Tough Love ✔️

Broken Outside, Crumbling Within

You faded in and out of consciousness with every awful thing they did to you. It was just ... words couldn't describe the pain, the burning sensation all over, the dull headache turning into a sweeping wave of agony inside the mind.

You didn't know how long you'd been awake. Or since you'd been abducted. Or how long you'd been in the company of two plotting, murderous demons.

You didn't know if Sam and Dean would be looking for you. If they knew you were missing, even.

You didn't know how long it would take to be rescued. Rescued. A week or two ago you'd have barred that option out and gritted your teeth and never took help from a stranger - you were a hunter, a female hunter, it was almost unbearable to deal with the sexism around your job title at The Road House (unless Jo was home, then you were half-okay).

Rescued.

You must had said that aloud through the disgusting gag, because the next thing you heard was, "not gonna happen, darlin'," the male demon barked. His snarl was almost inhuman. It made you want to shrink into the chair you were bound to and cry, like the snivelling three year old torture made you.

"Hey!" You heard a voice pierce the thin consciousness you had, "Dickbag!"

You watched as two men barged through the house, and watched in almost slow motion the commotion that took place. The smaller of the two, green eyes alive and bright, had a relatively small handgun tucked into his waistband, and the taller, a massive flagon of a clear substance.

And as soon as they appeared to be there, you felt a wave of the cold water wash over your entire body, stinging as it got into the little - and large - cuts and slices they had given you. But what got you to stay awake was the sound of the sizzling of flesh and you saw the demons beside you snarling, about to protest something nasty would come for these two people, the taller of the two ... you remembered his name, Sam, Sam Winchester ... pulled an ugly old book from his back pocket and began to chant in a language you weren't able to understand at all.

Latin. That's what it was. The dead language.

"______?" You heard someone call out, and you opened your eyes just wide enough with the throbbing inside of you and outside of you to see it was the shorter of the two men, and that he was rushing to you, "dammit, _______, this is why we didn't want to bring you on this case," you heard him murmur as he slid a knife under the ropes that bound you and undid the gag.

Once your mouth was freed you managed to speak, though your throat was dry and rasped like sandpaper. "D-dean?" You whispered hoarsely. "Don't..." You took a deep breath, "don't send me back to Bobby's. He'll... tear shreds off...me."

From the other side of the room you heard the screams of the possessed people and the evaporation of the demons.

You felt your body picked up, a crumbled version of the bridal style position in his arms, and felt yourself fall into the hands of the darkness. It was a nice change to the noise, that horrible tribunal that you had been through.

You deserved a little rest.

"Don't fall asleep, no, no, no," you heard Dean say, and you jolted awake suddenly. At that you stared into his eyes and almost fell within their orb like boundaries and you gasped. "______, stay with me."

You wanted to fall asleep, but you couldn't. Not while he had captured in his gaze.

"Dean, get ______ out of here," you heard Sam order, and you felt your body jostled by Dean and moving, you ached to fall asleep.

"Don't go," you croaked to Dean, staring up into his eyes. The rest of the world was fuzzy, increasingly blurry, but Dean was the focal point, the constant factor.

"I won't, I promise," he agreed, "just don't fall asleep."

You nodded, and time blurred together - and suddenly you felt yourself lowered into the backseat of the Impala, and head resting in the lap of Dean. The engine roared, and the voice of Sam Winchester came from the driver's spot, asking something about which hospital and whether or not you were going to be okay for two miles.

"Dean, I'm not going to die," you announced, focusing on his concerned frown as it loomed over your face.

"How are you so sure?" He asked, and you weren't absolutely 100% sure if he was smiling or not, amused or serious.

You have a huff, a laugh you wished you could have fleshed out into a proper giggle but couldn't have because from what those demons did to you, especially to your stomach.

"I'm not going to die looking like this, it's pathetic," you coughed, "and not my style," you frowned. "And never, ever will I die without you in the front seat. Just ... just wouldn't be right."

You heard a chuckle from the front seat, and saw a smile crawl onto the face of Dean Winchester.

"That's what I like about you, ______. You got priorities."