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"About You, I Surrender." (full chapter list/links below)

Chapter One: Blunt Looks

Chapter Two: Antiques & Oddities

Chapter Three: I Missed You Too

Chapter Four: Sing My Praises

Oneshots:

i swear i cannot find ANY between here and AO3…so i’ll just have to write it myself

destiel one shot!

overview: dean winchester cannot outrun the belief that giving into his feelings for the pretty angel makes him weak. if only cas was a woman…but dean wouldn’t change a thing about his vessel, so did he really need to be in a female body? or did dean need to get over his internalized bullshit? castiel knew the answer, but he also knew that acceptance meant the empty. (aka dean can’t handle rejection and castiel can’t handle a distraught winchester)

tw: internalized homophobia, resuscitation

Word Count: 4.5k

Dean had spent most of his life turning feelings into violence.

Fear became a cracked knuckle against a bony jaw. Grief became whiskey. Love—well. Love became something buried so deep under sarcasm and flirtation and righteous anger that sometimes even Dean forgot it was there. 

But Castiel had a habit of digging up impossible things.

It started slowly enough that Dean could pretend it wasn’t happening. Cas lingering too long beside him in motel rooms. The weight of Cas’s gaze when Dean laughed. The way Cas always chose the seat closest to him in diners even when there were booths with more space. The way Dean’s chest tightened whenever Cas looked hurt.

It got worse after Purgatory, after Chuck, after every apocalypse survived side by side until Dean woke one morning and realized there was no version of peace in his head that didn’t include Castiel sitting beside him at the kitchen table. 

And that realization terrified him.

Because Dean Winchester knew exactly what happened to people like him.

Not in the literal sense—he’d hunted monsters too long to care about the opinions of strangers—but in the deep-rooted, ugly way that lived in his bones. The way John Winchester had scoffed at men who were “soft.” The way Dean learned early that survival meant being hard, loud, untouchable.

So he fought it.

God, he fought it.

He snapped at Cas over stupid things. Picked fights. Left rooms when Cas got too close. Drank until the thoughts blurred at the edges. Sometimes he’d catch Cas watching him with this quiet, wounded confusion and hate himself so fiercely it felt like peeling skin from bone.

And Cas never pushed.

That almost made it worse.

Because Castiel loved him enough to let him run.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The night Dean finally admitted it to himself was painfully ordinary.

Rain hammered the bunker. Sam was asleep. Dean sat alone in the kitchen with a beer growing warm between his palms while Castiel stood at the sink washing blood from his hands after a hunt.

Domestic.

That was the word that hit Dean like a truck.

Not angel. Not warrior. Not savior.

Domesticated.

Cas’s shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His hair was damp from rain. There was a tiny cut near his wrist healing slowly beneath the flickering bunker light.

And Dean looked at him and thought:

I could do this forever.

The realization cracked something open inside him.

“Cas,” he said suddenly.

Castiel turned. “Yes?”

Dean’s throat closed.

Twenty years of fear clawed up his spine. Every ugly thing he’d ever learned about himself screamed at him to shut up, laugh it off, leave.

Instead he stood.

“I—” Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Man, this is stupid.”

Castiel’s expression softened instantly. “Dean—”

“No, lemme say it.” His voice shook violently now, which was humiliating. “I’ve been trying real hard not to… not to have this happen.”

“Have what happen?”

Dean laughed once, sharp and miserable. “You seriously don’t know?”

Castiel went still.

And Dean saw it then—that terrible flicker of understanding in Cas’s eyes.

The hope.

Dean’s heart nearly stopped.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Dean whispered. “I can’t keep pretending you’re not…” He swallowed hard. “Everything.”

Castiel stared at him like the world had ended.

Dean stepped closer before he could lose his nerve.

“Cas.”

The name came out wrecked.

Castiel backed away.

Just one step.

But it hit like a gunshot.

Dean froze. “What?”

“I can’t,” Castiel said softly.

The hope inside Dean died so fast it almost made him dizzy.

“Oh.” He laughed again, this time bitter. “Okay. Right.”

“Dean—”

“No, no, that’s—” Dean took a sharp breath and stepped back. “That’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

Because Dean had ripped himself open for this. He had clawed through years of self-hatred and terror and shame just to stand here and say it out loud.

And Cas was looking at him like Dean was breaking his heart.

Which somehow made it worse.

“You know what?” Dean snapped. “Forget it.”

“Please listen to me.”

“No, screw that!” Anger rushed in to save him from humiliation. Familiar. Easy. “You don’t get to look at me like that after I just—”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what? Rejection?” Dean barked out a laugh. “Little late for that, buddy.”

Castiel flinched.

Dean instantly hated himself for it, but he was too hurt to stop.

“All this time,” Dean said, voice shaking, “all this damn time you let me think maybe—”

“I do love you.”

Dean went completely silent.

Cas looked devastated saying it.

“I love you more than anyone I have ever known,” Castiel whispered. “That is why I cannot have this.”

Dean stared at him helplessly.

“That makes no sense.”

Castiel’s eyes shone strangely blue in the dim kitchen light.

“The Empty made a deal with me,” he said. “The moment I allow myself true happiness… it will take me.”

The words landed slowly.

Dean blinked.

“What?”

“I knew the risk.”

Cas sounded calm. Too calm.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

“You’re saying if we…” He couldn’t finish.

“Yes.”

Something awful unfolded in Dean’s chest.

“So that’s it?” he said quietly. “You just decided for both of us?”

“I decided to stay here.”

Dean looked away sharply.

Because the alternative hurt too much.

“Right,” he muttered. “Good call.”

“Dean—”

“I said forget it.”

He walked out before Castiel could see how close he was to falling apart.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The bunker was silent for three days.

Dean avoided him with military precision.

If Cas entered a room, Dean left it.

If Cas spoke, Dean answered in clipped one-word replies.

It was cruel. Dean knew it was cruel.

But every time he looked at Castiel, he remembered that tiny step backward. That expression of grief. The feeling of finally reaching for something he wanted only to have it vanish.

And beneath all of it was another terrible truth:

Cas loved him back.

Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

So he buried it under anger and let the silence rot between them.

Castiel accepted it quietly.

Which somehow hurt most of all.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The letter appeared on Dean’s nightstand sometime after midnight.

Dean almost missed it.

He came back from a late drive exhausted and hollow, shrugging off his jacket before noticing the folded paper beside his lamp.

His name was written across the front in careful handwriting.

Dean frowned.

“Cas?”

No answer.

A strange unease crawled through him.

He picked up the letter.

Inside, the handwriting remained meticulous, but parts of the ink looked faintly smeared.

Dean,

There are many things I have never said because I did not know how. Humans speak so easily around love. They shape entire lives around it. Songs. Poems. Prayers. Angels were not made for that. Then I met you. You taught me that love is not weakness. It is sacrifice and fury and devotion. It is standing in the doorway when the world is ending and refusing to move. You once asked me why I rebelled for you. The truth is that I did not do it for Heaven, or humanity, or destiny. I did it because Dean Winchester has a beating heart.

Dean’s breathing turned shallow.

I think I loved you from the moment you handed me a hamburger and looked at me like I was the one worth saving. You are the kindest man I have ever known. 

Dean made a broken sound in the back of his throat.

Because no one had ever called him kind before.

Not really.

I know you cannot see yourself the way I see you. But every version of Heaven I ever would have wanted had you in it. When you spoke to me in the kitchen, I wanted nothing more than to say yes. But I am selfish enough to want more time with you, even if it is painful. I could endure your anger. I could not endure leaving you. Except now I believe I was wrong. Because losing you slowly has become unbearable.

Dean’s hands trembled violently now.

I think perhaps happiness was never something to fear. It was always you.

The hunter’s vision blurred.

At the bottom of the page, hurriedly, almost like an afterthought:

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

“Cas,” Dean whispered.

The bunker suddenly felt wrong.

Too quiet.

Dean spun toward the hallway just as footsteps approached his room.

Castiel stood in the doorway.

His eyes were red-rimmed. Human, almost.

Dean rose instantly. “Cas—”

“I am sorry,” Castiel said softly.

Fear punched through Dean’s chest.

“No.”

Castiel crossed the room before Dean could move away.

Dean barely had time to breathe before Cas cupped his face with trembling hands and kissed him.

It was gentle.

Terrible in its gentleness.

Dean felt every unsaid thing between them inside that kiss—years of longing, fear, devotion, grief.

Dean grabbed him desperately, kissing him back hard enough to hurt.

“Don’t,” Dean whispered against his mouth. “Don’t you dare—”

Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s.

For one perfect second, he looked happy.

Truly happy.

“I love you, Dean.”

The lights exploded.

Darkness poured through the room like liquid shadow.

Dean shouted as icy black tendrils wrapped around Castiel’s body.

“No! CAS!”

Castiel looked at him—not afraid, not regretful.

Just full of love.

Then the Empty swallowed him whole.

And he was gone.

The silence afterward was catastrophic.

Dean stood frozen in the wreckage of his room, breathing hard, staring at the place Castiel had been seconds before.

“No,” he whispered.

The letter slipped from his numb fingers.

Dean dropped to his knees.

At first he couldn’t understand what had happened. His mind refused to hold it together—the kiss, the shadows, Cas smiling at him like goodbye.

Then he eyed the letter on the floor once more.

I love you.

Understanding hit him all at once.

Cas hadn’t rejected him.

Cas had loved him so much he tried to survive it.

Dean made a sound unlike anything human.

And then he broke.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The Empty was not pain.

Castiel almost wished it had been.

Pain was measurable. Temporary. Even agony had shape and texture and meaning.

The Empty was absence.

No light.

No sound.

No movement.

No time.

Just endless black stretching in every direction until thought itself began to fray apart.

At first Castiel endured it quietly.

He had existed for millennia. Angels were made for endurance. He folded himself into the darkness and replayed memories of Dean like prayer beads between his fingers.

