Supernatural Sister Imagines

Imagine #91: The Demon Trials

Just as an aside, you kind of have to know the story of everything Sam went through in season 8 to understand what's happening, so be warned that there may be some S8 spoilers for people who haven't watched it.

Yeet yeet this one's long boys and girls.

This imagine is dedicated to Alxcru158
-----------------------------------

     I suppose, looking back now, it didn't really begin the moment I sent a knife down the length of a hellhound's gut. I didn't really begin the moment I bathed in the blood of an invisible beast. It didn't begin when my body glowed with a godly light and my head swam and my legs gave out. It didn't even really begin when Sam and Dean realized that I had finished the first trial, when they'd hugged me tight and the tears they thought I couldn't see fell upon my scalp. No, it didn't really begin then.

It began the moment I put on those glasses, glazed with holy fire. It began the moment Dean made Sam and I promise that he'd be the one to do the trials. The moment that first dreadful feeling entered my chest and settled like a boulder, unmoving and unbroken.

But it was obvious that Sam and Dean couldn't push the fact away anymore. It was obvious they had to accept that it was me who'd do the trials.

And in all honesty?

I didn't mind.

Even if it killed me.

_*_

"Bobby?" I called to the shadow pressed to the back wall, his head hanging low, his posture slumped and weak. He gave a growl so soft I barely heard it, and my confusion was evident when he turned around and his eyes flamed with anger, of all things.

"Get out." He seethed, his voice quiet and gruff.

I nearly obeyed him. His voice, the bags under his eyes, the dried blood, it terrified me. "Bobby, it's me. It's Y/n. I'm here to send you to Heaven, where you belong."

He snorted, stepping closer. I couldn't help but to stumble backward in fear. "Yeah, right. You're only the fifth Y/n to come in today, blabbing about Heaven. I got news for you, I ain't fallin' for it so you might as well be on your way." He turned back to the wall, his head hanging low.

     My nostrils flared as I gave a silent sigh, my eyes swimming as I took a deep breath. "Bobby, do you remember when I was seven or eight years old, and I was playing outside in the junkyard while you fixed a car and watched me? Do you remember that?"

     He raised his head slightly, but still would not face me, and I knew I had broken the tradition that all of the fake me's had followed. "And one day, you called me over and asked if I wanted to help you fix an old 1978 Ford, a truck. It was red, or at least used to be red, but there was enough rust on it for it to be mistaken for brown. Do you remember that?"

     He turned toward me; not all the way, but enough that I could see half his face. I chuckled as I went on. "And I was angry, I didn't want to help. But I did, and you asked me if I knew what an engine was. You sat there with me that whole day and taught me different things about that damn truck, and when Dean called us inside for dinner I sat at the table and I just blabbered on and on about that truck and about you. Do you remember, Bobby?"

     He mad eye contact with me, his gaze broken, his eyes wet. "Do you remember?"

     "Y/n?" He asked, his voice quieter and smaller than I'd ever heard it. I gave a soft smile.