Summary: Three years ago, you left hunting behind, and Dean didn’t handle it well. When Bobby needs your help, you come back to cast a spell, no matter the consequences. But you and Dean still have a score to settle, even if you try to ignore just how much you'd missed him.
Word Count: 4.4K+
Content: VERY suggestive, female reader, sharing a bed, hurt and comfort, mild miscommunication, best friends to "strangers" to lovers, sexual tension, physical and sexual touch, kissing, Sam and Bobby are tired of the bullshit (they ship it), little bit of a slow burn, emotional/protective Dean
Warnings: Descriptions of blood and injury, canon-typical spell rituals
Note: This was supposed to be a short drabble and here is where we ended up. Thank you for the love on my first post and to my new followers! Enjoy! :)
The way you see it, there are two ways to go in this life: alcoholism or an early death.
Bobby made you leave before you got hurt, or worse, killed. You had cursed him then. Were you inadequate? Maybe Dean could handle his weapons better, and maybe Sam was a quick thinker on his feet, but you could hold your own just the same.
Three years' worth of nightmares had shown you what Bobby really meant by it. You still glanced at the salt in your cabinets and thought of blocking off entryways. The only difference is that now you had a home in Indiana with a large kitchen and a bed that was completely your own. A car that you didn't share with two brothers, no shotguns and holy water stored in the trunk.
One phone call from Sam was all it took.
“Dean has been trying to reach you,” Sam said when you picked up.
You had been sitting at a restaurant with your friends when your phone buzzed. Now you were standing outside in the cold, your arms tucked carefully around your torso against the breeze. Sam's voice is one you never thought you'd hear again.
“Oh, uh—” Sam trails off. “Right.”
You leave dinner early with an excuse about extended family and drive to Sioux Falls the next morning with no stops, desperately trying to fight the weight that was building in your chest. Sam gave you little to nothing on Bobby's condition, only that he had been incapacitated for weeks. Weeks, and no one had thought to let you know. The only thing able to replace your anger was the changing landscape, which you start to recognize, no longer needing your maps on the way to Bobby's home.
The salvage yard is exactly as you had remembered it. Old, rusted beauties, sitting underneath the sky. Hell, your first car had come from here, fixed up by Bobby as a surprise for your high school graduation.
The Impala is parked in front of Bobby’s two-story home. Dean Winchester sits on the hood, nursing a beer. You’d know the width of his shoulders anywhere. Those hands, the same worn boots.
You park your car and slam the door as you stalk over to him. “Are you kidding me?”
“He was in the hospital for weeks, Dean!"
“It’s not like I could tell you,” Dean huffs. He leans his head back and drinks the rest of what's left in the bottle. “Blocked my number, huh? Nice going.”
“Yeah, you fucking deserved it.”
“I’m sorry, because last time I checked, you hauled ass to Indiana.”
“I didn’t have a say in that.”
“Sure," Dean says wryly. "Bobby’s inside, sweetheart. Go knock yourself out.”
“Don't call me that," you hiss. Dean blinks at you, his lips parted. "You have no right."
Sam opens the front door to the house and looks between the two of you, a crease between his brows. His hair has grown, the shorter layers in the front moving with the fall breeze. He seems even taller than he once was, if that’s even possible.
“Come in,” he says with a smile, though it hardly reaches his tired eyes. Sam nods his head toward the door. “Bobby’s waiting for you."
You turn away from Dean and walk up the front steps. When you’re close to Sam, you lay a hand on his arm. There are bags under his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“We’re all a little on edge right now.” He looks back toward Dean with a blank expression. It was that silent Winchester language you'd never understand. Sam lowers his voice when he meets your gaze. “He… ever since I called, he hasn’t really been…”
“Okay.” He raises his hands in the air and shrugs. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for."
As far as reunions go, Bobby isn't happy to see you.
The house smells like burnt coffee and moth balls. Packed boxes crowd the hallway, forcing you to weave around them and step over stacks of papers on the floor. Empty beer bottles sit in the kitchen sink beside a stack of unwashed dishes. Every available surface seems to be buried beneath books, printed pages of lore, and loose notebooks covered in Bobby's handwriting.
You find him in the study with a thick book open across his lap, yellowed pages crowded with Latin and symbols that make your stomach turn.
