#dean angst

But they’ve been chatting for too long. He hasn’t approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And he’s got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. He’s never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.

She’s a bit more out-there than Dean’s usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there aren’t many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that he’s not in the mood for tonight.

You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure there’s about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. You’re just going to have to stick it out until then.

You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.

You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.

Dean is still talking to the woman. She’s laughing now and it’s high and girlish. She’s slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risqué compliment that she’s pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows he’s got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. You’d rather not witness this next part.

“Get you a drink?”

You blink, looking over to your right. It’s the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.

“I got one,” you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.

“One you actually like.”

You shrug, vaguely aware he’s probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.

He doesn’t ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because he’s served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.

When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadn’t. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals. 

“Never seen you here before,” he says, not really looking at you. He’s looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.

“Just passing through.”

“Where you headed?”

“Road trip. I’m with my two friends.”

He points the neck of his beer over in Dean’s direction. “That one of them?”

“Yeah.”

He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. You’re not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.

“Where’s the other one?”

Sam is working late at a library nearby. “Fuck knows.”

He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if it’s exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.

“You came to visit at a weird time, y’know,” he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. “Got some weird shit going on.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. “What kinda weird shit?”

“Bunch of murders. Real nasty ones.”

You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that he’s pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.

“Do they know who did it?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think it’s someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.” When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.

“Well you don’t have to worry about Dean over there,” you say. “We just got here today. I can vouch for him.”

He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. “Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”

You can’t help a laugh and it’s almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but you’ll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, that’s when you’ll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. You’ll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, it’s enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean. 

And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You don’t even know his name and he doesn’t ask yours, but he’s funny and decent enough to talk to and doesn’t try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.

“Buy you another?” 

You’re almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadn’t even fully realised you had been drinking it.

“Isn’t this my round?” You have no intention of buying him a beer, but you’re curious to see what he says. You’re playing with him a bit and you don’t feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.

Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. “Made out good tonight. I can afford it.”

You’re about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.

You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.

“We’re going,” he says, voice flat. 

You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. There’s a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. She’s probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.

A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you can’t say you’re any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.

“You come back here tomorrow,” he says, smiling while you grab your coat. “That drink is yours.”

You don’t answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.

You didn’t drive to the bar since it’s less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but you’re starting to really wish you did. Silence doesn’t feel as sharp when you’re in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. You’re used to long stretches of silence in the car - it’s where you spend most of your time. 

There’s nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Dean’s boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but he’s trying to be sly about it so you’re giving no indication that you notice him. 

You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that you’re distracted and that’s why you’re not talking. You’ve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know you’re not quite playing this off right.

“Hear anything from Sam?” you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like you’re about to explode or crumble apart in the silence. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. “He’s gonna be there another while. Says he’s onto somethin’.”

Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse. 

“It’s still open at this time?” you ask instead. 

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you don’t want to hear that from him right now. You’re not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.

You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time you’re back in the corner of your motel room. It’s like this night never even existed. 

The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he can’t decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.

The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesn’t happen. It’s like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didn’t pick up on the first time. One time, it’s the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, it’s a slow wink. You’re not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.

Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that he’s not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you don’t even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams. 

You can’t say that you’re not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. It’s Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.

The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isn’t really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about ‘exclusivity’ or ‘feelings’ or ‘what does this mean?’. And it’s not like that wasn’t something you were aware of but- fuck.

You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldn’t tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking. 

Because Dean doesn't act like it’s nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then he’ll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he can’t think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart can’t be blamed for turning this into something it’s not.

No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.

You say ‘mostly’ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he won’t say, even to you. And you know that he’s touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.

You’re not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.

Right now, you’re staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.

When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.

When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like he’s working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. He’s not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight. 

You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Sam’s bed and getting under the covers.

You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.

You wake up with Sam’s large body crammed against yours. He’s snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up. 

Dean isn’t in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didn’t put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.

Whatever. Not your problem anymore.

The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face. 

“You need some help gettin’ out from under Goliath?”

His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know it’s just because it’s early, you haven’t fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head. 

Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.

“I was trying not to wake him up,” you say sternly.

“I didn’t,” he protests. “Look at him.”

Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. He’s already drooling a bit onto the pillow.  You’re fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower. 

“Y’know, he’s out cold,” he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.

“I can see that.”

“Probably wouldn’t even notice if I joined you in there.”

You’re battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He can’t be serious. He’s propositioning you? After last night? 

Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldn’t be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things. 

What you hadn’t realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.

The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he can’t be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when it’s convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.

You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.

“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling your smile waver. “You know Sam hates when we do that with him around.”

Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. “Never stopped you before. We can be quiet. Don’t even need to do nothin’.”

“You look like you need your own shower,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. “I’ll be quick.”

You step past him before he has time to react. 

The whole time you’re in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you can’t make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell he’s talking slower. 

He clearly has no idea what’s wrong with you or why you’re acting different. He doesn’t even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because you’re no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And it’s usually fine because he never usually asks for something you’re not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but he’s asking you to sign yourself away this time. And that’s not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.

Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Sam’s notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.

“Where were you this morning?” you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.

“Went down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.”

You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but don’t comment on it.

“What now?”

“We gotta go across state. To another churchyard.”

“Why? You didn’t burn the bones already?”

He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. “I burned someone’s bones, yeah.”

Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. “You burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?”

“Not my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,” he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Sam’s bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.

“He gave you the details of some randomer’s grave?”

“Not some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isn’t the one whacking people. It’s his wife. And she’s buried across state.”

You’re fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Sam’s. “How did you work that one out so fast?”

He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. It’s not fatal but it looks damn painful. “Crazy bitch tried to gank me.”

“What the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.”

He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. “You worry too much.”

You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.

You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesn’t look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin. 

He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.

The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.

“Why are you so sleepy?” you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. “You have sepsis or something?”

His laugh is tired. “What’d I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?”

“Dean, you’re literally passing out on a ten minute drive. It’s not even six o’clock.”

“Spending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.”

You frown. “You stayed up all night?”

“Sure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.”

You’re not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You don’t ask.

“Why? Why not wait?” you ask instead.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.

Dean didn't sleep again last night. 

He doesn’t tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like he’s trying to stop himself from nodding off. 

You sit quietly in the back seat and don’t complain that he is playing some Blue Öyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you don’t. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.

Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.

“We getting a place here?” you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.

“Nah,” Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. “If it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. I’m gonna sleep in the backseat.”

Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.

You look at Dean for just a moment. He’s looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.

“I’ll join you in the front,” you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll do enough talking to keep us both awake.”

Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You can’t look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.

You don’t talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and there’s a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You can’t seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that he’s trying to work out what’s going on with you.

“So,” Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice is dull. You’re almost just saying it to say it - you know there’s no real point in pretending.

“We’re not doing this,” he says. “You guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.”

“Your sleep? I’m the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that you’re a behemoth?”

Sam abruptly laughs. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like you’re just one person anyway.” 

Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though it’s too dark to see anything.

“Did he fuck up?” Sam asks eventually.

No - not really. It’s you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you can’t say that. You just shrug.

Sam sighs. “He doesn’t know what he did. You gotta talk to him.”

“I know,” you say.

“No you don’t. You’re just trying to get me off your back.”

“I have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.”

He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat. 

Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. He’s never known anyone to not feel regret once they’re through with him. 

But it seems to him most of the time that you don’t see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that he’s not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of… caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when you’re lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that don’t block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadn’t worked out just because it wasn’t with you. 

You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.

You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that it’s just because he wants your attention. 

“Don’t you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?” he asks you and you smile and joke that you’re doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit you’ve seen together.

But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if you’re stopping yourself from mouthing the words.

It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you don’t really have ‘your own bed’ - you’re on the road too much - but that doesn’t matter. It’s his daydream and he says it doesn’t need to be burdened by reality. 

You’ll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so he’ll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 o’clock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping. 

He won’t admit that he’s only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what they’re learning in school and you’ll never say it either but you’ll both know. 

He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like. 

He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because he’s a man and he doesn’t need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldn’t join him for showers anymore, and he wouldn’t get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to ‘let it soak in’. 

He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like you’re giving him a facial. You both know it’s a charade when he grumbles about how it’s a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he can’t accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. You’re always happy to pretend you’re making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this. 

In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because “you’re going to look like a leather purse in five years if you don’t moisturise, Dean”. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. He’s been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.

He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how it’s your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him he’s gross.

But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.

There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.

This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time it’s working against him. He can’t seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe he’s just scared of how you’d answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that you’re being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and you’re being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesn’t know why. But he has a few guesses. 

Because Dean is the first person to admit he’s a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammy’s outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though you’re just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that you’re running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. He’ll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.

He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldn’t understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husband’s neck was slit in bed.

Because if that was you - Dean wouldn’t make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about ‘getting back out there’ and ‘she’d want you to be happy’ after Jess, but it’s true. He wouldn’t make it and he wouldn’t want to.

But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didn’t care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.

He’s not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable. 

Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like. 

So it’s best not to know.

You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and don’t answer. The question is cruel and confusing.

He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesn’t. You’re not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesn’t happen. And you can recognise that it’s probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldn’t have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.

But, having forgiven him, you’re not sure it’s something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. You’re not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.

So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When there’s a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.

Most of the time, you’re just exhausted. Even Sam’s annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people can’t stop you from sleeping well into the day.

Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.

But when you look at Sam, he’s seated on the other bed. And he’s taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that you’ll be sharing a bed with Dean.

The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you don’t move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You can’t wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. You’ll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply he’s hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.

“Coming for a drink?” Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like he’s talking to a kid.

“Not feeling it tonight,” you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. “You guys go ahead, though.”

“Sweetheart, come out for one drink. It’s just across the road.” There’s a thin edge of irritation in Dean’s voice, despite the pet-name.

“I’m not feeling it,” you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.

Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about ‘I’m just gonna-’ and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.

“That’s a loada crap,” Dean bites, hardly noticing Sam’s departure. “You’ve not been feelin’ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Don’t just sit here and mope.”

You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way he’s acknowledging what he’s done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but it’s hollow. You’re mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that ‘the conversation’ is about to happen and it’s probably overdue. But there isn’t a word in this world about this particular subject that you’d like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesn’t make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.

“I don’t know how,” is what you land on, finally.

Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.

You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You can’t decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, “You have nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.”

Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.

“What does that mean?” you ask softly.

“It means you don’t have to feel… guilty, or whatever. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t kill me ‘cause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckin’ zombie. And you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but it’s once again empty and defeated.

“You still there?” Dean probes gently.

“I’m here,” you say. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t know why I should feel guilty.”

You’re still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Dean’s voice. “Then what’s all the moping for? I thought-”

There is another stretch of silence.

“My feelings are hurt,” you say. He has won and you’ve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. “I knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you… y’know.”

Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but don’t look at them.

“Before I what? I don’t know. You’re gonna have to help me out here, angel. I’m in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.”

You don’t see how that’s possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but he’s not lying about this. You know.

“The woman, Dean.”

“What woman?”

“There’s been more than one?”

You don’t bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.

“There’s been none, if I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”

Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.

“Then I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” you say firmly. “I’m talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.”

Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.

“Jesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.”

You’re horrified that he can’t recall. You hope this doesn’t mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.

“The fuckin’-” Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. “The fuckin’ widow?”

“How the fuck would I know if she was a widow?” you snap. You’re ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like he’s suddenly enjoying this. It’s not how you saw the conversation going.

“That was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husband’s neck was slit the week before. The first case.”

You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. You’re playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You can’t remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadn’t imagined.

“What the hell are you-” you start.

“I didn’t touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.”

You frown. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.

“You don’t give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.”

“What smile?”

You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like you’re masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t even know I did that until now. But you’re right, I don’t give you that look.”

Your heart plummets. You can’t even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.

“You know why?” he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.

“‘Cause it’s phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.”

“Oh.”

There’s an apology in your tone but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He just mimics your ‘Oh’ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.

“Thought I lost you for good,” he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. “I can’t believe you thought I would-”

You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. You’re glad that you’re not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.

“Sweetheart, there’s nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is wobbly. “Yeah, Dean, I’m yours. I’m yours. God, I’m so so sorry-”

“Slow down, angel-”

“I just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, y’know, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I should’ve just-”

“Sweetheart.”

You stop. When you look over at Dean, he’s looking at you too.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just- fuck. I’m so… I love you.”

You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. “I love you too.”

He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.

He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.

Dean texts Sam to let him know he’ll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.

SAM: Gross. SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.

You’re mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.

You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesn’t tell you that he’s missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.

For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesn’t grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you don’t pretend you’re forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless it’s to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You don’t admonish him for that either just for this one time. He’s hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesn’t try anything in earnest. 

Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Dean’s flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.

“Fuck, angel. You have no idea…” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d be allowed touch you like this again.”

The way he’s kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but you’re too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.

He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.

“Can’t believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckin’ messed up.” He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. “Was having wet fuckin’ dreams. Kept forgetting you weren’t-”. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. He’s trying not to kill the mood.

“Dean-” you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.

“Yeah, baby? You miss me too?” He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.

It is almost criminal how pretty he is. You’ve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks he’s pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.

He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.

“Asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at the other thigh.

You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.

“Missed you, Dean. Couldn’t do anything without you,” you say.

“Yeah?” You can’t see Dean’s mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. You’re wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. “She missed me too, huh?”

He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.

But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.

“Yes! She missed you. She missed you so much.”

Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump. 

“Fuck, yeah. Bet she did,” he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. “Never gonna go cold on me again, are you?”

You shake your head wildly. You might whisper ‘Never’ a few times, or maybe it’s just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile. 

“Good girl,” he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before he’s diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.

You can’t help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.

But your mind is still working overtime and you still can’t get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.

“I think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.”

He doesn’t move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether you’re serious.

“You’re- shit- fuck,” you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. “I’m the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.”

That’s when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. “You’re fuckin’ adorable. You think this is for you?” he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. “Quit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.”

If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. “Are you real?” you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesn’t do much to help your problem.

The problem being that you’re about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. He’s lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “Jesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?”

You’d probably make some lame joke about how he’s the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope it’s sufficient.

“You’re so cute when you’re about to give it to me,” he says, fingers pumping and curling. “Y’go so dumb and needy.”

When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well you’re doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.

You never really come down from that high - you’re horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.

He smiles, even while his eyes darken. “Another one? Already?” “Gimme a break,” you say. “I haven’t gotten off in three weeks.” You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesn’t immediately register as an issue. Maybe you’ll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.

“Three weeks? Shit,” he laughs. “I’ve been jackin’ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so you’re rubbing against the underside of his cock. You’re soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you don’t give much away.

Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. You’re clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you. 

You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and you’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the sight or the sensation.

Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.

You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.

“Fuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where you’re taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.

“Think you’re just needy,” you whisper, grinding down laxly. You’re teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.

“Damn right I’m fuckin’ needy,” he grunts. “You got any idea what it was like goin’ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?”

Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but you’ll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.

“Gonna need an answer, angel,” he says and he knows he’s being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.

“I don’t know,” you moan, hating him and loving him.

He’s fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.

“You don’t know?” He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way he’s pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. “Don’t know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistin’ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckin’ brother?”

Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information you’re being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.

“I didn’t know. Dean, fuck- I’m sorry.” You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.

“Sh sh sh,” Dean cooes, not all that kindly. “S’okay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didn’t she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And you’re never gonna keep her from me again, are you?”

“No. Never again,” you whisper, eyes rolling back.

He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. “That’s my girl,” he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin. 

He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then he’s sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.

It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far he’s pressing into you but you’re always so wet when it’s Dean and right now you’re wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and that’s a trade you’ll take any day. 

“Jesus-” he chokes out “Hot - wet - tight fuckin’ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one I’ll ever need.”

His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Dean’s words have you gushing.

“I missed you,” he confesses, breathless. “Missed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.”

You’re almost glad that Dean can’t seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression you’re sure you’re sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.

“I missed you too,” you babble. “Missed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, I’m gonna come.”

He twitches inside you once and then he’s leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you.

He kisses you, deep and dirty. There’s too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.

“That’s it, baby, there you go,” he gasps, shaking. “Fuck. I love you so much.”

You’re still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each other’s eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.

You’re sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Dean’s cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.

When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Dean’s confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesn’t quite believe that this won’t be taken from him again tomorrow, but you’ll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.

“Might need another shower,” he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.

a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni

You had a deal with your dad. If Garrett made it into Briar, he would pull every string he could to get you there. Garrett also researched ahead of time and found that they had amazing student disability services, including student ASL interpreters, assignment excuses (for you, such as doing a speech for a class), and extra time on exams. Phil also felt more comfortable sending you somewhere with Garrett cause then at least one person would know ASL or look out for you. Before you came to Briar, Garrett had told his teammates about you. Only his close friends were aware that you were mute, and he taught them basic ASL signs to prepare when you visited. 

Now, as an incoming freshman at Briar, you were nervous because most people don’t know ASL, so you sometimes opted for text-to-speech as well. At the beginning of the semester, Garrett made an effort for the guys to watch out for you and not be afraid to step in if other first-year students made fun of you. After your calculus class, Garrett insisted you visit his house and meet his roommates. He assured you that they knew you were mute and that they knew some ASL. All you knew was that these were the guys Garrett played hockey with and that they were good. 

“Hey, guys! Come meet my sister!”

You see a guy with curly hair behind the kitchen, cooking something that smells like a stew. You then see another guy with wavy brown hair and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, holding a hammer. They both wave at you. 

“Hey, I’m Tucker, this is Logan.” the one with the pink apron mentioned. 

“Hi, I’m Y/N.” You replied. 

“Dude, I thought you said she was mute.” Logan spoke up.

“It’s called speech therapy, dumbasses. She can say basic words but not a full conversation.” Garrett shot back. 

You rolled your eyes. 

“My apologies, Y/N,” Logan meekly replied. 

It’s okay. I get it a lot.

“I remember that’s the sign for ok, so I think I’m in the clear.” Logan cheered.

You sighed at his sentiment. You then hear the door open behind you. It's a tall blonde with a wide frame and bright blue eyes. 

“Yo Graham! And baby Graham, you look just like your brother.” Dean bent down to look at you. 

Gross

“What does that one mean?” Dean looked perplexed

“She said, gross dude.” Tucker chirped. 

“How did you know that?!” Dean shot his head up at Tucker.

“It’s called reading, I wanted to know the important words in case she tried my cooking. Did you not look over the basic ASL language Garrett sent us?”

“Not going to lie, I glanced over it for a few seconds.”

“Seriously, dude?” Garrett looked at Dean, pissed.

“What? I thought I had more time to study.”

What’s the loud blonde dude’s name? 

Logan squinted at you again, trying to think. “I think she’s asking your name dude.”

Dean looked back at you and pulled his hand back. “Dean. Dean Di Laurentis. Don’t you forget it,” and then Dean winked at you. You looked disgusted. 

“Damn harsh crowd, I’ve never been rejected so subtly before. And what’s your name baby Graham?”

“Y/N.” You quietly replied. 

“So she speaks. Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Dean smiled before heading towards the kitchen. While they all sat, you turned to Garrett, already annoyed by this whole interaction. 

You told me they knew ASL, but they barely know anything, especially that blonde one. You signed. 

“They’re trying their best, ok? They didn’t have 18 years with it. They had, at most, probably had two weeks.” Garrett whispered low so they couldn’t hear. 

Should I just do the text-to-speech thing? It’s probably easier for them to understand.

“No, Y/N, just do what makes you feel comfortable, worst case I’ll be here to translate.” Garrett rubbed your shoulder in reassurance. 

Good, cause honestly, whatever the curly-haired one was making smelled good.

“Tucker’s a great cook, you can always come over for a free dinner if the dining hall food isn’t up to par.”

Last week, they had undercooked chicken, and I almost gagged.

Garrett laughed as he brought you back to the group. 

“She’s staying for dinner, guys!” Garrett cheered. 

·༻𐫱༺·

When Dean walked over after meeting you, he was debriefing with Tucker and Logan. 

“So that’s Garrett’s sister?” Logan inquired

“Yeah, dude, can’t you see the resemblance? They both got dark curly hair, and she also has his Angry Bird eyebrows.” Dean responded.  

