dean winchester

The freezing rain hammered against the rusted tin roof of the old storm cellar, washing thick sheets of grime down the rotten wooden stairs, while you hunkered down in the dark to rifle through a forgotten wooden crate of old candles and rusted tools, your flashlight beam flickering weakly against the stone walls as you kept your fingers resting nervously against the grip of your heavy knife, listening closely to the absolute silence of the woods outside until the concrete floor near the back wall suddenly gave way with a sickening, wet crunch.

Dark, packed earth spewed across the stones as a pair of dirt-caked, calloused hands shoved their way up through the ruptured floorboards, black soil wedged deep beneath torn fingernails as those fingers clawed desperately at the air like they were searching for something to hold onto, and before you could even pull your shotgun from its sling, a broad pair of shoulders forced their way into the cold air, dragging up a frame clad in a shredded flannel jacket that reeked of damp earth and moss, until his head broke the surface and his face turned directly toward yours in the dark.

You froze in place with your weapon raised, expecting a terrifying lunging monster or a snarling beast driven by bloodlust, but when the flashlight beam illuminated his features, those clouded, milky eyes just locked onto yours with a strange, striking intensity, looking at you not like a meal or a target, but like you were the first light he had seen in a hundred years, like a total stranger holding a shotgun in a dark basement was somehow his absolute salvation, and as he hauled his heavy weight completely out of the ground, he just collapsed into the dirt on his knees without a single sound coming from his motionless chest.

There was no breath fogging from his parted lips in the freezing air, no pulse throbbing in his pale skin, yet dean just sat there in the dirt like a lost, confused puppy that had somehow clawed its way straight out of hell, blinking slowly as damp earth flaked off his long eyelashes while he tilted his head to the side, looking at the raised barrel of your gun with a quiet, pleading innocence rather than fear or aggression, before lifting both of his large, calloused hands with palms turned out and fingers spread wide, making a gesture so human and desperate that your thumb completely slipped off the trigger.

The moment you lowered the heavy steel barrel, dean let out a low, needy hum that vibrated through the silent room, a soft sound of pure relief that made him shuffle forward on his hands and knees, ignoring the knife in your belt entirely as he closed the distance between you, gently thudding his cold, dirt-dusted forehead against your knee before wrapping his thick arms around your waist with overwhelming, desperate force, burying his face right into the folds of your heavy jacket as if he were utterly terrified that you might disappear if he let go for even a single second.

He didn't bite or snap or pull you down to the ground to hurt you, he just held onto you like a needy hound seeking warmth, his fingers clutching the fabric of your coat in tight fistfuls while you sat there frozen, cautiously reaching out a hand to press two trembling fingers against the cold side of his neck, finding no heartbeat, no pulse, and no warmth at all beneath his pale skin, but dean only nuzzled deeper into the crook of your shoulder at your touch, whining softly into your neck as if he had finally found his home in a complete stranger.