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rex101111 · 5 years

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Swipes of Sword And Fan 12

Fear and Guilt.

This chapter has some gore in it, not like...buckets of it or whatever but worth mentioning here. Also! I actually started on a different story for this chapter but it kinda...stalled, so I went with this one which I managed to write down...almost in one day. Nice.

Enjoy!

Anji loves the sound of Baiken's laugh. It’s a rare pleasure, full and loud and floating out of the top of her throat and bursting from her lungs, her shoulders shaking and her hand slapping her knee. When Baiken laughs, she laughs with her entire body and soul.

She was laughing like that now, in front of him, in the dark yet illuminated, her whole form trembling with her mirth. Or, rather, her madness. As she laughs and shakes, drops of deep, dark red fall from her, every drop wipes away the shadows around them both, and every revelation is a shock of gore and savagery.

Bodies, piles and pits and hills of them stretching out into the horizon, if he lingers on a few select bodies, he thinks he recognizes them. A torn yellow ribbon, a broken monocle, a union jack bandana ripped and bloodied, a black hat held tightly in the death grip of a hideously young corpse dressed in cheerful orange.

In the middle of all that death stands the lone samurai, screaming out her victory in bloody peals of laughter. She's smiling too, grinning even, widely and brightly, and as she turns to him in her brutal cheer he can see her teeth are a pure, shining white.

There's joy there, somewhere, hidden in that one eye, beneath all insanity, more joy than he thinks Baiken has ever shown him in all the years they've known each other. "Look," she says, pointing to her feet with her sword, the weapon gleaming and drenched in her hand. "I've done it!"

He looks down, sees white robes trimmed with black and topped with a hoodie, the body wrapped up in the hoodie is mangled and ravaged beyond all recognition, limbs twisted if not missing and bones sticking out of the many deep slashes and stabs covering it. A smoking stump is all that's left of the head.

All in all, it's about what he expected her to do to Asuka if she ever found him.

"So you did." He says, his voice finally finding him, his throat is dry and his mind is sluggish with shock at that he sees…and all that he sees in her. "He's…you did it."

"They all tried to stop me." Her voice is wrong, twitchy and scratchy and giddy in a way only a monster could manage, and he knew a monster is the last thing Baiken would ever be. "All of them, the king and his gear queen, the monster who tried to be a man," she spits on a corpse with black, draconic wings. "All of them, and I killed them all!"

He rushes forward, seizes her by her shoulders and shakes her, a stab of ice cold fear going through his heart. "Baiken, look at me." She laughs at him, his worry amusing, his fear hilarious. "Baiken! This isn't you-!"

"Isn't it?" She growls, yanks his arms from her and stomps away with another bloody laugh. "Blood and death is all I've ever been, for the moment a monster darkened the skies of my home, that is all I will ever be." She directs a chilling smile his way, her teeth sharpen in the stark shadows. "You know this is true, who knows me better than Anji Mito?" Her smile twists into a snarl. "Who would know me better, then the gnat constantly buzzing at my ear, no matter how many times I've tried to swat it?"

The glower she sends his way is unlike any annoyed glare he ever saw from her, hatred, pure and burning stabs his lungs and it takes every scrap of strength he has to even breath and take another step towards her. "Why?" He trembles, eyes flitting over the bodies in rapid succession (a bloodied nun habit, a broken guitar, a ripped eyepatch), ice clawing at his veins, "why would you do this? All these people…Baiken some of them-"

"Because they forgave him!" She kicks the prone and mangled body of the Gear Maker, twice more before stomping on it and then wiping her foot like it was a burning bag of dog shit. "All the blood on his hands, soaking them to the bone, and they just threw it away!" She spits on the body again, "millions of lives, made pointless because…" She breathes heavily, laughs again, but this time it is bitter and hollow, her voice calming, "because they wanted to move on…to forget…" She sighs, her whole body still before she slowly turns her gaze towards him again, the depth of the sorrow in it drowning him, "did you forget too Anji? Forget that night, full of rain and fire?"

"Never." He hisses, finally reaching her again, gripping her shoulders with shaking hands. "I will never forget that night, my home burned that night along with yours, it was our people that perished."

"You allied with him." She accuses, once again stepping away from his reach, the anger on her face diluted with pain and betrayal, "you found the one responsible for all that death and you placed yourself at his ear to offer advice." She narrows her eye at him. "Your hands are as bloody as mine and his, maybe even more." She scowls, "guilty, like all those who would pardon him."

