You wake up thirsty in the middle of the night, Deanâs also up. Fluff ensues.
You woke up at one in the morning with a throat so dry it rivaled a desert.
After a long hunt the day before, you didnât take care of yourself at all, opting instead to change into pjs and flop into bed.
You slowly slipped off the squeaky fold-out and blearily navigated the messy motel room to the connecting bathroom, trying to keep quiet as to not wake Sam or Dean. After a few dixie cups full of water you tiptoed your way back only to run into someone. You stumbled back and looked up to see Dean.
âWhy are you up so early?â He questioned, voice rough with sleep.
âI got thirsty. Why are you up?â You retorted quietly and rubbed your eye.
âHad to piss.â
âSorry for the hold-up.â
âWhatever, go put a movie on. Iâll join in a sec.â
You nodded and the two of you went your separate ways.
The channels were severely lacking in the movie department so late at night, but you found a western that would knock you out quick and keep Dean occupied for a bit before passing out from exhaustion. While you waited for him the blankets and pillows were shuffled to make a nook to tuck in to. Dean returned and crawled into the fold-out beside you.
âThought you were gonna go back to your bed.â You mumbled.
âBetter view.â He murmured back as he shifted closer to you.
âSure.â
It most certainly was not a better vantage point, but you werenât gonna complain. His warmth was welcome in the cold room.
The thump of hooves and twang of barely comprehensive dialogue from the tv quickly melted your brain and pulled at your eyes. You were on the verge of dozing when Dean shifted again. He pulled you close, your back to his side and head on his bicep.
âDean, whyâd you move?â You whined and tried to get comfortable again.
â âm cold.â He mumbled.
âNo way, youâre literally scorching.â
âI am so shut up.â
âWhatever.â
âWhatever.â He mocked and turned to spoon you, wrapping his free arm around your stomach.
You rolled your eyes and melted into him. As much shit as you gave him, you rarely ever meant it. Especially when he wanted to initiate any sort of touch. Being a hunter was lonely, and both of you were touch starved, so it was a win-win situation when he did.
You eventually got to the point of dozing again, the movie and Deanâs breathing harmonizing into a gentle rumble that soothed your restlessness. When you reached that space of just barely hanging on to consciousness, you felt the press of warm lips against your shoulder and finally fell back asleep.
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Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind⊠waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now itâs ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everythingâor break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 2541
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You were late. Again. Half your brain was on the grocery list and the other half on the neighborâs house two doors down from yours, the one with the lights that flickered at three a.m. and the dog that wouldnât cross the gate anymore. You told yourself it was wiring maybe old pipes. Even if you knew better.
Tomorrow was Halloween. The hallway smelled like tempera paint and orange slices. Little ghosts cut from coffee filters dangled from the ceiling on clear thread.
You rubbed at the tired spot between your eyebrows and reached for the clipboard, already forming the apology youâd give for being late, again. A man leaned over the desk, saying something low to Ms. Rivera that made her laugh in a way she didnât for anyone else at pickup.
ââŠcould leave my numberâ, he was saying, tapping the pen against the margin instead of writing. âYou know, in case any of the kids mentioned noises across the street. Strange hours. Flickering lightsâ.
Ms. Rivera tucked a curl behind her ear. âRight. The neighborsâ. Her voice brightened, like youâd just walked into a commercial for toothpaste. âIâm sure itâs nothing, butâsure, why notâ.
You signed your name where it always went, thinking about canned pumpkin and whether you had enough sugar, about salt and doorways and windows that didnât latch right. You were in your list, your little ordinary raft, when the man at the desk gave a soft laugh, and something in your chest stuttered.
It took a second. Of course it did. Youâd trained yourself not to hear that sound. Still you glanced up. On reflex.
Deanâs gaze stayed on Ms. Rivera, the smile turned down just enough to look sincere. Your heart stopped anyway. That laugh, stupid, impossible, stitched into you like a scar you had learned to dress around. You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself a hundred men in a hundred bars had laughed like that. You told yourself anything that wasnât his name.
âMommy!â.
DelilahâLilahâcame at you like a small hurricane in light-up sneakers (the sweetest, clumsiest whirlwind there ever was), paper-plate craft flapping in one fist, a smudge of orange paint on her cheek. You bent without thinking, arms opening in the exact shape of her. The world righted itself around the weight of her. Play dates, park snack bags, cartoon theme songs at 6 a.m., all of it, your anchor.
âLook what I made!â, she declared, thrusting a construction-paper bat into your face. The googly eyes were crooked and perfect.
âItâs amazingâ, you said, and your voice steadied on the easy truth. âMuseum qualityâ.
Ms. Rivera cooed appropriately. âOh, that is museum quality, Lilah. I love her little fangsâ.
âHer name is Midnightâ, Lilah announced, still brandishing the bat like a parade flag.
A shift in the air told you heâd finally turned. You didnât look right away. You fixed the corner of the bat, smoothed your daughterâs hair, checked the time on the wall clock as if any of that mattered. Then you lifted your head.
He looked exactly like your memory and not at all like it. Older around the eyes, the jacket broken in deeper, the mouth still fighting not to soften. The sight of him didnât knock you back so much as tilt the floor, just enough that you had to plant your feet.
Deanâs gaze finally met yours. It held. He looked at you like he was trying to line up two transparencies, who youâd been and who you were now, and the longer he stared, the more the room thinned to the quiet between two heartbeats.
It went on long enough that you felt Lilahâs weight lean into your leg, her patience in short supply. âDo you like her?â, she piped up, tilting the paper plate so the batâs crooked smile faced him. âMy bat. Her name is Midnightâ.
The sound broke the spell. Deanâs eyes cut to her, then back to you, then to her again, like a pendulum that couldnât decide where true was. The movement was small, precise, the way heâd always measured rooms for exits. Only now the exit seemed to be you, and the door he couldnât quite bring himself to touch was a four-year-old with glue on her knuckles.
âSheâs⊠awesomeâ, he managed, voice softened down to something careful. âMidnightâs a tough name to live up toâ.
Lilahâs whole face lit. âShe can fly. But not inside. Mommy says nothingÂŽs around to fly insideâ.
âMommyâs smartâ, he said, and on that word his gaze snapped back to you, pinned there a breath too long before it slid to Lilah again. The green of her eyes caught the struggling light and threw it back at him. That was when he faltered. Not much. A stutter in breath, a shift in his jaw, a tighten-and-release of his fingers at his sides, but you felt it like a temperature drop. His eyes stayed on your daughter, then flicked to you, then back as if testing the same answer three times.
âHow old are you, kiddo?â, he asked, too quickly to be casual, the question pushed out on instinct, suspicion, hope - whatever ugly, holy mix lived in the space behind his ribs.
âFour", Lilah announced, very proud, holding up too many fingers and then fixing it with serious concentration. âFourâ.
The number seemed to echo. You heard it bounce off the cinderblock walls, off the paper ghosts and the cup of dull pencils; you felt it land in him like a stone dropped in deep water. He looked at you, sharp, then back to her, and you could see the math drawing itself across the back of his eyes. Counting backward. Counting forward. Counting all the places where he hadnât been.
âCâmon, baby, we need to goâ, you said, scooping Lilah onto your hip. It was to her, but it was for him. An end to a conversation he hadnât started yet and you werenât going to have in a hallway full of paper ghosts.
Ms. Riveraâs smile faltered as her gaze bounced from Deanâs eyes to Lilahâs and back again. You watched the recognition click into place behind her professional cheer. She pressed a folder toward you like a shield. âIâllâumâfinish the attendanceâ, she murmured, already retreating. âSee you both tomorrowâ. And then she disappeared, shoes squeaking a polite escape.
âWaitâ. Deanâs hand lifted, palm out, stopping short of your sleeve like heâd hit an invisible fence. âCan weââ.
âNot hereâ, you said, low. Lilahâs arm looped around your neck, her bat bumping your shoulder with each breath. âNot nowâ.
His jaw worked. Four years collapsed into the space between heartbeat and regret. âI didnâtââ. He shut his mouth, swallowed the excuse. âYouâre rightâ. A beat. âBut⊠can you give me a minute?â.
You angled past him toward the door. âYou had a yearâ, you said, even, for the sake of the kid whose ear was pressed to your collarbone. âThen you had fourâ.
He took it, the hit and the history. âYouâre angryâ.
âYou think?â. The edges of your voice were sanded for little ears, but the shape of the word was still sharp. âWeâre doneâ.
Lilah patted your cheek, oblivious diplomat. âMommy, can Midnight have sprinkles, too?â.
âMidnight can bathe in sprinklesâ, you said, and kissed her temple because it helped.
Dean shifted, blocking the door just enough that you had to look at him. He didnât touch you, or crowd. He just stood there with his questions bleeding through the seams.
He was always so much taller than you. The hallway lights caught on the slope of his shoulders, and you hated that your body remembered what it felt like to stand under his shadow.
âDeanâ. You made your voice calm and flat. âGet out of my wayâ.
His jaw clenched, green eyes flicking down at you like he was trying to peel back every layer youâd built since he left. âJust⊠a minute. Thatâs all Iâm askingâ.
âYou already long enoughâ, you snapped, low enough that Lilah wouldnât hear it as more than a hum in your chest.
He flinched but didnât move. âI justâlook, we could grab a coffee. Sit down. Talk like adultsâ. His voice dropped, softer, trying for gentler. âCatch upâ.
You laughed once, sharp and bitter. âCatch up? Like we lost touch after high school? You ghosted me, Dean. Vanished. And now you want coffee?â.
He swallowed, Adamâs apple bobbing like the words cost him. âI had reasonsâ.
âYeah? So did Iâ. You shifted Lilah higher on your hip. âMine wore diapersâ.
His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the girl nestled against you. Then they snapped back to your face, as if he wasnât allowed to stare too long, as if staring too long would break something he didnât know how to fix. Still, you the loop his gaze kept making: Lilahâs lashes, your mouth, Lilahâs hands, your eyes. Back and forth, like a man trying to solve a puzzle without touching the pieces.
âSheâs beautifulâ, he said, quiet, reverent. âSheâs⊠sheâs got your smileâ.
The lie hung there, soft and heavy. You didnât correct him. You didnât need to. His gaze gave him away, lingering on the green in her eyes, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way her curls bounced when she fidgeted. He didnât say the words, but the question was in every breath he took.
âShe likes loud carsâ, you said flatly, because if he wanted clues, youâd toss them like knives.
He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasnât quite a smile. âFiguresâ. He exhaled, almost shaky. âSo sheâsââ.
âDonât finish that sentenceâ.
His hands flexed at his sides, the fight in him trying to crawl out, but he held it down. âI just⊠I need to know ifââ. He caught himself, scrubbed a hand over his jaw. âIf youâre okay. If you both areâ.
You met his eyes, steady. âWe are. Without youâ.
The words landed, and he didnât even try to dodge them. He nodded once, slow, like he deserved every bit of it. Still, he didnât move.
âCoffeeâ, he said again, quieter, like maybe if he whispered it youâd hear something else in it. âJust half an hour. No excuses or vanishing. Just⊠me and you. Pleaseâ.
You stood there in the too-bright hallway with paper pumpkins rustling and Lilah humming against your shoulder, and you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him.
âGet out of my way, Deanâ, you said again, softer this time, but no less certain.
His throat worked. For a moment, you thought he might argue. Then, finally, he shifted sideways, giving you space. But his eyes followed you, asking all the things he couldnât say out loud, burning with a truth he was too much of a coward, or too much of a Winchester, to name.
And you walked past, Lilah in your arms, every step steady even though your chest was on fire.
Later, in the bathroom that smelled like bubble soap and wet towels, with steam fogging the mirror, you rolled your sleeves up, kneeling on the bathmat with one hand steady on Lilahâs back as she splashed and hummed, glue peeling off her little fingers in gummy strings.
âDonât eat itâ, you warned, pulling the sticky wad away before she could test her luck.
âI wasnât!â, she giggled, then immediately changed the subject, because thatâs what four-year-olds did. âMommy, did you see the black car? The loud one?â.
Your chest tightened. You reached for the shampoo bottle, forcing your voice into its calm, bedtime cadence. âYeah, I saw itâ.
âIt was shinyâ, she said dreamily, tilting her head back so you could lather her curls. âAnd so big. Not like ours. Ours is⊠ours is squeakyâ.
âOur car gets us where we need to goâ, you said, rinsing her hair with the plastic cup, watching the suds slide down her shoulders.
âBut the black one was likeâvroom!â. She made the noise with her whole body, water sloshing over the side of the tub. âCan we get one like that?â.
You swallowed hard, focusing on rinsing the last of the shampoo from her curls as she splashed and squealed about engines and vrooms.
âCan we get one?â, she asked again, stubborn in the way only Dean Winchesterâs child could be.
You wrapped the towel around her small, slippery body and lifted her out, settling her onto the bathmat. She giggled as you rubbed her hair dry, soap bubbles popping under your palms.
And all you could think about was the Impala. That night.
Rain pelting down hard enough to blur the motel sign across the lot. Cold air spilling in every time the passenger door opened and slammed shut. Samâs tall shadow moving inside, muttering something about giving you two five minutes, which had stretched into thirty.
You remembered the creak of leather under you, the way Dean had dragged you into his lap, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldnât believe you were real and alive after what youâd just faced. You remembered how the windows fogged faster than you could wipe them clear, how his mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your chest like he was starving.
And the way the world had gone quiet in that front seat, with the hunt behind you, the storm outside and his body warm and solid beneath yours. That night had left more than memory. It had left your little girl.
You cleared your throat, willing the memory back into its box, sealing it tight before it could leak out where she might see it on your face.
âSomeday, maybeâ, you murmured, kissing the top of her damp curls. It was easier than saying never, easier than explaining that the car she was dreaming about had already given her all it was ever going to give.
She giggled when you spread the towel wide, then squealed as you wrapped her up tight, tucking every corner in until she was nothing but a squirming little burrito with green eyes peeking out from the folds.
âMommy! Iâm stuck!â.
âThatâs the pointâ, you teased, securing the last corner. âNo escape for the burritoâ.
She wriggled delighted. âBurrito with sprinkles!â.
You laughed, the sound breaking something loose in your chest, and lifted her against your hip, towel trailing like a cape. She pressed her wet cheek against your neck, and for a moment, just a moment, the memories dulled, the Impala faded, the storm quieted.
This was what you had now: sprinkles, towels, bedtime stories. Not the growl of an engine in the night. Not the man who drove it.
Summary: A crying baby, rising pain and a tumor that wonât stop. MarkÂŽs running out of time and all thatâs left is love, heartbreak and a fragile bit of hope.
-requested-
Pairing: Mark x Reader
Warnings: Language, Angst
Word Count: 2350
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You had only been out of the shower for a minute when you heard Allyâs cries echo off the hallway walls. Mark was trying. God, you knew he was trying.
You wrapped your towel tighter around your sore, still-healing body and moved carefully down the hall. Everything in you ached. Not just from the birth, but from the way life had been piling on lately.
The door to the nursery was cracked open. You saw him hunched over in the glider, Ally cradled in one arm, bottle in the other. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. That vein near his temple, the one you dreaded, already pulsing hard.
âCâmon, baby girlâ, he muttered under his breath, his voice unded like sandpaper, âjust take itâfuckâtake the damn bottleâ. Ally wailed louder.
You could tell the pain had crept in. The tumor again. It always hit at the worst times. Heâd been hiding it better before the birth, always brushing off your worry with a gritted smile and a muttered âIâm fineâ. But not tonight. Tonight, he looked like he was about to break.
You moved toward them slow and quiet. He didnât notice at first, his hand was trembling as he tried to adjust the bottleâs angle, his other arm going rigid, muscles twitching from holding her too tight.
âMarkâ, you said softly.
He flinched like heâd been shot.
âIâve got herâ, you added, reaching out. Not just for Ally, but for him, too. For the part of him that never asked for help even when he was drowning.
âI got it!â, he snapped, louder than he meant to, maybe louder than he even realized.
The sharpness in his voice sliced through the room. Ally jerked in his arms, her tiny fists flailing, her face scrunching tighter as her cries rose into a desperate wail.
Your heart clenched. Not just at the sound, but at the look that crashed over Markâs face in the next breath. Regret. Instant and raw and so damn brutal.
âShitâ, he muttered, pulling her closer like he could somehow undo it. âI didnât meanâfuck, I didnât mean to scare herââ.
You stepped forward again, slower this time, gentler. âMark. Give her to meâ.
He looked up, and for a second, he didnât look like your husband. He looked like a man unraveling. Haunted, sleep-starved, battling something deeper than just pain. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, and that vein in his temple was beating like a war drum. He just stared at you, like maybe if he sat perfectly still, the whole thing would stop. The crying, the guilt and the pounding in his head.
But Ally kept screaming. And he cracked. âFuckâ, he hissed, slamming the bottle down onto the side table so hard the plastic bounced. His free hand gripped the arm of the chair like he needed something to anchor him, something to keep him from shattering into pieces.
You didnât flinch. Even though everything in you wanted to wrap your arms around him, you kept your voice steady. For Ally. For him. For yourself. âMark. Let me take herâ.
âShe wonât stopâ, he choked out. âIâI tried. Iâve been sitting here for twenty fucking minutes, and she just keepsââ. He didnât finish.
You moved in slowly, not to startle either of them. Her, fragile and red-faced; him, barely holding it together. You crouched in front of the glider, ignoring the ache in your legs, your ribs, the tight pull of healing scars across your abdomen.
âSheâs okayâ, you whispered, voice soft as breath. âYouâre okayâ.
Mark didnât respond. His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on Ally like she was a stranger heâd already failed.
You reached out carefully, easing her from his arms. She was stiff at first, fists balled, breath catching in sharp hiccups from how long sheâd been crying. But then her little body relaxed the second she settled against you, chest to chest, skin to skin. She knew your heartbeat. She knew your smell. She knew you were safety.
And just like that, she stopped. The only sound in the room was her ragged little breathing, settling slowly into something steady. You picked up the bottle heâd thrown down, checked it, then offered it to her gently. She latched without protest.
Mark stared, hands limp in his lap now. That haunted, hollow look in his eyes deepened.
You stood slowly, knees creaking under the weight of your healing body and your now-dozing daughter. Every muscle felt like it had aged ten years in the last two weeks, but you didnât complain. You couldnât. Not when he was sitting there looking like the floor might crack open and swallow him whole.
Ally stayed tucked against you, warm and small and soft. Still drinking, barely now, just enough to keep her close.
âIâll be right backâ, you said quietly, already moving toward the hallway. âKeep breathingâ.
Mark didnât answer, but you saw the slight nod. Barely there.
You made your way to the bathroom, flipping on the dim light with your elbow. The mirror reflected your own exhaustion right back at you. Sunken eyes, damp hair from the rushed shower, towel still bunched under your arm where you hadnât bothered to fix it. You looked like someone whoâd just walked off a battlefield. And maybe⊠you had.
You grabbed the pill bottle that sat behind the mirror, tucked in with a mess of other prescriptions, without needing to read the label. You knew the weight of it by heart now. Topiramate. One of the few things that didnât make him feel worse. Not better, not really. Just⊠a little less worse.
You opened it with one hand, Ally still nestled tight against you, and counted the tablets automatically. Eight left.
Heâd taken one this morning, you had watched him. But it hadnât touched the pain. Not this time.
It had been like this for almost three weeks now. The pain was getting worse. And faster. You knew the signs, his agitation, the tremors in his hands, the way he rubbed at his temple like he could dig the thing out of his skull.
Heâd chalked it up to stress. Sleepless nights. The crying. The worry. You werenât sure if that was the truth or just the version he needed to believe to keep going.
You walked back into the nursery, bottle tucked under your chin, pill clutched loosely in your fingers. Mark hadnât moved. His elbows were still on his knees, head hanging. He looked up when you re-entered, and the moment his eyes met yours, you saw the pain.
âSheâs asleepâ, you whispered. âAlmostâ.
He nodded once, slowly, like he was afraid to move too fast.
You handed him the pill. He hesitated. âBabeâ, you said gently. âDonât argueâ.
âI already took one todayâ.
âI know. This oneâs not about prevention. Itâs about not collapsing in front of your daughter againâ.
His lips twitched, not into a smile, but something like it. Bitter and aching. He took the pill, dry swallowing it in one practiced tilt of the head.
You moved back toward him, gently rocking Ally now. Her lips had fallen off the bottle, and she was curled into your chest like sheâd never leave.
Mark was staring at her again. âSheâs so fucking smallâ, he muttered, voice hoarse, like it physically hurt to speak. âAnd Iâm already fucking her upâ.
You stayed quiet. You knew he wasnât looking for comfort, not yet. He was bleeding, and sometimes you had to let the wound speak before you could start to clean it.
âI canât even feed my own daughterâ, he hissed, barely holding the tremor out of his voice. âShe screamed the whole time. She screamed because of meâ.
âShe screamed because sheâs a newbornâ, you said gently, bouncing Ally ever so slightly as her breathing deepened, her cheek warm against your chest. âShe screamed because the world is big and loud and her stomachâs the size of a grapeâ.
He shook his head, eyes narrowing, not at you, at himself. âNo. She screamed because I was holding her wrong. I couldnât get the angle. I couldnât get the bottle right. I couldnât stay calmâ.
You saw his spiral happening in real time. The slide into that dark, jagged place where he carved every failure into himself like penance.
âIâve interrogated cartel leaders with more control than I had five minutes agoâ, he said, spitting the words like poison. âAnd now Iâm just sitting here shaking like some goddamnââ.
âStopâ. He blinked.
Your voice wasnât loud, but it cut through. Ally stirred a little and you adjusted her automatically, patting her back with slow, practiced motions.
âShe doesnât need perfectâ, you said again. âShe doesnât need a soldier or a cop or someone who never messes up. She needs you. The you who stays even when itâs hard. The you who tried, even through the pain. Who showed up even when your head was splitting openâ.
He looked at you, and the glassiness in his eyes gave way to something worse, self-loathing. âYou looked scared when you walked inâ, he said quietly. âNot of the crying. Of meâ.
You swallowed hard. âI was scared for youâ.
âSame thingâ.
âNoâ, you said firmly this time. âItâs notâ. You shifted, carefully sitting down beside him again, holding Ally between you. You guided his hand to her tiny back. He resisted for a second, but you didnât let go. Slowly, hesitantly, he let his palm rest there. Her body rose and fell with each breath, soft and warm and alive. âYou didnât fail herâ, you said. âYouâre here. Even when youâre hurting, even when you think youâre screwing everything upâyouâre hereâ.
He swallowed hard, Adamâs apple bobbing like it hurt, and you watched his jaw clench again before he finally shook his head, frustrated.
You didnât push him. You just whispered, soft and steady, âGo lay down. I got thisâ.
He scoffed, bitter, wrecked, and low. âYeah? Got this?â. His voice cracked. âYouâre two weeks out from nearly dying giving birth and youâre still the one getting up at night. Youâre the one feeding her. Rocking her. Holding me togetherâ. He finally looked at you, and it was like looking at a man losing a fight with himself. âNot only am I failing her, Iâm failing you, tooâ.
You started to shake your head, but he kept going, chest rising and falling too fast.
âI see you limping around the house when you think Iâm not watching. Wincing when you sit down, pulling your shirt over the bandage too carefully like it doesnât feel like hell. And stillâstillâyouâre the one doing the most, because I canât fucking function. I canât be in this house without the walls spinning and my skull feeling like itâs gonna crack open. And youâŠâ. He laughed once, hollow. âYouâre the one telling me to go restâ.
You didnât speak at first. Just let the air between you cool, let his words settle. Because you knew how much it had cost him to say them out loud.
Markâs pain had always come in waves. That was how the doctors explained it. Pressure in his brain would build, settle, build again. Some days were fine. Some were even good, heâd make coffee, kiss you and make dumb jokes in that low voice that always softened your bones.
But not lately. For the last three weeks, it had barely let up. And it was wearing him down. Not just physically. All of him.
You reached out and took his hand again, lacing your fingers through his. He didnât resist. âMarkâ, you said softly, voice steady but full of everything you didnât want to cry about, âyouâre not failing meâ.
He opened his mouth, probably to argue.
âNoâ, you cut in gently. âListen to me. You think youâre failing because the painâs in control right now. But youâre here. You havenât left. You take every wave, every flare-up, every breakdown and you stay. Thatâs not failure. Thatâs the bravest damn thing Iâve ever seenâ.
He looked away, blinking fast, jaw twitching. âThen why do I feel like Iâm drowning?â.
âBecause you areâ, you whispered. âAnd I am too, sometimes. But thatâs why we take turns pulling each other up. Not because one of us is stronger. But because we donât let the other sinkâ.
Ally stirred again in your arms, just a small twitch, a sleepy sigh, but it broke the tension like a pin to a balloon. Mark looked at her, red-cheeked and milk-drunk, and for just a moment, the sharpness in his face softened.
âShe looks like you when sheâs asleepâ, he muttered.
You smiled, tired but real. âSheâs got your mouth. That little grumpy pout? All youâ.
He let out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. âGod help her, thenâ.
You squeezed his hand. âGo lay down. Just for a little while. Iâll wake you if I need youâ.
He looked at you, eyes tracing over the slope of your shoulders, the sag in your posture, the stubborn tenderness still etched across your face even with everything you were carrying.
âYou always say thatâ, he whispered.
âAnd I mean it. Every timeâ.
He hesitated, then nodded. Slow, reluctant, but a nod nonetheless. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of Allyâs head. Then to your shoulder. His lips lingered there a second longer than usual. âThank youâ, he murmured.
wordcount: 767
summary: despite having the dream life, Dean canât help but focus on the stubborn patch of skin on his stomachâ maybe thatâs what his wife is for, making âim forget all about it with gentle words of reassurance.
warnings: cursing, fem!reader, body image issues, kissing, angst if you squint, fluff, comfort.
Dean never once thought heâd actually get a chance to have a ânormalâ life, yet here he was, picket fence and all. The house was everything his freckled, chubby faced kid self dreamt about while napping in the back of Johnâs car. It was big enough to completely contrast every motel room heâs ever slept in, photos of his chosen family littering the halls, a cozy room his wife decorated (thank God he let you choose the colorâ red walls was not the move), wooden floors that echoed his kidâs footsteps running over them every morningâŠ
Life was finally good to himâ too goodâ he thinks to himself while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Jesus Christ when did all of that get there? His roughened hands grip at the soft fat that now covered what was once abs. He has a dad stomach, I mean he is a dad but still! Him?
Dean Winchester. World famous hunter. Michael 's vessel. Savior of the World. Him?
For Godâs sake how come he never noticed? Had you noticed? Well of course you didâ you lived with him, saw him everydayâ thereâs no way you didnât. Why hadnât you said anything? This version was nothing like the Ken doll Dean you met back in the day, heâs always been so used to relying on his looks, now he didnât even have that?
Unbeknownst to you, your husband was having a full blown crisis while youâre calmly putting the baby to sleepâ which was much easier now that your toddlers were nowhere in sight. It isnât until you step into the bedroom that you catch a glimpse of a very frowny Dean in front of the bathroom mirror.
âBaby?â Your soft voice snaps him out of his self-deprecating train of thought.
âSweetheart, why didnât yâ tell me I was getting allââ he gestures vaguely to his stomach, clearly displeased â âround.â
âAll round?â You echo with a gentle (slightly disbelieving) chuckle, stepping closer to him in the small bathroom to place a featherlight kiss on his shoulder, careful hands trailing down his back muscles.