Dean laughing in the Impala.

Dean asleep at the bunker table with a book open on his chest.

Dean saying his name soft and fond and exasperated all at once.

Those memories kept him whole for a while.

But eternity is longer than love was ever meant to survive alone.

Eventually the silence began to move.

Castiel heard things first.

Dean calling his name from very far away.

Sometimes angry.

Sometimes terrified.

Sometimes so heartbreakingly gentle that Castiel curled tighter into himself trying not to listen.

“Cas…”

The voice echoed through the dark.

Castiel shut his eyes.

Hallucination.

The Empty fed on consciousness. It unraveled beings from the inside out. He had been warned once that eventually even angels dissolved into dreamless nothing.

Castiel thought perhaps he was reaching that point.

Still, the voice kept coming.

“I’m here, Cas.”

Sometimes Castiel answered before he could stop himself.

“Dean?”

Nothing replied.

Then the darkness would laugh.

Not literally. The Empty did not speak often. But Castiel could feel its amusement curling around him whenever hope surfaced.

Cruel thing.

Crueler still were the visions.

Dean standing a few feet away in the dark.

Dean reaching toward him.

Dean kneeling beside him saying, “I got you.”

Every single time Castiel touched him, Dean dissolved into black smoke.

After a while Castiel stopped trying.

He sat hunched in the endless dark with his forehead against his knees, muttering prayers to himself just to hear a voice.

Sometimes he forgot where he was.

Sometimes he forgot his own name.

But never Dean’s.

Never that.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Dean prayed every night.

At first it was desperate.

“Cas, if you can hear me, just—just give me something.”

Nothing answered.

Then the prayers became conversational.

Dean talked while driving.

While fixing the Impala.

While lying awake at three in the morning staring at bunker ceilings.

He talked because the silence after Cas vanished had become unbearable.

“I found another reference to the Empty today,” Dean muttered one night, elbows braced against the library table. “Apparently reapers are scared of it. Which, awesome. Love that for us.”

He rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

Three months.

Three months since Cas disappeared.

Dean looked awful now. Hollow-eyed. Unshaven. Running on caffeine and obsession.

Sam had stopped arguing with him weeks ago.

Because this wasn’t about romance anymore.

Dean would’ve cut his own heart out if it meant saving Cas from that place.

No one deserved eternity in nothingness.

Especially not Cas.

“Anyway,” Dean whispered, voice rough, “if you hear this… hang on, okay?”

His throat tightened.

“Please hang on.”

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Castiel heard every prayer.

That was the worst part.

At first they arrived faintly, like echoes through deep water.

Then stronger.

Dean’s voice wrapping around him in the dark.

Castiel clung to those moments desperately.

Until eventually he stopped trusting them.

Because hallucinations evolve.

They become detailed.

Convincing.

Cruel.

And Dean’s voice was too perfect.

Too warm.

Too Dean.

So Castiel began answering the darkness instead.

“I know you are not real,” he whispered one endless stretch of non-time.

The imagined Dean beside him smiled sadly.

“Okay, Cas.”

“You are only something my mind created because I miss him.”

“That sounds dumb enough to be something Dean Winchester would say.”

Castiel laughed weakly despite himself.

Then sobbed afterward because even his hallucinations sounded like Dean.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

It was a hunter’s doctor in Nebraska who finally gave Dean the idea.

The man’s name was Roy Granger, an aging medic who had restarted more dead hunters than most hospitals managed in a decade.

“You’re insane,” Roy informed him flatly.

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

“This could fry your brain.”

“Probably.”

“You could just die.”

Dean looked down at the worn paper of Castiel’s letter folded in his jacket pocket.

“Then I die.”

Roy stared at him a long moment.

Then sighed heavily.

“Alright, Winchester. But if your ghost starts haunting my house, I’m salting your ass personally.”

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The operating room was really just an abandoned clinic basement lit by buzzing fluorescent lights.

Dean lay back on the table while Roy hooked up monitors.

“You got two minutes max,” Roy warned. “After that your odds get ugly.”

Dean nodded once.

His heart hammered violently.

Not fear.

Hope.

“Ready?” Roy asked.

Dean thought of Castiel alone in the dark.

“Yeah.”

The sedative burned cold through his veins.

Then everything stopped.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Death felt like falling sideways.

Dean hit darkness hard enough to stumble.

Cold immediately sank into his bones.

Not cold like winter.

Cold like existence itself had died here.

Dean’s breath fogged uselessly in blackness.

“Cas?” he shouted.

No echo returned.

The Empty stretched infinitely around him.

And Dean understood instantly why it broke people.

There was nothing here.

Nothing except the horrible feeling that reality itself had been peeled away.

“CAS!”

Then—

Very faintly—

Muttering.

Dean ran toward it.

The sound grew clearer.

A voice repeating fragmented thoughts over and over.

“…not real… Dean wouldn’t come… hallucination…”

Dean rounded a shape in the darkness and stopped dead.

Castiel sat curled tightly against nothing at all, arms wrapped around himself.

He looked ruined.

His trench coat hung loose from dramatic weight loss. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. His hands shook constantly.

He didn’t look up.

Dean’s chest physically hurt at the sight.

“Cas.”

Castiel flinched violently.

Slowly, he raised his head.

His eyes were empty with exhaustion.

Then suspicion flickered across his face.

“No,” Castiel whispered immediately. “No, you are not real.”

Dean nearly broke on the spot.

“Cas, buddy—”

“You are another dream.” Castiel laughed weakly. “The Empty grows creative.”

Dean crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to his knees in front of him.

Castiel recoiled.

Dean grabbed his shoulders gently.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

Castiel stared at him in mute disbelief.

Dean’s throat tightened painfully.

“Jesus Christ, Cas…”

Very carefully, Dean pulled him forward into his arms.

At first Castiel went rigid.

Then suddenly inhaled sharply.

A full-body shudder ripped through him.

Dean frowned. “Cas?”

“You smell real,” Castiel whispered.

Dean closed his eyes hard.

Because of all the horrible things about this place, somehow that was the one that shattered him.

Castiel clutched Dean’s jacket with trembling hands.

“I could not smell anything here,” he said, voice cracking apart. “Nothing for so long.”

Dean held him tighter.

“I got you,” he whispered fiercely. “I got you.”

Castiel buried his face against Dean’s neck like a dying man reaching warmth.

“You came for me,” he whispered, sounding astonished.

“Yeah.”

“You died.”

“Temporary thing.”

Castiel made a weak, distressed sound.

Despite everything, Dean almost laughed.

Then the darkness around them began to shake.

Far away, something pulled.

Dean’s body.

“Time to go,” Dean said urgently.

Castiel panicked instantly, fingers tightening painfully in Dean’s shirt.

“No.”

“Cas—”

“You cannot leave me here.”

The raw terror in his voice was unbearable.

Dean cupped his face hard.

“I’m not leaving without you. Understand?”

Castiel stared at him.

Then nodded shakily.

The pull became violent.

The Empty screamed around them.

Dean wrapped both arms around Castiel and the world snapped upward.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Dean came back with a brutal gasp.

Pain exploded through his chest as adrenaline slammed his heart alive again.

“Easy!” Roy barked somewhere nearby.

Dean barely heard him.

Because Castiel materialized beside the operating table with a violent burst of grace.

Roy shouted something deeply profane.

Castiel looked equally shocked.

Dean grabbed him immediately.

“Cas?”

Castiel turned toward him slowly, still disoriented.

Then he touched Dean’s face with trembling fingers.

Warm.

Alive.

Real.

Castiel made a broken noise and folded forward against him.

Dean held him so tightly it bordered on desperate.

“You’re okay,” Dean whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was reassuring.

Castiel’s breathing hitched unevenly.

“I thought I imagined you.”

Dean swallowed hard.

“Yeah, well. You’re stuck with me now.”

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Dean understood instinctively that Castiel needed gentleness now.

Not questions.

Not confessions.

Gentleness.

The first night, Castiel couldn’t sleep unless Dean sat beside him.

Every time Dean tried to leave the room, panic flashed across Castiel’s face so sharply Dean stopped trying.

So he stayed.

He sat on the edge of the bed while Castiel slowly relearned reality.

Warm blankets.

Coffee.

Music drifting softly through bunker halls.

The smell of Dean’s soap.

Sometimes Castiel would touch objects just to confirm they existed.

Other times Dean caught him staring at walls in mute amazement because walls were something. Texture. Shape. Reality.

After the third nightmare, Castiel finally whispered:

“The silence followed me.”

Dean immediately climbed into bed beside him without a word.

Castiel shook violently for almost an hour.

Dean held him through all of it.

“It’s okay,” Dean murmured against his hair. “You’re here now.”

Eventually Castiel whispered, “I heard your prayers.”

Dean went still.

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

Dean laughed shakily, embarrassed suddenly. “Damn. Some of those got kinda pathetic.”

“They kept me sane,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean looked at him then.

Really looked at him.

At the softness slowly returning to Castiel’s face. The fragile hope there.

And Dean realized something important.

He was done wasting time.

So he reached out carefully and intertwined their fingers.

Castiel stared down at their hands like they were sacred.

“You can have it now,” Dean whispered.

“Have what?”

“All of it.”

Castiel’s eyes widened slowly.

Dean smiled sadly.

“The love part.”

꒰ ♡ ꒱

For a long time, they treated love like something fragile.

Not because it was weak.

Because both of them understood too well how easily beautiful things could be taken away.

So their relationship unfolded in quiet increments instead of grand declarations.

Dean started with proximity.

A hand against Castiel’s back while passing in the kitchen.

Their knees touching beneath the library table during research.

Fingers brushing when Dean handed him coffee.

Every single time, Castiel reacted like the contact mattered enormously.

Like Dean was offering him something holy.

And maybe he was.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Castiel recovered slowly.

Some mornings Dean would find him awake before dawn sitting in the bunker kitchen simply listening.

