baals

not like it was hard. dean was like a sponge: he soaked up all your love until he seemed to overflow, despite the fact that it felt like drowning sometimes. it wasn’t anything you did wrong, but it just felt overwhelming once in a while, being loved so fiercely and gently, when dean has experienced everything but that in his life.

you seemed to be very in-touch with your emotions and with your love. you cared deeply about sam and dean, and you showed it: in your actions, your words, your everything. but especially dean. you told him you loved him all the time—and you made sure he knows that he’s worth loving, too. that he means something not just to you, but to the world itself.

it might’ve started with you making a snack for the brothers. they were deep in research at bobby’s. you brought sam celery and dean a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and dean almost exploded when you set the plate down in front of him. but he couldn’t, since his brother was across the table from him, mowing down on the celery you brought him. you knew sam would want something healthy, but dean would want something comforting if he was going to eat. you just knew, without asking either of them.

dean opened his mouth, about to say that he wasn’t hungry—but upon a second of hesitation, he realized he was. so he closed his mouth, gave you a closed-lipped smile. you smiled back, ruffling his hair—and it was like the sun was shining on him. he damn near melted into the floor.

on the other hand, maybe it’s just the touching. you touch dean so often, like second nature, and he hopes he’ll never get used to it. he hopes he’ll cherish every head pat, hand on his shoulder, arm linked around his own, and kiss on his cheeks and on the top of his head like he has been since you walked into his life. it’s enough to drive him insane, but strangely, he’s alright with it.

you touch him all the time. dean loves laying on top of you, letting your hands wander all over his back. he’s even started sleeping shirtless again, something he never thought he’d do, just so your fingers and his skin aren’t separated anymore. the feel of your hands on him makes his brain fuzzy in the best possible way. especially when your hands find their way to his hair. you rake your fingers through it slowly, until dean’s a pile of mush against you. and you hold him close, even when you sleep. like you subconsciously wanted him there. like you actually loved him.

you love him like it’s easier than breathing. like you didn’t care about his fuckups, his worst mistakes and his deepest regrets. it was so freeing, but at the same time, dean feels like it’s a dream. like tomorrow when he wakes up, you’ll be gone. like he conjured you up himself in his mind, just for him, and the rug will be pulled out from under him.

it’s hard, because dean’s never had something to call his own. not really. his car was his dad’s before his, plus even his own thoughts might be mirrored to his dad, too. he shares everything else with his brother. not that he minds. it’s just the truth. plain facts. he’s never had something, someone all to himself, just for him—until you.

then you came along, and suddenly, everything made sense. you love him, more than anything. just for him. you don’t ask him to be anything else, other than who he is. and you always say how much you love him: a simple “love ya” before you go to the store, or a full-fledged “i love you so much, dean” on the hard days. you remind him, so he never forgets. he can’t say it as much as you do—and he’s not sure why. given time, he’ll get there, but not yet.

for now, he’ll take your love. even though deep down, he thinks he doesn’t deserve it, he’s going to take it. take something for himself for once, with no regrets. you love him for all this scars, all his mistakes—and dean knows that something like that cannot be taken lightly. he’s not sure any woman he’s been with has loved him. not as true and as strong as you do. so he doesn’t take you or your love for granted. not ever.

dean may not believe in himself just yet, but he believes in you, and in your idea of him. believes that one day, he’ll be the man you see looking back at you.

and dean believes that someday, he could be that man.

someday.

first off, just stating the obvious: he seems to know every single movie, tv show, and pop culture reference in the entire history of television and media. it’s a little insane, how quick he can reference something—and do it correctly.

same with books. “hey, i read”, dean said, and he was not kidding. mostly because he stole read the classics sam had permanently stashed in the bottom of his backpack from the ages of 9 to 17 and paid attention in english class (when he actually went) and the assigned reading was actually good for once.

also, it’s not just anyone calling dean a dork. sam calls him a dork. and you call him a dork—because dean is one.

