I Am Superwholocked

Dean’s face changed the second he heard Sam’s voice. All the heat and hunger collapsing into something frantic, guilty and wrecked. For a heartbeat, he just stared at you with his hands still on your waist and his chest heaving like he’d run a mile. Then he let out a harsh, ragged breath and gently slid you off his lap. "Shit”, he whispered with his voice shaking. You tried not to shiver at the loss of him. Dean raked a hand through his hair. His face was flushed and his mouth still red from your kisses. He stood too fast and had to pause, one hand hovering awkwardly in front of his jeans, trying to hide the obvious and failing miserably. “Son of a—”, he muttered under his breath, shifting his hips as if that would help.

Another ring and Sam’s impatient voice: “Dean! Dude, I saw the Impala, c’mon! I´m freezing my ass off out here!”.

You hugged your knees to your chest, heart in your throat. You watched as Dean took another breath. His jaw was clenched, every muscle in his body screaming tension. He looked at you with guilt and longing and panic flickering behind his eyes. Finally, he gritted his teeth, turned for the door, and hesitated just long enough to adjust himself with one hand sneaking low.

The bell rang again, longer this time. Dean barked over his shoulder “Coming, Sam! Geez, give me a damn sec!”. He fumbled with the lock, hand still trembling, then opened the door a crack.

Sam stood on the porch in a soaked jacket and hair that was dripping in his eyes. He peered in, smiling, oblivious. “Took you long enough. You look like crap, man—”. Dean grunted, avoiding his gaze. “Long night. C’mon, get inside”.

Sam stepped in, shaking off his boots. He glanced around and smiled as he spotted you curled up on the couch. “Hey! Good to see you”, he said, dropping his duffel by the doo, befire he crossed the room and pulled you up off the couch into one of those bear hugs that only Sam Winchester could give. He smelled like rain and road salt, and he squeezed you a little tighter than he probably meant to.

You let out a breathy laugh, patting his back. “Easy, Sasquatch. Gonna break me”.

He let you go, grinning. “Sorry. It’s just been… way too long”. He looked you over, concern flickering in his eyes. “You doing okay?”.

You nodded, managing a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, as okay as anyone gets around here”.

Sam’s gaze flicked to the kitchen, where Dean was noisily rummaging for another beer, still studiously avoiding the living room. Sam glanced back at you, lowering his voice a little. “When did Dean get here?”.

You swallowed, glancing at the wall that separated you from Dean. “Last night. He just… showed up out of nowhere”.

Sam’s brows furrowed with worry. “Was he… okay?”.

You hesitated, not sure how much to say. “He was in rough shape. Beat up pretty bad. I had to patch him up”. You dropped your voice even lower. “Bobby’s still out with Jodie. I didn’t want to bug them unless it got worse”.

Sam nodded, clearly concerned but not surprised. “That tracks. He’s been shutting me out for weeks”. He paused, worry flickering in his eyes. “Was it a hunt? Did he say?”.

You kept your voice low. “He wouldn’t say much. I think it went bad”.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, sighing heavy. “Yeah… Hell did a number on him”. He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Messed with his head. He’s not the same since he came back”.

You were biting your lip in worry, because the words hit harder than he knew. You kept seeing Dean’s face, wrecked and hungry, guilt flashing in his eyes. His hands on your skin. The taste of him on your lips. And now, all you could wonder was if it was really you he wanted at all. Or if you were just the closest thing he could grab, drowning and desperate for anything that felt alive. Was that all it was? Dean’s pain, looking for a place to go?

Sam didn’t notice your silence, or maybe he did and chose to let it sit. He just kept rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “He pushed me away. Said he needed space. But I don’t think he should be alone”.

You nodded, because you were not trusting yourself to answer.

Sam gave you a gentle but searching look. “You’ll let me know if it gets worse? Or if he needs—”. “Yeah”, you interrupted, voice just a little shaky. “I promise”.

He nodded, like he believed you, but his eyes lingered a beat longer, maybe wondering if you needed help, too. You managed a tired smile, mumbling something about needing some sleep and slipped away before he could say anything more.