"I left!" He shouts, voice cracking in panic, arms gesturing wildly, "I left because of you! I couldn't hurt you!"

"Bastard!" She slaps him as she screams, "what was all that bullshit about your home and our people!?" She slaps him again as he tries to step towards her, "stay where you are! If you remembered that night, if you cared for me as you claim, why did you stand with him in the first place!?"

"BECAUSE I WAS A COWARD!"

The darkness swarms them both, once more hiding the corpses from sight and leaving him alone with her. He is breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face as he stands before her. Her face is stone, unimpressed but passing no judgment, waiting for him.

"You became death that night," he pants, putting a hand to his eyes. "I was consumed by it. Every night after a miasma of burning bodies and lifeless faces that refused to go away." He laughs this time, the sound mixing with a sob in his throat, "I could not escape it, this mind numbing fear, I was willing to do anything to avoid it, to flee as far as I could from it."

She touches him of a sudden, her hand lightly brushing his cheek as she gives him a smile so gentle he dares not breathe for fear of blowing it away. "Except hurt me?" She chuckles lowly with a fond shake of her head. "Dumb bastard, that, of all things, that was your line?"

He answers with a chuckle of his own, "does that truly surprise you?"

She swipes her thumb over a trail of tears, sighing quietly before falling silence.

He brings up his hand to hold hers with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Do you still consider me guilty?"

"Do you deny that you are?"

He doesn't answer for a long while, the silence of this dark place drowning out the beat of his heart. Soon he sighs again…and shakes his head. "Never. For all the truths I've twisted, I will never lie to you."

She nods heavily, taking a few steps away, her sword appearing in her hand again. "Then you know, there's still one more grave to dig."

He lets out a shaking breath before he spreads his arms wide, opening up his heart to her with a laugh and an easy smile. "I am, as always, yours." The smile falters when she shakes her head. "Baiken?"

"No Anji." She says softly, sadly, lifting the blade in the air. "Not yours."

Terror, deeper than anything than he ever felt for the shadow of Justice, struck his heart and drove the air out of his lungs, "no…"

"When one seeks revenge, "she intones lightly, gaze passive to the horrid agony and fear Anji must be showing. "One must dig two graves." Her smile grows a bit, a mockery of the smile she would give him in private, when only Anji and the shadows could see her. "The Gear Makers' grave is dug."

His feet are rooted, he cannot move. "No." He searches for Zessen, but they are gone. "No!"

"The only one left is…"

"Baiken!"

The sword flips, its edge pointed directly at her heart.

"Mine."

He bolts awake, sweat soaking his sleepwear to the point it sticks to his skin, heart pounding on his ribcage hard enough to make him flinch in pain. His twitches left and right almost on animal instinct, desperation to find a shock of pink hair in a darkened corner of the…the…oh.

Inn room. They're at an inn. He and Baiken both, they went to sleep, and then the-

"Anji?" His eyes snap to the sound, he sees Baiken slowly drag herself out of the covers, her clothes loose around her shoulders as she blinks up at him in mixed confusion and drowsy annoyance, "what happ-" She stops as she looks at him, her shoulders sagging as an odd look crosses her face.

"Sorry." He chokes out in a dry voice, clearing his throat, "didn't mean to wake you, go back to sleep I'll-" He stops short as she places a hand on his cheek, the gentle touch brings a spine freezing echo of the dream, and he nearly bolts before he can stop himself. "I-"

"Hush." She says simply, her gaze searching, focused, considering him for a long moment. He only realizes he'd been crying when she, again like the dream, brushes her thumb to wipe one away. "You were tossing and turning before you sat up…what was it about?"

Anji almost laughs over the fact that she didn't even need to ask why he awoke like he did, but all he manages is a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "Nothing I'm not used to."

A flat gaze falls on him, and this time he does bark out a quick laugh, her scarred eyebrow lifting a couple inches, "you need to get better at lying."

"To you?" He chuckles, inwardly wondering when his dream would content itself to stay in his head. "Never."

She pinches his cheek for a quick and painful moment before shaking her head and getting up from the futon, groaning as she did and making her way to a cupboard. He's still busy rubbing the feeling back into his cheek when she sits back down with her sake gourd in her hand and shoves it into his chest.

