- Warriors by Imagine Dragons
- Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons
Read Part One Here
Read Part Two Here
Read Part Three Here
Read Part Four Here
“Take them down?” Dean demands, scrambling to his feet to follow Y/n back down the hill. “What do you mean, take them down?”
“Exactly what it sounds like, Winchester,” she replies without looking at him, slinging her rifle onto her back. “It’s not rocket science.”
“It’s not exactly a cakewalk either,” Dean replies. “There were hundreds of them, Y/n. There’s no way we can kill them all. We don’t have the supplies and we sure as hell don’t have the numbers.”
“We don’t have the numbers because my people are trapped in a bunch of fucking animal pens,” Y/n snaps. “And you can damn well bet we’re going to get them out.”
Dean reaches out to catch her arm, jerking her to a stop. “Y/n, you don’t know if-”
“Don’t say it,” she cuts him off. “Don’t you fucking say it.”
“You think I want to?” Dean sighs. “Y/n, look, I know you’re hoping that your people are in that camp, but - but you saw the compound. We all did. It didn’t exactly look like the Zeeks were in a hostage taking mood.”
“Some of them have to be there,” she insists, yanking her arm free. “They can’t - not all - not all of them are dead.”
“And if they’re alive we will find them,” Dean says just as earnestly, putting his hands on her shoulders and shaking her a little. “We will. I promise. But our chances are slim enough as it is. We can’t make it worse by - by picking a war with a fucking Zeek army.”
“I can’t just do nothing,” she snaps. “I won’t just do nothing.”
“And I’m not asking you to!” Dean practically shouts the words. “I’m just asking you to think!”
This seems to get her attention. She freezes, chest still heaving a little, and then slowly the tension starts to drain out of her as she calms.
“You’re right,” she mutters. “I - I’m sorry.”
Dean nods. “I do understand. Don’t get me wrong. Hell, if our positions were reversed, I’d probably be doing the exact same thing.” He shakes his head a little at this, thinking back to his argument with Sam.
They’ve reached the bottom of the hill now, and Dean finds himself looking at a very confused - no, very scared - Jackson.
“What’s going on?” the boy asks quietly, hugging himself and looking at Y/n almost reproachfully.
Y/n pauses when she sees him, and Dean can practically see the gears turning in her head as she decides how much she should tell him. Dean’s not sure what to make of the hardening in her gaze as she crouches down in front of the kid.
“Jackson,” she murmurs, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to be completely honest with you. Okay?”
He nods, eyes wide.
“Your mom? Your friends? The others from the compound? I think I know where they are.”
Jackson’s eyes widen even further, practically the size of dinner plates. “Where are they?”
“They’ve been captured by Zeeks.”
His breath hitches a little. “So we’re going after them?”
Y/n nods. “Yeah. We are. But it isn’t going to be easy. So I need you to promise me that you’re going to do what I tell you. You’re going to do what I say, and you aren’t going to argue with me. Can you promise me that?”
“Good.” Y/n straightens up, brushing her palms off on her jeans and turning to flash Dean a grin that is almost as confident as it would’ve been a couple of days ago. “And with a little luck? Maybe we can pull this off.”
They spend the day scouting.
Y/n leads them on a wide loop around the Zeeks encampment, monitoring patrols, checking out the set up of the pens, trying to find a more definite set of numbers. Dean follows her lead for the most part, letting her do her own thing while he keeps an eye on the kid. He thinks Y/n has calmed down some, at least enough to start coming up with a strategy instead of just barging in, but Dean is still wary.
Better to be safe than sorry.
What concerns Dean the most, and what he thinks is Y/n’s biggest problem, are the scouting patrols the Zeeks keep sending out. Groups of twenty or more leave the camp on a regular basis and patrol the immediate area. They’d seen more than a few come back with more hostages, but that isn’t what frightens Dean the most. What makes his stomach churn is the fact that there are patrols at all. Because that means - well. He’s not sure what it means.
What Dean thinks, and what he’s pretty sure Y/n is thinking as well, is that the Zeeks are getting smarter. From what Y/n’s told him, this isn’t normal behavior. Normally Y/n and her people were the ones playing games, the ones herding the Zeeks, monitoring them, controlling them as best they knew how. The Zeeks were a lot like rabid animals.
