Request: Never Better
Request: Can I request a Dean x reader where Dean comes back from hell only to find the reader has moved the middle of nowhere in a distant country (I was thinking Russia or something) and Dean has to go win her back? Спасибо!! 😊😊
Word Count: 1,568
I know it’s been like two weeks, and I’m so so sorry. But I’m back, hopefully, and results are over and done with and I have like three things left to sort for school so at least for a couple of weeks, I should be better. Thank you, and lots of love<33
“What the hell do you mean, she left?” Dean’s eyes fly wide open and his grip on the beer bottle wavers for just a moment – not enough for it to drop, but enough for Sam’s hand to fly out, just in case it did.
“The day we buried you, she hopped a flight to the middle of Russia,” Bobby explains further, speaking the words as if it’s nothing new to him; as if Dean’s mind hasn’t begun whirling at a million miles an hour, “Went off the grid, no-one’s seen her since. I tried to get in touch, but she wasn’t having it.”
“Wasn’t having… you just let her go?!” Dean is incredulous now – through the exhaustion and his aching muscles, all he’s been waiting for is to see you again. It feels like it’s been a lifetime without you in his arms and all he wants is you there, with him.
“Dean, you know Y/N,” Sam cuts in, shaking his head – he hadn’t known about this, either. He’d known you’d left, but he hadn’t known where, “If she wanted to do something, the combined forces of heaven and hell couldn’t stop her.”
Sam has to restrain himself from mentioning his brother’s flinch at the mention of hell.
“Well, fine. We’ll just have to go get her back.”
“Boy, do you have any idea how massive Russia is? She could be anywhere. All I know is that she flew into Moscow, but after that, she probably picked up a new identity.” Bobby rolls his eyes, sitting back on the couch and regarding the two men in front of him for a few seconds, “We need to find a way to track her.”
“If she’s away from any hunting networks, the only way to do that might be through asking ordinary people. Which would mean…”
Sam looks between Dean and Bobby, watching as their minds roll around to the same conclusion as his.
“I’m on it.” Bobby sighs, pushing himself up from the couch to go and book some flights.
Dean leans over to his brother, speaking quietly into his ear, “Do you speak any Russian? At all?”
“Not a word.” The reply comes lowly and Sam glances around, trying to make sense of the cacophony of strange symbols and letters adorning the walls; of the almost manic voices speaking in sounds and tones they can’t make out.
Fortunately, Bobby returns to them quickly - he seems almost at ease, and he gives the boys a confirmatory nod as he approaches.
“She hired a car from that guy. Didn’t bring it back.”
“Sounds like she went far away, then.” Sam infers, prompting a sharp nod from his brother.
“I think I know where she went.” He says quietly – he’d been keeping a sneaking suspicion to himself the whole time, but something you’d mentioned, just once… well, it suddenly makes a whole lot of sense.
Fire-hued leaves swirl around your feet as you walk, the chilled autumn wind threatening to slip in past your coat and send a shiver down your spine. It’s oddly peaceful, despite the seemingly everlasting hustle and bustle of St Petersburg – but it’s just nice to hear something that isn’t the deafening silence of your apartment; of your mind.
In fact, on days like today you like to come out and walk through the city, admiring the architecture, even just the atmosphere is enough to pull you in. You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you very nearly bump into someone, only just avoiding the collision – it wasn’t your fault, really. The man had just stopped, stock-still in the middle of the street.
“Ой, простите,” (Oh, sorry) It comes out without you even thinking about it, and you’re halfway to taking another step when the figure breathes out a name; a word in a voice that you never thought you’d hear again.
“Y/N?” Dean whispers, causing you to startle and look up at him as if he’s just grown another head. You recognise him instantly, of course, but… he’s dead. He’s been gone for more than four months. Which is why, before he can ever say another word, he’s on his back with a silver blade poised over his heart.
“What the hell are you?” He’s never heard your voice so hostile, so full of bloodlust, “Hm? Shifter? Demon? You think it’s funny to come here?”