To the hum of fluorescent lights.

To the pipes in the walls.

To the sound of Dean moving around nearby.

“You okay?” Dean asked one morning, voice still rough with sleep.

Castiel looked up from his coffee.

“There are sounds here,” he said softly.

Dean’s chest ached immediately.

Because the Empty had been so silent that ordinary life now overwhelmed him with relief.

Dean crossed the kitchen without thinking and rested a hand against the back of Castiel’s neck.

The angel leaned into it instantly.

Dean swallowed hard.

God.

He wasn’t used to being wanted this gently.

“You don’t gotta be alone anymore,” Dean murmured.

Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut briefly.

“I know.”

But he still sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The nightmares remained.

Sometimes Dean woke to find Castiel rigid beside him, staring at the ceiling with wide, frightened eyes.

Not awake.

Not fully asleep either.

Lost somewhere between memory and panic.

Dean learned quickly not to ask questions right away.

Instead he’d press close and say quietly:

“You’re in the bunker.”

Or:

“You’re safe.”

Or simply:

“I’m here.”

Those words worked better than anything else.

One night, after a particularly bad nightmare, Castiel whispered into the darkness:

“I thought I had forgotten your face.”

Dean’s heart nearly stopped.

Castiel kept staring upward.

“In the Empty… sometimes I would try to remember you and fail. I think that frightened me more than the darkness itself.”

Dean rolled onto his side immediately.

“Hey.” He touched Castiel’s jaw carefully until blue eyes found him. “Look at me.”

Castiel did.

Dean held his gaze steadily.

“You never gotta remember me alone again.”

Something fragile shifted in Castiel’s expression then. Something wounded and hopeful all at once.

Dean brushed his thumb beneath one tired eye.

Castiel melted under the touch so completely it scared him a little.

Not because it was too much.

Because Dean realized with startling clarity how starved Castiel had been for tenderness.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The first time Castiel laughed again, Dean nearly cried.

It happened in the garage.

Dean was elbow-deep in the Impala’s engine while explaining—badly—why bacon counted as a breakfast food and a side dish simultaneously.

“Americans treat bacon as theology,” Castiel observed.

Dean snorted. “Damn right.”

Castiel smiled.

Then laughed quietly.

The sound hit Dean like sunlight after winter.

Dean looked up so fast he smacked his head against the hood.

“OW—son of a—”

Castiel laughed harder.

Dean stared at him, stunned.

Cas’s whole face changed when he laughed now that the grief was easing from it. Softer. Younger somehow.

Beautiful.

The realization settled warm and steady in Dean’s chest instead of frightening him this time.

Castiel noticed him staring and slowly went shy.

That alone nearly killed Dean outright.

“What?” Castiel asked.

Dean shook his head helplessly.

“Nothin’.”

But later that night Dean sat awake in bed remembering the sound over and over.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Physical affection became instinctive after that.

Dean discovered Castiel liked being touched more than either of them expected.

Not aggressively.

Never sudden.

But steady contact seemed to anchor him to reality.

A hand in his hair while they watched movies.

Dean’s arm around his shoulders in the library.

Fingers intertwined beneath blankets.

Sometimes Castiel would simply hold Dean’s wrist absentmindedly while reading, like reassurance Dean still existed.

Dean let him every time.

One evening Castiel asked quietly, “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

Dean looked over from the couch.

Castiel still held his hand loosely in both of his.

“No,” Dean said honestly. “Feels kinda nice, actually.”

Castiel ducked his head, visibly pleased.

Dean’s chest went embarrassingly warm.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The thing Dean noticed most was how careful Castiel still was with his love.

As if he feared overwhelming him.

Which was ridiculous considering Dean wanted all of it.

Every glance.

Every touch.

Every strange, earnest confession.

He wanted to drown in it.

But Castiel hesitated often right before crossing invisible lines.

Like he still half-expected the universe to punish him for happiness.

Dean hated that.

So he started pushing gently back.

Deliberately choosing affection.

Deliberately choosing honesty.

He complimented Castiel openly now.

“You look good in blue.”

“That was smart, Cas.”

“C’mere.”

Every single time, Castiel reacted with startled wonder.

As though Dean speaking kindness aloud remained miraculous.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The kiss happened on an ordinary Tuesday.

Which somehow felt right.

No apocalypse.

No near-death confession.

Just rain tapping softly against bunker windows and old rock music humming low through Dean’s room.

Castiel sat beside him on the bed reading one of Dean’s battered western novels with intense concentration.

Dean pretended to watch the movie playing on his laptop.

Mostly he watched Castiel.

The slight furrow between his brows when reading.

The way he absently curled closer against Dean’s shoulder.

The soft line of concentration in his mouth.

Dean loved him so much it physically overwhelmed him sometimes.

Castiel glanced up suddenly.

“What?”

Dean smiled before he could stop himself.

“Nothin’. Just lookin’ at you.”

Color touched Castiel’s cheeks immediately.

Dean still wasn’t used to that.

“You look at me often,” Castiel said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Dean blinked.

Then laughed softly.

“Seriously?”

Castiel nodded.

Dean closed the laptop gently and turned toward him fully.

“Because I like seeing you happy.”

Castiel stared at him.

The rain filled the silence.

Dean reached up slowly, brushing fingers through the hair at Castiel’s temple.

Castiel’s breath caught.

Dean saw the exact moment understanding hit him.

Not intellectual understanding.

Emotional.

Certain.

Safe.

Dean’s chest tightened with affection so intense it almost hurt.

“C’mere,” he whispered.

And this time Dean kissed him first.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he wanted Castiel to understand there was nowhere else Dean would rather be.

Castiel made a tiny startled sound against his mouth.

Then melted.

There was still reverence in the way Castiel kissed him, but less fear now. Less hesitation.

His hand rose shakily to Dean’s face, touching him like something beloved returned from the dead.

Dean deepened the kiss gently.

Warmth spread through him immediately when Castiel leaned closer with a soft, helpless hum.

God.

Dean had imagined this so many times.

None of those fantasies came close to the reality of Castiel kissing him back like he’d waited lifetimes for permission.

When they finally pulled apart, Castiel looked almost dazed.

Dean rested their foreheads together, smiling a little.

“You okay there, sweetheart?”

Castiel actually shivered at the nickname.

Dean nearly lost his mind.

“I am…” Castiel stopped, visibly overwhelmed. “Dean, I do not know how to describe this feeling.”

Dean brushed another kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t gotta describe it.”

Castiel looked at him with devastating softness.

Then quietly, with absolute certainty, he said:

“I think this is what Heaven was supposed to feel like.”

Songs For This Read:

Janie's Got A Gun-Aerosmith

She Don't Know Me-Bon Jovi

Is This Love-Whitesnake

tw: very vague hint about sex work

Word Count: 4036

Chapter Four: Sing My Praises

The truck had been dead for six years.

According to Bobby, anyway.

Dean disagreed.

“Starter’s not gone,” he muttered from beneath the lifted hood. “Just flooded.”

Y/N sat on the workbench nearby with one leg crossed over the other, absently peeling the label from a beer bottle while watching him work.

“You’ve said that three times now.”

“Because I’m right three times now.”

“Mm.” She took another sip. “And the smoke pouring out from under the engine?”

Dean pointed a wrench at her without looking up. “Negative attitude.”

Y/N smiled into the neck of the bottle.

The garage smelled like gasoline, motor oil, and cold air creeping in beneath the old doors. Somewhere overhead a radio crackled faintly through static, some classic rock station Bobby never bothered changing.

Snow tapped softly against the roof.

Dean leaned deeper into the engine bay, grease already streaked across his knuckles and forearms. His flannel had ridden up slightly at the waist, exposing a thin strip of skin every time he reached.

Y/N tried very hard not to stare.

Mostly failed.

“You know,” she said casually, “normal people take breaks during Christmas.”

Dean snorted. “Normal people don’t own cursed death-trap trucks from the seventies.”

“Daddy said it isn’t cursed.”

“Bobby also drinks milk that expired during the Carter administration.”

“Fair.”

Dean finally glanced at her then, green eyes catching briefly in the dim garage light.

God.

That still happened sometimes.

Y/N would look at him and get hit all over again by how unfairly handsome he was without trying. Especially like this — rough around the edges, sleeves shoved to his elbows, grease smeared across his jaw because he had zero self-awareness.

Dean caught her staring and smirked immediately.

“There somethin’ on my face?”

Y/N deadpanned, “About half the engine, actually.”

Dean wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, only managing to spread the grease worse. Y/N laughed softly.

“There,” she said, hopping off the bench.

Dean straightened automatically as she stepped closer.

The garage suddenly felt smaller.

Y/N reached up without thinking and caught his chin lightly between her fingers, thumb brushing across the dark streak near his mouth.

Dean went still.

Not dramatic. Not obvious.

Just still enough for her to notice.

Her chest tightened faintly.

“You missed some,” she murmured.

Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on her face.

Too close.

Y/N became aware suddenly of everything at once — his hand resting against the edge of the truck, the smell of motor oil and cigarettes clinging to him, the quiet rasp of his breathing.

Then Dean cleared his throat softly and stepped back.

The moment snapped clean in half.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Y/N let her hand fall.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he ducked back toward the engine again a little too quickly.

Interesting.

For a while only the sound of tools filled the garage.

Y/N climbed back onto the workbench, watching him in silence now.

She’d noticed it before.

Little things.

Dean disappearing sometimes during hunts without explanation. Coming back with food when they were flat broke. The way his mood soured anytime money came up. The sharp embarrassment that crossed his face whenever Bobby tried handing him cash directly.

And lately?

Something else.

Something heavier.

Like shame sitting just beneath his skin.

Y/N rolled the beer bottle slowly between her palms.

“Can I ask you something?”

Dean grunted distractedly. “Depends.”

“When you disappear on hunts sometimes—”

“Nope.”