But these patrols. These patrols indicate organization, intelligence. It isn’t normal behavior for animals, and taking hostages sure as hell isn’t, either. No. The Zeeks are becoming more intelligent. They’re becoming more organized.
They’re working together.
“Y/n,” Dean says quietly when the sun is starting to sink beneath the horizon.
“What?” she asks without turning, pace barely even slowing.
Dean glances over at Jackson, giving the kid another push as he starts to lag behind a little. “Don’t you think we should stop soon?”
“We don’t have enough information.”
“We have plenty of information,” he replies.
“Come on, Y/n. We’ve timed out the patrols, we’ve gotten the best estimate of the numbers we can get. The only thing left to do is actually storm the place, and there’s no sense in doing that without some sleep. There’s no sense in running ourselves into the ground.” Dean pushes Jackson forward again, unwilling to lose the kid.
Y/n still shows no signs of slowing.
“Y/n, you can’t take on an army by yourself and with no sleep.” He pauses, smirking a little. “Maybe by yourself, but only if you rest up.”
She rolls her eyes, but he knows she’s relenting. “Alright,” she agrees. “Let’s find a spot to camp.”
They end up choosing a spot not too far from there, a copse of trees offering decent cover and well away from where the patrols would be looking.
“Alright,” Y/n begins, setting her pack onto the ground and digging through it. “No fire, it’s too risky. Everyone eat up, stay hydrated. We move in the morning. I’ll take first watch.”
“Maybe I should-” But Dean doesn’t get to finish his question.
“I’ll take watch,” Jackson cuts him off.
Y/n sighs. “Jackson-”
“You’re not going to let me fight,” he continues.
Y/n looks up, surprised.
“You’re not, right?” he prompts. “We both know it. You won’t let me fight. You and Dean are going to go in alone and leave me behind. So the least I can do is keep watch while you guys get some rest.”
“Jackson, you need rest too,” Y/n replies.
“What I need is for you to save my mom.” He glares at them, chest heaving. “I need you to save my mom. I need you to bring her, and everyone else, back alive. Let me do this, Y/n. Let me do this for them.”
Dean keeps his gaze on Y/n, holding his breath.
She stares at Jackson for a long moment, biting her lower lip.
And then she nods. “Alright,” she agrees. “Alright, Jackson, you can take the first watch. But I want you to wake me in three hours, okay? No arguing.”
He nods. “I will.”
Dean watches as Y/n gives the kid her pistol, giving him a few instructions on how to use it before moving a few feet away and curling up on the ground with her back to a tree trunk.
Dean hesitates only for a moment before following, laying down next to her. She opens one eye, studying him.
“Is this okay?” he asks, watching her carefully.
She nods, closing her eyes again. A stray piece of h/c hair is hanging in front of her eyes and he has to fight the sudden urge to brush it away for her.
“Here,” he says after a moment, sitting up and shrugging out of his jacket before draping it over her. “It’s kind of cold.”
She stays still for a long moment before pulling the jacket a little tighter around herself. “Thanks,” she whispers.
“Yeah.” Dean lays on his back, peering up at the inky black sky peeking between the canopy of branches overhead.
“After this,” Y/n murmurs, resting her head on her arms. “After this is over, we’re going to figure out a way to get you back to your own time. I promise. I didn’t think it was going to take this long, but - well. Things happen, I guess.”
If he’s being honest, Dean almost forgot about his lesson. “You have other things to worry about,” he says in reply, voice pitched just as lowly as her’s was.
“True,” she replies, tilting her head to look at him. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. I will help you, Dean.”
He looks down at her, holding her gaze steadily. “Worry about your people, Y/n. I can wait.”
She’s quiet for a little while. “What happens if you die here?” she asks suddenly.
Dean props himself up on one elbow, surprised by her question. “Why would you ask that?”
She lets out a breathy little laugh that doesn’t have much humor in it. “Because tomorrow the two of us are trying to take down an army and we both know the odds aren’t good. So what happens? If you die here, are you just zapped back to your own time?”
He hesitates a little before shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s how it works. I think-” Dean swallows nervously. “I think if I die out here, I’m dead for good.”
