kool kodi

- Puppy!Sam who whimpers when you tug on his ears or his tail. They're both so soft and you love the sounds he makes when you do it, which means you can't help but do it all the time. He whines and calls you 'cruel' under his breath, but still leans into your hand and licks your palm, eating up the attention you provide.

- Puppy!Sam who waits at the front door while you're out collecting information or interviewing suspects, growing more impatient every minute you're gone. When he finally hears the door open and sees your face again, he's on you instantly. His face pressing into the column of your throat, arms wrapping tightly around your torso, tail thumping audibly against himself. You giggle and kiss his cheek, scratching behind his ears in the way you know he likes.

- Puppy!Sam who's eyes widen when he sees the surprise you've been hiding from him all day; a black leather collar with 'Sammy' engraved on a silver bone tag. He's, somehow, even more smitten with you than he was before. You fasten it around his neck yourself, and he gets pathetically hard when he feels the material of it dig lightly into the sensitive skin of his throat.

- Puppy!Sam who gets dizzy at the mere smell of you. He drowns himself in your scent whenever he can, the mix of the natural musk of your skin and your strawberry body wash soothes him instantly. Even better if you've just returned from a hunt and reek of sweat and dirt; he'll bury his face into any part of your skin that you have exposed, ignoring your protests about how you need to shower.

- Puppy!Sam who paws at you. When he wants your attention, he grabs you and squeezes lightly until you stop whatever you're doing and turn your attention to him. You think it's adorable and have pointed it out before, which leads him to flushing a pretty pink that makes you kiss his cheeks incessantly.

- Puppy!Sam who uses his puppy dog eyes to his advantage, and it works on you every single time. He'll be begging for you to look at him or pet him while you're busy, leading to you getting a bit annoyed with him. But when he apologises and gazes at you with his big, wide eyes, you can't help but melt and instantly give into his demands, dropping whatever it is you were previously doing.

Hope you guys enjoy this as much I enjoyed writing it! We need more Puppy!Sam content

Puppy!Dean HCs will also be posted soon ;)

When you started dating Matt, you'd made sure to buy pure silk pajamas so you could cuddle with him without it setting off his sensitive touch receptors. The physical reminder of how much you care makes his body ache with love, as if he can feel your affection seeping into him, filling the cracks of his own self-hatred and making him feel whole in a way he's searched for his entire life.

You have a book balancing on his back, your fingers flipping to the next page periodically. The book you're reading is a sci-fi, something you'd picked out on the date he'd taken you on not too long ago, he knows this because you'd been talking about it— the plot, ins and outs of the world-building, and complexity of the characters.

But he didn't mind listening, in fact, he enjoyed it thoroughly.

"Sweetheart?" Matt's tired voice breaks through the comfortable silence of the room quietly, breaking your concentration. He hears you reply with hum.

"Would you mind reading to me? I want to hear your voice," He requests, sinking further into you.

Matt can almost hear the smile that graces your face, your heart-rate picking up ever so slightly before it settles back down.

"'Course I can, honey," Your reply is thick with tenderness, your love for him palpable.

One of your hands drifts up to his head, fingers beginning to thread through his soft locks, short nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Your voice is soft and smooth, melting into his ears pleasantly. The words flow out of your mouth flawlessly, not a single pause of hesitation or crack. He is completely pliable under your touch, softening at the sensation of your hand in his hair and the sound of your sweet voice.

It isn't long before you feel Matt's body go limp in your grip, his breathing an even inhale and exhale. Your fond smile only deepens as you close the book and carefully lean over to place it on the nightstand, flicking off the bedside lamp within the same movement. You lean down and press a chaste kiss to his forehead, to which he leans into before nuzzling back into you.

Matt doesn't think heaven could compare; or maybe this is his heaven, forever with the person his heart beats for, safe and sound.

☆

Dean never sees you again after that day.

He remembers it vividly, 17 year old Dean Winchester who'd never known anything but violence and rage and survival, finally wanting something; someone.

He'd begged his father to stay. Silent, of course, because if his father heard him begging outloud he'd get a smack across the head and a strong talking to about being a real man.