“She’s just as expressive as him for sure.” Tucker added while stirring his chicken and dumpling soup. 

“How can you even tell? She can barely talk.” Dean, perplexed. 

“You can tell a lot from a person by just their face, unlike you, talking your ear off to someone any chance you get.” Tucker rolled his eyes. 

Dean looked over at you and Garrett talking, even though you were signing, he looked at your face, which looked a little concerned as your eyebrows furrowed. A part of Dean wished he knew what you were saying. He turned back to Tucker and Logan in the kitchen.

“How long do you think it takes to learn ASL?” Dean spoke out of the blue.

“My guess is probably one or two semesters, they have classes on campus for it.” Logan responded before heading upstairs to fix something in the bathroom. 

“Do you think it’s too late to register?” Dean frantically pulled out his phone to see if it fit in his schedule. 

“I’m sure you can email someone, I don’t think people are fighting over a spot in that class.” Tucker started tasting his broth before adding salt and other spices.

Garrett then walked over with Y/N and cheered, “She’s staying for dinner!” 

“I hope she likes chicken and dumplings.”

“What is that?” Garrret asked. 

“Its like a creamy chicken soup with bits of dough in it, its my mom’s recipe.”

Sounds delicious.

Tucker looked excited, “I know she just said delicious, and trust it will be!”

Garrett smiled, seeing how much effort he had put into communicating with you, unlike Dean, who still looked confused. 

“Yo G!” Logan had come back downstairs. “Dean was interested in taking some ASL classes. Do you know of any?”

“Oh? Already trying to make up embarrassing me in front of my sister?” Garrett patted Dean’s shoulder. 

“I just thought it’d be cool since I’m taking less credits this semester.” 

“Well, congrats Dean, you just won yourself a ticket to be my sister’s personal body guard. She’s taking an ASL course, you can join her class.”

Garrett, are you out of your mind? He’s going to bother me all semester. I’ve only met him for a few minutes, and he’s already on my nerves.

Garrett signed back, so Dean or the other guys wouldn't hear his response. I don’t want you wandering campus alone, plus Dean is intimidating enough that no one will bother you. 

What if the person bothering me is going to be around me almost every day? You signed at Garrett and rolled your eyes. 

Just stick it out for two weeks. If he’s really bothering you, I’ll tell him to fuck off, and I’ll drive you to school. 

You sighed, agreeing to Garrett's pleas and putting on a fake smile, excited that Dean would be joining your ASL class. 

Tucker looked up at both of you before serving dinner. “You guys good?”

“Yeah, she’s totally excited to show Dean the wonders of ASL,” Garrett smiled. 

You fake-smiled with two thumbs up, looking at Dean. Everyone eventually transitioned to the dining room table to enjoy the chicken and dumplings Tucker made. Despite never having it before, you found it delicious. When Tucker asked how it was, you said it was good, and then Tucker started to dance with excitement at your compliment. 

You had wished you could just enjoy your food and your brother's company, but unfortunately, there was a certain blonde who wouldn’t stop bothering you. 

“So, Y/N, what’s your major?”

Graphic Design

“What’s your favorite color?” Purple

“What’s your favorite food?”

Mac and Cheese

“What’s your favorite animal?”

Whale shark

“What do you do in your free time?”

Draw or paint.

Dean looked up at Garrett in anticipation. “I got none of that. What did she say G?”

“She said she's a graphic design major, purple, mac and cheese, whale shark, and draw or paint. If you’re going to ask her all these things, you'd better pay attention in your ASL class.”  

You looked down at your soup, hoping the blonde would give up on trying to talk to you, but he kept trying to get you to speak. You got up abruptly to refill a bowl of soup, and, like a puppy dog, Dean followed. 

“Allow me,” Dean grabbed the ladle. You rolled your eyes. Dean poured you a bowl and noticed it was mostly made of broth. There was barely any chicken, vegetables, or dough in your bowl. Your eyebrows furrowed. Dean noticed your annoyed expression and realized there was nothing in your bowl. He grabbed it out of your hands, dumped the soup, and dug deeper into the pot to get you more solids. 

“Thank you.” You quietly replied before scurrying off back to the table. Garrett asked if everything was ok and you nodded, continuing to eat. Dean came back shortly with another bowl, busy eating it this time, figuring you enjoyed some silence. You had finished the last drops of water in your glass before Garrett and Dean awkwardly got up at the same time to grab the pitcher from the fridge to refill it. You can hear them whispering and bickering by the fridge. 

“Dude, why are you also grabbing the pitcher?”

“I wanted to refill Y/N’s water.”

“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden to my baby sister? I swear to god if you even try to pull one of your stupid flirty moves, I will personally slam you across the table. I bet it won’t even work on her”

“Watch me.”

Dean came back with the pitcher and accidentally spilled some water on your shirt while trying to refill your cup. You groaned before noticing Dean take off his shirt and wipe the table down with it. Dean looked over, hoping to see you blush at his figure, but was only met with a disgusted look and you turning to say something to Garrett. Dean didn’t even get to the part where he offered you one of his shirts to use in his room before you stormed upstairs towards Garrett's room.

“Nice one Dean. I bet she’s going to toss up her dinner after seeing that one.” Garrett laughed. Now Dean was the embarrassed one. Upstairs in Garrett's room, you grabbed one of his Briar U Hawks shirts and, without thinking, started changing with the door open. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Dean went upstairs to toss his shirt in the laundry and get a new one when he froze, noticing you in just a bra, mid-change. Without a word, he saw you rush and slam the door in his face. You were on the verge of feeling overwhelmed, sitting on the floor behind the slammed door. Why wouldn’t stupid Dean leave you alone? Garrett, hearing the slam, nervously rushed upstairs before knocking on the door. 

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Garrett sounded worried, so you slowly opened the door, letting Garrett into his room before closing it again. 

“What’s going on? Are you okay? I heard the door slam.”

Dean is just too much right now. The questions. Spilling water on me. He also saw me in my bra.

“He did what?!” You grabbed Garrett’s arm before he could think about storming to kill Dean. 

It was an accident. It’s mostly my fault for not closing your door while I was changing. I’m sorry. 

“Y/N, there is nothing to be sorry about. I know my friends can be a lot but trust me they have good hearts.”

Is it just hard, you know? To keep up with all that energy.

“I know you’re trying your best. I’ll tell Dean to tone it down, especially since it’s going to be harder to draw a conversation out of you.”

Thank you.

Garrett pulled you in for a hug. It was one of the best things about Garrett. He was always understanding, not just about your disability, but also that you tended to be more introverted than he was. Garrett didn’t realize how extraverted all his friends were, and Dean was the king of it. He regretted suggesting that you put Dean in your ASL courses and probably should’ve tried to convince Logan or Tucker instead. Garrett then decided to take you home since it was getting dark out. You said your goodbyes to Logan and Tucker, and you assumed Dean stayed in his room after your interaction. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. Dean was still nowhere to be found before Garrett knocked on his door. 

“Yo Dean! My sister left, can I talk to you?”

Dean, now freshly showered in clean clothes, slowly opened his door. 

“For the record, G, it was a complete accident.”

“I know, she told me. But don’t get too comfortable now, cause that’s the last time you’re ever seeing that again. Am I clear?” Garrett 

“Crystal.”

“Also, I gotta ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Look, man, I know you love talking and socializing, but do you mind toning it down a bit around my sister?” Dean looked up, confused

“What do you mean?”

“She’s more of the introverted, artsy type, and we’re all outgoing jocks, you can probably guess how those two things don’t mix well.”

“Well how do you tone it down? I’ve never seen you more gentle with someone than her.”

“The first thing I do is listen. I let her do the talking so I can figure out how much she wants to socialize. Sometimes she ices me out, and I leave her alone.”

“But how do people just operate like that? I feel like I can’t go a few minutes without needing to speak to someone.”

“Believe it or not, Dean, people’s brains have different levels of social battery. I think yours never runs out. Just try to not pry or force conversation out of her, you have all semester to talk to her.” 

Garrett patted him on the back before going to bed. That was the one problem with Dean. He wanted to talk to you all semester, get to know everything about you. He was fascinated by you. Besides ignoring every attempt at flirting, he couldn’t believe you weren’t attracted to him. Every girl on campus wanted him, so why didn’t you?

·༻𐫱༺·

You returned to your dorm, and thankfully, the disability services gave you a single with your own bathroom. You set your backpack down from class before hopping into a quick shower. To take your mind off things, you decided to draw a little. You keep a small sketchbook of all your favorite foods you’ve eaten. Whether it was restaurants, home-cooked meals, or fun things you’d bake, you added them to it. You took out your phone and sketched the photo of Tucker’s chicken and dumplings. Despite trying to reminisce about how good the dinner was, you kept thinking about Dean. His stupid blue eyes were on you when you were disappointed with your soup. Without even saying anything, he knew exactly what you wanted. You thought Garrett could only do that. How could a random guy I just met know what was wrong even though I didn’t say anything? You figured it was just a coincidence and continued sketching. 

You realized it was getting late and also remembered that your ASL class was tomorrow with the loud blonde. You sighed, finishing up your sketch and finishing your nighttime routine before setting your alarm and going to bed. Tomorrow’s definitely going to be a disaster. 

You walked into your ASL class expecting Dean to skip or back out. But surprisingly, he was there early, reading an ASL textbook. Unfortunately, he noticed you, waved, and called your name, excited to see you. You had been avoiding the stares from some of your classmates before you sat down next to him. You pulled out your laptop to work on some designs for another class. Shortly after, Dean peeked over your shoulder and couldn’t help but talk to you. 

“Woah! That’s so cool what class is that for?”

You opted to use a text box in the corner to type your responses. “It’s for 2D Design, I have to align some shapes.”

“It looks fun”

Then your professor walked in. They spoke while signing. Even though Dean missed the first week, they were going over the alphabet and the history of ASL. Dean surprisingly took out his own laptop, writing notes and pulling up visuals of hand signs. You, still focused on your design, weren’t paying attention. You already knew ASL, but the course was mandatory for students who utilize it daily or student interpreters. 

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be paying attention?”

“I already know ASL, if you didn’t know.”

“Some of this stuff is interesting you know, like how it can have different variations.”

“It is a language you know, not everyone has a thick New York accent.”

“Hey! I’m from Connecticut. Not everyone can be from Boston.” Dean fired back, placing heavy emphasis on saying "Boston" in an exaggerated Bostonian accent. You rolled your eyes as you finished up on your designs, which you planned to print later. You still had about 45 minutes of class left and opted to pull out your food sketchbook. You turned to the chicken-and-dumpling drawing to finish coloring it in and add some shading. Dean naturally couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

“Woah, is that Tucker’s dinner from last night?” You nodded.

“How do you get the soup to look like that cream color?”

You sighed, and then Dean caught himself for thinking what Garrett said. He realized he was probably talking too much and let you continue drawing in peace. Eventually, class ended, and you had finished the final picture. Dean, not wanting to bother you, started packing his bag and heading out. You tugged at his shirt, and he looked down at you. You showed him the final picture, and he looked at you in awe. 

“Y/N, this looks awesome! Do you mind if I take a photo of it to send to Tucker?” You nodded as he quickly grabbed his phone to snap a photo. He smiled at you before you both walked out of the classroom. The moment you stepped out, a group of girls walked over to Dean to talk to him. They didn’t even notice you, and one girl shoved past you, causing you to trip and drop your sketchbook. Some pages were falling out and getting trampled. You had tried to call out to Dean, but you couldn’t really scream or even say the word “Dean” yet.  You then opted to wave your hands in the air to where Dean saw your eyeline. Knowing Dean only knew the alphabet, you spelled it out simply. 

DEAN HELP

Dean squinted, trying to read the words you were spelling out, before he realized you were signing “help”. He excused all the girls out of the way to find you on the ground, trying to pick up your trampled sketches. 

“Everyone back up! You’re stepping on her things!” Dean shouted. Before all the girls cleared out to let Dean help you, they made comments about who this nobody is or why Dean is helping you. You ignored it and focused on making sure your sketches are ok. You realized the page you just finished had gotten crinkled, and there was mud and dirt all over it. You looked at it in disappointment and felt like crying. Dean saw your disappointed face and turned to face you. 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok, I took a photo of it, I can text it to you!” Dean handed you his phone. You typed in your number, and he made your contact name “Baby Graham”. He texted it to you, and you thanked him, changing his contact name to “Loud Blonde.” He apologized to the group of girls, saying it won't happen again. Maybe Dean wasn’t the most annoying for now. He escorted you outside the building, where Garrett was waiting. Dean had to head to another class, and he said his goodbyes. 

·༻𐫱༺·

“So, how was he?”

He was ok, still talked a little too much, but he left me alone when I was drawing. 

“That’s good, I told you he could tone it down.”

Can I ask you something, Garrett?

“Of course.”

Is Dean popular with girls?

Garrett reached behind his neck. “Unfortunately, the whole hockey team is flooded by girls. But Dean gets around, if you get what I mean. Why did something happen?”

Some girls just trampled us after class, and some stepped on some art I just finished. 

“You better believe I will be having another talk with him.”

It's ok, Garrett. He helped me and told them to go away. He said it won’t happen again.

“So, it wasn’t the end of the world having him around?”

I’d say he was tolerable. I still don’t hate him.

“I’ll take it as a win. If he continues to bother you, you let me know ok?”

You nodded as you headed to Garrett’s car. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. You worked on some homework for your typography class. A text from Dean pulled you out of your zone for a second. 

Loud Blonde: Hey, I just wanted to apologize again for earlier. The boys want to frame your drawing in the house lol. 

Baby Graham: It’s ok, I still have plenty of sketches in my book. 

You thought about how difficult it is not knowing how to say Dean’s name, and about how he’s going to be around you all semester. You probably should at least know how to say it in case something happens again. You call Garrett to ask for help and whip out a notebook to take phonetic notes. 

“What’s up, sis?”

You texted him, “Can you teach me how to say Dean?”

“Oh, sure. You’d take the de- from door. And you remember what you’d say when I’d take away your Barbies?”

“Mean.”

“Yeah, so the end -ean part and you put those two together.”

“Doorean.”

“Oh, just the D part, -duh” 

“Duh-ean”

“Better, but it’s one syllable. I texted how it's pronounced phonetically to you.”

“Deen?” 

“Yup, you got it. Just keep practicing it. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Nope.”

“Alright, goodnight sis, don’t stay up too late!”

·༻𐫱༺·

You kept practicing by saying it to yourself and looking up videos on how people pronounce it. After a few tries, you got it mostly down. You finished up the rest of your work before heading to bed. You woke up, packed your bags, and headed to the campus cafe before your classes. You got a quick coffee before putting your headphones in, listening to music, and walking to your class. As you're looking at your phone, you hear someone calling your name over your music. You paused it and turned to see Garrett’s curly-haired friend. 

“Hey! Y/N!”

“Oh, hi.”

“My name's Tucker, in case you forgot. Are you also heading to a pre-calculus class?”

You nodded. 

“Nice, I’m also in that class. Sorry if you’re confused, but I’m also a Freshman here at Briar. I just got an off-campus living exemption for being on the hockey team. Do you want to head to class together?”

You agreed as you both quietly strolled to class. You also gave Tucker your number so you could easily communicate with him. He wasn’t as loud as Dean and enjoyed being in the moment, enjoying the weather. It was nice. You both sat together as you brought out your tablet for notes, while Tucker was busy on his laptop watching some hockey highlights. You texted him, nosy about what he was doing. 

Y/N Graham: Why are you watching Harvard’s hockey highlights?

Tucker: We have a game this weekend, Gar is drilling all the freshman on studying how they play. He really wants us to win.

Y/N Graham: Sounds like my brother alright.

Tucker: There’s a lot of extra pressure since they’re our rivals. The whole team is kind of on edge.

Y/N Graham: If my brother gives you guys a hard time, you let me know. I’ll knock some sense into him. 

Tucker laughed as you both went back to each other’s work. You took notes and practice problems, while Tucker wrote down formations and potential strategies. You compared this experience to Dean. It was calm, no forced conversation, just both of you in your own worlds. Even though you appreciated how much quieter Tucker was, a small part of you wished someone would text or tap your shoulder every 10 minutes. Time had passed so quickly that the lecture was over, and both of you stepped out to see Garrett, Hannah, Logan, and Dean waiting for Tucker. 

“There he is. Did you see the new videos I sent you?” Garrett motioned to Tucker. 

“Yeah, I also tried to come up with some ideas to try on the ice.”

Garrett then turned to you. “I hope he didn’t distract you in class.”

Nope. Unlike him, I actually took notes on our pre-calculus lecture. 

Garrett turned back to Tucker. “So, what do you know about the unit circle?" Tucker looked dumbfounded. Ashamed about being caught for not paying attention in class, Tucker kindly asked if he could have your notes. You smiled, motioning that you’d text it to him. You then saw Hannah pop up behind Garrett. She signed 

Hello, my name is Hannah. I’m Garrett’s girlfriend.

I know, he really likes you.

Hannah smiled at your response. You appreciated that at least his girlfriend is trying better than Dean did. Speak of the devil, the annoying blonde couldn't help but chirp up at you. He looked excited to show you something. 

Hello, Y/N.

Hello, Dean.

How was class?

Good.

“Did you see that? Was that good?” Dean looked down at you in anticipation. You nodded, and Dean excitedly cheered. “He practiced that conversation a hundred times with Garrett. Your name alone took thirty minutes.” Logan jumped in, putting his arm around Dean. 

You were impressed. Maybe the blonde wasn’t as dumb as you thought. 

“Yo, are we all heading back to the house? Y/N, you’re always invited.” Tucker motioned. 

Garrett quickly looked, counting that not everyone could fit in his car. 

“Logan, Dean, did either of you bring your car?”

Dean pulled his keys from his pocket, jingling them. “Who’s riding with me?”

Logan and Tucker were fighting, playing rock, paper, scissors to see who’d get to ride in Dean’s car. Unfortunately, Tucker lost. You all started to walk towards the parking lot when you opened the car door to a strong smell of stinky hockey gear and saw one of the seats down to fit Garrett’s hockey sticks. 

“Oh shoot, I forgot I had my gear in here.” Garrett put his hand on his forehead. 

Logan was about to offer you his seat when you stopped him, insisting he could go. Garrett translated that you mentioned that Logan fought for that seat fair and square and you’d go with Dean. Before you went with them, Garrett pulled Dean aside.

“If anything happens to my baby sister, you are dead, Di Laurentis.” 

Dean assured Garrett nothing would happen before walking off to Dean’s car. It was a silver BMW sports car. You could tell it was expensive. Tucker, being the gentleman, let you sit in the passenger seat while he sat in the back. Thankfully, his car just smelled like musk and whatever cologne Dean wears. He had leather seats and fancy buttons all over the car. 

“Better than Garrett’s car right?” Dean smirked.

“No.”

“C’mon, his smelly Jeep is not better than mine.” Dean pouted. 

You huffed and looked away from him. 

“I’ll prove it to you.”

Dean turned his car on, and it let out a roar. That didn’t really impress you, but his phone automatically connected and started to play “Party Monster” by The Weeknd. You turned your head to stare at it. 

“Oh? You like The Weeknd? He’s one of my favorite artists.” 

You nodded when you saw that Dean’s backup camera was extra special, with overhead, rear, and side views. You noticed the lights in his car bounced to the beats of the song, and there was basically a huge tablet as his control panel. During the quick 10-minute drive, you took the time to watch Dean as a driver. He was smooth, driving with one hand, and was very fluid. You had never seen him so focused. He drove surprisingly safely. You were sure he would speed or try to race Garrett home. But it was anticlimactic to say the least. You all made it to the house before getting out of his car, thanking him for driving. Tucker opened the house door for you and let you in first.

·༻𐫱༺·

You walked in to see Hannah sprawled out with her legs on Garrett as he had now transitioned to putting the hockey highlights on their TV. Tucker and Dean groaned at the sight of it. 

“G, seriously, we’ve been at this all day let’s take a break.” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“If we want to beat this guys, we have to study their new freshman, too.” Garrett showed a 20+ video playlist of highlights from all the players. You all looked in horror. You tapped Garrett on the shoulder.

