The Sastiel fandom couldn’t even get a breath in before Dean came back.

I see no difference. Just three Dads and their foster son

Writers: Lucifer and Michael are gone

Me:

These two gifs have the same energy

Legend states

That if you say Supernatural three times, someone from the fandom will appear with a completely relevant gif. Let’s try it.

Supernatural

Supernatural

Supernatural

All of Hell (Part 3) - Supernatural Reader Insert

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: language, talk of drinking/alcohol, talk of nightmares and hell, PTSD symptoms, unintended violence 

Word count: 2579

A/N: Okay, here’s chapter three. I hope y’all enjoy it! I had a lot of fun writing this one. It just seemed to come easily while writing :) Once again, thank you @avanatural (my amazing beta!) for reading this over!

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As much as you’d hoped things would start to return to normal now that the ‘team’ had been reunited, it quickly became apparent that normal wasn’t a word you’d be able to use anymore. You had noticed almost right away that Sam was different, although you couldn’t quite put a finger on why. It was just something in him that you felt was off, completely unlike the man you’d known him to be only months prior. The Sam you knew was buried somewhere deep inside and the facade of what he thought was ‘normal’ was tenuous at best.

Dean had changed too, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. You hadn’t thought much of it at first; the fixation on finding the thing that pulled him out seemed rational. After all, that thing, that angel, had altered the course of his life. But it was so much more than that too. A toxic mix of self-hatred, guilt and shame churned just below the surface and Dean hid it the only way he knew how - with alcohol, effortless lies, and sarcastic wit. 

“Dean, are you okay?” You question softly, your hand resting gently on his arm. His viridescent eyes bore into yours, emotion crackling in their depths. 

“Of course Y/N. Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks, a humorous lit to his voice as if he had no clue why you’d be asking him that. He gives you that coy smile, the one that always manages to make you forget how to speak, leaving your mind blank.

You stumble over your words as you try to gather your thoughts. “Dean…you’ve been through a lot and I just want to-” 

He interrupts you. “I told you. I don’t remember anything.” His words leave no room for further discussion as he speeds up his gait, leaving you struggling to keep up. He quickly crosses the small, dark motel parking lot, water splashing up from the pavement as he moves. 

He roughly pushes open the door, slamming it back against the wall of the small, dingy motel room. Sam lifts his head up from where he’d been bent over his laptop, narrowly missing getting hit by the car keys Dean throws onto the table. 

“What’s up with you?” Sam asks, his eyebrow quirked up in confusion at his brother’s behavior. Dean doesn’t reply, opting instead for grabbing the half-full bottle of whiskey next to the TV and taking it to the other twin bed. He takes a heavy swig from it as he settles against the cheap headboard. You let out a small sigh, taking a seat next to Sam at the table.  

“Piss off Sam.” Dean snarls, taking another long pull from the bottle, grabbing the remote from the nightstand and turning on a random ball game. Sam gives you a look over the top of his laptop before he closes it and stands. 

“I’m going to head out and grab some dinner. Anything you guys want?” Sam addresses both of you but his kaleidoscopic eyes are on you. You give him as much of a smile as you can muster, along with a soft shake of your head. 

“Whatever man,” Dean says apathetically, his eyes not leaving the TV as he finishes off the bottle of alcohol.  Sam gives him a long look before grabbing his jacket off the back of the cheap, wood panel chair and the keys to the Impala.

“I’ll be back in a bit.” Sam says soft enough so only you can hear him. “Try to talk to him. He always did open up better for you.”

You give him a subtle nod, your eyes already going back to settle on Dean. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes focused on the TV, and you can’t quite tell if he is ignoring you or is really interested in the baseball game. 

“Never pegged you for a sports junkie.” You call out, catching Dean’s attention. 

He gives you an overly exaggerated eye-roll as he reaches for a warm, unopened beer on the nightstand, cracking it open before returning his attention to the TV.

You let out a soft sigh as you stand from your spot at the table, slowly making your way to the unoccupied side of the bed Dean was lying on. You settle in against the headboard, your eyes on Dean, instead of the TV. You don’t miss the tension sitting in his shoulders or the bags under his eyes. The longer you look at him, the more you realize those months away had aged him. He no longer looked like the young, carefree hunter he once had been. This Dean looked like, well, like he had barely survived everything hell had to throw at him. 