The answer came instantly.

Too instantly.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Dean.”

He kept working. “Drop it.”

“You get weird every time anyone asks where you’ve been.”

“I said drop it.”

Defensive.

Not angry exactly.

Cornered.

Y/N watched the tight set of his shoulders carefully.

The wrench in his hand had gone still.

Outside, wind rattled faintly against the garage door.

“Dean.”

“What?”

His voice came sharper this time.

Y/N stayed quiet a second before speaking more gently. “You know I’m not judging you, right?”

Dean laughed once under his breath.

No humor in it.

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s supposed to make you stop acting like I’m your enemy.”

“I’m not acting like anything.”

“You are, actually.”

Dean slammed the wrench down onto the workbench harder than necessary.

Metal clanged through the garage.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

For a second neither of them spoke.

Dean dragged both hands over his face, smearing grease across his skin. “Look, can we just not do this right now?”

Y/N studied him carefully.

There it was again.

Not anger.

Fear.

Not fear of her exactly.

Fear of her knowing.

And suddenly the pieces started fitting together in ugly ways she didn’t entirely want to think about yet.

The disappearing.

The money.

The shame.

Her stomach twisted faintly.

“Dean,” she said quietly, “what’s been happening to you?”

He looked away immediately.

That told her more than an answer would have.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

Lie.

Y/N could hear it plain as day.

Dean Winchester lied easily to almost everyone else. Smoothly. Automatically.

Not to her.

Not really.

With her, the lies always sounded strained around the edges, like he hated making them.

Y/N watched his jaw tighten.

Watched embarrassment crawl slowly up his throat beneath the collar of his flannel.

And then she knew.

Maybe not every detail.

But enough.

A cold, furious ache settled low in her chest.

Not at him.

Never at him.

At the fact that a sixteen-year-old kid had apparently looked at his little brother and decided there were things he needed to do to keep them fed.

Dean finally glanced back at her, bracing for something.

Disgust maybe.

Pity.

Y/N gave him neither.

Instead she leaned back slightly against the workbench and said only:

“Okay.”

Dean blinked.

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

Suspicion flashed immediately across his face. “Y/N—”

“I said for now.” Her voice stayed calm. Easy. “You don’t wanna talk about it, I’m not gonna force you.”

Dean stared at her like he didn’t believe that.

Like he was waiting for the catch.

Y/N’s chest hurt a little looking at him.

“You’re allowed to have things you’re not ready to say out loud yet,” she added quietly.

Something shifted across Dean’s expression then.

Brief.

Gone almost immediately.

But she saw it.

Relief.

The kind that looked unfamiliar on him.

Dean looked back down at the engine after that, shoulders still tense. “It’s not happening anymore.”

Y/N held his gaze for a second.

Then nodded once.

“Good.”

Because whatever it had been, whatever he’d done to survive, she knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Nobody had taken care of Dean Winchester.

Not properly.

Not even close.

And sitting there in Bobby Singer’s freezing garage while snow fell softly outside, Y/N made a silent promise to herself.

She would.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

The truck actually started on the fourth try.

Dean looked genuinely shocked about it.

The engine roared hard enough to shake the entire garage before settling into a rough, growling idle that sounded vaguely threatening to everyone within a three-mile radius.

Y/N burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she said over the noise. “You did it.”

Dean stared at the dashboard like he’d personally resurrected the dead. “Holy shit.”

Then he looked at her with a grin so bright and boyish it hit Y/N square in the chest.

“There she is.”

Y/N leaned against the garage wall smiling helplessly while Dean patted the steering wheel affectionately.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he said to the truck. “Everybody doubted you.”

“Everybody was right to doubt you,” Bobby yelled from somewhere outside.

Dean flipped him off through the open garage door without missing a beat.

Two hours later they were driving down icy backroads with the windows cracked just enough for cigarette smoke to escape into the freezing night air.

Apparently fixing the truck had earned Dean immediate local celebrity status among a handful of bored townies who’d invited them to a bonfire out past Miller’s Farm.

Y/N suspected the phrase free beer had influenced his decision-making too.

The truck rattled violently every time they hit a pothole.

Dean looked blissfully happy anyway.

One hand rested loose on the wheel while the other drummed against his thigh in time with the music humming low through the crackling speakers. Wind pushed through his hair, cheeks pink from cold and excitement both.

Y/N watched him more than she watched the road.

He looked lighter tonight.

Still tired beneath the surface she thought maybe Dean would always carry some kind of exhaustion inside him, but lighter.

Like for a few hours he’d managed to forget himself.

The bonfire sat deep in the middle of a snowy field surrounded by old trucks and half-drunk college kids bundled in flannels and winter coats. Music blasted from somebody’s speakers near the fire while sparks spun upward into the black sky.

Dean killed the engine and immediately got dragged into conversation by three different guys arguing about carburetors.

Y/N stayed near him anyway, shoulder brushing his whenever she could.

Some local girl tried flirting with Dean once near the beer cooler.

Y/N pretended not to notice.

Dean shut it down so fast it almost made her dizzy.

“No offense,” he’d said easily, glancing back toward Y/N leaning against the truck bed, “but I came with somebody.”

The warmth that spread through Y/N afterward had nothing to do with the fire.

Now, nearly an hour later, the party had dissolved into smaller groups scattered around the field. Someone was drunkenly singing along to Springsteen near the firepit. A couple kids had started wrestling in the snow.

Nobody paid much attention to Dean and Y/N sitting side by side on the truck’s tailgate off near the darker edge of the field.

Which Dean was suddenly very grateful for.

Because he was nervous as hell.

He hadn’t planned this part very well.

Y/N sat close enough that their thighs touched beneath layered denim and flannel, one of his jackets wrapped around her shoulders over her coat. Smoke curled from the cigarette between her fingers as she watched the bonfire flicker in the distance.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she said suddenly.

Dean blinked. “What thing?”

“Thinking too loud.”

Dean snorted softly. “Didn’t know that was possible.”

“With you? Very.”

She glanced over finally, eyes reflecting orange firelight.

Beautiful.

Dean’s chest tightened.

Goddammit.

He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck awkwardly before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Y/N noticed immediately.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.”

“That is objectively not true.”

Dean pulled out the small velvet box and immediately wanted to launch himself directly into traffic.

Y/N stared.

Dean stared very hard at the snow.

For a second neither of them spoke.

Then Y/N said carefully, “Dean.”

“Before you make that face—”

“What face?”

“That face where you start thinkin’ this means somethin’ crazy.”

A smile tugged faintly at the corner of her mouth now. “You bought me jewelry and you’re worried I’m the one making it weird?”

Dean groaned quietly. “See? This is why I should never do nice things.”

Y/N laughed softly beside him.

It loosened something in his chest immediately.

Still, his pulse hammered stupidly hard while he turned the box over once in his hands.

“I saw it in this antique shop a while ago,” he admitted. “And it just…” He shrugged awkwardly. “Made me think of you.”

Y/N’s expression changed at that.

Softened.

Dean looked down quickly before it could affect him too much.

“Anyway,” he muttered, shoving the box lightly toward her, “you don’t gotta like it or anything.”

Y/N took it slowly.

Carefully.

Like it mattered.

Dean suddenly couldn’t breathe very well.

She opened the box beneath the glow of distant firelight.

Then went completely still.

The tiger’s eye caught warm gold and amber beneath the dark sky, the tiny red band hidden inside the stone flickering softly when she tilted it.

“Oh,” Y/N said quietly.

Just that.

Oh.

Dean immediately panicked.

“Okay, see, now you hate it.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“You did the voice.”

“What voice?”

“The polite voice people use when they get terrible gifts.”

Y/N stared at him for one incredulous second before laughing under her breath.

“Dean.”

“What?”

“I love it.”

The words hit him hard enough to feel physical.

Y/N looked back down at the necklace, thumb brushing lightly across the smooth stone.

“It’s beautiful.”

Dean swallowed.

Heat crawled slowly up the back of his neck despite the freezing air.

He tried to play it off with a shrug. “Yeah, well. Don’t sound too shocked.”

Y/N smiled faintly without looking away from the pendant. “You picked this out yourself?”

Dean scoffed. “What, you think I stole it?”

“I think you don’t usually notice things like jewelry.”

“That’s insulting.”

“It’s accurate.”

“Okay, rude.”

Y/N laughed again softly.

Then her fingers paused against the chain.

“You didn’t…to buy this?” She whispered and he immediately shook his head. 

“Fuck no.”

Relief flooded her features.

“Will you put it on me?”

Dean’s brain stopped functioning immediately.

“…What?”

Y/N finally looked at him again, calmer than she had any right to be. “Please?”

Dean stared at her for a second too long before clearing his throat roughly.

“Yeah. Sure.”

His hands felt absurdly clumsy taking the necklace from the box.

Y/N turned slightly on the tailgate, lifting her hair up off the back of her neck.

Dean forgot every coherent thought he’d ever had.

Jesus Christ.

Firelight painted gold across the slope of her shoulders while cold wind tugged loose strands of hair against his knuckles. Dean leaned closer carefully, chain trembling slightly between his fingers.

Not from cold.

Definitely not from cold.

Y/N felt it too.

His breathing had changed.

Softer now. Closer.

The necklace settled carefully against her throat while Dean fumbled with the clasp for an embarrassingly long time.

“You good back there?” she asked quietly.

“Shut up.”

She smiled to herself.

Finally the clasp clicked into place.

Dean’s fingers brushed the back of her neck once before falling away.

Neither of them moved immediately afterward.

Y/N lowered her hair slowly.

The pendant rested warm against her skin already.

Dean looked at it for one second before his gaze lifted back to her face.

Dangerous mistake.

Because she was looking at him like he’d hung the damn moon.

“You really like it?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Y/N’s expression softened completely.

“Yeah,” she said gently. “I really do.”

Something inside Dean’s chest pulled tight.

