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caplanbuckybarnes · 3 days ago

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Before She Cheats

Summary: You and Sam can't resist messing around whenever you get the chance.... even if the guilt absolutely haunts you

Warnings: heartbreak, cheating, drinking, betrayal, angst, not a happy ending, maybe its bittersweet, i guess?, nonexplicit smut

WC: 6K

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x Reader

Read on ao3!

AN: i've been listening to Before He Cheats By Carrie Underwood on repeat today for absolutely no reason other than the song slaps. It inspired this! Enjoy!

The closet was suffocating.

Dust and old leather filled your nose, thick and cloying, but it wasn’t the reason you were struggling to breathe.

It was Sam. Pressed against you. Hands roaming with a slowness that made your skin burn. You shouldn’t be here. You couldn’t be here. Not with him. Especially not with Dean calling your name down the hall, voice getting closer.

Sam’s mouth brushed your ear, his breath sending a violent shiver down your spine.

"He's right outside," he whispered, voice low and dangerous. "If you make a sound... he’ll know what we’re doing. Do you really want him to find out like this?"

You whimpered without meaning to, the sound tiny, broken, desperate. Sam’s hands tightened on your waist, steadying you, silencing you.

Through the thin wood of the door, you heard Dean’s boots dragging slightly against the floor. Closer. Pausing just outside. You clamped a hand over your mouth, heart hammering so violently you thought Dean would hear it.

Sam smirked, eyes dark in the slatted light, his body heat burning into you. One large hand slid up under your shirt, fingertips tracing the bare curve of your side, pushing higher, mapping every shudder and breathless tremor.

You should stop him. You should shove him away, throw the door open, and confess before this spiraled even worse.

But you didn’t. God help you, you leaned into him instead.

Sam’s mouth ghosted over your jaw, not kissing yet, just hovering, waiting for you to break first. You bit down on your knuckles, desperate not to make a sound.

Outside, Dean’s voice. "Babe? You in there?" A soft laugh. "Come on, you’re not mad about earlier, are you?"

Guilt slammed into you so hard your knees almost buckled. You were mad earlier. At Dean’s teasing. At the way he sometimes forgot to see you, to listen, to understand. That fight had driven you straight into Sam’s arms.

Straight into this... betrayal.

Sam’s fingers brushed the underside of your bra, his knuckles grazing your nipple so lightly it was torture. You sucked in a shaky breath, barely muffled by your hand. Sam smiled against your throat.

"You like this too much to stop," he mouthed against your skin. You hated him. You hated yourself more.

Dean’s footsteps shifted. He was standing right outside the door now. One tug of the handle. That’s all it would take.

"Y/N?" Dean’s voice was quieter now. Softer. Worried.

You squeezed your eyes shut, body trembling with the effort not to break. Sam’s hand slid down your stomach, slow, purposeful, until it dipped beneath the waistband of your jeans. Your gasp was too loud, and Dean shifted outside. And Sam’s free hand clamped over your mouth, pinning you tight against the wall.

You were trapped. Physically, emotionally, completely. Dean stood there for one endless, breathless heartbeat and then, mercifully, moved on. The floorboards creaked as he walked down the hall, muttering to himself.

Only when the sound of his boots faded did Sam ease his hand from your mouth. You stared at him, wide-eyed, humiliated, terrified—and burning. Sam searched your face in the dim light, something flickering behind the wicked smile.

Guilt. Fear. Longing.

You didn’t know which was worse.

"Say it," he breathed. "Tell me you want this."

Your throat locked up. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him until the guilt drowned.

Instead, you choked out a broken whisper, "I hate you."

Sam’s lips twisted in a sad, dangerous smile. "Good," he said. "Means you’ll remember." Then he kissed you— rough, desperate, wrong. You let him. You kissed him back like it was the last good thing you’d ever taste.

You clutched his jacket, dragging him closer, feeling the sharp edge of his belt buckle press into your stomach, the hard heat of him behind it. Sam groaned low in his throat, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. The closet felt like it was caving in, walls closing tighter and tighter, trapping you in the heat of him, the smell of leather and guilt and want.

Sam broke the kiss first, panting, forehead pressed to yours. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, voice raw. "Tell me, Y/N."