The cherry on top would be the speech, though, the he shouldn't be hung up on a girl he barely knows — even though you know Dean better than anyone else ever has or ever will — because it makes him not only soft, but foolish too.

He'd spent the entire day with you. Drinking slushies that gave you both brain freezes, eating enough sugar that he's surprised his heart didnt give out, laughing until his stomach ached and his cheeks were pink.

He'd let you hold his hand throughout, silently console him where words failed you both.

At the end, Dean stood across from you. His heart beat in his chest, ready to leap out where he'd catch it and offer it to you without a second thought.

But he didn't, didn't dare risk staining you with his tainted blood. Cursed, even.

Instead, he let you wrap him up in your warm, warm arms, cradle him so gently that he'll cling to this moment for the rest of his miserable life, and worst of all, you let him cry into your shoulder.

Hot, salty tears dampening the material of your sweatered shoulder, soaking into it.

But you didn't care. You stood there and soaked up all his sadness and hurt until his dad was shouting at him to hurry it up.

Then, you pulled back, wiping off his wettened cheeks with your sleeve, a melancholy smile gracing your lips; melancholy, you'd taught him that word, giggled light heartedly when he'd stared at you with his wide, confused eyes.

Dean clung to your hand, reluctant.

You'd pried him off, whispering that it was okay and you're sure you'd see him again.

Dean pushes his way through the crowds of sweaty, drunk, and overly loud people, grunting as he does so— does everyone in here really need to stand shoulder to shoulder? It's a bar, for God's sake.

He finally squeezes his way to the counter, all but collapsing into the worn leather of one of the bar stools, hearing it creak beneath his weight in protest. He releases an exhale of relief as he waves the bartender over. He orders a whiskey neat, itching to feel the burn of alcohol after such an exhausting hunt.

It hadn't gone the best, him and Sam were hunting what they thought was a few vampires. It turned out to be a full nest. The two hunters were outnumbered tremendously, resulting in more than a few wounds, but they survived. Sam, as usual, had retired to their motel room for the night, needing to sleep the weariness off. This left Dean to drink the night away at the nearest shitty bar.

He nods his thanks as the bartender slides him a glass, wrapping his sore hand around it and lifting it to his lips, savouring the burn down his throat as he takes a sip of the amber liquid— it stings the split down the side of his lower lip, making him wince lightly. He needs this after a hard day of hunting, to drown out the aches that insist on seeping into his bones no matter how long he rests; he's decided it's chronic, a constant that he's learnt to deal with over the years.

He knows it's not only the aches he's drowning out.

…

He chooses not to linger on that thought.

Dean's about halfway through his whiskey before he feels a light tap on his right shoulder, his head turning instinctively to see who's there; he's expecting another hunter, Sam, or maybe even a pretty woman wanting to bat her lashes and pout her reddened lips, laugh at his horrible pick up lines as if he's the funniest man alive in the hopes of ending up in his pants by the end of the night— he could use the distraction, he thinks.

Who he doesn't expect to see is you. In the flesh. Not just an alcohol induced hallucination, or a now distant memory that he still remembers like it's yesterday. Entirely real, standing right in front of him, you.

"Dean, hey," Your lips curl into a friendly smile, and it knocks the air straight from his lungs, leaving him winded and helpless.

The sound of your voice — as sweet and smooth as he remembers, not like he'd ever forget the sound of your voice, anyway — renders him unable to speak, mouth opening and closing a few times as if he were a fish out of water. Every emotion he's felt since the day you left crashes into him like a freight train, so much so he has to will himself not to spontaneously combust on the spot.

"Y/N," He finally breathes out, internally kicking himself for sounding utterly dazed,

"I, uh, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah, me neither. What a coincidence, huh?" You give a light chuckle, tilting your head ever so slightly to the left, and his heart that still beats for you may as melt straight from his ribcage, if he doesn't rip it out of his chest and offer it to you first; "Please, take it, it's still yours," is what he has to hold back from proclaiming, biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw a sharp lick of blood.

