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xReader Headcanon: Making Up After the First Fight
Sam Winchester
Making up after a first fight with Sam would be quiet, careful, and full of guilt on both sides. He’d try to give you space at first because he’s scared of pushing too hard or making things worse. When he finally comes to you, his voice would be low and sincere, with no defensiveness left in it. He’d apologize for what he did, explain why he did it and finally listen without interrupting when you tell him how it hurt. The make-up would feel like a slow exhale with his hand finding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before pulling you to his chest and pressing a kiss to your hair.
Dean Winchester
Making up after a first fight with Dean would probably take a little longer, because Dean is stubborn and absolutely terrible at admitting when something scared him. He’d act fine at first, maybe get quieter than usual or throw himself into cleaning weapons, fixing the Impala, or pretending he’s not replaying every word. But eventually he’d show up with food, coffee, or some small offering that says I’m sorry before he can make himself say the actual words. His apology would be rough around the edges, maybe a little awkward, but honest underneath. Making up with him would be sitting shoulder to shoulder in silence, letting the tension drain out slowly until he finally looks over and says, “We good?” like it matters more than anything.
Castiel
Making up after a first fight with Castiel would be earnest and painfully honest. He’d take the argument seriously, probably too seriously, replaying every word and trying to understand exactly where things went wrong. When he comes to apologize, he wouldn’t hide behind pride or excuses. He’d simply tell you he regrets hurting you, that he is still learning how to handle human emotions, and that your feelings matter to him even when he doesn’t fully understand them right away. The make-up would be gentle and vulnerable, with Cas watching your face carefully, relieved when you reach for him and apologize for your part in the fight as well.
Jack Kline
Making up after a first fight with Jack would be tender and emotional because he’d be so worried that the fight meant he had ruined everything. He might avoid you for a while, not out of anger, but because he doesn’t know how to fix what happened. When he finally talks to you, he’d be honest in that painfully open way of his, admitting he didn’t understand what he did wrong at first but that he never wanted to hurt you. The make-up would be soft and reassuring, with you both explaining your feelings slowly, carefully, until Jack finally believes you aren’t leaving from one fight.
Gabriel
Making up after a first fight with Gabriel would start with jokes, because joking is easier for him than admitting he’s scared or that he made a mistake. He’d probably try to brush it off at first, make some dramatic comment, offer candy, or act like the fight didn’t bother him nearly as much as it did. But if you didn’t let him hide behind the performance, the act would eventually drop. His apology would be quieter than expected, maybe even a little raw, with none of the usual sparkle covering it up. The moment would end lighter, probably with a joke because it is still Gabriel, but the sincerity would stay.
Crowley
Making up after a first fight with Crowley would be complicated, tense, and full of pride getting in the way of honesty. He would absolutely pretend he wasn’t affected, making some sharp little remark like the whole thing was beneath him, but his lingering presence would give him away. Crowley’s apology wouldn’t come easily, and it probably wouldn’t sound like anyone else’s. It would be wrapped in sarcasm, half-deflection, and maybe one surprisingly honest sentence that lands harder than a full speech from him would have. Making up with him would need reading between the lines: understanding that his softened voice, his refusal to leave, and the way he looks at you when he thinks you won’t notice are all part of the apology too.
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jensen ackles commencement speech may 2026 - source
But having that partner; someone to rely on, someone who would rely on you, is sometimes the only thing that got us through. But when someone needs you like that, showing up for that person matters more than anything else.
It became yours slowly and in pieces. A jacket shoved into the back without complaint. A gas station coffee placed in the cupholder before you even climbed in. Your favourite candy appearing in the glove box beside old cassette tapes, fake IDs, and a knife that definitely did not belong there according to any normal person’s definition of storage.
Sam noticed before you did because of course he did because Sam notices everything.
“You know,” he said one morning outside a diner in Nebraska, “Dean made me sit in the back yesterday.”
You were leaning against the Impala, sipping coffee while the sunrise painted the empty highway gold. The air smelled like dust, bacon grease from the diner vents, and the sharp coolness of early morning before the heat arrived. Dean was inside paying the bill and probably flirting badly with the waitress for the sake of getting extra pie to go.
You glanced at Sam. “Your legs are too long. Maybe he was punishing you for being inconveniently tall.”
Sam gave you a look.
“What?”
“He said you get carsick in the back.”
You blinked. “I don’t.”
“I know.”
You took another sip of coffee to hide your expression while Sam flashed a smile, far too pleased with himself.
“Don’t start,” you said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re saying it with your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are neutral.”
“Your eyebrows are meddling.”
The diner door opened, saving you from whatever painfully observant thing Sam had been about to say. Dean came out with a white paper bag in one hand and keys in the other, his boots crunching over gravel. He had sunglasses on even though the sun had barely cleared the horizon, and his hair was still slightly flattened on one side from sleep.