You couldn’t. You couldn’t even form the words.

Instead, you fumbled with the button of your jeans, desperation overtaking shame. Sam cursed under his breath and yanked your pants down just enough— just enough for him to push between your thighs, rutting against you through his jeans like he couldn’t help himself.

You whimpered, hands clenching the fabric of his jacket, burying your face against his shoulder to muffle the sounds. Sam’s hand slid between you, fingers slipping into you with an ease that made your cheeks burn. You bit down hard on his jacket to keep from screaming."Fuck... you’re soaked," Sam rasped into your ear, voice shaking. "You’re so goddamn bad, sweetheart. Worse than me."

He thrust his fingers deeper, curling them expertly, and you were gone. Tears pricked your eyes as pleasure ripped through you, sharp and humiliating and divine. You came hard against his hand, body spasming silently, legs trembling so badly you almost slid down the wall.

Sam caught you, cradling your shaking body against his chest. For one terrifying, fragile second, you thought he might say something soft. Something real. But he just smirked, pulling his fingers free and licking them obscenely slow, eyes locked on yours. Your stomach twisted in horror and heat. Sam zipped your pants back up roughly, hands lingering on your hips like he didn’t want to let you go. You pushed him back with trembling hands, glaring through the tears blurring your vision.

"This..." you gasped, "this never happened."

Sam tilted his head, studying you like you were some fascinating, broken thing. "Keep telling yourself that," he said softly.

You shoved open the closet door, stumbling into the hallway.

Dean’s voice drifted faintly from the library, calling for you again.

You wiped your mouth, your eyes, fixing your clothes with shaking hands. You were going to hell. You were going to hell, and Sam Winchester was going to be there smiling when you got there.

You took one step toward the library and Sam’s hand caught your wrist. You turned, heart in your throat. Sam’s face was unreadable in the dim light. Hard. Haunted. "Y/N..." he said roughly. "This wasn’t just you."

You ripped your arm free and ran. You didn’t look back. You stumbled into the library on legs that barely worked, heart still thundering against your ribs.

Dean looked up from the lore book he was flipping through, flashing that cocky, familiar grin that used to make your knees weak. Now it just made your stomach lurch.

"There you are," he said easily. "Thought you got lost or something."

You forced a shaky laugh, praying he wouldn’t notice the way your hands trembled. "Nah," you said hoarsely. "Just needed a minute."

Dean frowned, concern flickering over his face. "You okay?" he asked, pushing the book aside and standing up.

You nodded too fast. "Yeah. Just tired. Maybe... maybe I’ll turn in early."

Dean crossed the room toward you, and for one horrifying second, you thought he would smell Sam on you — the guilt, the sin, the heat — but he just kissed your forehead and ruffled your hair like he always did.

"Get some rest, sweetheart," he murmured. "Big hunt tomorrow."

You nodded mutely, pulling away before he could see the tears swimming in your eyes. You practically fled down the hall, boots thudding too loudly on the stone floor. You needed a shower. You needed to scrub the shame off your skin. You needed to—

A hand shot out from the shadows, yanking you into a side room. You gasped, shoving at the chest, pinning you to the wall—until you looked up and saw Sam’s eyes burning into yours.

"Sam—" you hissed.

"I can’t—" he rasped, voice wrecked. "I can’t leave it like that."

You shook your head wildly. "We can’t—"

But Sam wasn’t listening. His mouth crashed against yours, savage, desperate, tasting like guilt and fire and longing.

You whimpered into the kiss, fists pounding weakly against his chest — but it only spurred him on, made him grip you harder, like he could carve himself into your bones if he held you tight enough.

"You think I’m proud of this?" he growled against your lips. "You think I don’t hate myself for wanting you?"

You shook your head, tears slipping free.

"Please, Sam," you begged, voice breaking. "Please don’t."

Sam let out a broken, gut-wrenching sound and buried his face in your neck.

"Tell me you don’t feel it too," he whispered. "Tell me, and I’ll stop."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because you did feel it. God help you, you felt it so much it made you want to claw your own heart out. You stayed silent. And that silence broke whatever was left of Sam’s restraint.