âYeah,â Dean nods like it was the most obvious, wildest thing in the World âI look like a middle aged man.â
âHoney, you are a middle aged manâŠâ
The look that meets you in the mirror is nothing short of unamused. âYâknow what I mean.â
âI know, I knowâŠâ you press another soft kiss between his shoulder blades, arms snaking around his waist to grab at the âoh so offendingâ pouch of stomach. âGuess I never really stopped to think about it, whyâre ya so focused on it?â
Seeing your husbandâs shrug is what finally sends alerts ringing in your mind, could this man possibly think he wasnât attractive anymore?
âReally?â You coax him, all the patience and love you could despite wanting to slap him for ever thinking some bullshit like that.
âItâs just weird, yâknow?â Deanâs gravelly voice sounded doubtful for once. âAlways been this jacked, badass hunter nâ now Iâm just⊠thisâ once more he gestures to his body.
âHonestly?â You catch his attention by sliding around to stand between him and the mirror. âI prefer this version of Deanâ God, you shouldâve taken a picture of the face he makes. âDonât get me wrong, baby-faced Dean was amazing⊠but dad bod Dean is the man I made a life with.â
Despite your husbandâs stubbornness to maintain a grumpy, stubborn facadeâ you see the crinkles by his eyes that signaled his fond smile.
âThis, as you call itââ you continue, gesturing to his soft belly, â âwas what held me when the nerves of leaving The Life got to my head, when we welcomed all of our beautiful kids to this messed up World, when I go to bed every nightâŠâ Each word is punctuated by a soft rub of your thumb over his stubbled cheek. âSo yeah, I didnât mention anything cause I never cared about it, Dean. I care about seeing my smoking hot husband smile everyday in this quiet life we built together.â
He chuckles softly, a deep rumble bubbling from his ribs as his hands cradle the sides of your head. âYâknow⊠baby-faced Dean would call this a chick flick moment.â There it is, that stupid humor and that boyish grin you missedâ even if you roll your eyes at him right now.
âBut smoking hot husband Dean âpreciates it sweetheart.â He leans down to press a tender, all too familiar kiss to your lips, smiling against it.
âAnytime.â You chuckle softly, pressing another soft, fleeting peck to his lips.
might make a smut part 2 if y'all would like that...?
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Dean decides to treat his girl to a birthday she'll never forget, because hey, your only 40 once! (yes of course I did a Dean version đđ„° enjoy guys đ„° â€ïž)
You lie there for a second, confused⊠until you hear soft music drifting from the kitchen and the quiet clink of dishes.
A smile spreads across your face.
âDeanâŠâ you murmur.
You pull on one of his shirts and wander down the small motel hallway.
When you step into the small kitchenette area, you stop dead.
Standing at the stove is Dean Winchester, sleeves rolled up, completely focused as he flips pancakes in the pan like a pro.
Not a single burned edge in sight.
Thereâs a full spread already on the counter:
Bacon. Eggs. Fresh fruit. Coffee.
And what looks suspiciously like apple pie cooling by the window.
You lean against the doorway, watching him for a moment.
âOkay⊠now Iâm impressed.â
Dean glances over his shoulder.
That slow grin spreads across his face the second he sees you.
âWell, look who finally woke up.â
âHave you been up long?â
He shrugs casually.
âCouple hours.â
Your eyes widen.
âDean!â
âWhat?â he says defensively. âBirthday breakfast.â
âYou didnât have to do all this.â
He flips another pancake perfectly.
âYeah, I did.â
A few minutes later youâre sitting at the little table while Dean slides a plate in front of you.
Stack of pancakes.
Perfectly golden.
âYou made these?â you ask suspiciously.
He scoffs.
âWoman, Iâve been cooking since before you knew me.â
You take a bite.
Your eyes widen.
âOh my god.â
Dean leans back in his chair, smug.
âRight?â
âThese are amazing.â
âDamn right they are.â
After breakfast he pours you another cup of coffee and sits beside you instead of across from you.
Close enough that your knees bump.
Outside the motel window the morning sun is just coming up.
âYou doing okay with the whole forty thing?â he asks.
You shrug.
âI guess. Itâs weird.â
Dean studies you for a second.
Then he shakes his head.
âDonât get it.â
âGet what?â
âWhy people act like itâs a bad thing.â
He gestures toward you.
âYouâre tougher than most hunters I know. You make better pie than half the diners weâve stopped at. And you somehow put up with my crap.â
You laugh.
âThat last oneâs a full-time job.â
âExactly.â
His voice softens.
âSo yeah⊠forty suits you.â
Your cheeks warm.
A little later he grabs the keys and nods toward the door.
âCome on.â
âWhere are we going?â
Dean smirks.
âDrive.â
Of course.
Soon youâre cruising down the road in Baby, classic rock playing softly while the morning sun pours through the windows.
Dean drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed.
You glance over at him.
âBest breakfast Iâve had in years, by the way.â
He grins.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
âYou doubted me.â
âI had reason!â
He laughs.
âNext time Iâll make you my chili.â
âOh Iâve heard about that.â
âLegendary.â
By evening you end up parked by a quiet lake.
No hunt. No monsters. Just the two of you.
Dean pulls a cooler from the backseat.
Inside is dinner he packed earlier.
âDean⊠did you seriously cook twice today?â
He shrugs.
âBirthday rules.â
You sit together on the hood of the Impala, sharing food and watching the sun set over the water.
For once the world feels calm.
Dean nudges your shoulder.
âMake a wish yet?â
âI did this morning.â
âGood one?â
You smile.
âYeah.â
He studies your face for a moment.
Then he reaches over and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
âHappy birthday,â he says quietly.
You lean over and kiss him.
Dean hums happily against your lips.
When you pull back, heâs smiling that crooked Winchester smile.
âBest part of the day,â he says.
âOh yeah?â
âYeah.â
He bumps your shoulder again.
âBut wait until you try the pie later.â
You laugh.
âYouâre unbelievable.â
Dean just leans back against the Impala, satisfied.
âDamn right I am.â
Night settles quietly around the motel.
The hunt-free day has left the two of you relaxed in that rare way hunters almost never get to feel.
Youâre sitting on the edge of the bed while Dean finishes cleaning up the small kitchenette from the dinner he cooked earlier. You offered to help but he politely told you to sit your sweet ass down.Â
You watch him from across the room.
Sleeves still rolled up. Hair slightly messy. Humming along to the classic rock playing softly from his phone.
âYou know,â you say casually, âIâm starting to think youâve been hiding the whole âamazing cookâ thing from me.â
Dean glances over his shoulder.
âThat supposed to be a compliment?â
âIt is,â you say. âTonight was⊠pretty perfect.â
He dries his hands and leans against the counter, studying you for a second.
That familiar smirk slowly creeps across his face.
âWell,â he says, voice dropping just a little, âbirthdayâs not over yet.â
Your eyebrow lifts.
âOh?â
âYeah.â
He walks over, stopping right in front of you.
âStill got one more thing planned.â
âIs it more food?â
Dean laughs softly.
âTrust me,â he murmurs, âyouâre gonna like this one better.â
He reaches past you to turn the lamp down, leaving the room in that soft golden glow.
Your heart starts beating a little faster.
Dean notices.
Of course he does.
He always does.
âYou nervous?â he asks, amused.
âShould I be?â
âMaybe.â
He steps a little closer, resting his hands on either side of you on the bed.
Now youâre very aware of how close he is.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âIâve been thinking about something all day.â
âThat sounds dangerous.â
âYeah, probably.â
His eyes flick down to your lips.
âYou.â
Your breath catches slightly.
âMe?â
He nods slowly.
âForty years on this planet⊠and somehow you still manage to surprise me.â
âWith what?â
Deanâs hand comes up to gently tilt your chin toward him.
âWith how damn beautiful you are.â
Your cheeks warm instantly.
âDeanâŠâ
âWhat?â he grins. âBirthday means I get to say nice things.â
âOh is that the rule?â
âYep.â
Then he leans in and kisses you.
Slow.
Warm.
The kind of kiss that starts soft but deepens when neither of you pulls away.
When he finally does lean back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.
âHappy birthday,â he murmurs.
You smile.
âBest birthday Iâve had in a long time.â
âGood,â he says.
His hand slides into yours, squeezing gently.
âBecause you deserve good things.â
A beat passes.
Then that mischievous grin returns.
âAnd,â he adds casually, âI still have pie.â
Summary: It's Valentine's night, 1999, which means it's time for the annual party at the mines in this small Pennsylvania mining town. But this year will be unlike any other when terror erupts and he has one target in particular in mind...
Pairing: Tom Hanniger x reader
Word Count: 3,800ish
Warnings: language, all the usual horror movie things
A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! Please enjoy my very first Tom Hanniger fic! While this story does diverge from what happens in the movie, do not read without having seen the movie first as there as some plot spoilers within! (That means you @zepskies đ)
âCan I watch Halloween?â asked your little brother Terry. You sighed over the top of your book, the ten year old staring back with pleading eyes. âPlease?â
âAre you going to get nightmares?â He shook his head as you flicked your eyes back to the page. âNo way in hell, kid.â
âCome on! Mom and dad will never know.â
âYes they will because youâll have nightmares and demand to sleep in their room for the next month. Watch Pokemon or something,â you said.Â
âItâs eight on a Friday night,â he deadpanned back. âPokemon isnât on.â
âWell, weâre both disappointed with how our nights are going then,â you said absentmindedly, closing your eyes when you say him pout. âSorry. I had plans to go to a party was all.â
âWhy do teenagers have parties at night? Donât you guys get tired?â You smirked as he plopped down on the end of the couch.
âAsk me that in 9 years when youâre my age,â you chuckled, sitting up and tucking your book on the coffee table. âAlright. How about I let you watch something rated R but I pick. Deal?â
âIâm making popcorn!â He hopped up and ran over to the kitchen, your ears perking up at the sound of the house phone ringing. You got up and picked up the phone from the cradle.
âHel-â
âY/N, itâs mom.â Her voice was off, a frown immediately on your face. âWhere are you and Terry?â
âIn the house? What-â
âI want you to go next door to the Robsenâs right now. Right now. Donât ask questions.â
âMom-â
âDo what I tell you!â Your eyebrows were sky high when the call ended, less than a minute passing before you were grabbing Terry by the arm.Â
âWhat did mom want?â
âListen to me,â you said, his whole body stiffening at your tone. âPut on your sneakers and jacket. Now.â
He did as told, watching you slip into your own. You took his hand and jogged across the yard to the Robsenâs, the door already opening before you could ring the bell.
âGet inside kids,â said Mr. Robsen, a shotgun in his hand.Â
âTerry, go see if Mrs. Robsen has some cookies,â you said. He didnât buy it but he knew enough not to argue. Mr. Robsen sighed at you, shaking his head when you were alone. âWhat is happening?â
âYour mom is safe.â Your eyes went wide but he saw you about to start freaking out. âA miner was brought into the hospital, you know Harry Warden?â
âYeahâŠâ He wiped a hand over his mouth, pulling you into the quite dining room. âThe one in a coma after the accident. What-â
âHe killed the other survivors in the mine.â
âWhat the fuck?â He glared at your language but you shook your head. âWhat-â
âThe town is keeping it quiet but Y/N, he woke up and just killed a bunch of people at the hospital.â Your heart dropped, Mr. Robsen shushing you. âYour mom is safe. She and some other nurses barricaded themselves.â
âI um, I need to call my dad. HeâŠheâs on a work trip,â you said, trying to remember the name of the hotel.
âHoney, donât worry about that. But Harryâs lost it and thereâs no telling who heâs going to attack next. You and Terry need to stay here with us until itâs safe, okay?â
âYeahâŠyeah thatâs-â Your heart clenched. âTom.â
âTom? Tom Hanniger?â You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. âWhy-â
âBecause everyone thinks the accident was his fault. Iâm sure Harry thinks thatâŠI have to go. Thereâs a party in the mines tonight for Valentineâs like there always is. I have to-â Mr. Robsen grabbed your arm when you tried to leave but you shook your head. âIâm sorry.â
He grunted when you kicked him in the balls and ran out the front door, rushing across the yards and over to your dadâs truck. âY/N!â
You grabbed the keys from the visor flap and turned the ignition, already backing out by the time he was down his front steps. You gripped the wheel tight, swallowing thickly as you sped down the quite streets of your small town.Â
âDammit, dammit.â You floored it as much as the truck could take, cop cars passing you and not even bothering to stop you. You spun the wheel and in a few minutes, hit gravel, the truck fishtailing as you swung it around the path down to the mines. You nearly slammed head on into Axelâs truck as he rounded the bend, both of you braking hard.Â
âWhereâs Tom!â you shouted when you rolled down the window.Â
âItâs too late!â He yelled, the girls shrieking on the bench seat beside him. âHe had him cornered. You have to-â
âYou left him?â you snarled. Five seconds later, you nearly rolled the truck as you sped down to the mine entrance. There was no sign of Tom or Harry, only sounds of Pearl Jam playing faintly from a boom box nearby and overturned coolers. You parked, taking the pepper spray in the glove compartment out, tucking it in your back pocket.Â
Everything felt wrong when you exited the vehicle. There was a stench, something foul like death in the air. Carefully, you entered the bright mine, grabbing an old shovel laying near the old storage locker. You didnât make it more than three feet before you spotted blood and a body.
You jerked, gripping the shovel hard. Leave. You were about to make the biggest horror movie mistake you could. You needed to just get the fuck out of there.
A startled shout snapped you out of it. âHarry. H-Harry stop!â
You ran towards his voice, panic in your veins when you saw Tom on the ground, staring up helplessly at a figure in a mining outfit, bloody pickaxe in his hand.
âHey, Harry!â The figure turned, in a full mask, but he wasnât quick enough to stop you from bashing the end of the shovel against the side of his head. He stumbled backwards, dropping the pick as he fell. You brought the shovel down again on his body and once more, a pained shout escaping him. A bone snapped on the next hit and then he was screaming, gripping his leg. âYou tried to kill my mom, asshole! Tom didnât do jack shit to you, psycho!â
âY/N!â You panted over Harry, holding the shovel for dear life when you spotted two officers from the sheriffâs department rushing inside the mine. They took in the scene for a moment, adrenaline coursing through you. âY/NâŠput down the shovel.â
You ignored them, choosing to turn to Tom who looked equally horrified and in awe. You held out a hand, Tom shakily taking it, letting you pull him to his feet. He was covered in blood but you still had him lean on you, the officers taking Harry into custody while you walked out to the entrance with Tom. You ditched the shovel and walked him over to the side of the truck, holding him by the waist before you hugged him tightly.
âY-You savâŠsavdâŠâ He shivered, resting his chin on your shoulder. You shushed him, putting a hand on top of his head. âIsum..safvd.â
âYouâre in shock. Sâokay. Itâs okay,â you whispered, Tom holding you too hard, blood smearing your cheek. He kept gripping your jacket, fisting it tight in his large hands. More cars arrived, one of the older officers approaching the two of you.Â
âYou kids alright?âÂ
âIs the hospital open?â you asked. He pressed his lips together, chewing his bottom lip. âHeâs in shock and needs a doctor. Now.â
He shook his head and grumbled. âI would not take that boy anywhere public right now. Warden just killed twenty some odd people at the hospital all because of-â
You slapped the officer across the face. Hard. More than a few heads whipped around at you, Tom jerking behind your body.
âHe covered for his asshole father and this town is too far up Walter Hannigerâs ass to even realize that thereâs no way in hell a nineteen year old kid that drives the forklift would have been operating the oxygen lines. You want to blame someone for those minerâs deaths? Blame Walter. You want to blame someone for murdering half the town tonight? Blame that psycho in there. But donât you dare,â you got in the officers face, his feet stepping backwards, âDare, blame Thomas Hanniger. Now call the hospital, tell them weâre on our way, and make sure that the best damn psychologist that works there is waiting for us.â
You turned and took Tomâs hand, walking him over to the passenger side of the truck. You tucked him away inside, shedding your jacket to let him hold onto in the process.Â
âCall. Now,â you barked at the officer when you rounded the hood back to the drivers side. When you got in the truck, you rolled up the window, Tom sitting in the middle of the bench seat, clutching your jacket in his lap. You grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. âWeâre just going to make sure youâre okay and then youâre going to come over my house and stay the night, okay?â
âT-They left me behind.â He was speaking to himself more than you. You weren't sure what horrors heâd just lived through but you could imagine it was enough to give him a lifetime of trauma if the one body you had seen was enough to go off.Â
âYouâre okay,â you said softly, trying not to think of how your friends, his own girlfriend, had left him behind to die. âYouâre okay, Tom. Iâm right here.â
He nodded, holding your hand so hard it went it numb, all the way to the hospital.
âThings are a bit chaotic around here but I want to admit him for the night for a few hours at least to monitor. You made the right call to bring him here. I-â The doctor's pager went off for the millionth time again, the doctor cursing under this breath. âCan you stay with him until I can get back? Just keep him under the blanket, talk calmly. You saved his life so he sees you as a protector right now, even though he canât articulate that at the moment. I know Iâm asking a lot kid but-â
âBut you have plenty of people in this hospital to take care of. I understand.â You watched him go before sitting on the edge of Tomâs bed, the blanket draped over his legs. You rubbed his back, his head going between his knees. âSoooo would now be a bad time to drop that Iâve been crushing on you since I was thirteen?â
His head slowly raised, the fogginess gone from his eyes, confusion in itâs place. âYouâve had a crush on me for the past six years?â
âWhile you are quite abhorrent,â you teased, stroking his freshly cleaned cheek, âI do quite enjoy looking at your face and hearing the words that come out of it.â
âIâm sorry,â he said, sitting up more, shaking his head. âAre you the one in shock? You, Y/N Y/L/N, do not have a crush on me. You like Axel.â
âWho the hell told you that?â
âUh, Sarah?â You raised an eyebrow, his own raising. âMy Sarah? She told me in like middle school-â
âDude, I told her I liked you in middle school. Next thing I know, you two are a thing and Iâm watching my best friend with my other best friend for the better part of the next five years.â
âYou went to prom with Axel though.â You rolled your eyes. Was dating in your small town what you wanted to talk about right now? Not at all. Was it distracting Tom? Absolutely and youâd divulge all your darkest secrets if it meant he wasnât a shaky, incoherent mess again.
âThomas, you are so sweet you never saw what was in front of your face. Axel likes Sarah. She was my best friend so yeah, he would hang out with me sometimes. He is shit at sex by the way. I think he lasted six seconds my first time. Yeah, I was super eager to get with that real winner again.â
He cocked his head at you, biting his bottom lip to fight back a smile. âI always liked you but then Sarah happened andâŠshe told me I was like a brother to you.â
âI have a brother. What I feel towards you is not brotherly,â you said, Tom smiling faintly. âThe joys of school drama.â
âYeah, well. After tonight, I think I know who actually gives a shit about me and who doesnât.â You sighed, throwing your arm over his shoulders. âYou didnât leave Terry alone to come get me, did you?â
âDitched him at the neighbors.â He nodded, resting his head against your shoulder. âThis is probably the wrong thing to say at this moment but there is a high probability my mom kills me tonight for running at a spree killer with a shovel.â
âIâll save you. I owe you one.â He chuckled to himself. âOnly you would know the difference between a serial killer and spree killer.â
âWhat can I say? Iâve got a kid brother that I love to inflict sibling trauma on by telling him all about the horrors of the world,â you said, gulping when you saw your mom round a corner down the hallway. âOh boy. Prepare yourself.â
âTom, are you okay, sweetie?â she said, bypassing you and going straight in for hugging him from the other side of the bed. You blinked wildly, watching them embrace. She checked him over, finishing with her hands on his cheeks. âYour parents are out of town?â
âYes maâam,â he said quietly.
âWell, youâll stay with us until theyâre back,â she said, standing and giving you a look to kill. âY/N Y/M/N Y/L/N.â
âHi?â you squeaked out, her eye twitching. âI would like to remind you that Iâm nineteen and you canât ground me anymore.â
âI would like to remind you that you are a nineteen year old girl and when a psychopath is running around town, you do not go run towards him!âÂ
âIn her defense,â said Tom, raising his hand slowly, your mom sighing. âShe did save my lifeâŠand maybe othersâŠand she was pissed about you almost dying. Technically, she made sure Terry was safe before she went to help me so maybe we settle this at giving your traumatized daughter a hug and we forget the rest?â
âThat was so stupid of you,â she said, stepping around the bed and hugging you.Â
âDidnât you meet dad when he crashed his car and you pulled him out of a burning vehicle?â you teased.Â
âShut up,â she smiled back, breathing deeply. âGod, tell me you at least told him youâre in love with him after all that.â
You physically winced, Tom not even bothering to hide his smirk. âLove? You said it was a crush, Y/L/N.â
âWatch yourself, Hanniger,â you mumbled, your mom ruffling your hair. âWhy must you torture me so?â
âDeserved after the stunt you pulled. And ThomasâŠyou can do better than Sarah. You can probably do better than Y/N-â
âAnd Tom needs his rest now, thank you very much,â you said, pushing her away. âGo help people or whatever it is you do.â
âMhm. Just wait until your father hears about this.â You groaned, Tomâs arm wrapping around your waist as she went back to work.Â
âShe has a point. You shouldnât have come for me.â
âDonât you know youâre worth saving?â He stilled, eyes downcast to the end of the bed. âI didnât think, I justâŠI knew Harry blamed you and everyone knows about the Valentineâs day party at the mines. I just kicked Mr. Robsen in the nuts and went for it.â
âWhy arenât you scared?â His voice was barely above a whisper. You shook your head.
âIâm terrified. But you need me right now soâŠI went a little crazy to protect you. I know you have a girlfriend but that doesnât meanâŠâ You looked away, Tom tucking you into his side.
âSomething in me broke when they drove away without meâŠand then you showing up likeâŠlike Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor all rolled into one badassâŠyou fixed it. Iâd be so lost without you. Iâd be dead without you. And I have to confess something.â
âWhat-â He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. A simple, slow, gentle and sure kiss. A brief moment of light on a very dark night. He nuzzled your noses for a moment, breathing softly.
âIâve been in love with you for ages. But it felt wrong and tonightâŠtonight showed me the girl I was actually in love with was the one who would do what a town full of people wouldnât. You didnât just save my life. You told the truth. Everyone has hated me the past few weeks and I didnât do anything wrong,â his voice cracked. âMy dad told me to take the blame, that I wouldnât get in trouble, that the town would go under if people found out he cut the oxygen line to save money and didnât realize it would buildup the gas overtime and cause the explosion and I justâŠâ
âHeâs an awful man for putting that on you. But donât you worry. I will gladly tell every person in this town whoâs fault this really is.â
One Week Later
A knock came at the front door, your parents eyeing it wearily. Terry thankfully was still in the dark about what had transpired last week but you all knew it was only a matter of time. School re-opened next week and you were sure heâd be sleeping on your bedroom floor for the next several months.
You got up to answer, your dad scowling under his breath, right on your heels. He hadnât been as angry as you feared but he didnât exactly want you going out at night right now either.Â
He reached around you, pushing him behind himself as he opened the front door, your head ducking under his arm.
âHi, Mr. Y/L/N. Is uh, oh hey, Y/N.â Tom shifted awkwardly on the front step. âI uh, wanted to see if you wanted toâŠyou knowâŠgo out for dinner at the dinerâŠon a dateâŠwith me.â
âIâm a little old for you, Hanniger.â You slapped your dadâs chest, shoving your feet into a pair of boots. âDid I say you could go?â
âWho got you a new job with less travel and more money this morning as the new CEO of Hanniger Mining? Would it make you feel better if I brought my shovel?â you teased. You tried to step past him, feeling a finger curl under your shirt collar, tugging you back. âDad.â
âHome by ten.â You spun around, deadpanning him. He rolled his eyes. âYou got anyone else out there that might want you dead, Hanniger?â
âNot that I know of. Iâll just hide behind your daughter if any come up though,â said Tom with a smirk. Your dad returned it, patting your bottom.
âGo have fun. And call if youâre not coming home tonight, alright?â You snagged your purse from the hook and gave him a kiss on the cheek before you were outside with Tom, your dad sighing heavily. âBe safe!â
âIâll have her back by ten,â said Tom. Your elbowed him on the walkway down to his truck. âWhat?â
âNo, you will not have me back by ten.â He laughed, opening the door for you. âYou think Iâm not serious?â
âI think you just want in my pants,â he said with a hum, trying to slide across the hood of his truck and nearly falling in the process. You waited until he got behind the wheel, Tom holding up a finger. âYou saw nothing.â
âNo. Iâm so turned on. Do it again,â you deadpanned, his smile coming back, a sight youâd rarely seen the past week. You reached over and held his hand, Tom brushing the back of yours for a moment. âHow are you?â
âI think the therapy is helping,â he said quietly. âJustâŠdonât tell anyone? Iâm kinda embarrassed Iâm going every day.â
âI wonât. But I donât think you should hide it either. Needing help isnât a bad thing.â He smiled, the truck interior still for a moment. âYou good?â
âIf we go to the diner, odds are we run into people we know. I donât want drama on our first date.â
âWell, we can drive over to Little Rock where people donât know usâŠor we can go have our date here and Iâll happily talk shit about anyone that says anything. Donât you know? Youâre dating the town rebel now.â He laughed loudly, shaking his head as he pulled onto the road, heading for the center of town. âIâm a baddie. I slapped a cop.â
âIs the chief still calling you asking if youâd consider going to the academy so you can join the force?â
âEvery damn day. Told him I had bigger fish to fry.â
âYou work at the grocery store,â he laughed.Â
âYouâre unemployed. Iâm the bread-winner here,â you laughed. He brought your hand to his lips, nipping it lightly. âYou know I only recommended my dad temporarily take over because I think you should be CEO someday.â
âIf I never step foot in a mine again, it wonât be too soon. I trust your dad will right the ship but Iâm never working there again. Iâll be your trophy husband if you want to go catch bad guys though.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, squeezing his hand when you glanced out the window. âPresumptious of you to think I want to marry you. I donât even know how good the sex is.â
âYou beat a killer half to death with a shovel for me. I think your affections towards me well known, Y/L/N,â he teased. âAnd the sex? WellâŠI know you so badly want in my pants-â
âDick.â
âYes, you are obsessed with that,â he laughed, earning a soft punch from you. âLetâs just sayâŠIâve only been with one other girl before and Iâm sure thereâs room for improvementâŠbut I hope youâll be the last girl Iâm ever with if that makes sense.â
âTom.â
âHm?â You scooted over, resting your head on his shoulder as he drove along.
âIâm really glad I saved your ass.â
âMe too. Me freakinâ too.â
A/N: What did you guys think? Did you like this spin on Tom and the events of what happened this time around? Would you ever want to see more Tom Hanniger in the future?
Summary: Twenty-four hours postpartum in the bunker, Deanâs all rough edges and shaking hands, trying to be gentle for you and Luna.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: None, I guess
Word Count: 4891
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You had never been more aware of your own bladder in your entire life as you shuffled down the bunker hallway in Deanâs, well no, technically your flannel. Everything between your hips felt⊠wrong. Stretched and sore, like youâd done a hundred squats and then lost a fistfight with gravity.
The bathroom light was way too bright when you flicked it on. You squinted at yourself in the mirror for half a second: hair in a tangled knot, faint pillow crease still on your cheek and skin pale except for the flush over your nose. You had one of Deanâs old t-shirts on under the flannel, stretched over the soft swell of your still-not-quite-flat stomach.
âSupermodelâ, you muttered to your reflection and dropped onto the toilet with a hissed, âOwâ.
Peeing after birth, they said. Magical experience.
While you handled that mess and tried not to overthink the fact that your body had literally pushed a person out less than twenty-four hours ago, you heard the sound. Faint at first, a soft whimper, then a sharper cry, echoing down the hall. Luna.
Your chest tightened. It was ridiculous how fast that little sound lit you up inside, nerves and something warm tangling together. You finished as quickly as your protesting muscles allowed, did the whole careful-wipe-try-not-to-curse routine, then washed your hands, fingers moving fast under the water. Her cries picked up, not frantic yet, but definitely unhappy. âIâm coming, kiddoâ, you said under your breath, drying your hands on a towel that had seen better days.
