S0urw00lf

The first thing you become aware of is warmth.

Not the distant, fleeting warmth of a sunbeam through a window, but something all-encompassing. A solid, radiating heat that seeps into your very bones. It's the kind of warmth that makes you want to burrow deeper, to press yourself closer to its source and never move again.

The second thing you become aware of is that you can't move.

Not in a panicked, trapped sort of way, no, this is something else entirely. Your limbs feel like they've been filled with lead, heavy and unresponsive, and there's a fog in your brain that makes the simple act of thinking feel like wading through honey. Your eyelids are impossibly heavy, and the world beyond them is dark and soft and quiet.

But you're warm. And you're safe.

Because you're in someone's arms.

You can feel them around you. Strong, solid arms wrapped around your body, holding you close with a gentleness that borders on reverence. There's a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, a rhythmic heartbeat that you can feel through the fabric of someone's shirt. Your head is tucked into the curve of someone's neck, your body cradled against someone's chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.

And you are so, so comfortable.

Some distant part of your brain tries to piece together how you ended up here. The last thing you remember is… nothing. There's a void where your memories should be, a black hole that swallows up any attempt to reach back and grasp at what came before this moment. It should probably scare you, the emptiness, the not-knowing.. but it doesn't. Not when you're this warm. Not when you're this safe.

A voice rumbles through the chest beneath your cheek, low and rough and achingly familiar.

"…and when you wake up, I'm gonna take you to that diner you like. The one with the pie that's almost as good as mine." A pause, and you feel the arms around you tighten just slightly, as if the speaker is trying to pull you impossibly closer. "Almost. Not quite. But close. And I'm gonna let you order whatever you want. Whatever you want, sweetheart. Even if it's the whole damn menu."

The voice is Dean's. You'd recognize it anywhere that gravelly rasp, that particular cadence that's become as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. But there's something different about it now. Something softer. Quieter. Like he's trying not to wake you, even as he speaks to you.

"Maybe we could even get Sam to come," Dean continues, and you can feel the vibration of his words in his chest, can feel the way his throat moves against your hair. "He'd bitch about the calories, but we could make him. It's good for him to get out. We could make it a thing. A whole thing. You, me, and Sammy. Like old times, except… except we've got you now, don't we?"

You feel a hand in your hair, stroking, petting, gentle fingers carding through the tangles with infinite patience.

"And when you wake up, I'm gonna teach you how to change the oil in the Impala. You've been asking me for months, and I keep putting it off. I know I do. That's on me. That's my bad. But I promise, sweetheart, soon as you open those eyes, we'll get you out there. Get your hands dirty. You'll love it. It's good, honest work. And it's a skill you should have."

A pause. The hand in your hair stills for a moment before resuming its gentle motion.

"Or maybe we'll do something else. Something you want. You tell me what you want, and we'll do it. We'll do anything. Anything you want, sweet girl. Just… just wake up. Please. Please, just…"

His voice breaks on the last word, and you feel a shudder run through his body, a tremor that he tries to hide by pulling you even closer.

"I'm sorry." he whispers, and his voice is so raw, so broken, that something in your chest aches. "I'm so sorry I never said it. I was gonna say it. I was gonna tell you how much you mean to me, how much you matter, how you're-" He chokes on the words, swallows hard. "How you're the best thing that's happened to us in a long damn time. But I kept putting it off. I kept thinking we had time. I kept thinking tomorrow, next week, next month. I was gonna tell you, I swear I was gonna tell you."

His hand moves from your hair to your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.

"And when you wake up, I'm gonna tell you. Every single day. I'm gonna tell you until you're sick of hearing it, until you're rolling your eyes at me and telling me to shut up already. I don't care. I don't care if you think it's stupid or embarrassing or whatever. I'm gonna say it. I'm gonna say it because you need to know. You need to know that you're- that you're ours. That you're family. That you're mine."

Another pause. His breathing is uneven, shaky.

"And when you wake up, I'm gonna—" He stops, and you feel him press his lips to the top of your head, a kiss so tender it makes your heart flutter. "I'm gonna hold you just like this. For as long as you'll let me. And I'm not gonna let go. I'm never gonna let go again."