Give them a break, you guys will be fine. Don’t get all stressed because Dad’s coming.

Dean noticed parts of what you said. Specifically, you mentioned that Garrett’s dad will be coming. It made him understand why Garrett was so intense about this game.

“Fine, everyone do their homework. But after dinner we’re watching this!” 

The group sighed in relief before they all split off. Before Garrett went into his room with Hannah, you had asked him if he had any scissors at the house because you needed them for a project.

“Yo, do any of you guys have scissors?”

“I have some kitchen scissors if that works?” Tucker asked. You shook your head, not wanting food or to ruin his blades with your materials. 

“I have a pair in my room, you can come with me.” Dean noted. You reluctantly followed him to his room. Unlike Garrett, he was a little messier. The bed wasn’t made, a basket full of laundry was on the floor, and his desk was covered in books. Even though it was messy, it smelled nice like cedarwood and pepper. You noticed an “ASL For Beginners” Book on there and smiled. Dean rummaged through his desk, found it, and handed it to you. You thanked him before heading downstairs. Dean, being curious, followed you down and watched your every step. Seeing you pull out the designs you worked on the other day, along with some other construction paper. He asked you about each step in the process, but you reluctantly replied in basic ASL or via text. 

It was strange that everything you told Dean fascinated him. It was like you were from another world and he was just born yesterday. You never thought you’d be sitting at the kitchen counter teaching a 6-foot-2 blonde how negative space works. He’d look at you with those innocent blue eyes, eager to find out what you’d say next. You noticed he would hold back more than the first time you met him, offering to help or bringing down his own work to leave you alone to do your project. He’d occasionally chime in to ask if you wanted a glass of water, snacks, or something to complement your progress. Unlike Tucker, it was nice to have someone who constantly cheered you on and checked in on you. Even though you were listening to your music, Dean would always find some way to get your attention. At one point, he found himself cutting out shapes for you. He’d ask you if it was right before handing it to you, looking in anticipation each time. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Garrett walked down with Hannah, commenting on the sight. 

“Interesting, I’ve never seen Dean be so gentle with…construction paper?” Hannah turned to Garrett for a reaction. Garrett had a confused and angry look. 

“What is he doing?”

“Aw c’mon Gar, they look cute.”

“Don’t you dare, if Dean makes a move-”

“Relax, he’s just helping her. I’m sure it's harmless. I mean you know Dean, he’s definitely busy with a bunch of puck bunnies. Plus, if she was annoyed I’m sure she’d text you to rescue her.”

Garrett and Hannah joined Tucker and Logan on the couch, who were fighting over a video game. It was strange to see Dean get along with you, let alone with a few words. Usually, when a girl came over, Dean would be all over her, or you could hear loud laughter from upstairs. It was eerily quiet to see both of you quietly working without much noise. Logan turned to notice Garrett had come back downstairs.

“Hey G? When are we heading to Malone’s? The team’s asking for an informal meeting.” 

“We’ll go in a few, depends on if Dean’s done playing arts and crafts.”

Dean’s head perked up. “Hey! I’m learning the importance of color theory!”

You smiled at his comment and turned your head to look at Garrett, worried.

What’s wrong, Garrett?

Nothing. Is Dean bothering you?

No, he’s helping me. I’ll be done in 10 minutes. 

“Do you want to join us at Malone’s? You can meet the rest of the team.” Dean interjected.

You were scared Dean understood your and Garrett’s conversation and nodded. 

“Great! I can’t wait to watch you draw a Malone’s burger.” 

·༻𐫱༺·

You and the group piled into the same groups, and you all pulled up to Malone’s. The group walked in as a giant roar of cheers came from a group of men that you assumed was the hockey team. Dean floated over and looked like he was his usual loud self. You, wanting to avoid dealing with a bunch of hockey jocks, drifted over to the bar and sat on a stool. You pulled out your sketchbook, intrigued by the food and atmosphere. 

“Hey! You’re Garrett’s sister right?” A girl with brown wavy hair asked you. 

You nodded, “Yeah, Y/N.”

“It’s nice to meet you Y/N! I’m Allie, Hannah’s roommate, can I get you anything?”

You pointed at a glass of water. Allie nodded as she poured you one. You then noticed a flood of girls come in. They squealed, pointed at the hockey team, and immediately went over to flirt with them. You saw various girls fawn all over Dean. Garrett wasn’t kidding. Girls love the hockey boys. You watched as Dean smiled, wrapping his arms around them. For some reason, you felt a twang against your heart. Watching Dean flirt and banter so easily. You wish you could match his energy as those girls did. From far away, it looked like they were a well-oiled machine, never losing steam every chance they opened their stupid mouths. Shit. Why did you care? He’s your brother’s best friend. He probably would want someone who could talk back anyway. 

You had always found it hard to date, which was why you never did. You believed no one could ever be understanding enough to learn ASL for you or be patient when you’d type out a response. The only person who would do that is. You thought Dean would be a refreshing change of heart, but he seemed to prefer the company of those girls anyway. As long as they were around, you were invisible, just like the other day after class.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Allie perked behind you. You swiveled in your bar stool to face her. You tipped your head towards the crowd.

“Ah, the puck bunnies? They’re a bunch of girls who are obsessed with hockey and hockey players. Don’t worry about Garrett though, he’s very loyal to Hannah.”

If only that’s what you were worried about. Whatever, at least Dean won’t be bothering you tonight. You sipped on your water as you sketched out the interior of Malone’s. A few minutes later, you felt a small tap on your shoulder. You anticipated Dean, but were surprised to see Logan. 

“Hey, how are you holding up? G sent me over to check on you.”

You gave him a thumbs up. 

“You want something? I promise I won’t tell G.”

“No thank you.” You quickly replied before focusing on your drawing. 

“That looks sick, G always mentioned you were a talented artist. I’ll see you around.”

Allie served Logan a beer before nodding to you and heading back to the crowd. You then watched Logan report to Garrett as he smiled and texted you. 

Garrett: If you ever want to leave, just text me, and we’ll go.

You gave him a smile before focusing back on your sketch, starting to outline it in pen.

·༻𐫱༺·

You then heard a larger crowd enter. You assumed there were more students before you heard whispers and rustling. It was a group of guys who looked similar in build to the hockey team. You figured they were on the football or lacrosse team. You felt their presence come up behind you. 

“Who’s this pretty girl?” A guy started.

Another yanked your sketchbook out of your hands and dangled it in the air. “Look, she’s a little Picasso with all these drawings. Why don’t you focus on me instead?”

You were completely flustered. You weren’t sure whether you should punch one of them or scream loud enough to break their eardrums. 

“Hey, you’re Garrett Graham’s sister, right? The one who can’t talk? I’ve always wanted to date a girl who can’t talk back.” Another guy leaned, laughing very close to your face. You had had enough and threw your glass of water at his face.

“Asshole.” You slapped him in the face. 

The whole room then focused its attention on the scene you just caused.

“Why, you little bitch, I’ll teach you to shut up for good.” One started to charge at you before you felt a large set of arms pull you behind him. You, thinking it was Garrett, instinctively hugged the back of him, bracing for what would happen. 

“You bastards need to leave her alone. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Dean threatened. Wait a minute. Dean? Shit. You were holding onto Dean for dear life. Dean could sense your arms shaking. 

“She slapped me and threw the water at me first! We were just messing with her.”

“You think it’s funny to mess with someone who can’t easily speak up for herself? Imagine if someone was beating you down and you couldn’t scream for help, then what?” 

“C’mon Di Laurentis, she’s just a quiet, weird, art nerd, is she really worth your time?” That comment made your eyes burn. Sure, you were more of the artsy type, but the dumb lacrosse meathead was right. Why is Dean wasting his time on you?

“She is. She is a million times kinder, gentler, and better yet, quieter than your annoying loud mouth.” You peeled yourself off Dean before tugging on his shirt to have him look down at you. He flashed you a bright smile before turning back to the other loudmouth. 

“So either get the fuck out of Malone’s or I’ll make you.” Dean got closer to the guy’s face. He huffed and gestured for the rest of the team to leave, cursing Dean as he went. Dean turned back to you and crouched down to your level. 

“Are you ok? Did he touch you or anything?”

“No.” 

“Good.” Dean brought you in for a brief hug. 

A girl floated by to gush over Dean. She put a hand on his shoulder and brushed his bicep and explained how manly and sexy it was to see him go to bat to defend someone. You meekly turned your head away, jumping back to reality. Dean probably only sees you as your brother’s sister. Swooping in to protect you because he promised Garrett he would. Not because he had any feelings for you. Why in the world would Dean Di Laurentiis even go out with someone like you? You’re complete opposites. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Garrett quickly got up to check on you. You assured him you were okay, and he insisted on taking you home. Hannah insisted she’d just get a ride from Logan or Dean, so you and Garrett left to drop her off at her dorm. Shortly after you got back, you decompressed what just happened. Slightly overwhelmed, you began to cry, upset at yourself for putting yourself in that dangerous situation. You were also angry at Dean for coming in to help you when you wished it were Garrett. It would help your head stop spiraling as you replay what Dean said about you. You heard a knock on your door. It was probably the RA coming to do room checks, but you opened the door to see Dean. 

“Hey, you left your sketchbook at Malone’s, I thought you’d want it back.”

“Thanks, Duh-ean”

“Duh-ean, I like it,” Dean laughed to himself. 

You wanted to slap yourself for saying that in front of him. 

“It’s ok, don’t be so hard on yourself about it.” Dean noticed your puffy eyes and red nose. 

“Have you been crying?” Dean asked. 

You were quiet. 

“Do you mind if I come in? You could use a friend if you want to talk about it.” You debated the idea before looking up at his eyes. They had genuine concern. Not wanting him to report back to Garrett and have Garrett pester you all night, you let him in. 

You both sat on your floor against the wall next to your shoe rack. 

“So, what’s going on?”

I’m overwhelmed

“I know.” Dean put his arm around you and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m sorry I jumped in like that, I know you can handle yourself. Nice move with the water though.”

“Thanks.” You giggled.

“I was worried about you. Trust me they won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You smiled.

“I went through your sketches. You really are talented.” Dean turned to a page, and it was a sketch of a purple orchid.

"This one is my favorite." Dean noted.

“Mom.”

“Mom? Is this your mother’s favorite flower?”

“Yeah. Orchids.”

“It’s beautiful.” 

You both had a moment looking at it. Dean could notice every small stroke you made and the little details in each petal. After seeing your sketch, Dean was at a loss for words for the first time. You hadn’t seen this sketch in a while. It was one of the things you drew when you missed your mom. A tear lightly rolled down your cheek. Dean noticed, cupped your cheek, and wiped it away with his thumb. You looked beautiful, your skin glowing from the galaxy projector you turned on at night. Dean lightly pulled away and apologized. 

“Sorry, I know you’ve had a rough night. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Dean removed his arm from you. You two just sat in silence. Dean wanted to say something so badly to break the silence, but held back, not trying to ruin the moment. You were so different than the girls Dean would usually go for. They'd always want to talk or gush about him, it was refreshing to just sit in silence and enjoy each other's presence. You slowly reached out to hold Dean’s hand. 

“Thanks, Dean.” You spoke.

Dean turned to you. “Hey, you got it right this time, good job, Y/N.” Dean reached to pat your head. “And don’t mention it. You Graham’s can easily hold your own.” Dean continued to stroke your hair.

A few minutes had passed, and Dean was about to say something before he heard light snoring against his shoulder. You had passed out from dozing off at your projector, with Dean's warmth next to you. Dean smiled as he gently lifted you off of him and carried you bridal style towards your bed. You were half asleep as he placed you down. He brushed hair out of your face before Dean tucked you in. He had turned to leave when you grabbed his arm. You gestured to him to come closer to you. He bent down to meet you at eye level. You kissed him on the forehead. 

“Sweet. Dean. Thank you.” 

You couldn’t see it, but Dean felt a light blush rush to his ears. If he had a tail, it would be wagging, patting against the floor. 

Dean smiled, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Dean left quietly, closing the door behind you, this was the first time Dean didn’t want to leave a girl’s room. But you’re Garrett’s sister. What’s he thinking?

Dean got back to the house to find Garrett waiting for him, anticipating his sister. 

“How is she? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine Gar, she’s strong-willed, just like her big brother.” Dean patted his side as they both went up to their rooms.

Dean didn’t even notice his phone had blown up from a bunch of puck bunnies, the team, and the roommates texting him. When he was with you, he was in another world, ignoring all the noise from the outside. Dean ignored the text from Puck Bunnies and was torn about whether to admit he had feelings for you. For one, Garrett would murder him, and for two, he didn’t want to hurt you. He hated seeing you sad. The night you met, he felt it. He didn’t know that one simple look could give his heart a small poke. Seeing you with those puffy eyes made him only want to beat up the entire lacrosse team. As Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, he pondered what in the world he should do. 

·༻𐫱༺·

By the end of the week, it was finally the day of the hockey game. It was a weekend, so you got to sleep in a bit for once. Your mind kept drifting to that night with Dean. Even so, your dreams were flooded with him, always ending with you kissing him, causing you to wake up as if it were a nightmare. But it wasn’t. You were more worried about the idea of Garrett finding out. Fuck, you like Dean Di Laurentis. The game went just as planned. Briar nearly won, 3-2 in overtime. Garrett and Logan scored goals, and you saw Dean body nearly half of Harvard’s bench. As you were walking towards the locker room to congratulate them, right outside the door, you heard some familiar voices.

“Well, aren’t we lucky boys? It's the little water tossing bitch from Malone’s”

“Stop.” You warned.

“Or what? You’re going to throw water at me again? Oh wait, I don't see any.” The cocky lacrosse player laughed.

You backed up towards the wall until you felt a large cup of ice-cold water fall on your head. You screeched out at how cold it was, and now you were drenched in water.

“Wow, for a girl who’s mute, you surely can scream.” 

Garrett immediately recognized your scream and ran out, fresh out of a shower. He almost broke the door off with how hard he slammed it open. Naturally, his teammates, including Dean, ran out to see you, crying and drenched in water. 

“You motherfuckers.” Garrett noted before punching one of the guys on the lacrosse team. All the other teammates jumped in to punch some other guys before the staff and coaches broke them up. Garrett and Dean got pretty beaten up. Hannah pulled Garrett off and walked him towards the medical area. You helped Dean up and noticed him wincing against his chest and arms. Dean thanked you as he looked up at you. 

“You’re wet, we should get you to the medical team, they can warm you up.”

“Dean.” 

“What?”

“Chest. Arm. Pain?”

“I’m f-fine, I promise.” 

“Liar.”

“Fine, I’ll go if you go.”

You agreed, holding onto him as he hobbled towards one of the medical rooms they typically use for PT. They gave you a towel and blankets as they propped Dean up on the examiner’s table. The athletic trainer motioned for Dean to take off his shirt, and he obliged, catching you off guard as you looked away, lightly blushing. You could see the various black-and-blue bruises on Dean’s body out of the corner of your eye. You knew what he did was taxing on his body, but seeing it only made you feel pain. Dean hissed as the trainer stretched him out and asked if various places hurt. 

“Good work, Di Laurentis, you didn’t fracture anything. Just ice your face tonight. Your girlfriend can help you hold it up for you.” 

You waved your arms, trying to deny it.

Dean laughed and thanked him as the trainer left the two of you alone. Dean tried to get up and winced before you walked up to help him. You were still a little cold, so you clung to Dean’s warmth. 

“Warm.”

“Gee thanks, for a second there I thought you were trying to help me.”

You hit him on the arm, causing him to drop his ice pack. You picked it up and handed it back to him. A little hurt, he pouted. 

“Wow, my ‘girlfriend’ is already trying to kill me.”

You wanted to punch him again, but he’s lucky he’s beaten up and needs your help. Garrett and Hannah catch up with both of you walking in the hallway. Garrett runs up to you. 

“Y/N! My sweet baby sister, are you alright, they didn’t hit you did they?”

“No, only water.” 

Garrett gave out a relieved sigh, mentioning that he and Hannah are heading out soon. Dean offered to drive you home, and Garrett didn’t argue. He trusted Dean. Plus, it looked like he needed someone to help him to his car. You helped Dean into the locker room, helping him pack his hockey bag as he lugged it over his shoulder. You were still on his other side, helping him walk. Even though he was limping, he reached to open the passenger side door for you. He slowly but surely got into the driver’s side, still wincing at his pain. 

Are you sure you’re ok to drive?

“Yes, I don’t want my ‘girlfriend’ to worry.” You were shocked at how much ASL Dean could comprehend in a week. 

Why do you keep saying that?

“I like it because I think it suits you.” 

You went quiet, staring at him. 

“U-Unless you don’t like it, I’ll stop saying it. You know what? Just forget about that whole thing together. It was a really funny joke? Haha?”

You kept staring at the bumbling idiot. 

“You don’t like it. Or do you like it? Just give me a sign Y/N!” Dean put his face into the wheel, causing the car to let out a small beep. 

“I like you, Dean.” 

Dean pulled his head up and pulled you in for a hug. 

“Are you sure? Did I say it too soon? I wasn’t sure how you felt.” Dean held the sides of your shoulders. You leaned into him for a gentle kiss. 

“I don’t hate you.”

“But…you like me right?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“What about Garrett?”

How about we just keep this our secret, for now? You winked. 

“Now we need our own secret language to flirt around Garrett, is there a Pig Latin version of ASL?”

You laughed as you both drove off to the house, then arrived and helped Dean up the stairs. You gave him one more kiss before going inside. 

“Boyfriend.” You spoke.

“Girlfriend.” Dean replied, smiling brighter than he had ever before. He’d been waiting for you to say those words and can’t wait to hear them again. 

A/N: This fic was so fun to write! I hope you guys enjoyed! Sorry that this one took a little longer, I just kept adding and adding more to it! Next fic will also be about Dean so stay tuned!

“Just hurry up, would you? Stop using this as an excuse to get out of doing research,” Sam cut in with a huff. 

“I would never,” Dean gasped, feigning offence as he held a hand to his chest. 

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Sam sarcastically agreed, taking a sip of his beer. 

“Whatever,” Dean muttered, sharing a look of contempt with you that had you giggling quietly, and Sam rolling his eyes. 

“Dean-” Sam began to chastise, before being quickly cut off. 

“I’m going!” Dean said defensively, holding his hands out in surrender as he backed away from the table. “Call me if you need me.” 

“Yup,” you and Sam agreed in unison, both locking back onto the task of researching the case. 

Footsteps sounded heavy on the stairs, and the bunker door screeched open and shut before plunging you and Sam into silence. 

“How long do you think he’ll take this time?” you asked after a few minutes, a smile playing on your lips.  

Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Probably long enough for us to figure this all out.” 

You hummed in response, closing your book and selecting a new one. “Probably,” you agreed, flipping through the pages with a chuckle.

The fact that Dean was gone for just over an hour at this point wasn’t entirely intentional. He may have spent some extra time chatting to the patrons when he stopped in for some cases of beer. He may have spent longer than necessary reading the menu once he walked over to the diner you liked - he knew your order by heart, but no one needed to know that, did they? And yes, maybe he put up with the flirtations of the waitress a little longer than he should have, but it’s not like he was purposely avoiding getting back to help with research. 

Yet it still came as no surprise to him when your name showed up on his caller id, your irritation practically palpable through the screen already. 

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Dean placated, answering the call as he made for the door. “Food’s hot, I’m on my way back.”

“Are you actually on your way back, or are you just saying you’re on your way back?” you questioned, and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle as your inquisitive stare came into his mind's eye. 

“I’m on my way back, smartass,” Dean grumbled, setting the food on Baby’s roof as he fumbled for his keys. “Though don’t wait up for me to come save the day and crack the code on this thing,” he added playfully. 

“Aw, don’t worry, De,” you comforted lightly, before taking on a more serious tone. “We’re not.”

A grin found its way to Dean’s face as you abruptly ended the call, and he laughed quietly as he unlocked his door. 

He really, truly, was on his way back. He was halfway in the car when a noise reached his ears, his attention snapping to the alley across the street. He stilled, waiting in silence for a few moments as he listened for anything else. His hand was on the door, ready to snap it shut when it happened again. 