He doesn't know if he can handle the way your eyes trail across him, as if peeling back the layers he's since put back up since you left, and seeing straight into the very core of his being in a way that makes him beyond uncomfortable. In an effort to escape this feeling, he shifts in his seat, rubbing his hands against his thighs, forcing his eyes up to meet yours.

And, God, did he miss your eyes. Your beautiful, mesmerising, E/C eyes.

He needs to snap out of it.

"So, how have you been?" He asks in a neutral tone, even though it's the complete opposite from the way he feels inside.

"Good. I've been, you know, moving on, healing, and all that," You rub the back of your neck, offering him a half grin as you speak in careful words, swallowing back the emotions that threaten to crawl up your oesophagus. Seeing Dean gives your body a reaction you wish you could ignore.

"Right. Moving on and healing." He clicks his tongue, nodding his head stiffly, clenching his fists until his knuckles are white.

Dean can't escape the visceral reaction your words squeeze out of of him. He's been doing anything but moving on and healing for the nine months since the two of you split up, to the point Sam's brought up the fact he's worried about him on multiple occasions— not that Sam doesn't ask when his brother is acting off, but he's been pestering Dean a while now; "I'm fine, Sam. Quit bothering me." is what he says every time, even he is falling apart at the seams.

"Why don't you come to my table? We can chat a bit more there," You offer, and his feet move to follow you before he's fully registered what you've said.

He trails after you to where you've chosen a small table in the middle of the bar, namely, one with no chairs. However, that seems to be a pattern at this place, seeing as none of the surrounding tables have chairs, either.

He doubts he'll ever forget the day you two broke up. It had happened on a Sunday, the last day after a long, painful two months of almost non-stop fights. You were angry at how much he'd been drinking lately, at how hard he insisted on shutting you out despite your very best efforts. He'd repeatedly told you to get off his back, that you weren't his mother and didn't need to act like it either.

It was an enormous fight, yelling over top of each other, screaming until both your throats felt like you'd swallowed sandpaper, tears, the whole nine.

"I may as well fucking leave then, Dean! Seeing as you're so fine by yourself, right?" You'd shouted into his face, nails harshly digging into your palms while salty tears clouded your vision and rolled down your face, leaving obvious trails across your flushed cheeks.

"Then leave! I sure as hell ain't stopping you, sweetheart!" Dean had spat back with just as much venom, throwing his hands up wildly, heart skipping a nervous beat at his own words.

He didn't really mean it, of course he didn't, but when he saw you start to haphazardly shove your things into your duffel bag, his inability to be vulnerable stood in the way of apologising.

Instead, he said some things he's lived to regret.

"I should've known you'd walk away in the end. I told you this would be too much. You said you'd deal with it. Deal with me. But look at you now, huh?" Dean scoffs, blinking away the stinging tears that border his waterline, crossing his arms tight over his chest in a poor attempt at a defensive stance.

But the second you were gone, after he heard the roar of your car engine fade into the distance, Dean broke down. He destroyed the motel room, ripping down picture frames from the walls, tearing the sheets from the bed, smashing the small table and chairs that resided next to the kitchenette. And when he saw his reflection, when he had to face the effect you had on him, — chest heaving, eyes red rimmed, bottom lip trembling, whole body twitching — his fists made contact with the mirror too, leaving his knuckles bruised and bloody.

The worst part, though, is that you tried to come back. But Dean wouldn't let you. He ignored your calls and told Sam to block you too. Somewhere within all the hurt that followed after you left, he realised how much better off you'd be after he was gone, and decided to force you to let you stay away.

And now, having to see you again, the burden of Dean's mistakes lay heavily upon his chest, restricting his breathing into moderated inhales and exhales.

His parts his lips to say something, anything more, but he's abruptly cut off by a man coming up from behind you, the man's hands coming up to rest on your hips in a way that makes Dean's jaw clench.

You, however, don't seem to mind as much. You twist your head to the side with a bright smile, letting out a small giggle before looking back at Dean, your bright expression fading just a touch.

