I Am Superwholocked

You’d gotten used to Bobby’s place being full of noise. But tonight, it was just you. Bobby was somewhere up north with Jodie, knee-deep in some wendigo mess, and he’d trusted you to hold down the fort while they were gone. Not that you minded. You’d grown up surrounded by hunters and danger didn’t scare you the way it once had. But something about tonight felt…off.

Maybe it was the wind scratching at the windows like claws. Or the way your chest ached out of nowhere. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else.

After midnight, a knock came. Or rather a few. One knock, two, then a pause. Then three more, faster.

You grabbed the shotgun from beside the door without thinking. Bobby had trained you better than to open up blind. You didn’t need to check the peephole though. You knew that rhythm. Knew it by heart.

You hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not really. Not face to face. He’d been a ghost slipping in and out of your orbit, always there when you weren’t, always gone when you came home. Like the two of you were on opposite sides of a revolving door.

Your heart stuttered. You hated that it still did that little jolt at the sound of his name in your head.

You opened the door and your breath caught. He looked like hell. Literally. Blood smeared across his jaw. Torn-up flannel clinging to his frame like it was the only thing holding him together. Cuts, deep and ugly ones on his neck and shoulder. One eye was bruised nearly shut. His knuckles were raw. And something in his eyes… You knew he’d been to Hell months ago. You’d heard the whispers from Bobby, scraps of worry he tried to keep from you. But nothing prepared you for the emptiness you saw staring back at you.

“Hey, kid”, Dean said, like it was any other night. Like he wasn’t bleeding out. You hated when he called you that now.

“You’re hurt”, you said quietly.

Dean blinked. Looked down like he was just now noticing the blood. “S’not bad”.

You raised an eyebrow, lips tugging downward as you glanced over the fresh blood dripping down his arm. “Not bad?”, you repeated, voice flat. “You’re leaving a crime scene on the porch, Dean”.

He huffed something close to a laugh, but it was hollow and breathy. Like it hurt to even pull that much emotion up. His shoulders slouched further. “Bobby around?”, he mumbled, eyes shifting past you into the house, as if he could summon him out of thin air.

“No”, you said, stepping aside so he could come in. “He’s helping Jodie. Wendigo hunt”.

Dean hesitated. Just for a second. The porch light cast a tired shadow across his face, catching the mess on his skin, the haunted tension carved into his expression. Then he sighed and limped past you into the house without another word. You shut the door behind him.

The air felt different the moment he was inside. Thicker somehow. You weren’t sure if it was the smell of blood or the quiet knowledge that you were suddenly alone in a house with Dean Winchester.

He dropped himself down onto the old couch with a grunt, his hand clutching his side. You watched from the hallway, heartbeat in your ears. Dean always carried weight when he walked into a room, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just the blood or the silence or the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. It was the way he looked at you… or didn’t. Like he didn’t quite recognize what he was seeing. Like you weren’t a kid anymore and he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

You moved without a word, grabbing the first aid kit from the hallway closet. You brought it into the living room, kneeling on the rug in front of Dean as you popped the case open. “Shirt off”, you said calm.

Dean arched a brow, but it wasn’t flirtatious, it was tired. Defensive. “You patching me up now?”, he muttered, and for a second his voice dipped into that gruff edge, that instinctive habit he had of teasing to avoid getting looked at too closely.

“Unless you’d rather wait a couple days for Bobby to get back and die of infection on his couch”, you shot back.

He smirked faintly but it didn’t reach his eyes. Then he started unbuttoning what was left of his flannel slowly, his fingers stiff and trembling slightly. You tried not to watch the way the fabric peeled back from his skin, revealing the bruises blooming across his ribs, the slices and scrapes that hadn’t yet scabbed over. But it was hard not to look. Not because of the injuries, but because it was him. There had always been something about Dean that made your chest ache, even when you were a teenager stealing glances from behind Bobby’s bookshelves. But now… Now it was worse.

He caught your eye for a second as you soaked a cloth in antiseptic. Just a second. But then the cloth touched his skin and he hissed under his breath, eyes flickering shut. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered.

“You’ve had worse”, you said softly. His lips twitched. “Doesn’t mean it tickles”.

You worked in silence for a few minutes, wiping blood away and cleaning the cuts. His breathing stayed shallow, jaw clenched every time you got too close to a deep one. You were careful but not gentle. Something about treating him like he’d break felt wrong. Dean Winchester didn’t break. But god, he looked like he already had.

“You look like you got hit by a semi”, you said, breaking the quiet.

“Kinda did”, he replied, staring up at the ceiling. “Demon was wearing a meat suit twice my size. Fast, too”.

“And you went in solo”, you guessed, voice low.

Dean didn’t answer right away. “I’m fine”, he said instead, which meant he wasn’t. Not even close.

You leaned back on your heels for a second, staring at him. “You know”, you said, “Bobby would kill you for pulling a stunt like that. Sam, too”.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward you again. There was something in them that wasn’t there before. A flicker of guilt. “Didn’t mean to show up on your watch”, he said after a long pause.