Heaving a sigh, he got back out of the car and gazed across the street, a feeling of unease brewing under his skin.

“It’s just a cat,” he rationalised to himself, resisting the urge to reach for his pistol as he surveyed his surroundings. “Or, it’s whatever the hell we’ve been trying to track down.” 

Inching slowly across the street, he carefully pulled the pistol from the confines of his jeans and mentally ran through all the things he could possibly encounter, trying his best to ready himself. 

“Please be a cat, please be a cat, please be a cat,” he pleaded quietly, stepping into the shadows of the alley. As soon as his foot stepped over the threshold of darkness, a hunched shadow darted across the back wall, taking on all the likeness of a terrible Hollywood movie villain. “Not a cat,” he determined, quickly making his way through the alley. 

Unable to find anything after searching three times over, Dean decided to cut his losses; he’d get back to the bunker, fill you and Sam in, and the three of you could regroup here later and see what could be found. 

It was a good plan, except Dean never got to execute it - he never even made it out of the alley. He only made it halfway before he was met with blinding blue light, pain, and then nothing but darkness. 

Dean woke with a start, a pounding in his head and cotton in his mouth as he frantically surveyed his surroundings.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he mumbled, throwing his head back on his pillow after recognizing his own room. 

He laid there for a few minutes, running through the events of last night - or, what he thought was last night, but was maybe only a dream - before getting ready and making his way to the kitchen. 

“Hey, there he is!” Sam greeted cheerfully. “I was starting to think you’d miss breakfast all together.” 

“Nothin’ can keep me from my bacon,” Dean teased, making himself a cup of coffee as Sam fixed a plate for him. 

“Well, here’s an extra helping,” Sam announced, sliding the plate onto the table before Dean. “Since today’s a special day.” 

“Right, thanks,” Dean muttered, his mind running into overdrive as he tried to determine what made today special. “So, uh, what exactly happened last night?” 

“What do you mean?” Sam questioned, sitting down across from his brother. 

“I mean what happened,” Dean repeated gruffly, taking a hefty bite of his food. “I don’t even remember getting back to the bunker, next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room not even fifteen minutes ago.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s not really shocking,” Sam replied with a snicker. “You were pretty out of it.” 

“I was?” Dean asked through a mouthful of food. 

“Yeah,” Sam confirmed with a grimace. “Look, just shut up and eat your food so we can go meet up with [Y/N].” 

“[Y/N]?” Dean repeated. “Where is she?” 

“At the house,” Sam answered, off-handed. 

Dean only stared at him, trying to determine if he was seriously supposed to know what the hell Sam was talking about or not. “The house?” 

“Yes, Dean,” Sam confirmed, already exasperated. “You guys got the keys today, remember? [Y/N] wanted to get a head start on setting up the nursery and we’re supposed to go help her. And we’re late, so hurry the hell up.” 

“Nur-... the nursery?” Dean spat, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Since when the hell is she even pregnant?” 

Sam stared at him like he suddenly grew three heads before rolling his eyes. “Hilarious, Dean. You know full well it’s for Ellen.” 

“Harvelle?” Dean wondered, feeling like he was losing his mind - or Sam his; hell, or both. 

“Winchester,” Sam supplied in disbelief. “Your daughter - dude, are you still drunk?” 

Dean felt his blood run cold, his heart getting lodged in his throat. “I, uh, yeah - yeah, probably, I don’t know,” Dean sputtered, chugging the rest of his coffee with a shaky hand. Having completely lost his appetite, he pushed his plate away and abruptly stood. “Let’s go.” 

“You’re not gonna finish eating?” Sam asked curiously. 

“Nah. Like you said, we’re late,” Dean answered, hurrying from the kitchen before Sam could see the look of terror on his face. “You should probably drive,” he added over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed, following Dean out. “Sure.” 

Dean spent the entire car ride feeling like he was going insane. Half of him wanted to search through his phone, figuring it would have most, if not all, of the answers to whatever the hell was going on. Though the other half of him was terrified by what he may find, and he was having a hard enough time trying to fend off the panic attacks already. So he settled for sitting in silence, wracking his brain for a single clue. He barely even noticed that they pulled into a driveway until Sam’s voice startled him out of his daze. 

“Welcome home!” Sam cheered, eagerly exiting the car. 

Dean felt like he was being weighed down with lead as he climbed out of the car, following Sam to the front door. “[Y/N/N] always loved this house,” he muttered softly, cluing in to the fact they were headed into the very house you always gushed over when driving by. 

“Why do you think she was so excited to finally get the keys?” Sam asked with a laugh.

Dean continued to follow him up the stairs and across the front porch, feeling as though he was on autopilot and copying his brothers every move. 

“Ready?” Sam asked with a grin. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure am,” Dean replied awkwardly, nodding in agreement. 

“You’re nervous,” Sam pointed out, not entirely wrong. “Look, I know it’s a big change, but you have nothing to worry about. You’ve already been such an amazing dad, and that’s not gonna change just because you three won’t be living in the bunker anymore. Okay?” 

Everything inside Dean started burning, screaming at him to get the hell away from this situation. It only just now truly sunk in that this wasn’t just his house. It was your house. He would be living here with you and his daughter. Wait, did that mean the two of you- 

The front door was suddenly yanked open, jarring him from his thoughts. His bewildered eyes landed on your mother - grinning from ear to ear as she took in the sight of him and Sam - and your father, standing a few steps behind her with a polite smile. “I thought I heard you two!” 

Stepping aside, she eagerly ushered them in, and Sam nearly had to shove Dean over the threshold as he grumbled incoherently about how weird he’s being. 

Dean, once inside, had to steady himself when he saw you. 

It wasn’t because you suddenly appeared from around the corner without warning. 

It wasn’t because you had an infant resting on your hip; a precious little copy of you. 

It wasn’t because the first words out of your mouth were a melodious “Daddy’s home!” when you spotted him. 

Hell, it wasn’t even the ring on your left hand, catching the light so perfectly that it almost put the brightness of your smile to shame. 

It was because when he saw you - grinning from ear to ear, dishevelled and exhausted from a never ending list of things to do, mysterious stains littered across your shirt - Dean swore you had never looked more beautiful. 

“Hi,” he breathed out, wiping his suddenly clammy hands on his jeans. 

“Hi,” you repeated with a laugh, advancing towards him as the child in your arms reached out for him. 

He wasn’t sure what was more surprising: how natural it felt when he reached for her in return, how comfortable it was to hold her, or how easily he reciprocated the kiss you casually placed on his lips; as if you’ve been doing so for years. 

“Sorry I left without waking you,” you confessed, wiping away a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I figured you could use the extra sleep given how hard you went at Garth’s party.” 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dean replied automatically, despite not having a clue what you were talking about. 

You and Sam both laughed, which irritated him. It felt like there was some inside joke that he was the butt of and wasn’t allowed to know. 

“No, of course it wasn’t,” you teased, turning your attention to Ellen. “Daddy’s just as young as ever, isn’t he, baby?” you added, playfully pinching her cheek to elicit a laugh from her that made his heart soar. 

Dean grinned mischievously, adjusting his grip on Ellen. “Yeah, well, I don’t think my age was a problem for you back when we made this little angel, now was it?” 

Part of him was surprised he even said it, given he has no recollection of his life with you, let alone that, while the other half of him beamed with pride over how easy it was to play along.

“Oh, god,” Sam groaned, cutting off any chance you had to reply. “That’s my cue to leave. Who wants to help me make coffee?” 

Quickly agreeing, your parents followed Sam towards the kitchen, leaving you and Dean grinning at each other in the hallway like smitten teenagers. 

“Okay, come on! I need your opinion on paint colours for her room,” you gushed, tugging on his sleeve. 

Firmly taking your hand in his, he followed in your wake as he listened to you ramble over the ideas you had. He wasn’t sure if he was really supposed to give his opinion or not, considering you never gave him much time to speak up, though he knows he would have agreed with you anyway just to keep that smile on your face. 

He was glad you never gave him time, though, because at some point he completely stopped listening. It was neither intentional nor because he didn’t care. It was simply because you looked so happy, so excited and at ease. It felt like forever since Dean saw this sparkle in your eyes; he didn’t want to do anything to take it away. 

It took you staring at him with raised eyebrows to realize he was supposed to say something. 

“You weren’t even listening, were you?” you asked. 

“Yes, I was!” he argued, setting Ellen down in her playpen. 

“Okay, which colour is the one I like most?” your voice held a challenge, but the look on your face showed you were more amused than angry, much to Dean’s relief. 

Scanning the colour samples on the wall, he confidently chose the one he knew to be your favourite before grinning in triumph. 

You sighed, shaking your head with the shadow of a fond smile on your face. “Please, we both know that’s only there to make my mom think it has a chance. That colour is just awful.” 

Playing it off as a joke, Dean laughed as casually as he could without making it obvious he was losing his footing all over again. 

This was your favourite colour. He helped you paint your room in the bunker this colour. Nearly every trinket or accessory he ever bought you was this colour. Hell, he almost lost a bet that had him upholstering Baby in this colour - a bet he, to this day, has no idea why he accepted. Dean knew this was your favourite colour. 

Yet, apparently, it wasn’t. 

“So, like I said, I was thinking of this colour,” you continued, pointing to the last colour Dean would’ve thought you’d ever pick. “I figured it’d go really well with the wallpaper we picked out for the accent wall, don’t you think?” 

Dean had no idea what the hell wallpaper you were talking about, but he nodded away. “Almost a perfect match.” 

You grinned enthusiastically, planting a firm kiss on his cheek before beginning to ramble again. Not even Sam coming in to deliver mugs of coffee and steal away Ellen could stop your ideas from being known. 

As the day carried on, you dragged Dean throughout the house to have him help you decide on final touches in each room, littering kisses across his face whenever you could and leaving him flustered each time. 

As the day carried on, he grew more and more at ease, leaning into your touch every time. 

Before he knew it, he had learned Ellen's nighttime routine while he helped you get her ready for bed, and was now sitting beside you at the dinner table to enjoy what seemed like a feast created by your parents. 

“The first dinner in your home should be a special one,” your mother declared, seemingly reading his mind as she added the last dish to the table with a grin. 

After expressing his thanks, he quickly fixed your plate before serving himself; a gesture that was familiar to him, as he knew he'd done this countless times before in the bunker. The kiss he received from you in return, though, was a gesture he still wasn't familiar with. Yet, it was one he guiltily realized he wouldn't mind getting used to. 

The conversation flowed so easily between the five of you that Dean almost felt fooled into believing he's done this time and time again. Hell, maybe at this point he just wanted to believe it. Or better yet, maybe there just wasn't anything abnormal going on after all. If he had a crazy night out like you and Sam said, then maybe all his confusion could be chalked up to a crazy hangover. Maybe this really was his life. Maybe-

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, breaking him from his thoughts. 

“What?” he asked, turning to look at you. “Yeah, why wouldn't it be?” 

You arched an eyebrow at him, clearly picking up on the waver in his voice. “You were lost in space. What're you thinking about?” 

“Nothing,” he assured, wiping some sauce from your cheek. “Just a long day.” 

It looked as if you wanted to argue at first, though you quickly plastered a smile back on your face. “Alright.” 

“He's tired,” your mother announced. “Remember that he isn't as young as you are,” she chided playfully, pointing a finger at you. 

“Yeah, and neither are we!” your father cut in with a laugh. “I think it's time we call it a night.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” agreed your mother. “Let's just clean up first.” 

“No, absolutely not,” Dean declined with a shake of his head. “You two did all the hard work, we can handle the clean up.” 

“Don't bother arguing,” you pitched in, cutting off your mothers reply. “I'll make Dean kick you out if you don't go willingly.” 

Dean stammered over his response, trying to figure out if that was really something you expected from him or not, before he was met with laughter from everyone; laughter he belatedly joined in on. 

“We're going, we're going!” appeased your father, standing from the table with a laugh. “No need to sic your attack dog on us.” 

Dean laughed on time at that, because, well, he'd gone to bat for you many times before, and he doubts your parents are where he'd draw the line - and he's glad your father seems to know that. 

Having said your farewells with them, Sam pitched in to help you and Dean clean up, carrying on your idle conversations from dinner as you did so. This is when Dean felt like things were finally normal again. With you and Sam tackling the dishes and laughing over your dumb jokes, while he tried to ignore you both and put the food away. Just like how it always was. 

“Well, I think that about does it,” Sam announced, tossing the dish towel onto the counter - which earned him a glare from you as you quickly hung it up. “I should head out, too.” 

“Already?” you questioned. 

“Yeah,” Sam shrugged. “I got a new lead I wanna follow up on.” 

Dean almost jumped for joy over his brother's response. “You hunting something?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Sam informed awkwardly. “Yeah, I've been working on a few cases.” 

They were still hunting. Another sign of normalcy. This was good. He really was starting to think this was somehow just one massive misunderstanding. “Great! What do we got?” Dean asked eagerly. 

The look shared between you and Sam made his blood run cold again, and he felt a pang in his heart as he watched you dip your head to play with your ring, a deep frown on your face. 

“Well…” Sam started, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “We don't have anything, Dean. I'm still working alone.”

“What?” Dean asked curtly. “Why the hell are you hunting by yourself? I'm not allowed to help you anymore?” 

The sound of your defeated sigh filled the room, and his attention snapped back to you. Avoiding his gaze, you said goodnight to Sam before practically running from the kitchen. 

“Sometimes I don't know whether you're an asshole or just an idiot, Dean,” Sam said haughtily, running a hand through his hair. 

“What did I do?” he asked helplessly. 

“Dude, come on,” Sam sighed, taking a seat in the breakfast nook. “Why would you say that in front of her?” 

“Say what? That I wanna help you?” he asked, joining his brother where he sat. 

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed. “You don't do that anymore, Dean.” 

Dean felt like he was caught in a sea of confusion, and every time he thought he'd break the surface, tendrils weaved from mystery and misunderstanding wrapped themselves around him, pulling him back under to where he was destined to drown. 

“I don't… help you anymore?” Dean wondered, not understanding anything. 

“You don't hunt anymore!” Sam replied, being as loud as he could dare without waking Ellen. “You stopped hunting as soon as you and Y/N learned she was pregnant, and you swore off hunting altogether as soon as Ellen was born.” 

“Yeah, but-” Dean tried to say, before falling silent. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? 

“Look,” Sam butt in. “I'm sure you were only offering to help with research, but that's how it starts.”

“What do you mean?” he inquired, and he almost had to laugh, because he was suddenly reminded of when he first had to give the hunting talk to Sammy as kids - only this time, he was the one asking Sam all the questions. 

“You have a wife, Dean,” Sam announced somberly, and Dean wondered fleetingly if his heart would ever stop skipping a beat when someone mentioned you as being his in such a way. “You've got a beautiful daughter, a house, a family. A family that you and Y/N are trying to make bigger. Why would you want to go back to hunting in any capacity?” 

Dean fell silent, taking in what his brother had said and feeling like his head would explode. 

All because he doesn't remember. 

He doesn't remember dating you. He doesn’t remember proposing or getting married. He doesn't remember you being pregnant or getting you pregnant. He doesn't remember Ellen being born, or when you both apparently decided to have another child. He doesn't remember his life. But this is his life, and something in him doesn't want to lose any part of it. 

“I guess I don't,” he finally admitted quietly, shocked at how true that answer felt to him.

Sam nodded, remaining quiet for a minute as they each gathered their thoughts. “I know you've been… freaked out, I guess, today. I don't know why, but if the reason has you wanting to start hunting again, you need to talk to Y/N about it.” 

“That's not what's happening,” Dean denied, shaking his head. 

“Alright,” Sam accepted with a nod. “Whatever it is, it's between you two, anyway.” With that, he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder in consolidation before standing up to take his leave. “I'll see you all tomorrow.” 

Dean only nodded, his mind too far away to formulate any other response. He remained sitting there after Sam had left, staring at his surroundings for who knows how long. By the time he came to his senses, his initial instinct was to get up and find you, but instead he decided to wander around the house in search of some answers.  

There was still so much left to do with the place, yet there were pictures littering the mantle and hanging up on walls that made him want to tear his hair out as he examined them. Engagement photos, wedding photos, maternity photos, vacation photos - an entire life with you portrayed right in front of him that didn't stir even the faintest bit of recollection within him. 

Terror laid claim on his heart, his mind growing hazy as the world around him began to crumble. He felt like he couldn't breathe, a weight on his chest so heavy that the air was trapped in his lungs. 

“Who the hell am I?” he asked himself, the picture before him beginning to blur as tears clouded his vision. 

He was stuck. Stuck in a net made up of lies and deceit and impossibilities and he needed to get out but those woven tendrils had him wrapped up tight, binding him to a mind he couldn't trust and dragging him down, down, down into the sea. 

“Dean?” you called softly, sounding muffled and far away. 

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out; he couldn't even fucking breathe let alone talk. He tried to answer again, but it felt like he was choking, his throat burning every time he opened his mouth. 

“Baby?” you pressed, sounding louder to him this time. 

It wasn't just because you were closer now, having tentatively approached him during his struggle. It was the hand you gently placed on his arm, pulling him out of the black abyss and onto dry land once more. 

“How is this real?” he choked out, unable to peel his gaze away from the photo above the fireplace. 

“What do you mean?” you asked tenderly, taking his hand in yours. 

“I mean this,” he breathed, squeezing your hand for effect. “How can this all be real? It shouldn't be real.” 

He kept muttering to himself, and you gently took his face in your hands to get him to look at you. 

“You feel that?” you asked quietly, wiping away his stray tears with your thumbs. “I'm real.” 

“It just doesn't make sense,” he confessed, struggling to meet your gaze. 

“Everything is alright, baby. I'm real. You're real. We’re real,” you told him, gentle yet firm.

“We're real,” he repeated shakily. “This is real,” he added, needing to convince himself further. 

“I know this is all a big change for you, De,” you admitted, trailing your hands down to rest on his chest. “But why didn't you tell me it was this hard for you?” 

“I don't think it's the move,” he told you, resting his hands on yours. “I just- I feel like I'm forgetting something. Like something important is slipping away from me, and I can't figure out what it is.” 

You studied him carefully for a moment before threading your fingers through his. “Well, we'll just have to figure it out together, won't we?” 

Dean smiled sadly, tightening his grip on your hands. “Yeah, I guess we will.” 

All Dean could do was hope that everything would be better come tomorrow. 

“Did you get a hold of him?” you asked, re-entering the library after shedding your pyjamas.  

“No, still going to voicemail,” Sam said with a frown, pulling the phone away from his ear as he glanced over at you. “Why the hell did you change, where are you going?” 

“Where do you think I’m going?” you asked in turn, staring at him as though the answer were obvious - which, in your defence, it really was. 

“We don’t even know for sure if something’s wrong,” he sighed. “And you’re gonna… what? Just march around town looking for him?” 

“Yes,” you said stubbornly. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” 

Sam stared at you for a moment, and you readied yourself for his speech about it being a stupid idea; but it never came. Instead, he simply nodded and stood from his seat. “I’ll get my jacket.” 

You wanted to grin in triumph, as you almost never got away without bickering with Sam over things like this, but the worry you had for Dean prevented it. Something just wasn’t right here. You aren’t exactly sure how it was that you knew, but you knew. 

“Let’s go,” Sam called, heading for the garage. 

You hurried after him, patting yourself down along the way to make sure you did in fact have your weapons on you - yeah, every vehicle you guys drove had some kind of arsenal, but you needed to know you had something at the ready. Just in case. 

“So, what exactly is it that you think happened to him?” Sam questioned, starting the car. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “All I know is that he should be back by now, and not only is he not back, but neither of us can reach him, and we’re in the middle of working a case fully revolving around people going missing and never being seen again, so clearly there has to be some kind of connection because-”

“Hey, okay,” Sam gently interrupted your rambling. “I know you’re worried, but let’s just see what we can find in town before we start thinking like that, okay?” 

“Okay,” you muttered, wringing your fingers together as you stared at the passing scenery. “We should check around the pub first.” 

“Wouldn’t that’ve been the first place he went?” he asked, casting a glance at you. 