"Oh, right," Your eyes dart between Dean and this man he's never met, a smile still plastered to your oh so pretty lips, "Dean, this is my boyfriend, Matt. Matt, this is Dean, my ex-boyfriend— don't worry, we're on.. good terms. Friends."

The word 'boyfriend' falling from your mouth makes Dean's body tense up, eyes widening and eyebrows lifting at the implication that you really did mean it when you'd said you'd been 'moving on'.

"I see." Dean says flatly, eyes flickering over to this 'Matt' guy, pretending like his heart didn't just get crushed.

"Nice to meet you, man," Matt gives him a grin, extending his hand to shake, to which Dean reluctantly reaches out and shakes the other man's hand firmly.

Dean's eyes trail the guy, he can't help but size him up; you deserve someone amazing, that he knows.

Matt has combed hair, dark brown and pin straight, he's wearing a crisp, white button up and a grey blazer — seriously? He doesn't think anyone in the history of ever has worn a blazer to a shitty bar —, sensible, black shoes that shine under the low lighting, and flat pants that Dean's certain the man's ironed.

Dean hates Matt by principle (and out of spite, but he won't mention that).

Alas, he doesn't have time to stew in his hatred just yet, being flung back into meaningless conversation with you and your boring, boring, new boyfriend.

Matt drones on about work, to start, and Dean finds out in detail about how Matt works as an accountant at a respectable firm, and that he's also up for a possible promotion if he keeps up his 'great work', a prospect he seems proud of. Dean hates that you seem proud of him too.

Then, he moves onto hobbies, speaking on and on about his gardening business that he's trying to start up. Mowing, pulling weeds, shaping shrubs— Dean doesn't care enough to keep listening, his attention fixated on you the majority of the time, his heart aching at the way you affirm his words and genuinely smile, in the way you used to do with him.

He doesn't entertain the fact Matt tries to prompt answers out of him, only giving short responses that mainly consist of "Yeah, you know how it is,"s, and absentminded "Uh-huh"s.

"That's, ah, that's great. Very interesting." Dean grits his teeth enough to feel them grind, a sour scowl evident on his face as the other man finishes rambling.

You shoot him a disapproving look that he chooses to ignore.

"How about another round of drinks?" You break through the bleak back and forth conversation the two men were engaging in, "You both look thirsty. I'll be right back, 'kay?"

Before you leave, you pat Matt on the shoulder and give him a quick peck on the cheek, a smile crawling over his face. This causes Dean's blood to boil hotter than it has in a long time.

You walk off, Dean's eyes following you until you disappear in the crowd, forcing him to have to look back at Matt. He puts on a half-assed polite smile, sucking on his teeth. He can see that Matt isn't overly thrilled to be left alone with him, either.

"So, you're their ex," Matt starts slowly, nodding as if this is information he has to take time to absorb, "Funny, I don't think they've ever mentioned you before." The other man finishes in a snide tone, giving Dean a tight-lipped expression.

His choice of words and tone only serves to annoy Dean further, clenching his hands into tight fists under the table, his nails digging crescent shaped dents into the soft parts of his palms.

"Of course they didn't, wouldn't want you to be jealous or feel bad about yourself, ami-right?" Dean snarks back, matching Matt's tight-lipped smile that has now turned down into a grimace.

"Is that so? Well, you don't look like much to be worried about, if you ask me," Matt reiterates his hostile stance, and this likely wasn't the best decision with someone like Dean.

A few more unfriendly comments get exchanged before things take a violent turn.

-

You're pushing your way through the crowd, letting out a huff as you finally reach the bar, putting your hand up to wave the bartender over.

"Two beers and a cosmopolitan, please," You order after a short pause to think, the bartender nodding at your order, turning around to make the drinks.

You're about thirty seconds into waiting for the drinks before you hear commotion coming from behind you. You pray it isn't something to do with the two men you'd recently left alone — a bad mistake on your part, but you needed a moment to recalibrate after seeing Dean again —, though, you know better than that.

"I will be right back, I just— need to check on something real quick." You say to the bartender, patting the bar once, speed-walking away before they can say anything about your sudden departure.