She nods like she was expecting that. “Then why are you helping me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’re not from here. You don’t know them. There’s no reason,” she replies. “There’s nothing in it for you besides an increased chance of dying. Anyone else would’ve - would’ve walked away.”
Dean shrugs. “I like a challenge.”
“Be serious with me.”
He sighs, laying back down and rolling to his side so that he’s facing her. “Honestly? I don’t know. This? Saving people? Hunting things? That’s my life. That’s what I do. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I walked away from this.”
“You can’t sleep anyway,” she mutters, and at his surprised expression a blush starts to creep into her cheeks. “You’re not exactly quiet, Dean. You sleep for a couple of hours and then you’re awake the rest of the night.”
He looks down, staring at a blade of grass in his line of sight. “That’s part of the job, too, I guess.”
“Be honest with me,” she says suddenly, and his gaze flicks up to her’s again. “Do you think we can do this? Do you think we can get them out?”
He searches her eyes for a long moment, neither of them sure what he’s looking for. “I think,” he says after a pause, “That if anyone can, it’s you.”
The corner of her mouth pulls up into some semblance of a smile, and he finds himself smiling back.
“Get some sleep, Y/n,” he murmurs. “You’re going to need it.”
She nods. “Yeah, okay, you’re right.” She looks at him then, a question lingering in her gaze, and then she slides closer to him, slinging an arm around his waist and resting her head on his chest. “I’m cold,” she mumbles as an excuse, pushing her face into the fabric of his shirt.
Dean wraps an arm around her and says nothing.
Dean wakes only when Y/n suddenly jerks out of his arms, squinting into the ever increasing sunlight.
“What?” he mumbles, still groggy, but the panic in her eyes pushes away the remaining vestiges of sleep. “What is it?”
“Where’s Jackson?” she snaps, scrambling to her feet.
Dean looks over to the tree the kid had been sitting by earlier, seeing the spot is empty. “Bathroom?” he suggests.
“Jackson!” she shouts.
There’s no reply.
“Jackson!” Dean tries himself, wondering foolishly if his voice might somehow carry further.
“Where the hell is he?” Y/n demands. “Why the hell didn’t he wake me? Damn it, Jackson!”
“Y/n, look.” Dean points to a set of footprints, clearly visible in the exposed soil. “Jackson’s?”
“I don’t know who else it could be,” she replies. “Come on, they lead away from camp.”
They follow the trail several yards away from the camp, so far Dean can’t see where they were sleeping anymore, when things become more complicated. The trail becomes less distinct, showing scuff marks, and multiple sets of tracks. There was a struggle.
“Y/n-” he begins.
“Zeeks,” she cuts him off. “Freaking Zeeks. They took him. He went away from camp, probably to take a piss, and they fucking took him. Damn it, Jackson, why didn’t you wake me up?”
She races back to the camp, already on the move, already prepared to fight.
“Where are you going?” Dean asks, following her.
“We’re going in,” she replies, scooping up her supplies and stuffing them into her pack.
“We’re out of time, Dean!” she snaps. “We waited too fucking long! And if we lose Jackson because of it, that’s on me. That blood is on my hands. And my hands are bloody enough as it is.” She turns on her heel, aiming for the hill, for the camp.
“We can’t just barge in there,” Dean argues. “We’ll be dead before we even find him.”
“Then what do you suggest?” she hisses, whirling around to face him.
But something has caught Dean’s eye, and, in spite of everything, he finds himself smiling. He raises his hand and points.
She turns around, eyes going wide. “That?”
He nods. “That.”
She’s starting to nod slowly. “I’ve heard worse plans.”
That is a scouting party, a group of Zeeks about fifty yards away from them and coming closer. That is ten Zeeks; ten growling, snarling, running, snapping, creepy as hell Zeeks.
That is their best bet.
Y/n already knows what he’s thinking.
“That’s disgusting,” she mutters, chasing down his train of thought.
“You got a better idea?” Dean counters.
“No,” she sighs. “No, I do not.” She looks around, coming up with a strategy. “We’re low on ammo,” she mutters. “But if you decapitate them, knives still work. Let’s stay in the tree line. We can ambush them from above.”
“They don’t come this far out,” Dean replies. “How are we going to get them here?”
But Y/n is one step ahead of him, and as he watches, she pulls out her knife and makes a long cut across her palm, clenching her fist until the blood starts to drip.