You shook your head, keeping your gaze outside. “Yes, but the diner I like is just up the street.” 

“Well, that’s good for you, but I’m not really hungry right now,” he replied, shifting in his seat. 

Caught off guard by his response, your head snapped in his direction as you stared at him in surprise. You were about to make a snarky comment until you saw the corner of his mouth twitching, and you realized what he was doing. 

“You’re such an idiot,” you snorted, grateful for his attempt to lighten your mood. 

His poker face finally crumbled as he chuckled along with you, and the atmosphere surrounding you both really did feel lighter for the rest of the drive.

It felt lighter right up until Sam turned the final corner and you caught sight of Baby parked up the block, stationed and solitary, glistening under the glow of the streetlamp. 

“Sam,” you said quietly, sitting up a little straighter. 

“I see it,” he said, matching your uncertain tone as he pulled up to the curb.

You both seemed to struggle with leaving the car - wanting to run out to not waste any time, while simultaneously being held back by the fear of what you may find. 

Surveying the immediate surroundings, nothing seemed out of the ordinary as you both approached the impala - an observation that was voiced by Sam. 

“Everything looks normal,” he said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Maybe he’s just getting another drink.” 

“I don’t think so,” you said confidently, eyes catching sight of the takeaway left abandoned on the passenger’s seat. 

Sam noticed your gaze, though being on the driver’s side, he couldn’t see what you were looking at. “What?” he asked stiffly, bending down to glance through the window. “Okay, definitely weird, but not panic worthy,” he cautioned, coming back into view over the roof to give you a meaningful look. 

“It’s unlocked,” you declared, ignoring his attempts to keep you from panicking. “He’d never leave it unlocked.” 

“It’s not-” he started to argue, wanting to prove you wrong by pulling on the handle, but his words stopped short when the door opened with ease. “Okay, getting weirder,” he breathed out, looking over at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“I told you something was wrong!” you exclaimed. 

“We still don’t know for sure!” he exclaimed in return. Yet you could see in his eyes that he was just as afraid as you were, and you suddenly weren’t sure if his denial remained for your sake or his. 

“Should we split up?” you asked, trying to move on. 

“No,” he stated, closing the door. “I don’t feel like losing both my brother and my best friend all in one night.” 

“Sam,” you started, wanting to offer him some comfort, but he cut you off. 

“Come on, let’s start asking around.” 

He came around the car and nudged you in the direction of the pub, to which you quickly obliged, silently hoping you were wrong and Dean would be there. Though as you stepped inside, your hope was immediately shattered, for none of the gazes that you met held that familiar sense of home you’d grown accustomed to. 

With a heavy sigh, you started talking to the patrons, while Sam did the same. You both ended up with the same information: Dean got there maybe two hours ago, stayed about thirty minutes to have some drinks and chat, bought some cases of beer, and left. Nothing new, and nothing helpful. 

Refusing to acknowledge the time wasted, the two of you made your way over to the diner to start your next line of questioning - which was started by someone else as soon as you walked through the door. 

“Oh, no. Did we mess up your order?” Lori, a greying server you often got whenever you came in, asked you. 

“I- what?” you wondered, confused by why she was asking. 

She tsked, tucking her notepad back into her apron. “That man of yours was in earlier and ordered your favourite, figured he was bringing it back to you.” 

“My-... Dean?” you asked in confusion. 

“Yeah, that green eyed statue of a man you stop in with from time to time,” she informed, giving you a smile that suggested she knew more than you. 

“How long ago was he here?” you questioned, ignoring the feeling of unease her expression gave you. 

Lori sighed, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Let me check the slips,” she answered, jerking her head towards the counter before heading in that direction. 

You and Sam followed close behind, watching with increasing impatience as she sifted through the order slips. 

“Aha!” she exclaimed, finding the right one. “It was about… an hour ago.” 

“Was he here long? Did he talk to anyone? Did anyone leave around the same time he did?” you fired off anxiously. 

Lori stared at you, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Are we thinking he’s cheatin’ or something?” she asked conspiratorially.  

“I- we- he-” you stammered over your response, all versions of he isn’t at all my man, we aren’t even dating, and he’s fucking missing and could be dying somewhere lost to your frustration. Tears of fear and anger clouded your vision as you ran your hands through your hair. 

“Hey,” Lori soothed, misreading the reason for your emotions but validating them nonetheless. “Hey, sit. Sit, I’ll tell you what I know.” 

Ushering you onto a stool as she came around the counter, she hopped up beside you, patting your hands for reassurance.  

“Now, all I know is he came in about an hour ago,” she began, repeating what you all just discovered. “He took some time going over the menu, more so than usual, but it didn’t look like he was waitin’ on anybody. He finally ordered what you usually do and somethin’ for himself, Cindy chatted him up while he was waitin’, then he got the order and left.” 

“Cindy?” Sam asked, and you tried to ignore the sick feeling in your stomach to learn that you were worrying while he was just here flirting with someone - with Cindy no less; she was practically sex on legs. 

“Yeah,” Lori said with a shrug, squeezing your hand. “One of our servers. Oh, she eyes him up every time he’s here, not that I blame her. Figure she thought it was an opportunity given that he was here alone this time.” 

“Did it…. work?” you asked meekly, wondering if he was just off having a one night stand and nothing was wrong after all.

You were almost startled by Lori’s bark of laughter, and you watched her eyes sparkle in amusement as she answered you. “You rest assured, sugar. That man is completely hung up on you. I’ve never seen someone look right through that girl before, not a flicker of interest in him let me tell you. First guy in here I’ve ever seen turn her down, hand to god.” 

You wanted to ask where in the world she was drawing these conclusions about you and Dean from, and why, but Sam’s voice stopped you from speaking up. 

“Did that make her angry?” he asked. “Him denying her?” 

Lori looked at him curiously, as if wondering why such a question was necessary, but she answered anyway. “She was upset, sure, but I don’t think she was angry, no. She moves on pretty quick. By the time he was leaving she was already talkin’ to someone else.” 

“And you’re sure he left alone? He didn’t talk to anyone else?” you asked desperately, giving her a meaningful look. If her thinking you were accusing him of infidelity would get you answers, then so be it. 

“I’m positive, sugar,” she assured, smiling sadly. “He was only here maybe half an hour, and he rushed out when he got your call.” 

“My call?” you wondered, face scrunching with confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, well, I assumed it was you,” she replied simply, sliding off the stool. “The way his face lit up and all. Had that smile he always gives you.” 

“Did you hear anything he said?” Sam asked quickly, catching her before she walked away to confirm it really was your call she heard. 

Lori shrugged, taking the pen out from behind her ear. “Not really. Just heard that he got the food and was on his way back, then he was out the door.” 

“Okay,” Sam said with a nod. “Thank you for your time.” 

“Sure,” she said with a half shrug. “See you around, sugar,” she told you, giving you a meaningful look before finally walking away. 

You weren’t entirely sure if you thanked her or not, because your head was spinning with all the information she just gave you, but either way she’d be getting a big tip the next time you came. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Sam declared lightly, staring down at you with an amused smirk. 

“Was it?” you asked hotly, hopping down from the stool. “Too bad we didn’t get anything that can help us.”

“Well, we got a solid timeframe,” he pointed out, gesturing for you two to leave. “That’s something.” 

“I guess,” you sighed, trying to ignore the churning in your stomach as you stepped back outside.

“Let’s walk through it,” Sam suggested. “Like any other case.” 

You let out a breath, nodding in agreement. “Well, he would’ve come out talking to me,” you declared, standing outside the door. “And he’d be heading back over to Baby, since he said he was on his way home.” 

You and Sam both made your way in that direction, taking the path he most likely would’ve taken, finding nothing amiss along the way. 

“Did you hear anything on the other end at all?” Sam asked, stopping beside you. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, going over the call in your mind. “No,” you determined, shaking your head. “Nothing unusual, just him getting into the car.” 

“You’re sure he got into the car?” Sam asked, brows raised. 

“No,” you admitted in defeat. “Though the food’s inside, so he was at least here to drop it off.” 

“True,” Sam agreed with a nod. “Plus it was unlocked, which suggests he was likely surprised by something.” 

“Yeah, but what?” you wondered. “Nothing here points to a struggle, and Dean’s not exactly someone that’s easy to sneak up on.” 

“No, he’s not,” Sam sighed, glancing around once more as he went over everything in his head. 

A sound caught your attention, and your gaze snapped to the alley across the street, an idea dawning on you as you stared into the shadows. 

“What if he was lured away?” you asked, regaining Sam’s attention. 

He turned to you, following your gaze and quickly catching on to your thoughts. “Let’s check it out.” 

You each drew a weapon, his gun and your knife, as you made your way across the street. 

Desperation clawed at you while you and Sam searched every inch of the alley, a familiar feeling of dread settling in your bones when you both came up empty handed. 

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” you seethed, kicking away an unsuspecting trash bag in frustration. 

Sam’s answer was lost on you as all your focus was pulled to the dumpster, the street lights glittering off an object hidden underneath, previously obscured by the trash bag you just sent flying. 

Quickly dropping to all fours to retrieve it, you felt a sob claw its way up your throat as you realized you now held Dean’s pistol. 

Each day that went by, Dean found more and more things that were out of place. 

Things he would’ve bet his life on turned out to be completely wrong. 

Events he bore witness to never happened. 

The people he had saved were gone. People that he lost were alive. Sam remembered all kinds of stuff about their lives that he didn’t. 

Then there was you. 

The food you liked was different. Your taste in music has changed. The clothes you wore weren’t your usual style. The little details that made you you were gone - you were the same, yet somehow a completely different person. 

Dean tells himself this is what made it so easy to love you so openly. It was why he stopped squirming under your lingering gaze. It was why he took you out for a night on the town so he could show you off every chance he got. It was why he took you and Ellen to every event he caught wind of in order to boast his beautiful family. It was why he stopped running away from your wandering hands. It was why he started letting his own hands wander. It was why he found himself meaning it more and more each time he uttered the phrase I love you. 

Dean wanted to accept it more than anything.

He wanted to believe that this was really his life. That he was the loving husband and father you made of him. That he finally freed himself from the shackles of hunting. That he found his happily ever after. 

He needed to believe it, because he had gotten everything he never knew he wanted, and he didn’t want to give it up.

Yet he has to, because he knows something’s wrong; that something bigger is at play - hell if he knew what, though. 

“What about Alec?” you suddenly asked from where you lounged beside him on the couch, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Alec?” he repeated. “Absolutely not.”

You sighed half heartedly, and he watched with a faint smile as you crossed the name off the list you held; a smile that widened as the title Baby Winchester, Round 2! ♡ caught his eye. 

“Daisy?” he suggested. 

“As in Duke?” you asked with a laugh. “Not a chance.” 

Dean’s laughter echoed yours, and he pulled you in close as he fired off another name. 

The two of you made suggestions back and forth, taking turns laughing at some of the choices made by the other in between actually agreeing on some. You had built a pretty solid list before you stood with a groan, his gaze lazily trailing over you as you stretched.

“Where’re you going?” he wondered. 

“Errands,” you huffed. “Gotta pick up some last minute things for our announcement before everyone gets here.” 

“I’ll come, too,” he quickly offered, eyes lighting up. 

“Did you forget we have a child napping in her room?” you asked with a chuckle. 

“No,” Dean lamented. 

You grinned as you leaned over him, quickly kissing away his pout before it fully formed. 

“I’ll be quick,” you promised, giggling as he chased your lips for one more kiss. 

“Or,” he started, his palm cupping the back of your head to hold you in place. “We can wait until she wakes up and then we can all go together.” 

“Dean-” 

“C’mon,” he whined, taking hold of your hips. “I know some ways we can kill time.” 

“I don’t have any time to kill,” you told him, placing a hand on his chest as you freed yourself from his grasp. “There’s a lot left to do for tonight.” 

With a dramatic sigh, Dean followed as you left the living room. “Then let me help! Look, why don’t you give me the list of what we need and I’ll pick it all up?” 

“You’re sure?” you asked. 

“Of course,” Dean laughed. “I gotta check on some parts for the car, anyway. Was gonna wait on it, but may as well grab ‘em and help out my girl all at once.” 

“A true gentleman,” you teased, though the look on your face made it clear you meant it. “It’s not too much, so it shouldn’t take long, but I’ll try to not wake Ellen while you’re gone. Lord knows she can’t go that long without her daddy.”

He grinned in response, grabbing the list from you. “Don’t worry, I always race home to my two best girls.” 

“Maybe three now,” you grinned, placing your hands on your belly. 

“Maybe three,” he echoed, his insides turning to goo as he placed a hand over yours. “And I’ll be back before the three of you can even miss me,” he added, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before backing away. 

“Oh - baby, wait!” you called out, catching him just as he made it to the front door. 

“Yeah?” he asked, turning to face you from down the hall. 

“I forgot to add it to the list, but I noticed we ran out of gin - could you get some?” 

“Gin?” he repeated, the word sitting heavy on his tongue. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I wanna make sure we have some for my dad later.” 

“Gin?” he asked again, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. 

“I know,” you laughed, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he was suddenly facing. “I don’t know how he can drink the stuff, either.” 

“Right,” he said, laughing awkwardly as he opened the door. 

His mind was spinning the moment he left the house, trying to work out what was weighing on him. His chest was growing tight, and the feeling was the same as what he’s been experiencing since he first woke up here. He did his best to shake the feeling for the rest of the drive, deciding to blast the radio as he sped towards the garage. 

“The hell are you doing here?” met Dean’s ears the second he left the car. 

“Good to see you too, Bobby,” Dean replied, turning to face him with a grin. 

Bobby rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, gesturing for Dean to follow him. “You know, people usually spend time with their families while on vacation, not show up to their place of work.”

“I’m running errands!” Dean defended, strolling over to look under the hood of a broken down Nova. “Still don’t have her purring yet? Man, you really are lost without me.”

“Shove it, boy,” Bobby grumbled. 

With a boyish grin, Dean walked away from the car and plopped himself down on a nearby stool. “We got those parts in for Baby yet?” 

Huffing in annoyance, Bobby set down what he was tinkering with and turned to Dean, wiping his hands on a rag. “What did I tell you when you put in the order?” 

“You’d call if they came in while I was gone,” Dean said, awkwardly shifting in his seat.

“And did I call?” Bobby pressed. 

“No,” Dean said meekly, clearing his throat. 

“Well there ya go,” Bobby announced, turning back to his work. “Answered your own question.” 

Dean sighed, getting up from his stool with hands raised in surrender. “Alright, I get it. You’re busy, works piling up without me-”

“If your name wasn’t up on that sign, too, you’d be kicked to the curb,” Bobby cut in, shaking his head. 

“You and your empty threats,” Dean teased, making his way out. 

With a fond smile on his face, Bobby chuckled quietly. “See you tonight, kid.” 

“See ya, Bobby,” Dean replied, sliding behind the wheel with a smile of his own. 

You weren’t lying, there really wasn’t a lot to pick up. Dean was wrapping up the shopping not long after he left the garage, bouncing quickly from store to store. He felt at ease again, focusing all his attention on the list you gave him, and the fact that in a few hours you’d be revealing to all your loved ones that baby number two was on the way. 

Feeling giddy and eager to get back home, Dean breezed through his last stop. Grabbing a bottle of scotch for Bobby, some whiskey for himself, and wine for everyone else, he then searched the shelves for a bottle of gin. 

It felt heavy in his hands once he found it, the bottle staring back at him seeming entirely unfamiliar as he moved through the check out.

His chest was tight again as he drove back home, the feeling once more the same as when we woke up to this life.

When he first woke up. 

Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he had that thought, the realization bouncing around his mind. 

A memory of a blue light flashed behind his eyes so vividly he had to swerve off the road, skidding to a stop as pain followed suit. Gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white, he gasped for air as he tried to calm himself down. 

“Djinn,” he breathed out through a wave of panic. 

You were handed a miracle. 

It was all you could think as you stared at Ethan, the young man sitting before you and Sam.

The same young man who was listed as a witness to the latest abduction, but was quickly written off by authorities once they heard his story. The story which you and Sam were hearing now. 

“You’re saying Mr. Kleinman was tased?” you clarified, starting to wonder if this was related to Dean after all. 

“I mean, either that, or it was some kinda hoodoo crap,” Ethan told you with a shrug. 

“Well, what makes you say that?” Sam asked gently.

Ethan sighed, seeming to consider whether or not to explain, before answering. “One second, I’m seeing the guy putting groceries in his car, right? Then, next thing I know, some creepy looking dude comes up behind him. He reaches out for the guy, and there’s this weird, like, blue light, then the guy is just… out cold. I don’t know what else could’ve done it.” 

“And you didn’t see where they went?” you questioned. 

Ethan shook his head. “No, it was like they just… vanished.”

“Vanished?” Sam repeated. 

“Yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I swear it was like they just turned to smoke or something. They were there, and then they were just gone.”

“Did you actually see any smoke before they were gone? Or smell anything weird?” you asked. 

“No, I- it wasn’t so much smoke as just… like, mist, I guess?” 

“Mist?” you echoed. 

“Yeah. I don’t know how else to describe it. They just… vanished into the air.” 

You and Sam shared a quick look before you jotted some more notes down. 

“You guys don’t believe me either, do you?” Ethan asked. 

“We believe that the brain copes with seeing terrible things in any way it can,” you told him sympathetically. “Though believe it or not, you’re being very helpful.” 

“Really?” he asked hopefully. 

“Really,” you confirmed. “Though I do need to ask - earlier, you described the suspect as being creepy looking. What exactly made you say that?” 

“He was bald, and wearing some kind of dress or cloak or something,” Ethan explained. “And he had these crazy tattoos.” 

“He had tattoos?” Sam asked, perking up. 

“Yeah, and they must have cost a fortune. They were all over his face and head, his hands too. Who knows where else.” 

“What did they look like?” asked Sam. 

“They were just, like, crazy black swirls and lines. Kinda tribal, I guess.” 

“Huh,” Sam said quietly, getting lost in thought. 

“Do you think that can help you identify him?” Ethan wondered. 

“I think there’s an excellent chance of it,” Sam said honestly, standing from the couch. 

“Thank you for your time, Ethan,” you said sincerely, standing beside Sam. “This was incredibly helpful.” 

“Good, I- I’m glad I could help,” he said awkwardly, standing as well. “I hope that guy is okay.” 

“We’ll do everything we can for him,” you promised, hoping to ease his mind. 

Ethan nodded, leading you both through the living room. 

Once at the front door, Sam handed the young man his card. “In case you happen to think of anything else.” 

“Yes sir,” Ethan said, taking the card before opening the door for us. 

Sam made a beeline for the car as soon as he stepped out of the house, immediately sliding into the driver's seat.

“What the hell is going on?” you asked, scrambling to get in for fear he’d drive off without you. 

“I know what took Dean,” he told you, making your head snap in his direction, seatbelt poised in hand.

“You what?” you asked. 

“It’s a Djinn,” he told you simply. 

“A Djinn? How the hell did you figure that out?” 

“We’ve dealt with them before,” Sam grits out, hand coming down on the steering wheel. “I should’ve realized sooner.” 

“You’re allowed to not know everything, Sam,” you comforted. “We worked with the information we had, which wasn’t a lot.” 

“But I should’ve known!” he hissed. “He shouldn’t be going through this again,” he added, more so to himself. 

A beat passed as you processed what he said, clicking your belt into place as the car picked up more speed. “What does that mean?” 

He was quiet for so long you didn’t think he’d answer, and your gaze shifted from him to the window as his voice rang out. “Dean’s been captured by a Djinn once before.”

“What?” was the only thing you could force out. 

“It was a long time ago,” he started to explain. “Way before you came around. Classic hunt gone wrong.” 

“Dean never told me that,” you admitted. 

Sam chuckled bitterly. “He’s not exactly one to brag about his shortcomings.” 

“Right,” you frowned, staring at your hands clasped on your lap. 

The only time Dean was anywhere close to being an open book was when he was with you. You knew there was still a lot you didn’t know, but he had shared with you some pretty horrific parts of his past, and it made you wonder what about that experience was so distressing that he didn’t want to share it with you; and if it was so hard for him that first time, was this time going to be even worse?