He lifted you bodily, setting you on the edge of a dusty old table, kicking your legs apart with his knee. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as you sobbed against his mouth. Sam kissed the tears from your cheeks, his hands shaking as they slid under your shirt again, rougher this time, less careful.

You felt everything — the anger, the desperation, the self-loathing.

You felt him.

"Sam," you gasped, "we can’t—Dean—"

"Dean doesn’t love you like this," Sam hissed against your skin. "Not the way I do."

The words hit you like a slap.

You froze.

Sam seemed to realise what he said a second too late. He pulled back, chest heaving, staring at you like he just ripped out his own heart and handed it to you. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "I didn’t mean—" He stopped himself.

He did mean it. You could see it written all over his face. Before you could speak, a heavy knock shook the door behind you.

Both of you froze.

Dean’s voice. "Y/N? You in there?"

Your blood turned to ice. Sam’s hand clamped over your mouth, his own eyes wide and panicked.

"Yeah!" you called through the muffling grip, heart galloping. "Just—cleaning up! Give me a minute!"

Dean paused. You could almost feel him frowning.

Then footsteps, retreating slowly down the hall.

You slumped against Sam, breathing hard. "This is a goddamn disaster," you whispered.

Sam pulled his hand away slowly, the lines of guilt carved deep into his face. "I know," he said hoarsely. "But it’s ours."

You stared at him, throat raw. You hated him. You hated yourself more. You pushed past him, bolting into the hallway, heart breaking apart with every step.

You didn’t see Sam slide down the wall behind you, head in his hands.

You didn’t see the way he broke.

You avoided Sam for three days.

Three whole days of slipping down side corridors, ducking into unused rooms, slamming your bedroom door shut before he could even knock.

Three days of pretending you didn't feel him everywhere.

Of pretending you didn’t see the way his hands trembled when he passed you a coffee mug at breakfast. The way his jaw clenched when Dean brushed a kiss over your hair. The way he looked at you when he thought no one else was watching — like you were the rope pulling him into hell, and he’d go willingly.

You barely slept.

Every time you closed your eyes, you felt him again — his hands, his mouth, the wrecked sound of his voice when he said Dean doesn’t love you like I do.

It made you sick.

It made you crave him worse.

The fourth night, it rained.

Hard, relentless drumming on the bunker roof. You were curled under your blankets, staring at the ceiling, when the knock came.

Soft. Desperate. You knew it was him. You knew you should pretend you weren’t here. You knew you should scream at him to leave.

But your feet moved anyway. You opened the door, and Sam stood there, soaked to the bone from standing outside, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing like he’d run a mile.

"Please," he said, voice raw. "Just — just talk to me."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Sam, we can’t keep doing this," you whispered.

"I know."

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust himself not to touch you.

"I just..." he dragged a hand down his face, looking wrecked. "I can’t do this anymore. I can’t watch him touch you. I can’t sit there and pretend it doesn’t gut me every time you smile at him."

Your heart cracked wide open.

"It’s not fair," you said brokenly. "It’s not fair to any of us."

Sam nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

For a second — a terrible, beautiful second — you both just looked at each other.

And you knew. It was never going to stop. Not until you burned everything to the ground. Not until someone got hurt. Maybe all of you. Sam moved first. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, the click echoing in the tiny room like a gunshot.

You backed away instinctively — but there was nowhere to go.

"Tell me to leave," he said, voice shaking. "Tell me to leave and I’ll go."

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Sam let out a broken sound and crossed the room in two strides, grabbing your face in his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. "I love you," he whispered, like a sin, like a prayer. "God help me, I love you."

You broke. You crashed into him, kissing him like you could erase every mistake you were making with your mouth, your hands, your whole stupid, selfish heart. Sam kissed you back with a hunger that tasted like agony, lifting you into his arms, stumbling blindly toward the bed.

Clothes hit the floor in frantic, clumsy bursts.

He stretched you out under him like something precious, his hands shaking as they roamed your skin. "You’re mine," he whispered against your collarbone. "You’ve always been mine."

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. "I’m yours," you gasped, tears slipping free. "I’m yours, Sam."

The words were a gunshot to your own chest. But you meant them. You meant them so much that it terrified you.

