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Burnt Up: SPN Family x Reader

After the overwhelming support from all of you, I've decided to continue these Imagines! Hope you enjoy this sad one. Don't worry, a happy Dean one is up next.

Your depression was not a secret. Your brothers and Cas knew about it, and fully supported you.

You were doing ok. You went to therapy every 2 weeks and you took daily meds to ease your mind and help you sleep.

Your boys always wanted to talk about it, thinking it would help. And it might've, had you known what to talk about. It was hard to describe what you were feeling when you didn't even know yourself.

The best way you could portray your feelings was through your writing. Your most prized possession was a small journal with a worn brown cover. It was the last thing your mother gave you.

It was full of daily entries, poems, and stories. Every feeling and emotion you ever had, you wrote down in that journal.

You were sitting in the living room of the bunker, drinking tea and watching the morning news. You liked to stay up to date with what was going on in the outside world, and you took every chance to act like a normal human being who didn't fight off monsters and demons.

Your peaceful morning was interrupted by your brothers shrill voice, "(Y/N) did you take my leather jacket again?"

You rolled your eyes. Dean could barely go one day without that thing.

"It's somewhere in my room! Just go get it!" You called back.

The bunker became silent one again and you sighed in content.

Your tea was gone and the news was over, and you were on your way to wash your mug when you heard slow footsteps.

You turned and Dean appeared from the doorway, his face pale.

You looked him up and down, searching for an injury. You found nothing, but in his hand was a thick, leather bound journal.

Your breath caught, and you set your mug down before you dropped it.

"What are you doing with that?" You voice was tight, eyes glued to that book, your book.

"I was looking for my jacket and I found this in your closet," his voice was shaky, "I thought it was one of dads journals so I started reading it."

You reached forward and snatched the book from his hands.

"This is my personal property." Your voice was wavering, lips wobbling as you fought off tears.

Dean took a step towards you, a hand reaching out.

You slapped it away from you and ran past him.

"(Y/n)!"

You ignored his calls as you slammed your bedroom door shut and locked it.

"(Y/n!) Let me in! I just wanna talk!"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" You screamed.

The bunker went quiet except for your sobs as you cried into your pillow.

That journal was the last private thing you had. The one place you could put down anything and not be judged.

And Dean read it.

You heard Dean sit down and lean on your door.

You wiped your face on your sleeve and grabbed your journal.

"Please let me in, I just want to talk about it." Dean said softly.

You barely heard him.

You began ripping the pages out of your journal, your face stone cold. You felt nothing anymore, like a switch had gone off. You were nothing now.

You ripped every last piece of paper out and crumbled them.  You piled them in the middle of your room and dug a lighter out of your dresser.

You flicked it on and stared at the flickering flame for a couple minutes. Then you leaned down and set the papers on fire.

Dean was still whispering and asking you to let him in; you blocked him out.

You curled up in bed and watched the papers burn. The flames reflected off your eyes, and your room was cast in an eery yellow light.

You were just like the papers you had carelessly ripped up and burned; you were worth nothing. And so fragile, all it took was a flame and you would burn up.

You burnt up.