“Move,” she orders, letting the crimson drop into the grass. “They’ll be on us soon.”
They run back to the trees, stopping every couple of feet to keep the trail strong. When they reach the trees, Y/n cuts a strip of fabric away from her shirt and ties it around her palm.
“Climb a tree,” she tells him. “This one.”
Dean looks at the tree in question, the lowest branch still a few feet above his head. “Here,” he says, crouching down and cupping his hands together. She steps into the foothold he’s made, resting her hand against the truck as he slowly stands until she can reach the branch.
She catches hold and swings herself up, straddling the branch while she waits for Dean. He takes a running start at the trunk and leaps, catching hold of the branch and taking Y/n’s offered hand gratefully as she pulls him up after her.
They crouch low within the branches, shrouded in the shadows.
“How are we going to-”
She shushes him, holding a finger to her lips and then pointing down below them. When Dean looks, he sees the scouting party, circling the area, searching, sniffing.
He looks at Y/n, waiting for her signal, eyebrows raised in a silent question.
She is still holding up her hand, telling him to wait, eyes narrowing as she studies their prey.
What are you waiting for?
After a moment she holds up three fingers, looking to Dean and waiting for his nod to confirm that he’s ready. He nods.
The Zeeks are circling the base of their tree now. One of them, one with blue paint across its forehead, looks like the lead tracker.
Dean will go for him first. Then his friends. Y/n always seems to favor her left side, so he’ll let her take any targets on the left side of the clearing while he handles the rest.
His fingers tighten around the handle of the knife and the trigger of his gun. His heart pounds a violent rhythm against his ribcage.
Their guns go off in unison, and two Zeeks lay dead on the ground. Dean fires off another shot, and then another, aiming for any of the monsters trying to separate from the group and flee.
After several moments of shooting Y/n’s gun starts to click uselessly and she tosses it aside, leaping out of the tree and landing on top of one of the Zeeks, slicing off its head in one clean strike.
Dean fires his two remaining shots before jumping down after her, stabbing one Zeek in the eye before pivoting and tackling its partner to the ground. It takes one slice to remove its head.
“Dean!” Y/n shouts above the fighting. “Dean, the scout!”
Dean whirls around, picking a smaller Zeek out from the remaining crowd as it breaks away from the group and starts to sprint toward the hill.
Dean gives chase.
The Zeek is fast, annoyingly so, but Dean is faster. His lungs burn and his feet ache as they pound against the hard ground but he’s closing the gap and after a few seconds of running he leaps forward and catches the creature around the legs.
It struggles, jaws snapping, spit flying as it snarls at him. Dean rolls away from the clawing hands and brings up his knife, plunging the blade into the beast’s throat and twisting violently. Blood - not red, but thick, purple sludge - smatters across his face, but he ignores it, jaw clenching in determination.
He gets to his feet, prepared to run back to Y/n and help her finish the fight, but when he turns he finds her already walking toward him, dragging a corpse behind her.
“Alright,” she says, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Let’s get this over with.”
They make quick work of things.
Using their knives, they make cuts in the Zeeks stomachs, cutting deeply until the rib cages are visible. A putrid odor, the scent of death and rot, rises up to meet them and Dean has to choke back a gag.
“That’s disgusting,” he groans.
“Zeeks hunt by scent,” Y/n replies. “That’s their strongest sense. This is our best shot.” She looks down at the remains, face paling a little. “Well. I guess we just - dive in.”
And with that, she crouches down, scoops up a handful of - guts, and starts to wipe it across her clothing. Dean groans, but he follows suit.
“Can you get my back?” Y/n asks after a few moments, voice a little strained from trying not to breathe through her nose.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, reaching for another handful and looking away as he smears it between her shoulder blades. “God, this is awful.”
“Don't think about it,” she advises, but she sounds like she’s going to be sick. “Let me get your back.”
Dean turns, trying to ignore the wetness creeping through the fabric of his T-shirt. He’s fairly certain he’ll never feel clean again. Or that he’ll get the stench out of his nose.
“Are we good?” he asks after a few more moments, not sure he can take much more. He turns to face her again, and the expression on her face says he’s going to resent whatever she says next.
“We should -” She swallows nervously. “We should - get our faces.”
