after he had left, you had been given multiple days off to recover.

"No, I don't do this anymore!" You yelled, trying to run past him, but his hand reached out, grasping your arm. "Please! I can't handle this again!" You plead, your fingernails scraping at his hand, but he was too strong for you, his grip too tight.

"Shut up bitch." He growled, before throwing you down on the bed, pulling off his tight black t-shirt. While the shirt was over his head, you scrambled off the bed, rushing towards the door. Pulling against the handle, you realize they had locked you in. 

The Demon, whose name was Jake, stood there, watching you with an amused smile on his face. "Are you going to keep fighting? Because I don't mind, in fact it makes it even more enjoyable for me."

Tears pouring down your face, you glance frantically around the room, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. But the people in charge of the club searched your room everyday, making sure there were no weapons, or anything else they didn't like.

He slowly moved forward, teasing and torturing you with his slow movement, and you turned to head for you bathroom, hoping there was a lock on the door. As soon as you reached the door frame, a hand grasped your shoulder, pulling you back against a hard chest.

"Y/N, it's time to quit playing. I only paid for an hour." He whispered into your ear, before pulling you back with him. He threw you back down on the bed, before straddling your hips with his own, reaching up to grasp your shirt. 

"No!" You yelled, scratching at his face.

This time you were able to dig deeper, and soon you had blood pouring from multiple wounds on his face. "You slut, you asked for it now." He threatened, before raising his arm and bringing it down, slapping you.

Turning your head so the heated skin was pressed against the cool pillow, you became still, hoping he would hurry up and get it over with. 

"Come on sweetheart, aren't you going to fight me?" He whispered, before licking the skin below your ear. It made you shudder, and he smiled again, before moving down, before pulling a knife from his pants, using it to cut your shirt open. 

You didn't move, except for your eyes, watching the knife as it moved against your skin, wondering if there was a way you could get it out of his hands. Before you could do anything, he had moved the knife down, pressing it at the top of your jeans.

"Let's get rid of these." He told you, pressing the tip against your bare skin above your jeans. Before he could do anything else, you raised your knee, shoving it as hard as you could against his crotch, and he doubled over, dropping the knife in the process.

Fumbling across the bed, you reached for the knife, grasping it in your hand just as he was able sit up. Growling at you, he didn't notice the knife in your hand. Striding around the bed, he grabbed your arm, pulling you to him just as you moved the knife, and it slid straight into his belly. He looked down at the knife in shock, then at you, and his black eyes slowly turned to a familiar green, his tall and burly frame shortening the slightest, the muscles turning lithe, his bare chest turning into flannel.

The walls behind him turned from the mustard yellow back to the plain tan of the motel room, and you watched in shock as Dean glanced down at his belly, the knife still sticking out, before collapsing onto the floor.