Around them the bonfire crackled and people shouted and laughed somewhere far away across the field.

But sitting there shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark on the back of that old truck, it felt strangely like they were the only two people left in the world.

“Thank you, Dee.”

Dean exhaled sharply and nodded. 

“Yes ma’am.”

They weren’t in a relationship, that wasn’t his girlfriend, but he decided at his large age of twenty that he would respond to the eighteen year old with, “Yes ma’am.”

That said enough. 

꒰ ♡ ꒱

By midnight the bonfire had turned sloppy.

Y/N ended up plastered and hanging every inch of herself over Dean Winchester. 

This was just like when she got drunk at that high school party when she was 15. Dean hated himself for reminiscing that night, even though he was just a teenager himself at the time. Still, he was 20 now and thinking about a high schooler in any context felt weird. 

But this was a new memory, and they were both adults. Something about that was thrilling. 

He wanted to personally salute the bottle of whiskey she got her hands on tonight.

Somebody had switched from classic rock to terrible early-80s pop through blown-out speakers. Two guys were arguing loudly about football near the firepit while a girl in a leopard-print coat attempted and failed to climb onto the hood of a Jeep.

Dean had reached his limit approximately twenty minutes ago.

Mostly because Y/N was drunk.

Not dangerously drunk.

Just warm-cheeked and laughing too hard at things that barely qualified as jokes, swaying slightly every time she stood still too long.

Dean was obsessed with her like this.

Which felt like a problem.

“You ready to go?” he asked quietly when she wandered back toward him holding a half-empty beer.

Y/N narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you kidnapping me?”

“Yeah,” Dean said dryly. “That’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Hm.” She considered this seriously for a second. “Okay.”

Dean snorted despite himself.

She smiled immediately like she’d won something.

Christ.

He took the beer gently from her hand before steering her toward the truck with one palm resting lightly against her back. Y/N leaned into the touch without thinking.

That nearly did him in.

The drive back to Bobby’s was quiet except for the low hum of music through the speakers and Y/N’s soft off-key singing beside him.

Snow drifted steadily beneath the headlights.

Dean glanced over at her at a stop sign and nearly lost his mind a little.

She had her boots kicked up on the dashboard despite his earlier protests, coat half-unzipped, head tipped back against the seat while she mouthed lyrics to Tom Petty with absolute sincerity.

The necklace glimmered faintly against her throat every time passing lights caught it.

Dean looked away quickly before he started feeling things too aggressively.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

Dean scoffed. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re avoiding the accusation.”

“I’m driving.”

“Mhmm.”

Dean shook his head, fighting a smile.

When they finally pulled into Bobby’s salvage yard, the whole property sat dark and quiet beneath fresh snow.

Dean killed the engine carefully.

Y/N didn’t move.

“You alive over there?”

She cracked one eye open slowly. “Debatable.”

“C’mon, lightweight.”

“I resent that.”

“You drank half of Nebraska tonight.”

She gasped softly. “Slander.”

Dean laughed under his breath while climbing out of the truck.

Cold air hit hard immediately.

Y/N stumbled only slightly, getting down from the passenger seat before grabbing his arm dramatically.

“Whoa.”

Dean caught her automatically around the waist.

Warm.

Small.

His heart betrayed him instantly.

“You good?” he asked softly.

Y/N looked up at him with glassy eyes and pink cheeks.

“Probably not.”

Dean smiled before he could stop himself.

The garage light was still on when they crossed the yard.

Bobby must’ve forgotten to shut it off earlier.

Dean tugged the door open with one hand while Y/N wandered inside ahead of him, immediately drawn toward the old radio sitting crooked on a shelf near the workbench.

Music crackled softly through static.

Whitesnake crooned that love ballad like a wanton heartbreak. 

Y/N swayed once where she stood.

Then turned toward him suddenly with a grin.

“Dance with me.”

Dean barked out a startled laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“Dean.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you love me.”

The words slipped out easily.

Carelessly.

Y/N froze immediately after saying them.

So did Dean.

The garage seemed to go very still around them.

Music hummed low beneath the silence.

Dean’s pulse thudded once, hard enough to hurt.

Y/N stared at him for one awful second before recovering first, laughing nervously as she pointed at him.

“You know what I mean.”

A profound bond.

Dean swallowed.

Yeah.

He did know.

Too well.

“C’mere,” she said more softly this time, holding out both hands.

Dean should’ve said no.

Probably.

Instead he stepped forward slowly until her fingers curled around his.

Warm despite the cold.

Y/N tugged him closer with surprising determination until his hands settled awkwardly at her waist.

“There,” she murmured triumphantly.

Dean looked down at her.

At the firelight-colored flush in her cheeks. The necklace resting against her skin. The familiar crooked smile he’d known since he was ten years old, making her a sandwich yet still too shy to really talk to the weird pretty girl sitting outside Bobby’s house reading Stephen King novels way too old for her.

Something inside him ached fiercely.

Y/N began swaying them slowly in uneven circles across the oil-stained concrete floor.

Dean laughed quietly under his breath. “You’re terrible at this.”

“You’re no fun at this.”

“That’s different.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Let go for once, it’s me.”

The radio crackled louder for a second as the song shifted into the chorus.

“Is this love…” The band sang.

Y/N spun suddenly beneath his arm.

Badly.

Dean caught her before she toppled sideways into a toolbox, both of them laughing now.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Y/N blinked up at him. “Who?”

Dean’s smile softened into something quieter.

The girl from years ago.

The one who used to run through Bobby’s yard in  jeans with torn knees and stolen flannels from Dean’s duffel. The one who climbed onto junked cars and talked too loud and grinned like she had secrets nobody else understood.

The girl he’d fallen in love with long before he even knew what love was supposed to feel like.

“You,” he said finally.

Y/N looked at him for a long moment.

Then her expression gentled around the edges in a way that made his chest feel unbearably full.

They kept dancing after that.

Slow swaying circles beneath flickering garage lights while snow fell quietly outside.

At some point Y/N’s head settled against his chest.

Dean tightened his arms around her automatically.

And standing there with old music humming through static and her heartbeat soft against him, Dean felt something terrifying settle deep in his bones.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Something permanent.

Because for the first time in his life, Dean Winchester could suddenly picture a future he wanted.

And every single version of it had Y/N in it.

“Dean?” She eventually whispered.

He breathed in deeply, her soft voice making him feel that guilt again. 

Something as soft as her didn’t deserve the carnage of him.

“Yes, pretty?

The only way he ever took advantage of her intoxication was exercising all the sweet names he had for her but never spoke aloud. 

“I bought your Christmas gift three months ago.”

Oh.

Oh.

Three months ago, she had thought of him. 

“You gave me my gift tonight, can I give you yours?”

“Please.” It left his lips as a murmur. If she wasn’t so drunk, he would kick himself for sounding so weak.

He rounded her up the stairs quietly, as not to wake Bobby or Sam. 

Back to that damn bedroom. 

Y/N reached beneath her bed, standing up straight again on wobbly legs, a palm-size box in hand. 

It was wrapped elegantly in shiny red, green, and gold striped paper, a perfectly fluffed bow perched on top. 

It was pretty enough that he was almost hurt to have to ruin it. 

“Always doing the most.” 

“For you.” She corrected.

Right, cause that made him feel better about destroying her hard work. 

They sat together on the edge of her bed. 

“Open it.”

Dean cradled the box in his hands, shifting it around carefully as he hesitated. 

Finally, his nimble fingers began to pry at the corners, opening it as carefully as one could when ripping paper. 

He glanced up at Y/N once more for permission, getting an encouraging nod in return. 

He began to open the box, his whole body stiffening as he lifted the little lid. 

Led Zeppelin concert tickets. 

Three.

“They come with a price, you’re gonna have to stand up to John when he inevitably comes up with a new hunt come time for the—”

She couldn’t finish her sentence as Dean swallowed her in a warm hug. 

“You got Sammy a ticket too?” He breathed shakily into her neck. 

“Of course, I know you just want him to be happy, and I know that experiences are worth more to you than materials.”

He felt his eyes well up, keeping his face in the crook of her neck to hide it.

It wasn’t about the tickets, even though they were fucking awesome.

She saw how he cared. 

She saw him.

Where his love lies. 

“You are a hell of a woman.”

“That’s right, sing my praises.”

She grinned proudly.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head against her. 

That feminine, smug confidence did him in every damn time. 

It made him nervous in ways he would never confess, kept him up at night. 

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Songs For This Read:

Heartbeat City-The Cars

Hungry Heart-Bruce Springsteen

Jack & Diane-John Mellencamp

tw: none? (lmk!)

Word Count: 2649

Chapter Three: I Missed You Too {Chapter 4 Link}

By the time the Impala rolled into Bobby Singer’s driveway, the snow had turned to hard-packed ice beneath the tires.

Dean killed the engine and sat there for a second with both hands still gripping the steering wheel.

The salvage yard stretched around them in crooked rows of dead cars and rusted parts dusted white beneath the gray afternoon sky. Smoke curled lazily from Bobby’s chimney. Somewhere nearby, metal clanged faintly in the distance like the whole property breathed in junkyard noises.

Dean barely noticed any of it.

Because Y/N’s car was there, right where it belonged—parked crooked near the house, half-covered in snow.

Dean stared at it like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

His pulse kicked hard against his ribs.

“Well,” Sam muttered beside him, already smirking, “look who suddenly remembers how to sit up straight.”

Dean elbowed him automatically without taking his eyes off the car. “Shut up.”

But he was already fixing his jacket, running a quick hand through his hair like that would accomplish anything after six hours in the Impala.

It had been almost five months since he’d seen her in person.

Five months of shitty phone connections and rushed conversations and missing each other by days because John always had another hunt, another town, another reason Dean couldn’t stop moving long enough to breathe.

And now she was thirty feet away.

The front door banged open before Dean could move.