he was rambling on passionately about either a car show he went to back in the day or something about a slasher movie he just rewatched, and you said it: “you’re such a dork.”

dean wasn’t too sure how to react. he’s been called worse—much, much worse than that. and you sorta smiled when you said it, so it couldn’t be that bad. so dean took it as a compliment.

he gets excited over the little things. he gets mach-levels of elated over the most mediocre of events: a new beer at the liquor store, a stumping word search in the newspaper. he treats things like that as if it was gold. and maybe to him, it is.

maybe it’s his inner child he never got to be peeking out through him once in a while, or maybe it’s just because he’s comfortable around you—but more and more, you see a softer, sillier side come out of him.

it’s even worse when he’s drunk. he gets all dopey and happy under the influence sometimes instead of destroying a room like the tasmanian devil. he hangs off your shoulder, talking all sorts of nonsense: “hey, did y’know that bats have echolocation? i saw it on tv.”, and “ya think space smells weird? or does it jus’ smell like… nothin’?”. but you don’t make fun of him—at least, not too hard.

he laughs at the jokes in movies he’s seen over a hundred times. he reads graphic novels and has strong opinions on today’s horror genre compared to what it used to be. he grins when he gets a good message in the his fortune cookie and dresses as a cowboy almost every year for halloween. so yes. dean winchester is a major dork.

but you wouldn’t change it for anything.

you worked hard to get him to trust you. months of hunts, patched-up injuries, late-night diner coffee, standing shoulder to shoulder in graveyards while ugly things crawled out of darker corners than neither of you wanted to talk about. you earned the version of him that doesn’t flinch when you reach across him for the weapons bag, the version that tosses you the impala keys without acting like he’s handing over his firstborn child, the version that grins too openly when you insult him back.

and what do you get for all that patience? intimacy? vulnerability? a tender breakthrough? no.

you get a plastic spider in your boot at six in the morning. you get a fake bloody hand in your duffel. you get your shampoo replaced with dish soap, your favorite jacket hung from the motel ceiling fan, and one deeply traumatic morning where every single pair of your socks had been dampened just enough to make you question the mercy of god.

dean thinks this is love language.

you think he needs consequences.

sam knows something is coming before dean does, because sam has survival instincts and dean has whatever the opposite of that is. he watches you from the motel table while dean’s in the shower, your expression calm as you hide the supplies back inside your bag: green food coloring, red hair dye, a bottle of body wash you found in a sad little drugstore clearance bin labeled classic musk, and one large box you have been guarding for three towns.

sam lowers his laptop screen by an inch. “should i ask?”

“no.”

“is anyone going to the hospital?”

“emotionally, maybe.”

he looks at the box. “is that for the car?”

you smile.

sam closes his eyes for a second. “i don’t want to know.”

“correct.”

the setup takes precision, spite, and the kind of quiet focus usually reserved for summoning rituals or assembling ikea furniture without crying. you’d inject the toothpaste with enough green coloring to make the inside of the tube look cursed, swap dean’s shampoo for a violent red rinse that promises temporary color in letters so cheerful they feel legally suspicious, and replaced his body wash with the elderly musk gel that carries the aggressive aura of mothballs, dusty church pews, and a man named eugene who owns three cardigans.

then comes baby.

you move fast in the parking lot, heart beating with the kind of joy that feels criminal. hello kitty steering wheel cover first. pink seat covers next. matching floor mats. a soft blanket stretched across the backseat. tiny headrest bows. one dangling charm from the rearview mirror that swings innocently in the dark, completely unaware it’s about to become the focal point of dean’s psychological collapse.

when you get back inside, sam is sitting exactly where you left him, hands folded beneath his chin.

“i’m not involved,” he says immediately.

“you’re a witness.”

“witnesses can be killed.”

