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impala-dreamer · 25 days

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Save Me - Part Two

A Short Story

~ Sometimes, when life seems the brightest, shadows creep in. After announcing their engagement to the world, Jensen's fiancé is kidnapped. With the help of a friend, she tries to fight her way back home to him.~

Jensen Ackles x F!Reader, Dean Winchester (cameos by Misha Collins and OCs)

7,160 Words Total. Part Two: 3,950

Warnings: My kind of Super Angst. Blood. Injury. Kidnapping. It's really sad...

A/N: Written for @jacklesversebingo "No one's coming to save you. Get up!"

PART ONE ~ PART TWO

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

Snow was falling from a gray sky. Big flakes landed on his shoulders, dusted his hair, melted on his cheeks. His lips were frozen; his fingers numb.

The cherry of his cigarette fell to the icy sidewalk and he huffed. He fumbled with the lighter and lit back up, pulling at the filter as if he were trying to set his lungs on fire.

Maybe he was. Maybe he wanted to set the hotel on fire, the police station, the entire city.

Jensen tipped his head back and exhaled, sending the smoke to mix with the clouds overhead.

“When did you start smoking again?”

Misha appeared next to him, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other holding a jacket. He was visibly cold, bouncing a bit for warmth even as he settled next to Jensen.

“I don’t know. When did the world implode? Four days ago?” He licked his lip and then took another drag. “Then.”

Misha shook his head sadly and Jensen rolled his eyes.

He flicked the butt into the street and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Put your coat on at least,” Misha suggested, tapping his shoulder with the jacket.

Jensen looked down at it as if he’d never seen anything like it.

“No.”

Misha sighed. “It’s freezing. You’re gonna get sick.”

“So?”

Not wanting to fight, Misha draped the jacket over Jensen’s shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze.

“Y/N needs you to be strong. You can’t go off and get pneumonia.”

Jensen turned his head and glared; green eyes narrow and angry. “She doesn’t need me to be strong. She needs me to fucking find her.” His jaw clenched so hard he could feel his pulse beat in his temples. “She needs me to save her.”

Heartbroken, Misha closed his eyes and dropped his head. “I know. But there’s nothing you can do right now.”

Jensen scoffed. “Isn’t there?”

“No. The police are-”

Enraged, defeated, hopeless, Jensen spun away, kicking at the snow and pushing Misha’s care away. “The police aren’t doing shit! It’s been four fucking days!”

“I know…”

“They can’t even figure out who took her. The fucking- the security cameras in the parking garage weren’t fucking working! What the fuck good is that!”

The louder Jensen’s voice grew, the smaller Misha felt. There was nothing he could say, no way to comfort his friend.

Jensen wouldn’t be comforted even if Misha knew how. He wanted to rage at the universe. To put his fist through the brick wall behind him. To drive a truck through the Starbucks across the street. To run away from everyone and everything in this godforsaken city and find her. He had to find her.

A snowflake landed on his nose and he batted it away, slapping himself in the face.

He calmed.

His heart ached.

His voice crackled with tears.

“Odds are,” he whispered, “She’s dead already.”

“Don’t say that.” Misha choked back his own pain and cleared his throat. “The detective said there’s no reason to assume-”

Jensen laughed bitterly. “Forty-eight hours, isn’t that what they say? If you don’t find them in the first forty-eight hours you’re not going to. Or they turn up dead on the side of the road or in a shallow grave behind some psycho’s house.”

“Jensen…”

Green eyes closed to the world.

He was trembling, shaking from the cold and the pain of uncertainty and loss.

“I just…I don’t know what to do.”

They stood there in silence, letting January seep into their bones. There was nothing to say, nothing either of them could do.

It just was what it was.

And it was impossible.

A deep shiver moved through Jensen’s body and he shoved his arms through the jacket sleeves, thankful that Misha was looking out for him and the little things. He was too shattered to care about staying alive. Not right now.

He turned back to his friend and the revolving doors, deciding it was time to go back in and shake away the cold.

