The Man with No Eyes | Dean Winchester x reader

Part 5

"So let me get this straight. You two think that the ghost of a serial killer is in my house, and not only that, but that he tortured people down in that basement?"

The three of you were sitting at your kitchen table with beers in your hands, Sam's eyes constantly flashing between you and whatever new findings he found on his laptop. Dean was sitting beside him with no distraction to keep himself from watching you as much as he pleased. The look in his eyes made you squirm, and whether it was for a good reason or a bad reason, you couldn't really tell. They both seemed to think that this entire situation would be too much for you, that you'd have a mental break down at any second.

Your eyes slowly trained toward the open basement door, the darkness dense and unforgiving inside of it. The most primal of your instincts always told you to avoid that basement, but you'd chalked it up to... well... logical inferences, like the fact you were just a coward when it came to creepy spaces. Your gaze snapped to the giant old lock by the knob, and a shiver ran down your spine. No other door in the house had a lock like that.

"Well yep, that's basically it," Dean sighed through his nose, taking a last gulp of beer and slamming it on the table in confirmation. "No nice way to put it."

"But realtors are required by law to tell you if anyone has died in your house," you insisted, looking for any excuse as to why they would be mistaken. "She would've told me when I took the tour—"

"Well, technically, there's no record of anyone dying in this house," Sam began, "but all of the previous owners have died, and not exactly of natural causes." He quickly typed a few keystrokes and turned the screen to face you.

Multiple windows were pulled up, minimized enough for you to read the headlines for each. They were obituaries, articles. Your frantic eyes scanned line after line—"passed of undetermined causes", "an autopsy will be performed", "all who knew her said she was perfectly happy and healthy", "unexpected tragedy", "loss of a life so young", etc. But then something caught your eye.

"The only markings found on the body were on the face. Scratch marks, deep and bruising, invaded the eyes. The eyeballs were almost completely removed. The scratches were determined to be self-inflicted."

Your heart stopped.

"They all were found here, still alive but in a lot of pain," Sam explained softly. "Some had managed to call 911, others were found by friends or family. They all died in the hospital."

You simply couldn't believe what you were hearing. Your fingers gingerly touched your face, moving over the pink, tender skin. Your hands limply dropped to the table.

"If they all died in the same way, then how did it just go unnoticed?" you questioned, trying to keep your voice steady. "I mean, surely the police looked into it?"

"They did," Dean replied, his deep tone seeking to calm you. His green eyes searched your face. "There wasn't enough evidence. Skin was found under the vic's fingernails. They'd, uh... scratched their own eyes out."

"All of them?"

"Most of them," Sam said, snapping his laptop closed to give you his full attention. "Get this; they weren't all the same. Gregory McPhearson, who lived in this house about 20 years ago, died of a heart attack. And Sarah Parker, who lived here before him, died from blood loss. She'd gotten a steak knife and, well, you can imagine."

"How many owners...?"

"Six," Dean said, "and that's all it's gonna be." He reached across the table and took your clammy hand in his, squeezing it tightly and rubbing soft circles with his rough thumb. His emerald eyes burned brightly and you did your best to hide the fact that your stomach was churning like a stormy sea. "Look, me and Sam, we're gonna protect you. Nothing's gonna happen to you. Not on our watch."