Steeling your resolve, you shifted your attention back to Sam. “How do we catch this thing?”

“Warehouses,” he began, which had you pulling out your phone to search for any abandoned sites nearby. “It was the main thing they had in common - setting up home in empty warehouses.” 

“What do you mean the main thing they had in common?” you asked, fingers stalling over your keypad. “Are Djinn not all the same?”

“Just- let’s start with the warehouses, okay?” Sam replied, dodging the question. 

“Fine,” you huffed. “Closest one is just off Milner Road, but it’s pretty central. There’s one a few miles outside of town, off Fowler and Carson that seems pretty secluded, so I’d put my money on that one.” 

“Alright, so we start with that one, then.” 

Dean swore his tires were going to burn out before he even made it to the warehouse, yet he refused to ease up on the gas. 

Once he was able to bring himself back from the brink of terror, it didn’t take him long to put the rest of the pieces together. Given his last dealings with Djinn, he knew the abandoned warehouse outside of town would be his best bet; reality always bleeds through on the feeding grounds, and Dean needed to see for himself whether or not he was going crazy. 

His feet were heavy as he walked through the door, his pulse echoing in his ears as he trudged past the dusty storage racks. He hadn’t yet decided on whether he would prefer to find the place empty or not when a voice rang out from the shadows. 

“You shouldn’t have come here, Dean,” he heard you warn. 

His heart stopped cold, and he knew without a doubt what he would find if carried on through the warehouse. 

“Why did you have to come?” you asked, stepping into view. 

Dean tried. He tried with all his might to find his voice, but the sight of you took his breath away every time he opened his mouth. 

It wasn’t real, he knew that, especially considering he saw you less than an hour ago, but there you stood, hands resting protectively over a full-term baby bump as you met his gaze. 

“Was I not enough for you?” you asked sadly, moving to close the gap between you two. “Were we not enough for you?”

“I don’t belong here,” he managed to choke out, fingers tightening on the hilt of his knife. 

“This is exactly where you belong,” you snapped. “This is everything that you ever wanted, everything that you deserve! Why would you want to ruin this?” 

Shaking his head, he took a small step back. “No. This isn’t real.”

“So what?” you asked, taking another step forward. “This is what you want, Dean.”

“I want to go home,” he found himself admitting. “I was happy there.”

“You’re happier here, and you know that.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, unsure who he was trying to convince. 

“No?” you wondered, tilting your head. “What waits for you there, Dean? Another lonely night in the bunker, eating cold burgers on the road as you risk your life for a thankless job?”

“I love what I do,” he defended. “I have no regrets about it.”

“Maybe,” you conceded. “Yet you still want out. You want the nine to five, you want the girl, you want the family. Well guess what, Dean? You got it. You got it all. You just need to stay.”

“None of this is real,” he said quietly. “It won’t last forever.” 

You approached him with a sad smile, resting delicate hands on his cheeks to wipe away tears he wasn't aware had fallen. “It can feel like forever. We can watch our children grow up, raise them in a life without hunting. We can grow old together. You can live out your whole life here, Dean. With me." 

“I can't," he denied. 

"Why?" you prodded. "I love you. I love you the way you deserve to be loved. You can't just walk away from this - from us." 

"There is no us," he whispered, feeling like he was choking on the words. 

"There is no us out there," you told him. "You're alone out there, Dean. We’re not yours. I'm not yours."  

"You may not be my wife," his voice broke. "But at least you'll be real." 

Before he could change his mind, he turned the knife on himself. 

The warehouse you chose proved to be the right one, and you couldn't help the sob that tore through you when you came across Dean, strung up like a marionette as he was being bled dry; barely even alive. 

Before you were able to make it to him, the Djinn got the drop on you, sending you crashing down. Pain radiated through your spine, your head pounding as you pushed yourself up off the concrete. 

"Always have to sneak up on your prey, huh?" you sneered, aiming a swing of your knife at him. 

Your attack was easily blocked, the blade sent skidding across the floor with a deafening clatter in the cavernous room. 

Fingers pierced your wrists as you wrestled for control of the situation, your foot landing straight into his knee once you started losing the upperhand. The momentary lapse on his grip let you break free, a fierce kick to his stomach giving you the opportunity to run to your knife. 

You underestimated how fast this thing was, and you landed back on the concrete after being tackled, blood pooling in your mouth when your chin ricocheted off the floor. Managing to flip yourself onto your back, you tried to kick him off of you to no avail. 

It wasn’t as if you were a stranger to losing ground during fights, though you were usually still always able to hold your own. When you realized that you couldn’t gain back the advantage against this thing, a wave of fear rippled through you. 

You flailed and kicked wildly when a hand clasped against your throat to hold you in place, a cry for help coming out as no more than a squeak when the air was stolen from your lungs. Terror widened your eyes as his other hand reached for your head, blue electricity dancing between his fingers. 

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, you stilled as you waited for the blow. 

When nothing happened, you peeled one eye open, afraid of what you would see. A cry of relief left you when Sam kicked the Djinn off of you, his limp body hitting the floor with a thud before dissipating in a stream of mist.

“You okay?” he asked, wiping the blood from his knife on his jeans. 

All you could do was nod, a hoarse cough coming out when you tried to speak. 

“Dean,” you croaked, rolling yourself onto all fours to try and pick yourself up. 

Sam hurried to your side, ready to help you up, but you quickly shook off his grasp. 

“No- get Dean,” you urged. “I’m fine.” 

Knowing better than to argue with you, he quickly let go and ran towards his brother, making quick work of unhooking the blood bags. 

Scrambling over as quickly as you could, you began to assess him, trembling hands meeting pale skin to check for signs of life.

As if the very touch of you awakened his soul, his eyes blinked blearily open to stare at you in fear and confusion. 

“Dean?” you asked shakily. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m with you. We figured it out, we're gonna get you out of here.”

He laughed. Quiet and barely noticeable aside from the small quirk of the corner of his mouth. 

“That’s my girl,” he muttered proudly, before his eyes fluttered shut again. 

You and Sam had finished getting him down and, after checking on the others and calling in an anonymous tip to local police, made it back home in record time.

You settled Dean in the infirmary so he could recover properly, hardly ever leaving his side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression. 

Which meant you were there when he finally woke in a cold sweat, confused and a little afraid, asking for a girl you had never met. 

“Where’s Ellen?” 

It was the first thing he asked, chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes scanned the room in a frenzy. 

“I-... I don’t know-” was the only thing you could stammer out. 

You had armed yourself with answers to the onslaught of questions he was bound to have once he awoke, even had a few questions ready yourself, though this was something you couldn’t have prepared for. 

Though it didn’t matter, since he didn’t seem to hear you. 

“Is she with your folks?” he further questioned, crazed eyes turning to you. 

“My-” your voice caught in your throat as tears sprung to your eyes. “My parents?”

He seemed to look right through you, eyes still glazed over in pain and confusion. 

“Dean, just lay back down,” you urged softly, approaching tentatively. 

He mistook your tone, flinching away from you. “Is she okay? What about the baby? Where are they, what happened?”

“Everything is okay, Dean,” you told him. “I need you to take some deep breaths for me.”

“I need you to answer me!” he declared, voice so fierce you jumped a little. 

“Okay,” you placated, slowly sitting on the end of the bed. “I will, just breathe for me first.”

His gaze followed your movements like a caged animal, but he did what you said. 

Once his breathing returned to a normal place, you started with a simple question. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He had to think about it for a while, which worried you to no end, though he finally recalled something. 

“I went out,” he muttered. “We needed supplies.”

Your heart turned heavy in your chest, thinking he didn’t know anything that happened since he left the bunker; you weren’t sure yet if that was a good or bad thing. 

Though when he carried on, you realized you were wrong. 

“We had to get the last minute things, because everyone was coming over for- for dinner…”

He trailed off, eyes laser focused on you. First on your stomach, then the rest of you, gaze cutting across every feature you had and piece of clothing you wore with doctoral precision before turning to take in the room. 

“What happened?” he whispered shakily.

So you told him. Slowly and carefully, you told him everything you knew ever since he left the bunker, your heart ripping in half as tears danced in his eyes while he listened. 

The silence when you finished explaining pressed in on you, thick and heavy. His mood became impossible to read, and he refused to meet your gaze any more. 

“Dean?” you prodded. 

“No.”

It was all he said, quiet and unsure; you didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or himself. 

“Dean?” you tried again. 

“No!”

Before you could even think, he was scrambling out of the sheets and ignoring all your attempts to get him to lay back down. 

“No, no, no,” he muttered, bypassing you and heading out into the hall. 

“Dean!” you called out, trailing behind as you tried to reason with him. 

He ignored everything you said as he marched through the bunker, and you didn’t know if it was intentional, or if it was because he was lost in his own thoughts. 

“Talk to me, please,” you pleaded. “Tell me what’s going on.”

When you were met with nothing but silence once again, you called out for Sam in the hopes he would be able to control the situation better than you could. 

He came quickly, managing to bypass Dean with just enough time to block the stairs, cutting off his escape as you covered ground behind him. 

“Move,” Dean demanded. 

You couldn’t see him, but you could tell by his voice that he had murder in his eyes. 

“Not until you tell us where the hell you think you’re going,” Sam cooly replied. 

“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Dean said. “Now move.”

“No,” Sam denied, standing straighter on the steps and glaring down at his brother. 

“Sam I swear,” Dean warned. “Move out of the fucking way before I start swingin’.”

“Go ahead, Dean,” Sam accepted, arms opened wide in challenge before resting at his sides once more. 

Dean stood as rigid as a statue for a few moments, and you could practically feel the anger vibrating through him. In a last ditch effort to get away, he turned and spun on his heels so fast he smashed right into you, sending you crashing to the floor with a thud. 

You managed to catch yourself on your palms, hitting the concrete with so much force your hands stung and you were sure your tailbone would be sore for days. 

Dean looked down at you, shock lining his features before morphing into worry, then regret, then back to anger as he looked away, all but stepping over you as he marched his way towards the garage. 

You sat there in shock for a minute, dazed at how easily he had just dismissed you - he’d never done that before. Even when you two were in the middle of unresolved petty arguments, he had always made sure you were taken care of one way or another. Whether it was quietly leaving a mug of coffee on the counter for you, making sure the temperature in Baby was just right after a hunt, or letting your favourite program run on the tv in the Dean Cave while he and Sam shoot a game of pool - the gestures to prove he still cared were always there no matter what. 

Tears prickled behind your eyes, though you did your best to brush it all off. You knew he was going through something you couldn’t even begin to imagine, and that he wasn’t himself right now, though it didn’t do much to lessen the pain of it all.

Sam stepped down from the stairs, helping you up. “You okay?” he asked. 

“I’m fine,” you muttered, dusting yourself off. “Let’s just go get him.”

By the time the two of you made it to the garage, Dean was long gone, leaving you to guide Sam from the passenger seat as you tracked the GPS on the car Dean took. 

You quickly pulled up to an area that was familiar to you, unable to think of a single reason as to why Dean would be here; it was nothing but a regular country lane on the border of town, a pretty farm house littered here and there. 

When Sam rolled to a stop just behind where Dean was parked, you saw he was leaning against the car and staring out at the house you once declared your favourite, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Dean?” Sam called. He approached slowly, like he was afraid to startle him away. 

You followed loosely behind, letting Sam take the lead this time - you weren’t in a hurry to relive how he looked at you when he left. 

“Talk to us, man,” Sam urged, stepping closer when there was no answer. “What’s going on?” 

“I had to see,” Dean mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Okay,” Sam said. “See what?” 

Dean shook his head, eyes still fixed on the house across the street while he remained silent. 

“Listen, you’ve been through a lot, okay?” Sam soothed. “Let’s get you back home, and we can talk about it if you want to.” 

“Home,” Dean whispered, not bothering to wipe the stray tears that let loose. 

“Home,” Sam echoed with a nod. 

“That’s gone,” Dean muttered. 

“What do you mean gone?” you found yourself asking, voice just loud enough to carry over to him. 

His gaze finally tore away from the house to land on you, a fire burning in his eyes that made you take an instinctive half-step back. 

“Everything,” he choked out, looking back to the house. “It’s all gone.” 

“Everything is still here, Dean,” Sam told him. “We’re still here - your home is still here.”

“Is it?” Dean asked quietly. 

“Yes!” you lamented, finally making your way over to him. “So please, just let me take you back there.”  

His jaw clenched, head shaking as if trying to clear away his own thoughts. You placed a hand on his arm, hoping to steady him, but he ripped himself away from you as if your skin burned. 

When he looked at you, you had a fleeting thought that this Dean must be the version of him that all those monsters he’d slain had seen right before the end. Breathing ragged, eyes wild, a sneer as if he couldn’t stand to look at what was right in front of him; you had no idea who this Dean was. 

“Fine, I'll go” he huffed, turning to Sam. “But I’m not going anywhere with her.” 

The words hit you like a gut punch, and your breath caught in your throat as you watched him climb into the car. You had no idea whether he meant for you to hear him or not, but given the less than fleeting glance he gave you before closing the door, you had a feeling he didn’t care either way. 

“Alright, come on,” Sam cooed, quickly taking hold of your arm to lead you away. “Let’s get you back home, too.”

You nodded, feet numbly following along as he brought you back over to the passenger side while Dean peeled off down the road. 

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” he promised quietly, before gently closing the door behind you and rounding to his side. 

The drive back passed in a blur, and the weeks that followed were just as hazy. 

Dean was withering away, you were hollowing out, and Sam was drowning trying to keep each of you afloat. 

“What do you think I did?” you asked Sam, like clockwork, staring at the ceiling as you stayed buried in your blankets. 

His answer never changed. “You didn’t do anything.”

You groaned, shifting to look at him in his place beside you. “I mean the other me. I - she - must have done something. ”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “And I still don’t think you did anything. Either version of you.”

“Well something had to have happened!” you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady. “He can barely even look at me.” 

“He’s just… still processing everything,” he told you, but you knew him well enough to catch the undertone of uncertainty. 

“He hates me,” you broke, unable to stop the tears from flowing. “He hates me, and it’s not even my fault.”

Sam sighed, falling into the well practiced routine of pulling you in towards him, comforting arms holding you as you cried. “No he doesn’t.”

You heard him every time he said it, but the words were always lost on you. How else would you explain the way he treated you? The way you suddenly became a stranger? The way he looked at you like he couldn’t even bear your existence? 

It started with little things, things that could be chalked up to him getting his bearings again after being thrust back into reality. Things you tried to brush off. 

First it was the way he forewent his morning greeting when meeting you in the kitchen, keeping his distance and ignoring the mug you already had ready for him, held out like an olive branch. 

Okay, you told yourself, he’s probably just tried.

Then it was the way he always chose the seat at least two away from you in the library, never letting his limbs tangle with yours the way they used to; overly cautious not to let his skin brush yours the way it always did like second nature. 

Fine, you said. Space is okay when he needs it. 

You quickly noticed that he started using only your name to address you, a sound foreign to your ears when it was laced with his voice. No more sweetheart or sunshine, no more darlin’ or princess, no more shortcake or firefly. No more exasperated smartass, no more playful brat or menace, no more quietly proud trouble. Only ever your name, clipped and professional, as if you were always only ever someone he had to work with. 

Well, nicknames aren’t always necessary, you rationalized.

Then you noticed the breath he always took whenever you entered the same room, as if bracing himself for your presence, before refusing to look in your direction unless strictly necessary. The way his body was always angling itself away from you, shoulders tense. How he always retreated a half beat before he needed to as soon as he realized he didn’t have to be there.  

I guess he just has a lot on his mind, you excused. He’s always been busy. 

The ice started to solidify next. His irritation seeped through into everything he said to you. His replies were always clipped and precise, nothing more than procedural. His eyes never left the work before him while discussing a case with you. His corrections were always too sharp and condescending whenever you got something wrong. 

He hasn’t been sleeping well, you told yourself. He’s just stressed and overtired. He always takes too much on. 

His interest in anything revolving you seemed to die completely. Any attempt you made at an inside joke fell flat, met with nothing but a blank stare. Every question you asked was answered with a distracted mumble, never any hooks to hang a conversation from. He never replied to any of the texts you sent of stupid things you knew would make him laugh. All the warmth and fondness that used to surround the two of you was replaced with cold indifference. 

Maybe I’m overthinking it all, you found yourself thinking. 

Then, you thought you were going crazy. Books you left open in the archives were closed and stacked away. Files you left scattered on the library table were gathered neatly. Mugs you put away were rotated, organized differently. Blankets you left crumpled up somewhere were folded neatly over chairs or armrests. You thought it was all in your head until you caught Dean refolding the dishtowel you had just put back, and you realized he was going behind you this whole time, erasing all the tiny traces of you from around the bunker. 

You didn’t have any excuses this time. 

Even the arguments were different - more often, sharper, harsh. With him never having the desire to say how he truly felt, or the care to fight for what used to matter, he always got in the last word after either blaming you for something or treating you like you were the problem.

Like when you drank the last of the coffee during a long night of research, and he came in before you started another pot. 

“Did you finish this?” he asked, slamming the carafe down harder than he meant to. 

“Yes,” you said, flinching ever so slightly at the noise. “I was going to make a new batch.” 

He whirled around, glaring at you. “You didn’t even ask if I wanted the last cup.” 

“I…” you faltered, trying to figure out if he was teasing you or not. “I never had to before, you always gave-” 

“So you just assumed you could have it?” 

“I- I’m sorry,” you stuttered. “I just didn’t think to ask.” 

“Well,” he huffed, turning his back on you to busy himself with making a fresh brew. “Maybe you’ll remember to ask next time.” 

Or when you queued up your music on the ride back after wrapping a case, and he almost tore off the knob turning it off. 

“Not everyone wants to listen to music,” he snapped. “My head is killing me.” 

“You never once minded if I played something,” you countered. 

“What does that matter?” he asked, knuckles turning white on the wheel. 

“It matters,” you said, taking a calming breath. “Because you never used to mind.” 

“Yeah, you just fucking said that,” he bit back. 

“Because it’s true,” you told him. “Why do you mind all of a sudden?” 

“Because I do,” he said. “So drop it - and leave that shit off.” 

Even the time when you double checked he had his blade with him on a hunt was unwelcome.

“‘Scuse me?” he asked, taken aback. 

“I asked if you had your blade,” you repeated, meeker than the first time. 

“You mean the blade that’s our only way of killing this thing? That blade?” 

His tone made it obvious he wasn’t truly looking for a response, but you gave him one anyway. 

“I just- I didn’t see you grab it,” you explained. “I wanted to make sure.” 

He scoffed, unsheathing his blade from where it rested in his belt and brandishing it with a dramatic flourish. “Yeah. I got it.” 

“Okay, sorry,” you said a little too quickly. 

“I know how to do my job,” he grumbled, tucking his blade away again. 

“I never said you didn’t.” 

“You wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” he snapped. 

“I always ask!” you exclaimed. “You would always ask.” 

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, picking up his pace ever so slightly. “Let’s not pretend we both still care.” 

What got to you the most was when it became clear he no longer trusted you on hunts, shoving you out of the way to take a shot he felt you were taking too long to make. 

“What the hell was that, Dean?” you snapped, tossing your rifle into the trunk harder than you wanted to. 

“You froze,” he shrugged. “Had to take the shot.” 

“I did not freeze,” you seethed. “It was a calculated distraction.” 

“Was it?” he asked half-heartedly, shutting the trunk.

“I saved that kid!” you shouted. 

“Sure,” he agreed, sarcasm oozing off him. “While nearly getting yourself killed.” 

“Yeah, well, what do you care?” you muttered, words hitting him like a blow he’d never let you see landed. “You used to trust me on these things.” 

“Yeah, well, that was before I realized you were a liability,” he said simply. He stilled ever so slightly after he said it, and you thought maybe he’d take it back, or apologize. Yet he just carried on, opening the driver side door like nothing was wrong. 

“I’m a what?” you asked shakily. 

He sighed, as if the conversation was bothering him. “Hesitation gets people killed. You should’ve been smarter than that.” 

“So… what?” you implored. “You just don’t have faith in my ability to do the job anymore?” 