Flashing lights pulled his attention to the street and he held his breath as the police car turned into the hotel lot. The world moved in slow motion as the car parked in the nearby handicapped spot and Detective Lassiter hopped out. He held a clear bag in his thick fist and his countenance was heavy. He looked at Jensen and shook his head.

Jensen’s universe cracked. He bit his tongue, needing to feel the pain to keep himself conscious as the detective explained what had happened.

“They’re not asking for a ransom,” he said, speech rushed and emotionless. “Not yet, anyway. But this- this is good.” He handed the bag to Jensen.

Y/N’s diamond engagement ring glistened in the dim gray light.

Jensen closed his fist around it. The platinum prongs dug into his palm. “How?” His voice broke. “How is this good?”

“Means they want something. They’re not just going to kill her and be done. This is the kidnappers opening a line of communication.”

Jensen couldn’t hear him, couldn’t follow his words any longer. His fist tightened and the diamond cut through the thin evidence bag. He squeezed until it hurt, until his skin broke, until he could feel the warm trickle of blood.

A drop fell from his fist and painted the freshly fallen snow.

It was hard to stay awake, hard to think.

The pain was still there, but she couldn’t feel it much anymore. It didn’t feel as intense, as if she were getting used to the constant stabbing and shredding of her insides that accompanied every breath she took.

She couldn’t feel the cold anymore either. Her flesh had simply become part of the concrete, all of her warmth had been drained into the darkness.

In and out of the dreamless sleep of unconsciousness, she lay on the dirty floor, barely able to think let alone move.

“Why you?” she whispered, watching burgundy flannel pace back and forth by the steps.

Dean stopped short, his boots making a dull thud on the floor.

“What?”

She lifted her head, cringed at the hurt that erupted in her shoulder.

“I said, why is it you?”

His forehead creased and he shrugged. “I don’t know. Who else would it be?”

Y/N rubbed her right eye. It was dry and it hurt to blink. She was dehydrated and starving; her body was failing, her mind was slipping.

“It’s just odd, I guess.”

Dean sat on the bottom step, his elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t think it’s that weird. You need someone to talk to, you need someone to help. I’m pretty good at that shit.”

Y/N sighed. “But you don’t exist. I’m just talking to myself.”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

“There should have been way more demon Dean.”

Jensen laughed and shot her a look that would have knocked her over had she not already been sitting down.

The couch cushion between them seemed as wide as an ocean, but neither were ready to swim across.

“You like bad boys, huh?” He licked his lips and watched hers as she answered.

“I guess everybody does at some point,” she said. “But there was something special about Dean as a demon. It was like… he was finally free for a little while. Like he was on vacation. Just hanging out and getting laid-”

Jensen grinned. “And murdering innocent people.”

She dipped her chin and looked up at him flirtatiously. “Is anyone ever truly innocent, Jensen?”

His smile faded and he stared harder. His lips parted slowly. “Are you?”

She blinked, painted lashes fanning over enchanting eyes. “I can be when I need to be.”

Her hand slid across the space between them and she bit her lip, daring him to match her move, begging him to meet her halfway.

He dropped his hand to the cushion, fingers landing a breath away from hers.

“What about right now?” he asked, leaning close.

She could feel the heat pushing off of him, smell the lingering scent of his faded cologne.

“Honestly?” she smirked.

He nodded. “Always.”

Y/N leaned in dangerously close. “I’m not feeling too innocent right now.”

A tentative kiss. The first taste of his lips; the first feel of her skin.

There were footsteps above her head. Someone running; heavy shoes falling on old wooden planks.

Y/N lay on her back and stared up at nothing. There were long beams above her and she wondered what it would take for them to come crashing down and crush her to death.

It wasn’t that she wanted to die, she’d never want that, but she knew it was happening. She could feel her body giving up. Her skin was hot but she shivered. Her blood had dried but the wounds wouldn’t stay closed. Her thoughts were fuzzy and shadows played tricks on her.