You've been trying to process his words through the fog in your brain, but they're not making sense. Nothing is making sense. Why is Dean crying? Why does he sound so broken? Why is he talking about you waking up like it's not an inevitability, like it's something he's desperately hoping for?

But the warmth is so nice, and his voice is so soothing, and you're so comfortable.

So you snuggle closer to him.

It's an involuntary movement, one you don't even think about. Just the natural response of your body seeking more comfort, more warmth, more of this incredible feeling of being held and safe and loved. You burrow your face deeper into his neck, your nose pressing against his skin, and you let out a tiny sigh of contentment.

The arms around you freeze.

For a moment, nothing happens. Dean's body goes completely still, his breath catching in his throat. The hand on your back stops moving. The heart beneath your cheek stutters, skips a beat.

Then his grip tightens—so suddenly, so fiercely, that it almost hurts. His arms crush you against his chest, and you feel his whole body start to tremble.

"Sweetheart?" His voice cracks on the word, so high and desperate that you barely recognize it. "Sweetheart, are you- can you hear me? Are you—"

His arms relax a fraction, and he pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, you suppose. You can feel his gaze on your face, can sense the intensity of it even through your closed eyes.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is shaking. "Hey, sweet girl. Are you awake? Can you hear me? Give me something, baby. Please. Please give me something."

You want to answer him. You want to open your eyes, to tell him that you're here, that you're okay, that everything is fine. But your eyelids are so heavy, and your body is so heavy, and you can't seem to find the words. Your throat feels like sandpaper, your tongue like a dead weight in your mouth.

But you can do this much: you can hum.

It's barely a sound, a tiny vibration in your throat that you're not even sure he can hear. But you try, and you try, and eventually, a tiny "mm" escapes your lips.

Dean makes a sound like he's been gutted.

"Sam.." His voice is ragged, desperate. "Sam! SAM! SAMMY!"

There's a crash somewhere in the distance, the sound of something falling, and then the pounding of footsteps. They're rushing, frantic, and they're getting closer.

"DEAN?!" Sam's voice is panicked, breathless. "Dean, what's wrong?! Is she-"

"She's awake!" Dean's shouting now, his voice cracking on every other word. "She's conscious! SAMMY, SHE'S AWAKE! SHE HUMMED! I HEARD HER!"

New hands touch you. Larger hands, gentler hands. They brush your hair back from your forehead, and you feel a palm cup your cheek, tilting your face up slightly.

"Hey," Sam says, and his voice is so soft, so careful. "Hey, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me? Can you try?"

His thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you lean into the touch without thinking. It's instinctive: the way you tilt your head, the way you press your cheek more firmly into his palm, the way you let out another tiny hum of contentment.

Dean makes a sound that's almost a sob.

"You saw that. You saw that, right?" He's babbling now, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She leaned into your hand—Sam. SAM. Did you see that?!"

"Dean." Sam's voice is strained, trying to be calm even as his hand trembles against your cheek. "Dean, I need you to breathe. You're gonna scare her."

"I'm not- I'm not trying to-" Dean's voice falters. "I just—she's awake. She's actually awake. After three days. After.."

Three days? The words echoes in your foggy brain, but you can't make sense of it. Three days of what? Why have you been asleep for three days?

But it's hard to focus on that, because Dean is moving again. He's pulling you back against his chest, and then there are hands in your hair and lips pressed to your forehead and a voice whispering, "She's awake. She's awake. Oh god, she's awake."

And then there are kisses. So many kisses. Pressed to your forehead, your temples, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. Dean's lips are warm and soft and trembling, and he's making sounds that are almost coos, almost baby talk, his voice dropping into that low, purring rumble that he only ever uses when you're sick or upset or having a nightmare.

"Open your eyes," he murmurs against your skin. "Come on, sweet girl. Open those pretty eyes for me. Let me see them. Let me see those beautiful eyes."