“About damn time,” Bobby barked from the porch. “Thought you idjits got yourselves killed.”

Dean climbed out into the cold, boots crunching against ice.

Then he saw her.

Y/N appeared behind Bobby half a second later, bundled in that dark green coat with a knit scarf wrapped around her throat. Her hair was longer than he remembered, falling messy from beneath a beanie, cheeks pink from warmth and winter both. 

Dean forgot entirely what Bobby was saying.

Y/N looked at him.

Just looked.

And suddenly all five months sat there between them at once.

Every missed call. Every late-night conversation cut short. Every mile.

Her expression shifted first—subtle but unmistakable. Something softening around the edges.

Dean felt it low in his chest like a physical ache.

“Hey,” Y/N said.

It came out quieter than he expected.

Dean swallowed hard against absolutely nothing.

“Hey.”

Sam made a face somewhere behind him that Dean ignored completely.

For one terrible second neither of them moved.

Then Y/N smiled, bright and relieved.

Dean was done for.

He crossed the distance before he could think too hard about it.

Y/N barely had time to laugh before he wrapped both arms around her and hauled her against him hard enough to nearly lift her off the ground. Cold air and shampoo hit him all at once, painfully familiar. 

“There you are,” Dean muttered against her hair before he could stop himself.

Y/N made a soft surprised noise, then melted into him just as tightly.

Her arms slid around his middle beneath his jacket.

And Christ.

That was it.

That was the thing he’d been missing.

Not phone calls. Not hearing her voice.

This.

Her solid and warm against him after months of nothing.

Dean shut his eyes briefly.

Behind them Bobby groaned loudly. “Alright, save the reunion crap for inside before you both freeze solid.”

Y/N laughed against Dean’s shoulder, the sound muffled by his worn leather jacket—John’s leather jacket. Somehow that didn’t seem to bother Dean.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her properly.  

She looked different.

Not dramatically, but college had settled into her somehow. Confidence maybe. There was something sharper in the way she carried herself now, something brighter behind her eyes.

It should’ve intimidated him.

Mostly it just made him stare.

Y/N noticed immediately, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

Dean shook his head once. “Nothin’.”

Lie.

An absolute lie.

Y/N narrowed her eyes like she knew it too.

Then her gaze flicked over his face slowly, taking inventory in return. “You look tired.”

Dean grinned crookedly. “My favorite compliment.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

The smile faded a little around the edges after that.

Because she did know him. Better than most people did. Better than Dean usually liked letting anyone get.

Her gloved hand brushed briefly against his wrist, thumb dragging once over the inside of it before letting go.

Tiny touch.

Tiny thing.

Still enough to send warmth straight through him despite the cold.

“C’mon,” Y/N murmured. “Bobby made chili.”

“Jesus,” Bobby barked from the doorway. “I ain’t raising a damn family out here. Get inside.”

Dean snorted softly and followed her up the porch steps.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, heat wrapped around him in a wave. The house smelled like wood smoke, coffee, old books, and something simmering on the stove. Familiar enough to loosen something tight in Dean’s shoulders immediately.

Y/N tugged her scarf loose while Sam headed for the kitchen.

Dean lingered near the door a second longer, watching her.

She caught him again.

“You gonna keep staring at me,” she asked lightly, “or are you actually coming inside?”

Dean leaned against the wall, unable to stop the grin pulling at his mouth now that she was here in front of him and real again.

“Depends,” he said. “You gonna disappear for another five months?”

Something flickered across Y/N’s expression then.

Not quite guilt.

Not quite sadness.

Maybe the same ache Dean had been carrying around since August.

“I didn’t wanna go away,” she said quietly.

Dean’s breath caught stupidly hard.

Because he believed her.

And because some selfish ugly part of him had needed to hear it anyway.

The house suddenly felt very small.

Warm and close.

She stood only a few feet away now, cheeks still pink from the cold, eyes fixed steadily on his.

Dean became painfully aware of the velvet box tucked deep inside his duffel upstairs.

Not yet, but soon.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Y/N’s bedroom hadn’t changed of course, she had been gone for a single semester. Still, it felt smaller somehow. 

She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it over the chair in the corner before wrestling the window open with both hands. Freezing wind immediately pushed into the room, sharp enough to bite.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered, rubbing his hands together. “You trying to kill me?”

Y/N snorted softly without looking back. “You smoke in motel rooms with windows shut. Your lungs have survived worse.”

“Yeah, well. That’s different.”

“Mm.” She glanced over her shoulder finally, mouth twitching. “Because?”

Dean opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Y/N laughed quietly under her breath like she already knew there wasn’t an answer.

God, he’d missed that sound.

She dropped onto the floor beneath the window first, back resting against the wall. Dean followed a second later, knees stretching out beside hers over the worn carpet. Their shoulders bumped lightly on instinct.

Neither of them moved away.

Y/N dug into the pocket of her sweater and held up a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes. “Peace offering?”

Dean took one immediately. “Marry me.”

“That line work on all the girls?”

“Only the terrifying ones.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the smile she tried to hide as she leaned forward with the lighter.

For one brief second her face hovered close to his in the dim room, flame glowing gold across her skin.

Dean forgot entirely how to breathe.

Then the cigarette caught, and she leaned back again before he could do something stupid like kiss her. That would be awful of him, right? 

Horrid.

Smoke curled slowly toward the open window.

Outside, snow drifted lazily across Bobby’s yard beneath the floodlights, smoothing the sharp outlines of rusted cars and scrap metal into something almost peaceful. Inside, quiet settled around them as easy as breathing.

Dean rested his head back against the windowsill with a long exhale. The cold wood pressed against his skull while nicotine unfurled warm and slow through his chest.

Y/N mirrored the motion, shoulder fitted against his like it belonged there.

Maybe it did.

Silence stretched outwards, but not awkward. It was never awkward with her. Just full.

Dean glanced sideways eventually.

Her eyes were closed now, head tipped back against the sill. The low yellow lamp beside her bed painted soft light across her face while smoke drifted from parted lips.

She looked tired too.

Not physically. Something deeper than that.

College tired, maybe.

Life tired.

Dean knew the feeling.

“How is it?” he asked quietly.

Y/N cracked one eye open. “Bobby’s chili?”

“College, smartass.”

“Oh.” She looked back toward the ceiling. “Good.”

The answer came too quickly.

Dean nudged her shoulder lightly with his own. “Liar.”

Y/N smiled faintly around her cigarette. “It is good.”

“But?”

She hesitated and Dean waited, just like always. Finally she sighed smoke toward the window. 

“It’s weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I dunno.” Her fingers tapped ash carefully outside. “Everybody acts like they already know who they are. Or who they’re gonna become.”

Dean listened quietly.

“And maybe they do,” Y/N continued. “Maybe they’re all just… moving forward normally and I’m the only one faking it.”

Dean frowned slightly.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It’s not supposed to.” She glanced at him then, expression softer around the edges. “You know what the weirdest part is?”

“What?”

“I keep wanting to tell you everything.”

The words landed directly beneath Dean’s ribs.

Y/N looked away again immediately after saying it, almost like she regretted it.

But Dean couldn’t stop staring at her profile.

Because good god she had no idea what she did to him.

Dean swallowed hard before speaking carefully. “You can.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” His voice came rougher now. More honest than he intended. “You can call me. About dumb classes or shitty roommates or whatever. I wanna hear it all.”

Y/N’s throat moved subtly when she swallowed.

“You already listen to me complain at two in the morning,” she said lightly.

“Yeah, well.” Dean smirked faintly. “I’m a generous guy.”

“That’s not the word I’d use.”

Dean gasped dramatically, clutching his pearls. “Ouch!”

This time her laugh came out real and warm.

The sound filled the room and settled somewhere deep inside him where the ache had been living for months. Without thinking, Dean bumped his knee against hers beneath the window.

Y/N didn’t move away.

Instead her head tilted slowly until it rested against his shoulder.

A small thing.

Dean went completely still anyway.

Every nerve in his body was suddenly aware of her.

Her hair brushing his neck.

Her cold fingers curled loosely around the cigarette.

The steady warmth of her pressed against his side after so many months apart.

Outside, wind rattled faintly through the trees.

Dean stared out at the snow because looking down at her felt dangerous somehow.

“You know what sucks?” Y/N murmured eventually, voice quieter now against his shoulder.

“What?”

“Coming home and realizing it still feels more like home when you’re here.”

Dean shut his eyes briefly.

Nobody said things like that to him, looked at him like he was something worth missing.

Carefully, Dean turned his head just enough for his temple to rest lightly against hers.

“I missed you too,” he finally admitted.

Y/N went still beside him.

Because he’d never said it before.

Dean felt her breathe in softly. 

Then her hand found his where it rested against the floor between them.

No hesitation this time.

Just her fingers threading quietly through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean looked down at their hands for a long second.

Then back out at the snow falling beyond the open window.

And for the first time in months, the hollow feeling inside his chest eased.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Morning eased gently through the windows in Bobby Singer’s kitchen as he sat at the table, drinking coffee with his beloved daughter. 

Selfishness would’ve made him keep her there year round, but she was a kid, and he wasn’t John. 

All Bobby ever wanted for Y/N was a chance at normalcy. He brought her up tough, of course. Taught her how to handle a gun and how to hunt, both wild game and evil things. She wouldn’t be defenseless under his roof, not as long as he saw to it.

Throughout his daughter’s growing up years, he trusted Dean to be the perfect older brother figure—rough housing to keep her on her toes, but gentle enough to give her the security that she had someone in this world who had her back. 

Ultimately, the old man wouldn’t live forever. 

Bobby would say it out loud, Dean was his pick. 

He loved Sam, no doubt. But he wasn’t reliable in the same manner. Granted, the younger brother was only 16 and had plenty of room to grow, but Bobby could call ‘em. 

He had watched the dynamics unfold since the first of three remarkable lives was brought into the world. 

Two years separated each moment. 