You looked down at the needle in your hand, thread already looped and waiting, and muttered, barely loud enough for the room to hear: “Yeah. You usually don’t anymore”. The words slipped out quieter than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. They hung there for a beat. And Dean heard them. You felt it in the shift of his posture and the way his jaw tensed. He sighed. It was soft, ragged around the edges. You thought maybe he was going to say something. Maybe even apologize. But… no.

“Hold still”, you murmured, scooting in closer as you positioned yourself to start stitching the deep gash across his lower abdomen. It had split open badly, needed to be done right.

You leaned in, forearms resting lightly across his thighs to steady your angle as you worked. Dean went still. Ridiculously still. Your hands moved automatically, focused on closing the wound, but you heard his breath hitched for just a second. Your brow furrowed without looking up. “You okay?”, you asked, almost absentmindedly, not catching what you’d just done to him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Peachy”, he said, voice tighter now. Rougher. He was trying to sound normal. Like nothing was going on. Like your arms weren’t pressed across the very place he was trying not to react to.

You didn’t notice. You were too focused on the wound, the needle, the way your hands moved like Bobby had taught you. You didn’t feel the shift in his body under you, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. You didn’t catch the flicker in his expression, like he was trying to think about literally anything else except where you were touching him.

Dean Winchester had taken on hellhounds without flinching. But this? This was different. Because it was you. The little girl who used to trail behind him and Sam with dirt on your cheeks and questions on your tongue.

Except… you weren’t a little girl anymore.

And maybe that had been easier to forget when you were always gone, when you weren’t sitting between his legs, pressing your body against his while threading a needle through his skin like it was nothing.

He grunted when the stitch tugged a little too hard. You looked up quickly. “Sorry”, you said softly, eyes meeting his.

His lips parted like he was going to say something again, but no sound came out. There was a moment. Then Dean leaned back and turned his head slightly, jaw ticking. “So”, he said, voice gruff again. “How long’s Bobby gone for?”.

You blinked at the sudden topic shift but rolled with it. “Couple more days, maybe three”, you replied, tying off the final stitch. “Depends how messy it gets”. Dean nodded, still not looking at you.

You leaned back, finally finished. The wound was clean, sealed neatly. “There”, you said quietly. “Try not to rip it open again. Though I guess that’d be one way to get Bobby back faster”.

Dean chuckled dry. Still not meeting your eyes. “Guess I’ve got a habit of crashing the party”.

You stood, collecting the bloodied gauze and used needle. “Yeah”, you said under your breath, “you do”.

-

You finished cleaning up in the kitchen while Dean stayed on the couch, half-dozing, half-hovering between exhaustion and whatever darkness still clawed at the edges of his mind.

You’d made him a sandwich and left it on the coffee table in front of him. He hadn’t said thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes when you set it down, soft and too guarded to be grateful out loud, was more than enough.

“You should sleep”, you said, pulling a clean blanket from the hallway closet. “You look like hell”.

Dean quirked a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.

You tossed the blanket over him anyway, tucking it loosely around his middle like Bobby used to do when you were kids and maybe your fingers lingered a little longer than they should’ve against his chest. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even blink. Just watched you, unreadable.

“Night, Dean”, you murmured, turning to go.

“Night, kid”.

That word again. Kid. But his voice cracked on it this time, just a little.

-

It was sometime after 3 a.m. when his voice woke you. “No, no—don’t—don’t—”.

You sat bolt upright, heart thudding before you slipped from bed without thinking. The hallway was dark, but you didn’t need light. You knew this house blind.

The sounds got louder as you neared the living room. Thrashing fabric, harsh gasps, a guttural noise that made your skin crawl. He was dreaming. No, not dreaming. Trapped.

You stood in the doorway for half a second, watching the way his body writhed beneath the blanket. Sweat soaked his hairline. His lips moved fast, too fast, whispering something you couldn’t make out. “Stop—please—no more—”.

You crossed the room in a blink, crouching beside the couch. “Dean”, you whispered, hand brushing his shoulder. “Dean, wake up. You’re dreaming—”. He jolted upright with a strangled gasp, eyes wild and chest heaving.

For a second he didn’t see you. His gaze was distant, feral. Somewhere else. Somewhere far worse than here. You froze, your fingers still resting on his bare skin where the blanket had slipped low. Then, slowly, his eyes found you. Focused. “Y/N”, he rasped, voice hoarse. His breath hitched again.

“I’m here”, you whispered, gently pushing some damp hair from his forehead. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just me”.

Dean looked like he might collapse in on himself. You sat down beside him without asking. Just close enough that your knee brushed his. The room was cold, but his skin burned like a fever.

“I didn’t mean to—”, he started, then stopped. His voice broke. “Didn’t mean to wake you”.

“You didn’t”, you lied quietly. “It’s fine”. He went silent again.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The tremble in his fingers. The way he looked like he’d rather die than let you see him like this. But you saw him anyway. And you didn’t flinch.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”, you asked, softer than before.

He shook his head. You nodded. You expected that.