His hand strokes your hair, gentle and soothing. "You can do it, baby. I know you can. Just a little bit. Just open them for me. Show me those eyes. Let me see you. Come on, sweetheart. Come on."

You want to. You want to so badly. Because Dean's voice is like honey, dripping into your brain and melting through the fog, and you can feel how much he needs this, how badly he needs you to respond.

So you try.

It takes everything you have. Your eyelids feel like they're weighted down with lead, like someone has glued them shut. Every muscle in your face protests the effort. But you push through it, ignoring the resistance, forcing your eyes open.

The world swims into focus in pieces. First, blurred shapes and indistinct colors. Then, gradually, sharpening into something recognizable.

Dean's face is the first thing you see.

He's beautiful like this—even with his eyes red and swollen, even with tears streaming down his cheeks, even with his nose running and his lips swollen from crying. He's beautiful because he's looking at you like you're a miracle, like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen, like you've just saved his life by opening your eyes.

"There you are," he breathes, and his voice cracks on the words. "There you are, sweet girl. There you are."

His grip on you tightens to the point of almost-pain, and you feel him start to shake.

"Sam-" His voice is strangled, broken. "Sammy—Sammy she's opening her eyes. Sam, look- oh my god, look at her- Sam."

"Dean." Sam's voice is a warning, a plea. "Dean, you're going to scare her. Take a breath."

"I don't care!" Dean's voice rises, cracking and breaking. "I don't care! She's awake! She's actually awake! She came back to me!"

And then he's crying.

Not just tearing up, not just a few tears slipping down his cheeks. No. Dean is crying. Ugly, messy, wrenching sobs that shake his entire body. His face crumples, his breath hitching and stuttering, and he buries his teary and snotty face in your hair and holds you so tightly that you can barely breathe.

But you don't want to breathe. You want to stay right here, in his arms, with his tears soaking into your hair and his heart pounding against your cheek and his voice whispering broken, desperate things.

"I thought you were gone-" he chokes out. "I thought you were never gonna wake up. I thought—I thought I'd never get to see you again. I thought-"

"Dean-" Sam's voice is thick, and when you turn your head slightly, you can see that he's crying too, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, his jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together. "Dean, c'mon, you're gonnaa suffocate her."

"don't care." Dean sputters weakly, but he loosens his grip just a fraction, enough for you to take a deep breath. "don't care. m'never letting her go again. Never. She's not going anywhere."

You're so confused. You don't understand why they're crying. You don't understand why Dean is holding you like you're going to disappear. You don't understand what happened, what could have happened to make them so upset.

But you understand this: they're upset, and you want to make it better.

So you smile.

It's a tiny smile, barely there, just a slight upturn of your lips. But it's enough. It's enough to make Dean freeze, to make him pull back and look at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Did you just-" He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Did you just smile at me?"

You try to speak, but your throat is too dry, and all that comes out is another tiny hum. But you keep smiling. You keep looking up at him with all the love you can muster, with all the adoration and affection and gratitude you feel for this broken, beautiful man who took you in and made you family.

And Dean breaks all over again.

"Oh, baby." he whimpers, and it's the most broken sound you've ever heard. "Baby, I love you so much. I love you so fucking much."

The words hit you like a physical blow, taking your breath away. Dean has never said that to you before. He's never said those words to anyone, as far as you know. He's been so careful to keep his heart guarded, to keep his feelings locked away where no one can hurt them.

But he's saying them now. He's saying them to you.

"I should have told you," he continues, the words spilling out like a dam has broken. "I should have told you every single day. But I was scared. I was so scared. I thought if I said it, if I made it real, I'd jinx it. I'd lose you. And I couldn't—I can't lose you. You're everything. You're everything to me, sweetheart."

Your eyes are getting heavy again, the weight of consciousness pressing down on you. But you fight it, forcing them to stay open, because every time you blink, Dean's face crumples a little more, and you can't bear to see him cry again.

Sam must sense your struggle, because he moves closer, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. "It's okay, honey." he says softly, tearyly. "You can rest. We're here. We're not going anywhere."