Afterwards, you lay tangled together in the dark, heartbeats slowly finding a broken rhythm. You traced lazy circles on Sam’s bare chest, feeling the way his heart kicked every time you touched him.

"We have to stop," you said finally, voice raw.

Sam went still.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "We do."

But neither of you moved. Neither of you even tried.

The next morning, it almost exploded. You sat at the bunker kitchen table, forcing yourself to eat dry toast you couldn’t taste.

Dean wandered in, yawning, scratching his stomach, dropping a kiss on the top of your head like he always did.

You flinched. Sam stiffened across the room, coffee mug frozen halfway to his mouth.

Dean frowned. "You good?"

"Fine," you croaked.

"You sure?" he asked, leaning down to look into your face, worry creasing his forehead.

You nodded too fast.

Sam set his mug down with a sharp clink.

Dean’s eyes flicked to him, narrowing slightly.

"You two weird or something?" he asked, suspicious.

"No," you and Sam blurted at the same time.

Dean squinted at both of you. You wanted to scream. You wanted to confess. You wanted to crawl out of your own skin.

Instead, you smiled as best as you could muster in front of the two brothers and shoved another bite of toast into your mouth.

Dean stared at you a second longer. Then shrugged, yawning again. "You two are freakin’ exhausting," he muttered, heading toward the garage.

The second he was gone, you dropped your head into your hands. Sam was at your side in an instant, kneeling beside your chair. "We can’t keep doing this," you whispered, broken.

"I know," he said, voice gutted. "But I can’t stop loving you."

You looked at him and knew he was right. You couldn’t either.

Later that night, it rained again. The power flickered once, twice. You sat curled up on the bed, staring at the wall, heart hammering.

A soft knock.

You knew who it was before you even moved. You opened the door and found Dean standing there, wet and frowning.

"Can we talk?" he said.

You blinked, nodding slowly.

Dean stepped inside, dripping water onto the floor. He looked...nervous. "Listen," he said, raking a hand through his soaked hair. "I know I’m not the easiest guy to be with. I know I screw up. But I—I love you, Y/N."

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

"I love you," Dean said again, voice rough. "And if something’s wrong — if you’re not happy — you gotta tell me."

You opened your mouth.

The words clawed at your throat. And behind Dean — just down the hall — you saw Sam. Standing in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.

Your heart screamed. Dean’s eyes searched your face."Tell me," he said softly. "Tell me if I’m losing you."

Tears spilt down your cheeks. You looked at Dean — sweet, broken, good Dean — and you looked at Sam — furious, desperate, yours — and you knew.

No matter what you chose, you were going to shatter something beautiful.

Maybe everything.

The closet was too dark, too small, too dangerous. You could still feel Sam’s hands shaking against your waist, the heat of his breath against your ear. "He's right outside," Sam whispered, voice hoarse and breaking under the weight of guilt. "If you make a sound, he'll know what we’re doing."

You didn't dare move. The weight of what you were doing — what you had already done — was crushing you. Every heartbeat slammed against your ribs like a warning. Dean. Dean. Dean.

Footsteps echoed outside. Heavy. Familiar. Dean’s voice floated down the hallway — low, casual, humming some stupid classic rock song under his breath.

You squeezed your eyes shut. God, what were you doing?

Sam's fingers, still tangled in the fabric of your shirt, curled tighter. His forehead rested against yours, and for a moment, everything disappeared — the bunker walls, the guilt, the sound of Dean’s boots.

Just him. Just you. Just this.

The doorknob rattled. You both froze.

"Closet’s stuck again," Dean muttered to himself, jiggling it.

Sam held you so tightly you could barely breathe. You felt his chest rising and falling like a trapped animal.

Another rattle. Another shove.

"Whatever," Dean said, giving up, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Sam’s hands slid from your waist to your face, and you saw it — all of it — in his eyes. The fear. The need. The shame.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. His voice cracked. "I'm so fucking sorry."

You swallowed, your heart bleeding. "Sam… we have to stop."

"I know," he rasped. "I know. But I—"

The door suddenly burst open.

You stumbled back against the wall, blinking into the sudden light, and everything shattered.

