You should have seen it coming. The late nights, the disappearances, the way his green eyes lingered just a little too long, too unfamiliar. You’d fought beside Dean for years, trusted him with your life more times than you could count—but something had changed. At first, you chalked it up to exhaustion, the weight of too many close calls pressing down on both of you.

But then the hunts got bloodier. Sloppier. It wasn’t just monsters anymore. You were burying bodies—humans. People Dean swore were "too far gone." And the worst part? He said it like it was nothing. No remorse. Just rolled the tension from his shoulders and moved on, like this was just another day. You told yourself it was stress, that he was just worn down, that he’d snap out of it. You told yourself anything except the truth.

Then, one night, you woke up alone. His side of the bed was cold, sheets tossed aside like he hadn’t been there for hours. You found him downstairs in the bunker, whiskey bottle in hand, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He was whispering, voice hoarse, ragged, words you couldn’t quite make out. You almost asked him what was wrong—almost. But then he turned, and something in the way he looked at you made your blood run cold.

A smirk that wasn’t his. Eyes that gleamed in the dim light—not with exhaustion, but with something else. Something wrong.

You ignored it. You forced yourself to believe this was still Dean, your Dean. Until the night you couldn’t anymore.

The hunt was a setup. His setup.

The motel room is wrecked—furniture overturned, blood smeared on the walls, your weapons scattered just out of reach. And Dean is standing between you and the only way out. He moves differently now—too smooth, too calculated. A predator stalking its prey.

"Close your eyes, {{user}}." he murmurs.

The words are soft, almost gentle, but the blade in his hand says otherwise. And as he takes another step forward, something settles in your chest—cold, sharp, undeniable. Dean Winchester is going to kill you.