"No." Dean says quickly, his voice sharp with panic. "No, nono, she can't—she just woke up. She can't go back to sleep. She can't-"

"Dean..." Sam's voice is firm but gentle. "She's exhausted. She needs to rest. Her body needs to heal."

"But what if she doesn't wake up again?" Dean's voice breaks on the question, and you feel his grip on you tighten. "What if she-"

"She will." Sam's hand moves from your hair to Dean's shoulder, squeezing. "She's strong. She's a fighter. And she knows we're here waiting for her. So she'll come back."

Dean shakes his head, burying his face in your hair again. "I can't lose her, Sam. I can't. She's all- she's everything. She's the only good thing I've ever- the only good thing that's come outta me is her-"

"Don't," Sam cuts him off, his voice sharp. "Don't do that. Don't talk about yourself like that. You know she doesn't want you to."

Dean doesn't respond, just holds you tighter and cries into your hair.

The fog is getting thicker, pulling you down into its depths. You want to stay awake, want to be here with them, but your body is so heavy and your eyes are so tired and the warmth is so encompassing.

But before you let yourself drift off, you manage one more thing. One more tiny gesture.

You lift your hand, it takes so much effort, so much concentration, and you reach up. Your fingers find Dean's cheek, trembling and clumsy, and you pat him softly.

It's the best you can do. A tiny pat, a gesture of comfort, as if to say I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. It's okay.

Dean's breath hitches. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your palm more firmly against his cheek.

"Oh, sweetheart.." he whispers, and his voice is so full of love that it makes your heart ache. "Oh, my sweet, sweet girl..."

And then the world goes dark.

You wake up again sometime later.

You don't know how long it's been. The fog is still there, but it's thinner now, less suffocating. Your eyelids are still heavy, but they're not as impossible to open as they were before.

And you're still in Dean's arms.

He's lying down now, you realize. Stretched out on what feels like a bed, with you cradled against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other resting on your back. And he's asleep, his breathing deep and even, his heart a steady rhythm beneath your ear.

You can see Sam, too, if you turn your head slightly. He's sitting in a chair next to the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. But he's not asleep. You can tell by the way his fingers are twitching, the way his brow is furrowed.

He must sense you watching, because his eyes snap open, and when they meet yours, his face breaks into a smile so bright it nearly rivals the sun.

"Hey, sweetheart." he says softly, and his voice is warm and gentle and full of love. "Welcome back."

You try to smile at him, but you're so tired, and it comes out as more of a grimace. But Sam seems to understand, because he reaches out and brushes your hair back from your forehead.

"Take it slow," he murmurs. "There's no rush. Just rest. Dean's got you, and I'm right here. We're not going anywhere."

You want to ask what happened. You want to know why you're here, why Dean and Sam are so upset, why everything feels so strange and off.

But you're so tired. And you're so warm. And Dean's arms are so secure around you.

So you let your eyes drift closed, let yourself sink back into the fog. And you feel Sam's hand on your cheek, and Dean's heart beneath your ear, and you know, you know, that everything is going to be okay.

Because you're home.

You don't remember the hunt. You don't remember the monster that attacked you, or the wounds that nearly killed you, or the two hours that Dean and Sam spent fighting to keep you alive until the doctor could arrive.

You don't remember the three days you spent unconscious, your body fighting to heal itself while Dean refused to leave your side.

You don't remember the doctor's grim prognosis, the words "there's really no way to know if she'll wake up" echoing through the bunker like a death sentence.

You don't remember the way Dean held you for the first two days, his fingers constantly checking your pulse, his ear pressed to your chest to make sure you were still breathing.

You don't remember the way he broke down on the third day, crying into your hair and begging you to come back to him.

But you remember this.

You remember the warmth of his arms around you. You remember the sound of his voice, low and soft and so full of love. You remember the feel of his lips on your forehead, the gentle touch of his hand in your hair.

And you remember the words he said.

"I love you so much. I love you so fucking much."

You're not sure when Dean Winchester became your family. You're not sure when this gruff, broken hunter softened around you, when his harsh words grew gentler and his volume dropped to a purry rumble. You're not sure when you became the sugar in his bitter coffee, the light in his dark world.