Dean stood there. Eyes wide. Mouth open. A beer bottle dangling from his fingers. The bottle slipped from his hand. Shattered.

You didn’t even hear it hit the ground. You didn’t hear anything except the broken sound Dean made — somewhere between a gasp and a groan, a sound you’d never heard him make before.

It was worse than a punch. Worse than a scream. It was the sound of someone breaking.

Sam moved first. "Dean—"

Dean hit him.

It wasn’t a warning punch. It was a full-force, bone-snapping right hook that sent Sam crashing into the opposite wall.

"Dean, stop—!" you cried, reaching out.

Dean turned on you. Not with fists — but with something worse.

His eyes. God, his eyes.

"You," he breathed. His voice was shaking. "You."

You stumbled back, hand over your mouth.

"How long?" Dean demanded. His voice rose — a wild, desperate roar. "How long, Sam?!"

Sam wiped the blood from his mouth, chest heaving. "It wasn't—it wasn't supposed to happen—"

"Answer me!" Dean grabbed Sam by the collar and slammed him against the wall again. The whole bunker seemed to shake.

You stepped forward. "Dean, please, it wasn’t like that, it—"

"You think I give a shit what you have to say?" Dean snarled at you, voice so raw it barely sounded human. "After what you did?"

Sam shoved him back, breathing hard. "Dean, don't you dare talk to her like that."

Dean’s face twisted. Betrayal. Fury. Grief. All of it flooding to the surface. "You don't get to protect her," Dean growled. "You don't get to touch her. You don't get to breathe near her. Do you understand me, Sam? You’re my little brother!"

Sam’s fists clenched. "I love her."

The words hit like a grenade. Dean physically reeled back, like the air had been ripped from his lungs.

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed.

"You love her," Dean repeated, voice hollow. "You love her."

You sobbed. "Dean—Dean, I’m sorry—"

He laughed. It was the ugliest sound you’d ever heard.

"You're sorry?" he said, his smile cracking into something twisted. "You're sorry?"

Sam moved toward you instinctively, a protective gesture, but Dean was faster. He shoved Sam back so hard he staggered.

"You loved me, too, huh?" Dean asked you, voice slicing you open. "Was any of it real? Or was it just a warm-up for my little brother?"

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. "It wasn’t like that. Dean, please—"

Dean's fists curled at his sides. You could see it, the war inside him. He wanted to hit something. Break something. Maybe himself.

Instead, he turned away.

"Get out," Dean said, voice dead and low.

Neither of you moved.

He turned back around, and the look on his face made your blood run cold.

"I said get the fuck out," Dean shouted.

You flinched. Sam grabbed your hand and pulled you back, dragging you down the hall like a ghost.

Dean didn’t follow.

The last thing you saw before the bunker door slammed behind you was Dean, standing alone in the hallway, staring at the broken beer bottle on the floor like it had been his heart.

The door slammed behind you so hard the walls shook. The sound echoed in your skull, over and over and over, like a gunshot. Sam didn’t let go of your hand until you reached the garage — and even then, it took him a second to realise he was still holding on. His hand dropped from yours like it burned.

You leaned against the cold wall, dragging in a shattered breath. Sam was pacing like a caged animal, running both hands through his hair, muttering under his breath.

"This is bad," he rasped. "God, this is so bad."

You slid to the floor, your knees giving out. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t bother wiping them away. What was the point? You had destroyed it. All of it.

Sam stopped pacing when he saw you crumple. His face softened — just a little — and he dropped down next to you. "Hey," he said, touching your arm. His voice cracked. "Hey, look at me."

You did — and the look on his face almost killed you. Regret. Guilt. Love. All at once.

"I’m so sorry," Sam said, shaking his head. His voice broke completely. "I should’ve stopped this before it ever started."

You buried your face in your hands. "I hurt him. Sam, I hurt him."

Sam swallowed hard, blinking fast, fighting the tears rising in his own throat. "He hates me," he said, voice hollow. "He’s never gonna forgive me."

You sobbed raw, broken sound that ripped from your chest.

"And he’ll never forgive me either," you whispered.

For a moment, there was nothing but your shared, unbearable silence.

