If You Can't Be Kind, Be Quiet

he also smells something really good. familiar, but he can’t piece together who or what smells like that—making his brain all fuzzy that had nothing to do with his raging headache he’s experiencing. he doesn’t necessarily want to get up, but something… doesn’t feel right, despite the cloud of inebriation hanging over him.

first, this isn’t his bed, he realizes after a few moments, because if it was, he’d be getting a much different whiff of these sheets. instead of smelling like his deodorant and faintly of beer, the sheets smell like…

you.

he freezes, when the thoughts set in. he’s in your bed. on your sheets. and his face is in one of your pillows.

jesus. dean’s head pounds again, as he adjusts his body slightly—and his arm catches on something that seems to not be a pillow or your blanket. despite his protesting head, he knows that it is in fact, again, you.

dean has an overwhelming urge to run. to leap out of your bed and never see the inside of your room again. he doesn’t know how he got you to stay here with you, let alone sleep in your bed next to you—because he wasn’t that convincing. not sober, at least.

he blinks his eyes—adjusting to the little light in your room. the bunker had no windows, so it didn’t take long. from what he can tell, you’re still asleep.

next to him.

in your bed.

this is not how he imagined things would go between you. he could make a break for it now, he thinks. just slip out and leave—but he knew that you hadn’t been drinking last night like he had, so you’d remembered everything dean said and did.

oh, god, what did he say?

he can’t remember. dean tries to recall anything he said last night after sammy had been telling him for the millionth time to tell you how he felt about you, but he can’t remember. the one time he absolutely needs to remember, he can’t.

your voice breaks dean out of his spiraling thoughts. you’re looking at him when he focuses back on you, and you don’t look upset. that’s a good sign. you don’t want to kill him. usually he says stupid things when he gets drunk—and whatever he said to you wasn’t stupid enough to get him kicked out.

“hey,” dean rasps—then clears his throat, tries again—but it sounds the same. you smile at that, and he pretends to be annoyed with his throat being shot to hell. he must have slept with his mouth wide open.

you sit up more, reaching over to your nightstand, facing dean with a water in your hands. the gesture’s small, yet dean almost melts into your bed again. instead, however, he sits up, too, chugging the water down.

“uh—” dean starts after he sets the now empty water down, “did, i, uh, y’know— how bad did i mess this up?”

you tilt your head at him, scanning his face. sleep is still lingering over your expression, your eyes low and voice raspier. you look beautiful. you sound beautiful. “you don’t remember anything?” dean pauses, then shakes his head.

oh. you don’t know how to tell him what he said. it might make him spontaneously combust if you tell him just what he said to you last night. but you know, deep down, that you can’t keep this a secret. hell, you’ve wanted to tell him since he passed out next to you hours prior.

“you, uh… kinda said you… had feelings for me.” you start, eyes on your blanket. “i mean, you didn’t say that verbatim, but… you were saying how i like, know what you’re thinking. and that your heart does a weird thing when you look at me. so. i just, uh… assumed that’s what you were saying, too.”

well, dean wants to crawl into a hole and die. more so than usual—because not only did he spill his guts, he didn’t even remember it. he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. he wants to take it all back. he rasps your name again, but you cut him off when you continue.

“you said you couldn’t stop thinking about me. and…” you take a deep breath. “i said, i couldn’t stop thinking about you, either. and i said i care about you, more than anyone. and that’s the truth. ‘cause i… do.”

and dean knows you’re not lying. because you’re nervous, he realizes when you’re not meeting his gaze, probably more nervous than he is. so dean takes your hand that’s fidgeting with the hem of your blanket, holds it in his own.

“y’know i… y’know i care about you, too, right?” dean asks, searching your face. you nod, meeting his gaze.

“yeah. i know.”

so dean takes that. he might not be able to say what and how he really, truly feels yet—but he knows you know.

and that’s enough for him, for now.

📨 thank you to @beakaleak32 for giving me ideas for a part 2! <3 reminder that august is coming up, so i will not be as active soon! read more here :)

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.