"What?" He looks between the gourd and the samurai, who was resting her face on the heel of her palm as she was watching him. "This-you don't need to-"

"You're not going back to sleep." She says simply, no room for question in his tone. "So neither am I." She pokes the bottom of the gourd with a foot. "Now, drink." Her gaze softens mildly as she sees him wiping what was left of his tears. "We don't have to talk, if you don't have anything you want me to hear."

He stares into the mouth of the gourd for a long moment, watching the liquid inside by the moonlight reflecting on it, before he takes a deep breath and lifts it to his lips for an even longer gulp.

He hands it back to her when he finishes, and she matches his gulp with one of her own.

"Baiken." He says of a sudden, the samurai looking at him from the corner of her eye as she hands him back the gourd. "Was there ever a time…" He takes another deep breath, willing for the alcohol to numb his nerves. "Did you ever wish…to burn the world down, for what happened to you? To all of us?"

She looks out the window, the light of the moon bringing all the various scars on her face into sharp relief and shining in her eye. "Once." She said after a long pause, still not looking at him. "There was a time, a few years back, when I was close to just…throwing the whole world away, ready to bring my blade down on anyone who would dare cross my path."

He takes another long sip of sake, a pit forming in his gut as he scowls morosely…before she continues.

"Like I said though, once, was, past tense." She waves the thought off like a pesky fly at her ear. "Something changed my mind and the possibility never came to me after that."

"Something?" He says incredulously, the late hour dulling his thoughts along with the alcohol. "What do you mean by something?"

She finally turns to face him, her eyebrow once more climbing up a few inches as she leveled a blank look at him.

It takes another heavy moment for her answer to sink in properly into his addled mind, and a fierce burning red fills his face when it does. "…oh."

She snatches the gourd from his limp hands, hiding her smile as she took another large gulp. "Idiot."

(At some point, they fall asleep, Anji doesn't know for sure when, but when he opens his eyes again, it's well past sunrise, and he and Baiken are bundled up on the futon, her ear right over his heart.

She woke soon after, only lifting her head enough to look at him, "sleep better?" His only answer was a smile that reached his eyes, so she hummed laid her head back over his heart. "Good.)

#guilty Gear #Baiken #Anji Mito #Swipes of Sword and Fan #Fear and Guilt #stuff rex wrote

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aiaranradnay · 6 years

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Grief

A/N: this is for the spn angst bingo challenge hosted by @spnangstbingo . I've finally begun this journey, and am really excited about it <3

Square filled: Free Space

Pairing : Dean x Reader

Warnings : Loads of Angst, canon typical violence, torture and tears.

word count : almost 5k.

Inspiration : Scientist by Coldplay. also shoutout to @effie-w coz its that vintage clock of hers that got me in love with this song <3

Betaed by @wingedcatninja who offered to help my rusty head. thank you so much<3 your support and guidance refined the fic a great deal. she’s also named the fic, so thank you<3

feedback is much appreciated :)

It had started out as a pretty decent morning – Sam just back from his morning run, Dean sifting through the newspaper pile looking for a case. He had been grouchy lately – ever since he had been stupid enough to drunk dial his ex at one in the morning. He had woken up the next day instantly regretting his actions. She had left him; it was not his fault.

No matter how many times he thought of it, he couldn’t help but blame himself for the end of that relationship. But that call, she had specifically told him that it wasn’t him, she had taken the blame; he should probably accept it.

But she sounded so broken ... was she hurting too, just like he was?

His head whirled around the same thoughts over and over as his eyes raked through the most recent paper, finding an article about a gruesome animal attack two towns over – nowhere close to the wild. An uneasy feeling crept into his gut, his mind repeating her last words; her voice sounding pained and forlorn – “Goodbye, Dean, take care.”

Then his phone rang out, your name flashing on the display as the guitar riff blared out.

“It’s Y/N,” he told Sam with a scowl of pure hatred, masking the tiny seed of hope that had blossomed in his chest.

Sam watched his brother answer the call with a gruff ‘hello’, his expression rapidly changing into one of shock and fear. His face got paler by the second as the person on the other side spoke.

Dean felt his eyes burn as he withheld the tears. The hand that held the newspaper trembled, the article now making sense. The officer at the other end of the call requested him to collect the body and ended the call.

The first tear rolled down his cheek and his world came crashing down as he looked back into Sam’s concerned eyes.