"I told you not to call her," Bobby snaps.
"We need her here," Sam argues. "She can help us with the final ingredient.”
"There might be a spell—"
"—that can reverse the paralysis. It's our only shot."
Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose before finally looking at you. "Look, kid, all of this mess just ain’t your problem."
"Yeah, and I should let you make a crossroads deal in the meantime?"
"No. Tell me you didn't."
"He tried," Sam says quietly.
“Fuck.” You run your hands through your hair and pace across the room. “You could’ve—"
“You were building somethin’ for yourself.”
"And?" Your face is hot, so are your eyes. There are tears threatening to spill over, and your voice raises with every word you speak.
"You raised me, Bobby," you say, and as you do, your voice cracks. "You think I'm just supposed to stay put and let you die? None of what I have over there matters if you're dead."
Sam steps forward and pulls you into a hug, wrapping his arms around your frame. You bury your face against the shoulder of his flannel as you begin to break.
“I care about all of you,” you say, your voice broken and raw. As Sam steps away from you, Bobby reaches out from his wheelchair, his hand holding gently onto your wrist.
“Hey, look at me, kid." He squeezes your hand once. "Now quit all this cryin' on my damn floor."
You don’t see Dean for the rest of the night, nor do you ask where he’s gone.
Sam helps Bobby make lasagna for dinner, which the three of you eat at a small table together while the television in the other room hums on a local news channel. Sam and Bobby ask about your new life in Indiana, while dodging any questions you have about theirs. If they have any chance to separate you from it all, they’ll take it. But there are demons in hell who know your face. There are clans of monster species who want your blood. You’ll never fully know comfort. The anti-possession tattoo below your collarbone should be proof of that.
Once the dishes are washed and Bobby heads to bed, Sam lingers in the kitchen. He looks exhausted. Fresh lines sit around his eyes that you don't remember.
"The spell needs the blood of a daughter."
You frown. "Bobby doesn't have a daughter."
Sam looks at you with a straight expression.
"There are a few things Dean and I are grabbing tomorrow." Sam swallows. "With Jo gone, there isn't anyone else."
"I couldn't find any record of someone actually performing it. The spell might work. Or it could hurt you. We have no way of knowing."
You consider his words and nod. "I should get some sleep, then. Long day tomorrow."
The ride to Bobby's is getting to you now. There is a soreness in your back, not to mention the building headache from seeing Dean.
You bite back a sigh and wonder where he is. Maybe at a bar, ordering beer after beer, flirting with the waitress. Your chest constricts at the thought. You wish you hadn’t snapped at him like you did in the driveway. Seeing him again was good. Nice, even. The summer sun had left him with freckles and bits of blond against his brown hair.
Sam leads you upstairs to a guest bedroom, which has Dean’s leather jacket hanging across the back of a chair.
“Was he staying in here?”
“Oh, no,” Sam says quickly. He grabs the jacket and fluffs the comforter on the bed. “He’s in the other room with me. I’ll wake you in the morning.”
You climb under the covers after taking a quick shower and changing into a loose shirt. The sheets smell unmistakably like Dean. You should wash them. You should get out and go find a hotel. But you dig your hands deeper into the covers. God, you missed him. After all of it, you still miss him. There was hardly a day where he didn’t cross your mind.
Even in a completely new city you couldn’t date. Your friends had begged you, said that you were too good to be on your own. They set you up on dates with other guys, mutual friends and coworkers. It didn’t really matter who sat across from you at those tables. They didn’t have green eyes and a devastating smile. They didn’t drive a 67’ Chevy Impala. They didn’t listen to classic rock, or have a baby brother they’d die for, or whisper jokes low in your ear at bars.
None of those men were Dean.
You fall asleep to his scent around you. The nightmares don’t come to you this time.
In the morning, you can't find Sam, nor the Impala.
You stay in yesterday's clothes and start cleaning around Bobby's house. The broom is tucked away in a closet behind shotgun rounds full of salt. You dust the tops of cabinets, gather empty beer bottles from the sink, and start a load of laundry while you're at it. You know better than to reorganize too much. Bobby has always preferred everything to be within his line of sight, even back when he could walk. It makes you smile that the only shelves with handwritten labels belong to his witchcraft supplies.