Upstairs, in the safety of the dim hall, you leaned your forehead against the wall and let yourself breathe. You still tasted Dean’s kiss. Still felt the shape of his hands on your body, the ragged want in his voice, the way you’d melted for him. And you hated that a part of you, no matter how small, was afraid it didn’t mean anything real. That you were just an anchor in a storm, and when he was steady again, he’d let you go. You didn’t want to be just a lifeline. You wanted to be wanted.

For a long moment, you just stood there, caught between guilt and hope, the ache of wanting more than you were allowed to ask for.

Flashback

It was late spring, and Dean was home between hunts. Seventeen, impossibly cool in faded jeans and a Metallica shirt, like he didn’t even have to try. You’d been his shadow since morning. You followed him everywhere, fetched tools before he could ask for them and tried to copy the way he leaned beneath the hood of the car. You even drank your soda the way he did—one-handed, pinky sticking out slightly—just to see if he’d notice.

“Gimme the socket wrench, kid”, he called without looking up. You already had it waiting in your hand. Dean glanced over, grinned, and took it from you before ruffling your hair with the kind of warm, absent affection that made your heart pound hard enough that you were sure he had to hear it.

“Not bad”, he said. “You ever think about being a mechanic?”.

You shrugged, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “Maybe. If I get to work with you”.

He laughed, bright and easy. “Stick with me, you’ll learn all my secrets. Bobby says I’m the best damn driver in Sioux Falls”.

You beamed, heat rushing into your cheeks. You were just a kid, but that didn’t stop the butterflies. Dean was safe and wild all at once, and somehow he always knew exactly what to say to make you feel big instead of small.

Later that afternoon, you sat on the porch steps, picking at blades of grass while Dean sang quietly along to some Zeppelin song playing on the radio. Sunlight caught in his hair, turning the edges gold, and for one ridiculous second, you wanted to tell him he looked like one of the heroes from the stories Bobby used to read you when you were little. But you didn’t. Because you were twelve, and he was nineteen, and he called you kid and squirt and trouble.

And if your heart fluttered whenever he smiled at you, well— You told yourself it was only because he was Dean.

He wiped the grease from his hands onto his jeans, then tossed you a wink over his shoulder as he headed inside for lunch. “C’mon, Y/N! Food’s up. Last one to the table does dishes!”.

You bolted after him, barefoot and grinning, desperate to keep up, to stay close, to remain in his orbit for just a little longer.

Dean never noticed the way you watched him. He just kept you close. Like a little sister. Like a shadow he never wanted to lose.

You didn’t know what you wanted yet. Not really. You only knew that wherever Dean was, that was where you wanted to be.

Sunlight slanted across the cluttered kitchen table. No Sam this time; he was off at some summer camp. It was just you, Dean, and Bobby. Dean dropped into the chair beside you, your elbows bumping as you both reached for a plate. He only grinned and nudged you gently with his shoulder.

Bobby loaded up his own plate before eyeing the two of you with mock suspicion. “You gonna eat real food this time, or just potato chips and pie?”.

You copied Dean without even thinking about it, fork in your right hand, a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, carefully avoiding the pile of green beans Bobby tried to send your way. Dean didn’t notice. He was too busy drowning his roast in gravy. Bobby did. He hid a smirk behind his mug.

Dean took a bite, then flashed you a proud grin. “That’s how you do it, kid. Meat and potatoes. All you need”. You nodded solemnly and copied his exact bite, only for your nose to wrinkle when your eyes landed on the green beans again.

This time, Dean caught it. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though he were about to let you in on classified information. “Just push ’em under the mashed potatoes”, he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Works every time”.

Your face lit up and you did exactly that.

Bobby shook his head, but there was no real irritation in his voice. “Bad habits, Winchester. She’ll be following you right into trouble”.

Dean glanced over at you and winked. "She already does”.

Something squeezed pleasantly in your chest, and you ducked your head, suddenly very interested in your food. Your foot bumped his beneath the table—accidentally, maybe a little on purpose—and Dean nudged you right back without even looking.

It was easy with him. That effortless kind of affection that made it feel like you belonged right there beside him, no matter how small you sometimes felt.

-

You woke in the night to the sound of rain and stared at the ceiling. Down the hall, you could hear Sam’s gentle, even snore. Somewhere downstairs, a floorboard groaned. You pulled on a sweater, drifted down the hall and peered out the kitchen window.