“It’s Y/N,” he whispered.

It took them a whole month to get done with your ‘funeral’ – to get your mangled remains and a handful of bloody photographs from the police, put you back together as best as they could and bury you; for Dean to begin coping with your death; for Sam to accept your absence; for them to start living like normal hunters again. Sam probably tried to get his closure, but neither one was over it yet. At least once every week, one of them would be at your grave, Dean wishing he could have prevented it all, wishing he could go back to where it all started.

The first week, he was a mess; it was supposed to be a short visit, but the nearer he got to your place of resting the more he shattered. The impala too had picked up his sombre mood; her purr sounded like mourning, her radio softly singing one of your favourite songs. He then clambered out and seated himself beside your grave, whispering apologies to you – for not being there, protecting you as he should have.

His mind flew back in time and stopped by the pool table at a dingy bar where he was hustling his daily quota from the other players. They were idiots, and he was taking complete advantage of that. Then you had sauntered in. You were a stranger looking for some fun time; at least that was what you said. Two rounds later, he had miserably lost his entire day’s income to you. While you gave him a victory smirk, he desperately tried convincing himself that it was not your skills but his distracted mind that got him losing. However, you split the money with him the moment the blokes left and the table was cleared. “For all the trouble we go through for these losers, I think we deserve the money”, you whispered showing him the anti-possession tattoo on your wrist. A few beers later, you had traded hunting stories and he had, to his own surprise, offered you a place at the bunker.

His entire frame shook as he sobbed over the death of his best friend, his love, who was unfairly snatched away from him.

Two weeks later, when he returned, he was exhausted – both physically and emotionally. The case they had just finished had been rather gory; but it wasn’t the gore that affected him – it was the victims. They all had something that eerily reminded him of you – the hair colour, the age, the physique. Every time they had a body in the morgue, the boys couldn’t help but remember your mangled form that lay six feet under. The third time, Dean refused to go, unable to stand the grief. That day, the reaper at the crime scene who had popped up to harvest the soul confirmed that your soul was somewhere deep in hell, in some maximum security cell, with the best torturers available. The exact location however was unknown.

Castiel had called in a few days later, only to let the boys know that he couldn’t get that deep in the pit. Crowley had been smart enough to stay away. Dean felt terribly helpless as he sat there by your grave, not knowing how to help you. The usual strings of self blame wove around his head as he thought of endless scenarios where it hadn’t ended this way, where he had managed to save you. What he wouldn’t give to make a deal and take your place... wait a moment.

He abruptly stood up, a plan formulating in his head. Hurrying to his car’s trunk he pulled out everything necessary. Half an hour later, he was ready. The traps and sigils were strategically placed, and the tiny box buried in the middle of the crossroads. The only thing missing now was the demon. Soon enough the putrid stench of sulphur filled the air and a young man in a dark suit popped up, his eyes blood red. At first, Dean bargained his own soul in exchange of yours. When that failed, he drew out the demon blade, threatening and torturing the dealer for information. However, his attempts were fruitless, and ended with the orange-red glow of a dying demon when Dean buried the knife into the monster’s chest in blind fury.

As the sun descended, the rays shone on his handsome face, making the splatter of demon blood glisten. The tips of his dirty blonde hair glowed like embers as he stormed towards his Baby, seething with rage.

When you had first joined their ranks, you had requested just one small thing. “Don’t ask me about my past,” you had said. Both boys had readily agreed; they respected your privacy, knowing firsthand that a hunter’s life never starts with a happy event.

As time passed any kind of discomfort or doubts you had about each other had evaporated into thin air. You had found a family you never thought you’d get again. The boys found you filling in the void they never knew they had in their lives.

To Dean you were like his saviour. He often watched you as you fooled around the bunker, loving how you patiently sat through research with Sam, despite being utterly bored. He loved your enthusiasm when he asked you to accompany him to the bar. He loved how the two of you had fun at the bar, even helping each other get someone for the night. It was all jokes and stupidity, for neither of you took anyone home. Ever since you’d waltzed into his life, his one night stands had diminished in number, and replaced by actual blissful sleep.