Dean was first-born, green-eyed and beautiful. John was much kinder that day. 

Two Christmases passed and Y/N was welcomed. It was decided then between the two older hunters that their children would grow up together and be menaces to all the scary things that lurked around in the shadows.

Only, as time passed, Bobby realized that John had a different understanding of scary things.

Bobby meant that their children wouldn’t have to live so harshly, and could torment all the trauma that haunted generations of hunters—they could build something safe and satisfying.

Two more Christmases slipped away and little doe-eyed Samuel was born.

Then Mary was murdered.

And John?

John meant revenge. 

He would carve the perfect piece of hunting machinery from his green-eyed killer.

A four year old Dean Winchester. 

Anytime Bobby tried to intervene, it made things worse. John would go MIA. 

Then he dumped Dean on Bobby’s doorstep after he was caught stealing from the supermarket. 

Dean was ten and full of spit-fire. 

Bobby adored him.

“Boy, what business do you have taking something without paying?” Bobby had asked the young punk. 

“Needed food, Sammy was hungry.”

Sammy was hungry. 

Not Dean, it didn’t matter if his stomach was cramping with hunger pains, he would’ve lived. But Sammy needed to eat. 

All of Bobby’s chastising faded immediately. 

“There’s stuff for a sandwich in the fridge.”

The boy wasted no time making himself something to eat, along with a sandwich for eight year old Y/N, who had rounded the corner as he was putting deli meat onto bread. 

There was no keeping them apart after that. 

As years passed, Bobby watched the pair’s bond transform from something familial, to profound. 

When nobody, himself included, could get through to Dean, his daughter could. 

She didn’t take shit from him, or anyone else, John included. 

Dean needed that kind of solidarity, Bobby could see it. 

The way Dean’s eyes glimmered as if to say, yes ma’am.

Though he would continue to threaten Dean’s life if any “funny business” went on in her bedroom when Dean stayed over, the old man couldn’t be more thrilled that out of all the boys his Y/N could chase, it was Dean. 

Because there was no chase, Dean met her in the middle.

Always.

“He’s been hurting, Y/N.” Bobby finally spoke slowly, sipping his coffee and eyeing his child narrowly. 

Y/N knew, of course, but apparently so did Bobby now. Which was good, it meant Dean was talking. 

“He’s always hurting, Daddy.”

“It’s different, something’s different. He looked embarrassed.” 

Y/N paused. 

Dean Winchester didn’t do embarrassed. 

He was closed-off, sarcastic, angry, and guilty. 

He was always so guilty. 

But not embarrassed. 

“I’ll talk to him later.” She assured. 

Bobby gave a curt nod and heavy footsteps followed by boyish banter hurled down the stairs. 

“Bitch!” 

“Jerk!”

The grin on Bobby’s face spoke for him.

Songs For This Read:

That Was Yesterday-Foreigner

We Live For Love-Pat Benatar

tw: john winchester

Word Count: 2141

Chapter Two: Antiques & Oddities {Chapter 3 Link}

John Winchester was a hypocritical asshole, even to the most dedicated hunter. He preached about protecting those nearest and dearest, but failed miserably to do so. His nature could no longer be shrugged off as projection—he was just selfish. 

Only Y/N had an inkling of knowledge about the extent of John’s self-serving habits, or rather the result of them.

If she or Bobby had any real idea of what Dean was doing for the preservation of himself and his baby brother, John Winchester’s body would’ve joined the rotting corpses of the monsters buried beneath the 18-wheeler out back. 

Dean sugarcoated it, even for Y/N. 

All she knew was that as a young teenager, Dean often stole in order to feed himself and Sammy whenever John would disappear for days on end—no contingency plan in place for his two children to have full bellies. 

It was a half-truth, the theft. 

If only another living soul knew what had been stolen from Dean Winchester.

Such a pretty thing he was.

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Winter settled hard over the Midwest that year.

By mid-December the gutters were lined with dirty snow and the Impala’s tires hissed against salt-crusted roads every time Dean pulled into another gas station parking lot he didn’t care about. The sky had been gray for what felt like weeks straight, flat and endless and heavy enough to crush something beneath it.

Dean was pretty sure that something was him.

He slammed the motel door harder than necessary behind him, boots wet with slush, duffel hitting the floor with a dull thud. The room smelled like stale coffee and gun oil. Somewhere in the bathroom, Sam was brushing his teeth while the television muttered low static to itself.

John barely looked up from the table. Maps were spread everywhere. Newspaper clippings. A half-cleaned shotgun laid across one chair.

“Door works fine,” John muttered.

Dean shrugged out of his jacket. “Maybe it shouldn’t.”

John ignored that, dragging a pen across one of the maps. “We leave early tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Three days before Christmas.

Y/N had been home from college for almost a week now.

Something ugly twisted low in his stomach.

“You said this one was a quick job.”

“It is.”

“You said that four jobs ago.”

John finally glanced up then, sharp-eyed and already irritated. “You got somewhere to be?”

The answer came too fast in Dean’s head.

Yeah.

Her bedroom floor. The passenger seat of her car. The diner off Main where she stole fries off his plate without asking. Anywhere Y/N was, the details never mattered. 

Instead he shrugged again because that was easier than saying any of it out loud.

“Nah.”

Sam emerged from the bathroom just in time to feel the tension curdling through the room. His gaze bounced between them cautiously before he sat on the edge of the bed with a paperback in hand, wisely staying quiet.

John returned to the map like the conversation was over.

Dean stood there another moment, jaw tight enough to ache.

Four months.

Four goddamn months.

Not entirely. They talked on the phone when they could. Mostly late at night from motel payphones with Dean feeding quarters into the slot while John slept two rooms over. Sometimes Y/N sounded exhausted, voice rough from studying and campus parties and a life that kept moving without him there to witness it. Sometimes she sounded happy.

That part messed with him more than it should have.

Not because he wanted her to be miserable. Jesus, no. Dean wanted Y/N happy more than he wanted oxygen some days.

But hearing about new friends and professors and late-night coffee runs and football games made something hollow open inside his chest. Like she was slipping further away every time he blinked.

Meanwhile Dean was still here.

Still sleeping in motels that smelled like mildew.

Still following his father across back roads chasing monsters nobody else knew existed.

Still twenty miles outside some nowhere town while Y/N lived in libraries and lecture halls and parties strung with Christmas lights.

Sometimes Dean pictured her there and couldn’t reconcile it with the girl lying beside him in tangled blankets, smoke curling from her lips.

Sometimes he worried college would teach her she deserved better than him.

That thought sat like poison in his ribs.

Not to mention the jealousy he despised himself for. Sammy was the smart one, Dean was just another blunt object. Except that wasn’t entirely true, now was it? Dean was just as capable and could’ve done well for himself outside of—

“You listening?” John snapped.

Dean blinked. “What?”

John sighed heavily through his nose. “I said we hit the cemetery first thing in the morning.”

Dean laughed once under his breath, humorless. “Of course we do.”

John’s eyes narrowed immediately. “You got a problem?”

Yeah, Dean thought.

I’ve got a huge fucking problem.

Instead he dragged both hands through his hair and turned away before the fight fully lit. “Forget it.”

“Dean—”

“No, seriously. Forget it.”

The motel window rattled softly from the wind outside. Dean crossed the room and shoved it open an inch anyway, letting freezing air slash through the stale heat. He needed it. Needed something cold enough to scrape the frustration out of his lungs.

Behind him, John started talking again—research, lore, plans—but the words blurred together into meaningless noise.

Dean’s mind was somewhere else entirely.

Y/N standing at a bus stop wrapped in that green coat she wore every winter.

Y/N laughing breathlessly into the phone when he told her about Sam accidentally setting instant mac and cheese on fire.

Y/N saying quietly, almost shyly, I miss you.

That one had nearly killed him.

Dean rested his forehead against the cold window frame.

He hadn’t said it back.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because it was too true.

And Dean Winchester had spent his whole life learning that wanting something badly was the fastest way to lose it.

“You know,” Sam said carefully from the bed, “college break lasts until January.”

Dean shot him a look. “Not helping.”

Sam lifted both hands innocently, though there was something knowing tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Just saying.”

John’s expression darkened. “We’ve got work to do. Dean can survive not seeing his girlfriend for another week.”

Girlfriend.

The word landed strangely.

Dean and Y/N had never called each other that. Even after the summer nights and lingering touches and phone calls stretching past midnight.

They’d never named whatever this was.

Maybe because naming things made them real.

Maybe because Dean was terrified she’d realize she could still leave.

Still, hearing John say it made heat crawl instantly up Dean’s neck.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he muttered automatically.

Sam made a face that clearly said bullshit.

John snorted. “Right.”

Dean flipped him off without turning around.

Outside, snow drifted silently beneath the flickering motel sign.

At Bobby Singer’s house almost two hundred miles away, Y/N was home for Christmas.

And Dean wanted her so badly it felt like another kind of hunger altogether. 

꒰ ♡ ꒱

Dean found the antique shop by accident.

Or technically because John disappeared into the sheriff’s station for two hours chasing a lead that probably amounted to nothing, leaving Dean and Sam stranded in the middle of a tiny Iowa town with twenty bucks between them and absolutely nothing to do.

Sam picked the library.

Dean wandered.

The cold bit through his jacket the second he stepped out onto the sidewalk, snow crunching beneath his boots as he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. Main Street was all dull wreaths and blinking Christmas lights that looked sad in the daylight. A few bundled-up shoppers drifted in and out of stores carrying paper bags and coffee cups while Bing Crosby crackled faintly from somewhere overhead.

Dean hated Christmas music.

Mostly because he secretly didn’t.

He passed a hardware store, a diner, a barber shop with fake snow sprayed across the windows, then stopped short in front of a narrow storefront squeezed between a florist and an empty laundromat.

ANTIQUES & ODDITIES, the faded sign read.