You swallowed before speaking again, voice barely more than a breath. “Want me to stay?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor. But it didn’t mean what it usually meant. Dean had a way of saying no without saying go away. A way of pushing people out while screaming silently for someone — anyone — to just stay put. You’d grown up around him long enough to know the difference. He wasn’t turning you away. He just didn’t know how to ask.

So you didn’t move. Didn’t press. You just leaned back against the couch beside him, pulling your legs up under you, the edge of the blanket brushing your bare thighs. You crossed your arms loosely over your chest. Your presence wasn’t loud. It didn’t try to fix anything. It just was. That’s all he needed.

Eventually, Dean let out a breath. His shoulders slumped like something heavy had loosened inside him, just slightly. “You don’t gotta—”, he began, then trailed off. “Stay, I mean. I’m not… good company”.

You glanced over at him, watching his profile. The flicker in his jaw. The tension in his hands. You could’ve said a thousand things. You’re wrong. I want to. You don’t have to do this alone. But none of those would’ve worked on Dean. He didn’t respond to comfort. He responded to truth. So you just said: “I know”.

His head dipped slightly, almost like a nod. Or maybe he just couldn’t hold it up anymore. Another minute passed. The house was still again. Silent.

Then he shifted and leaned back against the couch, closer to you than before. His thigh brushed yours. His shoulder hovered just near enough that you could feel the heat of his skin radiating between you like a pulse. “I was back there”, he murmured after a long moment. “In the dream”.

Your chest tightened. He hadn’t talked about Hell. Bobby had warned you never to ask. Said it wasn’t something Dean could put into words, not really. But here he was. Cracked open. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just let him say what he needed.

Dean swallowed hard, eyes locked ahead, unfocused. “It doesn’t ever go quiet in there. You think it will. That maybe the screaming gets dull after a while, or you go numb. But you don’t. You never do”. He shook his head, breathing through his nose like he was trying not to fall apart again.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Dean beat you to it. “Never mind”, he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Forget it”.

He sat a little straighter again, like whatever had just slipped out was already regretted. Like letting you see it, see him, had been a mistake. Classic Dean. You knew the pattern. Offer just enough to taste vulnerability, then rip it away before anyone could really see him bleed.

But you didn’t pull away. And you didn’t let him. “Too late”, you said softly.

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so bitter. Then he looked over at you and for a moment, his eyes were unreadable. Like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to apologize or crawl out of his own skin.

“Didn’t mean to… unload”, he said.

You smiled faintly, tilting your head just enough to catch his eye. “You always say that when you actually need to”, you replied gently.

He scoffed, eyes flicking away again. “That obvious, huh?”.

“Only to someone who’s been studying your grumpy ass since I was seven”.

That earned you the smallest twitch of his mouth. You leaned back against the couch cushion, still close, still steady, nudging his thigh lightly with your knee. “And don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t stay up because you’re special”, you teased, eyes narrowing just a little, mock-serious. “I just didn’t trust you not to bleed all over our couch in your sleep”.

Dean chuckled. There it was. That tiny crack in the armor.

“You always had a mouth on you”, he muttered.

“And you always needed someone to keep yours in check”, you fired back with a small shrug. “Balance”.

He looked at you again. This time longer. Something flickered in his expression. A memory, maybe. Or a thousand. You and him, always side by side in the back of Bobby’s yard. Shooting cans off fences. Researching hunts. Falling asleep on each other during movie nights no one remembered the ending to. You’d always had his back. Even when you were too small to be useful. Even when you had no business standing between him and danger. Especially then.

“You haven’t changed”, Dean said suddenly, voice low.

You raised a brow. “Thanks? Or…?”.

He smiled, but there was something sad in it. “Still trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed”.

You paused at that, the tease in your chest faltering for a moment. “I’m not trying to fix you, Dean”.

He looked skeptical.

“I’m not”, you repeated, softer this time. “I just… I don’t like watching you carry this alone. You’ve always done that. Even when we were kids”.

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. You weren’t sure if he couldn’t, or just didn’t know how. So you pressed on, gently. “Remember that black dog hunt? In Ohio? You and Sam were all banged up, and I brought you gas station burritos and patched up your hand with duct tape?”.

Dean huffed again, this time with more amusement. “Yeah. And then you passed out on the motel floor with a machete under your pillow”. You shrugged. “Well, someone had to keep you in line”.

He shook his head slowly, but the weight in his shoulders had eased. He looked at you again, and the way his eyes lingered made your stomach flutter, just once, before you crushed it down. It was the kind of look that felt too long for a friend. Too familiar for a stranger. Too old to be new. But not quite enough to be spoken out loud.

“Try to get some sleep,” you murmured, glancing down at the quiet tangle of your fingers still resting beside his on the couch. “I’ll be right here”.

-

The next morning, when you padded into the kitchen, it was like none of last night had happened.

Dean stood at the stove, one hand curled around a mug, the other flipping a slice of bacon in the pan. The radio was playing low in the background. And Dean? He was humming. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t spilled pieces of Hell across your lap at 3 a.m. Like he hadn’t fallen asleep with your hand in his, breathing like it was the first real breath he’d taken in months.

You blinked, disoriented.