Sure, he still got nightmares and woke up in a cold sweat; but somehow every time that happened, you’d be at the door with a look of concern. Neither of you exchanged words – you just walked in and wrapped your arms around him, calming him down with your mere presence. He’d often apologize for it, but you’d always brush it off with a ‘doesn’t matter... wasn’t really sleeping anyways’. You would then soothingly coax the bad dream out of his mind; and he’d simply pour out all his secrets, answer all your questions and then spend hours reminiscing about the early days of hunting when things weren’t this painful. You’d listen earnestly, commenting at some points and by the end of it, Dean would be snoring softly yet again, a part of his burden having disappeared.

Sam loved how you took care of his brother; he saw the love you had for each other, the love that neither of you were even aware of yet. You had now become his best friend, and he often had hinted that Dean and you would make a good couple, but you were ignorant of it. He knew for sure though, that someday it would all click into place. He simply couldn’t wait for the day when his best friend would officially be family, be his sister-in-law.

Now, with you gone the world seemed to have lost colour. The research work was too tedious, the bar nights too lonely and the nightmares more gory and terrifying. The boys no longer had that caring hand comforting them, or that soothing voice loving them. The bunker was too quiet with no sound of high pitched laughter bouncing off the walls, or the steady hum of a song being sung.

Your death had ripped open a huge hole in their lives, and they had nothing to patch it back up with.

By now, it had become a very common sight to have a Winchester mourning at your grave; the mornings were filled with Sam’s tired yet ever hopeful voice, and the evenings reserved for Dean’s pain. They never came together; never even told each other about the frequent visits.

The fourth week thus passed with them wondering why you’d never told them that you were dying.

Dean had always considered you to be his rock; maybe it was your constant support, or your everlasting optimism... to him you were invincible, a constant. So, that one day when he saw you break down he panicked. He had never seen you so broken... and now the memory of your voice, you crying, fallen crumpled in the middle of the road, haunted his mind. It was obvious that hunting was affecting you too and he didn’t like that. So he did the only thing he thought was sensible – he benched you. He gave a different reason every time but it always ended with ‘you’re not going Y/N’. You didn’t like it one bit. You were a full fledged hunter who’d given up on everything other than hunting; to be forbidden from doing the one job you knew didn’t sit well with you... and thus the fights started. Misunderstandings and arguments escalated. Moreover the two of you had just begun being ‘more than friends’, and it didn’t work well.

Your fights left Dean restless and as a result, the hunts often got botched up. Both your minds were losing peace, your lifestyle got more reckless and your relationship got rockier. Sam tried his best to calm the two of you and make you see sense, but you were stubborn and you butted heads ever so often. It finally took one hunt to sever whatever was left. You were benched but you broke protocol and followed them. Time wasn’t on your side, and you almost ruined it for all of them. Cas had turned up last minute and saved you all.

By the time you reached home, Dean was seething with rage. The usual argument turned heated, both your voices loud and bellowing, a volley of angry accusations tossing back and forth until you broke. “You know what?! I quit! I FUCKING QUIT!! I’ve had enough, Dean! It’s clearly not working. We’re over.” Minutes later, you were at the front door, a duffel bag hitched up your shoulder.

Time froze for a millisecond before Dean exploded. “Y/N, DON’T YOU DARE! You walk out that door, don’t you ever think of coming back! IF YOU LEAVE, YOU ARE DEAD TO ME! YOU GET THAT?” for a split second he sounded so much like his father, even Sam flinched at the turn of events – like history repeating itself.

Maybe Dean would hate himself for doing it if only he was thinking straight. Maybe he’d have noticed your tortured face, his comment hitting much closer than he could have possibly imagined. Maybe he’d have apologized and things would be okay. But at that moment, it was a game of egos. “That would be just perfect, wouldn’t it?” you hissed, before storming out, the door clanging shut behind you. The silence that followed was deafening.

The silence seemed to have seeped into the bunker to this date.

In the stifled whimpers of the older Winchester, living his nightmares on repeat.

In the slumped frame of Sam Winchester, aching with suppressed emotions.

In the hushed flutter of the angel wings, as Cas popped by your grave, his eyes sunken with helplessness.

In the quiet of your absence, your grave remained still.

A dull grey evening.

A broken black car, grey with soot and dust.

A lonely grey headstone in the middle of nowhere.

A defeated young man with a pale grey face staring hopelessly at the grave, leaning against the car.

He doesn’t know how to bring you back; he doesn’t know how to move on. The world has stopped for him, it doesn’t even have a meaning.

Regrets. A billion regrets; it’s the same thing haunting him.