He paused for a moment. Deliberate. Calculated. Cold. 

“No,” he told you. “I don’t.” 

What you didn’t know, couldn’t see, was that Dean still reached for you every morning, a brief window where his mind was still half asleep and believed he was still married. The shock he felt every time he was met with nothing but a cold and empty bed was brash and cruel; it had him feeling the loss over and over again. 

He couldn’t greet you in the kitchen anymore, because he didn’t trust himself not to take your face in his hands and kiss you good morning like he grew used to. He couldn’t take the coffee from your hands because he was scared that if his fingers brushed yours he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from intertwining them, because his hands felt empty without yours in them. 

He wasn’t able to sit beside you anymore, because the smell of your shampoo made him homesick. The heat of your skin was painful, because all it made him think about was the warmth you emanated each time he held you. If he got too close, too comfortable, he was worried he’d fall into new habits and sweep you into his lap. 

Your name was the only solace he had. Grounding him, reassuring him that you were still here. That you were still you. He couldn’t use the nicknames which used to replace your name in his vocabulary because they were too intimate. Too familiar. He didn’t deserve to use them anymore. He didn’t deserve to be that close to you anymore. 

He had to brace himself every time you walked into a room because all he wanted was to reach out for you. To find out how your day was going and wrap you in his arms as you rambled on. He couldn’t stand to look at you because all he felt was guilt when he remembered the way you looked underneath him. The way you looked carrying his child. Deep down he knows none of it was real, but the shame he felt over it all definitely was. Every part of him was always screaming out for you, and he never trusted himself not to do something stupid, leaving you in his wake the second his presence wasn’t needed.

His conversations with you had to be cut short because the way you laughed now conjured the memory of the daughter he never truly had. The inside jokes you made tore him up inside, making him realize things could never be the same as they used to. He always came off sounding harsh when he corrected your mistakes because he didn’t know how to be himself with you anymore - he didn’t have it in him to poke fun at you, and he had to force the words out each time otherwise his voice would fail him. He had to type and retype replies to your texts before giving up entirely, and all the things he saw that reminded him of you, that made him say oh she’d love this went unsent, because suddenly he thought she would… wouldn’t she?

You left traces of yourself everywhere, and he hated that more than anything. The messes you made, the products you used, the things you did, all of it brought him back to living in that house. When the only traces of your existence came in the moment: cooking dinner, playing with Ellen, putting your laundry away, doing the dishes. Nothing was ever out of place. He never needed to go in behind you and tidy something up or put things away. So when you left your books in the archive, staked haphazardly and waiting for you to go back and shelf them, he did it for you. When you left your files spread across the library after you no longer needed them, he ghosted his fingers across the words he knew you’d read and gently tucked the pages away. When he opened the cupboard to grab a glass and noticed the mugs you hastily put away, he rearranged them in a way he knew you would’ve if you had the time; by size and by colour, handles facing just slightly outward so you could grab them easily but not knock anything down. Blankets were tucked away neatly because, if he was fast enough to do it, they would still be warm from your touch, your fragrance wafting off them just enough that if he closed his eyes he could trick himself into thinking it was you he was holding. He wasn’t trying to erase the traces of you. He was cherishing your existence. He was reminding himself that you were real. That you were here. 

He was letting himself feel the love he had for you in a nonimposing way, because he knew now that he always loved you. 

He knew that what he felt in his perfect little dream world didn’t just come from nothing. It was always there, lying in wait until it was safe to come out. 

Which made it all worse. Because he let himself love a shadow of you before he let himself love the real you. It made him feel like he somehow took advantage of you, like he knew all these little secrets about yourself that even you didn’t know. 

How could he possibly explain that he was mourning a family he never had? That he missed a life that wasn’t real? 

How was he supposed to tell you he loved you, and make you believe he really loved you, and not the idea of you the Djinn gave him? 

He couldn’t. 

So he didn’t. 

Instead he tried to push the feelings away; he tried to push you away. 

He argued over you drinking the last cup of coffee without asking because he hated how you knew he’d let you have it like always. 

He argued over your music because he hated how routine it was for you to take over his radio. He hated how for that split second it felt like nothing changed. 

He argued over you making sure he was armed because he hated how much you still cared, even after everything, because he didn’t deserve your concern. 

He argued over the choice you made during a hunt because he saw how badly it could've ended for you, and he hated how scared he felt. He hated that he knew you’d never turn your back on him no matter what he did. No matter what he said. He hated that he needed to try anyway. 

So when Sam came storming in one day, holding your battered and bloody body like you were already dead… he didn’t know what to do. 

“What the hell happened?” he asked, shaky legs carrying him over. 

“Ambush,” Sam replied, bringing you towards the infirmary. “We didn’t think the nest was that big. She took the hit for me.” 

Dean could tell Sam already felt guilty, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“You went into a nest?” he snapped. “You let her take the damn hit for you?!” 

“It’s not like I planned on it, Dean!” grit Sam. “Just help me, okay?”

Dean took you in his arms before he even knew what he was doing, laying you on the bed with a tenderness he knew was being shown too late. He worked with Sam to patch your wounds, cleaning you up while muttering about how you’d be okay. 

Now it was his turn, never leaving your side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression. 

Which meant he was there when you finally woke up, cold and afraid, asking what happened. 

He told you what Sam told him. You got outnumbered. You managed to make sure Sam was clear and took on the heat yourself. Sam cleaned out the nest in record time after that, bringing you back home. 

His jaw ticked, fists clenching in his lap, and you could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air. 

“Go ahead,” you croaked, prompting him to quickly bring you a glass of water. “Say what you’re not saying.” 

“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked miserably. 

He sighed quietly, retaking his seat and watching as you sipped the drink, a small grimace on your face to show even such a small movement was painful. 

All you did was shrug, resting the glass on your lap as you refused to meet his gaze. “It was a job.” 

“Yeah, a job I didn’t even know about,” he pointed out. “Why the hell didn’t you at least have any kind of back up?” 

You laughed, raw and unamused. “Like who, Dean? You? You made it clear you wouldn’t watch my back any more.”

“That’s not true,” he said automatically. 

“Yes,” you said firmly. “It is. What the hell do you care if my case goes sideways? I’d just be another body for you to burn. You’d move on.” 

The words hit him like a kick to the face. Not just the words themselves, but how you said them; like you really believed it. 

He knew this is what he was working for the whole time, but now that he had it, he never wanted you to think that ever again. 

“Don’t say that,” he choked out. “Don’t you dare think that.” 

You scoffed, eyes still locked on the glass in your hands. “Please, Dean. You made it clear you stopped caring.” 

“I always cared.” 

“Well you sure as hell stopped acting like it,” you sneered. 

“I didn’t know how to!” he snapped. “I didn’t know how to go back to normal with you when I could barely even look at you.” 

“And why not?” you cried, fed up with still being in the dark. 

“Because every time I look at you all I see is what I lost!” he exclaimed, standing from his chair with so much force it clattered backwards. “Everything I… everything I can still lose,” he added softly, gesturing to where you lay. 

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!” you yelled, angry tears rolling down your face. “What did you lose? Just tell me!” 

“Everything!” he yelled back. “I lost everything and nothing at the same time.” 

You let out a watery laugh of frustration. “If you don’t want to tell me the details, then at least tell me what it was that made you hate me so much. I at least deserve that much.” 

His gaze snapped to yours, a ragged breath leaving him when he saw how much pain you were in. He didn’t just mean the cuts and the bruises and the swelling. He meant the slumped shoulders, the red eyes, the tear stained cheeks and the quivering lip. He broke you, and he loathed himself for it. 

“Don’t,” he breathed out, feeling himself break right alongside you. “Don’t you say that.” 

“Just stop!” you sobbed. “Don’t turn around and tell me it’s not true when you’ve done nothing to prove otherwise since you recovered! I don’t know what the hell could have happened in a fake world that was so twisted it carried itself over in your heart to the real world but it was not my fault! And I am tired, so tired, of trying to fix whatever it was that broke while you’re standing there with the hammer behind your back.” 

Your name left his lips like a broken promise, begging you to look at him. 

So you did. Just long enough to say what you needed to say, but not long enough to watch the sorrow cross over his face. 

“Just leave,” you mumbled. “It’s apparently what you’re best at.” 

He never considered himself a coward before, but as he trudged towards the door he realized that when it came to you, that’s exactly what he was lately.

And you deserved better than that. 

So for once, he stayed.

“Look,” he muttered, stopping at the door, gaze fixed down the hallway. “I know I’ve done and said things that I shouldn’t have-”

“You meant them,” you cut in. 

He whirled around. “No. Who are you to say what I did and didn’t mean?” 

You fought the urge to roll your eyes; or worse, chuck the glass in your hands at his head. “Then why?” 

“Because I was scared,” he admitted. 

“Of what?” you asked, holding back a laugh. 

“Of realizing that I loved you,” he said. 

He had said it so simply, yet after all he’d done the words hit you like a slap. 

You flinched, choking down a gasp. 

“Don’t you dare,” you seethed. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything." 

“I fell in love with you, and I didn’t even know it,” he carried on. “Then I fell in love with you in a life we never really had.” 

“What does that even mean?” you asked, fighting to keep yourself together. 

“You wanted to know what you did?” he asked, arms folding over his chest. “What that version of you did?” 

You nodded, no longer trusting your ability to speak. 

He laughed. Low. Quiet. Bitter. Heartbroken. 

“You married me, you menace.” 

The weight of his words pressed down on you, crushing the air from your lungs. The silence filled the room like a third occupant. 

“What?” 

He shrugged, like he didn’t just detonate a bomb. “We lived in that house - you know the one. No more hunting, just a run of the mill job at my own garage. Even owned it with Bobby. You stayed home, keeping everything perfect. Taking care of the house and our one and a half kids-” 

“Kids?” you breathed out, getting hooked on that detail. 

He smiled. Sad. Reminiscent. “A baby girl. She looked so much like you.” 

“Ellen?” you guessed, remembering how he asked for her when he first woke up. 

He nodded, laugh watery as he wiped away tears before they fell. “Yeah. The day I got out, it was when we were gonna tell everyone we were expecting again.”

“Why-” you choked on a sob, trying to process what he was saying. “Why didn’t you just tell me this before?” 

More tears fell as he avoided your gaze, but he didn’t bother wiping them away this time. “I didn’t know how. The guilt was killing me.” 

“Guilt?” you asked incredulously. 

“I had an entire life with you that you didn’t even know about; a whole family,” he lamented. “I realized that I was in love with you because I fell in love with the entire idea of you. I loved you, and I lost you, and I was mourning you even when you’ve been here right in front of me.” 

He paused, pacing slowly to work off the emotions rolling through him. “How can I not feel guilty for that? How can you ever look at me the same way knowing what I did? It feels like it was some sick form of betrayal. I told myself that if I pushed you away it would make it all stop hurting. So that’s what I did.” 

“Did it?” you asked quietly. 

“No,” he said easily. Too quickly. “God, no.” 

“Then what did it do?” you prodded. 

“It killed me,” he admitted shakily. “And it almost killed you.” 

His gaze trailed pointedly over your injuries, making it clear he meant it in more than one way. 

“I know I should have told you,” he said. “But when am I ever doing what I’m supposed to?” 

He tried for a laugh, but it didn’t come out quite right. Too high. Too fraught. 

“I can’t go back and change what I did. But know that I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you like that." 

You nodded dumbly, head too hazy to think of a response. You just sat there, watching as he stopped pacing to look at you. To really see you. 

“You-” he started, before cutting himself off nervously. “Don’t you ever, ever think that you’d be just another body for me to burn. I’d never move on from that. Hell, I’d throw myself on the goddamn pyre with you because you are the love of my fucking life.” 

The shock that ran through you was visceral, a sob tearing its way out of you. You had too many thoughts swimming in your head, too many things to process. 

“Please,” you begged, unsure what you were asking for. “How could you do this to me?” 

You weren’t entirely sure what you meant, but he seemed to know what you needed anyway. He always did. He always would. 

“I’ll go get Sam,” he said calmly. “And I’ll give you your space. If you ever want to talk… I will be here.” 

You lost all track of time after that. Dean was gone, replaced by Sam in what seemed like an instant but also an eternity. He held you while you cried. He listened while you explained what happened. He didn’t offer any advice or solutions; he just listened, and he didn’t leave until he was sure you were asleep. 

But it was a fitful sleep.

A sleep that didn’t soothe your heart, the ache so fierce it followed you into your dreams and forced you to wake up. An ache that stayed until you sought out the only thing you knew would help. 

You found him by instinct. Feet carrying you on their own, like you were following a thread he left for you to guide the way. 

He sensed you before he saw you, jumping to his feet as he turned to watch the door. His body tense, like he was waiting for an ambush, only relaxing when he saw you standing dwarfed in the doorway. 

“You hurt me,” you said, matter-of-fact. 

“I know.” 

“I am still so angry with you.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t forgive you. Not fully. Not yet,” you told him. 

He nodded in acceptance. “Okay.” 

“But it’s only fair for you to know that I-” you stopped yourself, composing your thoughts. 

“Don’t say anything you don’t want to,” he comforted, but you ignored him. 

“I’ve always loved you, Dean,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve always known, or if it took until hearing you say those things for me to realize, but it’s true.” 

He nodded once more, like reluctant acceptance. His face was stoic, body posed carefully, but the way his chest rose and fell gave his emotions away. 

“And that life you had, that we had,” you carried on, hands shaking. “You didn’t lose it. Not really. Because it’s still here, in your future. In our future.” 

His eyes flicked to your hands, his own flexing and relaxing on a loop as fought the urge to steady them. 

The silence dragged on, and you started to mistake his distracted gaze as rejection.

“If you… still want that,” you added quietly, hugging yourself as a way to ease the nerves. 

His attention snapped back to you in an instant. “I do,” he assured softly. 

Every fibre of his being screamed out for you, but he forced himself to stay put. Not wanting to make the first move before you could fully process how you felt about everything, he ground his jaw to steady himself. 

“Good,” you said, voice shaking as your eyes glistened. “Good, because I really missed you,” you admitted, voice blending with a sob as the emotions rolled over you again. 

This time he let himself move, body taking action before his mind could catch up. He folded you in his arms before you even fully finished your sentence.

He held you like he was afraid to break you even further, but his fingers gripped the blanket hanging off your shoulders like a lifeline, knuckles turning white as his eyes screwed shut in a futile attempt to keep in the tears. 

“Believe me, sunshine,” he whispered into your hair, planting the ghost of a kiss to your head. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, too.” 

BONUS SCENE

“Do you think it was prophetic?” you asked Dean, tossing a glance over your shoulder.

“Do I think what was prophetic?” he asked, coming up behind you.

“That her name was Ellen,” you explained like it was obvious. “I mean, is that what we need to name her now?”

He laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest, chin resting on the crown of your head. “Well, first of all, we don’t even know if it’s a girl or not yet.”

You hummed, deep in thought, laughing softly as his hands shifted ever so slightly to rest on your belly. “I’d like it to be a surprise,” you admitted, resting your hands on his.

“Yeah?” he asked, placing a kiss behind your ear. “We could make that happen.”

“You don’t want to know beforehand?” you wondered.

He thought about it for a moment before you felt him shrug. “I want whatever you want, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter to me. Whether we find out early, or we find out in a delivery room, I’m gonna love that kid all the same.”

“Well aren’t you a smooth talker?” you laughed.

“Of course,” he laughed with you. “How else would I have convinced you to marry me?”

You giggled as he littered your skin with kisses, spinning in place to catch his lips with yours.

“I don’t remember much convincing being needed,” you told him with a sly grin.

“And I thank the stars every day that you haven’t come to your senses yet,” he joked.

“Never,” you chuckled. “You’re the only thing in this world that’s ever made sense to me,” you added on a more serious note.

“Who’s the smoother talker now, huh?” he teased, taking your hand to spin you back around.

You landed with your back against his chest with a laugh, and he wrapped you in his arms once more.

Standing there in the kitchen of your new home, you both stared at the sonogram taped to the fridge until the light flitting through the window bathed everything in sunset hues.

Dean knows something’s wrong the second you both stumble out of that warehouse, gravel crunching under his tired feet, sharp beneath the quiet night sky. Silence stretches all around, but it’s heavy, almost suffocating, and there’s a weight on his chest, pressing down with every shallow breath.

He forces in a deeper one, telling himself he’s just tired. He’s not twenty-five anymore after all. Step by step, he keeps up behind you until his fingers brush the cold metal of the Impala.

“Man… that was rough,” he exhales, sliding into the car and letting his shoulder slump against the leather seat. Another breath in, and then a glance your way, and another, just to make sure you’re okay. He has to make sure, and he has to double-check.

He sees your eyes do the same, scanning him quickly, and his chest tightens. Then he realises he can finally take a little more air in, and he nods to himself, swallows down the night, or at least tries to.

“What the hell was that?” you groan, slumping in the seat next to him. “I’m beat.”

“Yeah… you’re telling me,” he murmurs, turning the key in the ignition.

The road to the motel crawls beneath the tires. It shouldn’t feel this long, but every mile drags. 

The seats are comfortable, and the night sky presses down in quiet reverence. Normally, you’d drift toward the windows, imagining the lives inside the houses you pass. Not tonight. Tonight, your bones ache and your head feels too heavy to wander. So you just close your eyes and breathe, letting the darkness carry what little energy remains.

When you finally get to the motel and step into the warm shower, something nibbles at the edges of your awareness, prickling under your skin, weightless but warm, sliding inside. You rest your head against the shower door and breathe in, breathe out, letting the water wash over your tired bones, soothing with its steady passage.

It was supposed to be a quick job, in and out, easy for the most part. That’s why you hadn’t even told Sam. The guy deserved one weekend at Eileen’s without the job breathing down his neck.

And you and Dean… well, you were bored out of your minds, and Lebanon, Kansas, doesn’t exactly offer much in the way of fun. That was all the rationale you’d needed.

And now here you are, dragging yourself out of the shower like an eighty-year-old woman with arthritis.

Dean is staring off into space when you return to the room. Sitting on his bed, he frowns at… something. Probably his own thoughts; it wouldn’t be the first time. Then he looks at you, eyebrows scrunched. “You feel… weird at all?”

Oh, here we go. The start of every nightmare.

“Uh, just tired, I guess. Why? Something wrong?” 

“Nah,” he waves it off. '‘S probably nothing. Must be gettin’ too old for this crap.”

“Yeah, reading my mind,” you comment as he heads for the bathroom. 

The nagging feeling is still there, just a breath away, crawling toward your insides again, but you’re too damn tired to care. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, when your brain can handle more than one thought at a time.

So you lie down and close your eyes, letting the warm hum of water from the shower and Dean’s low, lazy humming lull you toward sleep. The sound is steady, grounding, and for a moment, it’s enough to make the creeping weight inside fade to the background.

The edges of the motel room blur soon enough, and you’re pulled into another world. You’re standing in a quiet field at dusk, the air soft, smelling faintly of wet grass and earth. An ache coils in your chest, tight and heavy.

You’re walking towards Dean, and every step takes effort, but with every inch you close the distance, the weight eases, melting under the warmth of his presence.

He stands a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on you. 

You step closer, the grass brushing your ankles, and finally, your hands meet. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm, and the ache dissolves, replaced by something else: longing, and a hint of fear that this feeling could vanish at any moment.

“So cruel,” he murmurs, “making me wait for so long.”

You lean closer, drawn to him, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, warm against your skin, and he whispers, “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?” 

“How I feel about you.”

Your chest tightens, and you snap awake, gasping slightly, trying to draw in deep, steady breaths to calm yourself. The motel room is dim and quiet. Across the small space, Dean lies in the bed next to yours, chest rising and falling in a slow, familiar rhythm.

You shake your head at yourself, as if chastising the dream for affecting you so deeply. Slowly, you turn your back to him, curling slightly under the covers. You try to push the dream from your mind and sink back toward sleep, but his words keep returning, echoing through your mind, impossible to ignore.

Your breathing steadies, if only a little, and eventually, the darkness of sleep draws you back in, this time into a dream without him.