“then maybe keep the poker face.”

he makes a strangled sound and goes back to pretending to read.

dean emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later with a towel around his waist, red hair, green teeth, and the full confidence of a man who hasn’t yet processed that he looks like christmas tree coming to life. the red is not subtle. it clings to the short spikes of his hair in damp, furious streaks, especially near his temples, where it has taken on a cherry-cough-syrup intensity that makes your soul leave your body for one beautiful second.

his teeth are worse.

bright green. radioactive. cartoon-villain green.

you stare.

sam makes one tiny noise from the table and immediately turns it into a cough so violent it almost deserves an emmy.

dean narrows his eyes at both of you. “what?”

your mouth trembles. “nothing.”

“why are you looking at me weird?”

“i’m just admiring,” you say, voice thin with restraint, “your commitment to personal grooming.”

dean points at you with the hand holding his shaving kit. “don’t start. i have a date.”

that nearly ends you.

sam’s shoulders start shaking.

dean looks at him. “you got a problem?”

sam presses his lips together so hard they almost disappear. “nope.”

dean accepts this too easily. he tosses the shaving kit onto his duffel and keeps moving around the room, utterly unaware that every step sends that tragic old-man body wash clouding behind him. he gets dressed anyway. jeans, boots, dark shirt, leather jacket. somehow, horribly, he still has the posture of a man who thinks he can pull this off.

you sit on the edge of your bed with both hands folded in your lap, nails digging into your palms.

“so,” you manage. “big night?”

“absolutely,” dean checks himself in the mirror, then stops. properly stops. his face goes still in that dangerous little way that means his brain has finally caught up to his reflection, and for one beautiful second, the whole motel room holds its breath.

sam sinks lower behind his laptop.

dean leans closer to the mirror, lips parting just enough to reveal the green. bright. wet. horrifying. his eyes move up to his hair next. red. aggressively red. not cute copper, not sexy auburn, not even passable under bad motel lighting. just red in the way emergency exits are red. in the way cough syrup stains your tongue red. in the way warnings are red.

you press your lips together so hard they hurt.

dean turns slowly. “you.”

you blink, angelic. “me?”

“don’t me me!” he points at his own mouth. “why do i look like i ate a glow stick?”

sam makes a noise so high and strangled that it barely sounds human.

dean whips his head toward him. “you knew?”

sam’s face is pure suffering. “i didn’t know about the teeth.”

“but you knew something.”

sam looks at you, then at dean, then back at his laptop with the dead-eyed survival instinct of a man who has spent his whole life between two disasters and learned to choose silence when necessary. “i wasn’t part of it.”

you finally lose the fight and smile. big. bright. no shame.

dean stares at you for another second, furious, hair red, teeth green, and somehow still carrying the wounded dignity of a man betrayed by his own kingdom.

“rookie work.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“rookie,” he says again, rummaging through a duffel with unnecessary aggression. “you think this is my first rodeo? food coloring in toothpaste? hair dye in shampoo? come on. i practically invented bathroom warfare.”

“you invented bathroom warfare?”

“ask sam about the nair incident.”

sam closes his eyes. “please don’t.”

dean disappears back into the bathroom with all the purpose of a man going to war. water starts running. drawers open and slam. something clatters into the sink. you hear him muttering to himself, low and offended, and then—“sammy! i’m using your toothpaste.”

“why mine?”

“because mine’s been violated.”

you snort so hard you nearly choke. you sit on the edge of the bed, swinging one foot lightly, joy humming through your whole body.

the bathroom door opens again ten minutes later, and the worst thing happens.

dean looks good. of course he does. idiot. absolute curse of a man. the green is gone from his teeth, scrubbed clean by sam’s betrayed toothpaste and probably half a bottle of mouthwash. his hair is still red, but damp and pushed back now, the color settling into something annoyingly intentional under the yellow motel light. it should look ridiculous. it sort of does. but dean has the unbearable confidence to make even bad decisions look styled.

he steps out, jacket on, boots tied, jaw tilted in that way that says he knows he has recovered far too well. “see?” he says, spreading his arms. “still hot.”

you hate that you agree. deeply. personally.

dean catches the tiny shift in your face and grins. “oh, don’t look so disappointed. you made me hotter.”