You push your way through the thick groups of people, lots of squeezing by and "Excuse me"'s as you make your way back to your table as quick as you're able to.

To your unfortunate unsurprise, Dean and Matt are on the ground, practically wrestling each other in a heated fist-fight. Fist-fight being that they're both attempting to cause physical harm to each other in their compromising positions on the floor.

Multiple people have their phones out and are recording the entire fight, others are egging them on; you are beyond pissed.

"What the hell do you two think you're doing?!" You snap out, voice loud as it cracks through the atmosphere. Both Dean and Matt instantaneously freeze up, eyes darting to where you stand above them.

The two men shove each other off, letting out small grunts as they do. Dean is able to scramble up to his feet quicker than Matt, who shoots him an incredibly dirty look. They both still look mad, but it's replaced by shame when they see the expression painted onto your scrunched up face.

"Are you kidding me? I leave for a few minutes and you have to fight like children?" You continue, mouth parting at the absolute audacity of them, "You're grown men! This is humiliating!"

"I—" Dean goes to say, but shuts up as your eyes move to glare at him.

"It's goddamn ridiculous. I shouldn't have to scold you for you to stop fighting." You let out a loud scoff, your hand coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose as the people that were watching start to dissipate, the atmosphere turning tense under your irritation. You can already feel a headache forming behind your eyes, the kind that sticks no matter how much medicine you swallow.

By now, both Dean and Matt look like puppies with their tails between their legs, matching sheepish demeanours as they stay silent to let you stew in your annoyance towards them.

"Well, don't just stand there! Go grab a first aid kit or something!" You finish, throwing your hands up in an exasperated gesture, glaring as they both rush off to go find something to satisfy your demands.

You stand by the table as the two men leave to find the first aid kit, letting the feelings that had first arisen when you'd see Dean again really sink in.

Dean.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't missed him, the first few months — more like six months, if you were being completely honest with yourself, which you obviously weren't — had been beyond rough. You'd missed him so badly it had caused a significant amount of physical pain every waking second of the day. It was the type of loneliness that sunk deep into your bones, the type that would weigh you down until you barely had enough energy to get out of bed in the morning. Hell, even your few hunter friends had begun to worry, leaving you little 'Take care of yourself' texts that you majorly ignored; you didn't need anyone looking out for you, you were managing with the break up just fine on your own, thank you very much (you weren't).

Eventually, it got worse and worse, to the point Bobby had to intervene. You protested every step of the way, snapping at every little comment and pushing him away with all your depleting strength, physically and emotionally. But Bobby, being the incredibly stubborn bastard he is, wouldn't give up. He pushed and shoved until you were able to stand back on your own two feet again. You'll forever be grateful for the endless support he showed you through one of the worst parts of your life.

You had finally somewhat gotten over Dean halfway through month seven, which is when you decided to throw yourself back into the dating pool; throw being lightly dip your toes back in, you weren't that ready just yet.

You'd met Matt a bar, not too much unlike the one you were at now, actually. He was kind, responsible, painfully normal, everything you never expected yourself wanting, but here you were. You two clicked and spent the whole night speaking, then exchanged numbers by the end of it. Matt makes you happy, he's someone you never thought you'd end up with.

You don't even fully know yourself why you chose to approach Dean when you saw him at the bar tonight, rational thoughts clouded by that small part of your brain that activated when your eyes landed on him. You knew it was him from the second you saw the worn leather jacket draped across his back, the one that he used to drape around you.

You're broken out of your thoughts by Matt, who returned before Dean, a first aid kit held in his hands and a sheepish expression on his face.

Dean returns only a few moments later, although he sticks to the other side of the round table with his own first aid kit, only glancing at you every so often as he begins to patch himself up.

Matt opens the first aid kit, but you stop him, opening it yourself. You grab the necessary supplies from inside of it and lay them out, intending to patch him up yourself. He begins to protest, but you shush him, waving your hand dismissively.

"That was majorly dumb of you, by the way. You don't need to be picking fights like that." You speak as you clean the cut on Matt's forehead as gently as you can, watching as his winces at the sting.