—

The morning drifts by soft and easy as you and Dean head back to the bunker, music blasting, wind lifting your hair out the open window. Dean drives like he always does, one hand on the wheel, steady, familiar. 

A full night of sleep has worked wonders, and you already feel clearer, lighter.

When you glance over, he’s tapping the rhythm out on the wheel, mouthing the lyrics, and something in your chest unclenches. You’re both safe, and you’re going home.

“You know, been thinkin’,” he says eventually, lowering the radio a notch. “Could do a little reunion tonight. Invite some folks over - Eileen, Charlie. Would be nice.”

“I’d love that, but… can we do it tomorrow?”

“Why?” His head snaps toward you, not sharply, just enough to show he’s alert. Worried. “Something wrong?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “I just… have plans tonight.”

Another glance from him, this one slower. A crease forms between his brows. “Plans?”

“Yeah. The guy from the case in Lebanon last week.” You try for casual, shrugging. “He asked me out. Figured it wouldn’t hurt.”

Dean’s mouth tightens, just barely. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ to date. Far as I remember, you said you—what was it—‘can’t see yourself in a relationship.’”

“I did say that,” you admit. “I don’t know. Something about it felt… Right enough to try, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he says, one syllable, quiet. “Right.”

He nods, like he’s agreeing with himself, not you. His jaw flexes once. Then he turns the radio back up, not loudly, just enough to fill the space that used to feel easy.

He doesn’t drum anymore, doesn’t hum, doesn’t even glance your way.

He just grips the wheel a little tighter and stares at the long road ahead.

—

Sam’s already back at the bunker when you and Dean come down the stairs. He’s texting, smiling at his phone – no mystery there. “Hey, guys,” he calls, hearing your steps. “Where were you?”

“Just a hunt,” Dean says. He doesn’t offer anything else, doesn’t even slow down. He barely drops the duffel on the table before walking straight out of the room. His footsteps echo as he moves away. Maybe they’re not even that loud, maybe you’re just too tuned into him.

The second he crosses the threshold, though, something slams into you.

Your stomach twists violently, nausea climbing your throat. Cold sweat beads on your skin. You grip the table with both hands to keep yourself upright as your vision blurs around the edges.

Sam says your name sharply and is at your side in a heartbeat. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I… dunno,” you manage, breath hitching. “Don’t feel so good.”

He steadies you with a hand around your shoulders. “Sit down, c’mon.” He guides you into a chair, and you’re barely seated before he runs out of the room, toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab you some wa—”

He doesn’t finish. 

“Dean!” Sam shouts suddenly, and he’s running again… not toward the kitchen at all. “Dean, what’s wrong?!”

Fear surges so hard through you that you force yourself up, legs trembling. You manage only a step or two before another wave of nausea knocks the breath out of you. The room tilts, and you cling to the table, trying again, needing to move, needing to see.

Then Sam drags Dean into view.

He’s pale, ashen, and barely standing on his own. His knees buckle once before Sam hauls him upright again.

“C’mon,” Sam says urgently, arm locked around his brother’s waist. “C’mon, Dean, it's gonna be okay.”

The moment Sam drags him fully into the room—

Everything stops. Your nausea. The shaking. The fog eating at the edges of your vision. Gone.

You straighten instantly, breath clearing, as if someone just flipped a switch.

Dean blinks hard, like he feels the sudden shift too, and stands a little straighter, letting go of Sam’s arm. His breathing evens out, colour returning to his face. 

“The hell?” he mutters, looking down at himself.

Sam looks between you and Dean, eyes wide, concern tightening his jaw. “Okay,” he says carefully. “What is going on with you two?”

Though your vision has cleared and your legs are steady again, the moment holds you fast. It lies heavy in your stomach, thick with a fear you can’t name. Because when your eyes find Dean, breathing but shaken, you know this isn’t over. Whatever has marked you has marked him too, and it’s only just begun.

---

Part 2

---

Along with the temperature of the room dropping in an instant, your heart sinks to your stomach, heavy and aching beneath your taut skin. You can’t swallow, can’t breathe, and worst of all: You can’t take back what you just said.

The accusation is an ugly, cruel thing that hangs between the two of you like a death sentence. It occupies the entire space, the tiny room feeling even more cramped now.

Dean stares at you, frozen. His eyes are wide, still filled with that rage from before. Something else flickers in the green, though. Shock. Shame. Hurt. You’re not sure it’s not just your own guilt you see looking back at you.

He waits, every second of silence more dreadful than the last. His brows are still furrowed, his jaw is still clenched, but his chest is no longer heaving; he’s no longer huffing and puffing. Even his shouting ceased, booming voice no longer echoing through the room. Now, you almost wish it still did. You’d prefer the loud yelling over this awful quiet. Over the aftermath of something shattering, and knowing whatever you say or do, you’ll cut yourself trying to pick up the pieces.

“Say that again?” Dean breaks the silence, and despite lowering his voice to a normal volume for the first time in this whole thing, it makes you flinch and tense. It makes you want to duck away and disappear.

Outbursts, you can deal with — or so you thought, but maybe if you did, you wouldn’t have slipped up like that. Either way, it’s the simmering anger, the tension that reeks of actual hatred, that you don’t know how to respond to. No amount of fights between the two of you could’ve prepared you for this. You’ve never had Dean look at you like that, like he’s genuinely appalled by you, downright disgusted.

Struggling to find the right response, your mouth goes slack, closes again, opens a second time, but no words come out.

“Go on… say it,” Dean urges, almost hissing at you, and you actually feel like his glare is a snake curling dangerously around your throat, daring you to repeat your mistake.

“Dean, I— I didn’t mean… I’m—”

“Oh, what? Now you’re all stuttering, try’na take it back? ‘S not how it works, sunshine. You said it with your whole fucking chest before. Can’t be that hard, just do it again,” Dean interrupts your stammering, almost in mocking fashion, were it not for each word ringing louder in your ears. He’s close to shouting again, but this anger is different. It’s controlled, vibrating, purposeful. “Say it!”

It knocks the air out of your lungs, tears brimming in your eyes as you bite your tongue. You know what you said is unfair. Untrue, actually, you were just frustrated, lashing out, trying to hit where you knew it would hurt without thinking it through. It’s no secret that John Winchester is a sore topic for the hunter, how many years he spent chasing after the shadow of an idol that kept neglecting him.

Comparing Dean to his dad is nothing short of evil. You know that. You knew it when you did it. Why did you do it?

You don’t even see him that way. You see none of the similarities between him and his father, which you’re well aware he’s worked so hard to work through. His biggest insecurities are either somewhat accepted and reclaimed or buried deep down and hidden away, only to be unjustly unraveled by you.

And for what? Just to put your foot down?

“Look, I just… I’m sorry,” you try again, pathetically, with your mouth trembling and your voice shaking as your adrenaline deflates.

“You’re sorry,” Dean echoes dryly with a nod that feels downright condescending. “Well, in that case, everything’s just peachy, right?”

There’s a crack in his voice, one that strikes you with the force of a punch to the gut. He attempts to cover it up by clearing his throat, by wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, by taking a step away from you and towards the door. The latter alarms you, prompting you to reach out frantically.

Dean brushes you off, clearly not wanting to talk, let alone be near you right now. You can’t really blame him, but he at least owes you a shot at clearing things up.

Grabbing him by his sleeve anyway, you plead for him to listen to you: “Wait! You can’t just run off like that.”

“Watch me,” Dean scoffs, swatting your hand away — a little rougher this time, still not quite violent, but bordering on a warning: Don’t touch me.

“Dean, please. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it, I swear,” you try again, staying in place as you watch him walk to the door. It’s like he’s not even registering what you’re saying, either not listening or not caring. You don’t know which is worse. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Where’re you going?”

Dean pauses briefly, his hand resting on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around to look at you. His tense shoulders and his back draped in roughened flannel are the only things greeting you.

“Pulling a John Winchester and getting the hell outta here,” he shrugs sarcastically.

The joke doesn’t land, not with the venom laced in his tone. But it’s not supposed to. It’s supposed to stab you instead. And it does, right in the heart, making you feel stupid. The next blow is the door banging shut behind Dean, another hit being the heavy steps of his boots disappearing down the hallway. When a few moments later you distantly hear the creak of the main entrance, you know it’s the final nail in the coffin that you built.

You haven’t heard from Dean since.

The familiar roar of Baby’s engine leaving the Bunker’s garage is the last thing you remember. At first, you wait in your room, sigh deeply as you sit down on the edge of the bed, and foolishly hope he’ll come back soon.

He doesn’t.

You twirl your thumbs and rub your temples until the hope of soon turns into a later, which gets replaced by an eventually, and then vanishes entirely. The night is lonely and cold, with sleep unable to find you. You pace around the Bunker, avoiding the main hall like you’re afraid of Dean’s return, or rather, the lack thereof. But you still linger close, not wanting to miss out on it entirely, should he actually walk back inside.

He doesn’t.

In the morning hours, you stare at your phone, wondering if you should call or text him, before you realize he probably won’t respond to either approach. What would you even say? Another deep sigh leaves you as you set your phone down and instead stare at the two cups of coffee you’ve made. Old habit or wishful thinking? Either way, both remain untouched and turn cold.

Around noon, footsteps interrupt your thoughts, and you wince at the sound of them until you realize they’re Sam’s. He walks into the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge. Passing by the table, he greets you with an awkward nod. The elephant in the room has Dean’s name written all over it, your recent fight not having gone unnoticed by Sam.

“You okay?”

You don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this. You already braced yourself for some scolding, or maybe a lecture, at the very least, you thought he’d ask what happened between you and his brother.

Blinking up at him, you shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you mutter, knowing fully well you haven’t slept all night and haven’t eaten all day and entirely look the part. The way Sam’s eyes briefly flicker down on you, then back up, confirms as much. He fetches two cans of soda from the fridge, kicks it shut, and sits down with you.

“Give it some time,” he murmurs, tossing you the soda like it’s a Band-Aid for your inner conflict. Instead of taking a sip, you just fiddle with the clasp on the lid, fingers tracing the rim. Sam leans back in his chair, and you know the gesture means he’s willing to listen. However, you don’t know whether you deserve that offer, nor where to start.

“Just, uh— I guess I just wish I knew if he’s… alive. You know?” The words barely make it across your lips, and you cringe at the sound of them. Your choice of wording is off, but you know Dean’s probably not okay, so you settle for hoping he’s not dead in a ditch. “He just stormed off, and I- I’m... I can’t reach him.”

Sam lifts his chin, then tilts his head, almost as if he’s surprised, which throws you off even more. “Have you tried reaching him?”

Like a child caught with a hand in a cookie jar, you avert your gaze. Shameful heat warms your face at your obvious lie. You haven’t, but only because you fear it’ll make things worse. You know it.

“Don’t wanna,” you admit meekly.

“You don’t wanna talk to him?” Sam presses, and for a moment, you hate him for asking these uncomfortable questions, as right as they may be.

“No. I mean, yes, I do. I don’t know, doesn’t matter,” you groan. Your nails dig into the can, the aluminum giving under the pressure, just enough to leave a small dent. Nothing you can smooth over again. Just damage done by your hand, left for you to stare at. “He doesn’t wanna talk to me.”

Without looking at him, you can tell Sam is refraining from rolling his eyes and sighing. To him, this must look like a silly falling out straight out of a young adult romcom. You wish it were that easy. 

“Like I said, give it some time,” Sam says then, still earnest, still comforting. “He’ll come back around.”

You nearly snort, but it sounds more like you’re just clicking your tongue. Of course, your logic tells you he’s right. At the very least, he won’t abandon this place forever; he has to get back here eventually, if only for Sam and less so for you. But then you remember the iciness in his glare, the disappointment etched onto his forehead, like he’s already given up. Suddenly, you’re not so sure anymore that he’d even look in your general direction once he’s back.

“How do you know? And don’t give me any of that ‘he always does’ crap. I messed up, Sam, like seriously messed—”

“He texted me,” the younger Winchester explains.

Your motions stop, as does your heart for a beat. Your eyes dart up as you stare at him in disbelief.

“He said he needed to clear his head for a bit,” he elaborates with a nod, and already guessing you won’t believe him, he pulls out his phone and shows you.

At first, your heart flutters back to life. At the fact that Dean is in fact still alive, and seems less livid than you feared. The fact that your brains somehow still work in tandem, using the same shitty humor to cope. And at the fact that amidst it all, he still cares.

Until sadness washes over you again. Dean really doesn’t want to talk to you — otherwise he would’ve texted you instead of Sam, right? — and he has every right to be upset, but he still cares. It almost breaks you. In every sense, Dean’s a better person than John ever was, and with you feeling like a great ass right now, he’s a better person than you could ever be.

Before you can dwell on it further, Sam takes his phone back, puts it back in his pocket, and occupies his hand with his soda instead. “Besides,” he starts, offering you a small smile. “The guy’s a damn sap for you, so whatever you said about messing up, he can’t stay mad at you for long.”

Despite the teasing undertones, you feel like you can breathe a little bit easier again.

Come night, you’re getting anxious again. It’s perfectly understandable that Dean wants his space, yet you’re selfish enough to crave forgiveness. You don’t even want it handed to you on a silver platter. You’ll drop to your knees and beg for it, if necessary. If anything, you just want to apologize.

And you want to see him again.

It hasn’t been a full 24 hours without him, but you’re antsy like the actual main character of a teenie drama. With all kidding aside, each minute is torturous. 

What if he changed his mind after all? What if he ditched this place for good, ditched you for good? You’re overthinking, fully aware of it, but the possibility whispers mean things into your mind, sending your thoughts spiraling.

You and Dean fight often and loudly. You clash sometimes, his stubbornness and your temper a dangerous combination. But more often than not, you make a great team. You appreciate the way he grounds you; he claims to love your passion. Always says feisty is sexy, earning himself half a giggle and half a pout.

Fuck, you miss him. 

Not wanting to drag this out further, you throw all reason out the window and dial his number. It’s probably unwise to disturb the peace he seeks right now, but you silently pray to at least hear his voicemail.

To your surprise, there’s a muffled buzz emitting from outside your door. Holding your breath, you turn to it. It doesn’t budge, but the ringing noise stops. Instead, a familiar drawl fills your ear.

“Hey,” Dean speaks, both through the door and through the phone.

How long has he been standing there? Mulling over what happened, his thoughts spiraling as he prepares himself for a reunion, like it could be a vampire’s nest. The only thing separating you is a wooden door, but it stands between you like a wall to hide behind. It’s both endearing and saddening to think about.

“Hey,” you reply softly.

There’s an awkward pause, him clearing his throat. “Can I, uh… Can I come in?”

You almost chuckle, but opt for a tongue-in-cheek smile instead while he can’t see. “Unless this is one of those cheesy YA romcom moments, I don’t see what’s stopping you,” you half-tease.

“Ugh, did Sam—?”

“Get in here already,” you sigh — the first gentle sigh of today, one of relief, one accompanied by an even wider smile.

The door creaks open, revealing Dean, his phone still pressed to his ear. He looks calmer than the last time you’ve seen him, obviously. Albeit, with the anger subsided, he looks tired, almost weary.

As his eyes meet yours, you realize his words are failing him. You need none. Having him here is enough for now. Hanging up the call, you make a beeline towards him, your arms wrapping around him before you can second-guess yourself. Dean staggers, if only for a second, then his arms circle around your middle all the same.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck like it’s second nature, inhales your scent like it soothes his frayed nerves. You mimic his actions, pressing your face into his hair and thinking you could cry.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, words muffled by the fabric of your shirt.

“Whoa, hold on,” you breathe, overwhelmed. Your attempt at pulling back remains futile; Dean’s grip on you is like iron. “You’re stealing my line, cowboy.”

He gives nothing but a weak hum in return, all gloom and brooding in your arms. You gently rub his back and press a chaste kiss to the side of his head.

“Let’s sit,” you suggest, to which he almost protests, but he allows you to intertwine your fingers with his and guide him towards the edge of the bed.

The two of you sit down together, stiff and avoiding each other’s gaze, but still holding onto one another.

“I’m sorry,” you go first, carefully squeezing Dean’s hand. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You see Dean’s jaw tick from the corner of your eye. He gently tugs at your hand, places it in his lap, and brushes his thumb over your knuckles. The touch is tender, careful, hesitant. When you dare to look at him, his gaze is fixated on your hand in his first, then he stares straight ahead at the wall in front of you.

“You were right,” he chokes out at last, not in accusatory fashion, not even angrily. Just matter-of-factly, so much so that it makes your stomach churn all over again.

You pull your leg under yourself, turn so you’re facing him without releasing his hand. In fact, you place your other one on top of it, leaning closer. “No, Dean,” you insist. “It’s not true, you’re not him. I only said it in the heat of the moment, I wasn’t even thinking clearly.”

Dean still isn’t looking at you as he lets his words wash over you. However, he shakes his head, lets his shoulders slump ever so slightly. “But you had a point,” he replies.

“Dean—”

“No, please. Let me say this,” he sighs, takes a deep but shaky breath, and once again lets his eyes fall to his lap, watching you hold onto him like he deserves it. “Sometimes… Heck, a lot of times, I get angry. Not sure why. It even reminds me of him, you know, which makes me even angrier and—” He pauses, scoffs, eyelashes fluttering at the feeling of your grip tightening around his fingers. “I hate it. It scares me. But that’s my burden to bear, and I’m trying to make peace with it. What I can’t take is the thought of ever treating you like my old man treated me. It kills me.”

In that moment, a young boy sits before you, impressionable and eager to please. Eager to be just like his heroic dad, a real tough fighter who can do no wrong. Years of learning and adapting to John’s actual moods, however, have worn him down, have thinned him out.

One of your hands comes up to brush over the edge of his jaw, to caress his cheekbone, to let him lean into your palm.

“You’re nothing like John. You’ve never treated me like that,” you reassure him again. “It wasn’t fair what he dumped on you, and it wasn’t fair of me to pick at it. I promise you, Dean, I didn’t mean it. I am so sorry.”

He exhales softly, nods once, then finally looks at you.

“Just goes to show how well you know my weak spots,” Dean huffs, the hint of a crooked smile curling his lips.

Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1)

@ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @blueriver-shifting @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @cassieriddle713 @castielscaplan @charliesangel6 @chronic-fangirl-222 @conceepp @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @dragonfly92 @edajcheel @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @hot-and-confused @idfc @idjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jey1ls @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @lessons-of-red @lunaleah @lyarr24 @madelinessss @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath @marvellousbrattigan @mayushkabar @mccartneyqp @midnight--raine

the drive back was quiet, neither sam or you had said anything. dean knew the risks that came with doing something so reckless. he knew there was a chance he wouldn't have made it out. despite the fact he did, he could sense all the "what if's" circling everyone's mind.

once he pulled into the motel's parking lot, sam got out and went straight to his room, shutting the door with a little too much force for it to be normal. he winces as the door slams and the car shakes. you get out and sit in shotgun. still quiet. he thinks your upset, you're definitely mad at him. he definitely fucked it up for you two now. right?

"are you alright?" your voice comes out soft and concerned. his face contorts, hes surprised at such a soft tone. he expected your words to be "how could you do that?" "how dare you?" but never that.

"...you're not gonna yell at me?" he questions

your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and shake your head once

"are you hurt anywhere? did he get to you?" you tilt your head

"...no, no honey. m'okay" he assures skeptically, wondering if this is a trick and the scolding will come right after. but it never does

"you're not mad at me?..."

"mad? why would i be mad?" there's still a hint of worry in your eyes that he catches.

"why would y'be mad? i did something stupid, and you're not mad?"

"no, love. i could've lost you today" you reach for his hand, his is clammy. probably from the nerves.

"oh..."

he's about 99.99% sure he just fell in love with you all over again. you're not mad at him. it all clicks for him. you genuinely care about him and his health. you want to make sure he's okay. you love him.

"de?" you squeeze his hand "where'd you go?"

he snaps back to the conversation

"god, you're perfect, sweetheart" he blurts out

you chuckle softly, still looking at him like he hung the damn moon.

"love you too, de."

"no like, you're actually perfect. i don't know what i would do without you"

you kiss his cheek, wearing a smile on your face

"i guess i was made for you then, huh?"

"damn right you were."