“your hair looks like a traffic cone.”

“a sexy traffic cone.”

“those don’t exist.”

“i’m making history.” he checks himself in the mirror one last time, turns his head left and right, then nods with disgusting self-satisfaction. “yeah. date’s still happening.”

you keep smiling too much.

dean notices.

his eyes narrow. “what?”

“nothing.”

“no.” he points at you. “that’s not nothing. that’s your evil face.”

you fold your hands in your lap, sweet as a hymn. “have fun tonight.”

dean studies you for another second, suspicion flickering over his face, but ego wins. he grabs his keys from the table, twirls them once around his finger, and heads for the door.

“don’t wait up,” he says.

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

he leaves. the door shuts.

for two seconds, there’s silence.

sam slowly looks at you.

you look back at him.

outside, dean’s boots crunch across the gravel parking lot. there’s the faint jingle of keys. a pause. another step. then—“SON OF A BITCH!”

you’re already laughing by the time the door flies open again.

dean storms in with the kind of rage usually reserved for demons, betrayal, and people who put dents in baby’s doors. his face is red now too, almost matching his hair, which feels thematically excellent. he points toward the parking lot with a shaking hand.

“m-my car.”

you gasp, delighted. “is something wrong with baby?”

“do not call her baby right now.”

“why? she’s dressed so cute.”

“she has bows on her headrests.”

“yes.”

“pink floor mats.”

“mhm.”

“a hello kitty steering wheel cover.”

“limited edition.”

dean stares at you as if you’ve personally rewritten the laws of nature just to hurt him. “my car looks like it got stolen by a twelve-year-old.”

sam makes the mistake of laughing. not much. just one sharp little burst he tries to smother immediately with a cough.

dean turns on him. “oh, you think this is funny?”

sam’s eyes are wet. “no.”

“you’re crying.”

you lose it again, falling back against the mattress while dean glares at both of you, his date forgotten, his dignity in ruins, his red hair glowing under the cheap motel light. for a second, he holds onto the anger. really tries. you can see him fighting for it, clinging to the righteous fury of a man whose soulmate-on-wheels has been degraded by pink polyester and cute cats.

then his mouth twitches. “i’m homicidal.”

“you’re smiling homicidally.”

that breaks him.

dean laughs, sudden and rough, one hand bracing against the doorframe like even he can’t believe how badly he’s been played. the green teeth are gone, which is a shame, but the red hair and the old-man body wash still do plenty of work. he laughs until sam finally gives up pretending to cough and just laughs too, shoulders shaking over the table.

“okay,” dean says eventually, pointing at you. “truce.”

“no.”

his smile drops. “no?”

“beg.”

“i will absolutely not beg.”

you lift your eyebrows. dean glances toward the parking lot. you can almost see him picturing baby sitting out there in all her hello kitty glory, exposed to the public, vulnerable to witnesses, one stray pedestrian away from permanent humiliation.

his jaw works. his pride takes a knee. “please,” he says tightly, “remove the tiny cat cult from my car.”

you beam. “and?”

“and…” he exhales through his nose, already planning murder behind his eyes. “i’ll stop pranking you.”

sam snorts again.

dean does not look away from you. “temporarily.”

“there it is.”

“i’m honest.”

“you’re a menace.”

“you started car crimes.”

“you put a rubber finger in my cereal.”

“that was funny.”

“so is baby’s soft era.”

his grin comes back slowly, dangerous and warm at the same time. “enjoy it while you can.”

you should be scared. honestly, you are a little. dean winchester with a wounded ego, and red hair is not a safe man. but he’s laughing, and sam’s still wiping at his eyes, and for once the motel room holds nothing sharp or haunted or waiting to kill you. *just this—*dean looking ridiculous and happy and too fond of you to hide it properly.

“worth it,” you say.

his eyes linger for half a second longer than the joke needs. “yeah,” he says, quieter under the laughter. “we’ll see.”