"I know. I'm sorry." Matt mumbles like a little kid, making you roll your eyes, but you lips still curve up in amusement anyway.

Dean can't stand seeing you and Matt engage in playful banter while you patch him up, just like you used to do for him. It's making him feel physically ill. He just might puke up all his guts onto the stupid, round table that separates him, you, and your stupid, stupid new boyfriend. He thinks puking would be more comfortable than having to watch this any longer.

You finish patching up Matt, a laugh still leaving your mouth as you pack up the first aid kit; although, the joy of the moment is sucked out when your eyes meet Dean's guilty ones. You swallow, hard.

"Hey, why don't you take this back and I'll meet you back out at the car? We can go afterwards," You force a smile back onto your face as you reface Matt, the hand on his shoulder slipping off as you pull back from him, "I just need a few minutes alone with Dean. Promise I won't be long."

Matt hesitates, but nods, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips before offering you a last smile and then wandering off, towards the exit.

For the first time since the moment you'd seen Dean again, you fully face him, wringing your hands as you prepare for what you already know will be an emotional conversation.

Dean's eyes are already locked onto yours in a way that makes your head spin uncomfortably, a sensation you push down until it's back where the rest of your lingering feelings for him still reside, slowly collecting dust; but still present, no matter how far you shove them down.

"So," You start, unsure of how to proceed, but Dean seems to have a few ideas with the way he pounces on the opportunity to speak now that Matt's gone.

"So, Matt. He's something, isn't he?" Dean nods slowly as he speaks, squeezing his eyes shut for a fraction of a second before they meet you again.

"Come on—" You try, you barely get the words in.

"He's nothing like me." Dean blurts out before he can stop himself, internally cringing. He lets out a sigh, deciding to just go with it, let out everything he's been thinking since he saw Matt.

"I mean, come on, he's so.. normal. Boring, actually. Look at him! He's in a blazer, who even wears a blazer to a low-end bar, or ever? His damn pants are flat ironed!" He continues, the words pouring effortlessly from his mouth, reflecting his exact thought process, "You can't seriously think that's the best you can do."

You clench your jaw, anger beginning to flare up.

"Matt's a great guy. He doesn't deserve you shitting on him, you don't know him." You shoot back, keeping your own temper at bay for the moment.

"I'm sure he is, sweetheart, but really?" The old pet-name slips out with Dean barely realising it, his eyebrows pinching together in a mix of frustration and confusion.

You stay quiet for what feels like a long while, but in reality is only a few moments.

"Maybe that's the whole point, Dean." Your voice is quieter this time, your eyes sweeping away from his to the table you both stand at, separated only by polished wood and unspoken feelings; you sound almost resigned for a reason he can't understand.

Dean's missed the way his name sounds on your voice.

He doesn't know how to respond, only staring at you, wishing you'd stare back at him. The truth hits him hard, his throat already beginning to get sore. He hates that you've always — and still — had that effect on him.

"He makes me happy. I'm happy, you know." You speak again, but even you know you sound unsure, the words foreign on your tongue; you never thought you'd say them about a man that wasn't Dean, yet, you tell yourself that things change and people grow (you only half believe it).

"But are you satisfied?"

You're barely given a moment to think over your own words before Dean speaks again, dropping a sentence you have to recover from. It leaves you silent, your eyes darting up to meet his again.

"That's not fair." You almost snap back, the crushing weight of the thought setting off something broken inside you, your jaw clenching tightly.

You don't allow him the privilege of cracking open your ribcage any wider, hiding away your heart before the heat of the faded lights above you can hit it.

"It doesn't matter. We're not together anymore, who I date isn't your problem." You hold your tongue from letting out the words you swore to keep a secret. "He won't hurt me like you did.", is what you want to say, but you won't. You won't mention that you need that safety net, you won't mention any of it.

Dean can't deny it, because you're not wrong, though it still sounds wrong coming out of your mouth, even if the two of you have been broken up for months.

"You're right. We're not." The words leave his throat burning more than any shot of whiskey could, snaking down through his organs, constricting around each one until it feels like he's dying from the inside out.

