S0urw00lf

"Morning, cowboy"

Dean looked up from his coffee just in time to catch your sleepy smile as you shuffled into the kitchen. "Morning" He answers automatically, voice still a bit raspy from snoring all night.

You reached around him to grab a mug, gently bumping his shoulder in the process. "You make enough for me too?"

"Yeah" He grunts, still too busy downing his coffee– after all he is one of those Facebook soccer moms that says nobody can talk to him until he gets caffeine in his body in the mornings.

"Mhm… Thanks De, you're the best" And just like that, you disappeared down the hallway with your mug as if nothing had even happened, leaving Dean rooted to the kitchen floor and confused little frown on his pretty face.

Sam didn't even bother looking up from his cereal– some disgusting all-bran, zero sugar, fully wheat, no happiness concoction he swears by. "Y’know, for a guy who's killed demons, you're surprisingly easy to catch off guard"

Dean frowned, the previous sleepy haze disappearing into dumbfounded offense– how dare Sammy question his guarded-ness. "What?"

"Morning, cowboy" The youngest Winchester mimics your voice, weirdly accurately by the way. "Yeah" He pitched his voice even lower than his usual tone, making it gruffer to mock his brother’s drawl. "You're the best" Sam snorted at his own (not so) clever jokes. "You looked like someone unplugged your brain there, dude"

Dean immediately gets defensive because what the Hell is he even talking about?

 Actually, this whole thing about you calling him ‘cowboy’ started a couple days ago after catching him rewatching The Good, the Bad and the Ugly for what might’ve been the fifth time since you’d met him– you’re pretty sure Clint Eastwood’s his favorite person ever. Back then, you’d teased him about owning (which was weird enough by itself– who even has movie CDs anymore?) more westerns than anyone under sixty. "Y’know you're basically a cowboy trapped in the twenty-first century, right?"

Dean had just rolled his eyes, chuckling at the joke like he always did– he was used to people (Sam mostly) teasing him about his… peculiar obsession with everything-cowboy.

Ever since then, the nickname stuck. The important thing though, is that it isn't ironic anymore– at first, maybe? You guess it might’ve been, but then it just kinda became his name. "Grab that for me will ya, cowboy?" … "Thanks, cowboy" … "Drive safe, cowboy" Which to Dean, somehow feels infinitely more intimate than just his government name.

Sure, yeah, he loves being fussed over. Sue him! Growing up he was his father’s afterthought, that man couldn’t care less about what happened to him. So now, finally having people who genuinely love him and care about his wellbeing? Hell yeah. But having that plus having his cowboy “fetish” fed is frigging awesome.

He's had nicknames his whole life: Winchester, apex predator, jerk, idjit, douchebag, assbutt… None of them ever made his chest feel all warm and swollen with pride. But cowboy? God that hit him right in the chest. You say it like you're fond of him– like the word itself has become so intimately entwined with him, that you don’t know where the nickname ends and he starts.

Sam (ever the meddling little brother he is) obviously chooses to mess with Dean about it whenever he has a chance– especially whenever he catches him smiling to himself. "Y’know why she calls you that, right?" Dean shrugs, trying his very best to hold onto that unphased-hunter facade. "It’s because you're obsessed with westerns, man"

"Your point?"

Sam just looks at him for a second, caught between amusement and bewilderment. (Like he usually was when dealing with his brother, to be fair) "...You think it's hot?”

Dean nearly spits out his beer, coughing harshly into his fist while hitting his chest to catch his breath. "Dude– What? No!"

"Right… Then why do you smile every single time?"

"Like Hell I do" The blonde retorts defensively, stubborn as ever because of course he is– he’s Dean Winchester after all.

"Dean" Sam dead-pans, giving him one of those deeply unimpressed looks of his.

The eldest Winchester takes a sip of his beer. (Half to keep himself busy, half to ignore his brother’s teasing) "...Shut up"

It’s half-hearted and grumbling, because truly– it’s not about Dean thinking cowboy is a sexy nickname. It’s about you noticing something about him, feeling seen. Something objectively small, something nobody else would've second-guessed. You saw this nerdy love for westerns and decided to turn it into something affectionate– that's what really gets him every single time.

A couple weeks later, Dean had a rough hunt– he's exhausted, bruised and just overall drained. He’s sitting on the edge of a table, not quite relaxed yet but clearly relieved to be back home after a demanding day’s worth of work. You walk over with two beers, one already ready for him. "You okay there, cowboy?"

No jokes, no sarcasm, no teasing– just that soft, familiar concern. Dean looks over at you, a small, grateful smile on his lips as he grabs the bottle from your hand. "...Yeah"

"You sure?" You’ve learned to ask at least twice with these Winchester men– idiots could be bleeding out and still insist it’s ‘all good’ unless you double down and pressure them to be honest. He nods and you gently squeeze his shoulder, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "Alright" You head back towards your room before he can say anything.

Dean watches you go with this tiny smile, all soft and dazed– the previous exhaustion briefly forgotten. Sam, who's of course witnessed the whole thing from the library’s doorway, just sighs. "Dude… You are so unbelievably gone"