“Oh, hell no.”
“What other choice do we have?” She closes her eyes, steeling her resolve. “Just - just don’t think about it and work fast.”
They reach down, coating their hands once more.
“On three?” she suggests.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “One. Two. Three.”
He smears quickly, avoiding his eyes, his mouth, and his nose. The scent is so strong it nearly makes his knees buckle.
When he opens his eyes again, Y/n is looking at him in horror, and he knows he must look awful. Dean Winchester - recipient of the world’s worst facial.
“I’ve been covered in shit before, but this is the worst,” he says quietly. “This is the worst.”
“The sooner we move, the sooner we can get clean.”
And so they move.
They’re crouching behind a scraggly looking bush, looking nervously around the camp.
“Do you see him?” Y/n breathes, voice low in Dean’s ear.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Alright,” she whispers. “I’m going to start opening the pens. You find Jackson. Tell people to head south. Hopefully they’ll find the town. Start from the outside, work your way in.”
Dean looks at her, at the fear she’s trying so hard to hide. He reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing it once. “We’ll find him, Y/n.”
She looks at Dean, expression now unreadable as she shoves her emotion behind a mask. “See you on the other side.”
He watches her run to the nearest pen and open the gate silently. He watches the way she murmurs soothingly to the hostages within, how she tells them to run, how she urges them to stay low, to stay quiet, to not draw attention to themselves.
But he doesn’t look for long, because he has a job to do.
He starts to make his way into the camp, looking at the surrounding Zeeks as he tries to copy their movements. He drags his left foot behind him, making his movements jerky, shambling. He avoids getting too close, but at least being covered in guts isn’t for nothing, because no one gives him a second glance.
He opens as many pens as he can while he passes, murmuring quiet instructions and praying that they’ll have enough time.
For once, can he just have enough time?
And ten minutes later, he finds Jackson.
The boy, and at least fifteen other kids, is trapped not in a pen, but in a rusting metal cage. They’re packed inside like sardines, tear-stained faces pressed against the bars, but Dean picks out Jackson easily.
He makes his way over quickly.
“Jackson,” he hisses.
Jackson jerks back from the bars, but then his eyes go wide in recognition. “Dean?” the boy breathes. “How did you - where’s Y/n?”
“Helping the others,” Dean replies. “I need all of you to stay quiet. I’m going to get you out of there.”
He examines the door of the cage. Instead of the makeshift locks of the pens - twine and rope that he had to cut through - he finds himself looking at two heavy-duty padlocks.
What he wouldn’t give for Sam’s lock picking skills right now.
“Jackson,” he says urgently. “Think. Is there a key somewhere?”
The kid nods, but his eyes are welling up with tears. “Yeah, but - but I don’t know where it is. One of the Zeeks has it, and they all look the same, and-”
“Alright, alright, it’s okay,” Dean soothes, holding up his hand to placate him. “It’s fine. I’ll find another way.”
He glances around, looking for anything that might serve as a lock pick, but that’s when he starts to hear it.
Screams. Lots of them. Coming from the pens.
He glances over one shoulder and his stomach seems to drop into his shoes at what he sees. The Zeeks have finally noticed something’s up; that their hostages are escaping, and now they’re on the hunt.
They’re running out of time.
Dean turns and slams the handle of his knife against the lock, wincing at the sharp clang. He hits the lock again, and then again, and then again.
“Come on,” he mutters, sweat starting to drip down his brow. “Come on.”
“Dean,” Y/n seems to materialize out of thin air, standing just behind his left shoulder. “We have a problem.”
“Tell me about it,” he replies, not looking up from his task. “I’m almost there.”
“No, Dean, we have a bigger problem.”
He glances up at her to find that her gaze is focused not on the cage, but on what’s behind him. He slowly turns around.
Zeeks. Twenty of them, at least. And every pair of glowing yellow eyes is locked on him.
Y/n’s hand twitches, and he sees her draw a pistol out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know where she found another gun, but now doesn’t seem like the time to ask.
“What’s your plan?” he whispers, hardly daring to move.
“Just get this cage open,” she murmurs.
“Open the cage, Dean.” She draws a machete from the sheathe at her side. “I’ve got this.”
She charges into the fight.