The sheer heartbreak displayed over Dean's face is poking at a sore spot you thought you'd healed, this proving it's still as tender as the day you left.

"But we could be," Dean surprises even himself, the desperation he's been habouring for so long beginning to spill out via his mouth.

"Think about it, Y/N, you could come back. Live on the road in Baby with me and Sam again, hell, I could even tell Sam to take a hike for however long you want. It could be just us." His hands instinctively reach over the table to grab yours.

He catches himself before your skin ever makes contact with his, pulling them back and averting his gaze, mildly embarrassed.

You make sure to crush the hope his words give you.

"No, I can't, Dean, I have a life here. I have a boyfriend, I pay my taxes, I'm a goddamn sales associate!" You list off the aspects of your life that you've forged since you went off on your own, each word hitting Dean harder than the last.

"But I know that's not what you want," His voice turns pleading, "I know you. I know you'll never be satisfied until you're back out hunting again. With me."

His heart is pulsing in his chest in a way it hasn't since the last time he kissed you, and he's chasing that high with more fervour than he has with anything, ever.

You can't make heads and tails of the situation you find yourself in. Dean Winchester begging for you back. Dean Winchester begging. It's a sight you never expected to behold, and it makes you more emotional than you'd thought it would; not that you have ever thought about how you'd react in this specific scenario (you have).

"You're it for me, Y/N. And, I know I said I would never settle down, but if it had to be anyone, it'd be you. You're my person. I can't move on, I just can't fucking do it, baby. Please. If you have a sliver of hope for us, stay. Don't leave with Matt, don't go back to your normal life, and come with me instead—" His voice wavers halfway through, eyes glassing over with desperation and love filled tears.

"I, God, I love you. I love you so fucking much." The tears building in his eyes fall, spilling down his freckled cheeks, his face gaining a pinkish hue.

Your heart pulses painfully within your chest, tightening in a way that makes you want to turn on your heels and run.

"Dean, stop," You want— need, him to stop. You can't bear to hear how much he wants you back, not now.

"Please, I could change. I could be better for you. I'll listen to you, I'll cut down on the drinking, I'll talk about my goddamn feelings if that's what it takes—" He chokes on his own words, finally letting his hands reach across the table and grasp yours firmly, squeezing them in the hopes of convincing you to stay.

Your eyes dart down to where your hands are enveloped by his, breath catching within your already sore throat. The roughness of his hardened palms paired with the warmth that seeps into your flesh simultaneously kills you and brings you back to life at the same time, traveling all the way through your body to fill up your lungs, soothes you in a way that you struggle against.

His voice falls flat, ending abruptly to stare into your eyes instead, hopeful; he knows he shouldn't be, asking you to uproot the entire life you've made since you left is idiotic, but he has to try.

"You know what I'm going to say." You murmur, eyes stinging as you tug your hands back, leaving his to lie pathetically alone against the table.

His draws his back, running a hand over his mouth to hide the way his bottom lip has begun to wobble with unshed tears, nodding slowly.

You straighten up where you're standing, inhaling deeply in a useless attempt to try and regulate yourself before the inevitable departure.

You lean over the table, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to Dean's cheek, one which he leans heavily into.

He yearns for your mouth on his, instead.

"Please." Dean tries one more pitiful, desperate time, his tone drenched in pleading and hurt, every breath he takes feeling more like he's drowning than breathing, his lungs filling up with the love you don't need anymore.

You don't respond, biting down into the soft gum of your inner cheek.

"Goodbye, Dean. Take care of yourself."

And just like that, you were gone. Out of Dean's vision before he could even process that you'd left, leaving nothing but two twenty dollar bills on the table to cover the drinks.

The remanent of your voice lingers in Dean's ears, a high-pitched ringing noise filling them after his mind catches up to the fact you've left.

In that moment, Dean's heart is ignored, and his brain is telling him to drink. Drink and drink until he's able to wipe the memory of your sweet voice and your warm grasp, until he can wipe anything that would remind him that he's capable of loving and being loved.

-

Yay! My first ever posted fanfiction!! :))