Lunaâs cries grew clearer as you turned into the hallway that led to your room. Well, your and Deanâs room. That was still new enough to feel like trying on someone elseâs clothes.
You pushed the door open with your shoulder. She lay in the middle of the big bed, in a little nest of blankets Dean had made, tucked into the dip where his body usually rested. One tiny pink face scrunched up, eyes squeezed shut, fists like knots by her ears as she yelled her opinion about being awake.
Your heart did that weird stutter-step it kept doing every time you looked at her. Like it couldnât quite believe she was real. âHey, heyâ, you murmured, crossing the room. âI was gone for two minutes. Drama queen already, huh?â.
You slid your hands carefully beneath her, mindful of her floppy head like the nurse had shown Dean five times until heâd snapped, âI got itâ and then proceeded to handle her like a bomb with a smiley face drawn on it.
Luna was so warm. That was the first thing you always noticed. Warm and impossibly small. Her cries dropped from siren to wounded kitten as you lifted her against your chest, her face smooshing against your shirt. âThere you areâ, you breathed, swaying a little without thinking. âDidnât like waking up alone, huh? Yeah. Me neitherâ. Her tiny fingers flexed against you, catching in the fabric. You could feel her breath, quick little puffs through her nose. There was that newborn smell clinging to her, milk and baby shampoo and something that just meant new.
âI swear I didnât leave her there alone crying. She was asleep when I went to get food. Iâm not neglectful, Iâm just⊠hungryâ.
You turned to find Dean standing in the doorway, balancing a plate in one hand and looking only slightly defensive.
âI left her for, like, three minutesâ, he said, voice pitched low, eyes darting from you to Luna and back. âI checked, like, twice. She was out. I swearâ.
âSheâs a Winchesterâ, you said, shifting Luna so her cheek pressed against your shoulder. âShe can sense when someone tries to eat without her present. Survival instinctâ.
Deanâs mouth twitched, but his shoulders dropped a little. âYeah, well, you missed out. I made you a sandwich. Heavy on the good stuff, light on theââ. He broke off, glancing down at the plate, then back up, as if remembering he was supposed to be chill about this. âSamâs healthy crap. The stuff he tries to sneak inâ.
âYou took it off, right? Because if thereâs kale in there, Iâm filing for full custodyâ.
He grinned, crooked and soft. âAll the kaleâs in Samâs sandwich. Yours is pure. Mightâve even put extra bacon on it. For⊠healthâ.
You made your way to the bed again, Lunaâs little body pressed against you, making snuffles that said she was mostly just mad about being alone. Dean set the plate on the nightstand, eyeing you like you might tip over. âNeed a hand?â, he asked quieter now.
You shook your head, shifting to sit on the edge of the mattress. âI got it. Unless youâre volunteering to handle thisâ, you said, nodding at Luna, who was now working up another cry, tiny mouth searching for something to latch onto.
Dean hovered with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. âI would, butâŠâ. He shrugged. âNot really equipped. You want the water?â.
You nodded, glancing at the glass heâd left by the bed. He passed it to you, careful not to jostle Luna. His fingers were so warm where they brushed yours. Just like LunaÂŽs body. âThanksâ, you said and tried to sound casual about it, like this was normal. Like this was always going to be normal. Dean Winchester bringing you water, making you sandwiches, being here.
Lunaâs face screwed up again, so you cradled her with one arm and awkwardly maneuvered your shirt with the other, grateful that the hospital had made you practice this about twenty times. She latched on quick, hungry and serious about it, like sheâd never eaten before in her life. Dean turned away a little, trying not to watch and failing.
You cleared your throat. âYou donât have to look away, you know. You were there for the birth. You saw, like, everythingâ.
He snorted, but you caught the faint pink creeping up his neck. âYeah, you almost broke my hand. Still got the marksâ. You smirked, holding Luna with one hand, the other massaging your wrist absently. âYou shouldâve thought of that before knocking me upâ.
Deanâs face went soft. He didnât say anything for a second, just looked at you and Luna, the sarcasm slipping away like it always did when he thought you werenât looking. For a guy who could walk into a room full of monsters and crack a joke, he sure struggled with emotions that didnât involve bravado. He cleared his throat, looking down at his feet. âYou know⊠I still canât believe it. That sheâs real. That youâre hereâ.
You smiled, because you felt the same⊠like the floor might drop out at any second. You and Dean. An actual relationship, not just a one-night thing that you both pretended didnât mean anything for months after. Luna, all cheeks and tiny fists, a day old and already bossing you both around. The bunker, never really home until now.
âSheâs got your attitudeâ, you said. âAnd your appetite. Congratulationsâ.
Dean looked up, grinning wide, eyes all crinkled at the corners. âYeah, but sheâs got your stubbornness. You try to put her down, she acts like itâs the end of the worldâ.
âShe learned from the bestâ, you shot back, but it was gentle, affectionate. Your chest felt too full, in that scary, good way.
Dean stayed perched by the bed, hands still buried deep in his pockets like he was afraid they might accidentally do something wrong if he let them loose. Lunaâs hungry noises filled the space. The silence stretched, full of things unsaid. Dean fidgeted, eyes flicking from your face to the baby, to the wall, to anywhere but the actual operation you were running on his bed.
You cocked an eyebrow at him. âYou know, for a guy who once stitched a knife wound in a moving car, youâre surprisingly squeamish around some boobsâ.
He let out a breathy laugh, glancing at you with a sheepish grin. âYeah, well, usually when boobs are out, itâs for a whole different reason, and thereâs a lot less crying involved. Usuallyâ.
You smirked. âWow. Real matureâ.
Dean shrugged, his lips twitching. âYouâre the one who picked me, sweetheart. You want mature, you shouldâve stuck with Samâ.
You snorted, trying to shift Luna to the other aching boob without completely flashing Dean. You failed. Spectacularly. Your shirt got caught halfway, Luna slid an inch, you overcorrected, and for a solid two seconds you were just⊠out there. Full National Geographic.
Dean choked on absolutely nothing. âJesusâ, he coughed, whipping his head toward the wall so fast you were surprised it didnât spin. âLittle warning, sweetheartâ.
You huffed, getting Luna latched on the other side with a wince. âRelax. Youâve seen them before. Extensivelyâ.
âYeah, when they werenât being used forââ, he gestured vaguely, still pointed firmly away from you ââbaby fuelâ.
You rolled your eyes. âSame hardware, different purpose. Calm down, Winchesterâ.
He risked a glance back, careful, like youâd explode if he looked straight on. His gaze flicked from your face to Luna, then very deliberately stayed above your collarbone.
Eventually, you shifted, wincing as you eased Luna off your breast. She made a sleepy noise of protest, mouth working on air, then slumped against you, milk-drunk and limp. You adjusted your shirt one-handed, the other arm wrapped around her little body, already moving to settle her higher on your shoulder when Deanâs hand shot out halfway, then paused in midair.
âI canâuhâ. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking from Luna to you and back. âI can take her. If you want. Yâknow. Burp her. Or⊠whatever the technical term isâ.
You blinked at him. He looked ridiculous and kind of adorable. Big, tough hunter suddenly nervous about asking to hold his own kid. And under that, something else, sharper: the way his shoulders squared a little with Sam standing there, like he wanted it very clear whose job this was now.
âTechnical term is âburp,â Einsteinâ, you said. âBut sure. Be my guestâ. You leaned forward carefully, passing Luna over. Deanâs hands were there instantly, bigger than they had any right to be, palms steady even if you could see the faint tremor in his fingers. He gathered her against his chest with a care youâd never seen him use on anything that wasnât a weapon or the Impala.
âOkayâ, he said, mostly to himself. âSo I just⊠pat her? Or is it more of a⊠tap thing?â.
Your mouth twitched. âDo you want me toââ.
âI got itâ, Dean cut in, a little too quick. His jaw clenched, shoulders squaring. âI can burp my own kid. I know how gravity worksâ.
You bit back a grin. âHeâs trying to impress youâ, you stage-whispered to Luna. âProve heâs not just a pretty face and questionable life choicesâ.
Dean ignored you, focused entirely on Luna. He started with the gentlest little tap on her back, like he was afraid she might crumble.
âDeanâ, you said. âSheâs not made of glass. You pat me harder when I steal your friesâ.
âSheâs tinyâ, he argued, eyes darting down. âIâm not gonna⊠I dunno. Knock something looseâ.
You watched his face soften as he found a rhythm. Firmer pats, slow rubs in between. His whole body swayed instinctively, that unconscious rock youâd already caught him doing every time she was in his arms. Luna scrunched her nose against his shoulder, hands twitching, then relaxed again. One of her feet kicked out, sock brushing his wrist.
âHey there, peanutâ, he murmured, voice dropping into that soft register he only used with her. âCâmon. Work with me here. Give Dad a little something. Donât make me look bad in front of your momâ. You huffed under your breath and Dean kept patting, just on the edge of anxious, mouth pressed into a line. âSheâs supposed to burp, right?â, he asked after a second, glancing at you. âThey said if she doesnât, Iâm not, like, killing her with air or something?â.
You smiled, the exhaustion sitting warm behind your eyes now instead of cold. âRelax. Sheâll get there. She just likes to keep you sweatingâ.
âYeah, that tracksâ, he muttered, looking back at her. âTakes after her momâ.
You smirked and just then Luna let out a tiny, surprisingly loud belch, right against Deanâs shoulder. Deanâs face lit up like someone had turned on a switch inside him. âDid you hear that?â, he demanded, looking like heâd just won a trophy. âYou hear that? That was meâ.
You laughed outright. âCongrats. You successfully helped a six-pound human expel gasâ.
Dean beamed anyway, absolutely unbothered. âFuck yeah I didâ. He turned his head, pressing his cheek very gently against the top of Lunaâs head. âThatâs my girl. Look at you, showing offâ.
You swallowed around the stupid lump in your throat. âCarefulâ, you said. âKeep talking like that and sheâs gonna expect applause every time she fartsâ.
âFine by meâ, Dean said. âIâll buy her a damn marching band if she wants oneâ. He kept grinning down at his daughter.
âHey, Dean?â, you murmured.
âYeah?â.
âYou look good like thatâ, you said. âYou know. All⊠dadâ.
He glanced at you, a slow, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth. âYeah?â.
âYeahâ, you said. âKinda hot, actuallyâ.
The grin turned wicked for half a second before he caught himself, eyes dropping pointedly to Luna. âCareful, sweetheart. Iâm holding the kidâ.
You laughed, tired and full and a little wrecked in the best way. âRelax. Overachiever. You already proved your pointâ. He huffed a soft laugh, then leaned down and, very carefully, pressed his lips to the top of Lunaâs head.
-
One week later, the bunker felt almost like a real home, or as close as it ever would. You could walk without wincing, the mesh underwear was gone and youâd started to believe you might survive this whole parenthood thing, especially with Dean at your side.
Dean had gone from nervous rookie to absolute baby whisperer in record time. He could change a diaper one-handed, soothe Luna with a song (badly off-key, but she didnât seem to mind), and heâd even figured out how to heat a bottle without setting off the fire alarm. You had no idea where heâd picked up half of it. Maybe it was all instinct, or maybe all those years of keeping Sam alive had finally paid off.
Tonight, the bunker was blessedly quiet. Sam was out running âerrandsâ. It was probably an excuse to give you and Dean space. Luna was finally asleep in her little bassinet next to the bed, bundled up like a glow worm, her tiny fist curled beside her cheek.
You lay on your side facing her for a long moment, just⊠watching. Her lips twitched in her sleep, like she was arguing with someone in a dream. It still blew your mind that she existed at all, let alone here, in this ridiculous underground library with two emotionally stunted hunters for parents.
The mattress dipped behind you, springs creaking softly. Deanâs familiar weight slid in, the faint smell of whiskey and whatever body wash heâd bought last time wafting over you. He pressed in close, chest to your back, arm snaking around your waist without hesitation, palm spreading over your stomach like it had every right to be there.
âYou staring at her again?â, he murmured against your nape, breath warm. âYou know sheâs not gonna do any tricks, right?â.
You smiled with your eyes still on Luna. âSheâs very busy being adorable. Itâs a full-time jobâ.
You felt his chuckle rumble against your spine. âYeah, well⊠guess she gets that from her dadâ.
You snorted. âBoldâ.
He hummed, then his lips brushed the side of your neck. Just a soft, testing touch. You went still for a heartbeat, then melted, your hand coming up to curl around his forearm where it banded across your middle.
âYou okay?â, he asked quietly, nose nudging behind your ear. âWe can just sleep. Or pretend to. I know youâre still⊠healing and all thatâ.
You rolled over slowly to face him, knees bumping under the blanket. His hair was still damp from the shower, sticking up in soft spikes, freckles dusting his nose in a way you tried not to stare at.
âIâm okayâ, you said. âAnd I donât want to sleep yetâ.
One corner of his mouth tugged up. âNo?â.
You shook your head. âNo. I want you to kiss me like Iâm your girlfriend, not just the chick whose name is on the birth certificate next to yoursâ.
Something flickered in his eyes. Hurt, guilt, determination all tangled together. He reached up, fingers brushing your cheekbone. âYou are my girlfriendâ, he said steady. âBeen trying to show you that for a week now without⊠pushingâ. His thumb skimmed your lower lip. âBut if youâre askingâŠâ.
You didnât get the rest, because he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasnât the frantic, half-desperate way heâd kissed you that night months ago, when everything between you had finally snapped. This was slower. Careful. Like he was taking his time proving youâd done the right thing picking him.
His mouth moved against yours, warm and sure, his hand sliding back into your hair, cradling your head. You sighed into him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging him closer until your chest was flush with his.
He shifted, bracing himself on his elbow so he didnât crush you, thumb stroking the curve of your jaw. Every time he pulled back, he only went far enough to breathe your air, to steal another look at you before dipping back in, kisses trailing softer, then deeper, then soft again.
You lost track of how long you spent like that. The only clock in the room was Lunaâs little huffing baby breaths and the way Deanâs thumb traced lazy circles against your cheek, over and over, like he had to remind himself you were really there.
Eventually, his hand slid down to your waist, fingers splayed wide and steady. He didnât press and didnât pull, he just held you as you let yourself sink into the safe, warm weight of him.
You nipped at his bottom lip, just to hear that little sound he always made in the back of his throat, and Dean smiled into your mouth, tugging you closer. His nose bumped yours. âCarefulâ, he murmured, his voice low and teasing. âKeep that up and Iâll forget all about taking it slowâ.
You grinned, catching your breath, your forehead pressed to his. âPromises, promisesâ.
He laughed, softer than youâd ever heard, eyes so open it made your chest ache. He brushed a strand of hair back from your face, taking his time. âYou really have no idea how crazy you make me, do you?â.
Your grin widened as you felt the solid press of him against your hip. Dean didnât pull away, didnât even try to hide it, just looked at you like he was seeing the best kind of trouble coming his way. You shifted just enough to make sure he knew you felt it too. His breath caught quiet but unmistakable.
âOh, I have some ideaâ, you murmured, the words coming out breathy.
His eyes darkened, that slow, hungry look youâd seen a hundred times in a hundred crappy motel rooms. But it was softer now. Less take what you can get before the world ends, more I canât believe I get to have this.
âYeah?â, he rasped. âWhat gave it away?â.
You shifted your leg deliberately, brushing your thigh along the length of him again. His jaw clenched, eyes fluttering half-shut.
âWild guessâ, you said, fighting a smug little smile. âYouâre kind of⊠obviousâ.
He huffed a shaky laugh. âNot my fault my girlfriendâs making out with me like Iâm not on strict doctor-ordered âhands off the goodsâ probationâ.
You snorted. âPretty sure the doctor didnât say no kissingâ.
âYeah, well, she also didnât see you in my bedâ, he muttered, thumb stroking your hip through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. âDifferent level of difficultyâ.
You slid your hand up under his shirt, palm flattening against his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under your touch. âBig bad Winchester canât handle a little PG-13 action?â.
He gave you a look. âSweetheart, thereâs nothing PG about the things Iâm thinking right nowâ.
Heat crawled up your neck, settling somewhere low and heavy. âYeah?â.
âYeahâ, he said, voice rough, forehead tipping against yours. âBut Iâm not gonna screw this up by rushing you. So Iâm gonna be a gentleman and just⊠sufferâ.
You grinned, heart twisting painfully around how earnest he was about it. âYour self-control is kinda hot, actuallyâ.
He barked out a quiet laugh and you just laughed with him, then tugged him back down by the collar, kissing him again. Deeper this time, a little messier, your tongue brushing his. His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you closer until there was no space between you at all.
You rolled your hips, just once, slow and unhurried, but there was no mistaking the way he sucked in a breath against your mouth.
âCarefulâ, he warned again, but it came out more like a plea than anything else.
âWhat?â, you whispered, lips ghosting over his. âThought you were being a gentlemanâ.
âI am. Iâm just not a saintâ.
His fingers slid up your side, stopping just under your ribs, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. He didnât go higher, didnât push his luck, just held you there, steady, like he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. He dipped his head, lips trailing slow, deliberate kisses along your jaw, then under your ear, one of those sweet spots that always made your breath catch. You closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into the careful press of his mouth, the steady anchor of his hand on your waist.
âGod, you smell goodâ, he mumbled, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. âMissed this. Missed youâ.
You smiled, tilting your head to give him more room. âYouâve had me all week, Winchesterâ.
âNot like thisâ. His voice was rough and so full of want it nearly undid you.
You slid your fingers through his hair, tugging him back up for another kiss, just as his hips pressed more firmly against you. Everything about him was warm and hungry and reverent, a careful balancing act between wanting you and wanting to do right by you. It made you ache in the best way. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw again, lingering there, breathing you in.
And that was when Luna let out a noise so loud and wet it sounded like someone had stepped on a ketchup packet.
Dean froze. You froze. Your lips were barely a breath apart, both of you blinking at each other as the sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by a small, satisfied grunt from the bassinet.
You tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. Laughter bubbled up and you pressed your fist to your mouth, eyes watering.
Deanâs eyes went wide. âNo wayâ, he whispered, completely scandalized. âThat did not just come out of herâ.
You shook with silent laughter, the whole bed trembling beneath you. Dean was still frozen, pressed against you, utterly aghast. He looked back and forth between you and the bassinet, mouth working soundlessly.
You wiped a tear from your cheek. âI mean, you have to respect the comedic timing. She gets it from youâ.
Dean let out a long, suffering groan and dropped his forehead to your collarbone. âUnbelievable". He pressed a quick, desperate kiss to your throat, then sighed, the heat of him now a little less insistent against your hip. You could feel the way his body shifted, arousal draining away as reality set in.
âThat was a perfectly good hard-on. Gone. Murdered in its primeâ, he muttered.
You grinned, sliding your hand down his back teasingly, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers. âDonât worry, Winchester. You make moreâ.
He huffed, mouth quirked, but still dramatically put-upon. âYeah, but that one was special. We were getting somewhere. I had momentum. There were plansâ.
You pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to his cheek. âYour staminaâs legendary. Besides, arenât you supposed to be good under pressure?â.
He shot you a look, incredulous but not unamused. âIâve hunted shapeshifters in a meat locker with a broken toe. I can handle pressure. But thatâŠâ. He jerked his chin toward the bassinet. âThatâs just cruelâ.
You bit your lip, eyes twinkling. âIf you hurry, maybe Iâll let you try again after you survive Diapergeddonâ.
He gave you the most tragic puppy-dog eyes he could muster. âYou promise?â.
You reached up, thumb tracing his lower lip. âPromise. But only if you donât pukeâ.
He groaned again, but this time he pushed himself up, grabbing a clean diaper and wipes from the nightstand. âYou know, I used to have a reputation, sweetheart. Now I get cockblocked by a six-pound poop machineâ.
You couldnât help it, you burst out laughing again, shaking your head as Dean stalked across the room with the air of a man heading for the gallows. He leaned over the bassinet, steeling himself, muttering a steady stream of complaints.
âOkay, Luna, letâs see what fresh hell youâve cooked up⊠Oh, Godâ. He gagged, actually gagged, while peeling back the diaper, making you laugh so hard your sides hurt. âHow is this even possible? This should be illegalâ.
You caught your breath long enough to call, âYouâre doing great, babe! Real heroâs work!â.
Dean shot you a look over his shoulder, eyes squinting. âYou just want to see if Iâll faintâ.
You grinned, propping yourself up on your elbows. âNot if you finish before round two, I donâtâ.
He shook his head, lips twitching, fighting a smile even as he gagged again. âUnbelievableâ, he grumbled, but you could hear the affection, the love, the utterly resigned joy of being right here, right now.
You watched Dean as he worked through the disaster Luna had so proudly delivered. He muttered curses under his breath, nothing too creative, just the kind of exasperated grumbling that said heâd lost to a worthy adversary. But his hands were gentle. He wiped her down, humming a nonsense tune, the same one heâd started singing to her during late-night diaper changes, part Zeppelin, part âTwinkle, Twinkle, Little Starâ.
Luna kicked, her tiny legs churning, face scrunching with the beginnings of a wail. Dean didnât even flinch, just leaned in closer, pressing his lips to her round, soft belly.
âHey, hey, none of thatâ, he soothed. âYouâre okay, kiddo. Just a little cleanup, then you can go back to dreaming about⊠whatever babies dream about. Milk, probably. Or new ways to sabotage meâ. She blinked up at him, lip quivering. He reached for her fist, wrapping his big fingers gently around it. âI know. Tough life, huh? Born into the weirdest family in North Americaâ.
He finished the diaper change, then scooped Luna up into his arms. She snuggled in against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, her little fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her close, swaying just slightly. You could see the way his body relaxed the moment she settled in.
âSee?â, he said, voice rumbling against her. âMuch better. You got me wrapped, you know that? Totally whipped, and youâre not even out of diapers yetâ. Luna blinked up at him, and Dean smiled, soft and small, just for her.
You saw something shift in him, something youâd always hoped heâd find. A sense of being enough, of being wanted, not for what he could do, but just for being himself.
He stroked her back, still swaying, his head bowed over her. âYou and your mom⊠best damn thing that ever happened to meâ, he said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret with her and no one else.
You watched from the bed, your heart aching in the gentlest, happiest way. Dean Winchester, holding his daughter like she was both treasure and miracle, humming off-key and whispering his love into the soft hair at her crown. No monsters, no darkness, just this. His world, in his arms.
Pure fluff! Dean being a absolute gentleman and not getting mad at you for stealing his last slice of pie on valentines day đ„°
I know it's been a while since I've written anything, just had a lot to deal with, but hopefully I can upload and finish most of my drafts soon âșïžâ€ïžđ«¶đ»
The bunker was too quiet for Valentineâs Day.
Not that anyone officially celebrated it down here â hunters and heart-shaped nonsense didnât exactly mix â but still, the silence felt heavier tonight. Like even the pipes were judging.
Y/N sat at the small table in the kitchen, wrapped in one of Samâs old flannels, phone face-down beside her, a fork in one hand and Deanâs very specifically labeled leftover pie in the other.
Apple. Cinnamon-heavy. Still perfect cold.
Her date was officially a no-show.
Two hours of waiting at a diner like an idiot, pretending to scroll, pretending not to notice the pity looks from the waitress. The apologetic free coffee hadnât helped. The drive back to the bunker had felt longer than any hunt.
Now it was just her⊠and the last slice of pie she absolutely knew she wasnât supposed to touch.
âIâm sorry,â she sniffed to the plate. âYou deserved better too.â
The bunker door clanked open in the distance.
Boots. Heavy. Familiar.
Dean.
Y/N froze mid-bite, eyes wide â then immediately took another bite because if she was getting caught, she was getting caught committed.
His footsteps echoed down the hall, slower than usual. No humming, no classic rock soundtrack, no swagger. Just tired leather and disappointment.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair a little mussed, expression set somewhere between annoyed and worn-out.
âBar was a bust,â he muttered to the room â then stopped.
His eyes went to the plate.
Then to the empty pie tin on the counter.
Then back to the plate.
ââŠThat my pie?â
Y/Nâs eyes filled instantly. Of course now the tears came back. Not at the diner. Not on the walk home. No â here. With contraband dessert in her hand.
âI got stood up,â she blurted, voice wobbling. âAnd it was the last slice and I know it had your name on it but everything is terrible and I didnât want to be alone and the pie didnât judge meââ
Her voice cracked completely and she tried to hide it with another bite.
Dean stared.
This was not the reaction heâd planned for.
Heâd imagined mild outrage. A lecture. Maybe a dramatic speech about bunker food law.
Instead â she looked wrecked. Cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying not to sob into flaky crust.
His irritation evaporated so fast it was almost embarrassing.
âHey,â he said softly.
That alone made her cry harder.
âOh come on,â he sighed, setting his jacket down and walking in. âDonât do that. Youâre gonna make me feel like a jerk and I didnât even say anything yet.â
âYou were thinking it loudly,â she sniffed.
âYeah, well, my brainâs a loud place.â
He pulled out the chair across from her and sat. Close enough to see the tear tracks. Close enough to smell the cinnamon.
âGuy stood you up?â
She nodded.
âIdiot.â
âHe said he âforgot,ââ she said, doing air quotes with the fork. âWho forgets a date?â
Dean huffed. âSomeone with the personality of a damp napkin.â
A broken laugh slipped out of her.
There it is, he thought. Worth it.
He reached across the table and, without asking, slid the plate a little closer to her.
âFinish it.â
Her eyes lifted. âItâs yours.â
âWas,â he corrected. âNow itâs medicinal pie.â
âThatâs not a thing.â
âToday it is.â
She hesitated. âYou sure?â
Dean leaned back. âI struck out tonight too. Figured Iâd find someone, didnât happen. Guess the universe decided weâre both losers.â
She gave him a look.
âOkay,â he amended, âyouâre a tragic romantic heroine and Iâm the loser.â
âBetter.â
She took another bite â slower this time.
Dean watched her for a moment, jaw working slightly. He hated that someone had made her cry. Hated it more than he should. It sat wrong in his chest, like unfinished business.
âYou know,â he said casually, âfor the record â if I had a date with you, I wouldnât forget.â
The fork paused halfway to her mouth.
He immediately pretended intense interest in a crack in the table.
âDeanâŠâ
He shrugged, too quick. âJust saying.â
âYou hate Valentineâs Day.â
âYeah.â
âYou think romance movies are âpsychological warfare.ââ
âAccurate.â
âAnd you call flowers âplant confetti.ââ
âStill accurate.â
She smiled through the last of her tears. âSo what exactly would this unforgettable date include?â
Dean thought for half a second.
âBurger run. Bad horror movie. You stealing my fries. Me pretending I donât like it.â
âThat does sound suspiciously specific.â
âHypothetical,â he said, pointing at her with mock seriousness. âLegal distinction.â
She laughed again â properly this time â and the sound hit him square in the ribs.
Worth the lost pie. Worth ten pies.
She finished the last bite and pushed the empty plate away, calmer now.
âThanks for not being mad.â
Dean stood, took the plate, and bumped her shoulder gently with his fist. âYou cry, you get pie immunity. Itâs in the rules.â
âHunter handbook?â
âPage one.â
She watched him rinse the plate, comfortable silence settling in.
âDean?â
âYeah?â
ââŠIâm glad you came back unsuccessful.â
He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. âWow. Harsh.â
She smiled softly. âYou know what I mean.â
Yeah. He did.
His answering smile was small, real, and just a little bit vulnerable.
âNext Valentineâs,â he said, turning off the tap, âwe skip the idiots and the bars.â
Summary: A lazy night in the Dean Cave leads to you entertaining Dean with what you think your Hallmark movie would be about.