“Ladies,” he said. “We rolling or what?”
Sam sighed. “Always charming.”
Dean tossed him the paper bag. “That’s your breakfast, Sasquatch. Gratitude would look good on you.”
You pushed off the car. “Did you get pie?”
Dean looked offended. “Do you even know me?”
“You got two pieces?”
“Three.”
“For the road?”
“For emotional support.”
You smiled and reached for the passenger door but Dean was already opening it.
You froze as did he.
It was a stupidly small thing. Ridiculous, really. Men opened doors. Friends opened doors. People opened doors when someone else’s hands were full, which yours weren’t. But Dean’s hand was on the handle and yours hovered near it, and for half a second you both stared at the space between you like it had turned into something dangerous.
Sam, blessedly and terribly, said nothing.
Dean cleared his throat. “Door sticks sometimes.”
“It does not.”
“It might.”
“It’s your car.”
“Exactly. I’d know.”
You fought a smile and climbed in, trying not to think about the way he waited until you were settled before closing it.
The road stretched out empty ahead of you.
Nebraska became Iowa. Iowa became Illinois. The hunt was three states away, a possible vengeful spirit haunting a restored theatre, and for once, nobody was bleeding, cursed, possessed, hexed, or wanted by local law enforcement. It was almost peaceful.
Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against his thigh to the beat of Led Zeppelin. Sam slept in the back seat, folded awkwardly against the window with his jacket shoved under his head. You had your boots braced against the floor, a motel map open on your lap even though the GPS was working fine for once.
The sun warmed your knees through the windshield.
Dean glanced over. “You’re quiet.”
“You say that like it’s suspicious.”
“With you? It is.”
“I’m enjoying the calm.”
He snorted. “Rookie mistake.”
You looked at him. “Did you just call me a rookie?”
“Emotionally, maybe.”
“That doesn’t even mean anything.”
“Sure it does.”
“You’re just saying words.”
“Good ones, though.”
You smiled despite yourself and looked back down at the map.
A few minutes passed then Dean reached over and turned the music down. That was what made you look up.
“What?” you asked.
He kept his eyes on the road. “Nothing.”
“You turned down Zeppelin. That’s not nothing. That’s practically a medical emergency.”
He breathed out a laugh. “Just thought you might wanna sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You were up half the night researching.”
“So was Sam.”
“Sam sleeps like a Victorian orphan dying of consumption. You sit there pretending you’re fine until you get mean.”
“I do not get mean.”
Dean glanced at you. You narrowed your eyes.
“There she is,” he said.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.
The truth was, you were tired. Exhausted, actually. The kind of tired that lived in the bones. Hunting did that. It took normal things and made them rare enough to feel luxurious. A warm shower. Clean sheets. Coffee that didn’t taste like burnt mud. A quiet car. A safe place to sit. The passenger seat had started to feel like that.
Safe.
Maybe that was why it scared you.
You looked out the window as fields blurred by, green and gold beneath a wide blue sky. Your reflection stared faintly back from the glass, softer than you felt.
“Sam said you made him sit in the back,” you said.
Dean’s fingers tightened on the wheel for half a second.
“Sam says a lot of things.”
“He said you told him I get carsick.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Huh.”
You turned toward him. “Huh?”
“Guess I misremembered.”
“You don’t misremember anything about this car.”
Dean gave you a sideways glance. “You accusing me of something?”
“Maybe.”
“Careful. I might make you sit in the back.”
“You won’t.”
That hung between you.
Dean looked back at the road, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Pretty sure of yourself.”
“Pretty sure of you.”
His expression changed then.
Just a little. The teasing eased out of his face, leaving something quieter behind. He didn’t answer right away. The tires hummed against the asphalt. Sam shifted in the back, still asleep. The music played low enough now that it felt more like memory than sound.
Finally, Dean said, “Yeah, well.”
You waited.
He swallowed. “Seat suits you.”
Your heart did something foolish.
You looked away before he could see too much. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m writing it down.”
“I’ll deny everything.”
“Sam’s a witness.”
“Sam’s asleep.”
“He’s always half listening.”
From the back seat, Sam mumbled, “True.”
Dean startled. “Dude.”
You laughed so hard you had to press a hand over your mouth.
Sam didn’t open his eyes. “Also, the passenger seat is definitely hers.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“Just saying.”
Dean turned the music back up, muttering something about needing new friends.
And when you reached into the glove box later, looking for napkins, but finding your favourite candy tucked neatly beside the tapes, you didn’t mention it.
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Bobby: So let me get this straight. Dean touched the cursed thing, Sam read the cursed book, and Cas made eye contact with the cursed statue?
Dean: In our defense-
Bobby: There ain’t one.
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