Dean was outside, little more than a dark shape on the porch, barely visible through the storm. You watched him for a moment. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as the rain blew sideways beneath the awning, catching in his hair and along the edges of his jacket. He was staring out into the rain like he was waiting for something to crawl out of the shadows and drag him under.

He couldn't stop replaying that night. Your lips against his. The closeness between you. The terrifying ease with which he'd forgotten every reason he was supposed to pull away.

He'd wanted it. That was the part he couldn't forgive himself for. You were Bobby's daughter. You'd spent years trailing after him, his shadow, someone he'd always thought of as family. Someone he was supposed to protect. Except none of it felt simple anymore. Not after he'd kissed you back.

Dean exhaled shakily and dragged a hand over his mouth. He should go inside. Pretend it hadn't happened. Pretend he could shove the whole thing into one of those locked rooms in his head and never look at it again.

But his feet wouldn't move, because pretending wouldn't change what he'd done. And it sure as hell wouldn't change the fact that some part of him still wanted to turn around.

Behind him, the kitchen light flicked on. Your silhouette appeared in the window. You stood on the other side of the glass, watching him through the rain. You didn't open the door. Didn't call his name. The old screen door remained between you, flimsy and useless and somehow feeling like the only boundary either of you had left.

When Dean finally glanced back, something twisted painfully in his chest. Part of him wanted you to come outside. Wanted to pull you close, feel your warmth against him, and pretend for five damn minutes that the world might let him keep something simply because he wanted it. The other part of him, the part that remembered promises, responsibility, all the lines he'd spent years telling himself he would never cross, wanted to stand in that rain until it washed the thought out of him completely.

Then Dean turned away. His shoulders settled into that stubborn, carved-from-stone posture you knew too well.

You understood. He didn't want you out there. So you let the curtain slip from your fingers. Shame burned through your chest, hot and nauseating as you stepped away from the window. Maybe Dean had really simply been alone for too long. Maybe the nightmares, the injuries, the things Hell had left buried beneath his skin had finally worn him thin enough that he'd reached for the first bit of warmth he could find. Maybe he'd needed something, anything, to remind himself he was still alive. And you'd been foolish enough to think it had meant something more.

You bit your lip until it hurt. Had you made everything worse? Had you pushed when you should have stopped? Had you become one more thing Dean had to carry? The thought made your stomach twist.

You hated yourself a little for wanting him. Hated the small, stubborn piece of hope inside you that still wanted him to turn around, walk back through that door, and tell you that you hadn't imagined it. That he wanted you too. But more than anything, you hated the idea that you'd made his life harder. Dean already carried too much. He already looked like a man trying not to drown. You couldn't stand the thought of being another weight tied around his ankle.

So you went upstairs. You crawled into bed and curled tightly beneath the covers, trying to chase away a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

Maybe morning would make things clearer. Maybe daylight would put everything back where it belonged. Maybe the two of you would find your way back to whatever safe had been before this—or at least become good enough at pretending.

-

You barely slept. For hours, you lay staring at the ceiling, rehearsing what you would say when you finally saw Dean. You'd tell him it was okay. You'd tell him you understood. You'd promise to keep it between the two of you, to never mention it again if that was what he wanted. You'd find some way to make it easier for him. Or at least… less unbearable. You would forget. That was what you told yourself, anyway. You'd pretend it had never happened. Let Dean go back to being what he'd always been to you—impossible, untouchable, safely out of reach.

He deserved that. He deserved to breathe without you making everything heavier, without your feelings and your mistakes becoming one more thing he had to carry.

By morning, your eyes burned from exhaustion.

You finally dragged yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water over your face until the shock of it made you gasp. You shoved your hair into something that almost passed for presentable and stared at yourself in the mirror for a second longer than necessary.

You looked terrible and your heart wouldn't stop pounding. Still, you made yourself leave the room. You padded quietly down the hallway, already imagining Dean in the kitchen. He'd be hunched over a mug of coffee, probably pretending to read the newspaper like nothing had happened. Maybe he'd glance up when you walked in. Maybe there'd be an awkward second where neither of you knew what to say. And then you'd fix it. You'd make sure he knew he didn't have to worry.