“Morning”, he said when he saw you. Easy. Light. The corner of his mouth tilted up just enough to look familiar. “Hope you’re hungry. Bacon’s not bad for expired meat”.

You leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. “Dean”, you said slowly, voice still thick with sleep, “you hate cooking”.

“Desperate times”, he replied, flashing you a grin. “Figured I owe you one for playing nurse last night”.

Your stomach twisted at the way he said them. So casual. Dismissive. Like that was all it had been. A scratch on the surface. A favor. Not the moment it really was.

You watched him for a second longer, then moved to the counter, grabbing a mug from the rack. “You okay?”, you asked carefully.

Dean took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Peachy”. Peachy. The same word he’d used the night before when he was bleeding and shaking and couldn’t meet your eyes.

You let out a quiet breath and poured your coffee. The silence between you felt different now. Not the soft, safe kind from last night. This one had edges. Walls.

“You slept okay?”, you asked, still trying.

“Like a rock”, he said, leaning back against the counter, sipping his coffee like it was any other morning. “Couch wasn’t as bad as I remembered”.

Liar.

You knew he’d woken up at least twice after you’d gone back to your room. You’d heard him pacing. Heard the floorboards creak beneath him. Dean Winchester, master of the emotional vanishing act.

You sat down at the table, watching him move like it was all fine, like he wasn’t wearing a fresh layer of armor. “Cool”, you said, trying to match his tone. “Good to know Hell-flashbacks come with breakfast now”.

Dean stilled, just a fraction. His hand tightened around the mug before he turned back to the bacon. “Told you not to worry about that”, he muttered.

“You didn’t tell me anything, Dean”, you replied, your voice calm, but firm. “You just shook your head and looked away”.

He didn’t respond. You let the silence stretch this time, let it thrum with everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he’d dumped into your hands and was now pretending didn’t exist.

Dean moved stiffly, plating the bacon and toast like it was a mission. He set it on the table in front of you with a half-smirk. “Eat up. Wouldn’t want Bobby to think I let you starve”.

You stared at the plate. Then up at him. And something in you tightened, frustration, maybe. Or that familiar ache that always came when Dean pretended too hard. When he built a wall and painted it to look like a smile. You wanted to dig. Just gently. Just enough to find the thread again, the one he’d let you hold last night. But before you could open your mouth— “I don’t wanna talk about it”, Dean cut in, tone low but pointed.

You blinked. “Didn’t realize I started talking about it”, you said, voice dry as you reached for your fork. “God forbid I speak in your general direction”.

Dean shot you a look over his mug. “Don’t start, Y/N”.

“Not starting”, you said sweetly. “Just sitting here, enjoying my ‘thank-you-for-saving-my-life’ breakfast in total silence like you clearly prefer”.

He exhaled through his nose, biting back a comment, while your eyes dropped to the front of his shirt. Your stomach flipped. “Dean”.

“What?”.

“You’re bleeding”.

He glanced down, frowning like he hadn’t even noticed. Maybe he hadn’t. A stain was blooming beneath the fresh stitches on his stomach. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered under his breath, pulling the hem of his shirt up to check the damage.

“Yeah, you think?”, you snapped, pushing back from the table.

“Don´t make a thing out of it.”

“Oh, right. God forbid anyone makes a thing out of you bleeding out”, you snapped again, already heading to grab the first aid kit. “Next time just say, ‘Hey Y/N, don’t mind the pool of blood I’m casually leaking all over your floor, I’m just emotionally repressed and physically incapable of asking for help.’ That cool?”.

“I said don’t start”, Dean growled, voice hardening.

“And I said shut the hell up and sit down before you rip open the rest of your gut”, you snapped right back, rounding the corner with the kit in hand.

Dean paused. Then sat. Muttering something under his breath that sounded like “Bossy little brat”.

You heard it. “You’re lucky I’m nice”, you said, dropping to your knees in front of him once more, yanking the kit open. “Otherwise I’d accidentally stitch your stupid mouth shut too”.

Dean huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifted his shirt without comment. And just like that, despite the sarcasm, the snark, the deflection, there it was again. That closeness. That pulse between you.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched. Barely. More reflex than anything. But you felt it.

“You should’ve said something”, you murmured, voice softer now.

Dean didn’t answer. Just watched you as you peeled the gauze back gently, inspecting the damage.

“You can let me take care of you, you know”, you added, quieter. “It doesn’t make you weak”.

He didn´t answer. He just leaned back against the kitchen chair, shirt rucked up and bunched just below his chest, exposing the damage of a few reopened stitches and darkening bruises.

You tried to focus as you cleaned the area. But up close like this, it was hard to focus on anything but him.

His stomach was solid, soft in some places, firm in others. All strength built from years of fighting, layered with old scars and fresh damage.

You swallowed, trying not to look at the way the ridges of his lower abs dipped just under the waistband of his jeans, or the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath them. You focused on the wound. The thread. The way your fingers moved, careful and clean, steady even as your heartbeat kicked up like a war drum.