You thought, for a second, about going back. About falling on your knees in front of Dean and begging him to let you explain. But what was there to explain? You betrayed him. With the person he trusted most.

Sam pressed his forehead against yours, his hands shaking where they framed your face. "I love you," he said, so broken it barely made a sound. "God, I love you. But I wish I didn’t."

You choked on a sob. "I know," you whispered. "Me too."

Dean stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the shards of broken glass. He didn’t even feel the blood running down his palm where he’d gripped the broken bottle. Didn’t even feel the pain. He only felt the nothingness. He stumbled to the kitchen, found the half-empty bottle of whiskey, and didn’t bother with a glass.. He drank straight from the bottle, letting the burn claw down his throat. But it didn’t burn enough. Nothing could burn enough.

He punched the wall — hard — and felt something crack in his hand. Good. Maybe if he broke every bone in his body, it would hurt less than the hole they’d carved in him. He slid down the kitchen wall, bottle clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

The images kept replaying — Sam's hands on you. Your lips swollen. Your eyes wide with guilt. And the way you looked at Sam — Not like it was a mistake. Not like you regretted it.

Like you loved him.

Dean laughed — a broken, ugly sound — and tipped the bottle back again. He stayed there for hours. Maybe days. He didn’t know anymore.

You and Sam sat there, slumped against each other, both broken.

Sam wiped his face, but the tears kept coming. "I’m gonna fix this," he said hoarsely. "I swear to God, I’m gonna fix this."

You turned your head to look at him, hopelessness hollowing you out. "How?"

Sam’s face crumpled. "I don't know," he admitted. His voice shattered. "I don't know."

You reached for his hand, but it felt wrong now. Everything felt wrong.

You crept back into the bunker.

It was silent. Dark.

You found Dean passed out on the kitchen floor, the bottle clutched in his fist, blood smeared on the wall where he’d punched it. Your heart cracked wide open. You knelt beside him, trembling.

"Dean," you whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He flinched away even in his sleep.

You swallowed the sob that rose in your throat. You touched his hand — the one clutching the bottle — and carefully pried it from his fingers.

He stirred — and for a terrible second, his green eyes opened, bloodshot and glassy. "Don't," Dean slurred.

Your throat closed. "Dean—"

"Don't touch me," he rasped.

You pulled your hand back like you’d been burned.

Dean stared at you, seeing you, but not seeing you. He shook his head, a tear sliding down his cheek. "I loved you," he whispered. His voice cracked on the last word. "I loved you."

You crumpled to the floor beside him, shaking so hard you couldn’t breathe.

"I still do," he said, his voice breaking completely. "But I can’t anymore."

You sobbed, pressing your forehead to the cold tile.

Dean turned away from you, like you didn’t even exist anymore.

Like you were already dead to him.

The bunker had always been a home. Not just a place to sleep, but a refuge. A sanctuary. The walls held memories of hunts fought, laughs shared, and secrets whispered in the quiet hours of the night.

Now, the air felt too thick. Too heavy. The silence between you and Dean stretched for miles.

Dean didn’t want to look at you. Didn’t want to hear from you.

But you couldn’t stay away.

The first step was the hardest. The second, even harder. You walked into the kitchen, but Dean wasn’t there anymore. He was gone.

You found Sam instead. He hadn’t slept. His face was drawn, hollow, eyes were bloodshot. He was leaning against the counter, hands pressed flat on the granite, as if holding himself up from falling apart. His eyes flickered to you as you entered, but he didn’t say a word.

Neither of you knew what to say. You didn’t know how to apologise — didn’t know if it would even matter anymore. It would never be enough.

"I told you it was a mistake," Sam said finally, voice hoarse.

You shook your head. "You don’t get it. I never meant for this to happen. I—"

"You don’t have to explain," Sam interrupted, wiping his face with a tired hand. "I know. I get it."

"Do you?" you whispered, voice breaking. "Because I don’t even get it."

You both stood there, worlds apart, struggling to breathe the same air.

Dean’s absence was like a ghost that haunted the bunker. You knew he was in his room. You could feel it. But you couldn’t bring yourself to go to him. You wanted to, but the weight of the guilt was suffocating. Every step felt like a betrayal. Every breath felt nauseating.