Realization... of how the two of you had wasted your time fighting; all the time that you could’ve spent together; if only...

Memories... flooding in – cheesy lines and flirting; hugs of comfort, of love; stolen kisses, fearing the risk; giving in to your feelings; the nights together, loving each other.

“Hey Dean?” you mumbled, your head resting against his shoulder as the two of you sat, leaning against a tree in a tiny meadow Dean had discovered. It was hidden in the woods, a tiny paradise for the two of you. “Yea?” he whispered, not wanting the moment to end.

“Tag. You’re it,” you squeaked, before dashing into the wilderness. It took him a second to process, before he got up and sprinted in your direction. Peals of laughter echoed through the trees as you ran, Dean right at your tail. You knew he'd easily catch you, despite the headstart. “Gotcha,” he growled as he tackled you, holding you close as the two of you came crashing down onto the forest floor. You squirmed under him, giggling the whole while as he watched you in awe.

And suddenly, you looked him in the eye, and he saw pure fear in yours. “Dean!” you gasped out. Startled, Dean pulled back slightly. “Dean!!” you cried out.

A blink of his eyes; you were gone.

“Dean!!!” your voice called out... but you weren’t there.

Sheer panic filled in Dean’s heart as he looked around in vain. Where did you go?

“DEAN!!!!” your voice was right there... where was it coming from? Under the ground?

That just didn’t make any sense.... yet there it was. Right from the depths of the earth.

A voice of pain; a voice of fear.

“DEAN!!!”

A sharp pain burnt his cheek as Cas slapped him out of his stupor; eyes focusing as he came back to the real world, his gaze meeting the concerned looks of Sam and Castiel. No one uttered a word. They simply helped him into the car and drove home.

The skies turned dark; the grave, once again, lonely.

Another case was done and dusted; and here he was yet again. His legs folded beneath him, his shoulders hunched carrying immense grief. A single tear rolling off his cheek and many unshed ones held within. His hands trembled, as he clutched a scrapbook – your scrapbook – tightly.

You had called it a journal; an art journal. And you wrote nothing about monsters in there. Dean hadn’t got it then; now that he had gone through it, he understood it all; hell, now he knew every little thing that was in it. It started out from when you’d joined the boys and contained every happy event that had followed. There were a million photos, drawings and cute cut-out crafts woven into a beautiful tale of a lonely huntress who found the best family. Faces – his, Sammy’s, Castiel’s – were delicately drawn around the day’s events. He didn’t even know how you’d gotten so many photos and it made him smile as he went through over and over. Those tiny flip-book motion pictures of the boys peeked out here and there. His smile only widened when he reached the timeline where the two of you had gotten together. There weren’t many photos – “I can’t even think straight around him, much less take photos”, you’d written. There were drawings though, where you had tried to recreate the time spent together as best as you could... and it was magical; like a fairy tale dream where you’d made him the prince. His heartstrings tugged in grief at the few missing photos, because he knew they were the best ones. They weren’t lost; as a matter of fact they were right there in his hand – slightly frayed and caked with grime and the remnants of your blood from when you had held them while you got torn into ribbons. Why had you made that deal anyway?

His vision blurred as the tears took over, his body casting a long shadow of a broken man, as the sun slipped below the horizon.

Almost the end of week ten; yet Dean hadn’t come to you. Sam however did.

He knew that you were gone, and probably wouldn’t hear what he had to say; but if you could – then you had to know.

The young man knelt by the headstone, a bunch of fresh flowers in his hand – your favourite ones. “He wanted to come... Dean I mean; he wanted to see you, even put up a fight... but I... I just couldn’t let him out; he isn’t well, you know. Mentally – he...he’s crumbling, Y/N/N. He’s hallucinating; he sees you everywhere, and he...he just keeps saying that it’s his fault. He’s drinking himself to sleep, he’s hurting himself... it’s like your break-up all over again; a million times worse this time.” His eyes clouded with unshed tears as he remembered your heated arguments; the way you two butted heads. It seemed all so trivial then; all couples tended to fight – he could see the intense love you had for each other despite all the bicker.

But over the days, your fights simply intensified; almost as if you were doing it all on purpose. And finally one day, it erupted with a final,’it’s over’ and you had walked out, never to return.