Warnings/Tags: fluff, totally just friends...
Masterlist
This type of evening was your absolute favorite. Curled up in your spot on the couch in the Dean Cave with your soft blanket, Dean on the other side nursing a beer, your crochet project keeping your hands busy and a cheesy B-horror movie playing on the screen.
âSince when did you become a grandma?â He teases.
âAs long as Iâm a GILF, Iâm okay with it.â You shrug.
Dean chuckles softly as he takes a long drag from the bottle in his hand. His eyes now transfixed on you while your fingers work deftly, pulling and hooking the yarn into an intricate square design. Your face free of makeup, hair in a wild bun atop your head, and an oversized tee cut to let your shoulder peek through. It feels like the first time heâs noticed just how effortlessly beautiful you are.
Per the usual, your feet slip out of the blanket to tuck under his legs for warmth. He doesnât remember when you started doing that, only that heâs never stopped you and he waits for it now. He likes knowing you look to him for comfort.
âWhat?â
His reverie is broken by the sound of your voice, and he realizes youâve caught him staring. Heat flushes his face and his ears tinge pink.
âOh.. I was just thinking this looks like a real Hallmark movie moment.â As he gestures between you, causing you to chuckle. Your eyes light up with a hint of mischief as your eyes narrow at him.
Using your best sultry voiceover tone, you start in.
âYou, a hunter. Me, the owner of a pie shop you canât resist. As we begin to fall for each other over crumb toppings and fruit fillings, I beg you to hang up your colt and live out your days with me. But you canâtâŠâ You fling your head back on the couch and drape your arm over your face like a fainting damsel. âYour overwhelming sense of duty and love of the open road holding you back. What would Baby think?!?!â
Dean canât help the laughter leaving him as he watches your dramatic telling of your fake romance. He loves how animated and silly you get.
âUntil one day, you see another man in your seat in the bakery chatting me up. Eating a slice of pie that you knew in your heart should have been yours and yours alone. Later, you burst into my apartment over the bakery to find me crocheting my 100th blanket of the night.â
â100th?!â Dean asks incredulously.
âBaby blankets, obviously, for the babies at the hospital. Iâm a saint.â Dean snorts as you launch back into your story.
âYou give an impassioned speech about how mine is the only pie that will ever satisfy your hunger before you take me in your arms to dip me into a fiery kiss.â You close your eyes and hug yourself making a ridiculous kissy face and noises to match. Dean is nearly in tears at this point.
âNot long after, you trade sigils for screwdrivers and open a classic car repair shop next door to the bakery. Obviously, theyâre connected so I can walk over, barefoot and pregnant, to bring you a pie for lunch every day.â
âBarefoot, huh? Wouldnât that be some type of health code violation?â
âDonât bring logic into a Hallmark movie, De. It kills the magic.â You teasingly scold before returning to your project.
Dean turns back to the horror movie. But his thoughts linger on the image of you, barefoot and pregnant, bringing him pie. Heâs surprised at the warmth that blooms over his chest, unsure and unwilling to dwell on what that might mean.
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Summary: You offer Dean comfort after a rough hunt.
Warnings/Tags: comfort, dash of pining, undressing.
Masterlist
Your phone buzzes on the table, you pick it up to see a text from Sam:
Hunts over. Heads up, it was a rough one and Dean is taking it hard. He might need space when we get back. ETA 2 hours.
You were relieved the boys were alive and almost home but concerned about your friend beating himself up. If self-deprecation was an Olympic sport, heâd take the gold. No words seemed to bring him out of his spiral in those moments, so you decided to prep the bunker for maximum comfort.
Deanâs mini-fridge in his room stocked with his favorite beer. An emergency freezer ready-to-bake cherry pie thrown in the oven. Fresh towels set out in the bathroom. Lastly, you drove out to pickup dinner so itâd be ready when they arrived. By the time you heard Baby pull into the garage, the bunker was filled with the aroma of burgers and pie.
As soon as you laid eyes on Dean, your heart dropped. He had a swollen black eye, a deep cut on his forehead that disappeared into his hairline, and he was slightly favoring his right side. Without making eye contact, he offered a small nod before trudging off to his room. Sam followed in shortly after.
âWe got the monster, but not before it took another victim. Heâs blaming himself. Just donât take it personal if he shuts us out for a while.â
âThatâs awful, Sam. Iâm so sorry.â You took a moment to process, thinking of that poor family and what theyâre going through. âHow are you holding up?â
âAs well as I can. These types of hunts are always hard.â
âYou guys canât blame yourselves though, without you the monsters would still be out there hurting people.â
âI know, but it doesnât make it any easier, and thatâs not how Dean sees it.â You nod. âIâm going to take a shower, and probably just eat in my room if thatâs okay? Iâm beat and just want to crash.â
âAbsolutely. Go ahead, Iâll bring your food to your room.â
Sam steps forward and gives you a one armed hug. âThanks, y/n. Youâre the best.â
After dropping off Samâs food, you grab Deanâs and head towards his room. The door is closed, but the soft glow emanating from below into the hall suggests heâs still awake.
Your knuckles rap lightly twice on his door. âHey De, can I come in?â
A moment later the door cracks open and you see his retreating figure sink down onto the bed. âI brought you a burger and a slice of pie. Iâll leave it on the desk.â
You hear him mutter âthanksâ while his gaze remains on the floor, taking a slow sip of whiskey. Youâve never seen him look so battle-worn and defeated. His eyes are hollow, body tensed, and the exhaustion is seeping from his pores. You pick up the first aid kit from his desk and cautiously approach as if you might spook him, settling beside him on the bed.
âIâm fine.â
âPlease?â You whisper.
After a beat, a resigned nod is his only reply.
He barely winces when you gently dab the head wound with alcohol. It might need a stitch, but you opt for butterfly closures to keep the fuss to a minimum for his sake. Closing up the kit you look at him again and heâs frozen in place, consumed by his thoughts. You crouch back down in front of him and softly take one of his hands. âCome on, letâs get you cleaned up.â You gently pull and he follows you wordlessly to the bathroom, still warm with steam from Samâs earlier shower.
Dean stands in front of the stall, looking at you as if waiting on instructions. Hesitantly, you reach for his mud caked jacket and slowly start to pull it from his frame. It drops with a damp, heavy thud onto the floor. Moving on to unbuttoning his flannel, your heart rate starts to rise. Youâve seen glimpses of Dean in a towel after a shower before, but this is a first. Youâve never removed his clothes or touched his body like this. Itâs not sexual, but intimate in a way thatâs never been shared between you.
Dean isnât objecting, so you continue knowing he needs to get clean. Not just to remove the blood and grime, but to cleanse himself of this day. Once the flannel is gone and only his t-shirt remains on his torso, you bend down to unlace and remove his boots and socks. You find his eyes as you stand and your fingers reach for his belt buckle, silently asking permission to continue. He glances at you just long enough to offer another small nod, then his stare goes back to the floor. You gently work the leather through the buckle, and pull the belt from around his waist. The only sound besides both of your breathing being the soft clink as the metal meets tile.
You hope he doesnât register the tremble of your hands as you undo the button of his jeans, your knuckles inadvertently brushing the hot skin of his lower abdomen. The sound of his zipper cuts through the quiet of the bathroom and masks the deep breath you take to calm your nerves. You grab his jeans from the outside of his legs and gently pull them down for him to step out.
You meet his gaze again while grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt and giving a small tug. He raises his arms and allows you to pull it up over his head. Itâs then you register the smattering of purple bruises along his ribs. You do your best to keep your face neutral, not wanting Dean to start worrying about you when youâre trying to take care of him. When heâs left only in his black boxer briefs, you turn the shower on and get the temperature just right. âItâs ready.â
You go to pick up his dirty clothes to throw them into the wash, figuring you can get the boxers later when heâs finished. But before you can grab the clothes you feel his calloused hand wrap lightly around your wrist, his pleading eyes freezing you in place.
âStay. Please.â The deep timbre of his voice with how softly he says it causes an ache to bloom in your chest.
You whisper a small âokay,â not wanting to disrupt the tender bubble of the moment. Grabbing the hem of your tank top, you pull it over your head and bend down to remove your sweatpants and fuzzy socks, leaving you in your sports bra and panties. Holding Dean's hand, you guide him into the water, positioning him under the spray. Small streams thread down his face and body carrying blood and dirt to circle the drain. You grab the shampoo and start to gently massage his scalp, careful of the cut. His eyes close and his jaw relaxes as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Your arms raise up and around his shoulders to reach the hair on the back of his head. You try to not focus on the fact that your breasts are lightly pressed to his chest and your face just inches from his.
After rinsing his hair, you take his arms to switch places so you can wash his body. Starting at the top of his toned shoulders, you massage the suds in to release the tension there. Next you work your hands softly at his neck and jaw, his scruff rough under your fingertips. You use your thumbs to stroke his cheeks, nose and forehead. With his eyes closed, you take a moment to study the planes of his face. Dean Winchester is truly a stunning man, but what makes him so special to you is his beautiful soul. It breaks your heart that he gives so much of himself to others but doesnât deem himself worthy of the same compassion.
You then alternate between his arms, rubbing circles into his biceps with your palms and using your fingers to slide down his strong forearms and hands. The soothing smell of his warm and bright body wash fills your nostrils - notes of sandalwood and citrus wafting from the steam.
As you rub more soap between your palms you see that Dean is now looking at you. His expression soft, but broken. His hands come up to gently rest on your hips, his grip light but grounding. Your gaze shifts to his chest as you make wide circles over his pecs, under his arms, down his sides and over his abdomen, stopping where the v of his hips meets the waistband of his boxers.
You kneel down on the cold tile in front of him and begin to work the same circles down his thick upper legs where his boxers end, and down over his calves. Trying hard to think about anything but how close you are to his groin, only a thin layer of soaked fabric between your face and his manhood.
He offers you a hand to stand up, and you use that hand to place him facing forward under the spray while you start to massage the nape of his neck from behind. You canât help but appreciate his broad shoulders and the musculature of his back. His body built on years of hunting, his freckles and scars only adding to the beautiful tapestry that is Dean. Shaking off the intrusive thoughts, you apply more pressure to his shoulder muscles releasing deep knots of tension. Dean's head drops forward with an involuntary groan, and he brings his hands to the tile in front of him for balance.
Continuing your way down, you work on his shoulder blades, pressing your thumbs under and around the tight bands of muscle as best you can. The sound of a deep breath escapes Deans lips as you feel him melt under your touch. Your thumbs make small, tight circles in the arch of his lower back, ending again just above the waistband of his boxers. You canât help but notice how firm and perky his ass is before admonishing yourself for objectifying him right now. Your hands ghost over his hips before whispering, âIâll let you finish up and grab some towels.â Exiting the shower to dry yourself and give him privacy.
Keeping your back to the stall, you hear the water shut off as you hold a towel out behind you for him to take. When he steps beside you and you can see the towel is wrapped low around his waist, you take his wrist and guide him back to his room.
âPlease try to eat something before bed if you can,â giving his bicep a gentle squeeze before turning around to head towards your room.
âY/n.â
It was so quiet youâre not sure if he actually spoke. You turn to see his arm slightly raised towards you, his fingers reaching as if to touch you. You see the question in his eyes, knowing it wonât be spoken aloud.
âI just need to grab some clean clothes from my room-"
âCould borrow mine,â he adds quickly.
You offer a small smile and slip past him into his room. Dean passes a fresh pair of boxer briefs and a t-shirt to you, turning yourself around to dress and give him space to do the same. Removing your wet bra, you slide into the shirt that is soft with wear and carries his smell. The hem hits at your mid-thigh, so you slip off the wet panties before stepping into his underwear. Another deeply intimate boundary being crossed tonight but again trying not to think too hard about it. âYouâre comforting your good friend, it doesnât mean anything beyond thatâ you remind yourself.
The cold sheets bring a shiver and a wave of goosebumps. You prop up on an elbow and pull back his side before giving it a welcoming pat. While heâs still somber, youâre pleased to see his shoulders have dropped and the furrow between his brow is gone. He climbs in next to you making the mattress groan as it dips under his weight. He keeps a few inches between you, settling on his back and staring at the ceiling.
âThis wonât doâ you think to yourself before reaching for his far shoulder to turn him towards you and intertwine your legs. His arm wraps around your waist, flattening his palm to your back. The heat from his body draws you in, melting away the chill of the bed. You give him a comforting smile and brush your fingers along his temple, causing his eyes to close and a breath heâd been holding to release. Noticing a slight tremble to his body, you lean forward and press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead before tucking his head under your chin. âIâm here. Youâre not alone, Dean. Never alone.â
The air settles into a sense of calm, and you drift asleep to the sound of his breath and he to the sound of your heart.
Summary: You both were bid to obey: for king and country, heart or duty. A familiar story, and a cruel verse. In the turn of one season, you would be wed to serve your royal house, but not to the man who guarded your heart.
AN: Oh, I'm excited about this one! Requested by the lovely Liane - @chevroletdean - over on Patreon, this is of course a Royal AU. âïž đ It's loosely based on my love for The Princess Bride and The Lord of the Rings â and I rewatched both while I was writing this!
Series Tags & Warnings:Â (18+) Royal/Medieval AU, friends to lovers, protective Dean, arranged marriage, smut, fantasy elements
Canon characters featured: Sam and Dean, John and Mary, Castiel, Benny (as "Ben/Benjamin"), Alastair, Jack, Gabriel, and Bobby Singer (as "Father Robert")
âŹ.á Listen while you read:
áŻœ Classic: Lord of the Rings Ambience: âAragorn & Arwenâ
đČ Nostalgic: âStorybook Loveâ by Mark Knopfler (from The Princess Bride)
⥠Modern: âimagineâ by Ben Platt
Chapters:
áŻœ Part 1 - Omens in the Afternoon
áŻœ Part 2 - Shades of Weary Night
áŻœ Part 3 - A Sudden Dawn
áŻœ Epilogue - Resolutions in the Morning
⥠Series complete! âĄ
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Summary: Dean notices you havenât been eating and refuses to let you struggle alone.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: EATING DISORDER
Word Count: 2773
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Youâd been staring at the same line in the book for so long the black ink had started to blur into a gray smudge. Your stomach twisted in a small and hollow ache. You pressed your elbow tighter to your midsection and hunched over the table, pretending you were just really into the paragraph about cursed objects.
âYou planning on marrying that book or actually reading it?â. Deanâs voice floated in from the hall, warm and lazy with amusement. A second later, he walked into the library with two mugs of coffee in one hand and something wrapped in a napkin in the other.
You straightened automatically like youâd been caught doing something you shouldnât. âItâs very demandingâ, you said, tapping the open page. âTerrible communicatorâ.
He huffed a laugh before setting the mugs down. The smell of coffee drifted up. He nudged one toward you with two fingers, then set the napkin-wrapped thing near your elbow.
âMade you a sandwichâ, he said, casual, like it was nothing. âWell. âMadeâ is a strong word. Assembled. But itâs got at least three food groups, so Iâm calling it a winâ.
You glanced at the sandwich. Turkey, cheese and what looked like an enthusiastic amount of mustard on slightly squished bread. Your stomach clenched again, this time in a different way. The idea of chewing through it made your throat feel tight.
âIâm okayâ, you said quickly, pushing the sandwich back an inch. âHad something earlierâ.
Dean paused. It was small, barely a beat, but youâd started to get good at noticing those. Three weeks of dating a man whoâd built his entire personality on deflection and bravado meant learning to read the microscopic glitches in the performance.
âYeah?â, he asked while leaning a hip against the table. âWhatâd you have?â.
You forced a shrug. âUhâŠcouple crackers. And that granola bar. Iâm not that hungryâ.
His brows twitched just slightly. âSoâŠdustâ, he said. His tone stayed light, but his eyes didnât move from your face. âYouâve been picking at air all week, sweetheartâ.
You wrapped your hands around the coffee mug instead of replying. If you kept your eyes on it, you didnât have to meet his.
âItâs fineâ, you said, taking a sip you didnât really want. âIâm just notâwhatever. Iâm goodâ.
Dean watched you for another second, then sighed under his breath and rapped his knuckles twice on the table.
âEat at least half. Humor meâ, he said. âThen you can go back to your romance novel about cursed armor over thereâ.
You opened your mouth, already reaching for some excuse, some âlaterâ or âI willâ that would get you out of it. But your tongue felt heavy and the thought of dragging this out, of him looking at you like that, made you tired down to your bones.
âLaterâ, you muttered instead. âPromiseâ.
âMmâ. He didnât look convinced, but he didnât push. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the top of your head in a quick, soft kiss that still made heat crawl up your neck, because this was still new, still weird and unbelievable that Dean did that to you. âDonât make me break out the dad voiceâ.
âYou already have a dad voiceâ, you said, trying to slip back into banter. âItâs just mostly used on Samâ.
âNahâ. He straightened, smirking. âSamâs too tall for my dad voice now. Bounced right off him years agoâ.
You smiled for him, because you knew he wanted you to, and because it was easier than explaining the heavy, sluggish feeling sitting on your chest like a weight.
He squeezed your shoulder, then headed back out, muttering something about changing the oil in the Impala. The moment he disappeared down the hallway, the bunker felt wider, emptier. Your smile drained away. You stared at the sandwich.
Your brain did the math without your permission. Two snacks yesterday. Some chips and half a protein bar the day before. The weird, foggy float youâd been carrying around like an aura for days. You knew it wasnât great, knew what any rational person would say about it, but rational had beenâŠfar. Everything had felt far lately. Food. Sleep. The future. Yourself.
You nudged the sandwich a little farther away, just out of the reach. Then you bent over the book again and forced your eyes to track each line, one by one.
By the time the letters started swimming seriously, you told yourself you were just tired. Youâd been at it for hours; Sam had come and gone, checking on his laptop and muttering about some hunter three states over. Youâd nodded along, swallowed a couple sips of water when he encouraged you and pretended your head wasnât buzzing.
When you finally pushed back your chair, your legs felt hollow, like youâd borrowed them from a mannequin. âOkayâ, you mumbled to yourself, gathering the loose sheets youâd scribbled on. âYou can go getâŠsomething. Pretend to be a human for five minutesâ.
Standing up was a mistake. The world tilted, just a fraction, like the bunker had shifted on its foundation. You grabbed the edge of the table. The pages in your hand crinkled.
âWhoaâ. You tried to laugh under your breath. âOkay. Easyâ.
The laugh sounded wrong in your own ears, thin and distant. A high-pitched whine started somewhere behind your left temple and growing louder with each heartbeat. The library lights overhead flared too bright, halos around them expanding.
You took a step. Your foot didnât land where you expected it to. The floor seemed to move toward you instead of away.
âHey, you seenââ. His sentence cut off mid-word.
Your hand slipped off the table. The folder slid from your fingers in slow motion, papers fanning in the air. The room folded in on itself, dark creeping in at the edges of your vision.
âY/N?â.
His voice punched through the rising static, sharp and scared in a way youâd never heard from him, not when facing down monsters, not even when he was bleeding. Then nothing.
-
You came back to the feeling of big, calloused fingers tapping lightly at your cheek.
âCâmon. Câmon, sweetheart, open those pretty eyes for meâ.
The words filtered in like sound underwater. Something cool pressed against your forehead, and your nose filled with the smell of motor oil and coffee and the faintest trace of his soap.
You sucked in a breath and coughed. Your tongue was thick and your mouth dry. The bunker ceiling swam into focus above you, replaced a second later by Deanâs face as he leaned over you. Green eyes, wide and frantic. His mouth a tight line, jaw working.
âThere you areâ, he muttered, exhaling hard. âJesusâ.
You blinked. It took a second to realize you werenât on the library floor anymore. The mattress under your back was familiar. The bed in Deanâs room. There was a damp washcloth lying halfway down your neck.
âWhatâŠ?â. Your voice came out rough. âWhat happened?â.
Dean barked a disbelieving laugh. It didnât reach his eyes. âWhat happened is you scared the ever-loving crap outta me, thatâs whatâ. He sat back just enough that you could see he was perched on the edge of the bed, one knee angled toward you, one hand still wrapped around your wrist like he was afraid you might disappear. âYou passed out. Went down like a sack of bricksâ.
You remembered. Humiliation rushed in a half-second later, hot and prickling.
âOhâ. You swallowed. âSorry. Iâm fine now. Just got up too fastâ.
Deanâs grip on your wrist tightened. âYeah, thatâs not gonna flyâ, he said quietly.
You finally met his gaze. He lookedâŠdifferent. Not angry exactly, but there was a sharpness there, a seriousness under the usual sarcasm.
âHow long was Iâ?â.
âCouple minutes. Long enoughâ. His eyes flicked over your face like he was checking you for cracks. âYou hit the floor. Lucky I was right there or you wouldâve smacked your head on the table. Samâs still doing a sweep for your dignity in the libraryâ.
Despite everything, a breathless huff of amusement slipped out of you. He seized it, like he always did, using humor as a pressure valve.
âFunnyâ, you muttered.
âYeah, I got jokesâ. He paused. âGot some questions, tooâ.
You tried to sit up. The room didnât spin this time, but your head still felt floaty, like it was attached by a loose string. Dean was immediately there, sliding an arm behind your back, guiding you gently against the headboard. He adjusted the pillow behind you with careful movements.
âThereâ. He grabbed a cup filled with water from the nightstand and held it out.
You obeyed, mostly because your hands shook when you reached for the cup, and he noticed, covering your fingers with his without comment.
When you handed the cup back, Dean set it aside and turned fully toward you, his knee brushing your leg. âOkayâ, he said. âTalk to meâ.
âThereâs nothing toââ.
âDonâtâ. The word came out sharper than anything else heâd said, though his voice dropped immediately after. âDo not tell me âitâs nothingâ after I just watched you faceplant in the library like a cartoon characterâ.
You flinched. He noticed that, too. Some of the hardness slid out of his expression, leaving something more raw.
âHeyâ. He exhaled. âIâm not mad at you, alright? IâmâŠworried. Thereâs a differenceâ.
Your chest tightened. You looked down at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist.
âYou been eating?â, he asked.
There it was.
The instinct to lie rose immediately, quick and smooth. Just nod, say âyeahâ, make it about low blood sugar or sleep or anything else. The lie sat on your tongue.
Your silence answered him for you.
âThought soâ, he said, after a moment. He sat back a little, scrubbed a hand over his face. âIâve been watching you push food around your plate for a week. Iâm not blind, you knowâ.
âItâs notââ. You swallowed. The words felt like jagged glass. âItâs not like Iâm doing it on purposeâ.
âI knowâ. He turned his head toward you again. The edge was gone now, replaced by something quieter. âBut not meaning to doesnât make it less dangerousâ.
You let your head fall back against the headboard. âI justâŠhavenât been hungryâ, you said, finally. Your voice sounded small, even to you. âEverythingâs beenâŠheavy. And food feels like thisâŠbig thing. Like a job. So I justâŠdonât. And then itâs the end of the day, and I figure itâs too late anywayâ.
Dean stayed quiet for a while. Long enough that you started counting your breaths in the space between his silence, half-expecting him to get up and leave the room. Not out of cruelty, that wasnât him, but because this wasnât a language he was fluent in.
Heâd always known how to patch up bleeding wounds. Bandages, whiskey, a dirty rag tied around a bicep. He knew what to do when the monster was visible.
But this, what you were saying now, wasnât something you could kill with rock salt or bullets.
âOkayâ, he said finally. The word came out slow and careful. âI gotta be real honest with you, sweetheartâŠI donât totally get thatâ. You looked over at him. He didnât look away. âI mean, I hear you. I believe you. I justâŠâ. He blew out a breath. âIâve never had that. The not-eating thing. For me, foodâs always been the one constant, yâknow? World goes to hell, I still want a damn burger. I get sad? I eat. I get pissed? I eat. I kill a wendigo and nearly die in the woods? You better believe Iâm stopping for pie on the way homeâ.
You let out a tiny breath of a laugh, despite yourself. His mouth curved, just a little, at the sound.
âBut what youâre talkinâ aboutâ, he went on, âthat kind of heavyâŠwhere it gets so thick in your head that even something like makinâ a sandwich feels like climbing a mountain? Thatâs a whole different beast. I donât pretend to know how that feels. Not reallyâ.
He scratched the back of his neck, glancing away like the words were costing him more than he liked admitting.
âI mean, hellâ, he added. âHalf the time I deal with my own crap by punching a wall or bottling it up till it explodes in someoneâs face. So if youâre waitinâ on a well-adjusted dude with a psychology degree, uhâŠbad news, sweetheartâ.
âIâm notâ, you said quietly. âIâm not waiting on anythingâ.
He looked at you again. And this time, something softened in his eyes. Something unsure. Unsteady in a way that Dean Winchester didnât let most people see.
âI justâŠâ, he said, then stopped and ran a hand through his hair. âI donât wanna screw this upâ.
The words hit you in a different place. Deep and low. Because even after the weeks together, the late-night talks, the sleepy mornings, the way his hand always found yours under the table, you hadnât expected that.
He rubbed at his jaw, eyes locked on the far wall. âYouâre my girlâ, he said quieter now. âFirst one Iâve really had sinceââ. He cut himself off. Didnât say Lisa, because he didnât have to. âAnd thisâŠthis isnât a one-night thing. Not to me. So if youâre struggling, I wanna be the guy that knows how to help. That shows up the right way. But this? Watching youâŠnot eat, then hit the floor like that?â. He shook his head, his voice rougher. âI felt uselessâ.
You reached over, your fingers brushing lightly against his. He didnât move, just let you touch him.
âYou werenâtâ, you said. âYou arenât. You got me off the floor. You brought me here. You stayedâ.
âYeah, well. Where the hell else would I go?â.
He turned his hand over and curled his fingers between yours.
There was a long beat of silence. Not awkward. JustâŠfull. Tense in a way that meant something was still sitting between you, unsaid.
âYou donât have to fix itâ, you said. âI donât need you to be perfect. I justâŠneed you not to walk awayâ.
Dean shifted closer without letting go of your hand. His other arm slid behind you, pulling you gently into his side. You went willingly, tucking against him with your head beneath his chin.
âI can do thatâ, he said. âIâm not goinâ anywhereâ.
His heartbeat was steady under your cheek. You listened to it, let it ground you in a body that still felt like it didnât fully belong to you today. Deanâs arms tightened around you, protective but not too tight. Like he was holding you together without needing to squeeze the pieces back into place.
âYouâre not a burdenâ, he murmured. âAnd I donât need you to be alright every second. I just want you to let me in when it gets like this. Donât carry it aloneâ.
You didnât trust your voice, so you just nodded against his chest.
âTomorrow,â he said after a while, âweâll make a plan. Easy stuff. One real meal. Something small. Iâll make it, or Sam will, or hell, weâll door-dash a diner if that helps. Doesnât have to be pretty. Just has to happenâ.
âYou sure youâre up for all that?â, you murmured.
âYou kidding?â. His mouth brushed your hairline, voice soft and steady. âIâd move mountains for you. A sandwich is the easy partâ.
You stayed like that for a long while. You werenÂŽt fixed. And nothing was finished. But right now, you were okay.
Maybe not everything needed to be fixed right away. Maybe being held by someone who stayed, even when they didnât have the right words, was enough for now.
And DeanâŠhe just needed to be here. And he was. That was enough. For now.