But when you reached the kitchen, Dean wasn't there. Bobby and Sam sat at the table instead, their voices low beneath the soft clink of plates and silverware. Bobby looked tired, but relieved to be home.

You stopped in the doorway and your stomach went cold.

Bobby looked up first, his face breaking into a crooked, affectionate smile. “Mornin’, kid. Didn’t expect you up this early”. Sam grinned, his mood lighter now that Bobby was back. “Hey. You want eggs? Bobby made a mountain”.

You hovered in the doorway, searching the room with your eyes and trying not to sound desperate. “Where’s Dean?”.

Bobby and Sam both paused. Bobby shot Sam a look, then turned back to you, his voice gentler. “He left before sunrise. Said he needed to hit the road. Didn’t say much else”.

You felt the words like a punch to the chest. Gone. Just like that. Not a word. Not a note. Not even a good-bye.

Sam watched your face, concern flickering. “He didn’t say where. Just packed up and went. You know Dean… he gets itchy when he’s stuck too long in one place”.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That sounds like him”.

Bobby eyed you a little longer, like he wanted to ask what he was missing, but he didn’t. Just poured another mug of coffee and pushed it your way.

You tried to smile, tried to act like it didn’t matter, tried to pretend you weren’t already breaking inside. You sat at the table, picking at your eggs, pretending not to notice the empty chair, pretending you could just erase the last twenty-four hours and start again. But you couldn’t forget.

-

A few weeks passed and you tried not to check your phone every night. Tried not to glance at the screen whenever it lit up, hoping for his name. A text. A call. Anything that might mean Dean was somewhere out there thinking about you too.

You told yourself you were giving him space. That was what he needed. What he deserved. But knowing that didn't make the silence hurt any less.

Every day that passed without a word from him left behind a dull little ache, settling somewhere beneath your ribs and refusing to leave.

Flashback

You were fourteen that summer, caught in that awkward, hopeful space between girl and woman. Your body was changing faster than you could keep up with. Your chest had grown the past few weeks, and every time you wore your usual shirts you felt exposed.

You’d finally saved enough for a real bra, not just a sports top. You’d hidden it away in a little bag, pink and soft and mortifying, crammed deep in your backpack where nobody could possibly find it. Except Dean was in the kitchen that afternoon, leaning against the counter, shoving half a cookie in his mouth and looking way too pleased with himself for someone who’d just stolen the last of Bobby’s stash.

You tried to sneak through, clutching your bag, cheeks already burning.

Dean clocked you immediately. He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief as he swallowed. “What’s with the sneaky face, Y/N? You got beer in there?”.

You clutched the bag tighter, trying to keep your cool. “It’s nothing. Just laundry”.

He pushed off the counter, moving toward you with the swagger of someone who’d never once been embarrassed in his life. “Sure it is. Lemme see”.

“Dean, no—”, you yelped, but he was faster, long arms and quick reflexes on his side. He snatched the bag from your grip, holding it high out of reach as you jumped for it, mortified. “Whatcha got, huh?”, he teased, flipping the bag open, clearly expecting to really find a beer or maybe candy. Instead, his eyes landed on pink fabric and a tangle of straps. He went silent. You watched his brain stutter, mouth open in horror.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Dean, give it back!”.

He closed the bag in a flash, cheeks turning red for the first time you could ever remember. “Oh. Oh—uh. Shit. Sorry, I—uh—here”. He shoved it back into your hands, suddenly unable to meet your eyes, ears turning pink. “Didn’t know it was, uh, girl stuff”.

You snatched the bag back and clutched it to your chest, your face burning. “It’s not— It’s just a—”. You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Dean cleared his throat and immediately looked anywhere but at you. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh. Sorry”.

You rolled your eyes, still pink to the roots. “It´s fine, but… it’s just…”. You pulled the bra halfway out of the bag and gestured helplessly at the straps. “These stupid things. They’re either way too long or way too short. I’ve tried fixing them, like, a hundred times”.

Dean blinked. Then he stared at the straps with the same suspicious concentration he usually reserved for unfamiliar engine parts. “Those little plastic things move, right?”.

“Yes, Dean”.

“Okay. Just checking”.