This time when the sun set, it cast its final rays on the longer locks of your best friend. “He’s losing it, Y/N; the pain, its killing him. He couldn’t even stand straight today, but he was so persistent about meeting you,” he chuckled sadly, “I had to add a few sleep meds into his drink to knock him out... I know that he’ll hate me when he wakes up, but you do understand my intentions right?”

Sighing softly, he rose. “Y/N, if you can hear me, come back to us. We miss you... Dean needs you back; hell, I need you back. I miss my best friend,” his voice broke towards the end.

The darkness settled in as he drove away.

Week eleven and yet you were still dead; they hadn’t found anything that could get you back. It was a Thursday and would have been your birthday if you were still alive. Sam had visited in the morning, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in his hand. He had sat there for quite a long while talking to you. He was suffering – it was even worse for him because he hadn’t just lost you but also his brother; no matter what show Dean put up every day, he knew that the older one was no more the same.

That evening as the sun set, loud screeching of tires burned away the thick silence around your grave. A car – sleek, black, classic from the 60’s – swerved violently before shuddering to a stop right where the dirt trail to get to your grave started. A man stumbled out; a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was drunk beyond measure, struggling to stand upright.

How many could he have possibly downed just so he could get to this stage?

He fell on his knees with a thud. “I’m so sorry, baby. I was going to celebrate your birthday you know? But you weren’t there,” his broad frame violently shook as the pent up grief and sorrow flowed out of him.

“Why’d you leave? We could have worked it out, why’d you just give up like that?”

The ‘angry young man out for revenge’ facade that he held all day had crumbled, leaving behind a broken shell.

The worst part of it was that you were helplessly seeing everything. Hell apparently had wonderful reception to watch the outside world. Ever since the traditional chop-chop techniques of torture had ceased to affect you, the demons had improvised their torture methods – mind games.

They started out with a regular dose – your family dying, all your best memories with them changing into horror flicks while you watched helplessly. Surprisingly it didn’t affect you; years of recurring nightmares, Dean’s reassuring arms telling you that it wasn’t real, Sam’s wise counselling and all the love you got from them, had finally let you find the closure you sought. You now had a new family.

Then the visions of your family were replaced by the boys – you betraying the two, them suffering, dying, asking you over and over “why, Y/N/N?”... But you survived those too, convincing yourself that it was just trickery and that the boys were safe; they were Winchesters.

And finally one day they just let you see what the world upstairs was up to. That was where you crumbled – at their mourning faces; at Dean’s reckless attempts to bring you back, at Sam’s silence and their frequent visits to your grave. That week was the worst, both for you and Dean. He visited everyday and you watched helplessly as he blamed himself for your death. The boys hadn’t taken a case that week, yet Dean seemed to have injured himself – bruised knuckles, multiple cuts and burns on his arms; never anything serious enough to kill him, but immensely painful. You screamed and bled freely as they carved into your skin, knowing that you were slowly giving up.

The last day of that week or maybe it was the next (or so you assumed for time ran differently out there), the torture seemed way more intense, and though you put up your best fight, you felt your body collapse and black spots dancing around your eyes. The last thing you remember before blacking out being a blinding light encompassed in gigantic golden wings followed by a searing pain in your shoulder.

Four months since your death, three since your funeral and yet he was there every week, reminiscing the time you spent, wishing he could go back to where it had all started.

Thirteen weeks since your funeral; yet he wasn’t over your death. He still found himself pining, wishing, praying, hell even begging for you to come back. This week too, when they returned from the hunt, his hand automatically sought Baby’s keys. Despite the exhaustion, and the desperate need for some booze, he had yet again driven straight to your burial site. Like every week, ever since the funeral, he flopped down on his knees with a soft thud, right beside your grave. His eyes all teary, his voice all hoarse, he repeated the same three words he always said.

“I’m so sorry.”

The sun crawled down towards the horizon, casting its glow on the grief stricken man who sat by the grave. Silent tears rolled down his cheek as they did every time. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, as always, before recounting the week’s events. Soft noises of the underground rodents scraping through and scampering filled the silence as the darkness crept in. The noises – they seemed louder today; not that it mattered to Dean.

Then, just as he rose to leave, the soil that marked your grave started caving inwards, forming a shallow ditch. A hand shot out, feebly pushing off the dirt. A head followed, coughing and spitting out mud. The man’s tired green eyes widened, a gasp escaping his lips.

“Y/N.” He breathed.

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