Sam stood with you, trying to keep the peace, but you both knew it was a temporary truce. Nothing would fix this. Nothing.

Dean came down the stairs at sunset, his eyes cold and distant, like he wasn’t even seeing you, like you had already died. He walked past you without a word.

You swallowed hard. "Dean—"

He turned to you then, but his face was a mask of indifference. "Don’t," he snapped, voice flat. "I don’t want to hear it."

You flinched at the venom in his tone.

"I don’t want to hear it," he repeated, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, but the words felt hollow. Empty.

Dean’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking in his face. "You’re sorry?" He let out a bitter laugh. "I don’t need your apology. I need you to get the hell out of my face."

He turned away, heading for the door.

Your legs felt like lead, but you moved toward him. "Dean, please. You have to listen. Just hear me out—"

"You betrayed me," Dean said, voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "You and Sam. You’re both dead to me. I will never forgive either of you for this."

"Dean, don’t say that," you begged, your voice cracking. "Please, you don’t mean it."

But he did. You could see it in his eyes. He didn’t just mean it — he believed it. Dean was already at the door. He turned the handle with one last look over his shoulder.

"Goodbye," he said, and the door slammed behind him before you could say another word.

Sam couldn’t take it anymore.

He was pacing the hall, his fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His face was pale, eyes wide with panic.

"I’m going after him," Sam muttered to himself, more to calm his own nerves than anything else.

You grabbed his arm before he could go.

"Sam, no," you said, shaking your head. "Don’t."

"You don’t understand," Sam said, his voice strained. "He’s not okay. He’s breaking, and if I don’t stop him—"

"You can’t fix this, Sam. None of us can." Your voice was quieter now, brittle with exhaustion. "Dean’s gone."

Sam’s face crumpled, the fight draining from him. "I know," he whispered, the words like a weight on his chest.

But he still couldn’t stop. He wasn’t ready to let go. He couldn’t let Dean walk away, not like this.

Sam stormed to the door.

You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t stop him, couldn’t fix this, but there was one thing you knew for sure: You were the one who had caused it. You had burned everything to the ground, and nothing—not Sam, not Dean—could rebuild it.

Dean wasn’t at the bar, but Sam found him on a random street, soaked in misery and alcohol.

He had been drinking for hours. Dean’s face was flushed with alcohol, his eyes unfocused, lost. The brokenness in him was now a permanent part of his soul.

Sam found him on the docks, sitting at the edge with a bottle in his hand.

"You think drinking’s gonna fix this?" Sam asked, his voice quieter now.

Dean didn’t even flinch. "You’re too late."

"I know," Sam said, his eyes glossy with unshed tears. "I know. But I can’t let you go down like this."

Dean finally looked at him. His expression was unreadable, but the pain in his eyes was enough to make Sam’s heart break.

"I don’t want to feel anymore," Dean whispered, his voice hoarse. "I don’t want to hurt anymore."

Sam stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "I’m sorry, Dean," he said, voice breaking. "I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to be the one who did this."

Dean didn’t speak for a long time.

Finally, his voice was so quiet, Sam almost couldn’t hear him.

"Then why did you?" Dean asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why, Sam?"

Sam choked on a sob, unable to answer.

Dean’s hand dropped to the bottle again. "I can’t forgive you," he said. "I can’t forgive either of you."

Sam nodded, defeated. "I know."

And then Dean stood up. He didn’t look at Sam. Didn’t look at anyone. He walked away from the pavement he’d been slouched against, and Sam’s heart shattered a little more.

The air was thick with tension. Every second felt like an eternity, as though time itself had slowed to a crawl, forcing each painful moment to linger longer than it should.

The bunker was quiet now. Too quiet.

You didn’t expect him to come back. Not after what happened.

But you were wrong.

Dean returned.

The door creaked open, and your heart skipped a beat when you heard the familiar sound of boots hitting the concrete. The weight of the silence between you was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, pretending to read something, trying not to give away how much you were struggling inside. It wasn’t working.

Dean stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room before landing on you. He didn’t say anything. No harsh words, no insults — just the cold, empty stare of a man who had been completely drained of everything.