Dean lets loose a string of curses, but he turns his attention back to the locks, attacking them with renewed vigor. It’s everything he can do to ignore the sounds coming from behind him; to stop from flinching every time the gun goes off or when Y/n cries out in pain.
Don’t think about her. Don’t worry about her. Worry about the kid.
He slams his knife into the lock again, a small glimmer of hope flaring to life when the first lock comes loose and clatters to the ground.
“Hurry, Dean,” Jackson whispers, the words more like a whimper.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Dean snaps.
The gun stops firing, and Dean’s heart almost stops with it as he risks a glance over his shoulder. Ten of the Zeeks are dead, but there are still ten left. For half a heartbeat he can’t find Y/n anywhere, but then he spots her a few yards away, the light glinting off of her machete as she repels the horde.
Her eyes meet his for just a moment, just enough to see him frozen.
“Dean! Open the fucking door!” she screams, dodging a Zeek’s attack and lobbing its head off.
Dean turns back to the lock. Three more blows and the lock breaks off. He wrenches open the door to the cage.
“Go south!” he shouts, pulling the frightened children out by their arms. “Go south and don’t stop running! Jackson, keep them safe!”
Jackson nods, looking at Y/n and Dean worriedly for just a moment before turning and starting to herd the other kids away from the camp. He whips around, ready to fight, ready to kill the Zeeks and grab Y/n and get out of there.
He’s just in time to see Y/n get bitten.
It happens in the blink of an eye. One minute she’s holding her ground, a whirlwind of flashing metal, and the next she’s screaming as a pair of jaws sinks into her left shoulder.
“Y/n!” Dean goes sprinting toward her, watching her fall beneath the weight of the Zeek as if in slow motion.
There are only five of the bastards left, now, and he’s screaming as he kills them. Stabbing and slicing and cutting again and again and again until the world goes still around him.
He spots her just a few feet away, on the ground, eyes closed, Zeek still collapsed on top of her.
“Y/n!” He runs to her side, sliding to his knees as he shoves the corpse away from her.
She’s gasping, bleeding from a dozen different places, and one pale, shaking hand clutching her shoulder.
“Dean,” she stammers, staring up at him, and he can feel his heart breaking at the fear in her gaze. “Did you - did you get them out?”
“I got them,” he replies. “They’re fine. Now let’s get you fixed up and we can get out of here.”
She shakes her head, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips. “There’s nothing to fix,” she whispers.
Dean can feel tears welling up in his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he says thickly. “You’re going to be fine.” He cuts away a strip of his shirt and presses it to the wound, shifting her until she’s propped up against his body, his arm supporting her. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Dean, I’m bitten.” She coughs once, a tear leaking out of the corner of her eye and cutting a trail through the grime across her face. “It’s over. We both know it.”
“No it’s not,” he argues, shaking his head. “No it’s not. The town. Maybe - maybe there’s a cure at the town.”
“You know there’s not.” She reaches up with one shaking hand, cupping his cheek. “Dean. You have to kill me.”
But she’s nodding her head. “You have to kill me. I’ve - I’ve seen what the infection does. I’ve seen people suffer through it. I’ve seen them - turn on their families like - like rabid dogs.” She shakes her head. “Don’t make me, Dean. Don’t make me do that. Don’t let me become one of them.”
He lowers his head, touching his forehead to hers. “Don’t ask me this,” he begs. “Don’t ask me to do this.” He clutches her a little more tightly to his chest. “Damn it, Y/n, why didn’t you let me help you?”
She smiles, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “Because you don’t always get to be the hero.” She reaches out with one shaking hand and grabs the knife still strapped to his belt, pulling it free and pressing the handle into his grip. “Kill me, Dean. Please. I want to die a human. I want to die me.”
He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut to block out the world. For a moment he’s just a kid again, closing his eyes to hide from the monsters. Counting to ten and hoping that it will all have disappeared when he dares to look again.
But the woman dying in his arms is still there.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, flipping the knife around and pressing the tip just above her breast. “Y/n, I’m so, so sorry.”
She smiles. “Me too.”
She covers the hand holding the knife with one of hers. Then she places the other on the back of his neck, drawing his face down to touch her lips to his in a gentle kiss.
Dean plunges the blade into her heart.
Sixth and Final Part Here