Righteous Monsters 【Dean Winchester x Reader】

𝔦. 𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔯

The heavy click of a cocking gun interrupts your careful work. The food begins bleating at something behind you. Realizing you let dinner distract you from your surroundings, a short breath betrays your irritation. The bleating begins to grate, so you grab its chin, forcing it to look down and into your eyes. Your will pushes outward as you insist, "Quiet."

The pleas stop.

"Neat trick. But I'm not getting the impression there's a safe word involved."

Hmph. The cockiness of the words and man voicing them reminds you too much of your older brother. You glance over your shoulder. Two men inch across the warehouse floor, the large guns in their steady hands raised and pointing your way.

They know enough to approach cautiously but threaten you with a couple of handguns? They don't seem bothered by the sight of a man chained and hanging from the ceiling, IVs dangling from both arms and filling several bags full of blood. Perhaps they're used to suppressing their reactions to such a sight. Their clothes, all denim and flannel, tell you they're not federal agents. Local detectives?

Either way, your meals been interrupted. Turning around, you lay the scalpel on the end of an abandoned conveyer belt where you've carefully lined up the rest of your antique surgical kit. A bit of blood drips from the blade to the metal top, marring its recently wiped surface. The sight pulls the corners of your lips down.

You lift your attention from the newly made mess to eye the guns. "Those won't help you."

The one approaching from your right answers with an easy, "Wanna bet, sweetheart?"

Oh, yes. Just like Damon.

The crack thunders through the factory's empty shell, echoing all the way to the exposed steel rafters. The noise sparks your instinct to move, and you manage to do so fast enough that the bullet smashes into your shoulder instead of your chest. At first, it's just a punch that knocks you aside. Then the nerves seem to catch up and start burning.

Bullets shouldn't hurt like this.

The pain sizzles into your brain and makes it hard to see or think of anything but your shoulder. Trying to realign, the broken bones grind around the bullet. Gritting your teeth, you flash a far darker, narrow-eyed glare at the man who'd fired the gun and push your fingers into the ragged tear of flesh. A low hiss escapes as your fingertips dig into the meat around your clavicle, nails scraping along its cracked edges. Finally, you feel the smooth curve of something small and round and waste no time yanking it free. Panting as shallowly as you can so they don't notice, your gaze flickers down to your bloody fingertips, a darkened bullet pinched between your fingers.

Wood.

Your mind whirls as you quickly recalculate the two men staring at you without a hint of alarm. You can hear their calm, steady hearts beating. They're alive.

With deliberate movements, you lay the bullet onto the belt, ignoring the new drops of blood clinging to the rubber. "Who are you?"

"Name's Dean." He's confident but controlled. Not so much like Damon, then.

"Dean," you echo, tasting the name. It fills your mouth well. "You know what I am."

"We know you're some kind of freak, sure."

Rude. It's sad you never learned how to throw knives. A scalpel through the eye would serve him right. Crossing your arms, you fix your driest look—boredom with a hint of cocked eyebrow—at the smarmy one.

The larger of the pair has yet to say anything. His eyes remain alert, brows wrinkled together as he tracks you with his gun. He's moving left, maybe for your meal. You'd be interested in how he plans to free it. You bent the links around its arms, no key involved.