Despite yourself, you laughed. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking far less like the cocky Winchester you knew and much more like somebody who desperately wished Sam were here to deal with this instead. “I mean… how complicated can straps be?”. You gave him a flat look. Dean immediately grimaced. “Yeah, okay. Dumb question”.

“I watched a commercial and still couldn’t figure it out”.

“That’s because commercials lie”. You snorted.

For a moment, Dean studied the problem from a safe distance before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Give it here”. You raised an eyebrow. “The bra”, he clarified quickly. “Not while you’re wearing it. Obviously. Just let me see the straps”.

You handed it over and Dean held it at arm’s length like someone had passed him a suspicious piece of evidence. “Okay”, he muttered. “This looks basically like the adjuster on a backpack”.

“It is not a backpack”.

“I know that”.

“You’re holding it like one”.

“Do you want help or not?”. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

Dean fiddled with one of the sliders, pulling the fabric through carefully. “So… this way makes it shorter”.

“I think”.

“You think?”.

“I told you I don’t know!”.

“Fantastic. Blind leading the blind”.

A few seconds later, Dean handed it back with an expression of cautious triumph. “There. Try that”.

You disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. A minute later, your frustrated groan carried into the hallway. “Dean!”.

“What?”.

“They’re worse!”.

There was a pause before you heard a very offended: “No way”.

“They’re practically falling off!”.

“I followed the system!”.

“What system?”.

Another pause. “My system”.

You cracked the bathroom door open just enough to stick your head through. “Your system sucks”.

Dean pointed accusingly at the door. “Hey, I fix cars, not underwear”.

“Can you try again?”.

He sighed dramatically and held out his hand.

You slipped one arm through the doorway and passed the bra back to him without opening the door any farther.

“Okay”, Dean muttered. “Attempt number two”. He adjusted the straps again while you waited behind the closed door. “Try now”.

You took it back and another minute passed. “Oh!”.

Dean straightened outside. “Oh good or oh bad?”.

“Good. I think”. You stepped out of the bathroom wearing the bra beneath a loose shirt, twisting awkwardly as you tried to see your own back in the mirror. “Dean?”.

He looked up from where he’d been waiting in the hallway. “What?”.

“Can you just check if the straps are sitting right? I can’t tell if they’re digging into my shoulders”.

Dean hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. “Yeah. Turn around”.

You turned your back to him and pulled your hair over one shoulder. The back of your shirt hung low enough that the straps were visible across your shoulders, but everything else was covered. Dean leaned closer, squinting at them, “Okay… left one looks fine”.

“And the other?”.

He hooked one finger beneath the edge of the strap near your shoulder and immediately frowned. “Yeah, that one’s way tighter”.

“I knew it”.

“Hold still”. He tugged gently at the little adjuster through the open back of your shirt, trying to loosen it without making you take everything off again. “That better?”.

You rolled your shoulder experimentally. “A little”.

Dean adjusted it once more. “There?”.

“Yeah. Perfect”.

And naturally, that was the exact moment Bobby came around the corner. He stopped. Dean was standing directly behind you, one hand near your shoulder, fiddling with a bra strap visible through the open back of your shirt.

Bobby stared. Dean looked at Bobby. You looked over your shoulder. And nobody said anything for one painfully long second.

Then Bobby's eyes narrowed. “Dean”.

Dean immediately stepped back and lifted both hands. “Not what it looks like”. Bobby's expression somehow got worse. Dean grimaced. “Yeah, okay, terrible choice of words”.

You turned around quickly. “Dad, he was fixing the strap”.

Bobby looked between you. “The strap”.

“Yes. It was cutting into my shoulder”, you explained. “I couldn’t reach the adjuster properly”.

Dean pointed toward your shoulder as though presenting evidence in court. “One was tighter than the other”.

Bobby stared at him and Dean slowly lowered his hand. “I'm gonna stop talking now”.

“That’d be smart”.

You groaned. “Dad”.

Bobby sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, some of the alarm finally leaving his expression and Dean visibly relaxed.

“Maybe next time you find yourself standing behind my daughter with your hands anywhere near her bra, take about three seconds to think about how that's gonna look when somebody walks around the corner”.

Dean glanced at you, then back at Bobby. “Yes Sir”.