She couldn’t tell how long it had been since they’d tossed her down the steps; didn’t know how far from help she was. Time meant nothing. It could have been hours, a month, a week mostly likely. There was no way for her to guess. No windows to help count the sunsets, no ticking clock to pace her breaths to.

Sometimes, she counted her heartbeats just to have something to do, but they were unsteady. Too fast at times and then far too slow. It scared her to pay attention to the erratic pulse of her blood, so she tried to ignore it.

Mostly, she remembered things.

Mostly, she remembered him.

In moments when the pain overwhelmed her and her eyes refused to stop leaking, she would pull up his face, try to remember the placement of every freckle, count each thick eyelash. She could still feel his hands on her skin, smell his breath first thing in the morning. She could taste the salt on his neck after a workout, hear his delicate whispers in the heat of night. But his eyes were fading away. She couldn’t get the shade right in her mind; couldn’t remember what shirt made them darker, what time of day they looked the lightest.

The green was washing away.

Last winter. A break in filming. Sand beneath their feet; ocean breeze filling their lungs.

The sun was so bright it hurt her eyes, but she refused to close them, unwilling to miss one single second of time with him.

He was already burning in the sun; his shoulders tanning, his chest turning red. Every now and then, he’d take off and run into the water, dip below the perfect blue horizon and cool off. She loved those moments the best, when he came back to her dripping and laughing, his hair wet and slicked back behind his jet-fin ears.

He’d always come back to her, always fall down over her, hold himself up on his big arms and let the ocean water dribble down onto her bare stomach. He’d block the sun for a few precious moments, and all she could see was the halo around him and the love in his eyes.

“Y/N…”

She couldn’t open her eyes. They felt so heavy, so dry. It was all so pointless.

“Y/N, wake up, sweetheart.”

Dean was hovering again, crouched down at her side. His giant hand was hovering over her forehead as if checking her temperature like a mother would for her child.

“Don’t- don’t call me that,” she croaked. Her eyes fluttered open and she was met with his worried smile.

“What should I call you then?”

“A cab.”

He laughed softly. “You’re still funny. That’s good.”

“Is it?”

She tried to sit up but her spine felt like gelatin. She tried to speak but her throat was ripped to shreds. She tried to cry but her eyes were dry and nothing came out. Her shoulders shook and she moaned pitifully.

Dean’s jaw clenched, dimples popped above his lip. “You gotta get out of here. You’re not doin’ so well.”

Y/N curled in on herself, knees and shoulders meeting somewhere in the middle. “Go away.”

“No.”

She covered her face.

He shifted onto his knees. “You gotta get up and find a way out.”

“There is no way out. We’ve looked a hundred times.”

He exhaled hard, frustrated and desperate. “You gotta try again. You gotta get out.”

Her eyes fell closed again, her breathing slowed. “He’ll find me. He’ll save me…”

Y/N was still confused when the elevator door opened. Jensen had refused to tell her where they were going or why they were dressed like they were being photographed for GQ.

‘Wear that purple dress,’ he’d said on the phone with no explanation why.

Her hand clasped in his, they stepped out into a large empty ballroom. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a gray morning; the L.A. smog was thick and hung like rain clouds in the sky.

Jensen led her deep into the room and turned to face her. He was nervous, she could tell. His chewed his bottom lip, rubbed his thumb over her hand quickly, breathed a little too fast.

She laughed gently. “What’s going on?”

He took a big, calming breath.

He licked his lips and smiled.

“Eighteen months ago, we were both here for that HBO after party. You wore this purple dress and I was wearing…” He looked down at his crisp black button down and charcoal slacks. “Well, this.”

She smiled. “I remember. It was the first time we met.”

He swallowed hard and held her hand in both of his. His palms were damp.

“But what you don’t know is that I saw you the very second you walked in.” He bit the corner of his mouth and took a second to collect his racing thoughts. “I was over there by the window talking to Eric and you walked in… It was like the crowd opened up for you. Every head turned; the music stopped.”

“I don’t think it was that much of an entrance,” she laughed.