As much as you wanted to get Dean to talk about it, to help him find something that served as an outlet for those feelings he denied existed, you knew that sometimes, all you could give him was the quiet assurance of your presence.

You had had a naïve notion that finding the being that pulled Dean from hell would help relieve some of the tension hanging over the three of you, but it hadn’t. In fact, discovering the existence of angels had created more questions than it had answered. 

“How can you just buy the crap he’s saying?” Dean raises his voice as his gaze shifts from Bobby, to Sam, to you. “C’mon, angels aren’t real.”

“Don’t you want to believe that all this, the years of hunting, of no recognition, of barely scraping by were for some bigger reason?” You question, your eyes searching his as you look for even a glimmer of understanding. The barely restrained anger continues to blaze behind his eyes, yet you continue. “Dean, for the first time in years, I feel that it’s not all meaningless. I have hope.” You pause, needing to take a deep breath to calm that rush of emotions rising in your chest. “Why don’t you?”

“Because hope doesn’t exist. It’s all a lie.” He gruffs out, his pessimistic and unbelieving tone fracturing your already fragile heart. “The only one you can ever trust is yourself.” 

You reach out a hand to brush back the lock of hair that had fallen down over his forehead. “You know that isn’t true Dean. Somewhere in you lies that hope. All you have to do is trust a little.” You whisper, giving him a small smile before taking a step back. There was that part of you that knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dean believed. 

And the longer it took for Dean to return to ‘normal’, the more frustrated Sam became. You could see it in the words that Sam could barely restrain himself from saying. It was in the skeptical set of his brow, every time he watched Dean down half a bottle of whiskey in a short amount of time. It was in that question that he’d been asking Dean on repeat since Dean had returned; “Are you okay?” And every time, Dean managed to talk his way out of Sam’s concern, brushing it off with a loud laugh or a sarcastic reply.

And one day, on the drive back to Bobby’s after a long hunt, it happened. Sam had had enough; he so clearly wanted his brother back and he was done waiting for Dean to return to who he’d been before hell.

“Dude, you look like shit,” Sam says, watching as Dean climbs behind the wheel of the Impala. Dean doesn’t respond; instead, he fires up the engine, revving it loudly a few times before easing it out of the parking spot in front of the motel. Dean doesn’t crank up the radio like he usually does once the blacktop is rolling smoothly underneath the rubber of the tires, a sign in itself that worries you. 

“Must’ve been the nightmares. You were pretty loud last night.” Sam presses, turning his body towards Dean. You can see the tension set in Dean’s shoulders and you bite your lip, hoping that Sam doesn’t push it. 

Dean doesn’t respond, instead he reaches forward and cranks on the radio, Foreigner blasting from the speakers loud enough to drown out any attempts at conversation. Sam is quiet for a beat or two before he leans forward and shuts it off.

“Dude, ignoring it isn’t going to help.” Sam says abruptly, his tone a bit more gruff than it had been a moment before. 

Dean gives Sam a wordless look, his brow set in bored exasperation as his attention returns to the road. “I told you, I don’t remember anything.” He says firmly, although you don’t believe a word.

Sam doesn’t either apparently, as he continues. “Dean, that’s bullshit and you know it. Something happened down there, something you remember and don’t want to talk about.” He exclaims loudly, slamming a hand against the dash. 

“Sam, that’s enough.” You say stiffly, noticing the way Dean was currently clenching his jaw, his hands tight around the steering wheel and his shoulders tight with tension. You want to reach forward and run a hand across his shoulders in an attempt to erase that rigidity. More than that, you want to be able to take him into your arms and erase the memories that have haunted him since returning. 

Sam turns to look at you, eyes steely in a way you hadn’t seen before. “I’m not just going to leave it Y/N. He’s obviously hiding something and I’m not going to gullibly take it like you do.” He hisses at you, frustration leaking through his voice. You are taken back by his words, unsure of how to respond. 

“Enough.” Dean snaps, causing both of you to look at him. “Both of you, shut up. I’ve had it. No more talking.” His words are harsh, but you know better than to push it right now. So you lean back against the leather seat and close your eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. You aren’t that upset that he snapped at you, but rather his rejection of your attempt to help him, to protect him (even if it was from his own brother) hurt. It hurt, knowing that Dean was hurting and you couldn’t help him, that he wouldn’t let you help him. You tuck your legs up underneath you as you let out a small sigh, your gaze wandering to the window to look at the stars shining in the dark sky. The miles pass slowly as you desperately try to come up with some answer to the whole situation.