You end up in the study, flipping through an old illustrated guide on vampires while you dust the bookshelves. Half of the information is myth, you realize. Who made up all the bullshit about garlic? It's the sort of thing only someone who's never hunted would believe.
A quiet cough gains your attention. Dean leans against the threshold, grease staining the sleeve of his flannel, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
You look up and nearly drop the book. "I thought you were with Sam."
"He's out getting some things," Dean shrugs. "Nothing serious."
"Yeah, good." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "Look, I... I was drunk yesterday. Shouldn't have said half the stuff I did."
You stare at him in silence.
"There's more than one way to help Bobby," he continues. "I'm still trying to decide if getting you here was the right move."
"That's not what I meant."
He sighs, looking down at the floor before meeting your eyes again. "I just don't want you making a decision before you know what you're getting into."
"I know exactly what I'm getting into."
"He told you the spell might hurt you. We don't know what it'll do. Hell, what if it swaps the two of you?"
You close the book and set it back on the shelf. "Why does it matter to you?"
His jaw clicks. “I'm sorry for giving a damn."
"Don't be. I'll be fine."
"How are we supposed to know that?"
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Frustrated and angry, he has still never raised his voice at you. His lips straighten as he stands taller. You think for a moment that he might argue with you, but he nods instead.
He turns and walks through the kitchen toward the salvage yard without another word. A moment later, the screen door slams shut behind him.
You're left standing in the middle of the study, your cheeks burning as you stare down at your feet.
Bobby wheels in from the hallway, glancing toward the kitchen where Dean just stood.
"How much of that did you hear?"
"Enough,” Bobby says curtly. “He ain't wrong, y'know."
"He also ain't wrong for carin' about ya."
"Then why are you bein' so damn difficult?"
"It's been three years. People don't just—I can’t just move on like that."
"Sure, you can." Bobby reaches toward a wooden bowl just out of reach, which you grab and hand to him. He sets it down on the desk next to tied bunches of dried herbs. "But you can't fix it if you're busy pretendin' nothin' ever happened, either."
Bobby starts to crush leaves between his fingers, slowly adding salt.
"Ain't my business," he mutters. "Just gets old watchin' you two dance around each other. Now hand me that spoon, will ya? We've got to put up protection wards before those idjits get back."
Sam returns by nightfall with graveyard dirt, crushed bones, and raven feathers. Candles are lit in the study, wards painted in blood around the walls. Bobby carries a book in his lap, a note pasted on top with the proper incantations. Dean is grim in the back corner, his eyes going between the three of you.
Bobby grinds the ingredients into a bowl, eventually bringing out a sharp blade and lightly nicking his finger. He lets a crimson bead fall down before he looks to you.
"It'll require more from you," Sam explains. Dean crosses his arms. "The spell needs a stronger connection between the two of you."
You and Bobby make eye contact as you hover the blade over your arm. The edge makes a delicate cut. Bobby starts to speak in Latin.
You go deeper as Dean watches with a downturned expression. Blood flows freely from your arm. It stings, no doubt, and Sam looks at you with raised eyebrows.
A wave of heat moves through you, followed by a tugging sensation that makes your chest tense.
The bowl starts to spark.
There is no fire or redness, yet it feels like something is underneath your skin, cramping your arm as the heat spreads. You grip the edge of the table, clamping your lips together, holding your arm steadily over the bowl. It becomes harder by the second.
Dean steps forward. "Sam, how much longer?"
The room is starting to blur, your vision spotting black around the edges. You can only focus on standing upright. You gasp for air, but nothing can fill your lungs.
"Stop," Dean is saying. "Sam!"
Your knees weaken and buckle beneath you. Dean runs behind you, taking your weight against his chest. He holds your arm out to the bowl.
"Dean," you say weakly. Your free arm claws at your body. "Dean, Dean—oh, God, please, Dean, it hurts—"
"I have you," he says. "I have you, sweetheart. I'm here."
You can't hear anymore, your eyesight gone. You can feel Dean behind you, holding you, and the blaring fire awakening in your blood.
You slump against his body. You're not sure what else you can give, how much blood Bobby needs, or how much you've even given. A familiar hand brushes your hair away from your face. Calloused and warm. You lean into the touch without thinking.
You can only hear your own voice.
The hand goes down to your neck. Two fingers to check for your pulse, you realize.