âŠRead on a03! - Masterlist - Dean MasterlistâŠ
âŠsummary: Dean is known for never forming attachments. Never doing more than a night, never leading on, just loving and leaving. It's better like that. Safer. But for you, he can't stop himself from coming back every time.âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, kind of friends with benefits to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, fluff, love confessions, light smut, light jealousy, no use of y/nâŠ
âŠauthor's note: I've wanted to do a fic like this for such a long time please enjoy it thank youâŠ
You always open the door.Â
Deanâs told you not to. He has these stupid code-words and questions youâre supposed to askâriddles with strange answers like how do angels take their coffee, they donât they prefer liquor, and does the king of hell like Tuesdays, yes, unless itâs his motherâs birthdayâto make sure that itâs really him. Every time you open the door without asking them, he sighs and gives you a heavy look, refusing to cross the threshold until you play his little game.Â
âYou gotta ask-â
âBut I know itâs you-â
âCould not be me. Could be something wearing my face, sweetheart, weâve talked about this-â
âI know we have.â You cross your arms over your chest. âAnd I told you. I know itâs you.â
Dean makes a face, like he wants to smile. Heâs trying to fight it, to keep the upper hand in the argument, but he always caves. You smile at him, and hold a hand out.Â
âI could be a shifter.â He grunts, crossing his arms like he doesnât trust himself not to take your hand. âCould be possessed. You been keepinâ the holy water like I-â
You toss it on his face, and giggle the way he barely even flinches.Â
Dean wipes his face, eyes shining on yours, and you know youâve won.Â
Again.Â
For a game he insists you play, heâs quite bad at winning.Â
âAlright,â he smirks, slowly advancing through the door. âYouâre gonna get it.â
You back away, smiling widely the whole time, and squeal as he chases you into your tiny apartment. Thereâs not much space for you to runâthereâs barely enough space for Dean to fitâbut you make do. He kicks the door closed and you retreat into the cluttered living room. You try to jump over the couch, but he catches you around the waist and you both fall into the cushion. When you wiggle a little for the show of it, Dean groans and hold you tighter against his chest.Â
He noses at your neck, kissing the soft skin under your jaw, and you keep giggling.Â
His presence does that to you. Makes you feel airy and foolish, the thrill of the coming days already buzzing over your skin, the joy in his return making you dizzy.Â
Because youâre never sure heâs going to return.
Heâs told you that one day, he might not. That if that happens, youâre not allowed to look for him. If youâre lucky, heâll just be dead.Â
âThatâs lucky?â Youâd asked, and heâd chuckled.Â
Youâd been lying on his bare chest, his fingers mindlessly tracing your arm. You know about what he gets up to, when heâs not here. Know about the longer shadows in the world, know why the fifth time he was hereâwhen you both realized that maybe this wasnât the no-strings thing heâd claimed it had to beâhe spent the whole weekend quizzing you about monsters and installing security in your apartment. You have a strange circle on the ceiling of every room that your friends call an interesting decoration choice. Thereâs dead manâs blood in your freezer, holy water in a flask near the door, and an iron poker in your living room, no fireplace to pair with it.Â
And you ask questions. So many questions. Dean says youâre worse than his brother sometimes, and you just kiss his nose because if he really found you annoying, he wouldnât answer or bother to come back.Â
That night, youâd been asking about the worst thing heâd fought. Heâd paused, then said Godâs sister, and forbade you from asking follow-ups.Â
Youâd ignored him. He couldnât just say Godâs sister then keep talking like that wasnât fucking insane. It had only taken about two minutes to push him into saying the whole story. But when heâd finished, a long shadow had crossed his face. Heâd held you a little closer, and given you the order to not look. Youâd asked, because you always did.Â
And heâd entertained you, because he always does.Â
âWorse things than death, sweetheart.â
âLike what.âÂ
âYâknow. Things.â
Youâd given him a flat look. âDean.â
Heâd just smiled back, drawling your name, and youâd lowered yourself down over his face. Hovered an inch away, scanning over his smug, handsome face with narrowed eyes.Â
âIs there like, a Death two that youâre not telling me about?â
Heâd snorted, running his hand through your hair. âDeath two?â
Youâd nodded, and heâd smiled up at you fondly.
âNah. No death two.â
âThen what-â
âItâs- Nothinâ you wanna know about, baby, I promise-â
âHas it happened to you before?â
Dean had fallen silent. Heâd let out a heavy breath, scanning over your face, and youâd dropped your brow over his.Â
âPlease?â Youâd whispered, and back thenâalmost a year ago, nowâyou still hadnât understood why it was so important to know everything about him that you could.Â
Youâd both been playing another one of his games. The one where he reminds you that this means nothing, and you act like that doesnât split your soul in half. The one where Dean says that shit, then spends the whole weekend worshipping your body and treating it like it means everything, slowly stitching you back together. Then he leaves, and you promise him you wonât wait, and you both pretend to believe that you mean it.Â
You always wait. You always take everything he gives you. Collect every little fact and story and scar, and keep them in a special valve in your heart. A reserve, for the time that heâs gone. It acts as a fuel, keeping your love for him burning and alive, each little bit feeding into the others until youâre less spending the pieces like currency, and more adding water to the flow of a river. It sustains itself. It only grows and grows, sacred and gentle.Â
And youâre not sure if Dean feels the exact same. But he keeps coming back. He plays your games, letting you ask all your questions and collect your stories.Â
Dean had rubbed his mouth, looking at you like he couldnât believe what he was seeing, and caved.Â
âThere was this thing.â Heâd said slowly, watching you so cautiously as he spoke. âLittle while before we met. Whole shit with demons and Amara-â
âGodâs sister.â You jump in quickly, because you want him to know you pay attention.Â
Heâd smiled softly. âYeah. Her. Well, sheâd been shoved in a cage, and I was wearing the lock, and- It didnât do good things to me. It messes with your head, makes you⊠Angry. Angry and violent. Turned Lucifer into the devil, made Cain kill his brother, made me⊠Something.â Heâd swallowed, eyes dropping to your chest. âGot me killed. But it doesnât let you just die. It brings you back. Makes you a demon.â
âAnd⊠Did you-â
âYeah.âÂ
âOh.â
Heâd nodded, trying to smile, but it hadnât reached his eyes. Youâd climbed a little further over his body, and just hugged him tight.
The tension had eased from his chest, as he hugged you back. When youâd looked up, there was something shining on his face that you hadnât named as tears, but still wiped away gently.Â
Dean had caught your hand, giving you a desperate, almost pleading look.Â
 âYou gotta promise.â Heâd rasped. âIf I walk out and donât come back, you move on. âCause if that shit happens again, and you find me- It ainât me that youâd be finding, sweetheart.â
âOkay.â Youâd whispered. âPromise.â
It had soothed him. Heâd nodded, relaxed into the mattress, and pulled you down into a long kiss.Â
And there are some things you donât ask about. That you donât really want to know. The kind of thing the Mark turned him into, what hell was like, the specifics of those nightmares he gets, where he wakes up with his limbs flailing and a wild, almost inhuman glint in his eyes.
He doesnât seem to believe you, when you tell him that you like him how he is. He lets out that sad, huffing laugh and mutters you donât know me, baby, and you just roll your eyes, and remind him that you do.Â
You really do.Â
You know Dean so well, for a stranger whoâd been drowning in a bottle of whiskey at the bar downtown, and offered you the night of your life. Whoâd said one time, then showed up on your door a month later. Then two months after that. Then three weeks, then another three, the one month again.Â
Dean says he lies for a living. That itâs a big part of his job, and heâs pretty damn good at it.Â
So either heâs a lot worse at his job than heâs led you believe, or heâs just really bad at lying to you.
Because he reminds you that he might not come back, every single time he goes. Reminds you that thisâwaving a hand between your bodies, backing up a whole step like heâs trying to remind himselfâis still just fun. Thatâs it.Â
You nod, and let him do his little dance and show.Â
Then, like always, you end up like this. Tangled in his arms on the couch, his mouth tracing over your skin. Sucking small bruises where the last ones had faded. Slipping his hand under your shirt and rubbing, re-mapping your body, grinning whenever he traces a spot he knows is sensitive, proud of himself like he hasnât done this a million times before.Â
âMissed you,â he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth.Â
You twist, pressing your lips fully over his. He melts over you, cradling your face, wrapping an arm fully around your stomach. You smile against his mouth, opening when he swipes his tongue over your lips, humming happily as his hand splays possessively over your stomach.
âMissed you too.â You whisper back, and he makes a deep, almost purring sound from his chest.Â
You end up rolled over under him. He kisses you into the cushions, pulling off his flannel and almost ripping your shirt away, before letting his mouth wander down your body. You run your fingers through his hairâitâs gotten longer than you know he likes, youâll cut it laterâand moan as his mouth finds your nipple.Â
âDeanâŠâ
âMissed you so fuckinâ much.â He mutters to himself, squeezing your hips and using his knee to nudge your thighs apart. âMy pretty girl. Still fuckinâ wet for me, still fuckinâ perfect.â
You beam, and if you ask him about it later, heâll say itâs just dirty talk. Youâre not really his girl. Youâre just fun.Â
But youâre not stupid. You mostly keep playing this game because itâs Deanâs, and itâs important to him, and you love him.Â
That was the first thing he told you not to do. Thereâs a long, long list of orders youâve received from Deanâdonât open the door, donât look for me, donât pray to anyone but this specific angel, donât mess with the safety measuresâbut this was at the top of the list.Â
âDonât fall in love with me, sweetheart.â Heâd said that first night. It had been teasing. Youâd laughed, because he was just a handsome man at a bar. You werenât there because you were looking to fall in love either.Â
âIâll try.â Youâd said back, and heâd smiled.Â
You really had tried.Â
The joke had turned into a warning. One that he gave over and over, after that visit where he started monster-proofing your place. Youâd kept smiling, and telling him youâd try.
Every time heâd walked out the door, youâd reminded yourself that he might not come back. Every time he had come back, youâd repeated to yourself over and overâin the shower, sleeping next to him in ed, watching TV with his head in your lapâthat you canât fall in love with him.
He might never come back. Heâll never be able to love you back in a way that matters. Heâll never be able to give you a real life. Heâs almost twice your age, he sleeps with a gun, heâs legally dead and a former FBI most wanted member, heâs been dead and tangled with demons and you still have to sit on the floor for twenty minutes to convince yourself to talk to your insurance company.Â
Deanâs a hero.Â
The hero doesnât end up with the girl whoâs barely ever left her village.Â
So youâd really tried. For your sake, youâd tried.Â
But he does this thing.
He leaves himself everywhere in your life. Hickeys on your neck that take a week to fade, a flannel he forgot on your bedroom floor, socks in the bathroom and half-eaten pie in the fridge. You downloaded songs he likes on your phone, because you spent a whole afternoon trying to convince each other to like your music. He made you a paper airplane that sits on the highest place of honor, the top of your fridge.Â
Once, after a long weekend where heâd fucked you on every surface of your apartment then lay on the floor counting fake stars with you until two in the morning, heâd tried to draw you.Â
Heâd been drunk. Youâd been laughing and moving the whole time, and for a man with such a steady hand, heâs not the best artist.Â
Your nose had been too small. Your lips had been too wide, and your hair had looked like pasta and your eyes had been crossed and heâd forgotten to give you ears. Heâd groaned, and crumpled it up before crawling across the floor to lie in your lap.Â
âI donât think of you like that.â Heâd grumbled, nose grazing your inner thigh, and youâd laughed.
âI know, De.â
âYouâre prettier, guess I just canât draw.â
âNo. You really canât.â Youâd leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. âI liked it anyway.â
Heâd smiledâsmall, but for Dean that was practically beamingâand the tips of his ears had turned red as he hugged you tighter. A few drinks later, heâd passed out in your arms. Youâd tried to draw him. Sketched with the pencil and paper left of the coffee table, then given up because his beauty didnât seem willing to be captured in the paper.Â
So youâd taken a photo of him. Snorting below you, his cheeks smushed and mouth hanging open. Still unreasonably handsome.Â
In that single moment, all yours.Â
Youâd smiled to yourself, and fallen asleep just that. With Dean all around you, hidden from the world on the floor of your apartment. Heâd left in the morning. Youâd kissed him, and made that same promise not to wait for him to come back.
But it had hit you, after a week of taking out your phone every few hours, and staring at the photo until your eyes were blurred with tears.Â
You always wait for him to return. You miss him so horribly when he leaves, itâs like part of you goes with him, and youâre just praying heâll bring it back so you can feel alive again. So you can smile, and not worry about work politics or the asshole who lives down the hall and hits on you or friends who are always busy.
When Deanâs here, heâs the best thing in the world.Â
When heâs gone, heâs the best thing in the world, and the only thing youâre not allowed to have.Â
Youâre not allowed to have him when heâs here either, though.Â
When he kisses you, or makes you breakfast, or pretends to watch TV while just staring at you the whole time. Itâs a game you play alone.Â
Dean is yours, but youâre still not allowed to have him.Â
Itâs not a fair game. Youâre his, and he has you. You sit around waiting for him when he leaves, and pull him in every time he returns. Thereâs no amount of time that could pass, where you wouldnât keep waiting for Dean, and itâs a rotten, torturous game.Â
He did warn you not to play it. He told you there was no winning.Â
But you keep playing. As hard a game as it is to lose, itâs a more fun game to play.
Itâs easy to love Dean. So easy, you donât know why you faked playing his game in the first place. He stopped warning you not to fall in love with him a while ago, but he seems to have his own game, where he lies to himself about you one day moving on without him.
âI got anyone to be worried about?â He asks at night, his arm tossed over your body, pinning you to the mattress.Â
You hum, playing with his fingers. âNo.â
âNo? Not even the- Whatâs his name, Hank?â
âHank?â
âThe asshole from your book club-â
âHeâs not an asshole, De. Heâs a nice man, and you know his name is Frank.â
âHm.â Dean grunts, his hand closing over yours. âSo not even Frank, huh?â
You sigh, twisting to look at him in the dark. Taking a deep breath, and scanning over his far too neutral expression. You wish he wouldnât torture himself like this. You know itâs his game, but he doesnât have to play it. He could just let you love him, even if it meant you spend the rest of your life staring at the door.Â
But heâs committed. He gives you a tight smile, and squeezes your hand.
âIf heâs⊠Nice.â The words sound like they pain him. âAnd you like him. Yâknow, you deserve the world, sweetheart-â
âFrank doesnât have the world.â
Dean jaw twitches. âHe could have it,â he mutters. âIf he wants.â
His words are low. Low enough youâre pretty sure youâre not supposed to hear.Â
And you reach out, cradling Deanâs jaw in your hands. He slumps into you with a sigh, dragging you a little closer. Holding you against his chest, face pressing into your hair, voice strained.
âYou should. If you like him-â
âI do. Heâs nice.â You swallow, leaning back to hold Deanâs hooded gaze. âBut I like him Dean. Not like like. Heâs nice.â
Deanâs mouth twitches. âYou said that already.â
âI mean it.â
âUh huh.â He pauses. âIâm not nice.â
âYes, you are.â
He laughs dryly. âSweetheart, I got a grenade launcher in my trunk-â
âYou got two grenade launchers in your trunk.â You press your knee up between his legs, and he hisses, rutting up against your thigh.
âFuckinâ- Woman-â
You giggle as he rolls you fully on your back, pinning your arms to the bed and looking down at you with a shine in his eyes. You smile freely up at him, because itâs so easy. Dean said donât fall in love with me like it was a joke, but itâs the easiest thing youâve ever done in your life.
He crashes down, kissing you deep and fervently, until your laughter is replaced by soft moans, and your legs are spread in invitation on the bed. Dean pulls up, licking his lips, and stares at you with something close to awe.
You just keep smiling at him. It always seems to make him soften within a few moments.
And it does. Like clockwork, Dean shakes his head, sighs, and leans down to kiss you a little more gently.
âYouâre gonna kill me one day,â he murmurs against your lips, letting go of one hand so he can cradle your neck, and you drag your fingers over his chest with a hum.
âIâm not worried about it.â You whisper. âYouâd come back to me.â
He nods.
The tiniest nod. You donât think he even knows he does it. There, all the same.Â
And you know. Neither of you are going to win your games.
But youâre both still so bad at playing them.Â
âDo you like like me?â Dean asks an hour or so later, when your legs are shaking and little Dean is twitching against your thigh from being slightly overworkedâthough he never complains.Â
âDo I like like you?â
âUh- Yeah?â
You laugh. Force yourself to roll over, and crawl forwards to your rightful place on Deanâs chest.Â
âCâmon, itâs not that dumb a question-â
âIt is a little.â
âWell, if you donât like like Frank-â
âI donât sleep with Frank.â I donât wait for Frank like the Earth waiting to get back to the Sun. âI sleep with you.â
âEh.â He smirks, squeezing your ass. âNot a lotta sleepinâ going on- Shit-â
You squeeze his still softening dick, and he moans, rutting into your hand. You almost giggle again, but it falls into a gasp when he sits up suddenlyâkeeping you against his chest but flipping you around so your head drops on his shoulders and your ass pressed on his cockâand drags his hand between your thighs.Â
âYouâre good at helpinâ me win arguments, baby.â He drawls in your ear, and you whine.Â
âDean-â
âMouthy girl.â He drags his mouth over your throat, and you shake in his arms. âYou know what you do me, sweetheart. Not real fair to tease, when you know Iâm barely keeping up.â
You try to squirm, to get just a little bit of friction, and Dean lands a firm slap on your pussy. Your whole body jolts, nails sinking into his arm, and he chuckles.Â
âI know, I know.â Heâs cooing, taunting, and it only makes you ache for him more. âIâll give you anything you want, baby. Just gotta say please.â
You nod, and manage to babble out the words. You didnât know you were capable of having so many orgasms, until you met Dean. You know heâs the only one who can do this. Reduce you to a drooling, cockdrunk mess, and still have you crawling back on your knees for more.Â
It would be nice, if thatâs all he does to you.Â
But he also makes you feel wanted. Desired. Loved, even if he never says the word allowed. Even if the idea is all but forbidden.Â
But you still wait for him at the edge of the mattress, while he brushes his teeth. Shifting restlessly until he comes out of the bathroom, and smiles at you.Â
Dean crosses the room, and takes your face between his hands. Stares at you for a momentâalways fondly, always like heâs not sure youâre realâthen leans down to kiss you. Slow, like you have all the time in world.
Like he wonât be gone in the morning.
âI like like you.â You whisper, still a secret with no one else around to hear it.Â
Dean smiles. Squeezes his hold on the back of your neck.
âThank you, baby.â
You nod, curling your fingers on the fabric of his shirt. If you get him to take it off, youâll be able to hide it before he goes in the morning, and you can wear it until it stops smelling like him.Â
It might not even take tricking him. Heâd just let you have it, if you asked. You know he doesnât want to go either, but he has to. And heâs going to tell you again, not to wait for him. And youâre going to agree, and youâre both going to know itâs a lie.Â
Heâll walk out the door. Look back once, before forcing himself down the hall.Â
Youâll watch until heâs out of sight. Run to the window, to wave at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. Watch until the Impala is out of sight, too.Â
The world with get a little duller. A little more painful.Â
And then youâll count down every second, until you see him again.Â
Dean had been a goner the first time he saw Her.Â
He remembers the moment clearly. How the world had slowed and heâd been sure heâd just been drinking too much, because heâd seen a lot of beautiful women but this one set off a bomb in his brain, wiping out everything but just the sight of Her. He remembers how Sheâd come up to him, and started talking with this voice that mightâve been made of every good song in the world. How Sheâd talked damn circles around him, and how Sheâd been young enough he felt a little like a perv, but then Sheâd said her name and it became the only thing heâd ever have to know again.Â
Dean remembers thanking Sammy for getting annoyed at Dean mark-induced anger, and telling him to go out and do something safe and productive. Thanking the Mark, for agreeing in the moment that drinking was a good thing to do. Thanking the vamp nest that had settled on the edge of the town, for bringing him here in the first place.Â
Remembers how Sheâd smiled in the light of the bar, how heâd tried to buy her a drink and sheâd teased him about trying to get in Her pants, how they hadnât even fully made it to the car before heâd been rubbing over Her underwear, and had barely been on the road for five minutes before Sheâd been taking him in her mouth.Â
But mostly, Dean remembers waking up the next morning, and feeling something dangerous blooming in his chest.Â
Peace.
Heâd reached over the mattress, traced his thumb over Her cheek as she slept, and heâd felt like the world was more than just blood and loss and another day to get through that turned into a night to survive. The Mark hadnât been burning in his blood and demanding more, more, more. Heâd just been in this soft bed, with a pretty woman heâd spent the night giving good things to, watching the morning light shine over Her face.Â
Dean hadnât wanted to get up. He hadnât been able to make himself, because every time he shifted, Sheâd make this sad little sound and it echoed in his damn chest.
So heâd just stayed, until he could explain that he had to go. She was so perfect, She at least deserved to think he wasnât running out after taking advantage of her.Â
But then heâd looked Her in the eyes, and asked if she wanted to get breakfast. And Sheâd smiledâit had too quickly became the sun for him, the center of everything, what moved him and offered him every bit of lifeâand heâd been more than gone.Â
He and Sammy had cleared out the vamp nest. Sheâd gotten caught in the middle, Dean had gotten Her outâthe Mark roaring louder than usual, and Dean not bothering to resist it at allâand heâd cleaned Her up after. Stayed an extra day to make sure She was on her feet.Â
Not for any selfish reasons. Like wanting to cling to the strange peace for a little longer. Like taking advantage of Her clearly growing attachment to him, and letting himself indulge the sweetest thing heâd. ever found before he ripped it out of his hands.Â
Heâd explained everything, in the desperate hope that Sheâd help him leave. That Sheâd do what Cassie and Lisa had done, and told him they wanted nothing to do with that life.
But Sheâd just⊠Understood. Gotten all pouty and sad-eyed, when heâd dragged himself out the door. Smiled at him, and waved goodbye.Â
And Dean didnât count himself a good man. He had blood on his hands and a lot of wounds that didnât seem to bother to heal. Hell, back then heâd been bearing the damn Mark of Cain, been made of all his worse thoughts and urges. But heâd always thought heâd made up for it by not being a douchebag. Maybe he had a body count so large he lost track, and maybe he lied and tricked and fought dirty, but he respected food workers. He tipped. He never touched a lady unless She wanted it, and he never judgedâmost ofâthe shit he heard.Â
He also kept upfront about what he wanted. Heâd given Her the usual speech, before theyâd started stumbling out of the bar laughing like teenagers.
One night.Â
He could give Her everything she ever wanted, for one night.Â
Sheâd agreed. Heâd made his donât fall in love joke, but it had sounded flat to his ears.Â
Dean thinks he mightâve known, even then.Â
He certainly knows now.Â
âYou remember what you said to me?â He asked last time, sitting at Her feet while she did something with string and his favorite flannel that made it look new again. âThat first night?â
âWhat I said to you?â Sheâd frowned. âNo? Am I supposed to?â
âNah. Just wonderinâ.â Heâd turned his cheek, pressing it into Her knee.Â
She looked almost delicate, in this kind of light. Like a mist that was going to blow away with the wrong wind. A dream Dean might forget if he dared to wake up, a trick of the light that would vanish if he blinked. He couldâve been happy there for the rest of his damn life. At Her feet, watching her softer hands work, right where he could keep Her safe and adored for the rest of his sorry life.Â
Sheâd paused Her work on his flannel. Smiled down at him, running Her fingers through his hair. Dean had felt like a damn dog, and turned into the touch.Â
âWhat did I say?â Sheâd asked softly, and he shouldâve guessed She would. She likes to know everything.Â
He still doesnât understand, how She can know him and still open the door every time.
âWas it stupid?â She asked softly, and Dean had chuckled. She couldnât be stupid if She tried.Â
âNah.â
âWell, what-â
âYou told me I had big shoulders.â
Sheâd stared at him for a second. Does that thing he loves, where She sorta blinks and gapes and flushes, like just a few words from his dumb mouth are capable of short-circuiting Her quick brain.
Dean had leaned up and cupped Her jaw to close her mouth. Sheâd swatted his hands away with a scowl, and heâd laughed.
âFuck off, I did not say that-â
âSwear you did.â Heâd kissed the back of Her hand, because it makes him feel more like a gentleman than the ass who just shows up and crashes in Her bed. âYou just sat down and started objectifying me, was pretty freakinâ rude-â
âShut up.â Sheâd said with a smile. âYou love being my object.â
Dean had chuckled and pushed up into a kiss.Â
She had no damn idea.Â
And when She finally shoved him gently away, reminding Dean that She had to finish Her work on his flannel, heâd gone back to watching at Her feet. She stitched that thing up like it had never been worn in the first place. Even gotten those complex seams that used to make him declare a shirt as good as dead. Gave him new buttons, too. Like he deserved something so small and important.Â
Dean had wondered, as he watched Her. Wondered if he should start ripping up flannels, so he had a better excuse to come back. If maybe Sheâd like a life in the bunker, stitching flannels and talking to him forever, and if Sheâd ever forgive him for daring to think something so selfish.Â
Heâd wondered if She knew. That She stitches him up like that flannel, every time She let him back into her arms.Â
And if Dean were a stronger, worse man, heâd just let himself take Her. Sweep Her fully of her feet with the love confession heâs been rehearsing in the shower and on longer drives, for damn near two years. The one that goes I canât offer you money. Or a real house. Or healthcare, or children, or even really damn pets. I canât promise you Iâll come home, every time I walk out the house, and I canât promise there ainât always gonna be a target on your back just for holding my hand.Â
But I can promise Iâll protect you. And love you. And take care of you until someone shoots off my hands, cause even if they shoot off my head Iâm gonna figure out how to keep my body working to take care of you.Â
In his imagination, Sheâd make a face and whisper like a chicken?
And Dean would laugh, and smile at Her because he remembered how to, when She was around.Â
Yeah. A chicken, sweetheart. Iâll be your chicken. And Iâll damn try, all the time, to come back. Iâll try to give you everything you want that I got, and if I donât got it, Iâll figure out a way to make it.Â
Please.Â
His confession always ended with please, because even in Deanâs fantasies he canât work out a world where She says yes.Â
There are moments, where She looks at him for a long enough moment that the words work their way to his mouth. The sit on the tip of his tongue like a sour candy he needs to spit out. He almost says it, then chokes it back down.Â
There are a lot of moments, where he almost tells Her.Â
Sometimes itâs only nights like these, that stop him.Â
He had a nightmare again. Itâs a reoccurring one, now.Â
She gets hurt. It started more abstract, but itâs narrowed down to one, horrible scenario.Â
Dean wakes up in Her apartment, and sheâs gone. He calls Her name, tears the place up, tears the town up, and Sheâs still nowhere to be found.Â
Then he turns, and Sheâs there. And the world feels peaceful again. He runs towards Her, reaching to pull her back into his arms.
And She dies.Â
Dean touched Her, and she just⊠dies.Â
He woke up in a cold sweat, fighting the pillows and reaching for his gun. It took him a minute to realize it wasnât real. Another three to calm down, after he looked at Her side of the bed and realized she wasnât there.Â
Because he was in his room. At the bunker.Â
The place heâd worked so hard to keep Her away from.Â
But now heâs just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and holding the sheets on Her side of the bed. Trying to close his eyes, but itâs damn impossible when he does and just sees her lifeless body again.Â
He fumbles in the dark and grabs his wallet. Stares at Her drawing for an hour, then tries to lie back down again.Â
Sheâs fine. She has to be fine. Â
He closes his eyes by accident. Shoots right up, and makes for his pants and shoes.Â
âWhereâre you going?â Sam asks when Dean storms past him, barely looking up from his book.