The whiskey on his breath hit you like a wave. He was drunk. You could see it in his unsteady posture, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his hand clutched the edge of the doorframe like he needed something to hold him upright.

"Dean…" you whispered, your voice shaking despite yourself.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped further into the room, his gaze not leaving you, but his face was devoid of any emotion. It was a mask, one that had been carefully constructed to protect him from the flood of feelings he couldn’t — wouldn’t — deal with.

The distance between you both felt miles long.

Sam had gone to bed hours ago, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the echoes of your shattered heart. You were too afraid to face Dean, to try to fix the brokenness between you. You knew it would only make things worse.

Dean's lips parted, but his voice was low, almost like he had to force the words out. "Do you hate me?" His voice cracked slightly, and it hit you harder than any slap could.

You felt your chest tighten. The ache you had been trying to ignore flooded you all at once, choking you with its intensity. "No, Dean," you managed, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. "I could never hate you."

He let out a harsh laugh, bitter and dry. "Then why… why the hell would you do it?" His words were sharper now, cutting through the stillness of the room like a blade. "Why would you do that to me? What did I do wrong?"

"I didn't mean for it to happen," you tried to explain, but your voice wavered, betraying the guilt that weighed you down. "It wasn’t supposed to go like this."

Dean stepped forward, the slow, deliberate movement making your heart pound even faster. He stopped just in front of you, his eyes boring into yours, his breath mingling with yours as he stared you down.

"You think that makes it better?" he asked quietly. "That you didn’t mean for it to happen? That you didn’t plan it? You don’t get to do that to me, Y/N. You don’t get to break me like that and just walk away."

"I’m not walking away," you whispered, the tears finally spilling over. "I never wanted to hurt you."

Dean’s eyes softened for a brief second, and you thought, just for a moment, that maybe there was hope. That maybe, just maybe, he could find a way back to you. But then the coldness returned.

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, like he was trying to calm the storm that raged within him. "You’ve already hurt me," he said, the words quiet but full of so much pain. "I don’t know if I can come back from this."

The weight of those words settled in your chest, heavy and suffocating. You hadn’t meant to cause this much pain. But you had.

Dean turned away then, taking a few steps toward the door, as though every step he took carried more weight than the last. You couldn’t bear the distance, couldn’t stand the thought of losing him completely. So, you did what you never thought you would.

You reached out.

"Dean, please," you whispered, your hand trembling as it hovered in the air between you, unsure if you should touch him or pull away. "Please don’t walk away."

Dean paused, his back to you. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the steady, agonising rhythm of your heart.

Then, slowly, he turned back around. His eyes locked onto yours, and for the first time, you saw the full force of the anguish in them. "You don’t get it, do you?" Dean’s voice was raw, thick with emotion. "You can’t just come back from this. I can’t just forgive you. You broke me, Y/N. And nothing you say or do can fix it."

"You don’t have to forgive me," you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "I don’t expect that. But I’m here. I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere. Please, just… just don’t shut me out. Please."

Dean stared at you for a long time, his face an unreadable mask of pain. The silence stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his posture relaxed. He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out, but he didn’t touch you. Not yet. He was so close that you could feel the heat of his body, but it was still as though he was a world away.

"You really think I can’t forgive you?" Dean asked, his voice quiet, almost lost.

You nodded slowly, not trusting yourself to speak, your heart racing as you waited for him to say what you were afraid to hear.

Dean’s eyes softened, just a fraction. And then, without warning, he closed the distance between you, pulling you into his arms as if he needed you to breathe. "I can’t… I can’t forget," he murmured into your hair, his voice trembling. "But I’ll try. For you."

Tears flooded your eyes as you clung to him, desperate for something to hold onto. "I’m so sorry, Dean. So sorry."

"I know," he whispered, his hand smoothing over your hair, holding you as though he never wanted to let you go. "I know."

It was broken. But for the first time, you dared to believe it could be mended — maybe not completely, maybe never the same, but mended nonetheless. The wounds would never fully heal. But you weren’t giving up. Not on him. Not on you.

Not yet.

A/N: i know this is a long one, but PLEASE don't forget/ hesitate to reblog! share with your friends! make them emotional as well!

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