His skin was warm under your touch. Damp from the fever, but not hot enough to worry you. The bruise across his ribs had darkened overnight, blooming sickly purple and green. You traced the edge of it with feather-light fingers before wiping the area clean again.

Dean hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry”, you murmured.

“’s alright”, he muttered. “You’ve got soft hands. Doesn’t even hurt that bad”.

You tried to roll your eyes, but your stomach flipped instead. You dipped your head, hiding your face as you reached for the needle. But that just made you realize, thst the hem of your sleep shirt had crept up, brushing high across your hips. You hadn’t changed out of your nightwear. Your shorts were too small, your legs bare and now you were kneeling between Dean Winchester’s legs, with your face not even a foot from his very exposed stomach.

You froze, needle paused mid-air, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. Of the smell of his skin, the heat rolling off his body, the sound of his breath as it hitched slightly.

Your face flushed hot. Pink bloomed across your cheeks like wildfire and you cursed yourself silently, trying to will it away. Don’t let him notice. Don’t let him see you turning into a puddle because he exists.

Your fingers worked the thread carefully, closing the split stitch along the lower edge of the wound. You could feel his breath catch just once when your knuckles grazed lower, almost too low.

You didn’t mean to look up. But you did. And he was already watching you.

The air between you tightened.

You blinked first, focusing hard on the last stitch, breathing slow, trying not to think about how his skin felt under your palm, or the way your thighs were starting to tremble.

“Alright”, you said quietly, finishing the last knot. “That should hold. But you have to stop acting like you’re invincible”.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t answer for a second. Then, softer than before: “You used to patch up my hand with duct tape and a juice box straw. When the hell’d you get this good?”.

You smiled, small, but real, still not meeting his eyes. “I grew up, Dean".

Silence. You could feel him looking at you again. Really looking. Like he hadn’t noticed before. Like he did now. But he said nothing. And neither did you.

-

Dean spent most of the day out in the yard with the Impala. You watched from the window for a while the November’s chill seeping through the old walls of Bobby’s house. You could barely feel your toes. And Dean? Out there in nothing but a flannel jacket and his stubborn pride.

Rain had started around noon. The Impala’s hood had been open since morning, tools spread out like surgical instruments on the workbench. That engine didn’t need another tune-up. Dean had already fixed it three times over. But he didn’t know what else to do.

Sam hadn’t been around for weeks. Dean had told him to give him space. And Bobby? He was still a full day and a half away, out on some supply run or small-town salt-and-burn, promising to check in when he could.

So that left just you. And the car. And the quiet.

Dean didn’t come in for lunch. Or the coffee you left by the back door. You didn’t push. If he needed space, he’d take it. He always had.

It was nearly seven when you finally heard the back door creak open. You were on the couch, a book in your lap that you’d reread the same paragraph of at least eight times. The rain tapped on the windows. The room smelled like old paper, gun oil, and the cinnamon tea you’d made an hour ago and forgotten.

Dean stepped inside, dripping rainwater, boots heavy on the floorboards. His jacket was soaked, hair damp, but he didn’t look cold. Just tired. Like the day had taken something out of him he hadn’t known he was holding.

He didn’t say anything at first. You looked up from your book, watching him with the same quiet curiosity you always had. Waiting to see if he'd open the door, or keep it locked.

Then, casually, like it didn’t matter, he cleared his throat. “You hungry?”.

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Why?”.

Dean shrugged one shoulder, too nonchalant. “Thinking about a drive. Town over’s got that crappy little burger joint. Fries so salty they’ll kill your arteries before the demon ever gets the chance”.

You blinked, a beat passing before you caught on. “You’re inviting me?”.

Dean glanced away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You don’t eat enough. And I’m bored”, he muttered.

You bit back your smile, letting it tug at the corner of your mouth instead. “You sure this isn’t just a cry for help disguised as a cheeseburger run?”.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “Don’t make me regret it, kid”.

You stood, tugging on your hoodie and stepping into your boots by the door. “Fine”, you said, grabbing the car keys from the bowl by the shelf before tossing them lightly in his direction. “But I get to pick the music”.

Dean caught the keys one-handed, flashing a tired smirk. “In your dreams”.

-

The Impala roared to life beneath you. Rain streaked across the windshield and the heater kicked on just enough to start fogging the windows.

Dean adjusted the dial on the radio, flipping through a few static-heavy stations before settling on Zeppelin. His fingers tapped absently against the wheel, but his eyes stayed on the road.

You leaned your head against the cool glass, eyes watching the blur of trees and dark wet highway, then glanced sideways at him. The streetlights cast gold across his face in flashes — jawline sharp, hair still damp, lips set in that half-smirk he wore even when he wasn’t trying.

It was easy to remember younger Dean in moments like this. Softer around the edges. Less broken. Still that same fierce protector, though, always between you and the world like a damn wall.

“You remember that trip to Tulsa?”, you said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Dean shot you a glance. “The one where you snuck six candy bars into the back seat and threw up on my boots?”.

You grinned. “That’s the one”.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You were, like, what? Eleven?”.

“Ten”, you corrected. “And you didn’t have to wear those boots”.