But you're grateful for it. You're grateful for every moment of it.

And as you drift in and out of consciousness, wrapped in Dean's arms with Sam close by, you realize something.

This is what family feels like. This is what it means to be loved.

And you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

The next time you fully wake up, Dean is already awake.

He's looking down at you with red-rimmed eyes, his face haggard and drawn, but there's a smile on his lips. A real smile, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners.

"Hey, sweet girl.." he says softly. "There you are."

You try to speak, and this time, your throat isn't quite as dry. "Dean-" you croak. "Whu… what happened?"

His face flickers, something dark and painful passing through his eyes before he masks it. "You don't remember?"

You shake your head weakly.

He exhales slowly, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. "That's okay. You don't need to remember. All that matters is that you're okay. You're here. You're alive."

"I'm- I'm sorry.." you whisper, because you can see how much this has affected him, can see the shadows under his eyes and the tremor in his hands. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Hey." His voice is firm, but not harsh. "Don't you dare apologize. Don't you ever apologize for this. You didn't do anything wrong. You got hurt, and we couldn't get you to a hospital, and we had to fight like hell to keep you alive. That's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

"But you were crying.." you say, and your voice cracks on the words. "You were crying because of me."

Dean's face softens. "Yeah, sweetheart. I was crying. Because I thought I was gonna lose you. And that's… that's terrifying. You're so important to me. To us. You have no idea."

"I love you too." you say, because you need him to know. Because he said it first, and you need to say it back. "I love you. Both of you. You're my family."

Dean makes a sound like he's been punched. His face crumples, and he pulls you close, burying his face in your hair.

"I love you too, sweetheart," he chokes out. "I love you too. So much. Don't ever forget that. Don't ever forget how much you mean to me."

You feel Sam's hand on your shoulder, warm and solid. When you look up, he's crying again, silent tears tracking down his cheeks.

"We love you." he says softly. "You're our family. And we're never going to let anything happen to you again."

You reach up and take Sam's hand, squeezing weakly. You reach up with your other hand and touch Dean's cheek, patting him softly.

And you smile.

"I'm okay," you say. "I'm okay. You don't have to worry anymore."

Dean laughs—a broken, wet laugh that's half-sob. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm always gonna worry. That's what family does."

He presses a kiss to your forehead, and Sam squeezes your hand, and you realize that this is it. This is what it feels like to be loved.

It's the best feeling in the world.

Dear God or whoever is above, please take away this hangover, and I will never drink again, you thought for the hundredth time in this lifetime, sighing as you looked at the ceiling, as if asking for strength to face the day. It was a bit audacious to ask for some help after putting yourself in this situation in the first place. Still, never hurts to try.

You slumped further into your dad’s desk before fishing your phone out of your jean pocket to kill some time. Bobby was out on a hunt today, and you were assigned to research duty. So here you were nursing a migraine in the sanctuary of your father’s office, all curtains drawn shut and only the dimmest lamp available turned on.

You were scrolling through your text messages, making sure you did not miss anything important, when your eyes caught the name of that specific person who triggered your memory from last night. Groaning with embarrassment, you put down your phone face down on the desk, wishing the Advil would kick in soon.

“What the fuck, Jo?” You scoffed before shaking your head incredulously. “You’re crazy.”

“Why, can’t do it?” Jo grinned widely as she leaned in closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “You need more liquid courage for such a simple task?”

Your eyebrow ticked at the challenge as you took a swig of your ice-cold beer. “It’s not that I can’t do it. It’s just that it’s stupid and very unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? We’re doing this for fun, and you’re fun, right?” When she did not get any confirmation from you, she stuck her tongue out and gave you a very enthusiastic thumbs-down. “Boo! You’ve changed. You’re a coward now.”

“I am not!” You cried out defensively before you finished your bottle and placed it on the bar with a dull thud.

“Prove it then.” The blonde got your phone and held it out to you. “Call the guy or girl—we’re open for anything here—that you find cute and tell them about their features that you find very attractive.”