And then you disappear into the darkness, wishing, albeit desperately, that Dean were there with you.
Like the morning before, you wake up in the comfort of Bobby’s home with the warmth of Dean’s scent enveloping you. You take a slow breath in to relish it—memories from the months you spent together between motels and small town dives flood your thoughts, and your heart quickens. The sunlight peaking through the blinds hits the bandage on your arm. There’s a dull ache that pulses underneath, but you’re alive. You’re in a state of partial disbelief at that alone. You wiggle your toes, then flex the muscles in your legs, only to confirm their working condition.
Each piece of last night comes back slowly, yet the picture makes sense to you, however hazy. The way that Dean had yelled for you makes you press your lips together.
If Sam’s spell hadn’t worked, you were going to be a little pissed. Not many stories can pass at home to explain your current state.
Or, alternatively, the truth: My surrogate father is in a wheelchair and my best friend Sam—nearly brother at this point—suggested that my blood be used in a reversal ritual.
Yeah, your co-workers and friends were going to think you were insane. Maybe you’ll end up a vengeful spirit in a psychiatric hospital. What a way to go.
There’s a shuffle behind you, followed by a low noise. A weight presses closer into your back, and you fight a gasp—it’s familiar, gentle, staving off the cold of the morning. It’s only then that you notice the muscled arm tucked around your waist, a calloused hand spread against your stomach. Only he could do this to you, reduce you to mush in an instant. You know that he’s sleeping, you know that it’s wrong, yet your body is electrified. Dean is in bed with you, you’d know it in any world. Even with the spell against you, your eyesight and hearing gone.
You let out a shaking breath. “Dean,” you say, shocked for a moment at the scratchiness in your throat.
Your hand meets his, and you try to lift him away and off of you, if only for his sake. You wince when it stretches the bandage, likely reopening any scabbing on your cut. God, how deep did you go with the blade?
Dean tucks his head into the crook between your shoulder and your neck, where it’s sensitive to his even breathing. The heat in your body has nothing to do with a spell, nothing to do with the blankets around the both of you.
"Dean," you say again, louder this time.
He says nothing except for: “Mmhm.”
You let out a small noise when he pulls you closer. The backs of your thighs are against the front of his. You’re preening for his touch, every inch of him that you can have. Even when you knew him, when you had him in your grasp, you never had him. Not like this. You took the moments you could, like when his hand would brush yours, or when you watched shit television and your thighs would touch and you stayed oh-so-still in the hopes he’d stay.
And as his eyes open, “Oh—“
Dean immediately releases you. "Oh, fuck. Jesus. I… shit!”
You’re turning around on the bed to face him, greeted by his hair sticking up in wild directions, and a grey t-shirt spreading across his chest.
“Hey, hey,” you say calmly, though Dean is still disentangling himself from the sheets, and part of it breaks your heart a fraction more. “It’s fine. It’s okay, Dean.”
He sits up and rubs his hands through his hair. Those same hands were on you moments before, and you blink at them. “It’s not fine.”
“Let’s have a do-over. We get to restart.”
How you wish that were true.
But Dean nods. “You first.”
“Okay. Dean, why are you in my bed?”
Dean huffs out a laugh. “Hell of a start. Correction, though. This is my bed, actually."
You remember Dean’s jacket across the chair. When was the last time he ever left it anywhere that he hadn’t claimed as safe? But you had trusted Sam in the moment, you had needed the sleep, and you had loved the scent of the sheets. There was no such thing as a restart because there was no admitting that to his face.
“Sammy's a little liar. I, uh, found you in here.” Your face immediately flushes. “I thought about sleeping on the floor but didn’t think you’d be too happy about that one.”
“Maybe not,” you admit. “Where did you sleep, then?"
You desperately want to meet his eyes, but he's looking down at his hands, intertwining his fingers, unlacing them, and repeat.
"I had to make sure that you were okay," Dean explains. "I couldn't leave you alone. You were screaming, and then you were gone and I just... I couldn't, okay?"
"Dean," you say softly. You reach across the bed and take his hand in yours, spreading his fingers apart with your own and placing his palm against your heart. "I'm here."
He smiles at the rate of your heart, showing you the dimples in his cheeks “You scared of me now?"
"I missed you," you admit. "That's all."
