I Don't Bite [Dean Winchester x Reader]

Burning Bridges and Houses

"You're antsy again."

I lifted my head slightly, cocking it in the direction of the wiry truck driver. My gaze remained fixed out the window, although my attention was on him. I had given up traveling on foot, the fear of this rival pack far overwhelmed my fear of federal authorities tracking me.

"Look kid, I don't know what you're trying to run from, but it can't possibly be worth all this shuffling," he mused, running a thick hand through his wiry, black beard. I frowned and twisted in my seat to face out the front window once more. "I swear, I've lost count of how many times you've checked behind us in the last five minutes," he added with a morbid chuckle.

"I've just got a lot on my mind," I murmured and folded my arms over my chest, huddling into my seat in the massive semi. He was kind and genuinely worried, but I didn't want to divulge more than I had to.

Nine days of running. Nine days of radio silence, fights, bruises, blood, and death. They just kept coming - I had given up on killing them. It was no use and only gave the next wave more time to catch up. After days of minimal sleep, I gave up trying to travel on foot. It wasn't safe, traveling publicly as a known associate of the now infamous Winchesters, but what did I have to lose?

"I can tell," the trucker replied and smacked his gums, holding back the wave of curiosity that no doubt was threatening to spill over. It wasn't every day that a woman with a child's backpack, expensive cutlery, and bruises everywhere asked for a ride. "If you need somewhere safe to lie low-"

"-I don't," I cut him off and winced at my harsh tone. I cleared my throat and fixed my posture, hoping that I looked a bit less passive-aggressive. He didn't deserve my anger. "I just need to keep moving."

"Right," he answered in a gravelly tone, scratching the back of his neck nervously. She seemed like a nice enough girl, but it was moments like that, when she lashed out, that had him questioning. It wasn't often a young woman willingly got into a truck like this - it was even less often for the driver to be so unnerved. He wasn't sure if it was the mud, dirt, and what looked like dried blood on her clothes, or if it was the look of terror in her eyes at the slightest movement on the side of the road.

I glanced one last time over my shoulder, peering into the distance. The fog was rolling in fast, seemingly chasing us down the interstate. Each time I saw the glare of headlights in the distance I flinched, hoping to whatever god might be listening that it wasn't the Tervuren.

There was a time before meeting the Winchesters that I would have been fine with dying. I had no living family, no friends, just Dennis' old house and truck, and a nasty alpha that demanded submission from everyone. I wasn't opposed to death then - there was nothing keeping me rooted in this life anyway. I never chased the feeling, but it lingered.

Now, I was terrified of dying. I had people that loved and depended on me - a ramshackle family that wanted me - needed me around. I had people I loved, something I had never expected to happen again. The number of close calls over the past week had me reeling. I wasn't ready to die, not yet. And yet, this bastard was so intent on ending me. It was a terrifying feeling, seeing snapping jaws aimed right at your throat, thinking there was no way to escape them.

I didn't want to die, but there were several times over the past few days that I was certain I was about to.

I dug my back into the seat and pulled my knees towards my chest, crushing myself tightly into the cramped space. My stomach curled in on itself, harsh stabs of pain worming beneath my skin. When was the last time I had eaten something that wasn't human food? It had been so long since I had eaten a heart, the very thing that sustained skinwalkers. I winced at the thought, the sound of the kind man's heartbeat growing louder at the thought's persistence. I shook my head, clearing my mind.