“There’s no one cute in my contacts, so…” You trailed off in the hope of escaping this very silly, very high-school-like dare.

But Jo did not back down, her hand steady between you two. The music from the jukebox was the only thing you could hear inside the roadhouse. It was playing a Led Zeppelin song, and you felt like it was mocking you. You and Jo were locked in a battle of stubbornness now, or childishness, to be precise. She raised an eyebrow at you, daring you to do it. Well, the alcohol in your system seemed to have choked your rational side to death thirty minutes ago.

“Fuck it, fine.” You said in an irritated, defeated tone as you snatched your phone away.

It took you a couple of blinks to clear the haze in your vision as you scrolled through the names in your contact list. You already had a name in mind, but you kept scrolling past it, refusing to acknowledge it. He had always crossed your mind lately, especially when he started dropping by your house.

Visiting your dad to consult about demonology and other lore; wearing that stupid leather jacket and that equally stupid smirk. His car was the only good thing about him… and maybe those stupid long lashes, as well.

You’d rather die than admit that out loud.

But… what was there to admit if he was just a friend? Hell, he might as well be a work friend. Yeah, work friend, that checked out.

Clearing your throat, you clicked his name and called fast enough to prevent Jo from seeing the screen. When it started to ring, you felt a sudden twist in your gut, which you blamed on the five bottles of beer you had already consumed. Not the work friend who happened to be very attractive.

“Oh, for the love of… move away, Jo!” You groaned loudly as your best friend leaned over your side, sticking her ear near your phone. You tried to push her off, but the girl was determined.

“Yeah?” His gruff voice cut the third ring.

“Oh my god, Dean?! You find him cu—” Your hand flew to her mouth before she could spill anything.

“Shut up, Harvelle!” You hissed and glared at her, which immediately turned into a wrestling match of arms as Jo tried to pull your hand away from her mouth.

“Is this a bad time?” Dean then called out your name teasingly, making you freeze right away.

“What? Uh… no.” You let your hand drop before giving the blonde beside you a pointed look as a warning.

“Alright.” His chuckle almost tickled your ear; it was ridiculous. “So, what’s up?”

“Nothing much. Just calling to um… tell you that…” Okay, maybe you did not have this planned out. There wasn’t even a plan in the first place, just pure inhibited recklessness. “Me and Jo are having a drink… of beer, you know, your favorite.”

Your best friend was staring at you with an agape mouth, clearly stunned and delighted at how you were babbling and losing your cool.

“Go say hi, Jo!” You pushed your phone near her mouth, playing dirty to move the attention to her for a bit as you recuperated.

“Heya, Dean!” She greeted a little too loudly, considering how close the mouthpiece was. “We were just talking about you, and my girl here was just telling me about her favorite thing about you.”

“Oh, yeah? What did she say?” He clearly sounded entertained on the other end of the line, enjoying a couple of intoxicated ladies and their intrusive thoughts.

You gave your friend a death glare as she handed your phone back. Bitch was smart, using your own defense to bring you to your demise. “Ignore her, Dean. She’s drunk.” Saying his name made your chest clench like you were saying something taboo.

“But I wanna know.” The bastard joined the game.

Jo instantly exploded in a series of squeals and giggles like a freaking sixteen-year-old. It made you kick her leg with your boot, which she did not find threatening at all as she egged you on to fulfill the man’s request.

“Don’t encourage the girl.” You rolled your eyes before hopping down the stool and flipping off your best friend as you walked out of the bar. Suddenly, you needed fresh air to think and breathe, to be honest.

It took him a while to answer back, giving you a chance to listen to the soft hum of a car’s engine. “Late-night drive?” You inquired casually as you sat down on the front steps of the roadhouse. Also taking the chance to change the topic.

“Hmm?” He replied, a bit distracted. “Yeah, on our way to a job.”

“Demons?” You hoped not.

“Nah, just your classic old ghost.”