Aging together wasn’t that bad—it wasn’t like you once feared, that one day he would give up on you and the family you had created together for a younger, prettier face.

Leon respects the relationship and the life you share. He respects his lifelong partner and would never let you down or leave you for a younger woman. He appreciates the devotion and patience you’ve shown him throughout all those years—and still do.

In his eyes, you’re still the same young, pretty girl he met back in Raccoon City 30 years ago. That city was a real nightmare for him, but at least he didn’t leave it empty-handed.

At this point, your children—or “The Kids,” as he always called them—are adults now. But Leon doesn’t see them as grown-ups, and neither do you; to both of you, they are still your little, adorable babies—except for the youngest, who is only 10 years old and the most spoiled girl in the world, her daddy’s princess.

Leon is the perfect example of a classic gentleman husband—he takes you on dates even when you sometimes complain that you’re too old for that kind of thing. But he never listens in that department; he wants his full attention on you, and only you. He may have lost a lot of time in his 20s and 30s to his never-ending missions, but now he’s all yours, and he doesn’t want to waste a single second.

A very proud husband of his one and only Mrs. Kennedy, Leon finds himself struggling with modern technology, especially social media. But with his son’s help, he has learned how to do a few things, like updating an Instagram post or story.

It’s mostly the same thing he always posts: pictures of himself with you on expensive holidays, or driving his Porsche while listening to ’90s classic music—he’s never been a fan of modern music.

You and Leon mostly take your youngest daughter with you on holidays and trips, leaving a small note on the fridge for your 21-year-old sons. Of course, it’s always Leon’s idea—he loves teasing them mercilessly.

You always end up taking him to the mall to buy new coats or jackets. Leon trusts your sense of fashion—it’s amazing how you always find the perfect pieces for him to wear. Intelligent, dashing, and handsome.

He’s smug about the way you always look at him when he’s in his perfectly tailored suits, as if he just stepped out of a mafia novel. In return, he buys you matching coats.

“hey,” he says, voice gravelly.

you leap from the couch, sighing in relief, “leon,”

you cross the room before he can take another step.

“oh honey, what a mess,” you chuckle in a whisper, hands hovering his arms like you’re afraid to break him.

he lets out a slow breath through his nose, breathing out a weak and sarcastic “thanks”, but his thoughts are louder than his voice.

'god, i missed you. i’m so damn tired.'

you reach up carefully, fingers brushing the side of his face. he leans into it without thinking. just a fraction. just enough that you notice.

“what hurts? besides everything,” you murmur.

“i'm fine. i've had it worse,” he says automatically. he always says that. you give him a look.

he huffs, “nothing serious. i promise.” but despite his words, he’s swaying a little, and he smells like smoke and metal and cold. just cold.

“i'll run you a bath,” you say softly. “come on.”

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the bathroom is warm, heat curling in steam against the ceiling. you added epsom salts and a little bit of the oil he likes—it smells clean, woodsy, grounding. the kind of scent that makes leon feel safe. he sits on the edge of the tub, already peeling his shirt off while you help him out of the gear strapped onto his legs.

his movements have slowed down, the adrenaline nearly gone his system. it started to dwell the second you touched him. as you help him take his shirt off, his hands find your hips. you see the bruising blooming along his ribs, a shallow cut near his shoulder, scrapes along his arms, and a nasty, drying deep slice on his neck.

you wince, terrified by the sight, but you hide it, keeping your hands gentle. his thoughts, however, are not.

'she shouldn’t have to see this. i should’ve been more careful.'

but when your fingers brush the angry bruise along his side, you don’t flinch. you don’t even look scared. you just look focused.

“you did good,” you tell him quietly, like you can hear the guilt creeping in.

he looks up at you slowly. “you don’t even know what happened.”

“no, but...” you pause, “you came back.”

that shuts him up.

you help him ease into the bath, and the second the hot water reaches his shoulders, he exhales, long and trembling, like he’s been holding in his breath for days.

