Supernatural Fics/One Shots

Annoyed wasn’t even the term you’d used to describe how you felt. Synonyms weren’t much help either: irritated, vexed, angry and exasperated weren’t strong enough terms to convey the rage and upset that dwelled in your chest. It was a culmination of a lot of things really; the hunts hadn’t been going all that well lately and you’d had some bad experiences with guys at bars. The latest had been a jackass who’d given you his number, promising to take you on a date sometime, then later you’d seen him leaving with his girlfriend.

So pissed wasn’t even the half of it.

Surprisingly your aim was pretty good, considering the circumstances. It wasn’t helping though. Bullets ricocheted off the target, shells firing back and the recoil strong enough to make your hands a little unsteady when the emotions started to get the best of you. But you powered through.

Sure it wasn’t helping all that much. If anything you were closer to crying now than you were earlier but at least you were alone. The last thing you needed was an interruption.

There isn’t one, not for the first hour or so anyway. Sam had enough understanding to interpret that the outward demeanour was not one that required comfort from him by this point, right now it was something you had to channel for yourself. Even if your shots steadily become more inaccurate as tears blotted your vision.

It was an incredibly stupid thing to be so upset about, you reminded yourself. In your eyes it was anyhow, if you’d confided in a friend they’d have been the first to reassure you that your reaction was perfectly natural but you just couldn’t find it in yourself to see the same. You blamed a considerable portion of it on the fact that, with being a hunter, there weren’t so many opportunities that arose to actually be intimate with somebody. The ones that did were with fellow hunters and you endeavoured to avoid those. They could be dead on the hunt the next day and then things got all messy.

It didn’t help that Dean had been leaving with yet another busty blonde when it’d all happened; he was going into overdrive with them lately and you’d be damned if you said that that didn’t irk you.

He always resurfaced, tousled bed hair and reeking of sweat, padded into the kitchen and made himself a coffee. He always had an absurdly smug grin on his face. Until he noticed you were in there. His smile always seemed to fold and you told yourself it was out of pity. Sam had probably drunkenly told him about your feelings; drunk Sam was one hell of a blabbermouth.

Thankfully you hadn’t had to see that this morning.

You weren’t entirely sure if you were getting out your anger about this guy at the bar or your frustration towards Dean. It was a toss-up.

“Jesus Y/N,” Dean’s voice booms from the doorway, “What’d that target do to you?”

It’s only then that you notice just how full of holes the target is. Most aren’t even in the central regions, if you were imagining it as Tom from last night then boy would he have died slowly and painfully. He probably deserved it. You shake your head.

“I came down here because I wanted some privacy, Dean. You ever thought other people could use some space or is it only you that gets that privilege?”

He raises his hands as if in surrender, “Woah Y/N. Why don’t you cool it a little?”

At least he didn’t ask if it was your time of the month. You’d have punched him. Gritting your teeth, you blink and adjust your aim; you cock your gun and fire it straight at the centre of the target. Bullseye.

“What’s with all the bad shots?” He questions, walking ever closer, “I thought you had better aim than that. You might need some training if you’re planning on-”

You weren’t even intending to hit him, it just happens. Clenched fist collides with his jaw, a loud smacking sound accompanying his confused look and quiet wince. In the reflection of his eyes you can see you look just as shocked as he does. Tears start to well again. Fuck, how ridiculous you have to look right now; you just punched a Winchester and to make matters worse you’re crying about it.

“What’s wrong?” His eyebrows furrow; concern is rife within him.

You mumble something incoherent, words suffocated and stifled by the emotion that bubbles in your throat and threatens to choke you. Warm salty tears streak your cheeks.

His arms wrap around you after a moment of hesitation; the rigid muscle of his chest is soon pressed firmly against you. The cotton of his t-shirt is dampened in an instant. He pays no mind, smoothing down your hair and murmuring soothing hushes. So you let yourself crumble, safe in the hold of him.

“Sammy told me about last night, if this is about that guy then screw him Y/N. You’re smart, so smart, so good at defending yourself, hell I’ve never really had anybody who can shock me with a punch,” He chuckles, “This life is crap. I know that. You don’t deserve to be dragged into this, you deserve a sweet apple pie life if that’s what you want. You should have somebody who can love you and be able to say it.”

“I don’t think anybody is silenced in professing their undying love,” You mutter pathetically.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, “You’d be surprised.”

You allow him to wipe your cheeks and tilt you to face him, soft eyes boring into your own. There’s so much emotion that clouds them, the stodgy pressure of the hunting life is heavy in his chest and stops him from voicing them. But you know, you know now.

Elevated to your tiptoes, sweetly chapped lips brush yours. Worries and emotions seem to melt away, all the uncomfortable tensions evaporate in the smouldering sentiment. Calloused fingers pad your cheeks. This is okay. Not thinking about tomorrow, not thinking about an endgame; it’s all comfortable and soothing. It enables you to lose yourself in the way he tastes like apples and cherries, the manner in which his lips seek out yours again after a singular lapse in their contact.