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You know it — down to your bones, deep in your gut, where instincts scream to run, to bolt before he notices the way your hands shake. Before he smells the truth on your skin — the part of you that still wants him, even now.
Even like this.
He’s seated in a broken, leather armchair in the center of the darkened room, elbows resting on his knees, a half-empty bottle of bourbon dangling from one hand. His eyes track you like a wolf’s. Like prey. You haven't spoken yet, but the smirk tugging at his lips tells you he already knows why you came.
“I was wondering when you'd stop pretending you could stay away,” Dean says, voice low and lazy, like a coiled serpent warming in the sun. “Missed me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because this isn’t the man you loved. Not really. Not anymore. This is Dean with the Mark, Dean with a glint in his eye and a taste for blood. Dean, unshackled. Unforgiving. Unholy. But somehow, still him.
And you hate that you can still see it — the way he tilts his head when you fidget, the way his shoulders relax when he hears your heartbeat. As if some part of him is soothed just by knowing you’re near.
"Why am I here?" you murmur.
He leans back, exhaling smoke from a stolen cigarette. “You tell me, sweetheart.”
"You’re dangerous now."
“Wasn’t I always?”
Your silence is the answer he wanted.
He stands slowly, boots heavy against the floorboards. You should flinch. You don’t. You stand your ground as he closes the space between you. You can feel the heat of him — the ache of something electric that pulses whenever he’s near. You never asked for this. Never wanted this kind of love, the kind that threatens to consume you.
He stops barely a breath away. "You think I don’t see it?" Dean murmurs, voice like honey and ash. “The way you look at me now. Like I scare the hell outta you — and like you’d still let me kiss you if I asked.”
You feel the breath hitch in your throat. Damn him. “Go to hell,” you whisper.
“I’ve been,” he says with a grin, dark and knowing. “Didn't take too well with me, don't you think?”
You say nothing. His hand rises slowly, fingers brushing your jaw — soft, reverent, like you’re glass and he’s trying not to break you too fast. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he murmurs.
“You killed someone yesterday, Dean.”
"Cry me a river, Y/N."
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He smiles like it’s a joke, like nothing you say really matters. But his thumb lingers on your lips. “I know you want to kiss me. I know you want me to be my old self. You want me to hold you and caress your face all loving and caring like.”
You shiver. And god help you — you do. Because there’s still a part of you that remembers the man who used to hold you like a secret, whispering promises into your hair. And this version — this darker, colder thing in front of you — he wears Dean’s face like a lie so beautiful it hurts to look away from. “I shouldn’t,” you whisper.
“But you will,” he says. “Because part of you thinks you can save me. That a kiss might be enough to bring me back.” He leans in, so close his breath brushes your mouth. “You wanna test that theory, sweetheart?”
You hesitate for one heartbeat too long. And he kisses you. Hard. Hungry. Possessive. It tastes like fire and ruin and everything you should’ve left behind. But still — you kiss him back. Because he’s right. You are worse than Hell. You chose this. And now you’ll burn for it.
His lips are on yours — hungry, rough, aching with something you dare not name. It's not love, not anymore. It’s possession. Addiction. And maybe some twisted echo of the man he used to be. You melt into it for a second too long.
Just long enough for him to know you’re not here to kill him. That’s when he lets his guard down. You feel it — the slackening of his grip, the easing of that dark tension in his shoulders. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, tender, like he still believes you could fix him. That’s when you strike.
The silver blade hidden in your sleeve slides down into your palm in one smooth motion — practiced, perfect. You waited for this. Trained for this. You slam it between his ribs, right where his heart should be. His body jolts against yours. You stagger back, hand slick with blood, eyes burning with tears you didn’t know you had left.
Dean stares at you, stunned — not from pain, but from you. “You—” he gasps, fingers curling around the blade hilt, too shocked to pull it out. “You stabbed me.”
“I did.” Tears slip down your cheek, silent and hot. “I had to. God, Dean… you’ve changed. I don’t know what you are anymore.”
He laughs, breathless, bitter. “Oh, sweetheart. I was yours — even like this. And you did this to me?”
You hesitate. That flicker in his eyes — it’s not rage. Not hate. It’s devastation. Pure and hollow. And that’s what hurts most of all. “I needed to stop you,” you whisper. “Before you became something even worse.”
He stumbles to one knee, breathing ragged, blood pooling beneath him like ink. “I would’ve let you kill me,” he says, voice rough. “If you’d just told me the truth. But you kissed me. You used the one piece of me that was still yours."
You swallow hard. You can’t cry now. If you cry now, you’ll never walk away. Dean’s eyes meet yours — not the demon’s. His. And you hate that in this moment, you still love him. “You think this will save you?” he says, the fire flickering low in his chest. “You’ll be haunted, sweetheart. This won’t be the end of me.”
You whisper, “I know.”
He slumps forward not dead, not yet. But close. You turn your back and walk away, knife still in your hand, blood still on your lips. And in the silence behind you, Dean’s voice rasps one final thing barely loud enough to hear, and somehow still shattering.
“You were the last good thing I had.”