“I had one pair!”, he groaned. “And I spent the next two hours trying to scrub out chocolate puke with windshield washer fluid because Bobby didn’t pack wet wipes”.

You laughed, full-bodied and warm, and for a second, the cold November air felt like summer again.

Dean glanced over at you, smile softer now. Real. “You were always around”, he said after a beat, quieter. “Little shadow. Every time I turned around, there you were”.

You shrugged, pretending to be casual. “You were cool. Later you had the car. The music. Knew how to shoot salt rounds and drive before you could legally drink. I wanted to be you”.

Dean snorted. “Bad role model, kid”.

“Best one I ever had”.

That earned you a glance. Something flickered in his eyes, something closer to gratitude, or maybe guilt. Like he didn’t believe he deserved the words, but he held onto them anyway.

You turned your head back toward the window. “Still remember the first time you treated me like a grown-up”, you said lightly, but your smile grew.

Dean raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”.

“Yeah. I got my first period, and you were the only one home”.

He groaned immediately. “Oh hell. Don’t”.

You laughed. “I was twelve! It was summer. Bobby was on a hunt, Sam was gone, and I swear you thought I was dying”.

“I did think you were dying!”, Dean exclaimed, trying not to smile. “You came outta the bathroom pale as a ghost, holding a bloody towel, and I thought something ripped you open”.

You clutched your stomach, laughing harder now. “You panicked! You made me lie down, brought me a bottle of Jack for the pain, and then locked yourself in the kitchen, trying to find out how to stop internal bleeding”.

Dean was red now. “In my defense, nobody told me you were old enough for that crap!”.

“I had boobs by then, Dean!”.

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m telling you, I was not qualified. I didn’t even know where Bobby kept the damn diapers. I ended up giving you gauze and saying ‘just… tape it, I guess?’”.

You were crying from laughter now, doubled over in the passenger seat, tears streaking down your cheeks.

Dean was laughing now too, full and breathless, hands tight on the wheel just to stay steady. “I was nineteen, Y/N!”, he wheezed. “I’d killed werewolves by then but nothing, nothing, prepared me for that bathroom horror show”.

The two of you dissolved into a mix of laughter and wheezing silence, the Impala rolling through the wet night as your shared history played like a slideshow between headlights.

And then, just as the laughter quieted, a silence settled between you. A gentle one.

You turned your head again, watching his profile in the dark. “You did good, Dean”, you said softly. “You always did”.

-

Dean wouldn’t let you eat in the Impala. Of course he wouldn’t. You could bleed on the upholstery, pass out half-dead in the backseat, or stash a cursed dagger under the floorboards, but get one drop of ketchup on the leather? Armageddon.

So he parked under the old bridge outside town, rain hammering heavy as the two of you unwrapped greasy bags of food, steam rising into the cold air.

You sat side by side on the hood, wrapped in your too-thin hoodie, sharing fries from a crumpled paper boat balanced between you. The bridge above gave you just enough shelter to stay dry, but the mist still clung to everything.

Dean, naturally, didn’t seem to feel the cold. He took a bite of his burger, leaned back on one elbow, and let the silence stretch.

You glanced over, watching the curve of his jaw flex as he chewed. He looked tired again. But not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

You nudged his boot with yours. “You’re quiet”.

Dean shrugged, eyes still fixed out on the dark stretch of road beyond the bridge. “Just thinking”.

You took a sip of your soda. “Dangerous”. That earned you the barest curve of his mouth.

Another beat passed. You expected him to make a crack, something about the food or the weather or your taste in music. But instead, without looking at you, he said: “So, uh… you thinking about college?”.

You blinked, thrown. “What?”.

He finally looked at you, burger paused halfway to his mouth. “College. You know. Books. Parties. Whatever else kids your age are supposed to be doing”.

“I’m not a kid”.

“No, you’re not”, he said quietly.

You looked down at your lap, where your fingers were slowly unwrapping the edge of a napkin without realizing it. “Why are you asking?”, you said, trying to keep it light.

Dean shrugged again, a little too casual, a little too careless. “Just… figured you might want out, someday. You know. Normal life. Dating. Classes. Getting drunk on cheap beer and regretting it like everyone else your age”.

You stared at him for a second. It wasn’t just a question. Not from Dean. It never was. “You mean getting out”, you said softly. “Out of this life”.

He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

You leaned back beside him. “I used to think about it”, you said. “Back when I was younger. The normal life. Parties. Boys who didn’t carry switchblades in their pockets”.

Dean huffed a laugh. “Bet that didn’t last long”.

“Nope”, you smirked. “Got over it fast. Turns out I like this life better”.

You were quiet for a while. But eventually you mumbled: “I missed you”.

You didn’t mean for it to come out that soft, almost like a secret. But it was the truth. Raw and real and sitting in the middle of your ribs for the last year.

Dean didn’t move at first.

“I mean…”, you added quickly, trying to smooth over the sudden weight of it. “You were always gone. And when you weren’t, I was. Felt like the door was always swinging, just never at the same time”.

He nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon, jaw clenched. You couldn’t tell if he was mad, or trying not to feel something else. “Yeah”, he said. Almost too low to hear. “I noticed”.