Dean pulls into Bobby’s yard an hour or so later, the headlights briefly illuminating the path to the house before the entire yard goes dark. The three of you remain quiet as bags are grabbed from the trunk and you wearily make your way to your rooms. You hesitate at the door of the room you and Dean share, unsure if he wants you in the room with him after what happened in the car. 

“What are you waiting for sweetheart? Open the door.” Dean’s gruff, tired voice pulls you out of your indecision as you step forward, pushing the door of the darkened room open. You shuffle forward, stopping only long enough to drop your duffel on the floor before shedding your dirt-stained jeans and wrinkled top, exchanging them for the large T-shirt and flannel lying near your side of the bed.

You crawl into bed after that, too tired to care about finishing the rest of your nightly routine, opting instead for the warmth of the bed. The bedspread is pulled over you and tucked into your side, causing you to sleepily open your eyes.

“G’night sweetheart,” Dean says, his mesmerizing hazel eyes gentle, a sharp contrast to the empty, hard eyes that had stared back at you from the rearview mirror only hours before. 

“G’night Dean.” You mumble, your body already half asleep as the exhaustion of the day wears down on you. You feel his hand come to gently cup your face, a thumb running slowly over your cheekbone as you fade away.

Movement in the bed next to you wakes you up in the dark, early hours of the morning. You blink a few times, trying to orient yourself when you feel Dean turn over roughly beside you, muttering a few incoherent words as he does. “Dean…Dean.” You call, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, in an attempt to wake him up. 

Before you can even register what’s happening, Dean is on top of you, his solid weight pressing you deep into the mattress, an arm heavy against your throat, cutting off the air to your lungs. You try to push him off, try to tell him to stop, but all you can do is flail your arms about helplessly; the lack of air causing your vision to become fuzzy. You see, through the growing haze coming over vision, as the heavy fog of his nightmare lifts, the realization of what he’s doing reaches his eyes before he scrambles off of you.

You pull yourself up into a sitting position, coughing occasionally as you regain your breath. When you can breathe normally again, you scan the room looking for Dean. You find him standing stock-still near the door, about as far away from the bed as he could be while still being in the room.

You climb out of bed, wrapping Dean’s flannel, the one you’d been sleeping in since he ‘died’, tighter around yourself as you slowly walk up to him. “Dean?” You ask, tentatively reaching out a hand towards his arm. He jerks backward before you can touch him. 

“Don’t.” His voice is thick, almost gravelly as his gaze meets yours. His emerald eyes are swirling with a wild combination of emotions, of which the easiest to identify is guilt. A heavy ache settles in your chest as you realize that Dean was already blaming himself for what happened.

“Dean, this wasn’t your fault.” You say, your tone low, but firm in an attempt to make him understand. “You were having a nightmare. I shouldn’t have tried to-”

He cuts you off almost immediately. “Stop. I almost choked you to death and you’re blaming yourself? I almost killed you, one of the only truly good things in my life.” His voice is dark in a way you thought he reserved solely for talking of the repulsive creatures you hunted. You realize with a start that he didn’t think himself any better than those monsters.

“I need some air.” He spits out as he turns and practically flees from the bedroom, leaving you standing by yourself in the dark. You hear the loud purr of an engine down in the yard a few moments later, an engine you know could only belong to Baby and you reluctantly climb into bed, intent on waiting up for him until he returns. 

You lay alone for hours, straining to hear the warm chug of a downshifting engine, marking his return to the shabby farmhouse. It never comes. Instead, you spend the rest of the night in bed, surrounded by his smell, but unable to feel him. It serves as a cruel reminder to only a few short weeks ago when you’d thought that the last physical thing you’d have to remind you of Dean was the scent that lingered on his pillow.

Tagging: @akshi8278​@fae-sedai​@winchest09​@deanwanddamons​@thisiscalm-andits-doctor​@avanatural​@fandom-princess-forevermore​

IM LAUGHING SO HARD

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‘Cause we CAN hear this image (¬‿¬)

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One year ago

And we love you Misha

Sounds familiar

The best thing ever

That’s magic

Boom b1tch

At what cost?

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I know I shouldn’t laugh but… I’m a bad person

Literally me at school

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