“Y/N, I-“ He begins, but he’s cut off by you pressing the knife against his chest – not enough to break the fabric of his shirt, but enough to remind him that you’re not taking any shit.
“You’re going to regret this, you disgusting lowlife,” You snarl, and raise the blade, all ready to drive it straight into his chest when you’re suddenly dragged backwards, a strong pair of arms wrapped around your waist and yanking you away from the creature.
You slash and stab, but another hand closes on your wrist, its grip tightening until you’re forced to let go. The blade clatters to the floor, silver shining in the bright sunlight.
“It’s him, Y/N!” Sam’s voice is too loud in your ear, and it takes you a few seconds of rabid struggling to figure out what he’s saying, “It’s Dean! He’s back!”
When you finally stop trying to get out of his grip and tear out the throat of whatever it is, still lying on the ground in front of you, he lets you down. Once your feet are on the floor, though he keeps a hand on your shoulder just in case, you manage to look around – Dean, on the floor, Sam, behind you, and Bobby, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. With uneven, panicked breaths you look between them until Bobby breaks the silence.
“Listen, kid. We did not fly halfway across the world with Dean hyperventilating into a sick bag for you to stab him now. Calm down, let’s talk.”
All you can do is nod, staring unblinkingly at Dean.
“Nice place you got here.” Dean comments offhandedly, watching as you place a mug of coffee on the table in front of him and sit down on the opposite couch. After a heartfelt reunion with Sam and Bobby, they’d decided to give the two of you some privacy and go explore the city centre. You’re grateful: you still can’t get your head around this whole thing.
“You’re back.” You say, repeating the only two words you’ve managed to form since you saw him last. He nods, as he did last time, and the time before.
“I came back on the eighteenth.” He tells you, “Found Bobby, collected Sam, then came to find you.”
“We don’t know. Demon, probably.” He shrugs, watching as you smell the drink in your hands, decide that you can’t stomach it at the moment, and set it back down on the coffee table.
“But you’re you?” You question, meeting his eyes for the first time – so familiar, so filled with memories, both good and bad. Though there’s something new about him, something heavier and darker. You don’t want to mention it, though, and when he nods, you find yourself releasing a breath that you hadn’t realised you were holding.
“I’m me.” He says, before standing up and crossing over at you – you flinch slightly as he sits down, but he doesn’t make a move to touch you, “Y/N, I’m sorry. I am. But you know why I made the deal and I don’t regret it. The only thing I regret is hurting you.”
When you force yourself to look up at him, his eyes are full of tears and his lower lip trembles just the slightest bit – if you hadn’t spent hours of your life just looking at him, you wouldn’t notice. But you do. Because as much as you want to tell yourself that you can forget him and move on, it would be a lie not only to yourself but to him and his memory.
And before you know it, you’re clinging to him, tears you’ve long withheld soaking into his shirt. His hands run the length of your spine, soothing the shaking of your body as you cry – he’s mildly terrified by your sudden outburst of emotion, especially after seeing you so shellshocked for a good hour, but he supposes it’s better than the anger he’d seen earlier. He holds you until the tears subside, until you can pull yourself away from him long enough to catch your breath.
“I’m sorry,” You whisper – and you mean it. For everything – for running, for hiding, for trying to stab him…
“Don’t be,” He replies, keeping his arm around you, “Don’t be. Ever. Y/N, I- I love you. I’d forgive anything you did.”
“Even if I had stabbed you?”
“Even then.” He nods, his lips curling into an amused smile. Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and press your lips to his – he doesn’t hesitate to kiss you back, arms circling your waist as he pulls you into his lap. Just being so close to him after so long is enough to send every one of your senses into overload and you find yourself laughing, almost hysterical as you have to pull away.
“Y/N?” Dean quirks an eyebrow in concern, his hands settling on either side of your waist, “What- are you alright?”
All you can do is nod, and choke out, “Never better.”