He shifted a little, turning his head toward you. The rain had slowed to a mist, fog curling under the bridge like breath. You could barely make out his expression in the dark, but you didn’t have to see his eyes to feel them on you. “I didn’t do it on purpose”, Dean said finally. “Staying gone”.

You nodded. “I know”.

“After I got back… it just… everything felt off. Like I didn’t know where I was supposed to be anymore”.

You looked at him, heart thudding. “You were supposed to be here”, you said quietly. “You always were”.

He looked at you for a long time. You didn’t look away. And then, slowly, he reached for the paper boat between you and plucked a fry, flicking it at your shoulder. You gasped. “Did you just throw food at me?”.

Dean smirked, that cocky little half-smile finally creeping in. “Gotta break the tension somehow”.

You scoffed, grabbing a fry and launching it right back at him.

He caught it midair. Show-off. And for a second, things felt like they used to. Simple. Safe.

Before the nightmares. Before Hell. Before you both grew up too fast.

And yet… underneath the playfulness, something unspoken still curled between your ribs. You missed him. You still did. Even when he was sitting right beside you.

-

Dean had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The drive-thru bags were empty now, crumpled and tossed into the backseat, forgotten. Your legs were pulled up on the seat, socked feet resting on the dash, much to Dean’s unspoken annoyance, but he didn’t say anything. He let you.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward anymore. Not like before. It was the kind of silence that knew you. You watched the road for a while. Then him. The soft set of his jaw. The way his fingers tapped idly on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio. His profile lit now and then by street lamps, flickering gold across his cheekbone, the scar near his chin catching the light.

“You always looked like a grown-up to me”, you said quietly, surprising even yourself.

Dean glanced at you, one brow raised. You shrugged, looking back out the window. “When I was a kid. You were nineteen, twenty. But you felt older. Like you knew what you were doing”.

He laughed softly. “Yeah, well. Joke’s on you. I didn’t have a damn clue”.

You smiled at that. “Still seemed like it”.

“You were just small”, he said, glancing over again. “Everything probably looked bigger”.

You shook your head, resting your chin on your knee now. “No… it wasn’t just that”.

Dean was quiet again, eyes on the road.

“It wasn’t fair, though”, you added, after a pause. “You didn’t get to be a kid. Not really”. His jaw tightened at that, just slightly. You hadn’t meant it to be heavy, but it was.

“I didn’t mind. Someone had to look out for Sammy. For you”.

“You still do”.

He nodded once, eyes still forward. “That’s the problem”.

You turned your head at that, watching him in profile. “Why is that a problem?”.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept driving. “Because sometimes I don’t know who I am outside of that”.

“You’re still you, Dean”, you said softly. “Even when you’re not protecting someone”.

He didn’t answer. But he blinked slowly, like maybe your words hit a part of him he hadn’t been willing to admit needed hearing.

You sat in that quiet a little longer, letting the mist fog the edges of the windshield.

Then, gently: “I used to pretend I was part of your team”, you said, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Back when I was a kid. Like I was this little secret Winchester nobody knew about”.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward you, warm. “You were part of the team. Hell, half the time you were the only one with enough brain cells to save our asses”.

You laughed. “You just needed someone to fix your spelling”.

“And keep you from running off to fight things twice your size”, he added, grinning now. “You had a knife that was bigger than your arm. I still have no idea where you got it”.

“I borrowed it from the kitchen”.

Dean shook his head, smiling into the darkness. “Yeah, that tracks”.

You watched him for a second longer, your heart tightening in your chest. Not from pain, but from everything else. From knowing him. From being known by him. From growing up in the shadow of his strength and realizing somewhere along the way, you’d started matching it with your own.

“I missed this”, you whispered.

Dean looked over, gaze soft. “Me too”.

-

Dean didn’t say anything as you got out of the car, just locked it behind you and walked up the steps with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. You followed silently, your hoodie pulled tight around your body, the scent of wet leaves and grease clinging to your skin.

Inside, the house was quiet. Still warm from earlier, but barely.

“I’m gonna hit the shower”, Dean mumbled, heading for the bathroom without waiting for a response.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers tracing the rim of your mug from this morning. It was strange, how easily everything had slid back into place, the way you both moved around each other without needing to ask where anything was. Like no time had passed at all.

But it had. So much had.

By the time Dean came back out, your heart was already beating a little faster. Not from nerves. Not entirely. Just from knowing he’d been thinking about you. Asking questions he didn’t want to ask. And you? You’d never been good at pretending, not with him.

You didn’t say anything, just brushed past him with a small, quiet smile, heading toward the bathroom for your turn under the hot water.

The shower helped. A little. Steam wrapped around your body like fog, easing the ache in your shoulders, washing away the chill of the night. But it didn’t clear your head. It didn’t erase the feel of him beside you on the hood of the Impala. Or the sound of his voice, deeper now.

You found Dean sitting on the couch, feet up, a beer in his hand and another set on the table beside him. The light was dim and his flannel sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, arms resting lazily over the back of the couch.

He held out the second beer without a word. You took it and sat down beside him.

