Supernatural Imagines [ABANDONED]

Time Warp - Part 1

TFW x Reader

Son/Daughter!Reader which I'm sorry makes for sucky inserts.

*Gender neutral* See above. Sorry.

Request!!!!

~

"I'm not going to ask you again," Dean says, leaning in, slight wisps of his hot breath fanning across your face. You know that look. You've seen it before. It's the look Dean wears when facing demons, vampires. Prisoners. His jaw is set and his eyes are cold. His usually well-kept hair is slightly messed up from him running his fingers through it. You can tell you're stressing him out. Good.

He's sitting in a metal folding chair, which is turned around so his arms are crossed and resting across the back. You can tell he's trying to hide his anger, but he's grossly unsuccessful. His biceps tense and bulge as he clenches and unclenches his fists. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, making his forearms pop. You can't help but grin smugly at him. You know everything about him. His faults, his imperfections, the red on his ledger. You know his past, his present, and his future. But he can't even get you to tell him your name.

Dean snaps his fingers in front of your face, pulling you from your thoughts. "Hey. Earth to fuckface."

"Sorry," you apologize sarcastically. "I wasn't really paying attention. What was the question?"

"Tell me. Your. Name," Dean growls, his jaw getting setter and his eyes getting harder.

You smirk. "I thought you said you weren't going to ask me again."

Dean smirks back. "I thought you weren't paying attention."

"I'm full of surprises."

Dean leans back, supporting himself by gripping the back of the chair, his arms fully extended. "Let's try this again," he says. "Who are you?"

You look away from him. "I don't think you're quite trustworthy," you say coolly, tugging at the ropes binding you. "You literally just lied to me."

Dean jumps to his feet and slams his hands down on the chair, sending a resounding metallic clang. "Who are you?" he yells.

You look him dead in the eye. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Dean leans in again, a cruel glare on his face. His gross, panting breaths are invading your nostrils now. You keep your eyes locked with his, refusing to blink or look away. Dean holds this position for a moment before he speaks. "You must think you're real cute, huh?"

You pretend to think about it for a second. "I think I'm adorable."

If Dean notices how you stole his line, he doesn't show it. A short, huffing laugh escapes his lips. "Alright, who do you work for?"

"Nobody," you answer honestly. For once.

"What do you want with us?"

You smirk again. "Good question considering I'm the one who woke up tied to this chair with no memory of how I got there."

Dean turns away from you, strolling with the casual strut of a man who has complete control of a situation, his arms crossed. You're struck by how young he looks, how energized. He lacks the creases on his forehead and the pain behind his eyes that you had come to know so well. "I seem to recall you banging on the door, asking for Sam, and then passing out."

"Did I?"

He looks at you, dropping his arms to his sides. "What do you want with my brother?"

You lick your lips. "Would you believe me if I said I was drunk?"

Dean shoots you a look. "No. You're, like, twelve."

"I'm sixteen," you correct him tersely.

"I doubt it." Dean sits down again, pushing his sleeves even further up his arms. He leans in again, rubbing his hands across the rough stubble of his chin. He looks you straight in the eye. His face is so close to yours that his eyes merge together to look like one. You can smell a mix of his familiar cologne and his sweat. You wrinkle your nose.

"I'm gonna get something out of you," Dean says, soft but menacing.

You let your lips twitch into a smirk. "I'd love to see you try." Someone bangs on the metal door of Bobby's panic room. Dean doesn't move for a long second. Then he pulls away from you and swings his leg over the seat of the chair. He unlocks the door, steel-toed combat boots clomping on their way. Someone enters the room. Your heart races. It's Sam.

Sam locks the door behind him. "Any luck?" His voice is held low, but you hear him just the same. Both men head towards you.

Dean glances at you. He doesn't bother to lower his voice. "Not much." Dean grips your jaw in one hand. "Little schmuck's got almost as many snarky comebacks as I do."

You kick the metal chair in front of you. It collides with Dean's kneecap, and he doubles over, cursing. Sam whips out his gun, most likely instinctively.

"Yes!" you cheer, ignoring Sam. "Tanya Harding!"

Dean glares at you, still gripping his knee. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

You lean as far into his face as you can muster with your arms tied behind your back. "Don't fucking touch me."

Dean starts for you. "Oh, you little bitch-"

"Jerk," you singsong. Dean stops dead in his tracks. Sam lowers his gun a fraction of an inch. Matching looks of incredulity are plastered on their faces. You suck in a breath through your teeth, feeling the blood rush from your face. Shit. Timey wimey things.

Sam takes a step closer, handgun still pointed directly at your head. He pulls back the hammer. "What did you just say?" he asks, that horrified curiosity still marring his features.

You close your eyes, leaning back, mentally cursing yourself. "Guess I got some explaining to do," you sigh.

"You could say that," Dean growls, crossing his arms. His tone is menacing, his stance wide.

You stare at your lap. You take a deep breath and let it out in a self-irritated huff. "Untie me, and I'll explain everything."

Sam and Dean share a look. The familiar gesture puts a weak smile on your face. Finally, after a bit of silent debate, Sam walks up to you and begins to untie your wrists. You can feel his breath too, on the back of your neck. He's behind you, but can imagine the expression on his face, as if you were trying to figure you out. His eyebrows furrowed, his lips pursed, and his eyes big and curious. You can almost see the way his long hair is falling in his eyes as he works, not bothering to brush it away. You've only seen pictures of his hair this way. Sam and Dean would show you those photos when they talked about the old days, Dean telling you all about how they used to fight about Sam's haircut, that it didn't follow FBI regulations and eventually they were going to meet someone who knew that shit and they'd be busted. Sam always argued that there were more important things to worry about than the state of his hair. You would always laugh at them, and tell Sam that his hair looked just fine.

But that's a different Sam. The one whose rough fingers are brushing over your skin as he works to untie the ropes is more innocent. He hasn't seen half the shit that the Sam you know has seen.

You feel the ropes loosen, then fall, and you stand, massaging the raw skin where the ties had rubbed. You take a deep breath before turning to Sam. You extend a hand and breathe deep again.

"Hello, Sam," you say. "My name is (Y/N) Winchester."

Sam's eyes widen, and he takes a step back. You look him in the eye and something like recognition passes over his face.

"I'm your (son/daughter)."

~

So this is in response to my first request made by the lovely ErinSwann. This is only part one but I wanted to get it out at least until I decide where to actually take it. Things will be explained.

Please send more requests!!! and also comment because your comments make me smile.

~faulcn