Dean lets out a choked breath. “God, sweetheart. I missed you, too. Missed you so fucking bad.”
There are too many words you want to say to him, and instead, you choke up, tears flowing freely down your face. When you try to speak and a gentle sob comes out, Dean pulls you into his arms, letting your face rest against his chest. You let your fingers clutch onto his shirt. “Here, doll,” he says. “I have you.”
His hands go to your hair, soothing you as he twirled strands around in circles, or tucked them behind your ears. He had always loved your hair. If you fell asleep in the passenger of Baby, you’d wake up to Dean driving in silence, gently taking your hair and feeling it from root to end.
Your tears leave a small stain on his shoulder. "I didn't mean anything I said. I was so mad at you, even Bobby told me I was wrong.”
Dean starts to laugh. “I know, baby. I wasn’t exactly a saint back then either. I tried to call. Drove me nuts not knowing where you were.”
Dean’s lips touch the crown of your head, and he kisses there slowly. You shiver under his touch and try to get closer to him, wanting to nearly crawl into his lap and stay there.
“You like that?” Dean asks.
“No,” you lie, breathless.
“Uh huh,” Dean says simply. His strong hands find your chin and lift your gaze to his. Even his eyes are bloodshot and tired. “It's my turn to ask questions now."
He leans down and lays a hot, slow kiss to your jaw. Your whole body arches toward him, hips stuttering forward of their own accord.
His tongue swipes at your soft skin. Dean starts to go down your neck, sometimes nipping at you gently with his teeth. Between kisses he murmurs, “Why were you in my bed?”
Your hands are roaming ceaselessly along his chest, wanting his shirt to come off. “I couldn’t—“
A gasp escapes you when Dean’s hand travels up your thigh, playing at the edge of your shirt.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you say. “The bed smelled like you, fuck—“
“I can’t… Dean, shit, I can’t—the guys in Indiana…”
“None of them touched you like I can?”
“None of them touched me, period.”
“Oh, fuck, sweetheart. Is that why you’re such a mess for me?”
His hand slides higher under the hem of your shirt, palm warm and broad against your bare skin. The calluses catch lightly, sending sparks racing up your spine. You nod and tilt your head to give him better access.
He takes the invitation. His mouth finds the spot just beneath your ear, sucking gently before soothing it with his tongue. Your hips press forward again, seeking more of his warmth. He answers by pulling you flush against him, one strong thigh slipping between yours.
He hums against your skin, the vibration sinking deep. His fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your side, and then higher still. You let your own hands wander, sliding up under his t-shirt to feel the heat of his back, the flex of muscle as he shifts. His breath hitches when your nails graze lightly down his spine.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark. He kisses you properly, then. Slow, careful, half-afraid that you're going to vanish in his arms like you did last night. But the moment your fingers tighten in his shirt and you let out a soft moan into his mouth, Dean is done for. Years of missing each other goes into every slide of your lips against his.
One of his hands cradles the back of your neck while the other slips back under your shirt, stroking up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound, kissing you harder.
One of your legs wrap around his waist instinctively. The movement draws a low groan from deep in his chest. He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your throat again, nipping and licking, each press of his lips leaving a trail of fire. You arch up, chasing the friction, hands fisting in his hair as his hips settle heavier against yours.
“Missed this,” he murmurs against your collarbone. “The way you sound…"
The two of you are messy, letting out soft gasps as the sheets rustle between you, interrupted by the faint creaking of the old wooden bedframe.
"You're gonna kill me, baby," he says quietly. “Your arm. We shouldn’t.”
You let out a soft, shaky laugh, brushing damp hair off his forehead.
He shifts to the side, pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his chest again. His arm wraps securely around you, fingers idly playing with the ends of your hair. You trace a delicate finger along the collar of his shirt. "How's Bobby?"
"Mood killer," he laughs.
His thumb strokes your cheek. "He's up and walking. Needs a bit of practice, though. Does your arm hurt at all?”
Dean takes a deep breath. "Will—are you staying?"
“Yeah, Dean, I’m staying.” You tilt your head to meet his eyes. You let your fingers trail down his chest, toward the waistband of his pants. “We can…”
You and Dean fall into each other, like you had for the years before. Because falling for him is easy, and loving him this way is even easier. Of course you’ll stay. Only for as long as you can have him.