Bobby shook his head and started down the hallway. “Both of you are gonna put me in an early grave”.

Dean waited until Bobby was several steps away before muttering, “For the record, the strap was definitely too tight”.

Without turning around, Bobby called back “Winchester”.

Dean shut his mouth and you bit down on a laugh.

-

The days blurred together for Dean. Case after case, motel after motel, rain-slicked highways and truck-stop coffee cooling in his hands. He’d let himself slide right back into old habits, hunting down anything with teeth and a heartbeat, filling the empty hours with work and whiskey and one-night stands that never quite touched the sides.

Woman after woman, name after name. The more he tried to lose himself in the taste of someone new, the more your memory stuck to him like salt on skin. Sometimes it was in the softness of a stranger’s hair, sometimes in the way a laugh echoed through a bar. Always, always it was your face. Smiling, pink-cheeked and looking up at him like he was worth saving.

He hated himself for it. Hated how good you had felt in his hands, how every touch, even the innocent ones, had burned themselves into his palms. He remembered the shiver of your skin, the way your breath had hitched when he leaned close. He remembered how you’d tasted, sweet and desperate and so much more than all the rough distractions he’d found in parking lots and hotel rooms since. Nothing worked. Nothing washed you out of him.

Sometimes he wondered if he'd broken you. If whatever had happened that night on Bobby's couch had hollowed something out inside you the same way it had him. The thought usually came late, when there was too much whiskey in his blood and not enough noise in the room to drown himself out.

Other nights were worse. Those were the nights when the darkness closed in and Hell came crawling back beneath his skin, when sleep meant screaming and waking wasn't much better. And on those nights, all Dean could think about was you. How safe he'd felt with you there. How, for once, breathing hadn't seemed so damn hard. How easy it had been to let himself stop fighting for a minute and simply want something. Want you.

He'd sworn he would stay away. For your sake as much as his own. He told himself you deserved better than whatever wreckage he'd brought back from Hell. Told himself Bobby would skin him alive if he ever found out. Told himself that eventually, if he stayed gone long enough, you'd be happier without him haunting the edges of your life.

It sounded reasonable. Almost noble, if he didn't think about it too hard. But Dean had never been very good at running from the things that mattered.

And he couldn't outrun you. Not really. Not for long. Because every time his phone buzzed against the nightstand, his hand moved before he could stop it. And every single time, some stupid, desperate part of him hoped it would be you.

Flashback

You were sixteen, barefoot on the porch in cut-off shorts and an short shirt, sprawled across the steps with a book in your lap and your hair tangled from the wind. Sam was here for a weekend, arguing with Bobby in the kitchen. Dean was half-listening, half-watching you through the open screen door, pretending to be more interested in the carburetor on the table than in the way you tucked your legs under yourself. He didn’t mean to stare. He didn’t mean to notice, not like that. You’d always been Bobby’s girl, his tagalong. But that day, your laugh was lower, your eyes lingered longer and something in Dean’s chest twisted up hard. He didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t recognize it as attraction. It just made him restless, hot under the collar, his jokes coming out sharper, his glances a little too long. It wasn’t until Bobby’s voice thundered behind him that he realized he’d been caught. “Dean”.

Dean nearly jumped, knocking a wrench off the table. Bobby stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes flat and dark as a thunderstorm. “You got somewhere else to look?”.

Dean bristled, defensiveness snapping up like armor. “Just keepin’ an eye out, Bobby. Place is full of rats lately”.

Bobby didn’t smile and didn’t move. “She’s sixteen, Dean”.

Dean looked away, his throat tightening. “I know”.

Bobby stepped closer. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, quieter now, but hard enough to cut. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know your type. I know your damn track record”. His jaw flexed. Anger sat plainly in the lines of his face, but underneath it was something heavier. Worry. “You so much as look at her the wrong way, you’re gone. You hear me?”.

Dean forced himself to meet Bobby’s eyes. For a second, the room seemed to shrink around him. He felt like a kid again; dirty sneakers, trouble written all over him, standing in front of someone who could see every bad decision before Dean even had the chance to make it.

“She’s off limits, Dean”, Bobby said. “Always will be. You get me?”.