âOut.â Dean grunts, because itâs not worth even trying to lie to Sam anymore.Â
Heâs not even that good at lying to himself.Â
Because he tries to protect Her from afar. He swears up and down that he wonât go back to Her, wonât keep stealing Her time and affection, wonât tempt himself with something he can never have. With a love heâs never going to be able to hold.Â
But he has to see Her. Now. Just to be sure that sheâs safe.Â
So Dean goes.Â
Itâs three in the morning, when you hear the knock. You wouldnât have gotten up to answer it, if you hadnât recognized it as Deanâs. He knocks the same way every time. Sometimes you mimic it on the table, to torture yourself with the idea of him being there.Â
And he pops up whenever he pops up. Youâve long stopped trying to track his appearances, but you know he doesnât show up on your doorstep at the start of the week, and he doesnât show up in the middle of the night.Â
Itâs a Tuesday. Itâs been Tuesday, for three hours.Â
You walk a little faster, rubbing your eyes and grabbing the baseball bat he insists you keep in the closet. If it is your Dean, he might be in danger. If itâs not, youâre about to bash someoneâs brains in and sprint for the hills.Â
The knock repeats, a little louder than last time. You hear him call your name through the door, and it certainly sounds like Dean. When you lean up to look through the peephole, it looks like Dean.Â
Heâs swaying in the hall, eyes glossy and a little bloodshot. Thereâs a strangely relaxed look on his face, and sighs heavily when you still donât open the door, stumbling forward to drop his brow against the wood.Â
âI know youâre in there.â He mumbles, hand reaching up to trace the door. âHeard you walkinâ around. If you got someone in there, I can just sit on the couch or somethinâ. Wonât even talk, just wanted toâŠâ
He sighs heavily, and your chest aches. Your fingers move to the knob, begging you to just remove the barrier between you, but somethingâs twisting in your gut. Youâve never seen him act like this. Never seen him look so tired and desperate, and that doesnât seem like a monster thing, but he had told you to be careful-Â
âI was thinkinâ about you.â He mumbles. âMissed you. Always missinâ you all the time, and- I dunno. Had a dream, itâs kinda fuckinâ stupid, but- Can you cough for me, baby? Need to hear that youâre alright, then Iâll go.â He looks up, almost staring at you through the peephole, and you swallow. Your hand closes around the doorknob, the opposite one slipping on the bat, and-Â
You wait a little too long to respond. Dean sighs heavily, taking a large step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The step alone takes a second for him to recover from, his whole body swaying from the motion. You let the bat fall from your hand, because you need both hands to reach for him, but-
âNever mind.â He says, shaking his head. ââm gonna go. Sleep well, baby. Love you.â
You almost kick the door off its hinges, his words like ice water being doused over your head.Â
Love.Â
He said he- He said-Â
Deanâs face splits into a wide, boyish grin the moment he sees you. He says your name, barreling forward, and pulls you into his arms. Heâs warm, holding onto you tight enough youâre being picked up off your feet. You hug him back, still dazed, the world moving too fast.Â
Love. He said love. He said-Â
He mumbles your name, pressing his face into your neck, and you brush your fingers through his hair lightly. Heâs still made of muscle and soft strength, but something about it feels delicate. Heâs not really saying anything, which isnât Dean at all. Heâs still swaying back and forth, and he smells like the same warm cologne and full, deep Dean smell heâs always had, but thereâs also-Â
Liquor. He smells like whiskey and beer.Â
Heâs drunk.Â
You sigh. The swaying and strangeness. For whatever reason, Deanâs just wasted, and he chose to come to you.Â
Itâs not something you can allow yourself to read into right now. That can happen in the morning, when heâs safe and sobered up, and you can try to read his reaction to waking up in your apartment. For now you just guide him backwards insideâyou try to pull away, but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighterâand slowly coax him out of his shoes and jacket.
âDid you drive here?â You ask softly as you work the jacket off his shoulders, and he nods.Â
âMhm. Youâre warm.â
You swallow. âThank you. Dean, baby, you shouldnât drive drunk-â
ââM not drunk-â
âYou really are-â
âOnly had like- Five drinks. Four.â He leans back, scrunching his face a little too adorably. âHow many are in the big pack thingys?â
âHow many⊠Beers?â
He shrugs, fingers reaching up to play with your hair. âUh huh. We can go count the bottles. I broke one when a freakinâ bird started shoutinâ at me, but the others. Got âem still.â
âYou- Dean.â You lean back, grabbing his face between your hands. He looks at you with a bright, hopeful adoration, and it only makes your chest ache more.Â
He says your name, leaning forward with a grinâa full, wide smile youâve never seen on his faceâand you take a deep breath.
âDid you drink them, then drive? Or drive, then-â
âI drank âem then drove.â He shrugs. ââM not that stupid. Not tryinâ to die before I can see you.â He leans down, pressing his brow against yours. âYouâre pretty.â
You flush. âThank you. I- I didnât think you were gonna, but- Shit-â He presses further over you, making you stumble back slightly.Â
Some of Deanâs usual instinct seems to kick in as you fall. He wraps his arm tightly around your back, and pulls you up before falling to the couch, forcing you to straddle his lap.Â
He grins up at you, still open and joyful, and sinks into the cushions so easily.Â
âI ainât drunk.â
You sigh. âDean-â
ââm not. Youâre pretty.â
âYouâve said that twice now.â
âDoesnât make it less true. Youâre so hot, itâs freakinâ crazy.â He drops his face into your chest, like itâs physically paining him to look at you. âYou donât get it, sweetheart. I havenât even been able to watch porn anymore âcause of you. âS not the same.â
You flush, opening and closing your mouth in a pointless attempt to try and find a way to respond to that.Â
There really isnât one. Not with the word love still ringing in your head like a church bell.Â
You settle for a soft. âOh.â
Dean just hums, and when you gently guide his head back, his eyes are heavy and a little dopey. Heâs still smiling at you, even as they droop. You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs happily.Â
âYouâre okay.â He murmurs, almost to himself. It cleaves your heart in half.
âYeah. Iâm okay.â You smile softly. âYouâre drunk.â
âNah-â
âYou had six beers, my love.â You let yourself call him that. If he said it, you can too, and he doesnât even really seem to notice at all.Â
He just makes another like face and shakes his head. âNo, I had the pack-â
âYeah.â Your smile grows. âThatâs six.â
âHm.â He pauses, clearly thinking a little too hard about this. âSix. Siiiix. Sex.â He grins at you. âWe should have sex-â
âNo.â You place a hand flat on his chest, giving him a stern look. âYouâre drunk, buddy. No sex.â
He pouts for a second, staring down at his shoes, then sighs. âFine.â
You giggle at his complete dejection, tracing your hands over the planes of his chest. His breath starts to pick up, fingers squeezing on your hips, and it might be rude to tease him like this but itâs so fun. Especially when he leans a little bit up like heâs going to try and take you, but then manages to pull himself back and flops down sadly into the cushions.
âCan we have sex in the morning please?â He asks hopefully, and you hum.Â
âWeâll see.â
That just makes him pout more. âWhy. If you donât wanna, just tell me and Iâll be super cool about it-â
âYouâre begging me right now,â you tease, and he makes a sour expression.Â
ââM not begging.â
âYou said please-â
âItâs beinâ polite. And,â he leans up, until his handsome, drunken face is only inches from yours. âI really wanna have sex with you.â
âI know.â You whisper, eyes wide on his.Â
And you shouldnât ask. You shouldnât. Heâs drunk, he doesnât know what heâs saying, he might not mean any of this at all.
But-
âWhy?â You say, so quiet you almost canât hear it yourself.Â
He frowns. âHuh?â
âWhy do you wanna have sex with me? We-â You swallow. âWeâve done it a lot before. In almost all the positions.â You smile weakly. âYou gotta be tired of me by now.â
Dean blinks at you. Like he doesnât even understand what youâre saying. âYeah, but⊠I love you.â
Thatâs what you wanted to hear. What you were fishing for.Â
It still knocks all the air out of your lungs when you hear it. In full, plainly like he canât fathom that there would ever be another answer, hanging in the silence of your living room as you just stare at Deanâs open face.Â
He said it. He said it. Youâre breathing too fast, your nails sinking into his shoulders like you can cling to the confession, like youâre trying to swallow it down before he can take it back.Â
But Dean just keeps blinking up at you, almost innocently adoring.
Heâs so drunk.Â
This isnât about you. Itâs about Dean. About forcing yourself to smile and kiss him gently, before standing up and guiding him into the shower. Checking him for injuries before getting him changed. Brushing his teeth then herding him into bed.Â
Some foolish part of you thought youâd be able to go turn off the living room light while he waited. You donât even get off the bed before Deanâs arms are around your waist, and youâre being yanked back down.Â
âDonât go.â He mumbles against the back of your neck, and you sigh.Â
âDean-â
âPlease.â
You swallow, then nod. Curl fully back, rubbing his forearms around you until his breathing starts to steady, his body slowly going limp.Â
âNever want you to go.â He says suddenly, right before you think heâs about to fall asleep. His voice is raw and tired.
Tears sting at your eyes. âIâm still here, Dean. Right here.â You squeeze his arm, and he sighs.
âYeah, but itâs gonna be gone.â He sighs. âWish I could stay. Or take you with me, but⊠Canât.â
âYou could.â You whisper, twisting to watch him in the dark. âI- Iâd go.â
He just stares at you for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
âYou shouldnât.â
âI would.â
His throat bobs. For a second, thereâs something new shining his eyes. Itâs clearer than everything else. Burning right into you with his attention, his hands a little tighter on your body.Â
âI keep a drawing of you in my wallet.â He rasps, and your heart does a little skip.Â
âI have a folder of your photos on my phone. I- I show them to my friends.â You flush. âThey think I made you up.âÂ
Deanâs mouth twitches. Heâs starting to sound like himself again. âDid you?â
âMake you up?â You whisper.
He nods.Â
âI donât know. I- I hope not.â
âI hope I didnât make you up either.â He traces his hand down your arm, never breaking your gaze.Â
You swallow. âI feel real.â
He hums. âThatâs good. Would suck pretty bad if you werenât.â
You laugh softly, and Dean watches you like youâre the most important thing heâs ever going to see. You smile at him. He leans a little closer.Â
âSometimes I just stand outside.â He rasps. âIf I got a night. Iâll drive up here and just⊠Sit in the fuckinâ parking lot.â
âI watched a documentary about you.â You offer. âIt called you a crazy serial killer.â
His mouth twitches. âI am-â
âI left it a one-star review.â You raise your voice over his. âAnd I- I still opened the door.â
âYou⊠You did.â He mutters. âEvery single time.â
âYeah. I did.â
For a second, you just stare at each other. Time doesnât feel like itâs moving. You donât want it to.Â
âWhen you sit in the parking lot.â You say softly. âWhy donât you come inside?â
He chuckles, rolling onto his back. âCause Iâm gonna do something stupid. Like this, and sayinâ that I-â
He cuts himself off, hand curling on his chest. You push up on your elbows, hanging over him, and he stares at you with a clear helplessness.Â
Dean mutters your name, clearly begging you not to say it.Â
But he said it first. And you need to know. If youâre allowed to stop playing games now.Â
If youâre allowed to have him.Â
âYou love me?â You finish for him, and Dean sighs.Â
âI- Donât say that, sweetheart-â
âYou said it-â
âI was drunk.â He mutters. He wonât look at you anymore. âI was drunk and talkinâ stupid and- Just donât. Please.â
You swallow, your heart caught in your throat. You could swallow it, and hope you digest it this time. That it finally passes through you, and the game is done like that.Â
But you donât want to.Â
Dean is looking at you like he expects you to kick him out. Like heâs bracing for you to spit venom and hit his chest and curse his name. Heâs almost shrinking away from you, one hand clinging to your wrist even as he makes a face like his heart is already breaking.Â
You wonât let it. Not here. Not when him breaking would break you too.Â
So you lie down next to him. Move your hand to tangle in his, your shoulders pressed together, Deanâs breathing shallow as he turns to watch you in the dark.Â
You look at him, and smile. Let all your love for him shine in it, squeezing his hand once.Â
He holds yours tighter. Holds onto it for dear life.Â
Says your name, and this. This is begging. Maybe for you to stop, or go, or just do the simple thing and kick him out.Â
You wonât. Not now. When heâs there, and maybe yours, and- And-Â
You could have him.Â
In all his broken, drunken and exhausted beauty, you can have Dean.Â
âWhat would you say?â You murmur, and his lips press in a tight line.
âI- I dunno-â
âCan I tell you what I would say? If- If youâd ever asked?â
Dean swallows, but nods. You smile again. Itâs so easy, when youâre looking at him.
âIâd tell you I love you.â You whisper. Deanâs grip tightens. âThat Iâve been in love with you for- Pretty much the whole time. That I hate watching you leave, and I hate when you pretend like you donât care if Iâm dating, and I hate when you remind me that you might not come back, because I need you. I need you to come back. Every- Every time you go-â You cut yourself off, your voice starting to ache. âEvery time you leave me I hate you. But I love you so much it doesnât matter. I- I like loving you so much more than I hate missing you. Dean, I-â
He says your name, words tight and choked, and you shake your head.
âI love you. I love you so, so much, Iâm never gonna-â You take long unsteady breath. âYou just leave me here. And I wait. Because I love you.â
And Dean just stares at you. Holds your hand and stares at you, his face pale and flushed all at the same time.Â
âNo.â He finally mutters. He still doesnât let go of your hand. âSweetheart, thatâs- You love the idea of me, you donât love the real thing-â
You snort dryly. âThe real you?â
âYeah.â He snaps, sitting up suddenly. âThe real me. Iâm not just some fuckinâ- Sex guy who drops in, fucks you, then runs off to a day job. I kill people, baby. I got a body count bigger than any documentary is gonna tell you, I got people who hunt me down for what Iâve done, there ainât anyone in my life because everyone who was there is fuckinâ dead, and I-â He shakes his head, starting to pull back. âIâm not lettinâ that happen to you. No. No way in hell-â
âWhy?â You demand, and your voice isnât harsh or even that loud, but it cuts Dean off completely. âWhy donât you want it to happen to me?â
He makes a sour expression. âBecause.â
âBecause?â
âYeah. âS what I said-â
âIs it because you love me?â
Dean scowls. âThat doesnât matter-â
âIt matters to me-â
ââCause you think youâre in love with me.â He spits. Heâs still holding your hand. âAnd Iâm tellinâ you, youâre not, so it doesnât matter-â
âI am in love with you.â You sit up, making your voice firmer. Unwavering. âAnd I know you, Dean. Iâm not just some girl who got the wrong idea about something, I know you. Youâve told me everything, even the ugly shit, and I kept opening the door.â You glare at him, and he freezes, staring at you with wide-eyes. âI sit with you after all your nightmares, I let you bring a gun into my house, I look you up on the news every day because I am terrified youâre going to die and come back all wrong or whatever, and Iâm going have to figure out how to be strong enough not to open the door.â
Deanâs mouth falls a little bit open, and you glare at him, far from done.Â
âBecause I would. Iâd let you in with those creepy black eyes and I donât even think Iâd regret it. Because I love you.â
Dean makes a strangled sound, and you poke his chest.
âYou show up covered in blood and talking crazy about angels and demons, you give me fuckinâ gun and booby trap my apartment and make me do codewords, and I let you in. I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know exactly who you are.â
He catches your hand on his chest, expression fully broken, and pleads your name. You curl your fingers on his chest and hold his hand.
âYouâre a good man.â Your voice turns soft, and he cringes like you hit him. âYouâre a good man, Dean. I donât love you because of the sex, even if the sex is great.â You laugh softly.Â
Dean looks like he tries to laugh, but it comes out more in a sound like a wounded animal. Silent tears are streaming down his face, and you sigh.Â
Reach up to wipe them away, and let Dean bow into your touch. His eyes are hooded, and trapped on yours.Â
You offer him a small smile.Â
âI love you because you make me happy.â You say. âI love you because you keep trying to protect me, even when it hurts you. I love you because when I tried to hit on you at a bar by saying you had big shoulders, you gave me pointers about how to pick other guys up, then asked if you could be the first I try them on. I love you because when I laughed, you apologized and started just talking to me. And we talked for so long, and you called me pretty, and I- Iâd been called that before, but-â You give him a sad smile, tears staining your own cheeks. âYou didnât want anything. You just- You just said it because you wanted me to know, and it felt good to be known.âÂ
You shift toward, rising on your knees to press your brow to his.Â
âI like you.â You whisper. âLike like you. I like like knowing you. And I like like loving you. I- Never used those moves on anyone else.â You giggle softly, tears still falling. âThey worked once really well. And I donât want to try them again. I kind of really love what I have.â
Dean blinks at you slowly. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes flicking down to your own, breath still ragged. If he needs to kiss you, youâll let him.Â
But instead, he just starts to cry.
Dean folds over you, body shaking, and cries. It starts muffled and restrainedâlike heâs still trying to shove it back downâbut you rub his back and hold him close, and he slowly falls apart.Â
You move slowly, so that youâre lying against the headboard and Dean is in your lap. You keep him gently in your arms, kissing the top of his head every few moments and running your hands soothingly over his shoulders, his back, through his soft hair. Slowly, the choked sounds turn to heavy breaths, and he eases himself down.Â
His face presses into your stomach as his chest rises and falls. You wait, cradling the back of his neck and humming to yourself softly. Eventually Dean turns to look up at you, eyes still red, and lets out a heavy sigh.Â
âI- I do.â He says, voice rough, and you just smile.
âI know.âÂ
He heaves, crawling a little up your body. âI mean it, baby, I do-â
âDean.â You cup his face, and he freezes. âI know.â
His mouth twitches. You just smile in return. Dean grabs your hand, turning to press a kiss to your wrist. His eyes shine when you giggle, tension releasing from his shoulders.Â
He collapses over your body with a heavy sigh.
âIâm gonna feel like shit in the morning.â He grumbles, and you laugh.Â
âItâs six, De. Basically is the morning.â
âGreat. I feel like shit now.â
âYou could go to sleep. That might help.â
Dean hums skeptically. âAre you gonna sleep.â
âNo.â The whole night still has you too wound up. âNot tired.â
âHm.â He pushes up over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, pinning you to the mattress.Â
His nose bumps yours, and your eyes widen, hands flying to his chest.
âI could help with that.â He murmurs, and you swallow.Â
âDean-â
âI got a clear head.â He kisses the corner of your mouth gently. âSwear. Iâll do the alphabet backwards if you wanna hear it, but if Iâm beinâ honest I canât do that front or back-â
You tug him down for a full, deep kiss. Itâs slow. Lazy. His tongue traces your lips and you open with a soft moan, legs spreading as Deanâs mouth works you up quickly.Â
But still, you gently push him back. He goes easily, raising his brows, and you flush. Glance down to his shirt, where your fingers have started to play with the soft fabric.
âAre youâŠâ Your eyes dart back up to his. âAre you gonna stay? In the morning?â
Dean nods, no uncertainty in his voice. âYeah.â He grabs your hands, pulling them up to kiss your knuckles. âIâm gonna stay until you kick me out, alright. Might come and go, but- You can come if you want. An if you donât, I got a phone, and my brotherâs phone, and a laptop that I can steal-â
âDean-â
âPoint is Iâm yours.â He says quickly, sounding a little frustrated with himself. âI stay until you kick me out.â
âI wonât.â You say quickly, and Dean grins.Â
Truly, fully grins.Â
âGuess Iâm gonna be here a long time, then.â
âYeah. Guess you are.â
His grin impossibly widens, eyes darting down to your body. âAndâŠâ
You laugh. âWe can have sex in the morning.â
Dean collapses back over you with a dramatic groan of relief. âThank god. And- After that, too?â
You giggle, kissing the top of his head, and he curls further into your body. Looks at you like youâre more than an angel, his voice still teasing, but also just a little more.Â
Filled with affection, and hope, and love.
Heâs yours to love.Â
âYeah.â You say, and Dean beams. âWe can do whatever you want.â
âŠEnd note: thank you for reading i don't even have a joke for this one i really hope you liked it i hope it wasn't butt thank you.âŠ
âŠIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŠ
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âŠdivider by @/cafekitsuneâŠ
Summary: Youâre the popular cheerleader with the âperfectâ life. Then you get paired with the new kid, Dean Winchester. What starts as a school project turns into something a lot deeper⊠and a lot messier.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Angst, Language
Word Count: 8558
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The grocery store was practically your second home by now. Half the staff greeted you by name and you could shop blindfolded, guided by Timothyâs giggles echoing down the aisles. He was four, wild as ever, legs a blur in his favorite dinosaur sneakers as he darted ahead of you. âDonât go too far, Tim!â, you called, only half-serious. He was a good kid, and besides, the other regulars always kept an eye out for âY/Nâs boyâ.
He whipped around the corner toward the cereal aisle, calling, âIâll get the chocolate stars, Mommy!â. You smiled, shaking your head, and started on autopilot after him, one hand already reaching for your phone in your purse.
But around the bend, Timothy skidded to a stop, nearly colliding with a tall man in a leather jacket, his broad back blocking most of the lower shelves. The man crouched to compare two boxes, cereal in one hand, the other holding the familiar black plastic scoop for bulk oats. Timothy, undeterred by size or strangers, peered up at him with wide, curious eyes.
âHey, mister!â, Timothy piped up, hands on his hips in perfect imitation of you when you meant business. âYouâre in my way. I need my chocolate stars!â.
Dean didnât look up, distracted by the labels, his brow furrowed in concentration. âYeah? Well, looks like I need the last box of Frosted Flakes, kid. Gotta be quick in this worldâ. His tone was playfully gruff, like heâd talked to a thousand little boys in a thousand towns.
Timothy huffed, determined not to be intimidated. âWell, you can have Frosted Flakes, but only if you help me get the chocolate stars up there. Iâm too little, see?â. He pointed up at the highest shelf, where the cereal he wanted teetered out of reach.
Dean finally glanced down, about to deliver some witty line about climbing shelves, but the words got stuck in his throat. For a moment, all he could do was stare.
Because staring back at him was a boy with stubborn, tousled brown hair and a pair of green eyes so achingly familiar they knocked the air from his lungs. The kidâs face was Deanâs childhood in miniature: same upturned nose, same strong jaw, the same scrunch of his brows in concentration. It was like looking in a mirror, if the mirror looked back from twenty years ago.
Dean cleared his throat, blinking hard and shaking his head. âAlright, dealâ. He reached up, easily snagging the box and handing it to Timothy. âThere you go, kid. One chocolate stars. You gotta promise you wonât try climbing for these, alright? Itâs a long way downâ.
Timothy nodded solemnly. âI promise. My mom says Iâm not supposed to climb, âcept in the playground. Thanks, mister!â.
Deanâs hand shook as he set his own cereal down. âYou always shop here?â, he managed, voice uneven. He didnât know why he asked, except that he suddenly needed to know everything about this little boy.
Timothy nodded, hugging the box to his chest. âWe come here all the time. Jane says Iâm the mayor of the cereal aisleâ. He grinned, gap-toothed and proud. âHey, wanna see my new shoes? They have dinosaurs. Rawr!â. He stomped a foot, showing off.
Dean let out a startled, shaky laugh, the sound low and rough in his chest. He crouched, eyes level with Timothyâs, drawn in despite himself. âThose are some serious shoes, bud. You must be real fastâ.
âI am! I beat Mommy in a race last weekâ. Timothyâs eyes darted past Deanâs shoulder. âThatâs her! Mommy! Look!â.
You turned the corner just in time to see your son, box of cereal in hand, talking animatedly to a man in a battered leather jacket.
The moment your eyes landed on Dean, the world seemed to freeze. Your heart stopping, breath caught in your throat. Dean turned, green eyes meeting yours with a shock that nearly knocked both of you off your feet.
His lips parted, but for a long, breathless moment, he said nothing. Timothy, oblivious to the hurricane brewing above him, tugged your hand. âMommy, this is my new friend. He helped me!â.
You swallowed hard, every muscle in your body vibrating between flight and something that felt a lot like hope⊠or maybe just heartbreak, coming home again.
Dean found his voice first. âHeyâ, he said, barely more than a whisper.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. All you could do was stare, your fingers tightening on the plastic handle of the basket so hard it bit into your skin. You werenât in your old town anymore, hadnât been for years, but right here, under hot grocery store lights, surrounded by cartoon mascots and cereal dust, it was like youâd never left that night in your childhood bedroom, waiting for a message that never came.
Dean stood slowly, gaze flicking from you to Timothy, then back to you. There was disbelief in his eyes, a fear you remembered from long ago, but something softer, too, something like longing, like loss. The lines in his face were older, deeper, but he looked exactly the same as the boy youâd loved so fiercely it broke you.
âDeanâ. Your voice came out small, too soft, but it was enough. The sound of his name on your lips made him close his eyes for a second, like it hurt. Maybe it did.
Timothy looked between the two of you, his excitement undimmed by the tension swirling above his head. âHe helped me get the chocolate starsâ.
You nodded, trying to find your balance, your whole body trembling with the impossible truth of him standing here. âHe did, huh?â, you managed, smoothing Timothyâs hair, as if you could fix this whole impossible moment with the right touch. âHeâs always been good at reaching thingsâ.
Deanâs lips twitched, that old, crooked smile ghosting across his face. Just a flash, just for you, before all the years and regrets folded it away. He crouched again, meeting Timothyâs proud, bright stare. âGotta look out for the short guysâ, Dean said, voice gentler than youâd heard in years.
Timothy beamed. âMommy says Iâm getting taller every dayâ. He looked between the two of you, oblivious to the ache in the air. âMommy, can Dean come see my toy cars? I have lots. Jane says I have too many but I donât think you can have too many carsâ.
You couldnât help it, you laughed, watery and wild and a little broken. Deanâs eyes snapped to yours, and you saw in them all the things he wanted to say but couldnât, not here, not now, not with four years and a little boy between you.
You knelt beside Timothy, your hand on his shoulder, grounding both of you. âMaybe another time, bud. We have to finish shopping nowâ. Your voice wavered. âSay thank you to Deanâ.
Timothy grinned up at Dean and stuck out his little hand, the cereal box clutched awkwardly under his arm. âThanks, Dean! I hope you find good cereal tooâ.
Dean took Timothyâs hand in his, his fingers shaking just a little. âYouâre welcome. Take care of your mom, okay? Thatâs an important jobâ.
âI always do!â, Timothy declared, oblivious to the way your eyes stung.
Dean let go, standing awkwardly, the space between you suddenly too much and not enough. He looked at you and all you could do was look back.
You could see the question burning in Deanâs eyesâIs he mine?âbut he held it back, the way heâd always bitten down on anything too raw. For a second you both just stood there, the awkwardness a wall neither of you knew how to climb, the distance between you thick with years and regrets and too many things unsaid.
You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, glancing down at Timothy, who was now wholly absorbed in a battle with his sneaker laces, tongue sticking out in fierce concentration. It was almost a relief to have something to look at that wasnât Deanâs face.
Dean tried to smile, rubbing the back of his neck. âSo, uh. You in town or just passing through?â. His voice cracked at the end, like he was sixteen again, asking for your number after practice.
You shook your head. âWe live here. Just a few blocks away, actually. Notââ, you hesitated, ânot farâ.
He nodded, swallowing hard, then let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. âIâm working a case nearby. Figured Iâd grab some groceries. Didnât expectââ. He broke off, eyes flicking to Timothy. âWell. Didnât expect thisâ.
You laughed, but it came out brittle and shy. âYeah. Grocery store magic, right?â.
He shrugged, and for a split second you saw the real Dean under all the layers. Charming, nervous and completely overwhelmed. âI, uh⊠I was gonna ask if you wanted to get a coffee or something, catch up, butâŠâ. He glanced again at Timothy, who was now holding his shoe up triumphantly for you to inspect. âMaybe a playground?â. His smile, hesitant but hopeful, lingered between you.
You smiled back, the ache in your chest a little softer than before. âPlayground sounds good. He could use the run".
âYeah?â, Dean said with something fragile in his voice, as if he was asking for more than just an afternoon.
You nodded, clearing the catch in your throat. âYeah. Thereâs one just a few blocks from here. Has swings and a slide. Heâll love itâ.
Timothy, catching just the tail end of the conversation, pumped his fists. âYes! Can we bring the chocolate stars, Mommy? Please? And can Dean push me really high?â.