“feels good?” you tease softly.

“hey,” he mutters, eyes closed. “i'm trying to relax here.”

you kneel beside the tub and start washing the grime from his skin. the water darkens, but leon's heart and mind lighten immensely.

you move deliberately, careful around the cuts. he opens his eyes to watch you for a little. he sees the way your brows pinch when you see a deeper scrape, and guilt runs through his chest.

“i can do the rest myself,” he murmurs, but doesn't move.

“just shut up and let me.” you smile, reaching up and tilting his chin so you can clean the dirt along his jaw. “i want to.”

his body tenses in a way that has nothing to do with bruises.

when you reach for the shaving cream, he raises his brows in amusement. “seriously?”

“you’re scratchy.”

“it's 5 o'clock. at most.”

“right, well, you’re itchy.”

he scoffs, but he lets you.

you work slowly, one careful stroke at a time. you hardly ever do this for him, but he trusts you, keeping very still, eyes on your face instead of where you're putting the blade. when you’re done, you wipe the last of the foam away and smooth your thumb over his jaw.

“there,” you whisper. “much better.”

he catches your wrist gently before you pull away, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

“thank you,” he says simply.

you grin, pushing his hair back and pressing a kiss atop his eyebrow.

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after you dry him off and bandage what needs bandaging, you walk him to the kitchen. (well, you walk to the kitchen and he follows you like a clingy puppy).

he begins to protest weakly. “can i—”

“you can sit,” you interrupt, pointing him into a chair.

he doesn’t bother arguing. by now, he realizes he's not in charge tonight.

he doesn't really mind though. watching you cook is one of his favourite things. the way you move around the kitchen like it’s a choreography only you know. the warmth of the candles you light to hide the smell. the normalcy of it. it feels unreal after where he’s been.

you make him a hearty and filling meal, his favourite, breakfast for dinner. you pile his plate high with pancakes and eggs and sausages, sneaking in a few slices of tomato and cucumber.

he gives you a look.

“what?” you say.

“you feeding a small army?”

“you are a small army.”

that makes him laugh, low and warm. “thank you, honey.”

he eats like he hasn’t in days, because he probably hasn’t. you sit across from him, chin in your hand. every so often your knee “accidentally” brushes his under the table, just to remind him he’s here. he tells you about the mission, about grace, but he purposefully leaves out the scariest details. all the times he nearly didn't make it. he always does that—tries his best not to worry you.

by the end of the conversation, he finished everything.

“feel better?” you ask.

he leans back in his chair, studying you, a small satisfied smile painting his cheeks.

“yeah,” he admits. “i do.”

but it’s not just the food.

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later, in the bedroom, the lights are dimmed low. clean sheets, like you might've been anticipating his return.

leon lies on his stomach, shirtless, head to the side, while you straddle his hips gently—careful of his tender ribs—and start working your hands into his shoulders.

he groans before he can stop himself.

“that bad?” you murmur.

“you have no idea.”

your thumbs press into the tight knots near his spine, and he feels himself unraveling, inch by inch.

'so worth it if this is what i come home to,' he thinks.

but he doesn't just mean massages, he means you. everything you are, everything you do, your love. he feels so spoiled.

“i missed you a lot, leon,” you whisper.

that does something to him. he opens his eyes slightly, staring at the dark wall ahead.

“you too.”

your fingers slow, turning into gentle strokes instead of deep pressure. you trace along his spine, and his eyes grow heavier under your touch.

“so much.” he adds in a murmur, already half-asleep.

you shift beside him, letting him roll carefully onto his side. he pulls you in close, one big arm wrapping around you like it’s instinct. eyes still shut, his face tucks into your hair.

he smells more like himself now. soapy and something uniquely leon.

his breathing evens out within minutes, but just before sleep fully claims him, he mumbles, voice thick and soft and unguarded:

“what would i... do without you...”

you kiss his chest, right over his heart.