Dean nodded. Shame burned hot beneath his skin, sharp enough to make him want to look away again. But somewhere beneath it, something stubborn had already begun to take root. He didn’t want to hurt you. He sure as hell didn’t want to hurt Bobby. But somewhere along the way, that instinct to protect you had started tangling itself around something else—something unfamiliar, something Dean wasn’t ready to look at too closely, much less put a name to. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “I get it”.

Bobby studied him for another long second, his stare sitting heavy on Dean’s chest. Then he clapped a hand against Dean’s shoulder. Not gently. “Good. Now go clean up. Lunch is on”.

Dean gave another short nod and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to shake off the conversation as he headed for the sink.

He told himself not to look back. Told himself there was nothing to look at. Still, his eyes drifted toward the porch. Toward you. And somewhere deep down, in the place he tried hardest not to listen to, Dean felt it. Something was changing. He just didn’t know what it was yet. And worse, he didn’t know how to stop it.

Outside, you caught him looking and only smiled. Easy and unaware. Completely unafraid.

-

The air was sharp with cold, every motel parking lot washed in the same dull winter gray. Dean sat hunched behind the wheel of the Impala, both hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee. The radio played low beneath the hum of the heater while wind chased scraps of paper and plastic across the asphalt outside. He stared through the windshield and thought about nothing. Or tried to.

His phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Dean nearly ignored it. Nearly. But old habits died hard. He glanced at the screen.

Sam

His thumb hovered over the button for a second before he finally answered, his voice rough from too many nights without enough sleep.

“Yeah?”.

He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he answered, cautious but honest. “Hey, man”.

Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes fixed on the windshield. “Hey, Sammy. You alright?”.

“I’m fine”, Sam said, in a way that made it sound almost true. “Just—checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while”.

Dean grunted. “Been busy”.

A beat of silence followed.

“You gonna be busy for Christmas, too?”.

Dean said nothing. Something in his chest tightened and Sam took a breath. “Look, Bobby’s making dinner this year. And Y/N invited me”. A pause. “She’s, uh… been asking about you. Said you oughta come back, at least for a day”. Another pause. “You know how she gets”.

Dean closed his eyes. Yeah. He knew exactly how you got. He could picture you in Bobby’s kitchen, stubbornly determined to make the place feel warm and lived-in no matter who was missing. Probably stringing up decorations Bobby complained about while secretly leaving every single one exactly where you put it.

Your voice would be bright. Too bright. Like if you smiled hard enough, nobody would notice the empty chair.

Dean swallowed. “I dunno, man”.

“Dean”. Sam’s voice softened, but there was something firm beneath it. “It’s been weeks. You can’t keep running forever. Bobby’s getting worried. She—”. Sam stopped. Dean’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. “She what?”.

Another hesitation. “She misses you”.

Dean’s throat worked. Something raw threatened to climb its way out, and he shoved it back down before it could become anything he’d have to explain. “I’ll think about it”, he managed barely louder than a whisper.

“That’s all I’m asking. Just think about it”. His voice softened again. “It’s Christmas, Dean. We’re supposed to be together”.

Dean nodded even though Sam couldn’t see him. “Yeah”. He stared down at the steering wheel.

After they hung up, Dean stayed exactly where he was. The silence inside the Impala seemed louder than the radio now. His breath fogged faintly against the cold air leaking through the windows as he pictured you sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. Stubborn and waiting.

Then he remembered your hand in his. Remembered being close to you, and how impossible it had felt to pull away once he'd let himself have even a second of it.

His chest tightened again. That was when the passenger door opened. Cold air rushed inside, followed by the blonde bartender from earlier—Candy or Mandy, Dean genuinely couldn't remember anymore. She slid into the seat with an easy grin, running a finger along his arm like she already knew exactly what kind of night he was looking for. “You ready?”, she asked, her voice syrup-sweet.

Dean looked at her. For half a second, he almost said no. Instead, he pulled together something resembling a smile. “Yeah”. He turned the key and shoved everything else somewhere deep enough that he wouldn't have to look at it. At least for a while.

He followed her directions out of town to a run-down apartment building with a busted elevator and hallways covered in carpet that smelled permanently of smoke.