You managed a real laugh this time, glancing at Dean. âCareful, heâll hold you to that. Heâs kind of fearlessâ.
Dean smiled, softer and realer than youâd seen since you were both teenagers. âYeah, I can tell. Heâs got that lookâ. He looked down at Timothy, ruffling his hair just the way you always did. âIâll race you to the swings, kidâ. Timothy grinned, immediately plotting out the quickest route in his head.
You finished the last few aisles together, your hands sometimes brushing, your words awkward and quiet, just small talk, about pie and traffic, about the weird old cat at Janeâs place, about nothing and everything. Dean glanced at Timothy again and again, searching his face for answers, like he was trying to catch up on every year heâd missed in the lines of his smile.
At checkout, you caught Dean staring at the way Timothy pressed his face to your arm, clinging to your side like heâd always belonged there. Deanâs mouth twisted, pride and regret tangled up in the same look, but he didnât say a word, just offered to carry your bags to the car. You let him.
Outside, he waited while you settled the groceries in the trunk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, nerves dancing in his eyes. Timothy climbed into his booster seat with a running leap, still talking about playground races and chocolate stars. You buckled him in, fingers gentle on the straps, and when you glanced over your shoulder, Dean was still there, awkward and hopeful and so heartbreakingly familiar.
You shut the car door, drawing a breath before turning to him. The moment felt bigger than just a playground date, it felt like offering a bridge across all those missing years.
âSo⊠tomorrow at two?â, you said quietly, glancing at Dean, hoping your voice didnât shake.
He nodded, swallowing, the weight of it all plain in the set of his jaw. âYeah. Playground. Iâll be there. Promiseâ.
You hesitated, then pulled a scrap of receipt paper from your purse, scribbling your address and phone number in quick, shaky lines. You handed it over, your fingertips brushing his. âJust in case you need directions. Or⊠I donât know, anythingâ. Deanâs eyes darted to your writing, then up to yours, a raw gratitude breaking through the nerves. âThanks. I, uh⊠thanksâ.
Neither of you said what you were really thinking, not with Timothy just behind the glass and the late afternoon sun painting memories onto the parking lot. But something softened in your chest, something stubborn and hopeful.
Timothy banged his fists on the window, waving like a windmill. âBye, Dean! See you tomorrow! Donât forget the chocolate stars!â. Dean grinned. âWouldnât miss it for the world, kidâ.
You slid into the driverâs seat, watching Dean in your mirror as you pulled away. He stood there with your address in hand, looking after you like he was still catching his breath.
-
Deanâs hands were still shaking on the wheel when he pulled into the cracked lot outside the little roadside motel, the sun slipping behind the sign that buzzed NO VACANCY in a tired neon whine. He sat there for a minute, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, trying to make sense of the earthquake in his chest, the way Timothyâs face kept flashing in his mind, the way youâd said his name, soft and uncertain.
He checked his phone, thumb hovering over your number. His phone was brand new. Again. The contacts list short: just Sam, Bobby and a few other hunters. No old messages. No traces of the life heâd left behind except the ache in his bones.
When he finally stepped out, grocery bag swinging from his hand, he could hear Samâs voice through the thin door of room 12, reciting Latin under his breath as he typed furiously. Dean braced himself, pasted on a cocky smirk, and knocked.
ââBout time, manâ, Sam called, not looking up. âFind anything good?â.
Dean set the groceries on the tiny table. Cereal, jerky and a pie he didnât remember grabbing. He moved on autopilot, like muscle memory from every other motel, every other hunt. âYeah. You could say thatâ, Dean replied, his voice too rough, too soft.
Sam finally looked up, brow furrowed. âYou okay? You look⊠weirdâ.
Dean huffed a laugh, rubbing his mouth, glancing away. âJust ran into someone. From beforeâ.
Sam sat up straighter, sensing the gravity in Deanâs voice. âSomeone important?â.
Dean nodded, swallowed, and for a second all the years between then and now pressed down on him. âYeah, Sammy. You could say thatâ.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, letting the tired springs creak beneath him. The weight of your address, your number, pressed against his thigh through the denim. The thought of Timothy, of the kid who who loved cars and dinosaurs, who looked at Dean with that same stubborn spark, echoed in his mind.
Sam closed his laptop, the hunt forgotten. âDean, what happened?â.
Dean stared at the pie a long moment, fingers drumming a restless beat on the tin, his mind spinning with memories and the thousand questions that meeting had yanked loose inside him. Finally, he let out a breath and said it.
âI ran into Y/Nâ.
Samâs eyes widened, all the focus heâd had for the hunt evaporating. âWaitâher? Like, your Y/N? Cheerleader, townie, had you head over heels, Y/N?â.
Dean flinched, almost smiled, but it didnât quite reach his eyes. âYeah, that Y/Nâ. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, shaking his head like he couldnât believe it even now. âShe was at the grocery store. Just⊠just standing there. Looked at me like sheâd seen a ghostâ.
Sam watched him, brow furrowed, worry and hope flickering over his face. âAndâŠ?â, he prompted.
Deanâs thumb found the folded scrap of paper in his pocket, smoothing the corner over and over. âSheâs got a kid, Sam. A little boyâ. His voice went softer still, almost reverent. âNameâs Timothy. Four years old. Brown hair, green eyes, damn spitting imageâ. He paused, and for a heartbeat Sam thought he might actually break. âHeâs mine, Sam. Heâs gotta be. I just⊠I know itâ.
Sam sat in stunned silence, the gravity of it settling between them like dust in sunlight. He finally spoke, careful, gentle, like the kid heâd always been deep down. âDid you talk to her? Did you⊠say anything?â.
Dean nodded, eyes shiny but fierce. âYeah. We talked. Not aboutâ not about everything. Not yet. She gave me her address. Said I could come by tomorrow, see themâ. He hesitated, voice trembling. âI missed it all, man. All those years. I didnât even knowâGod, I didnât knowâ.
Sam crossed the room, sitting on the bed beside his brother, the hunt forgotten for now. âYou know nowâ, he said quietly. âThatâs what matters. You get another shot, Dean. Donât screw it upâ.
Dean managed a laugh, a real one, thick with nerves and hope. âYeah. Guess I better notâ.
-
Sunday morning dawned bright and full of a restless, impossible energy. Timothy was up before the sun, bouncing around the apartment in a storm of excitement. He pulled on his jeans backward, then right-side out, then his favorite dinosaur socks, barely sitting still long enough for you to brush his hair.
âDeanâs coming today, right, Mommy?â, he asked for the third time before breakfast, clutching his little leather jacket to his chest. Youâd found it at a thrift store ages ago. A perfect miniature of the one Dean always wore, with silver snaps and sleeves that were still a touch too long. As soon as Timothy had seen it, heâd declared himself âSuper cool like in the moviesâ.
You smiled, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in your own chest. âYes, baby. Deanâs coming. But you have to eat something before we go, okay? No playground races on an empty stomachâ.
Timothy wolfed down his cereal in record time, then wriggled into his jacket, striking a pose in the mirror. âLook, Mommy! We match now!â. He grinned up at you, that same wild, hopeful spark you remembered from his father flickering bright in his eyes. For a moment you just watched him, heart aching with love, anxiety and a dash of hope so sharp it nearly hurt.
The hours crawled by, Timothy peppering you with questions as you packed snacks, wiped his face again, checked your phone twice a minute. When he finally heard the rumble of an engine outside, he ran to the window, pressing his hands and nose to the glass. âIs that him? Is that Dean? Mommy, come look!â.
You joined him, heart in your throat, watching as Dean stepped out of a black muscle car that looked as battered and beloved as ever. He paused at the curb, glancing up at your window, squinting into the sun. You waved, small, almost shy, and he waved back, his face splitting into the kind of smile you hadnât seen in years. The kind that made you want to believe in second chances.
Timothy tugged at your sleeve, practically vibrating. âCome on, Mommy! We gotta go! I gotta show Dean my jacket!â.
You grabbed the snacks, the wipes, your keys and took his hand, letting him pull you out the door and down the steps into the golden morning.
Dean had barely shut his car door before Timothy was on him, arms wide, face split by a grin so bright it couldâve powered the whole block. âDean!â, he shouted, launching himself forward. âLook! I have a jacket like yours!â.
Dean crouched just in time to catch him, laughter spilling out as Timothy practically tackled him with a hug. Dean hugged him back, awkward and stunned for half a second, then melted, scooping Timothy up like heâd done it a thousand times before. âWell, would you look at that!â, Dean grinned, tapping the collar of Timothyâs jacket and then his own. âYou look just like me, kid. Think you could handle driving my car one day?â.
Timothyâs eyes went wide with wonder. âCan I, Mommy? Can I? Please?â.
You laughed, heart aching in the best possible way. âYou gotta learn how to tie both shoes first, buddy, but maybe somedayâ.
Dean caught your eyes over Timothyâs head, something unspoken but soft and full in his gaze. âHe always like this?â, he asked, voice rough with disbelief and wonder, still holding Timothy close.
You smiled, a little shy, a little proud. âPretty much. But with you? Even moreâ.
Dean looked down at Timothy, ruffling his hair. âGuess we better go tear up that playground, huh? See if you can beat me to the swingsâ.
Timothy squirmed out of Deanâs arms, landing on his feet and bouncing in place. âRace you!â. He was gone in an instant, his laughter trailing behind as he took off toward the park nearby, already hollering for you both to hurry up.
Dean straightened, still watching Timothy, his jaw working as he tried to process this new, wild love. âHeâs⊠heâs something elseâ.
You fell into step beside him, hope blooming shy and stubborn in your chest. âYeah, he really isâ.
-
Dean pushed Timothy higher and higher on the swings, chased him through the slides and monkey bars, caught him by the armpits just as he âcrashedâ into Deanâs waiting arms, both of them laughing until they were out of breath. You sat on the sidelines at first, watching and letting Dean have this, letting Timothy bask in it.
By the time they wandered back, cheeks flushed and hair tousled, Timothy was nearly nodding off on his feet. You spread out a thin blanket, and he curled right up in your lap, head heavy against your chest.
Dean dropped down beside you, silent for a while. He watched Timothyâs sleeping face, the smudge of dirt on his nose, the way his hand relaxed only when he felt your palm over his heart. You saw the emotions flicker and fight across Deanâs face. Disbelief, pride and a grief so old it had grown into something gentler.
Finally, Dean cleared his throat, still staring at his son. âSo⊠heâs mine, isnât he?â. His voice was soft, hopeful, almost afraid.
You couldnât help the watery laugh that slipped out, brushing your fingers through Timothyâs hair. âDean. Do you really need to ask?â. You tried to keep it light, but your voice cracked with everything it meant. âHeâs a Winchester through and through. The attitude alone gives it awayâ.
Dean looked at you, his eyes bright with tears he wouldnât let fall. âI missed everythingâ, he whispered, guilt heavy in every syllable. âIâm so sorry. Fuck, IÂŽm so sorry (Y/N). I didnât know. I neverââ. You shook your head, pain and love mingling, not letting him finish. âI know. It wasnât your fault. None of it. I tried, butâŠâ. You paused, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You met Deanâs eyes, voice barely a whisper. âYou never answeredâ.
Deanâs brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his gaze. âWhat do you mean? IâY/N, I neverââ.
You reached for your phone, heart pounding as you scrolled through years of silent confessions, of hope sent into a void. You found that first trembling message, the one youâd sent the moment you knew for sure, hands shaking so hard you almost dropped the phone. You held it out to Dean, watching as he took it, eyes scanning the words.
Message after message, updates, words youâd poured out on birthdays, holidays, all the little moments that had come and gone without him.
Deanâs fingers closed around your phone with a kind of reverence, his thumb hovering over the dim-lit screen. You could see the tension in his jaw as he read, line after line of your messages, small text boxes stretching back over four years.
"Itâs a boy. I wish you could see him, Dean. he looks just like you already.he has your eyes. I just know it".
"Happy birthday. i hope youâre okay. i miss you so much it hurts".
"heâs walking now. he fell and skinned his knee but he didnât even cry. I told him he was brave, like his dad".
"Iâm scared sometimes, Dean. i wish you were here. I wish youâd write back. please".
You watched Deanâs face go still. Every muscle in his cheek jumped, his eyes blinking fast, holding back tears or rage or maybe both. He didnât look up, just kept scrolling, knuckles white. The silence dragged out so long you thought youâd have to break it, but he finally spoke, voice cracking in a way youâd never heard from him.
âI never⊠I never got any of theseâ, Dean said, eyes still fixed on your words, voice strangled. âI swear to God, Y/N. Johnâmy dadâhe, uh, he took my phone. Said I was distracted. Said I needed to focusâŠâ. His voice trailed off, heavy and lost.
You took a shaky breath, feeling the old scars tug at you, but you kept your voice gentle as you started to fill in the pieces of your story, the pieces Dean had never gotten to hear. The playground was quiet, the late afternoon sun slipping lower, the whole world holding its breath as you spoke.
âI tried to tell them, Dean. My mom⊠she lost it when she found out. She said I was ruining everything, that you were just some stray who left me with nothing but trouble. She said sheâd kick me out unless I⊠unless I got rid of himâ. You looked down at Timothy, your fingers brushing his cheek, watching the rise and fall of his breathing. âI couldnât. I wouldnât. So⊠I leftâ. Deanâs jaw clenched, and you could see the muscle twitch there, the storm of guilt and anger brewing behind his eyes. âMy dad sent some money, but he wouldnât see me. I crashed with a friend. Found a job, somehow. Jane, she was the nurse who helped me in the ER. She took us in when I couldnât do it aloneâ. You smiled a little, the memory softening the sharp edges for just a second. âIf it wasnât for her, I donât know what wouldâve happened. But I did it. We did itâ.
Dean stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time, every bit of bravado stripped away. âIâm so sorryâ, he said, voice broken. âI shouldâve been there. You were seventeen, Y/N. Seventeen. You did everything alone because of me. Because my dad⊠because I left. God, Iâm soââ. You squeezed his hand tight, interrupting the spiral before it could swallow him. You leaned in, forcing him to meet your eyes. âDean, stop. Please. Iâm not mad. I never was. I was scared. I was heartbroken. But I was never mad at youâ.
He shook his head, still lost in the self-loathing you knew all too well. âHow could you not be? I would be. You had every right to beâ. You squeezed again, stubborn, soft, refusing to let him drown. âBecause I loved you. Because I knew you. And I knew, deep down, I always knew, it wasnât your fault. None of it wasâ. You blinked back tears, letting the truth steady you. âYou were just a kid, tooâ.
Dean looked away, blinking hard, his gaze drifting to Timothyâs sleeping form curled trustingly against your chest. The breeze rustled the grass, and for a moment, he seemed barely able to breathe.
âI thought we were always carefulâ, he murmured, almost to himself. Soft, bewildered, still half in disbelief. There was a crooked, regretful smile on his lips, sad and a little lost.
You let out a shaky breath, your thumb tracing circles on Timothyâs tiny shoulder. âWe were careful, Dean. We were just⊠young. Sometimes life doesnât care how careful you areâ.
He nodded, jaw working as he tried to swallow everything. "Yeah. Guess life never gave either of us much of a breakâ. He watched Timothyâs chest rise and fall, eyes glassy. âBut look at him. Look at you. You did everything I never couldâve doneâ.
You smiled, tired but true. âI just kept going. Because I had to. Because I wanted to. Because I loved him the second I knew he was real. I loved you, too. Even when it hurtâ.
Deanâs hand tightened in yours, almost desperate. âI wish I could take it all back, Y/N. Every second you were alone. Every time I wasnât hereâ.
You squeezed his hand, blinking away tears. âWe canât go back, Dean. But we can start again. If you want to. If youâre readyâ.
Dean nodded, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, letting himself believe, just for a heartbeat, that maybe he was allowed this. âI want to. More than anything. I want to be here. For both of youâ.
-
Three months later, everything had changed. Dean had kept his promise. Whenever a case finished, whenever he could steal a day (sometimes two, sometimes a miraculous three), he was at your door before the sun had burned the dew off the grass. Sam came too, sometimes, tall and awkward and so much gentler than you remembered, bringing stories about haunted lighthouses and Bigfoot sightings that made Timothyâs eyes go wide.
Youâd found a rhythm. Awkward and messy, but somehow exactly right. Dean would text you when he was close, and youâd always leave the porch light on, no matter the hour. He never arrived empty-handed: sometimes it was pie, sometimes a tiny Impala for Timothy, sometimes your favorite chips.
Timothy had taken to calling Dean âDadâ like it was the most natural thing in the world. You and Dean had told him the truth early, sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet one rainy evening, the three of you surrounded by Timothyâs towers of toy cars and half-eaten animal crackers. Youâd been scared, not of Timothyâs questions, but of all the answers you didnât have. Dean had taken your hand in his, voice quiet but steady: âI missed a lot, Tim, but Iâm here now. And I want to be your dad. If you want that tooâ.
Timothy had blinked at him, then at you, then back again. Heâd shrugged in that wise, four-year-old way that said the world could be simple, if only grown-ups let it. âYou already areâ, heâd said, and thrown himself into Deanâs arms.
Since then, the three of you had fallen into habits that felt impossibly precious: Timothy brushing his teeth beside Dean at night, insisting on âcool hairâ gel in the mornings when Dean was there. Dean fixing your wobbly kitchen chair, taking out the trash, filling the house with music and laughter and the scent of engine grease. Sam would show up with takeout or books or just to sit quietly, listening to Timothy talk about dinosaurs and cars until Dean teased him for being a sap.
At night, when Timothy was asleep, you and Dean would sit on the porch, the world hushed around you, shoulders touching. Sometimes you talked about the future. About safer hunts, about moving closer, about what it might mean to really, finally be a family. Sometimes you just held hands in the quiet, letting hope grow slow and stubborn in the dark.
You and Dean had also become experts at dancing around things. Like big feelings, heavy words and even your own history. For three months, youâd shared late-night talks, laughter in the kitchen, sleepy mornings with Timothy squeezed between you on the couch, his little hand curled in Deanâs. There were momentsâa brush of your fingers as you handed Dean his coffee, his palm warm on the small of your back as you reached for a pot in the cupboard, your head on his shoulder when exhaustion threatened to pull you underâbut nothing more. Not yet.
Tonight, though, the world felt suspended. Timothy was out cold in his room, sprawled sideways in a tangle of blankets and toy cars, the baby monitor hissing quietly from the kitchen. You and Dean sat side by side on the couch, a movie playing low on the TV, a dumb teen flick youâd both half-mocked, half-admitted youâd seen before.
Then a cheerleader appeared on the screen, flipping her ponytail, laughing that sugar-sweet laugh youâd heard a hundred times in the locker room. It knocked something loose, a piece of your shared past tumbling between you and settling in the silence.
Dean snorted softly. âThat was you, huh? Miss All-American, always with a bow in your hair. Thought youâd never even look at a guy like meâ.
You glanced at him, that old, easy smile finding you again. âYou mean the bad boy who only showed up for half the semester, got detention on day two, and still managed to ace every test?â.
He grinned, that familiar cocky tilt in his smile. âHey, the principal loved me. Deep downâ.
You rolled your eyes. âDeep, deep down, maybeâ. The smile faded into something softer. âYou know, I never told you this, but I was terrified of you. Not because of your reputation. Just⊠you saw me. Not the cheerleader. Not the âgood girlâ. Just⊠meâ.
Dean went quiet, his gaze steady on your face, all teasing gone. âYou were the first person who ever really did the same for meâ.
The quiet between you crackled, old memories blooming with new electricity. Deanâs knee pressed a little firmer against yours, his hand finding its way to your thigh, heavy and careful, thumb tracing lazy circles through your jeans. The TV faded into a distant background hum, the flicker of cheerleader pom-poms replaced by the rush of your pulse in your ears.
You turned to him fully, knees brushing, breath mingling. Dean searched your face like he was still looking for permission, for reassurance that this, whatever you were about to become again, was real and wanted. You answered with a small nod, your eyes shining in the low light.
Dean leaned in, so slow you could feel the anticipation blooming along your skin, his lips hovering a whisper above yours. âYou sure?â, he asked, voice rough, almost reverent.
You barely managed a âYeahâ, before he closed the gap. Tentative, tasting, a question and an answer all at once. His hand slid to your jaw, cradling you like you were something breakable and precious. You melted into him, hands curling into his t-shirt, pulling him closer, chasing the sweetness youâd missed for years.
Then something in both of you broke open, the hunger and relief of lost time spilling into the kiss. Dean pressed you back against the couch, mouths opening, breaths quickening, his fingers threading into your hair. Your legs tangled with his, your heart hammering against his chest as he deepened the kiss, tasting like memory and want and the sharp, dizzy hope of starting over.
Deanâs mouth moved against yours with a deliberate patience, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, coaxing you open. You tasted the faint bitterness of beer on him, mixed with his scent wrapping around you.
His hand in your hair tightened just a fraction, not pulling but holding, grounding you as his other palm slid under your shirt, calluses rough against the soft skin of your waist. A shiver raced up your spine, electric and unfamiliar after so long alone. Four and a half years. Youâd touched no one, let no one touch you. Dean had been your first, your only, and the ghost of that intimacy lingered in every hesitant breath you took now.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead pressing to yours, green eyes dark and stormy in the dim light. âMissed thisâ, he murmured. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadnât realized had fallen. âMissed you so damn muchâ.
You nodded, throat tight, pulling him back in. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the play of muscles under his shirt, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric. He shifted, guiding you down onto the couch cushions with a gentleness that belied the urgency in his touch.
Deanâs lips trailed down your jaw, nipping softly at the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot and uneven. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the familiar expanse of his chest. You ran your palms over him, feeling the rapid thud of his heart, the slight tremor in his breath as he watched you, eyes hooded with want and something deeper, more broken.
âDeanâŠâ. Your voice cracked, fingers tracing an old scar along his ribs, one you didnât recognize. How many close calls? How many nights had he come home to someone else, or no one at all? The thought of it clawed at you, but it only fueled the fire, making you pull him down for another kiss, fierce and needy.
He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and raw, as he finally popped the button on your jeans, easing the zipper down with agonizing slowness. His hand slipped inside, fingers brushing over the thin fabric of your underwear, the heat of him making you gasp. âShit, youâre soâŠâ. He trailed off, pressing his palm flat against you, the pressure just enough to send sparks through your core. Wetness pooled there, your body remembering him even as your mind wrestled with the years apart.
You bucked against his hand instinctively, seeking more, but he held back, teasing with light strokes that built the ache into something almost painful. His mouth found your neck again, sucking gently, leaving marks that would bloom tomorrow.
When you were bare from the waist down, he paused, pulling back to look at you. His gaze was reverent, almost pained, like he was memorizing every inch. âYouâre beautifulâ, he said, voice thick with emotion. âAlways were".
Tears pricked your eyes again, but you blinked them away, reaching for his belt instead. Your fingers fumbled, nerves and desire warring, but he covered your hand with his, helping you undo it. Together, you pushed his jeans down, freeing him.
Dean positioned himself carefully, one hand bracing on the couch arm, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He nudged forward slowly.
"Shit, condom", you whispered, a little nervous laugh bubbling up with a moan as the tip of him pressed against you, that initial stretch sending a jolt through your core. The words tumbled out half-formed, breathless and edged with panic, your hand flying to his chest to pause him.
How could you not think about it? Upstairs, in the quiet of his room, your son slept, the boy youâd made with Dean all those years ago, an accident born from a night much like this, fueled by desperation and love
Deanâs eyes widened for a split second, surprise flickering through the haze of desire, but he froze immediately, his body taut above yours. He was so close, heat radiating from where you were almost joined, the air thick with the scent of arousal and the faint, lingering trace of his cologne. âRight⊠shitâ. he muttered, a rueful chuckle escaping him as he pulled back just enough, though his hand stayed on your hip, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin.
âHang on, sweetheart. Iâve got one⊠somewhereâ. His voice was low, gravelly with restraint, the words vibrating through you as he shifted his weight, reaching awkwardly for his discarded jeans on the floor. The couch leather stuck slightly to your bare skin as you moved with him, a soft creak echoing in the dim room, the TVâs muted glow casting shadows across his freckled shoulders. You watched him fumble in the pocket, muscles flexing under scarred skin, and the sight stirred that familiar ache. Jealousy twisting anew at the thought of how many times heâd done this routine with others, casual and practiced, while youâd raised your son alone, nights stretching empty and untouched.
He found it, tearing the foil with his teeth in a move that was pure Dean, efficient and a little rough around the edges. His eyes met yours again as he rolled it on, slow and deliberate, the latex snapping softly in the quiet. There was no rush now, just a heavy pause filled with unspoken things: the son upstairs who looked so much like him, with the same mischievous grin and stubborn streak; the years youâd spent wondering if Dean even thought about you both during his flings; the fragile hope that this time, maybe, it could be different.
âYou okay?â, he asked, voice softer now, laced with concern as he settled back between your thighs, his hand cupping your cheek.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp under your touch. âYeah⊠just⊠memoriesâ, you admitted, the words barely a whisper, but he understood. Of course he did. His expression cracked open a fraction, regret etching deeper lines around his eyes, and he kissed you then. Slow and deep, like an apology poured into every slide of his lips.
With a careful nudge, he entered you again, inch by inch, the barrier of the condom doing nothing to dull the intensity of the stretch, the fullness that made your breath hitch and your nails dig into his back.
Everything was so intense: the soft grunt he made low in his throat, a sound youâd dreamed of but never heard from anyone else; the way his hand slid down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist, opening you further; the cool air on your exposed skin contrasting with the burn where you joined.
You gasped as he hit that spot inside, stars bursting behind your eyelids, but tears welled too from the overwhelming sensation, from the what-ifs of your shared past, from the fear that this might be another fleeting moment before he vanished again, leaving you with echoes and a child who asked too many questions about his dad.
Deanâs pace faltered for a heartbeat, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he buried himself deeper, holding there like he needed the anchor. âGod, I shouldâve⊠we shouldâveâŠâ, he murmured against your neck, words fragmented, heavy with the weight of accidental miracles and lost time. His breath came in hot puffs, lips brushing your pulse point, sucking lightly as if to mark you as his once more.
You arched into him, meeting his thrusts, the couch protesting with each shift, the world narrowing to the slick slide, the building pressure, the tangle of limbs and regrets, until you shattered around him, a cry muffled against his shoulder, waves crashing through you in shuddering release.
He followed soon after, hips stuttering as he thrust deep one final time. His body tensed, then went slack against yours, weight pinning you in the best way.
The rest of the night unfolded in a rush. Like youâd both been starving, rationing touch for years, and now you couldnât get enough. After the first time on the couch, Dean gathered you in his arms and carried you quietly to your bedroom, careful not to wake Timothy. He laid you on the bed as if you were something breakable, then proceeded to break you open in all the best ways.
There were no secrets left, no boundaries untested. You learned each other all over again, a little older, a little bruised, a lot more grateful. Dean moved above you, slow and deep, his hands everywhere. You touched him just as greedily, relearning the map of his back, the hard muscle under new scars, the tremble in his thighs when you whispered you loved him.
Sometimes you broke down into laughter, muffled by his neck, as you fumbled with the newness of it all. At the awkward tangle of limbs, the way your bodies fit together just a little differently now. Sometimes you just clung to each other in the dark, kissing slow, quiet apologies and promises into the spaces where your lives had gone wrong.
And sometimes, in the in-between, the weight of everything youâd lost came rushing back. You found yourself crying for no reason, tears slipping down your cheeks as you held him close, whispering his name. Dean kissed them away, rough thumbs gentle on your face, his own eyes bright with emotion. âIâm hereâ, heâd promise, voice shaky. âIâm not leaving. Not this timeâ.