“It was for me.”

Her heart raced.

“Jen, what’s going on?”

He smiled and bent down to kiss her lips. He held her face in his hands, ran his thumbs lightly over her cheeks. She kissed him back, licking at his plump lips.

“I wanted to do that the moment I saw you,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open and all she saw was green.

“And this…”

He let her go and dropped down onto one knee.

He took her hand.

She held her breath.

“Marry me, Y/N…”

“I need you to calm down.”

Detective Lassiter was tucked behind his messy desk, his beer gut smushed against the edge.

Jensen refused to relax. He paced in front of the man’s desk, his hands rushing through his hair; fists beating at the stale air.

“I can’t fucking calm down, OK!” His face was red and his jaw hurt from holding his tongue for so long. “You people can’t do shit, you know that? It’s been six fucking days.”

“Mr. Ackles, please-”

“No. No. No.” He turned to the detective and slammed his hands down on the desk. He leaned in, close to growling. “You need to save her.”

The older man sat forward. “We are doing everything we can. They’re working on the emails right now. Still hoping there’s traceable DNA on the ring. We will get these bastards. We will find her.”

Jensen closed his eyes, felt a thousand more tears brewing in his chest. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on without having a complete breakdown. There wasn’t enough bourbon in the world to soothe his soul.

Only one thing would do.

Only Y/N.

He was coughing so badly she was sure he was dying. She could hear him from the kitchen, his wet cough rattling above the sound of the screaming kettle.

She poured the boiling water onto the tea bag and grabbed some Tylenol from the cabinet.

The room was dark but the light from his cell phone guided her across the soft carpet.

“Hey…”

He groaned miserably.

“You feelin’ any better?”

He shook his head. “I feel like death.”

Y/N set the mug of tea down on the nightstand and switched on the lamp.

He cringed at the light and shielded his eyes with a forearm over his face.

“You better not die on me, Ackles. I’ve still got plans for you.”

He smiled and sat up a little bit, reaching for the tea. “You can’t get rid of me this easily. Even if it is your fault.”

She gasped in mock offense. “It is not my fault!”

“You got me sick,” he chuckled and took a sip.

“Yeah. You’re right. It was all part of my master plan to steal the Impala from you.” She pressed her fingertips together and gave him an evil grin. “Everything is falling into place.”

He laughed. It triggered a cough and she took the tea from him as his body shook.

“Oh, god, Jen.” Her brow creased with worry and she pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “You’re burning up, baby. I think we should get you to the doctor.”

Jensen shook his head and grabbed her wrist. He closed his eyes and kissed her palm. “Just stay with me, please.”

She smiled and settled in next to him. “They couldn’t pull me away…”

There was screaming coming from above. The words were muffled but the emotion was clear.

They were coming for her.

Y/N lay face down on the floor, her fingertip tracing a crack in the concrete. She was tired, so tired, and cold again. The air touching her skin hurt, the strands of hair that touched her forehead felt like knives.

Dean was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his body locked in a tense defensive pose. He listened to the shouts, eyes narrowed and ears struggling to understand.

“That’s it,” he huffed, spinning around toward Y/N. “You gotta get up. You gotta go. Now.”

Boots pounded above.

Y/N sighed. “It’s fine. He’s coming for me. Jensen is coming. He’ll save me.”

Dean grit his teeth and knelt down beside her. His voice was deep and firm. “Listen to me. You can still fight. You can get up and fight.”

She laughed. “I can’t. Look at me. I’m… I can’t fight. They’ll kill me.”

“Then you go down swinging. You’re not some damsel in distress, Y/N. Get up and fight!”

Gingerly, she rolled over and looked up at him. “Maybe I am. Maybe I just have to lay here and wait for the cops to show up.” She sighed and closed her eyes, waving him away. “I’m tired, Dean.”

The fight upstairs was growing louder, the boots getting closer to the door.

Dean slammed his palms against the floor by her head, making her jolt awake.

“No one is coming to save you. Get up!”