Twenty minutes later, Dean sat on the edge of her mattress. The room was half-dark, her perfume heavy in the stale air. She was close, fingers working at his belt with practiced confidence, treating the whole thing like a game she'd played a hundred times before.

Dean let her. That was the problem. He just… let her. Because he wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything that wasn't guilt. Anything that wasn't wanting the wrong. Anything that wasn't the impossible mess he'd been carrying around for weeks.

She laughed softly at something he didn't hear, leaning closer and Dean felt absolutely nothing. He closed his eyes. Tried to remember what it was supposed to feel like to want this. Instead, his mind betrayed him. He saw you. Felt the warmth of you. Heard the way his name had sounded in your voice.

Dean's jaw tightened. He tried to shut it out. Tried to replace the memory with the woman in front of him. Couldn't. Because underneath all the noise, all the whiskey and motel rooms and strangers whose names he never bothered remembering, there was only that same hollow ache.

And when Dean closed his eyes, all he could see was you.

Still he let Candy or Mandy pull him closer, but he was a million miles away. No matter how he tried to chase it, the only thing he wanted was the one thing he could never have.

She tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing him from the confines of his boxers. He was already half-hard from the mechanical anticipation, veined and heavy in her hand. She wrapped her fingers around the base, giving a slow, teasing stroke that made him twitch, her grip firm but not too tight, like she’d done this a hundred times before. And hell, she probably had. “Damn”, she murmured, her breath hot against his skin, “you’re packing, aren’t you?”.

She licked her lips, painted red and glossy, before leaning in, her tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his shaft from base to tip. Dean’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her bleach-blonde hair, not guiding yet, just holding on as she worked him over.

She was talented, no doubt about it, swirling her tongue around the head, sucking lightly at first, then deeper, her cheeks hollowing as she took him in inch by inch. The wet heat of her mouth enveloped him, her lips stretching around his girth, and she hummed low in her throat, the vibration shooting straight through him. She bobbed her head deliberately, saliva slicking him up as she twisted her hand in rhythm with her mouth, pumping what she couldn’t fit.

Dean groaned, his hips shifting involuntarily as she picked up the pace, slurping noisily, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently while she deep-throated him like a pro. “Fuck”, he muttered, eyes squeezing shut, but even as the pleasure built, it felt distant, like he was watching it happen to someone else.

She gagged a little when she pushed too far, but she didn’t stop, pulling back only to dive in again, faster now. Dean’s fingers tightened in her hair, urging her on, but his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t enough. It never was.

He pulled her off him with a wet pop, her lips swollen and smeared, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it broke. She looked up at him, eyes watering but grinning like she’d won a prize. “You want more?”, she purred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Dean didn’t answer. He just hauled her up, rough, flipping her onto the bed face-down like she weighed nothing. She laughed, arching her back, ass up as she spread her legs, already shimmying out of her skirt and panties. “Yeah, baby, give it to me hard”.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet and rolled it on, positioning himself behind her. No foreplay, no tenderness; this was how he did it, how he always did it to take the edge off, to drown out the noise in his head. He gripped her hips, nails digging in, and thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her.

He fucked her roughly, hips snapping forward, the room filling with the sounds of skin on skin, her moans turning into breathless pleas and his own detached grunts.

Twenty minutes later, Dean dressed in the half-light of that unfamiliar bedroom, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and sweat. Her soft laughter were echoing somewhere far behind him as she sprawled across tangled sheets. He barely heard her, barely felt the bruises on his hips or the scratch marks down his back. It all faded as soon as he pulled his jeans on, buckled his belt, and looked at himself in the mirror above her dresser. He didn’t see the usual cocky smirk that used to come after nights like this. He just saw someone tired. Someone haunted.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight, the shame rising up to choke him. He’d thought it would help, just like every other time. He’d thought maybe, if he went hard enough or long enough, if he let someone else’s voice drown out your name in his head, he’d finally be able to forget the shape of you, the taste of your lips, the warmth of your hand in his. That the ache might fade.

But it never did. If anything, it just made it worse.

As he tossed the condom in the trash, zipped his jacket, and mumbled something half-hearted to the woman in bed, he felt emptier than before, like every time he tried to fill that void, it just carved him out a little more.

———————————

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

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