The night stretched on in waves: desperate, hungry, then lazy and sweet. You found a rhythm, building each other up, letting go, collapsing together. In the final round, you lay half across his chest, skin damp and flushed, your breathing slowing as he stroked your back in lazy, contented circles.
The house was quiet except for the hush of the fan and the softest snores from down the hall. Deanâs heart beat steady beneath your ear, his hand splayed warm across your back. You traced circles on his chest, pressing a kiss to the hollow at his throat. âI never stopped loving youâ, you whispered, sleep pulling at the edges of your mind.
Dean tightened his arm around you, kissing your hair, his voice a soft vow. âMe neither. Never again, sweetheart. Iâm homeâ.
-
You woke to the soft warmth of Deanâs hand brushing over your waist, the early morning sun spilling gold through the curtains. For a moment, you stayed still, letting yourself believe in this quiet, in the way he watched you, green eyes sleepy and soft, lips curled in a lazy half-smile that was just for you.
Dean traced gentle patterns over your hip, his touch reverent, almost shy, like last night had reset something inside both of you. âHeyâ, he whispered, voice scratchy with sleep and tenderness. He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your mouth. Slow and unhurried, and with a thousand unspoken words in every press of his lips.
You smiled into the kiss, fingers sliding up to tangle in his hair. He pulled back just enough to study you, his thumb stroking your cheek. âYou okay?â, he murmured, genuine worry threading through the sweetness, as if you might disappear if he blinked.
âIâm perfectâ, you breathed, the honesty of it making your chest ache. âAre you?â.
He grinned, brushing his nose against yours. âNever betterâ.
He started kissing you again, slow and careful, exploring you all over, like it was your first time all over again. He took his time, savoring the way your body moved under his, the way your breath hitched with every touch, every whispered âI love youâ. You felt brand new, cherished, wanted. Like everything had finally fallen into place.
Then, just as his mouth was on your shoulder and your arms were tight around his back, the bedroom door crashed open with a bang.
âMommy! Dad! Iâm hungry!â.
You both froze, eyes wide, as Timothy barreled into the room, his favorite dinosaur pajamas askew, hair wild, dragging his blanket in one hand and clutching a toy car in the other. His eyes went straight to the bed, to the tangle of sheets and bodies, and for one long second you and Dean just stared, paralyzed and very, very naked.
Dean recovered first, yanking the comforter up to his chin in a comically desperate move, shielding both of you as best he could. âHey, buddy!â, he croaked, his voice about an octave higher than usual. âUh, can you, uh, give us just one minute?â.
Timothy blinked, totally unfazed. âBut Iâm really hungry. And my car wants pancakes. With chocolate starsâ.
You bit your lip, half laughing, half mortified, your face burning as you tried to tug the covers even higher. âTwo minutes, Tim. Promise. Weâll be right outâ.
Timothy huffed, but he grinned, clearly thrilled that both his parents were here and together. âOkay! But hurry. Iâll count!â. He turned and padded out, singing something under his breath, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Dean looked at you, grinning despite himself, hair sticking up, cheeks flushed. âWell. Thatâs one way to start the morningâ.
You laughed, covering your face with your hands. âGuess weâre not as sneaky as we thoughtâ.
Dean leaned in, kissed your forehead, and murmured, âDoesnât matter. I wouldnât trade this for anythingâ.
Evenutally, you and Dean scrambled into clothes, giggling, tripping over laundry, bumping shoulders like you were seventeen all over again. When you reached the kitchen, Timothy was waiting, legs swinging from his chair, toy car parked carefully beside his empty plate. He looked up at both of you, eyes shining with that familiar Winchester stubbornness and hope.
Dean slid easily into the space beside him, pulling Timothy into his lap. âSo, champâpancakes with chocolate stars, huh?â.
âTwo stacks!â, Timothy declared, and you grinned, already starting with the batter and listening to Deanâs easy laughter fill the kitchen, Timothyâs running commentary on car engines and superhero cereal and every small thing that made up your mornings now.
You caught Dean watching you while you flipped the pancakes, his eyes lingering not just with want, but something deeper, steadier. You saw the promise in his gaze, all the years youâd both lost folding into this simple, bright new moment.
After breakfast, Dean helped you clean up. Later, he fixed Timothyâs wobbly bike while you watched from the step.
That night, with Timothy asleep and the apartment washed in the soft hush of the streetlights outside, you curled into Deanâs side on the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his chin pressed to your hair. âI never thought Iâd get thisâ, he murmured quietly, voice rough with love. âA home. You. Him. Usâ.
You smiled, tears warm but happy. âYouâre here. Thatâs all I ever wanted. All I ever neededâ.
He kissed you slow and sweet, laughter caught in the middle, and you let yourself believe, finally, truly, that the worst was behind you. That this messy, beautiful family was yours to keep.
In the dark, you whispered your thanks to him. For coming back. For choosing you. For being home. And for the first time in your life, you believed in happy endings. Because youâd made one, together.
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Summary- Dean and Y/N are having problems. Dean has been letting his mind get the better of him and taking it out on Y/N. But has she had all she can take? Will she stay, or will Dean's behavior make her give it all up and walk away?
A/N- Hey guys. I know I've been gone for a long time, but between going back to school and trying to manage life, I had very little time. I had this idea pop into my head days ago, and I had to finally write it down. I hope you all enjoy!
It never fails. When the slightest bit of danger comes her way, Dean seems to lose all control. Control of his thinking, anger, and his mouth. Thatâs the reason sheâs sitting across the library from him now. Her feelings were hurt yet again. The last few hunts, heâd picked a fight any time sheâd gotten anywhere in the vicinity of trouble, lashed out at her, screaming and asking her what the hell she thought she was doing. She figured that with so much of this behavior lately, sheâd be used to it by now. But how can you be used to being berated by the man you love?Â
Dean knows that he shouldnât say the things he says, but his self-control is nonexistent when it comes to her well-being. He knows she was a hunter before they met, before he asked her to be his, but that doesnât seem to matter. Heâs drowning in his dreams. The nightmares that he canât seem to shake are the cause of his behavior, a nightly repeat of watching her die in his arms. The thought of losing her after the hell he put himself through trying not to want her is just too much. All the inner turmoil of telling himself that she deserved so much better, deserved everything that heâd never be able to give her, deserved to be loved by a man that wasnât such a mess, such a disaster.Â
But if he could only read her mind and know just how she saw him. He was her everything. Everything she had wanted since the day those green eyes looked into hers. Thatâs all it had taken, and she was gone. But now, sitting at the farthest seat away from him she could get, watching him drown himself in whiskey once again, her thoughts were now wondering if it was all worth it. She knows how he thinks, that his words come from fear, but itâs still hard not to blame him. Hard not to take what he says to heart, every hurtful word chipping away at the love she has for him.Â
The more she watches him, the more she wonders if heâs as damned as he seems. Would her whole world cave in around her if she kept trying to save him? Can she hold on through more tears, trying to find more laughter, more love? She just doesnât know anymore. What is he even after at this point? Does he want her to leave, want her to throw it all down and walk away? That's how it seems. But is that what she wants? To throw away the years spent clawing, scraping, and fighting to stay together. Maybe. Maybe thatâs what sheâll have to do if things donât change. Her heart and soul are tired, so very tired, of the fight, the struggle to love a man that she isnât even sure loves her back.Â
Dean can see her across the library, her brows creased in deep thought. The creases that he is usually trying to kiss away when she gets in her head, but this time, he knows itâs his fault. Heâs the reason for her hurt, her pain, and it kills him. But what can he do now? The words have been said, and he canât take them back. He takes another drink of whiskey, squinting his eyes at the burn, and to keep the tears that are wanting to form away. But no one needs to know that. It hurts him to his soul to know heâs causing her any bit of pain, but he canât seem to stop himself. He thinks that maybe he should just let her go. But that thought is dismissed as quickly as it came to his mind. Now that heâd allowed himself to have her, he canât lose her. He just canât. Heâs lost almost everyone else he ever loved, but losing her would be his end. He canât see a life on this planet without her in it. He knows he needs to tell her what heâs thinking, but he doesnât know if he can find the words, so he takes another drink, wishing he wasnât such a hard man to be with, to love, because damn it if he doesnât love her more than heâd ever be able to express, and thatâs the problem. He can never seem to express what heâs feeling. Maybe yet another reason he should let her go, but heâs too damn selfish for that, and he knows it.Â
Sheâs still watching him drink himself stupid, something else heâs been doing lately. Dean always drank, but itâs been at extremes the last few weeks. They would fight, he would drink, and she would find him passed out in their room later when she would go in wanting to talk to him. So, sheâs been holding all this in, all the hurt, the pain, the anger. But, she doesnât know how much longer she can do it. She needs to know where he stands. Does he still even want her? Or the question sheâs scared to know the answer to. Does he or has he ever loved her? With that thought, a tear escaped, rolling down her cheek. She wants him, as much as he has hurt her lately, she still loves the man more than she can bear.Â
She knows what kind of man he is, and this isnât the usual for him. Something is going on, but he wonât let her in, let her know whatâs going on in that beautiful head of his. And, my God, is he beautiful, his mind, body, and soul. Thatâs what has her holding on, knowing that the man she fell in love with is there, buried deep under whatever heâs masking with his outbursts.Â
She wished he could see what she sees. Heâs strong, even stronger than he believes. Heâs a man whoâs seen more tragedy than a soul should see or deserves. But still manages to love with his whole being, absolutely unconditional. The way he loves Sam, his mom, his dad, Bobby, and everyone else he considers family is beautiful. Just as beautiful as he is. But she wonders if he loves her in that way. If you had asked her a few weeks ago, she wouldâve said yes. Yes, he loves her. But now, she just doesnât know. Maybe all those nights in his arms, the way he would look at her, maybe all that was wishful thinking. Because if he loved her, would he be treating her this way? Yet another tear rolls down her cheek as her mind continues to race, pondering whether she can take anymore, or whether sheâs going to leave.Â
Dean chances to look her way again, and he sees it, the tear rolling down her face, and thatâs it, thatâs all he can take. He has to try and fix this, let her know heâs sorry, convince her to stay, because by the look in her eyes right now, sheâs already out the door, and he knows that his life is over if that happens. He sets his glass down, stands, and walks over to the end of the table where she sits. He pulls up a chair in front of her, their knees touching. He reaches out, his thumb stretching to wipe away the tears, but as she does, she flinches away. His heart at that moment shatters. He could swear he could audibly hear it breaking into pieces. Maybe heâs too late, perhaps heâs done more damage than he can repair now. And that thought scares the shit out of him. He drops his hand to his lap, taking a deep breath before he speaks.Â
âIâm sorry,â he whispered as he exhaled, hoping she would forgive him.Â
âI know.â Thatâs all she said, looking past him, not daring to look him in the eye. She canât. Not right now.Â
âBaby,â he sighed, trying again to reach out for her, taking her hand. Luckily, she didnât flinch away from him this time, âI mean it. Iâm so very sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.âÂ
âIf you didnât want to hurt me, Dean, this wouldnât be a repeatable behavior.âÂ
Itâs him who flicnched this time. She still wouldnât look at him, and itâs driving him crazy. He wants her to know that heâs truly sorry, truly regrets how heâs been acting. But how can he convince her if she wonât even look at him?
âSweeheart, can you look at me?â he asked, actually on the verge of begging.Â
âIâd rather not,â she replied, trying to keep her emotions at bay. Itâs so much harder than she thought it would be now that heâs sitting here right in front of her.Â
âPlease,â he pleads, âCan I see those gorgeous eyes?â
Another tear. Damn it. This isnât going well, and he knows that he has to do something, but what? He reaches to wipe away the tear, and she lets him. At least thatâs some progress from moments ago. He cupped her face in his palm, caressing her cheek with his thumb. She looks at him then, and he can clearly see the pain and hurt in the eyes that usually look at him with so much love and adoration. He really has messed up this time.Â
âY/N, I donât know what else to say other than Iâm sorry. I know Iâve not treated you right, and I canât take it back, but I can try and make it up to you.âÂ
âDean,â she tried to speak, her voice cracked with the emotions sheâs trying to hold back, âI donât know if you can this time.âÂ
âPlease donât say that, baby. Donât push me away.âÂ
âDonât push you away?! Seriously? Thatâs a bit hypocritical, donât ya think?!â she scoffs, the anger finally making its way to the surface, âThatâs all youâve done is push me away, hurt me, and break my heart, and you dare to say that to me?âÂ
Itâs his turn to cry, the tears heâs been trying to keep at bay now making their way down his face. What a fucking tragedy. The one person he never wanted to lose, now basically has one foot out the door, and itâs his fault.Â
âYouâre right. I have pushed you away, and I take full responsibility for it. Iâm scared, Y/N,â he finally admits, his voice quivering as he tries to express what he prays will change her mind.Â
Her heart starts to race. Thatâs the most honest heâd been with her in a long time, and she can feel her resolve slowly melting away. She canât resist, reaching out to touch his face, âScared? What are you scared of, Dean?âÂ
âLosing you,â he whispered, leaning into her palm. Her touch always seemed to calm his raging mind, and now was no different.Â
âWhat makes you think I was going anywhere? Iâve never said or done anything to make you think I was leaving, have I? Well, not until you started pushing me away, taking out your frustrations on me. I still donât know what I did to deserve that,â she sighed, closing her eyes as the memories of his words washed over her again.Â
âYou didnât do anything.âÂ
âThen make me understand,â she pleaded. âIf I didnât make you think I was leaving, why? Why, Dean? What was all the anger, hurtful words, and fighting for?â
âIâŠIâŠ,â he doesnât know what to say. He doesnât want to admit that it was all over his dreams, but does he really have a choice? Not without her walking out the door and taking his whole world with her, âNightmares. I kept having nightmares, and they all ended the same way. You're dying in my arms. And I canât do it, sweetheart. I canât lose you.âÂ
âDean, they're just dreams. I know they can be terrifying, but were they worth making me leave? Were they worth ruining what he had?âÂ
âHad?â he choked. Oh no, sheâs going to leave, âPlease, please donât say that. Itâs what he have not had, right?âÂ
âI donât know, Dean. I just donât know anymore. You really hurt me, made me question if you ever really cared. I canât stay not knowing when the next time will be, when will you hurt me again, when will you lash out and break my heart. I donât ask for much from you, I never have. But I donât deserve that.âÂ
He canât accept what heâs hearing, and she canât go. She canât. He slips from the chair, dropping to his knees between her legs, lying his head in her lap, his silent plea to stay, to not walk out and leave him.
âDean,â her voice is shaking from trying not to burst out in tears. She looks down as he looks up at her, and he looks so broken. It makes her heart ache. Why couldnât he talk to her before now, before he had already hurt her and made her question if their relationship was salvageable?Â
âPlease,â he begged, his arms wrapping around her waist as his head lay on her thighs. Normally, this position wasnât him begging for her to stay, but a happy memory. Not anymore. He only knows one more thing to say. Hopefully, it will make her stay, because he means it, means it with all of his being, âI love you, Y/N.âÂ
Sheâs frozen. Did she just hear what she thought? Did he really just say he loved her? Oh, how sheâs longed to hear those words from him, but is he serious? Or is he just saying it because he doesnât want her to leave?
âBaby, I mean it. I love you. I know I shouldâve told you before now, but I was a coward. Iâm always afraid that if I said it out loud, youâd be taken from me. Everyone I love is always taken away from me at some point. They always leave one way or another, and I couldnât bear the thought of you being one of them. So, please, Iâm begging you, donât leave me. Stay. And let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you for being such an asshole. Please?âÂ
She canât hold it back anymore. Her tears flow as she breaks out into a sob. She loves this man more than it should be possible, more than she believed anyone could love another person. This absolutely beautiful man, bearing his soul out to her, how can she deny that?Â
âOâŠoâŠokay,â she agreed through choked sobs.Â
âReally?â he asked with hesitation, sitting up to wipe away her tears, âYouâre staying?âÂ
âIâm staying. I love you, too, Dean. So damn much,â she cried as he pulled her down to sit in his lap on the floor.Â
He just held her, let her cry into his neck, as he cried into her hair. No words were said for a long while, as they both held on to each other, enjoying the feeling of being in each other's arms. It had been too long since they had held each other, and neither one wanted to break the sense of peace and happiness of the moment. But after a few more minutes, Dean speaks, but not before kissing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and then finally her lips, as his hands held her face.Â
âY/N, Iâm sorry. I promise to never hurt you like that again. I canât promise Iâll never hurt your feelings or make you angry. Still, I swear to never do it intentionally. I love you,â he said, kissing her softly again, before asking her what he felt was a very important question, âSo, can you forgive me? Can you love me even though Iâm such a disaster?âÂ
Her smile made his heart race. Now realizing how long it had been since he had seen it. And right then, he made a vow to himself to make her smile every day. No matter what. He would always find a way to make her happy.Â
âOf course, I forgive you. I love you, Dean, so much. And you may be a disaster, but what a beautiful disaster you are,â she laughed, the sound music to his ears. âBut our whole lives are a disaster.âÂ
And he kept his promise. He made sure to make her smile every day. Most days, it was many times. Of course, they had their bad days. Every relationship does. But he made a point of showing her how much he loved her, no matter what was going on in their world. And she was partially right, their lives were a disaster, but what a beautiful disaster it was.
Have a fic inspired by one of my favorite songs!! With delicious angst, Dean is dysfunctional in this relationship and chooses to push away rather than risk losing her, which I think is on-brand for him.
Just something cute and fluffy. Established relationship.
Dean x OCF reader/you
No warnings here, no insuations. Just fluffy cuteness. I hope you guys like it. I wrote and edited it this morning while having coffee in just a couple hours, since it invaded my dreams last night in the best way.
Memories are indented. Thoughts are in italics.
Word Count: 2583
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The two of you were cuddling, your shared room dark. Heâd just gotten back from a hunt and, after showering, had crawled into bed behind you. You werenât completely asleep, trying to stay awake and wait for him. So when you felt the bed dip and the warmth of his body, you snuggled your back against his chest as his arm slipped over your waist.
Dean nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply, trying to find that peace you always brought to him. The way your body fit against his was where it always started. Then it was your scent as he closed his eyes and held you close. He knew youâd ask. You always did after the content hum left his lips.
âWhy me?â your words were always a whisper because you still couldnât understand it. But then again, Dean was never good with words.
He didnât know how to tell you that holding you close like this brought peace to his soul in a way he never thought was possible.
He didnât know how to tell you that your laughter was like a symphony that quieted his thoughts when nothing else did.
He didnât know how to tell you that your smile brightened the room around you and took away the darkness he always felt.
He didnât know how to tell you that when you would just sit and listen to him talk about how badly a hunt had gone while he stared at the floor said more than words ever could.
He didnât know how to tell you that the moment his lips touched yours, the entire world melted away, leaving him with just you and how you made him feel.
He didnât know how to tell you that when you were doing research, your focus completely on the book in front of you, that the way a few strands of hair had fallen over one side of your face made his breath hitch in his chest and the moment freeze and everything melted away.
He didnât know how to tell you that when youâd bring him something to eat when he had put off eating for most of the day that the love he saw in your eyes made him realize how much you truly loved him and all he wanted to do was say those three little words to you, but couldnât.
He didnât know how to tell you that when youâd sing along to the radio and his favorite songs, you sounded like an angel, and for a few moments, he forgot about everything else but your voice.
He didnât know how to tell you that just you being in his life brought joy back into his heart, and he found himself finding reasons to be silly with you, like a ticklefest, when he noticed a frown on your lips.Â
He didnât know how to tell you that when he got to wake up with you in his arms, he didnât feel like a hunter or like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He felt like, in that moment, he had a normal, apple pie life, even if it never lasted.
He didnât know how to tell you that when he would catch you baking, especially pie, he wished his mother was there, that she could have met you cause he knew she would have loved you as much as he did.
He didnât know how to tell you that he loved hearing you squeal or squeak when he would surprise you, how it always made him smile when you pretended to be mad at him, but the look of love and joy in your eyes always gave you away.
He didnât know how to tell you that when you didnât go with him and Sam on a case, he missed everything about you, and he was always more on edge, and he always had nightmares of losing you to some monster before he could make it back to you.
There was so much he never knew how to tell you, so he had done his best to show you because it all sounded stupid in his head, and he couldnât bring himself to speak any of the words he tried to put to the emotions you made him feel. So, he told you the thing he always did when you asked, âWhy you.â It was because you were you, and he loved all of you.
A quiet sigh left his lips, but he didnât move away from you. For a few moments, he tried to think of how to word his emotions, but the words never seemed right. âBecause youâre you,â he whispered back as his mind wandered.
He didnât know how to tell you that when you always split the last piece of bacon with him, he remembered how you helped change his perspective on things.Â
The two of you had been sitting in the kitchen in the bunker, having just finished the breakfast he had cooked. There was one slice of bacon left on the plate. Dean didnât know how to tell you he loved you. Those were words he just couldnât manage to ever say out loud. So, instead, he picked up the slice of bacon and handed it to you, telling you that you could have it because he knew how much you loved bacon.
It was your gentle chuckle as you took the bacon that made him pause and look at you, a little confused. He watched as you broke the bacon in half, âI never want to take more than you give,â you whispered, then put one of the halves in your mouth. Instead of handing that other half to Dean, you leaned across the table and fed it to him, nothing but love and adoration in your eyes. His breath had hitched in his chest. âYou love bacon as much as I do. Iâll always share with you. I never want you to feel like I take more than I give,â you had told him softly. And from that moment on, he began trying the same thing with you.
âWhere are your thoughts?â you asked him sleepily, feeling how he had tensed up a little as he held you.
He let out a quiet chuckle because you always seemed to know. âIn my head,â he mumbled, nuzzling against your neck again and letting out a content sigh.
âWhere are you?â you asked, this time softer.
âWith you,â he whispered, feeling how just telling you that always made the tension ease out of him, everywhere.
He wanted to tell you that it was simple questions like that that had helped him over the years learn that he wasnât alone, that he didnât have to face the things not only in his head but also in life, alone.
But Dean had never been good with sharing the things he went through, and you had never pushed. Just like now. He knew you knew he was tense from the hunt, but you hadnât even asked him how it went. You never had to ask. You just had found ways to pull his mind into the now. He smiled a little, remembering back to the first fight between the two of you, before heâd ever even asked you to be with him, let alone wanted to admit that you had wormed your way into his heart.
It had been after a hunt. Sam had already gone to his room, knowing what was coming, but Dean had followed you to yours, slamming the door behind him. His eyes were on your blood-stained shirt. Your wounds had already healed, but that wasnât the point, not for Dean. You had gotten injured, saving him. He could tell you were pissed, but he didnât care. The tension and silence in the car ride back to the motel had only given him time to think about what he was going to say to you instead of what he wanted to say.
You turned to look at him, a glare in your eyes as you crossed your arms, standing confidently across the small room. Dean didnât care. To him, he wasnât worth you getting hurt. âWhat you did was reckless,â he growled, but you didnât even blink, only pushing his anger further. âYou didnât follow the plan, and you got hurt!â
You just raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk toyed at your lips. He didnât like that look. âYes. It was reckless. Your plan was flawed, but you refuse to trust my judgment on things, so I have to improvise.â There was no anger in your words, and for the briefest of moments, he knew you saw the confusion in his eyes before he quickly hid it.
Dean let the anger flare in his eyes again, wanting to make you understand that he wasnât worth you getting hurt, period. To him, this wasnât up for debate. He took two steps toward you, crossing the small room, but you didnât even flinch as your eyes never left his. It was both slightly intimidating, but deep down, it tickled that hope he always pushed away.
He hated himself for the things that spewed from his mouth after that as he looked down at you with utter anger. The fact that it didnât seem to outwardly affect you only fueled it further. You literally just stood there, your eyes locked onto his, your expression almost neutral, and your arms crossed. It was infuriating him.
You had waited patiently while he went off. He hadnât said a single nice thing, but that wouldnât deter you. Nope. Youâd spent enough time now around the brothers that you knew Deanâs habits, his patterns. Hell, you had even tested them a few times just to make sure. The moment he was done yelling, you figured it was time to point a few things out.
âFirst off, youâre a hypocrite,â you began, but your tone was⊠normal? That puzzled Dean, but only for a split second before he quickly hid it, letting the anger flare in his eyes again. But you didnât stop there.
âYouâre constantly putting yourself in harm's way to keep not only Sam and me safe but strangers too. I know you do it because you care. Dean, you have one of the biggest hearts Iâve ever seen in someone. You donât chastise Sam when he does the same thing I just did tonight. I know this because Iâve tested it, among other things,â you told him, and he could hear the softness that trickled into your words.
But you didnât stop there. âYouâre going to have to just deal with me doing what I do. I donât do hypocrisy or double standards. If you donât want me to do it, then donât do it yourself, period.â The seriousness with which you said that made him see red, his jaw clenching as his hands balled into fists at his sides, but even that didnât seem to affect you.
He opened his mouth as he pointed a finger at you, but you kept going. âIâm allowed to put myself in harmâs way for those I care about. Plain and simple. Iâm a hunter, Dean, just like you. You want to yell at me because I got hurt, fine. Then, when you get hurt, Iâll stay silent while I tend to your wounds because thatâs just how I am. You yelling is your way of showing how you care. When Iâm silently patching you or Sam up, thatâs how I show I care. Iâm not going to yell at you for protecting someone you care about.â There was a finality in your last statement that had Dean wanting so desperately to hate you.
Dean couldnât even find words to say something that would push you away, and that had pissed him off. You saw through him into the depths of the things he thought he kept hidden. The fact that you would let him yell at you, floored him. To him, he wasnât worth saving, wasnât worth protecting, wasnât worth being cared for, and he damn well wasnât worth getting hurt for. He wanted to yell at you, but he didnât have an argument now.
You just looked up at him with those eyes he had tried so hard not to get lost in since he and Sam had asked you to join them. Then there was how relaxed your expression was, like the cruel things he had said hadnât even affected you. You had effectively taken away the things he could use to keep you at arm's length, the things he would have used to push you away.Â
It hit him in that moment, and it scared the hell out of him, but all he did was glare down at you, enraged. âThis isnât over,â he told you in a low growl.
âYes, Dean, it is. You canât scare me away because I know youâll never hurt me,â you told him plainly, and the shock in his eyes left just as quickly as it appeared. All he could do was storm out of your room, slamming the door behind him.
The memory brought a small smile to his lips as he pulled you just that much closer. That was the night he realized he loved you and that you loved him, but it took him nearly another three years before he acted on it. The bluntness of your words back then had always shut him up, but it was mostly because of the kindness in your eyes as you spoke them.
You felt him relax further behind you, the warmth of his body and how his arm was draped across you was lulling you off to sleep as a soft smile found your lips. It was these moments where nothing else mattered. There were no monsters, no pressing apocalypse that had to be tended to, and no research left untouched in the library. This moment was a peaceful reprieve from the hardships that came with being a hunter.
As Dean drifted off to sleep, his thoughts were only of you. His last thought was always those three little words he hadnât been able to say to you, but he showed you in every way he could possibly imagine.
Like when heâd share his pie with you, feeding you pieces while he watched you smile and the light of wherever the two of you were sitting dance off your features.Â
When he would say something silly just to hear you laugh with that huge smile that reached both your eyes.
He couldnât tell you that when you would come up and hold him from behind while he was cooking, it instantly took the tension from his shoulders. So, he would hold you while you washed the dishes, hoping his closeness brought you the same feeling.
He couldnât tell you that you were his home, the place where his soul found peace, and all he ever had to do was look into your eyes or watch you doing some simple task. So, he had vowed that he would do everything he could, every day, to be your Home. Why? Because Dean wasnât good with words, but he could do actions, and those, those you could see. All he could do was hope that you felt them how he meant them because no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldnât say those three little words.
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