The silence stretched again. You sipped slowly, the bottle cold against your fingertips, and watched the way his thumb rubbed across the edge of the label on his own. It was quiet. Peaceful even.

And then his hand brushed your knee. Accidental, maybe. But he didn’t move it. Neither did you.

You didn’t look at him, couldn’t, but your breath caught all the same. You felt him shift, just slightly, like he was trying to decide something. Like maybe he’d reached the end of pretending.

And then his fingers curled lightly around your knee. So damn warm. Your heart skipped.

You looked over, finally, and he was already watching you. Not in a brotherly way. Not anymore. There was something unspoken in his eyes, but it wasn’t confusion. It was recognition. Like he’d been trying not to see you for a long time. And now he couldn’t stop.

“You cold?”, he asked softly. His voice was lower now.

You nodded, maybe a little too fast.

Dean shifted again, closer this time, and pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you without a word. His arm stayed behind you now. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand still rested on your knee.

The TV played something muted in the background, neither of you paying attention.

Dean’s palm slid a little, brushing higher over your thigh before he caught himself and stopped, pulling his hand back like the contact burned. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the beer bottle, the TV, anywhere but your face.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye, heart pounding. It was so quiet you could hear the clink of his ring against the glass as his hand tightened around the neck of the bottle. His jaw flexed. He looked guilty, almost, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or something worse. “Sorry”, he muttered. “Didn’t mean—”. He didn’t finish, because you both knew he did mean it. Even if he didn’t want to.

You swallowed. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word. Just let your fingers, trembling a little, slide beneath the edge of the blanket so they brushed lightly against his wrist.

Dean let out a shaky breath, not looking at you. For a moment, neither of you moved.

He tried to focus on the TV, on the bottle in his hand, on anything that would ground him back in the world where you were Bobby’s kid, younger than him, someone he was supposed to protect — not crave. But the need to feel something had been burning through him for months, lighting him up from the inside out. Usually he chased it with violence, or whiskey, or sex with strangers in town.

But this wasn’t any of those things. It was you. And that made it worse.

“Maybe we should…”, Dean started, voice thin, forced casual. “Maybe you should get some sleep”.

You didn’t let go of his wrist. “Maybe I’m fine right here”, you whispered.

Dean’s gaze dropped. His hand flexed under yours. He looked like he might get up, run, or maybe pull you into his lap and finally let go.

But he didn’t do either. Instead, he tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. “You know your dad would kill me if he saw us like this”, he said, still not quite meeting your eyes.

You smiled, soft and sad. “He’s not here”.

Dean’s knuckles brushed your thigh again, this time slower, more deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the feeling, just in case he made himself stop.

For a second, the only sound was the rain outside, tapping against the window, and the quiet, ragged pace of his breathing.

He pressed his forehead to yours, close enough you could smell the beer and the warmth of his skin. “You’re off limits”, he whispered, the words trembling. “You always were”.

Your fingers traced the inside of his wrist, gentle but certain. “Does it feel that way?”.

Dean shook his head, eyes closing, pain and want written all over his face. “No”, he said, voice breaking just a little. “Not right now”.

You leaned in, your lips almost brushing his. You waited for him to pull back, to run, to do the right thing. One moment you were hovering, breaths mixing, your hand cradling Dean’s wrist, the next, his mouth was on yours. Warm, soft and desperate in a way that made the room spin.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. Not really. It was slow, yes, but hungry, all the need and longing and months (years) of not-touching crashing together. Dean tasted like beer and salt, his lips plush but unsteady, a shiver running through him every time you pressed closer.

His hand slid up your thigh, thumb tracing a line so reverent it made your knees weak. You moved instinctively, straddling his lap, legs bracketing his hips, arms curling around his neck. The blanket slipped away, forgotten, pooling at your backs as you melted into him.

Dean moaned softly into your mouth, the sound rough and deep and so damn needy, a sound you’d never heard from him before, a sound that made your skin flush hot. You felt his hands on your back, your waist, your legs. You felt everything. Especially the hard line of him pressing up between your thighs, through jeans and cotton and nothing but want.

You rocked your hips, barely thinking, just chasing the heat of his body and the low, broken sigh he let out against your lips. Dean’s hand slid beneath your sweatshirt, his palm splaying wide over your lower back, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his.

He broke the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking. “Damn it, Sweetheart…”, he whispered, voice ragged, hands trembling as they slid over your bare skin.

You shivered, pressing your nose to his jaw, breathing in the scent of him, the heat. You mouthed at the stubble on his neck, biting gently, desperate to leave a mark, to prove, even if just for a moment, that this was real.

Dean groaned, deep and desperate, rocking up against you, his erection hard beneath you. You whimpered, hips rolling, chasing friction. It was everything, all at once, years of waiting, years of not looking, years of knowing you were off limits but not caring, not now, not when it finally felt like the world could stop.

And then the doorbell rang. The sound was shrill, jarring. You both froze, breathless, lips still almost touching, your body pressed tight to his.

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

The bell rang again. Louder.

“Hey! Open up, it’s freezing out here!”.

Sam.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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