The display window was cluttered with old lamps, silver trays, porcelain dolls with cracked faces, and enough dust to choke on.

Dean stared for a second.

Then he went inside before he could talk himself out of it.

A bell jingled softly overhead.

Warmth hit him first, thick with the smell of old paper, cedar wood, and something faintly sweet underneath it all. The shop was dim and cramped, aisles packed close together with leaning shelves and glass display cases full of tarnished jewelry and yellowed photographs. Somewhere deeper in the store a record player hummed low jazz through static.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets harder.

He had no idea what the hell he was doing here.

Y/N wasn’t exactly the jewelry type.

At least not in the polished department-store sense. She wore bangles that turned her wrists green and earrings she forgot to take out for weeks.

Still.

Dean kept thinking about her hands.

The way she tucked her hair behind one ear while reading. The way gold caught against her throat under low light.

He drifted toward a glass case near the counter before stopping in front of it awkwardly.

There were necklaces laid across dark velvet inside. Lockets. Thin gold chains. Tiny crosses. Tarnished silver pendants.

Dean squinted at them like they might suddenly explain themselves.

“What’re we shopping for?”

Dean nearly jumped.

An older woman looked up at him from behind the register, reading glasses low on her nose. She had gray curls pinned messily atop her head and the kind of expression that suggested she already knew more than you wanted her to.

Dean cleared his throat. “Uh.”

The woman waited patiently.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Christmas gift.”

“For your girl?”

Heat climbed immediately into his face.

“Something like that.”

The woman smiled a little at that but didn’t push. “What’s she like?”

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

Y/N was sharp edges softened by candlelight. She was cigarette smoke curling from half-smiling lips. She was loud arguments and quiet silences and chipped french tips tapping against cassette cases. She was every song Dean heard late at night and every ache he didn’t know what to do with.

“She’s…” He huffed out a laugh under his breath. “Complicated.”

“Aren’t the good ones usually?”

Dean’s mouth twitched despite himself.

The woman stepped around the counter slowly. “C’mon. You don’t want any of this shiny nonsense.” She waved vaguely toward the gold chains. “You want something with character.”

Dean followed her deeper into the store.

Snow tapped softly against the front windows while she rummaged through an old wooden tray full of tangled gold.

“This one’s too delicate… this one screams divorcee…” she muttered mostly to herself.

Dean snorted quietly.

Then she pulled something free and held it up toward the light.

“There.”

It was simple.

A thin chain with a small oval pendant hanging from it, darkened slightly with age. At the center was a tiny carved tiger’s eye framed in curling golden vines.

Nothing flashy.

But when the light caught it, the stone glimmered with a red band the color of Sedona clay, only for half a second. 

Dean’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

He could picture it instantly against Y/N’s skin.

The woman watched his face carefully and smiled when she saw it happen.

“Ah,” she said softly. “That’s the one.”

Dean swallowed.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Yeah, I think it is.”

He took it carefully when she handed it over, thumb brushing across the cool stone. It felt old. Worn smooth with time. Like it already carried stories inside it.

For some reason that mattered to him.

“How much?”

She named a price just barely within what Dean had in his wallet.

Of course.

Dean hesitated anyway.

Not because he didn’t want to buy it.

Because gifts meant things.

Especially gifts you picked out this carefully.

Especially for someone like Y/N.

The woman must’ve noticed something shift in his expression because her voice gentled slightly. “She must be pretty special.”

Dean looked down at the necklace again.

At the stone glowing faintly beneath the dim shop lights.

Then he thought about Y/N sitting cross-legged on her dorm room floor during their last phone call, telling him she’d found a record store near campus she wished he could see—and the way his own voice got softer once he was tired enough to stop pretending he didn’t miss her.

“Yeah,” he said finally, almost to himself.

“She is.”

Outside, snow kept falling quietly over Main Street while Dean tucked the small velvet box carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket like it was something breakable. Something important.

Songs For This Read:

Sweet Emotion-Aerosmith

Message In A Bottle-The Police

tw: weed usuage

Word Count: 1106

Chapter One: Blunt Looks {Chapter 2 Link}

Dean was sprawled across Y/N’s bed like he belonged there, one leg dangling over the edge, the other bent awkwardly at the knee. The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight, old springs creaking every so often whenever one of them shifted. The threadbare quilt underneath him smelled like smoke trapped in fabric, cheap detergent, weed, and the faint, lingering trace of Y/N’s perfume rubbed into the pillows from years of occupation. It was the kind of smell that settled into your clothes long after you left. The kind you secretly hoped would. 

The room glowed dim amber from the bedside lamp with the crooked shade, light spilling across posters peeling at the corners and stacks of cassettes littering the floor beside the record player. Outside, tires hissed against wet pavement somewhere down the road, and every now and then, headlights dragged pale bars of light through the slats of the blinds before disappearing again. The radio crackled softly between stations before settling back into some slow rock ballad neither of them had bothered to turn off. 

Dean had a joint balanced between two fingers, ash threatening to spill onto the blanket. The cherry burned slow and red, flashing beneath the sharp line of his jaw every time he inhaled. Smoke drifted around his face in lazy ribbons, clinging to his hair and clothes like it had no intention of leaving him alone. Maybe it didn’t. Dean looked unfairly good like this—rumpled and half-melted into the mattress, shirt pushed up enough to reveal the lean line of his stomach, lips pink from heat and smoke, eyes gone soft around the edges.

Beside him, Y/N lay flat on her back, legs tangled carelessly in the blankets. Her soft hair spread across the pillow in messy waves, crushed from where Dean had been leaning against her half the night without either of them acknowledging it. She looked comfortable in a way Dean envied. Like she’d figured out how to exist in her own skin without fighting it every second.

Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.

Not obviously. Never obviously.

That was the thing about him and Y/N—everything important lived in the spaces between words. In the pauses. In the touches that lasted half a second too long before either of them pulled away pretending not to notice.

The joint had migrated to Y/N somewhere along the line. It rested between her fingers now, held loosely near her mouth while smoke curled from her lips in a thin stream toward the ceiling. She didn’t even look at him when she inhaled again, gaze fixed somewhere above them, distant and thoughtful.

Dean swallowed.

It hit him suddenly sometimes—how easy this felt. Being here. Being with her. Easier than temporary school hallways full of noise and fists shoved into lockers. Easier than girls who laughed too loud at his jokes and boys who only liked him when he acted mean enough. Y/N never seemed to want anything from him except exactly what he was in that moment, and Dean didn’t know what to do with that most days.

The silence stretched warm between them.

Not empty. Never empty.

Dean turned his head against the pillow, studying her openly now. The slope of her nose. The shine of the lamp caught against her lashes. The way her throat moved when she swallowed smoke.

God.

His chest tightened with something slow and aching.

“Hey,” he murmured eventually, voice roughened by smoke and sleepiness.

Y/N hummed softly without turning.

A grin tugged crookedly at Dean’s mouth. “You’re hogging it.”

He reached over and jabbed two fingers lightly into her ribs. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make her jerk and let out a breathy laugh that punched straight through his ribcage. Before she could complain, Dean stole the joint back, his fingers sliding against hers deliberately slow.

Their knuckles brushed.

Then stayed there.

For one suspended second neither of them moved.

Y/N’s eyes flicked toward him at last, dark and heavy-lidded beneath the low light. Dean felt a shiver crawl up the back of his neck despite the smoke settling warm in his lungs.

He took a drag mostly to give himself something to do.

The ember glowed bright between them.

She kept watching him now, and Dean suddenly became hyperaware of everything—how close their shoulders were, the press of her knee against his thigh beneath the blankets, the taste of smoke sitting on his tongue. His pulse kicked harder for no good reason.

Or maybe for one very obvious reason. 

This was her last humid summer with him before she would wander off to some university campus. Despite the ache in his chest—be it jealousy or longing—Dean couldn’t be more proud. 

꒰ ♡ ꒱

After the pre-mature death of Y/N’s mother, Bobby Singer had insisted on normalcy for his sweet summer child. He was fortunate enough to have a sister-in-law residing in the city whom Y/N had begun living with as soon as she was old enough to attend school. 

He didn’t spare her summers, however. 

Every June when the weather warmed and the rainy evenings snuck into Sioux Falls, Y/N was back home with her father in that old salvage yard. 

It was littered with the rusting bodies of projects long abandoned, projects that Dean had been busying himself with since he was double digits. As often as he found himself meandering around the graveyard of automobiles, he also found himself slinking into Y/N’s eyeline. 

Early on, Dean found it most suitable for him to piss off his own father—that was guaranteed to land him at Bobby’s for punishment. 

It was more like a reward, but that stayed between Dean and the Singers.

Under the innocent guise of childhood, Y/N’s fondest memories were of pestering the elder Winchester boy.

Very little had been innocent about Dean’s childhood, except Y/N. 

Back then, a 10 year old Dean would never have admitted aloud how fond he was of the wild child. Being a couple years younger, she was closest to an annoying little sister. That didn’t keep him from dusting off her clothes when she tripped and fell, or from leaving unique rocks or animal bones on her nightstand. 

Similarly, those gestures never failed to find their way into a shoebox that remained beneath her bed, Dean's name scrawled across the top in messy cursive.

Dean thought it was funny the way things never really changed, only aged.

Even now, 19 and fresh-faced, he couldn’t bring himself to confess his affections. Instead, he just rolled another joint and spoiled Y/N rotten with that sticky Seattle Strain. 

multi-chapter, 80s/90s dean winchester x reader slow burn

i have a playlist that i update with the chapters! most chapters are 2-3 songs long (read time); but will gradually get longer

*concepts are time period accurate*

basic rundown notes:

-dean is 2 years older than reader

-reader is bobby singer's daughter

-grew up together

-fic is mostly based after reader leaves for college

-explores dean's trauma and developments between himself & reader

-ANGST

-mixed perspectives! we get to see through dean's eyes and reader's