Navy uniforms blurred in his vision. People rushed past the big window, but he stayed put, frozen in the chair beside Lassiter’s desk.

Jensen was in shock; tired and lost. He had barely heard the detective when he explained the situation.

They’d tracked down the kidnappers. The S.W.A.T. team was on their way. Just a few more hours and Y/N would be home.

He just had to wait.

Finally, Dean got her to stand. Her legs were shaky, but her head was clearing. She knew what had to be done.

Behind the staircase was an old, rusted tool box. Inside it, a hammer.

She gripped the wooden handle tight.

Dean urged her to stand in the shadows beside the staircase. He held her gaze, reassuring her every second that she could do this. She could fight her way out. She could run.

The boots above stopped. The kitchen light turned on, illuminating the seams around the door at the top of the stairs.

Y/N steadied her breathing. She bent her knees, planting herself on the spot.

The door creaked loudly as it was pulled open.

Her hand trembled.

Dean nodded reassuringly. “You got this.”

Heavy footsteps bounded down the stairs and a large man appeared, gun in hand.

Y/N’s blood was racing, adrenaline coursing through every cell.

The man turned to the right and Y/N leapt from the left. She lunged forward, swinging the hammer with every bit of strength she had.

She missed his head, striking him in the forearm.

The gun fell.

She pulled her arms back and the claw of the hammer dug into the flesh beneath the man’s chin. He screamed and doubled over, taking the old tool with him.

Y/N stared down at him, eyes wide with shock and terror.

“Now!” Dean clapped his hands, stealing her attention back. “Run!”

She could still feel the warmth of the lights on her face; hear the cheers from the crowd.

Jensen pulled her close and kissed a trail down to her lips. He kissed her forehead, her nose, the top of each cheek. By the time he met her lips, she was laughing into him, so warm, so happy.

His arms folded around her, his beard tickled her cheeks.

She clung to his shirt and sighed.

“I won’t be long,” he whispered. “Just gotta go smile for a thousand photos or so.”

She groaned. “I don’t wanna let go.”

He laughed and squeezed her tight. “Me either.”

The kitchen was bright, the lights burned her eyes. She stumbled into a chair and hit her foot against the island.

Dean was there every step, calling her name, leading her through the worst pain she’d ever experienced.

“You can do this,” he shouted, urging her to move faster. “Just a little farther. Come on!”

She pumped her arms, dodged the sparse furniture in the living room, raced for the front door.

It was locked, bolted and chained.

“Almost there, kid. Almost there.”

She focused hard, willing her fingers to cooperate.

The man shouted from the basement, loud and angry. Dean looked back over his shoulder, and flinched.

“You gotta hurry, Y/N-”

The chain was the hardest part. Her fingers were numb and tingling; she slipped more than once.

Boots thudded on linoleum.

“Come on!”

She wrenched the door open and tumbled out into the cold night air. The moon was full and bright, the sky clear and inky black.

She took a breath and steadied herself; bare feet sinking into the snowy lawn.

Dean was across the street already, silently urging her on with a waving hand and desperate expression.

Flashing lights pulled her gaze away and she smiled. They’d found her.

Sirens blared.

She took a step toward the street.

Dean shouted her name.

She smiled.

A shot rang out and her world fell into darkness.

Jensen collapsed.

His knees hit the ground first, then his hands. His palms scraped against the gravel but the sting was irrelevant.

Someone was touching him, grabbing at his shoulders, trying to help him up, but he shouted and pushed them away. He didn’t want help. He didn’t need comfort. He didn’t want anything.

His chest burned, his heart raged against his ribcage. The earth beneath him opened up, shattered like his soul.

“Jensen…”

He looked up into his own dark eyes. Eyes he’d seen in the mirror for years. Eyes that he’d cried with, laughed with, died with a thousand times.

Dean sighed. A single tear slid down his cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

Jensen closed his eyes and Dean faded into nothingness, swept away by the freezing January wind.

“Keep her safe, Dean,” he whispered. “Stay with her.”

“Always.”

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