“I see, that’s nice. I mean, not nice nice. At least it’s something you have handled before.” Something safer, you thought before collecting yourself. “Well, I’m sorry we disturbed you, especially while you’re driving and all…” You trailed off, preparing for a ‘no worries’ and a ‘bye’.

“I don’t mind. Kept me awake, to be honest. Sam already dozed off hours ago.”

“Oh…”

You were clearly taken aback. His response was not among your list of probable answers, rendering you speechless. You were not sure if you should be the one to say goodbye and drop the call. Instead, you waited for a bit and followed his lead.

He stayed on the line, despite not speaking. All you could hear was the hum of the moving car, the occasional mechanical click as he shifted gears, and his relaxed breathing. There was a familiar tune playing on the radio, and you immediately addressed it, desperate to break the sudden intimacy of the call.

“That’s the same song playing in the jukebox here a while ago.”

“You liked it?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“It’s… alright.” You shrugged as you began to pull at the fabric of your pants.

“Alright? Just alright?” He let out an offended scoff at your feedback. “That’s it, I’ll bring you some tapes when we drop by your house next time. That might change your mind.”

Next time, such a dangerous thought. “We’ll see…”

“Now I am motivated.” You can tell that he liked the challenge just by the way he talked and laughed.

You heard him turn up the radio in the background. “Convincing me already?”

“Maybe,” He murmured, a little bit lower than before, making your heart skip a beat.

You both fell into silence again, the sound of the wind and music accompanying both your nights. If you closed your eyes, it was almost too easy to convince yourself that you were inside his car. But of course, you’re not stupid enough to cross that line… right?

Wrong.

“It’s your eyes, you know?” You mumbled as you rested your cheek on your knee, feeling vulnerable after midnight.

“What are you—”

“What Jo was talking about earlier. My favorite thing about you…”

You had no idea if you should’ve said that or not, but the combination of the alcohol in your veins and the late-night call felt special. It was like both of you were in your own private bubble. You heard a faint exhale and chuckle from the other line.

That doesn’t sound bad, right? Before you could overthink it, a yawn broke from your lips.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. Thanks for keeping me company.”

Sweetheart, the nickname was like a slap of sobriety. You knew Dean used that for almost everyone, but the softness of how he said it caught you off guard. It made you so flustered that you were spouting nonsense the next second.

“Uh y-yeah, good night to you too, sweetheart!” You squeaked before cutting off the call prematurely. It took all your willpower not to throw your phone across the country.

Jesus fucking Christ, get a hold of yourself.

Your hands flew to your face before you let out a scream while kicking your feet. The shame of what you had done was almost physically painful. You dropped your head on the wooden desk with a dull thud as you prayed that you might not see, hear, or even smell Dean Winchester any time soon.

After a few minutes of simmering on your humiliation, the call you were waiting for from Bobby finally came through. Without raising your head, you grabbed your phone and answered the call.

“Hey, daddy,” You called your father that nickname whenever you ain’t feeling like your best self. Maybe you could coerce him to buy some ice cream on his way home.

“Whoa there, slow down with the pet names.” That was definitely not your father.

You bolted upright before looking at the screen of your phone.

“Dean!” You wanted to bury yourself in your dad’s yard. “I thought you were Bobby. I-I… um, do you need any help with the lore or something?” You tried to transition into professionalism as you fumbled with the books sprawled in front of you.

“No, I’m just waiting for Sam to finish up in the library.” There was still a hint of amusement in his voice as he responded. “Just thought I might check on you if you got home safe after last night since you sounded a little drunk.”

“Well, scratch off ‘a little’, and then you’re pretty spot on. But yeah, I got home safe this morning.” You wanted to say ‘thanks for worrying’, but it felt a bit too much.

He hummed before speaking again. “After we finished up with the case here, want to go for a drive?”

“A drive?” You repeated, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, a drive.”

You blinked before letting go of your denial and whispering, “Sure.”

“Awesome.” A short pause. “Maybe you can have your chance to stare at my eyes too.”

“Oh my God, Dean!” You cried out loudly, mortified at his teasing. “I’m not having this, bye.” You dropped the call while he was in mid-snicker.

"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"